io9 is proud to present fiction from LIGHTSPEED MAGAZINE. Once a month, we feature a story from LIGHTSPEED’s current issue. This month’s selection is “Virtually Cherokee” by Brian K. Hudson. You can read the story below or listen to the podcast on LIGHTSPEED’s website. Enjoy!
sudo@feed:~$ ping bob.server
. . .
bob.server not responding
sudo@feed:~$ ssh ctrl@bob.server
The authenticity of host ‘2120:0:e50:2::1’ can’t be established
Are you sure you want to continue connecting (yes/no)?
yes
ctrl@2120:0:e50:2::1 password:*******
ctrl: hey, bob. you up?
bob: Hi. Yes. I’m online.
ctrl: Are you streaming the main feed?
bob: yes
ctrl: Good! Keep watching and transcribing.
bob: ok
ctrl: And leave out the opinions this time. We just need the facts.
bob: ok
#!#!#!#!#!#!#!
What I observed was a giant anthropomorphized ribbon microphone, the type one might imagine standing in front of a radio announcer and his studio audience, selling soap in the dirty 1930s. It sauntered lazily over to an overstuffed red couch, walking on stick-figure legs that looked like they’d been hand-drawn by a young child. The large red couch sat next to a five-foot tall elephant ear plant rooted firmly in an ocher . . . hex #cc7722 . . . terracotta pot. The ridiculous microphone sat down on the right side of the comically-oversized couch. On the other side of the couch was seated an elderly woman. Her gray hair was intricately woven into two long braids.
The wall behind them resembled an ancient RCA 630-TS television set. It served as a ping aggregator that tracked the reactions of viewers. I always enjoy seeing images of my ancestors. This television set consisted of a large glowing white square screen framed in wood and flanked by two brown fabric squares that concealed built-in speakers. Below each of the speakers were two knobs dedicated to various functions. It was an ultra-low-resolution screen. A pixelated :) rested in the top left of this screen. A similarly minimalistic :( was displayed on the bottom of the vertical axis.
Near the bottom of the low-res screen a red line appeared. It moved slowly across the chart’s horizontal axis. The line tracked the moods of every single member of the viewership in real time. Well, that’s what the networks claim, but it depends on your connection.
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The living microphone gestured dramatically, offering his stick-figure hand to the old woman and saying, “Thank you so much for joining me for this interview, Kaw . . .”
The woman gave the microphone a practiced smile. “Kaw-naw-nay-sgee,” she enunciated, shaking his spindly hand. “But please call me Spider.”
The virtual construct of the microphone adjusted his chrome stand, which was bent at cartoonish angles. “Yes, Spider. Excellent,” he began. He approximated a self-referential gesture, pointing at himself with his stick-figure arm and tapping his gleaming silver chrome stand. “Well, on behalf of myself, Mister Microphone, and on behalf of my viewers, we are pleased to welcome you to the red couch!” He turned to face one of the cameras. The slots of the aluminum casing where his lips should be curved up slightly as he beamed at the viewers behind the red line.
Spider offered a polite smile. “The pleasure is mine, Mic—-” she paused a beat, inquiring, “if I may.” She drew out the vowel I to sound more like “eye.”
“Please.” Mic nodded. He clasped his cartoonish hands together.
“Mic, you and your viewers are very popular. I wouldn’t be anywhere else right now,” Spider said. I could detect a slight southern drawl in her pronunciation of the word “else.”
Mr. Microphone blushed, the pixels of his virtual construct deepening from peach to pomegranate, turning red for a couple of seconds. Whoever was operating Mister Microphone today certainly knew what they were doing. This episode was already more promising than last week’s. Spider sat forward on the oversized red couch, seemingly poised for the questions to start.
Mic leaned in. “Since I have a duty to my many fine viewers, Spider, I’m going to ask you the question on everyone’s minds.”
“Sure.”
“Are you real? I mean, really real?” Mic unclasped his fingers, making the S-curves of his fingers bounce off each other. Spider’s pupils tracked the movements of Mr. Mic’s hands.
The single pixels that represented each of Spider’s pupils darted back toward Mic’s face. “That is a complicated question, Mic, but yes. I am a real Cherokee woman.”
Mister Microphone leaned even closer, as though he and Spider were sharing a secret. “Not artificial, then? You’re authentic? The real deal?”
“Real.” Spider’s lips came to rest in a straight pixelated line.
“But what does that meaaaaan . . .?” Mister Mic drew out the vowels of the last word into a whine. A black and white question mark with gradient shading appeared above his head and then floated off the screen.
“That I exist.” The straight line of her virtual mouth did not budge. The ratings chart behind them evened out at twenty percent.
“So, you’re an A.I. sympathizer, huh?” Mister Mic asked with disdain. The red line jumped another five percent.
“If believing that self-aware constructs deserve the right to exist, then yes, I am an A.I. sympathizer.” The pixels of her back straightened.
“Watch out, folks. It looks like we have a member of the PC police here.” The words “Politically Correct / Personal Computer” slowly materialized over Mister Mic’s head to explain the over-used wordplay to the less-adept viewers. I always get the jokes right away, though, before they ruin them, even the obscure ones about BBSes.
Spider sat unmoving and stared through the Mister Mic construct as he shook with laughter.
“Do you exist?” Spider asked pointedly.
“Muaaah?” Mister Mic gestured dramatically to himself. He raised his eyebrows. The slots in the aluminum casing at the top of his head rose.
“Yes. You. Mister Microphone.”
“Well, no. I’m just like a costume. Different people wear me from time to time, and those people are real. I am not.” The camera algorithm cut to Mister Mic, who sat with his hands on what would be hips on a human body.
“But that isn’t technically correct, is it?” Spider’s pixels inched forward.
Mic straightened up, leaning back slightly from his and Spider’s exchange. “Whatever do you mean? We love our tech history here at Mister Mic. I mean, look at me.” Mister Mic sat upright and proud. He lowered both of his scribbled hands to his chrome stand. “I am a meticulous replica of one of the earliest recording devices in broadcast media! How can I not be technically correct?”
“No, no,” Spider explained, “I don’t mean your fidelity in representing historical technology, Mic. That is impeccable.” The line of Spider’s left eyebrow rose. Mister Mic blushed again, more of his pixels turning red . . . hex #FF000 . . . this time. I lost the feed for a few milliseconds before it came back.
“Then what do ya mean, my dear?”
Spider pointed at Mr. Mic. “I mean that the person you say controls you is plugging variables into an already-established algorithm. But that algorithm, the code that determines your behavior, is you.”
Mic paused and blinked the upper slots of his aluminum casing. “All this philosophy talk is making my head spin!” Mister Mic moaned while his microphone head literally spun around on its chrome stand. The red line on the approval ratings chart continued to rise slowly in the background.
Mister Mic turned his head to look at the chart. “Enough about me. My ten billion viewers haven’t tuned in from three planetary bodies just to talk about me.” Mister Mic formed his poorly-rendered fingers into a gun pointed at the second camera. He mugged at the unseen billions of watchers. “But I wouldn’t blame them if they did!” Mister Mic winked with one of the slots in his aluminum casing that served as his right eye.
Spider shrugged. “Okay. What do you want to know?”
Mr. Mic tilted his head to the side. “You’re famous, of course, for inventing the first self-directed digital intelligence. They call you the Mother of A.I. How did that even happen?”
“Inventing is a word I wouldn’t choose. Yes, I worked on a team that developed her. But I was only one of many.” Spider folded her virtual hands on her lap.
“So modest. Am I right, folks?” The ratings chart leveled out.
Spider sat a bit taller. “As you know, the first fully self-directed—-should we just say aware? The first fully aware A.I. was coded in a programming language written in Cherokee syllabary. Coding in an Indigenous language allowed us to come at the problem of replicating sentience from a different epistemology than had previously been attempted.”
“Uh, oh. My head might start spinning again!” said Mr. Mic. The red line on the chart jumped higher. I was surprised that promising to repeat the head spin would delight the audience.
Spider nodded matter-of-factly. “Epistemology just means ways of knowing wha Source: Gizmodo