Turing's Revenge and Other Stories

By Steven W. White

Four science fiction tales of the future and one of the ancient past. A total of 22,000 unforgettable words.

TURING'S REVENGE
Remember Alan Turing's test for artificial intelligence? It simply won't tell you if your robot has a soul. You will have to answer that question on your own... and you'd better get it right.

TO MY DEAREST APHRODITE
The Great Library of Alexandria, 246 BC. To save the greatest city in the world, the Library's astronomer must solve a very unusual crime.

FAREWELL TO ARMS
A biologically enhanced assassin finds that his weapons are useless against a beautiful young woman who works in a shoe store.

WISE AS SERPENTS
When humans discovered the alien pavo civilization, they found them to be invisible savage killers. But there is still a chance for peace. Or is there?

MIDGIGOROO AND THE SINGULARITY
Futurists anxiously await the Singularity – the moment when superhuman intelligence makes the future impossible to predict. But how will others react to it? An Australian Aborigine, say?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven W. White
• Release date: May 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301371549

Steven W. White

Steven W. White has written science fiction and fantasy since he was a teenager. Along the way, he's been a Christmas tree farmer, a rocket scientist, and a snake handler. Lately, he's earned a Fiction MFA from the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts on Whidbey Island, Washington. He writes, teaches, and occasionally plays with fire in the Pacific Northwest.

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TURING'S REVENGE and Other Stories

Published by Steven W. White at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Steven W. White

Contents:

Turing's Revenge

To My Dearest Aphrodite

Farewell to Arms

Wise as Serpents

Midgigoroo and the Singularity

Afterword

TURING'S REVENGE

The original question, ‘Can machines think?’ I believe to be too meaningless to deserve discussion. – Alan Turing

#

There are several things to keep in mind when burning down a building.

Taylor Scott reviewed them mentally as she and her comrades passed under the bright streetlights of downtown Seattle. The lights cast an orange glow to the starless sky, even at two in the morning on a Wednesday. The fog hung on her, heavy and cold, and gave each light an amber shroud.

First, make sure no one was inside. She was no savage. Second, get out safely, as she wasn’t suicidal either. That left the issue of defeating security.

The three of them, in their business best, strode up to the main entrance of Metro Park South. Business best, with innocent additions: leather gloves, and two briefcases each.

Cadwallader looked right into the cam set in the glass doors and pushed on the smooth brass handle. The door swung open.

Yes! Taylor minibounced on her toes, eyes sparkling.

Tay, hush. Cad winked at her. He was tall, blue-eyed and blond, and he carried himself like a hero. They strode in like they owned the place, and went straight to the stairwell.

Long ago, the building might have had an all-night security guard. You might have needed a key for the door, too. Now, it was so much simpler to have a computer look at your face. Either it recognized you and let you in, or not. Of course, the file of staff faces must be kept secure, or someone like Shawn Rainwater, their number three, might hack in and upload an image of Cadwallader Smith’s stubbly mug to replace that of the company president.

They came out of the stairwell into the basement, one level above the parking garage. Rainy flicked a light switch and squinted at the shocking fluorescence. Taylor ducked, pulling her shoulders to her ears. It was an ostrich reflex: if she could see, could she be seen? But no, they were alone, except for silent copy machines, bookshelves, and circular recycle bins of waste paper.

Rainy smirked and pointed at her, as if to say gotcha! Rainy was the idea man. He had dark Native American features, and his black hair, tied at the base of his neck with a strip of leather, swayed like a rope when he set down a briefcase to loosen his tie.

Taylor set down her cases and stretched. She was slender and barely five foot two, not built for heavy lifting, though she’d never admit it. Not to Cad.

No time to rest, you two, Cad whispered. He unsnapped one of his briefcases, removed the gallon-sized plastic bag, and popped a spigot on the side. The kerosene poured into a recycle barrel, hip-high and grocery-bag brown with the triangle of arrows on the side. The sharp odor was the smell of high crime.

Good morning, spoke a voice behind them, at full, fearless volume. May I help you?

It was a slaive. Its metal body had been adorned with a t-shirt bearing the green BrAIntech (Taylor called it SlAIvetech) logo. A utility belt with plastic file folders on each hip held tubes of pens and pencils. A stapler hung at its breast. Taylor saw all that in a glance before she turned her back to it. Don’t let it see your face!

Rainy spun away from it, too.

Cad turned to him. You said there wouldn’t be any– But Rainy put a finger to his lips.

It took graceful steps toward them. I’m sorry. I don’t recognize any of you. How embarrassing! This may be a security breach.

Nonsense, agent, Cad said. I’m the new president of BrAIntech. Update your records.

Gutsy, Cad. Could that possibly work? Taylor crossed her fingers. The slaive paused as it checked the web, standing casually with its weight on one bare gleaming foot.

It was a mechanical person. BrAIntech called them personal agents, and people who accepted them used that word. Those who hated them called them robots, and Taylor’s friends in the movement called them slaives.

The kerosene odor burned Taylor’s nostrils. Good thing slaives couldn’t smell.

I’m sorry sir. There’s a conflict in my staff file. It’s probably nothing. I’m afraid I must check in with security, though. My name is Robert-RTZN. How may I assist you?

Cad smiled. What are you doing up, Robert?

Rainy, walking backward, slipped behind it.

Yes, it is unorthodox. My owner works nights at home, and often sends me clerical tasks. I remain online for– Taylor heard a click as Rainy flipped a switch at its neck. It froze. The whisper-quiet half-inch fan at its navel spun to a stop.

Cad pushed a copy machine over, crashing it to the floor. Unbelievable!

Rainy threw up his hands. Don’t look at me! All the agents are supposed to be uploaded and powered off after hours. This place should be dead.

Taylor walked around the slaive. It was ceramic and plastic, with the sheen of metal at the joints, slimmer and lighter than a human body. It was engineered to look lean and efficient, with an expression not quite of happiness, but of resolution and serenity. She found it beautiful, not in the human sense, but more as a sleek car can be beautiful. She stared.

It stood about her height. All agents were short, lest they appear imposing. In the dark lenses of its eyes, she sought some sign of life, of intelligence, some expression of the pain it must have endured under its human masters.

What now, Cad? she asked. Robert’s memory files, the closest thing he had to a soul, should have been uploaded to the servers in Tacoma. So long as a slaive’s memories were copied and it was powered off, its body had no meaning. It could be destroyed (burned to powder, say) and its memories could be installed in a new body. No real harm. But