Living with Mercy is one revelation after another.
For one, she learns so damn quickly.
Most non-specialists find AI data training fairly abstruse, but with Mercy I only have to explain things once. The next time, she not only remembers what we were talking about, but seems to have considered implications, reached her own conclusions, identified drawbacks.
Bear in mind, this woman claims to ‘know nothing about how computers work, being content with the fact that they do.’
Yeah, well, here’s a sample of her ignorance.
‘So, Benjamin, if your clients’ generative AI software is using online sources, including interactions with users, as its dataset, in order to train itself …’
‘Yes?’
‘… sooner or later it’s going to start using AI-generated data. That’s going to distort the results. Isn’t it? Or am I missing something?’
‘Nope, you got it. That’s what we call “model collapse”. To put it another way, AI disappears up its own arse.’
‘Delightful! You have a true way with words, Benjamin.’
I attempt a curtsy.
‘So, when that happens, the tendency to confabulate, to hallucinate, that you were talking about before – that’s going to get worse and worse, isn’t it?’
‘Yup. We think.’
‘You think?’
‘We don’t really understand how this works, Mercy. We’re not sure how much compromised data the system can handle without going mental.’
‘That’s … concerning.’
‘We are fairly sure of one thing, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘When they release this beast into the wild, which will be 2019, or maybe even next year, it’s going to grow exponentially. It’s going to get more and more difficult to find data which isn’t partially AI-generated. If it does poison itself, it’ll happen fast. Really, really fast.’
‘Well, that all sounds very reassuring. The future of human civilisation is in good hands.’
‘Do I detect a note of sarcasm?’
‘Perish the thought, dear Benjamin.’
Another time, I ask about her music.
I know four fifths of bugger-all about playing the violin, but I’m enough of a musician to recognise a virtuosa when I hear one. She humours me by playing along with my banjo, but I know her skill extends far beyond the moderately-paced renditions of bluegrass classics that mark the pinnacle of my musical achievement. This woman can make her instrument sing with the delicacy of damselfly wings or howl like a falling angel.
I expect to hear that she’s been playing her whole life; maybe that she gave up the conservatorium and a classical career to study Psychology. But no.
‘Oh, I took it up a couple of years ago, when work was slack. I thought it might be fun. You like it, then, do you?’
‘Mercy, I think I hate you.’
It’s taken me a decade to get moderately competent at the five-string banjo, and I doubt I’ll ever make it past the beginner stage with the accordion.
‘No, you don’t.’
Out of the blue, my old mate and business partner Tel sends me an email.
His new Indian wife, Priya, is a professional dancer in the Hindu classical tradition; they’re hoping to run an international tour with exhibitions and workshops. Maybe they’ll even come over to Australia.
It would be good to see the old bastard again.
He’s sent me some links, so I dutifully look at the videos. Yeah, nice enough, I suppose. Intricate and clever, even I can see that. Not really my thing. She’s a pretty, elegant woman, mind you. Too young and pretty for Tel, raddled old hippy that he’s become.
Mercy is impressed. Fascinated.
‘Isn’t this beautiful? So dynamic, and yet so poised, so stable! Look – she’s never off balance, even when she moves between the most extraordinary positions. See that! And the facial expressions, the gestures! Such eloquent communication through the tilt of a chin, a sideways glance, the wrinkle of a brow, the curl of a finger or the bend of a wrist …’
The next day, I hear music, Indian classical music, but tinny, from a small speaker. Mercy’s phone.
I look out the window and see her in the courtyard, performing the most intricate sequences from the videos with what looks to my ignorant eye like near-perfection. A woman in her fifties moving like a lithe young girl but with the poise of a ballerina – performing moves she says she’s never seen before, in a dance tradition she claims to have known nothing about twenty-four hours ago.
I don’t get it.
I mean, if this is an act, why? If she’s a computer scientist, a classically trained violinist and an advanced student of Bharatanatyam, why pretend she’s not? For the pleasure of messing with my head?
I can only conclude she’s on the level, and I’m just a slow learner. I always thought I was bright, but obviously not. Not this level of bright.
I also make the discovery that Mercy doesn’t sleep.
At least, I’ve seen her relax with her eyes closed, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her asleep. As I drift off after our lovemaking or, more often, just cuddles, I’m dimly aware of her leaving the bed.
If I wake in the night, she’s never there.
One night I get up to pee, look out the window and see her walking barefoot across the moonlit lawn, then turning to gaze at her footprints in the dew. She must have seen the curtain move because she looks straight at me, gives a little wave.
Another night, I see her slip in through the door of the old dairy. What’s she doing in there, with the mice and the spiders’ webs?
Next week in Blind Spot:
Chapter 14: Mindfuck
Mercy’s metaphysics get physical.
Acknowledgement of Country: This story is set on the lands of the Djargurd Wurrung, while the author lives on Wadawurrung country. I pay my respects to their Elders past, present and emerging.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned herein are the product of the author’s imagination. The locations are based on real places.
Uh oh. Is Mercy human or …
I'm really enjoying the character development of these two :)