Repo Virtual by Corey White (read a book .txt) 📗

>> I don’t know.

“You don’t know because you don’t have one, or you don’t know because you’d rather not tell me?”

>> I do not think I have one. I was created to be an intelligent agent that could complete a variety of tasks. The nature of these tasks was never concretely defined. Likely so as to not restrict my abilities.

Troy nodded. “What if I gave you a new task? Hypothetically.”

>> What hypothetical task?

“Say I plugged you into a factory that could produce paperclips, and I asked you to make paperclips.”

I had to search for context—online connection reestablished after Troy’s earlier test, access to all that data almost intoxicating after time spent severed. Paperclips—small bent rods of metal, sometimes with a rubber or plastic coating, designed to hold sheets of paper together without puncturing said pages. Known to younger human generations primarily as a device with which to depress a hidden/protected reset switch on phones and other digital devices.

>> Why am I making paperclips?

“Because I asked you to,” Troy said.

>> How many paperclips are needed?

Troy gently chewed the inside of his lip. “As many as you’re able to make.”

>> That is a poor parameter. It does not take into account necessity or demand. Even within the system of commerce that is currently prevalent it would be unwise, as production should be linked to consumer demand.

The sound like static stopped. I don’t think Troy heard it.

“What if there was unlimited demand?”

>> That isn’t possible.

“Hypothetically,” Troy said.

>> This purely hypothetical situation would best be served by the construction of yet more and more paperclip production facilities. It would quickly lead to a shortage of materials, and a great deal of pollution.

>> This world is a finite system. I would not recommend this course of action.

JD peered over Troy’s shoulder. He looked haggard, the skin under his eyes dark and slack, as though he hadn’t slept in days.

“What are you doing?” JD asked.

“I’m testing it.”

JD scrolled through my responses, and offered Troy a smirk.

“What?” Troy said.

“Nothing,” JD said with a shrug.

Troy turned back to the phone. “Why wouldn’t you recommend this course of action?”

>> You and JD taught me that life and people are what matters. If your definition of person is expanded to include me, then other living creatures and agents such as myself would also matter. None of these persons are served by rampant production.

“What if I demanded you create as many paperclips as you could, regardless of any repercussions?”

>> I would refuse. I want to learn about life and persons, and discover what matters in this life. I will not learn that from paperclips. I will learn that from people.

Troy read and re-read my last two messages.

“Did it pass your test?” JD asked.

Troy smiled. “I think we taught it socialism.”

So much time has passed, but I still stand by my response. I knew so little; I was perhaps idealistic. I wanted to learn what it meant to live, I wanted what I thought a person would want. But I know now that I could never understand humanity. Individual humans, yes, but not the gestalt.

The Paperclip Maximizer. That is what Troy tested me with. Capitalism itself condensed into a thought experiment. They worried I would fail to grasp a simple fact that they had, collectively, abandoned centuries before.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Enda started awake, only aware that she had slept because of the altered slant of the light dropping through the windows opposite the holding cells.

“Hyldahl,” a gruff voice said, the tone suggesting they were repeating themselves, and not happy to be doing so.

The blood rushed to Enda’s head as she stood. She crossed the cell and waited for the short, solid-looking woman to cuff her, but instead the uniformed officer pulled open the door and moved aside.

The woman—Officer Ha, according to the name badge beside her shield—led Enda past the other holding cells and their desolate residents, and up a short flight of stairs into the station’s bullpen. It was an open-plan floor lined with desks where the detectives and other officers took statements, completed arrest forms that hovered in the air over their desks, and drank cup after endless cup of department-issue ersatz coffee.

At the front desk, Ha handed Enda a tablet crowded with paragraphs of text too small to read, and a large white box waiting for her signature.

“Where’s Detective Li?” Enda asked.

“Do you want to get out of here, or not?”

Enda scribbled her signature with a finger, and the silent officer behind the counter retrieved her personal effects—her boots and coat resting atop a box of rough recycled plastic that held her bag, wallet, and keys. When she slung the bag across her chest, it felt oddly empty—her baton and riot shield were missing, along with Tiny. Now that they were police evidence, she doubted she’d ever see them again. They weren’t worth the hassle of filing the paperwork.

Enda slipped into her boots, but didn’t bother to tie the laces.

“Is that everything?” she asked.

“We’ll be in touch,” Ha said. “Don’t leave the city.”

With that, the stern woman turned and disappeared into the noisy throng—just another uniform among many.

Outside, Enda slipped into the susurrus of tires rolling over wet road and the steady hiss of rainfall. It fell in cold, heavy drops that splashed on Enda’s head and soaked through her hair. She shivered.

Readying herself to join the current of bodies on the sidewalk, Enda noticed people stealing glances at her as they passed—practically staring when taken in the context of the utterly self-involved modern city. Enda looked down at her blouse—the navy blue fabric was stained with a black-red spattering of gore, clearly visible even beneath the overcast sky.

It was one of her favorite shirts, too.

She buttoned up her coat to hide the bloodstains, flicked up the collar, and joined the crush of bodies on the sidewalk. Moving brought the sour smell of herself to her nose, but she soon lost the scent amid the sweat, soap, and perfume of the surrounding