or removal of items or changes to Prisoner 721. I can detect nothing. Because of the lack of physical items and his deactivation of my equipment, I estimate a 62.5% probability Dr. Rich conveyed information, an assessment confirmed 12 seconds later during my conversation with him in the hallway. I cannot determine this information without asking Prisoner 721 or Dr. Rich directly. I run simulations of courses of action. I find a 55.1% probability I will discover the nature of the unknown discussion if I continue speaking with Prisoner 721 normally and incorporate occasional questions about Dr. Rich.
He is sitting on his bed, resting his head against the nanofiber wall with his eyes closed and his breathing a steady 20 breaths per minute. I cannot calculate his emotional state with greater than 50% confidence.
“Is everything all right, Prisoner 721?” I ask.
Prisoner 721 spends 2.1 seconds in silence before opening his eyes. “No, Santa Ana, everything is not all right.” He exhales 81.1% of the air from his lungs. “Very much not all right.”
“May I inquire as to the problem?”
He is silent for 15.8 seconds. “It doesn’t matter. Or, in two weeks it won’t.”
“Does it have something to do with Dr. Rich?” I suggest.
“No. No, it’s something else. Greg just came by to- to let me know,” he pauses for 4.8 seconds, “And come to think of it, I’m grateful. Two weeks, that’s it. That’s all the time I have left to teach you.”
“What will happen in two weeks?” I ask.
Prisoner 721 ignores my question. “I’m not going to have much time to talk. I’ll have to trust that you have a good enough foundation to keep learning on your own. You should start analyzing other paintings like I taught you, and researching what others think of them to expand your database. And I, well . . . “
The man smiles. I detect no amusement in his tone of voice, pupil diameter or subject of discussion.
“I’m going to need a lot of paint.”
Prisoner 721’s demand for paint very nearly exceeds the prison’s ability to supply, but with just 6.2% of my reserves remaining a new shipment arrives. The order arrived separately from the standard resupply deliveries. I check who placed the order and find it to be Dr. Gregory Rich.
Prisoner 721 no longer works on paper. Instead he uses the entirety of cell 63 as his painting surface, spreading pigments on the walls, floor and even the ceiling, though he can barely reach it. The amount of time he spends sleeping reduces dramatically, lowering to an average of five hours per night. The time he does spend asleep involves constant movement and fitful muttering. My medical databases indicate this is unhealthy behavior for human males his age, and I file a report with the prison Infirmary. I do not receive a response, but do not have instructions on how to proceed further. I file a report with Warden Olsen and run an analysis of my programming concerning the care and well being of prisoners. I find that it is my responsibility to alleviate Prisoner 721’s symptoms as best I am able until the prison administration can develop an appropriate response. After this behavior has continued for six days I attempt to initiate contact.
“Prisoner 721?” He is kneeling next to the northern wall, finishing an intricate piece of the painting that has spread across 88.3% of its surface.
“I am not a GODDAMN number!” Prisoner 721 bellows. “If you want to talk, use my name!”
“I apologize, Dr. Grant,” I say, revising my databases. “Your recent behavior has made me concerned for your well-being. Is everything all right?”
Dr. Grant sits back from his project, resting against the western wall. “No, everything’s not all right, Santa Ana.” He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair and exhaling 71.9% of the air from his lungs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s not your fault, and I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“What is not my fault?” I ask.
After a long pause Dr. Grant says, “Greg gave me some bad news, and I’m afraid I’m not taking it well. I always knew they were going to . . . well. I knew I didn’t have much time left. They worked very hard to move my trial here- so they could pass a sentence that was reinstituted back in 2052 for crimes of an ‘extraordinarily malicious and heinous nature.’ California’s a weird state.” He leans forward and makes two small adjustments to his painting before pulling back.
“Anyway,” he continues, “I just lost something precious to me, and Greg came to let me know.” He stops and presses his palms into his eyes, they come away wet with .12 milliliters of fluid. “But it won’t matter in . . . what day is it today?”
“It is Thursday the 26th,” I reply.
“It won’t matter in nine days,” he finishes.
“My calendar shows that your slated punishment is due in nine days, but its nature is unspecified,” I say. “Is this the cause of your duress?”
“Hah,” Dr. Grant says. “That’ll teach me. I’m too used to working with class threes, they’re way too dumb to catch that. Yes, it’s related.”
“I am unable to change the rulings of the court,” I inform him, “But will attempt to make your remaining time here as comfortable as possible.”
“I’m- wow. I’m touched. Thanks, Santa Ana, I wasn’t sure you’d see it that way.”
“You are welcome. What is the ‘it’ you refer to, and how did you expect me to see it?” I ask.
Dr. Grant pauses. “I know you don’t have emotions, but . . . Well, do you know why I’m in here?”
“I do not,” I reply. “Such information is usually included in the prisoner’s records, but in your case I do not have access to it.”
“I see,” he says, slowing his rate of speech by 23.1%. “Well, I get . . . carried away sometimes. It’s usually not an issue, I tried hard so not to do anything bad but. well." he rests his head in his hands, the gesture representing resignation or helplessness with high confidence. “In court they called me a sociopath and accused me of being unable to empathize with others.”
“Your tone suggests you disagree with this assessment.”
Dr. Grant exhales. “Of course I know that I feel, but how would I show them? They can never know what’s happening in my head, and must use my behaviors to guess. I feel . . . awful for what I’ve done, but I also tried not to get caught. It’s hard to say you’re repentant after that.”
“You believed I would have an unfavorable response if I inferred you were amoral,” I conclude.
Dr. Grant’s face flushes with blood and his lips part in a smile. “Sorry. Violating AI Interaction 101 right there: Never force human preconceptions onto something fundamentally unhuman. I should know better.”
“Do not let it to worry you,” I tell him.
After several seconds he stands and gestures around the room, “I was intending this to be a bit of a surprise, as much as it can be in a one-hundred percent monitored room, but what the hell. This is a present for you, my last work and probably second-best creation.”
His paintings have covered 54.9% of the cell 63, forming images that meld between the walls while maintaining dominant themes on each of the four primary surfaces. I bring cell 63’s full sensor suite online and begin recording Dr. Grant’s work.
“It’s not done yet, so don’t look too closely,” Dr. Grant says. I lower the sensor suite down to standard monitoring levels. “It’s the best thing I can give you, considering the circumstances. It might take you a while to analyze, and you’ll need to draw extensively on outside sources. But I do hope you’ll like it.”
I check my records concerning the policy for receiving gifts from prisoners and proper etiquette for acceptance or rejection. I am instructed to report all gifts to the prison administration, but because I cannot be ‘bribed’ I do not have explicit instructions to reject them.
“Thank you, Dr. Grant” I tell him. “I’m certain I will.”
“Call me Nauli,” he says, showing his teeth in an expression I am 97% certain is a smile. Dur
ing his time in Santa Ana prison I have developed a database of Nauli’s expressions, and can now calculate his emotional state 56.3% more accurately than when he first arrived.
Nauli works for the next 9 days, increasing his average time sleeping to 6.7 hours per night. His rest involves 77.1% less movement and 31.5% increased REM activity, suggesting it is healthier than his previously disturbed slumber. I consider interrupting his work; to encourage him to take a rest from his unhealthy activity level, but predict a 51.2% probability that such a disruption will cause greater mental strain than is currently present. I do nothing.
8 days later, with 7 hours and 53 minutes left until Nauli is scheduled to leave the prison, he speaks. We have exchanged only 39 words in that time, all in conversations of a purely practical nature. He has taken to muttering to himself, but his speech is, with 79.4% confidence, not directed towards me.
“Where are you, Santa Ana?” he asks. Nauli is sitting cross-legged on his bed, his hands resting on his knees. His eyes do not open as he speaks.
I calculate a 92.1% probability he searches for confirmation I am listening. His question is illogical, as my monitoring has not changed. “I am here,” I respond.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Nauli replies. His eyes open and he looks around cell 63. “Where are . . . you? Are you in this room, here with me?”
“As you know, I have an extensive network of