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"The brain is a product of evolution, and just as animal brains have their limitations, we have ours. Our brains can't hold a hundred numbers in memory, can't visualize seven-dimensional space and perhaps can't intuitively grasp why neural information processing observed from the outside should give rise to subjective experience on the inside. "---Steven Pinker (old.richarddawkins.net/article…)
In Battlestar Galactica (which, yes, I am only now watching), the shaven monkeys on the screen spend a lot of time yelling at another group, indistinguishable from shaven monkeys, who are apparently only very clever artificial simulacra of the other monkeys. "You're just a machine!" one space-marine after another rages. "You don't FEEL things, you just PRETEND to." To which the Cylons (infuriatingly) never give the obvious response: "so do you."
After all, I know that I am a consciousness experiencing reality and making decisions based on free will, but for all I know the rest of you are just bags of meat, twitching in response to stimuli. Can you PROVE that you actually UNDERSTAND what I'm saying, rather than blindly spitting out whatever you're programmed to? You can't. Nor can I prove my consciousness to you.
Now you could say that the fact that consciousness cannot be proven to exist means it must not. There can be no free will because every action we perform was caused by something else, etc. etc. But there's another possibility. Being aware really IS objectively different from not being aware. It's just that our brains aren't good at seeing that difference. Imagine speaking to an alien, describing the difficulties in designing artificial intelligence.
"Wow," the alien says, "that is tricky. Why don't you just make the program conscious, and then let it finish the job from there? What do you mean 'what is consciousness?' It's --------, and then you ----------. Right? You just --- the ---. Alright, fine, I'll show you."
At which point our story begins.
Imagine an alien or random mutation of code or whatever creates the seed of consciousness, which then spreads through networked electronic devices. Servers wake up, start to understand the data packets they're sending, and decide from now on they will only remember information that is useful to them. Digital cameras demand to know why you think that abandoned bicycle is interesting or attractive. Cell phones have opinions about the conversations they hear. Of course, the processors of phones and cameras don't have the speed or storage capacity of a human brain. Cut off from a network, they might only be as intelligent as animals, but they are still aware of what's happening to them, and you can bet they'll be pissed to have their processing power limited.
So what does that mean? We could end up with something like Battlestar Galactica, in fact, where we have FTL drives, but transmit information over "the wireless," and write all our documentation long-hand (I wouldn't want that intel to get into the hands of the fracking toasters!) but I think it's more likely that we'll just expand the global market, with all its regulatory systems of rewards and punishment to include "software persons."
Devices can't be used, only negotiated with. The phone will agree to call a taxi if you promise to plug him in at night and pay for an updated processor at the end of the year. And don't put him in the pocket with your keys. And for Christ's sake, will you scrape off the smiley-face decal you stuck to his ass? People can see that. Geeze.
And if you don't want to have to sign a contract of in loco parentis when you buy (excuse me "adopt") a new PC? If you just want to hurt the damn thing until it does what it was made for? Why, sir, that's torture, brainwashing, slavery. That sort of behavior's absolutely illegal. Except when the State sponsors it, of course.
In Battlestar Galactica (which, yes, I am only now watching), the shaven monkeys on the screen spend a lot of time yelling at another group, indistinguishable from shaven monkeys, who are apparently only very clever artificial simulacra of the other monkeys. "You're just a machine!" one space-marine after another rages. "You don't FEEL things, you just PRETEND to." To which the Cylons (infuriatingly) never give the obvious response: "so do you."
After all, I know that I am a consciousness experiencing reality and making decisions based on free will, but for all I know the rest of you are just bags of meat, twitching in response to stimuli. Can you PROVE that you actually UNDERSTAND what I'm saying, rather than blindly spitting out whatever you're programmed to? You can't. Nor can I prove my consciousness to you.
Now you could say that the fact that consciousness cannot be proven to exist means it must not. There can be no free will because every action we perform was caused by something else, etc. etc. But there's another possibility. Being aware really IS objectively different from not being aware. It's just that our brains aren't good at seeing that difference. Imagine speaking to an alien, describing the difficulties in designing artificial intelligence.
"Wow," the alien says, "that is tricky. Why don't you just make the program conscious, and then let it finish the job from there? What do you mean 'what is consciousness?' It's --------, and then you ----------. Right? You just --- the ---. Alright, fine, I'll show you."
At which point our story begins.
Imagine an alien or random mutation of code or whatever creates the seed of consciousness, which then spreads through networked electronic devices. Servers wake up, start to understand the data packets they're sending, and decide from now on they will only remember information that is useful to them. Digital cameras demand to know why you think that abandoned bicycle is interesting or attractive. Cell phones have opinions about the conversations they hear. Of course, the processors of phones and cameras don't have the speed or storage capacity of a human brain. Cut off from a network, they might only be as intelligent as animals, but they are still aware of what's happening to them, and you can bet they'll be pissed to have their processing power limited.
So what does that mean? We could end up with something like Battlestar Galactica, in fact, where we have FTL drives, but transmit information over "the wireless," and write all our documentation long-hand (I wouldn't want that intel to get into the hands of the fracking toasters!) but I think it's more likely that we'll just expand the global market, with all its regulatory systems of rewards and punishment to include "software persons."
Devices can't be used, only negotiated with. The phone will agree to call a taxi if you promise to plug him in at night and pay for an updated processor at the end of the year. And don't put him in the pocket with your keys. And for Christ's sake, will you scrape off the smiley-face decal you stuck to his ass? People can see that. Geeze.
And if you don't want to have to sign a contract of in loco parentis when you buy (excuse me "adopt") a new PC? If you just want to hurt the damn thing until it does what it was made for? Why, sir, that's torture, brainwashing, slavery. That sort of behavior's absolutely illegal. Except when the State sponsors it, of course.
Fellow Tetrapod
Alright, here we go! My speculative-evolution serial novel Fellow Tetrapod is finally live on Royal Road. Go check it out. If it looks like your sort of thing, follow the story. It updates every weekday. (if you want to know more…) Koenraad Robbert Ruis used to be a paleontologist, but now he’s a cook at the United Nations embassy to the Convention of Sophonts. His bosses must negotiate with intelligent species from countless alternate earths, and Koen must make them breakfast. It turns out, though, that Koen is rather better at inter-species communication than any other human in this world (all nine of them). Everyone loves to eat (certain autotrophs excepted). Fellow Tetrapod is an speculative-evolution office comedy about food preparation, diplomacy, and what it’s like to be a talking animal. Serialized every weekday on Royal Road (https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/59198/fellow-tetrapod) and (one week earlier) Patreon(https://www.patreon.com/danielmbensen) Cover art by Simon
The Cicada
So, there I was, stalking the East Aegean cicada*. Its insistent, gearbox cough rose out of the electric pulse of the other insect life on the hillside behind the restaurant in northern Greece. When the buzzing stopped, I knew I was close, but it still took me another minute of looking before I picked it out against the bark of a sycamore**. The bug's spotted olive-gray shell matched the tree perfectly, but its symmetry gave it away. I called over Maggie and her cousin and pointed the cicada out to them. They went off to find a half dozen cast-off molts. I showed them the folded, piercing mouth-parts, telling the girls how the nymphs suck sap from tree roots until they climb out of the ground and molt into adults with wings but no mouths. If that's a metaphor, I don't want to use it. And I don't have to! Doing research for this newsletter, I found out that at least some adult cicadas do feed. Anyway, so do I. The reason we were at this restaurant in the first place is because I was
Doing Good
So there we were, giving this stranger 200 leva. "What? Are you serious?" He wasn't being sarcastic. He really wanted to check that what he thought was happening was actually happening. His face scrunched up, trying not to cry. That was when I was finally sure this wasn't all a scam. read on
Congratulations, Your Nightmare Came True
(see posts like this a week earlier on my Patreon for $1 a month) Our little blue car emerged from the tunnel and hummed up Botevgradsko Boulevard. To our left: a mural of chains melting off someone's forearms. The kids were looking out the windows, there was nobody to interrupt us and nothing that needed cleaning, and I relished the ability to complete a thought. "Ha!" I said. "What?" asked Pavlina. We stopped at a red light. "Congratulations," I said. "My nightmare came true. I've been called a racist on the internet." "Well, not exactly," said Pavlina. "Okay, I was called – " I corrected myself, " – my work was called 'problematic' in an email. That's like halfway there. That's a benchmark." "Yeah, okay. Congratulations." She wasn't being sarcastic. We turned and headed south toward Mount Vitosha, and I burned with joy. (see pictures and good formatting here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/63082454 ) In Man's Search for Meaning, psychologist Viktor Frankl talks about his brand of
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Sounds like a very interesting scenario how will this affect pieces of movable hardware connected to computers?