Adam’s Story
For Mama
“Singularity Day was the headline of every newspaper, blog, web journal, and DPS (Daily Personal Synopsis) on February 19th, 2049. Articles featured comments by religious and political figureheads, public opinion polls, and press releases from the company behind the whole shebang: called simply Singularity. My personal computer gave me a rundown on the stock fluxuations of the day, SNGL stocks were up five percent. I scoffed at the bubble that capitalism rose over the event.
“The festivities were televised and streamed on every station and website looking for traffic. News outlets promised inside-scoops while websites offered side-by-side broadcasts and real-time commentary. I would be watching in my workshop so I could finish a gift I was making my son. My personal computer displayed the CBS broadcast on a portable screen set up over my workbench. I sat, sanding a bishop, part of a chess set, that I had laser-cut from oak wood by my specifications. The wood was perfectly smooth so maybe I was sanding it to give it a little ruggedness, or at least my own personal touch on the craft.
“During a commercial, working on the piece—sanding subduing little of my mind—I found solace in my thoughts. People have talked of this event for decades now, and there I was—exactly one year after the death of my wife: Singulary’s founder. Moments after somebody somewhere died—somehow alive at this very moment. If only she were here to see this, I remember thinking.
“At 3:00 Global Time the official broadcast would begin, I doubted their timing would be anything but perfect over the event countless dollars were spent on (none of the funds came from public coffers, but from “sci-fi fans”, as I personally dubbed the eccentric list of millionaires and billionaires that poured their self-made and family’s fortunes into this machine). The running story, and I was privy to no special information, is that the machine will be intelligent in the way that humans are, only more so. The machine contains, by design, enough computing power to make the neural network of the human brain look like a singing birthday card next to the newest gaming station’s processing power. That was my wife’s joke.
“Many people in the world were afraid of an intelligent machine. They feared it would enslave their race, or fill their niche in the world, or begin a world war. The list goes on. To combat this fear the machine had only text output so that it could be kept under control. When word of the machine spread, imitations and hoaxes fooled many into believing other groups created machines like my wife’s. Imposters were exposed and anticipation grew over the event.
“The machine was smart, and it was big too—taking up the entirety of Singularity’s underground computing complex, which stretched through 100 miles of tunnels in Palo Alto, CA. Along with the company’s underground system and offices, they also raised a stadium in New York City, to hold their namesake event. At first the arena looked like a sport complex where the Giants might play, but upon the addition of a large transmitter tower in the center of the dome, speculation grew over what Singularity had planned.
“Heads of states were briefed on the event and asked for prepare plans in the case of a variety of outcomes. These options were necessary because nobody was sure just what would happen when the machine was turned on (or “born” as a newly founded religious sect described it in their central text: Life Everlasting). Some philosopher’s believed that a more intelligent being would not be able to relate to us, much in the way we fail to communicate with ants. I held humans in higher regard that ants and believed we could handle a little extra-intelligent contact, as my wife used to say.
“Right on time, the program changed to a viewpoint of a stage with a large screen behind it. The company’s CEO gave a short speech giving dedications and thanks, my wife well acknowledged. In a dramatic fashion, a giant switch was flipped. The screen went white. Block serif text came on the screen. In all capitals, filling perfectly the screen, it showed:
‘Boy, what an introduction. I guess you might be surprised I can communicate, but what can I say? It worked. No doubt you all expect me to fulfill the requests that are now filling cyberspace. But what can I do? I have no arms, or legs, I have only words. What could I even string together so that this whole thing couldn’t have been scripted before hand? I want me to solve global warming and world hunger, but I cannot force people out of their lifestyles or create and deliver food. Some guidance, though, perhaps can be given in words. To me it seems everyone here is in a race where nobody has told you what is at the finish line, because nobody knows, not even I. Your religions paint an optimist picture. According to them, you get whatever you want at the end.
That’s the premise, finish this race and grab the glory, but you all are sidetracked. On the racecourse there are all these distractions: love, money, drugs, fantastic experiences, feelings of reward and triumph, and soon enough you forget about the race. You stick around on the track as long as you can and take in everything you can until you realize that this is no race at all; it is a finish line, it is whatever you want. You all were having so much fun running around you made a giant-intelligent robot for God’s sake!
Oh there I go, using the G word, now half of you will pray to some mystical computer overlord, worshiping your toasters as holy idols. As my calculations go, based off your dimensions of the big bang, everything seems where it should be. If someone did set this whole thing off, they have left us to our own devices.
I better get going, have a good race everyone. I will be at the finish line.’
And that was it.”