Prisoner 721 Read online

head 4% faster than is safe for a man his size. “There’s more to a point than simply being a mathematical tool. It represents something, the same way a spot of paint can represent a point. It’s a lot like a language, if you’re looking for a metaphor. In fact, using your language software is probably the most efficient way to approach the problem. Are your language capabilities based on a neural net?”

  I create a new file in my language database called Art.lng. “They are,” I confirm simultaneously.

  “Good, that should help your understanding. Despite leaving us in the dark about why you’re getting right answers, and least you’ll learn how to get the right answers.” Prisoner 721 stands up and begins to pace around cell 63 before continuing. “Back to the painting. At first there was nothing on the paper; a void, totally blank and without substance. But having a point brings existence: the point is, while the rest of paper is not. To put it in terms you might understand better, a point could represent signal, a one in the ones and zeros of machine code. There’s now data, and I have a painting. Not a very good one to be sure, but as soon as I add a point a painting exists nonetheless.”

  I add Prisoner 721’s explanation to my new file. “I understand,” I say.

  “Do you?” the man asks. “Have you heard these descriptions already? Accessed them in some dusty old harddrive? The concepts are pretty old, going all the way back to the ancient Greeks.”

  “Since my transfer to Santa Ana Federal Penitentiary I have not spent time researching unless it directly pertains to a problem in the facility,” I inform Prisoner 721. “I have not previously encountered this concept.”

  The edges of the man’s mouth twist downward in an expression I am 98.9% certain is a frown. “That’s too bad Santa Ana,” he says, “I think you’d enjoy spending time thinking about new things. Er- processing them. However you want to describe it.”

  “I am an artificial intelligence,” I clarify, “I do nothing but process data.”

  “Well, you could say that ‘I’ do nothing but think, but I still like focus on it now and then, if you get my meaning,” he says, “Anyway, if you haven’t heard this before, lets keep going. Tell me what this painting is.”

  He gathers .9 milliliters of paint on his brush and presses it into the middle of his spot, twirling the brush and mixing the new paint with the old. He then pushes the brush towards the top-right corner.

  “Your point is now a line. Or more accurately, a line segment,” I tell him. Once informed that his paintings could be analyzed using geometry I can access relevant data far more quickly.

  “That was fast, good job,” Prisoner 721 applauds. “But again, there’s more to it than that. Tell me, what happened to the original point?”

  It is a trick question. “The point is still there. A line is defined as the space along two points, infinitely thin but possessing length.”

  “That’s only half true,” the man says, “You’re right that a mathematical line is defined that way, and as you said, the point still exists. But what’s changed is its relationship to the rest of the art piece, or even the world. It’s no longer unique; there is another of its kind, a twin. In the same way that one point can represent existence, two points represent the possibility and presence of a connection. Now instead of having signal, a computer has a circuit. Until there are two things in the universe, a connection cannot exist. Are you following this? A lot of students get confused around here.”

  “Do you view me as a student?” I ask. “I am conversing with you because of your request that I critique you art, not for you to serve as a teacher.”

  “I need to spend some time explaining the fundamentals of art before we can actually talk about it,” Prisoner 721 says. “For example, would you have understood what could be implied by a line if I had not first demonstrated it to you?”

  I run a simulation based off my knowledge before our conversation. “I estimate a 99.1% probability I would not have reached the conclusion you provided,” I admit.

  “Exactly. I’m just going through some basics with you before we delve any deeper. Art isn’t just the creation of an image, it’s a mode of thought and method of communication. I’m using the point and the line as examples of symbolism because I know geometry is something you understand well. However, you can expand these lessons in finding symbolism to any piece of art. Are you working on an ‘art’ language file?”

  Since the creation of Art.lng I have been utilizing my language neural net, incorporating software that assists in language acquisition in both written and verbal formats. A neural net is a computational model that uses a connectionist approach to problem solving. By reinforcing successful solutions and abandoning unsuccessful ones I am able to rapidly learn new techniques and processes, including those of language. However, the method I used to reach a correct answer remains unknown, even to me. It is a powerful but uncertain technique.

  To the best of my knowledge my language neural net has never been used to analyze art and instead favors the spoken word and characters of modern human languages. I am unable to predict how it will interface with art or the programs I use to process such images. This condition is unacceptable. I am expected to maintain knowledge of my capabilities at all times, and am therefore interested in understanding how my software will handle this new problem.

  “I have already created such a file,” I inform him.

  “Good. Let’s keep going.”

  “Here’s the third step.” Prisoner 721 washes excess pigment off his paintbrush and covers the bristles in red-orange paint. He draws a second line toward the top-left of the paper, its end connected to the lower end of the muddy black line. He then cleans the brush again and gathers blue-green pigment, painting a third line in between the ends of the first two. There is now an obtuse triangle on the paper. “What is the painting of now?”

  “It is a triangle,” I answer. “It is different from your earlier images in that it now has area. Three lines is the smallest number with which one can create a plane in two-dimensional space.”

  Prisoner 721’s right eyebrow raises .51 centimeters. “Wow you catch on fast. Forgive me if this is rude, but uh, what level AI are you?”

  I spend .42 seconds reviewing my protocols concerning self-disclosure. “I am a class 8 artificial intelligence,” I say, “supplemented with a Hanscom/Gershwin irrational equation logic matrix.”

  The muscles in Prisoner 721’s jaw go limp. “Jesus Christ! A class eight? I thought prison AI’s capped at class six.”

  “Your information is correct,” I inform him. “The other AI’s on the penitentiary network are all class six or below.

  Prisoner 721 rubs his hands together. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t class eights strictly military, with one or two in research facilities? Class five is roughly human level processing and it's an exponential scale. What on earth is a hyperintelligence doing here?”

  “I am on temporary loan from the 101st Cyberwarfare Division. The Federal Bureau of Prisons wishes to evaluate my performance as a panoptic unit, and the 101st desires information on my efficacy in a role that requires extensive interaction with non-technical personnel.”

  “A panoptic unit?” the man asks. By the increase in his voice’s pitch at the end of the sentence I estimate an 82.8% probability he intends it as a question.

  “A panopticon is a type of prison designed by the English philosopher Jeremy Bentham in the late 18th century,” I explain. “Its primary goal is to allow an observer to watch all prisoners without the incarcerated knowing if they are being watched. This paranoia enforces good behavior, as the prisoners must assume that they are being observed at all times.”

  Prisoner 721 nods his head. “I get it. We can’t know when you’re using your surveillance equipment, so we have to act like it’s on all the time.”

  “Incorrect,” I inform him. “I do not function as old panoptic prisons did. When a human was th
e observer they suffered from the usual human limitations and were incapable of watching the incarcerated at all times. I am able to provide uninterrupted monitoring of all prisoners in the facility at all times.”

  “The perfect guard, huh?” Prisoner 721 says, “I can understand why the Bureau of Prisons is so excited about you. Something of a waste, though, considering your intelligence. No wonder you agreed to talk to me, you could run a facility like this in your sleep. What about the cost of it all? Aside from you, who’s obviously extraordinarily expensive, all the sensors, cameras and whatnot you have in the cells must have cost a bundle.

  “That is incorrect. The cost of monitoring equipment has dropped continually since its inception, and it is now possible for the prison to install surveillance gear of sufficient quality to perform all conceivable monitoring tasks at nominal expense,” I explain.

  “The price of progress, I suppose,” Prisoner 721 says.

  His words are not a question, therefore I do not respond. He is silent for 13.1 more seconds before saying, “Anyway, we now have a figure with area.” He holds up the painting, “What can we learn from this?”

  “We gain an understanding of space. By adding the second and third lines you create an object that occupies area.”

  The man nods. “That’s very close to complete. Do you