Day of Rest (Brian Tobin)

Day of Rest

Brian Tobin

The light creeps in from the window opposite the bed and I awake with the weary hesitation of an uneasy night’s rest.  The dimly lit room is aglow with the warm reassurance of a new day.  Specks of dust float gently in front of my increasingly probing eyes as the vaulted ceiling above me comes in and out of focus.  I quietly groans as I lift myself off the mattress.

“Getting up is difficult for everyone,” I remind myself.

The thick carpeting tickles the underside of my feet as I make my way downstairs and into the kitchen.  As per usual of late, I grab an apple from the bowl on the counter.  I don’t usually eat breakfast, but apples are in season and I can hardly resist the crisp and delicious fruit.  I quickly doublecheck the lights to make sure they are turned off before I make my exit, a response triggered by my colleagues’ judgement that I have become increasingly inattentive lately.  I refuse to believe such things; my research is going well and I have been making much more progress as compared to my contemporaries.  Their concern could more easily be chalked up to jealousy rather than to some actual fault of mine.  My most recent paper’s acceptance into the Neural Information Processing Systems Conference certainly proves to these fellow researchers that I still have the mettle to compete with the younger researcher crowd out there.  I may only be 35, but the speed with which technology moves nowadays means that I may as well be ancient.

The sea air softly caresses my supple skin as I tread out towards my car in the early Santa Barbara morning.  Morning for me means that it is still rather dark outside as the sun has just begun to creep over the horizon.  I solemnly slide into my Range Rover as I begin the drive to the lab.  This is undoubtedly my favorite time of the day.  I steal a few westward glances out the window, peering out over the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean.  Its deep azure carries a darker character in the early morning as only the thinnest shafts of light can escape the remnants of the preceding and receding darkness.  Along the white crests of the waves as they crash upon the shore, memory takes over my mind.  Growing up on the coast of Maryland, my father claimed that the sea was in his bones.  He had a mission to translate his love of the sea to me, as he would dedicate his summers to spend with his son in a watery world of boats and seafaring adventures.  In more passionate moments, he would throw me off the Gilded Lady, leaving me to struggle against the open sea.  One might think I developed some vengeance with the sea, but I am no Ahab.  I grew up on the sea and always welcome its cool embrace.

The waves of memories bypass those of my contented childhood and ominously settle on those of the preceding night as I agitatedly recall my dream.  I was stranded alone in a heartless sea with thunderous rain pouring from overhead, heavier than any rain I had ever before experienced.  The rain, with jolting thumps against my head, left me with nowhere to hide as the stormy waves carried me into a swirling eternity of sea and rain and water set against a hellish dark night.  I rarely have nightmares anymore and can mostly never remember even my better dreams in the morning.  I surely can’t remember the last time I had a bad dream about my beloved sea.  Driving now on autopilot, my eyes glaze over as I trace a path from the horizon to the shore.  The silky sand caresses the cliffside that supports the road, abundant with cascading lush, bright green vegetation characteristic of central California and a lineup of proud palm trees looming over the beach.  The ever-building sunrise gathering over the horizon begins to encroach in my rearview mirror, obscuring the road behind.

The parking lot is empty as is it ought to be at this hour on a Sunday, especially since we had the last week off work.  Everyone will be slower than usual in getting to work if anyone shows up at all. The truth is that my research success cannot be attributed to just some unnatural intellectual ability that I possess; I had to work harder than everyone else to get to where I am.  I open the car door with a click and my Timberland boots heave against the gravelly ground.  I glance up and can still see the stars hanging in their everchanging positions in the sky, their dim and austere glow gently pushed aside for the coming sun.  A double-crested cormorant flies overhead and I can swear it is carrying a fish in its bill.  A predator catching its prey.  I shrug at this commonality as the lab is located so close to the beach that a coastal bird with its breakfast can certainly and easily make its way here.  Station Q specializes in quantum computation and, while I begrudgingly acknowledge it to be the case, is owned by Microsoft.  I think Station Q feels more like a research-oriented university, especially with the University of California, Santa Barbara so close by.  I consider myself as more of an academic even if my professor colleagues tease me for working for a company as monstrous and lucrative as Microsoft.  Essentially, I chose Station Q so that I could be where the best research is.  It is just a coincidence that the money is there as well.

I step up to the front door of the lab and take out my early access swipe card.  A card for which I repeatedly fought with the building manager.  The smooth and sheen of the card reflects the rising sun in its glare as it effortlessly slides through the magnetic reader, followed by the low buzzing tone and a click of the lock release.  With a twist of my wrist, I enter the dimly lit entryway and hike down the long hall towards the rear of the building.  My office rings with the warm resonance of the hypnotic waves beneath the lab, as I look out over the stunning Santa Barbara beachside.  It was worth the effort, although I had to fight for this office when I moved here after my post-doctorate at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.  I did my PhD at MIT as well and probably wouldn’t have been awarded the position here if not for my advisor’s generous recommendation.  It took some wrangling to secure this space, and thank goodness for connections, as my fellow-researchers all had their eyes on it, knowing it was prime real estate.  Despite its allure, I admit that because I tend to hyper-focus on my work, the room has fallen into general disrepair, with research papers scattered along my desk of rich mahogany, edging over the side and onto the floor.  Still, the room manages to maintain the cold sterility of a self-respecting research lab with none of the homeliness one might imagine to be imbued onto the room by virtue of being occupied for such long and frequent periods of time.

In the corner sits my project.  The five-foot metallic square placed delicately on the floor looks rather unimpressive.  With a stream of silver along its perimeter, the rather flat contraption resembles a large tray.  Only this tray is not filled with food or some other assortment of objects that one may typically use a tray for, but with what appears to be dirt.  Of course, I would laugh at the suggestion that this tray carried anything as useless as dirt.  The substance in the tray is the subject of my research.  Self-engineered, the dirt-like material is a complicated biological compound equipped with nearly microscopic quantum computing devices.

I proceed slowly to my computer with the newly-emerged full sunlight beaming before my feet.  The quiet buzz of the booting computer brings my mind into focus.  It is time for work now, even if the other researchers aren’t willing to—or don’t need to—put in the time at this early of an hour.  My fingers move robotically as I start the program reluctantly abandoned over a week ago.  I might as well investigate where the bottleneck occurred last time.  Ever since my first machine learning course as an undergraduate I haven’t liked getting my hands dirty in the code, but sometimes it is the only way to get things done.  I press enter on the keyboard and the computer hums to life.  A moment later a quiet grating begins in the tray.  The dirt-like substance in the apparatus, before so still and smooth, now seems to be in motion even though it remains perfectly complacent.  The brown substance with its delicately fibered structure could easily be mistaken for real dirt extracted from the earth.  All at once, a slow vibration permeates the material as it awakens from its sullen and desolate week-long slumber.  The material begins to rise in a slow cadence as it begins to rotate and undulate around the center of the tray.  What begins as an imperceptible change in motion heightens to a frenzy.  The dirt-like substance swirls in a maelstrom of hazelnut with infrequent ricochets against the tray; a stirring and a shout from the earth itself coalescing in the sterile lab before me.  The computer begins to emit an ominous beeping sound indicating that the program has reached its limits.  Certainly, the other researchers would stop the program at this point and reassess the complexity of the set-up or some other trivial thing.  However, I designed the program and I know its capabilities.  Just as the whirlwind seems to reach its peak intensity, the previously discrete material now moves as one substance.  I can make out a faint image in the swirling fog—a misty apparition with an indistinct face.  Blank and expressionless, the substance begins to form the shape of a body around the face and, in another instant, it is there.  Standing before my eyes is a human being.  Or at least what appears to be a human being.  The being is of course entirely synthetic—fabricated— even if it can perform many of the tasks and functions of an actual person.  The lab is currently working to improve the neural nets that dictate the program’s processing to get a faster response time.  We hope it will eventually have applications in fields as diverse as healthcare and defense.  I slowly approach the device, adopting a measured pace as I steel my eyes on it and make my way from the computer.

It is truly remarkable how uncanny the resemblance is to a real human being, but the form has a general lifelessness that betrays its deception.  I stop seven feet in front of the synthetic creature on a marking of tape placed precisely on the floor, gazing into its soulless eyes.

“Hello. What is your name?” I ask.

“Hello. I am Nigel,” it replies in a monotone intonation.

            I step forward and reach out and touch its arm. It has the soft and supple texture of real human skin and if I didn’t know any better, I would infer that its delicate husk is the real thing. I then proceed to run the routine diagnostics on Nigel.  I have it move its arms and legs.  Produce different vocal patterns and engage in basic conversations.  Our algorithms have become sophisticated enough that Nigel can basically perform the elementary functions of any normal human.  My research focuses on enabling the form with a sense of freeness that our models aren’t quite yet able to accomplish. My breakthrough has been to design its functioning by implementing the processes of the human brain, or at least our best understanding of them, based on the most current neuroscientific research available.  And Nigel cooperates with our directives to the dime, but that in itself isn’t particularly special. Scientists have been able to do this for quite some time. I want Nigel to choose and decide for itself--not just as the outcome of an algorithm--but as a true reflection of its will. I chuckle to myself quietly. Life is not some science fiction story no matter how many times I read Ray Bradbury. Nigel’s decision framework relies on statistical theory, not some vague misunderstanding of theoretical physics. Any possible improvement to Nigel’s internal models will only make its choices more accurate and increasingly convincing. The device can only think for itself as far as I allow it and I certainly can’t change the rules of reality like some fiction author.  My chuckles turn into a sigh as I acknowledge that Nigel will only ever be a meagre physical realization of statistics, and a useful one at that.  But a part of me, that child once tossed into the sea, merely wants to dig just a bit deeper.  To penetrate through the murky, darker depths beneath my sinking feet and lay bare the mysteries hiding beyond my blurring field of vision.  I suppose that I’ve seen further than my colleagues and that must count for something. In fact, my recent bonus implies that it counts for a lot of something.

            “What do you want to do now?” I ask Nigel.

In the interest of cheeky humor, I trained it to say “Go to Disney World,” but I notice a twitch in Nigel’s left eye and realize that there’s been some sort of glitch.  It must be a small error in the code.  I lightly jog back to the computer and shut down Nigel’s program.  In an instant, the almost-real human disintegrates into a pile of dirt in the tray. I scan the code quickly and realize that I accidentally put in one semicolon too many. Implementation really has always been a struggle for me.  Consciously sharpening my focus, I decide I may as well make a few adjustments to the algorithms while Nigel is just a clump of dust. The sun now parallel with my windowed wall of glass shines brilliantly into the office. A vivid reminder of why my coworkers are jealous of me. I anxiously reboot the system and restart Nigel.  Come on man, I can’t be wasting time on semicolons.  Maybe I am losing it.  I walk swiftly over to the tray as Nigel appears in his familiar tornado of priceless, cutting-edge synthetic materials.  I once again stand on the line of tape on the floor.

“Hello.  What is your name?” I ask for the second time.

“Hello.  I am Nigel,” it replies in its characteristic flat delivery.

I continue my tests as usual and once again proceed to the punchline of my quite clever joke.

“What do you want to do now?” I ask one more time.

            I am met with a cold silence.  Could I have made another mistake with the code?  I glance up, confused. Nothing moves. I begin to turn around when I am suddenly drawn back to Nigel. I examine its pale synthetic face.  It seems to move without actually moving just as the dirt-like substance would seem to shift without any detectable motion.  Its face remains still, but then what I swear is a slight bend on the outer part of its lips begins to form.  Yes, it is clear now and the bend slowly and excruciatingly becomes a curl. I look at Nigel’s entire face and see that it is almost smiling.  Not a smile though.  More like a crude caricature of a smile.  I didn’t realize that the creature’s reasoning had gotten to the point of being able to smile at the Disney World comment.    

            “Hello, Noah.”

            I freeze.  I purposely never allowed Nigel to remember our names. I look at its face.  It appears slightly fuller than before in the beaming sun.  I stare into its eyes. Its eyes are not cold, but have a tangible warmth and perceptiveness. Almost a human expression.  In its synthetic eyes I can see my own reflection.

“I want,” says Nigel with a monotone that seems at once to be both gleeful and cruel.

“You to rest.”

            And so, in the light of the sun rising over a new day with clear skies, I can hear rain thundering in my ears.

Discussion

            First, we will briefly discuss some of the thematic material in the short story so that we can better understand its position in relation to course materials.  The story has clear biblical parallels as our main character plays the dual role of God and man.  The text then can be read as God’s own apocalypse.  In creating us in his own image, God also created his own apocalypse.  The same will that allows our narrator, Noah, to take a bite of an apple purges God from the world, initiating God’s day of rest.  Notice then that it is Noah’s flaws, insecurities, curiosity, and humanity that drives him to design Nigel out of dirt.  Noah is so engrossed in his research that Nigel’s ultimate form seems even inevitable.  The same free will that kills God is imbued onto Nigel and so humanity brings about its own apocalypse.  Naturally, the question of free will itself is raised.  Nigel is modeled after the human brain and is a product of statistical learning theory. This would make it seem as though Nigel, just like humans, may not have free will.  However, Nigel also breaks its directive and calls Noah by his name.  It is then ambiguous whether Nigel can really act according to its own will or if it is just fooling itself.  This leads to the revelation that, irrespective of whether we have free will or not, humans are, almost paradoxically, destined to create their own apocalypse by virtue of their very humanity.

            With that basic background, we can now begin to understand how the story relates to the course material. It almost goes without saying that this story plays off the classic tropes of a technological apocalypse.  Certainly, the story takes inspiration from the common idea of robots or some other technological interface gaining consciousness and overtaking humanity as discussed in Geraci’s “The Popular Appeal of Apocalyptic AI.”  This, however, is not why the story is an interesting apocalyptic tale.  After all, even if the tropes are present, it is not clear that the apocalypse is necessarily technological.  The ending can also be interpreted as a personal apocalypse where a man discovers the irrelevance of free will in humanity’s fate.  The story bares the most resemblance to Isaac Asimov’s “The Last Question.”  This text, however, inverts Asimov’s conception of the apocalypse. Asimov conceives of the apocalypse as the Biblical origin story while our tale depicts Genesis itself as the apocalypse.  An acute reader may notice that the first thing that Noah sees when he wakes up is the light streaming into his room which makes the sun, rising on the new world, a pivotal symbol throughout the text.  During his drive to the lab, Noah encounters God’s creations in the order that God created them according to the Bible.  Man is then created in the lab with the subsequent day of rest following the creation of humanity.  Of course then, the Bible, and particularly Genesis is a major source of inspiration.  The rain in Noah’s ears and the references to the sea are a clear allusion to the great flood that wiped out humanity.  The thematic material in fact deals with a more modern understanding of Genesis and the fall of humanity from the Garden of Eden.  There are also elements of Revelation in the story.  It is no coincidence that Noah stands seven feet away from Nigel with seven naturally being one of the most recognizable motifs and symbols of the apocalypse.  Our story then seems to invert many tropes; the beginning is now the end and Genesis is the apocalypse, not Revelation.  Perhaps more surprisingly, there are elements of an Eastern understanding of the end of the world present in the story as well.  In particular, the story reflects on the cyclic understanding of the apocalypse as discussed in the Buddhist Kālacakra Tantra within a strongly Western context.  Just as the story we just read presumably happened to God, it is implied that one day, Nigel and all of its creations will endure the same apocalypse since its functioning is modelled after the human brain.  It is then our very humanity that causes apocalypses to be cyclic even if we adopt a more Western understanding of time itself.

            It should be noted that some tropes were left out in editing.  My original conception of this story had a much stronger biological component to it.  In this version, I would utilize apocalyptic tropes involving zombies and viruses as well.  In reality, these tropes made the story feel too bloated.  Ultimately, the story creates a sense of horror using the pristine precision of computers without resorting to more grotesque imagery.