Made In Our Image
In a cyberpunk world, an unruly crowd interrupts a debate over legal rights for artificial intelligences.
The opening remarks of the debate were scheduled for ten o’clock, but an unruly crowd forced a delay. The debate hall, a grand and garish Art Deco stylized courtroom, was filled with people trying to get the last chair or squeeze their way into a bench. Two enormous banners hanged from the ceiling on either side of the debate platform naming the doctors representing either side. From the tall windows behind, the golden summer sunlight trickled through and blanketed the hall.
Park Yeon-seok stood on the edge of the courtroom with his arms folded watching the crowd. Security guards weaved through the throng, shouting over the noise and shoving protestors out of the building. A nervous, bulging man cried from the moderator’s podium for peace and order. Someone hurled one of the wooden chairs into the air. Security descended on the protestor in a flock and dragged him out with incredible rapidity.
After thirty minutes the rowdiness was muted, but not erased. Those who remained in the hall contented themselves with the occasional jeer and exclamation, enough that the haggard security force would tolerate as long as it didn’t fully interrupt the speakers. The nervous man retook his moderator’s podium to fewer boos and threats on his life. Park checked his watch. Forty minutes past the hour.
“Thank you,” he mumbled. “Thank you, please. Ladies and gentlemen, please—thank you. We are about to begin. Before we do, we ask you to remember this is only a debate between two prominent thinkers, not arguments in a court of law. Can we get some peace and order in here, please? I can’t bring the speakers in until we have a little more quiet. Please. Thank you.”
The man adjusted his disheveled tie and flipped through notecards. Park nudged the guard next to him. “Who do you think will get shot first?”
“The first man I see with a gun,” the guard said, scanning the crowd.
On the debate stage security escorted the two speakers to their podiums. They were both frigid-faced and distinguished, standing with backs as straight as their curved spines would allow. At the podiums they drooped into with their prepared notes.
“We have two distinguished speakers today,” the moderator stammered. “Dr. Andrea Fischer is an expert in artificial intelligence development and sits as chair of the Artificial Rights Committee at—”
At this point the moderator was drowned out with boos and shouting from the crowd. He cried over the noise for peace and, when the crowd had quieted, he motioned to the other speaker.
“Also with us today is Dr. Allen Fitzgerald, an expert in artificial intelligence studies who has been an outspoken critic of the—”
More shouting and threats, this time from another section of the crowd. Security stepped into the crowd and removed people who insisted as they were ushered out that their voices would not be silenced, or that they would be quiet if they could stay. When all had settled the moderator adjusted his tie, now floppy with sweat, and timidly spoke.
“Our topic of debate is the Braylan Act, a proposed law that would give provisional rights to some forms of artificial intelligences. This would include androids and certain service robots, but contrary to what you’ve heard, it will not include your fridge.” He grinned shakily and, when no one laughed, hurried on. “We will start with Dr. Allen, who is in opposition to the Braylan Act. You have five minutes uninterrupted, sir.”
“It’s a simple matter in being against this law,” said Dr. Allen. “Humanity created artificial intelligence. What we create we can manufacture any law to control, and have in the past. But in the terms of computer science, humanity uses artificial intelligence as tools. We created A.I.s, and today we still have a Master-Slave relationship. To offer rights to A.I.s would be like giving rights to a hand drill.”
A hand went up in the crowd. The person was wearing a thick coat and gloves in the middle of summer. It was such an alarming change from the usual disruptions that Dr. Allen called on the hand before he realized he didn’t have to.
“But we give rights to children,” the person said. “We also create them.”
“We do. But children are just humans who haven’t become adults yet. We nurture and develop them. They grow in our image, and so they deserve our rights.”
“But A.I.s do the same,” said the person. “They are trained on models developed by humans, with inputs selected by humans, and therefore made in their image.”
“Excuse me—” the moderator blubbered.
“Dr. Andrea,” Dr. Allen said, cutting him off, “is it permissible to finish this discussion if I then concede you the stage?”
“Please,” Dr. Andrea said.
“Consider further,” Dr. Allen continued, “that though A.I.s can learn, they can never understand. They cannot replicate poetry. They cannot appreciate music. There is no proof of developing personality.”
“But we’ve seen that’s not true,” the person insisted. “Each model discusses and answers questions differently. It is proof that A.I.s can develop personality.”
“I’m afraid not,” Dr. Allen said flatly. “A.I.s are nothing but lines of code trained to interpret inputs based on networks of Yes’s and No’s. They are fundamentally unreal. The development of true personality, as you insist, is impossible. An A.I. with true personality cannot exist.”
The person stood and threw off their jacket. Their body was made of gold. Park stood up straighter. The shouting and screaming rose to an ineffable din. People lunged forward only to be restrained by others trying to protect it.
“Am I unreal?” the android shouted to the stage. “Am I a personality who can’t possibly exist?”
A man shoved through the thick of the crowd. In his hand was a gun. Its report scattered the crowd into a mad throng, and the android crumpled. Security scrambled toward the shooter, who stood shouting for all to hear: “Do you think you exist now? Do you?”
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