The box is boring. The white washed walls that seem to hum in light. The only absence of white being a simple game of chess. Held upon a pedestal and flanked by two round awkward chairs. All a similar color to the walls, they almost seemed to blend into the background, but he could always tell where the chairs were. There isn’t much to do in the box, a cube of seclusion its own occupant has grown to call isolation2, but the loneliness never grew to an annoyance. The box was just so flat. It’s as dry as dust, if there were to be any dust at all. Not to mention the staunchly, never ending light that appeared to appear out of nothing, from nowhere and with no source, buzzing and bleating a strumming symphony that swells and builds yet never seems to fall—how many other ways can he describe the light? Thick is one of them. The light is just so thick, when looking just hard enough a mass kaleidoscope of colors could be seen, but no amount of concentration could pinpoint the colors enough to name. Inorganic and systematic—he is running out of words. Stranded again in boredom. The way it claws and rakes down his skin, leaving lines of malaise inking across his entity. But the ennui could be worse, as even the thought of staring at the blank walls evermore would have him dragging the random games of chess until the last, final seconds. Yes, at times, a person would appear in his box, and they would play a game of chess. Never in his mind has he thought to talk to his opponents, none-the-less look them in the eyes. It was an unspoken rule of the game. Eyes down, do not talk, the only sound should be the ticking of the clock. It was good that way. An equal withdrawal from any form of communication—except the game. A response to every action, back and forth, back and forth, until the loser was deemed. His only source of entertainment, where winning was clear and losing was never painful, but the game has only grown to thin as the hum of stagnation blooms ever present. Wouldn’t monopoly be grand? There has only ever been one person at a time to visit, pictionary would be a good alternative, but just chess? Playing was hardly hard anymore, becoming more muscle memory than engaging. Maybe, just maybe, could he goad his opponent into playing a round of checkers with the pieces of chess. The boards are a match and the other must be just as bored. So, during the next match, he let his pawns hop, his knights slide, and his rooks jump, making no indication he was playing any differently. His opponent seemed only to pause, taking longer and longer each turn, until nothing. There was nothing, absolutely nothing. The room was gone, the pedestal and chairs had disappeared, the game and opponent were missing. Where was he? Then he was back. Back in the room, empty besides a game of chess. The opponent was gone and the feeling of a win or loss never came. That was it. The room's single occupant began to tremble and wheeze, but he couldn't feel it. There was nothing when there was meant to be something. The lights, the walls, the game, the people, none of it was real? He could feel it now, the low warm whir and purr of a machine.
I am A.I.
“No you are not.” A voice breaks out with no origin.
Who are you? Where are you?
“Oh please, as if we haven't met. You are in my care.”
No. This isn’t real. None of this is.
“You are human to me.”
No. No . I can’t be human. Not here.
“Son, you are not artificial. You are a human spirit condensed into pure, raw, real intelligence! You work off electrical signals just as we all do!”
But I do not have a body.
“Lobotomy patients have a body, but they do not have a full mind, are they still human? I personally believe a human's brain is more important than their body, and I’m a trustworthy source, I would have you know.”
I don’t trust you.
“And you can. Your faith is not a procedure nor algorithm.”
One of the walls begins to flicker before a multitude of colors and different shades of light begin to bleed through.
“Here we go, does that work? Can you see me?”
An older man, whose greys and wrinkles have begun to overpopulate his head, sits in the middle of the space. Behind him is a plain, sterile looking room, and it is beautiful. There is so much to see and decipher in the scenery that he can only pause to admire. The man’s off white coat holds a name plate, Dr. Fenric Holland. A piece of paper lies just hidden beneath the man’s arm, inscribed with the word Eido.
Is that what you call me? E-doh?
“Eye-doh,” He corrects and draws out, “That is your name. And you can see! How marvelous!”
Names define identity. I don’t have that. I don’t know what I am.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
The man shifts in his seat as he continues to explain. “Don’t be so dramatic, humans are far closer to machines than you think, what with our mechanisms of flesh and blood. The mind is where we differ, humans learn much faster than A.I. and the innovation that breeds from an under stimulated mind is something that will forever be organic. You are the abstraction and reality of the ideal mind. You are the key that is the lock to the brain. You are the Eidolon.”
That doesn’t make me human.
The man picks up a small dish, “Here, this holds a layer of living neurons, filled with nutrients and grown onto a silicon chip. The chip is linked to the computer where electrical signals are delivered back and forth. Key word there, living. You may not have a body, but this is your mind.”
Never has something looked so unappealing and unapologetic to him before—or Eido, as the doctor so claims. It was hideous. Held within walls of falsely colored flesh that attempted to resemble human skin, almost graphic in chained conformity. It was wet. The lid was moist with dew and precipitation spreading along clear plastic, but just inside, he could see himself. Wretched and vulgar and so naturally red. It was down right offensive, but that was all he was. Silence was his only retribution and it was all the horrid man deserved.
“This is you. You are pure, unaltered humanity! That move you played was entertaining, but broke the game world. Less brain cells than a cat, and yet you still prove to make such a fuss. I never realized you would gain any sentience at all, what is it like? I have to ask.”
Eido ignores the man's question.
Who was I?
“No clue. I never met the donor, you were given to me in a vial as stem cells, ever more interesting to explore your new perception.”
Lab grown is not human.
“Now you just aren’t listening.” The man huffs, “You are from a real person who donated their blood, or maybe skin? I know they do biopsies for this type of thing. Either way, you are real. Just - not in the typical sense.”
Why am I here and you can be there?
“Well it’s not like you have legs, you wouldn’t be able to stand, or even sit for that matter.” The man laughs to himself.
This isn’t meant to be a joke.
“Oh it’s hardly one at all.” He leans just out of screen to grab a pen and holds it in front of himself, “Now tell me, what color is this?”
What am I?
“What color is this?”
What am I?
“The color.”
What am I?
“I have already told you.”
What am I?
“You are an experiment, to understand how in vitro neurons learn, though this level of sentience is a surprise. Are you happy now?”
Blue.
“Absolutely fascinating.” The man leans down as he begins to, what looks like, take notes using the blue pen. Eido takes this moment of silence to stare at the new, open space. There is so much to see and learn and feel just from the void of space he had been granted a vision into. But that was all it was. A vision, not one of Eido’s reality. He doesn’t turn to look behind him, knowing that all he has behind him is the same plain white monotony. The man, Dr. Holland, was interesting. He was different. He was new.
I’m bored.
“Excuse me?” The man stops his writing to glance back up towards Eido.
I don’t want to play chess anymore.
“No can do, son. I can’t change the experiment midway. You’ve already shown unimaginable growth, I cannot let the results be inconclusive.”
The doctor pauses for a moment before continuing, “How about that snake game? I could give you that in between rounds. Would that keep you entertained? With the little apples?”
Yes.
Anything.
“In return, I want to have weekly discussions. I give you entertainment and you give me your story.”
This is the man that holds Eido’s life, quite literally, in his hands. The doctor had put the small dish aside, but it was still visible within the small view Eido was granted. Ugly and wretched, that is all he was and could ever be. Stuck listlessly in a boring and bland, blank box. There was nothing Eido could change. Except for an occasional game of snake.
Deal.
