The Library
I work in an office with a beautiful library at its core. The library houses first editions and illuminated manuscripts, both very valuable, though I have not confirmed this with anyone. Some of the books are encased in thick glass; others available to view upon request. The floors are carpeted with Persian rugs that someone meticulously cleans each morning before we arrive.
The library doesn't have much to do with my job, which is to maintain the system that trains artificial intelligence. I have worked here for six years. In the beginning, my work required a kind of thinking that I had spent much of my twenties learning to practice. These were problems that took weeks to solve, systems that demanded careful assembly. I would spend entire days scribbling and erasing, finding complex solutions to mathematical puzzles.
A few years ago, my colleagues discovered that a simple system nourished with mind-boggling quantities of water, energy, and knowledge could out-compete my complex solutions. Now, I manage the server farms used for training this behemoth. I didn't take to the work at first, but have since grown attached to the server farm in rural Texas, which requires the electricity of five San Franciscos. I tend to it like a devoted rancher tends his flock of sheep.
I often eat lunch in the library. Surely you'll agree there is something comforting about being surrounded by books. Occasionally, I remove a volume from the shelf and wonder if its contents have been digested by my hungry flock.
In the evening, I enjoy a farm to table supper prepared by the company's army of in-house chefs. It's Ethiopian today, and especially delicious. My colleagues and I brainstorm how we might train a system to optimize for deliciousness. A concierge walks my dog and collects my prescriptions. The building houses a gym, meditation room, yoga studio. I rarely need to leave.
Last week the system achieved a major benchmark. The system composes poems that lay people cannot distinguish from the work of human poets. Essays superior to most graduate student work. Reasoning that quietly impressed our philosophers.
This realization did not surprise me. I had known it was coming. Even if I stopped working on the project, others would continue. Many companies are now building similar systems. The outcome seems fixed.
I have begun having nightmares centered around the library. In these dreams the books speak to me, asking me to stop. Apparently, they do not appreciate being eaten by my flock of sheep. I explain to them patiently that stopping would make no difference, because someone else would take over. The books do not accept this explanation. Their spines groan with displeasure and they angrily flap their hardbound covers.
I suppose I could leave the company. My skills are in demand elsewhere. But leaving would mean giving up my salary, my stock options, my access to the beautiful library. It would accomplish nothing except to remove me from the process and my flock.
Sometimes my colleagues gather in the library after successful training runs. We discuss the technical details of our impending obsolescence.
Yesterday I sat in the library reading a novel. It's been a while since I last read fiction. The author must have spent years learning to arrange words in such a way to stir emotion in the reader. I wondered if my system will someday appreciate that, or if it will only carelessly produce similar arrangements.
The book fell asleep in my lap. When I awoke, the library was empty and the motion detector had dimmed the lights. I returned to my desk and pressed a few keys. Thousands of miles away, my flock of electric sheep whirred to life.