The Empathy Code

By A. C. Praat

Should robots make life and death decisions? Teacher and humanitarian, Mishra McKenzie, doesn’t think so.

But the international community is torn as the window to outlaw killer robots closes. ​Coaxed by her activist friends to help them expose a suspicious robotics project, Mishra doubts whether she can pull it off. Or even if she should try. She believes in human rights for all people, including the target for their actions, Philip Templeton. Philip is a crack coder working for the Australian military. He’s awkward, obsessive and disconcertingly sweet.

Hurt one man or endanger the many? Mishra has to decide what’s right and live with the consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. C. Praat
• Release date: Aug 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780473447946

A. C. Praat

Curiosity and a love of words drives me creatively, alongside that big question - what if? What if I didn't live in Wellington with my partner and boys? What if I'd frozen to death on that mountainside in Corsica? What if that squishy lump in my pocket was plastic explosive? (It isn't.) In my life as a social scientist I have explored issues from activism to architecture. Flash Frontier has kindly published my short fiction. The Empathy Code is my first novel.

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Angelique Praat

THE EMPATHY CODE

First published by Brooklyn Hill Press 2018

Copyright © 2018 by Angelique Praat

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Angelique Praat asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First edition

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For Marc, Theo and Luca

PROLOGUE

October 2017

Philip Templeton leaned over the side of his bunk in the aft cabin and retched. Death would be better than this.

Sometimes with a slap, sometimes with a blow so hard that the yacht’s masthead dipped beneath the waves, the chop and squall of the Tasman Sea scoured Philip’s insides. Three days, Raffe had told him, give or take, and then you’ll be loving it.

How long had it been? Two weeks at least since they’d absconded from Sydney. Two weeks of nausea and rehydration fluids and the moan of the wind through the halyards. Two weeks of cloying uncertainty and grief. He hadn’t wanted to leave – not his programming job, nor Mishra.

The cabin door swung open. Raffe grinned down at him, his blonde waves crusted into salty spikes, his square face the most relaxed Philip had seen it since casting off. ‘We’ve crossed over,’ Raffe said.

Philip stared at him, trying to make sense of the statement. He swallowed, preparing his voice. But nothing emerged.

‘Never mind, mate. We’ve just come round Cape Reinga. We’re out of the Tasman and into the South Pacific now. Another day and we’ll berth in Opua. Land ho.’

Tears squeezed from Philip’s eyes and a smile wobbled across his face as he raised his hand.

Raffe high-fived him and whistled as he left the cabin, taking an empty bottle of hydration fluid with him.

Time to get his stuff together. Lying on his side, Philip released the fasteners of the dry bag and started to scrunch his sleeping bag into it: a handful, then a rest, another handful, another rest. Twenty minutes later, he rolled onto his back, panting. Superhuman, that’s what he needed to be now. It wasn’t right to keep risking the lives of his friends for what he’d done. He wasn’t planning to be on board when they reached Opua.

Tonight he would remove the risk or die trying.

ONE

Day 78, 10.15pm

Mishra McKenzie was the last person clapping in the near-empty lecture theatre. What a screw-up. It was her first attempt at organising an event for their local Say No to Killer Robots Campaign. All that planning – the movie, the first in the iconic Terminator series, and the free pizza – had drawn the students in, but most hadn’t hung around to hear the professor’s talk on the ethics of killer robots. And that had been the whole point of the event.

‘Not bad for a first go.’ Ra Te Whatu, her flatmate and friend, flicked her coffee-coloured dreads over her shoulder then nudged Mishra with her elbow. ‘Shame the professor was so late. We could have had them. At least, more of them.’

Mishra shrugged. It had been a risk to nab the professor for a talk after he’d already attended a boozy departmental dinner; one that hadn’t paid off. But in the bigger scheme she just couldn’t understand why people didn’t care. Did they want machines making life and death decisions? She stood to assess the size of the clean-up, hoping that the pungent stink of cheese and pepperoni overstated the amount of leftovers they’d have to scrape off the carpet. If the smell didn’t disperse overnight, her colleagues in the psychology department would not be pleased the following morning.

Down at the lectern, the ethics professor was tapping his speech notes together. She should thank him. But before she reached the bottom step, the professor waved and, bumping his suitcase along behind him, he disappeared through the exit. ‘My cab,’ he called.

Mishra sank to the step and cupped her face in her hands. Well, she’d been right about how to attract the students, though that wasn’t much consolation now.

‘So . . .’

Mishra turned her head.

Ra smiled at her from behind a stack of empty pizza boxes. ‘Plan B.’

‘Plan B?’

Ra dumped the pizza boxes into Mishra’s arms and plonked down next to her on the step. ‘Only seventy-eight days till the expert committee on killer robots meets in Paris. We’re running out of time to show them that the world doesn’t want this crap.’

Mishra suppressed a grin. Nothing pushed down Ra for long. Ra’s countdown for their campaign plan had begun ninety days before the Paris talks. Behind Ra’s back, their friends called her, ‘Sir’. Living with the plan stuck to their fridge made Mishra anxious every time she was hungry.

She felt as if she’d let the campaign down tonight. What more could she do? Her shrug of frustration sent the top two pizza boxes sliding onto the floor where they crashed open and scattered pizza crusts beneath the seats.

‘Brilliant.’ Mishra bent sideways to retrieve the cold crusts and toss them back into a box. ‘We should have brought gloves. And we should use their proper name: Lethal Autonomous Weapon Systems.’

Words mattered to Mishra. In her view, words didn’t just reflect reality, they created it.

‘LAWS is what the committee calls them. Killer robots are what they should be called,’ Ra countered.

There was no point in re-litigating that argument. She sat up. ‘Do we have a Plan B?’

Ra shook her head. ‘Nah. From now on it’s just more of the same – raising awareness at community events and the markets, maybe some press if we can get them interested.’

While they considered alternative Plan Bs, a muffled hum, like an overtaxed air conditioning unit, sifted through the air.

‘Hear that? Mishra asked.

‘What?’

‘That humming.’ Mishra put the pizza boxes on the closest desk and stood up. Ra followed suit. They walked along a row of seats towards the centre of the lecture theatre, flipping up the seats that the students had missed. The humming intensified.

Half-way down the row Mishra stopped. A pizza box was wedged between two seats. ‘Sounds like it’s coming from here. Flies?’

Ra shrugged. ‘Don’t see them anywhere else.’ She bent over and cocked her ear toward the box. ‘They sound pretty pissed off. Let’s take it outside, eh?’

Mishra clasped the box and tugged. It didn’t move. Using both hands, she tugged again. The box jerked free and popped open. The hum amplified to a deafening buzz, as hundreds of bees escaped their prison and spilled into the air. Mishra dropped the box on the desk.

‘Shit!’ Ra shouted, batting the air around her face.

‘Stop, Ra,’ Mishra yelled. ‘Calm down.’ Mishra clamped her eyes and mouth shut and covered her face with the crook of one arm. Trailing the other hand along the desktop for guidance, she stepped backwards away from the bees. They brushed against the bare skin of her raised arm, where two or three settled, crawling over the inside of her wrist.

Don’t panic. She froze as one bee, then another, landed on her chin. She pulled her lips between her teeth and bit down, battling the urge to flick them away. One sting could set the swarm off. Isn’t that what her father had told her? Tiny claws tickled her chin, stopping at her mouth. Mishra didn’t dare breathe. One second, two seconds. The bees edged toward her cheek.

‘Mishra!’ The voice exploded into the buzzing.

‘Ra?’ Mishra dropped her protective arm and opened her eyes. The bees, suddenly squashed between her wrist and side, delivered simultaneous stings. She bashed them away, cursing, as heat and pain eviscerated her arm and panic forced its way up her throat. ‘Where are you?’

The bees were dispersing, expanding outward into the theatre. But there was no Ra.

‘Ra?’ Mishra ran down the stairs on legs that seemed full of hot prickles. Outside the exit, she tripped. The fall took minutes, time in which she processed the brief glimpse of what had tripped her. The out-flung arm, the uniformed body on the ground. And Ra on her knees beside it, her cellphone clamped to her ear, and her head turning toward Mishra, dreads splaying out around her as if she was underwater. And then the carpet was only inches from Mishra’s face as new pain jarred through her arms and from her hip.

‘Mishra.’

She was going to throw up.

‘Ambulance,’ Ra said into her phone. ‘University of Adelaide. Mishra, where are we?’ She held out her phone in Mishra’s direction.

‘Hughes Lecture Theatre, Gate 20, off North Terrace,’ she yelled.

‘Get that?’ Ra said into her phone. ‘A guy’s been attacked by bees.’ She waited, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. ‘Bracelet?’

Mishra crawled toward Ra, who had pulled the man’s body into the recovery position. Even from the side, Mishra could see his neck and face were swollen and hives were beginning to blister his skin.

‘Here.’ Mishra said, picking up his wrist, showing a chain bracelet. ‘Medic alert.’

She knew what that meant. She ran her hands over the belt of the prone man. He looked like Max, the security guard, but his face was so swollen she couldn’t be sure. She finished her search on that side and hauled him over. A pouch the size of a slim pencil case was attached to his belt. She ripped it open and tore out his EpiPen.

Please, let this work.

Taking a breath to steady herself, she broke the security seal and jabbed the pen into his thigh, waiting for the click before she released it.

The man began to tremble as the injection hit home. Mishra rolled him back into recovery position and watched his face. His breath was coming in short gasps and his skin was clammy beneath his hives. His green eyes held Mishra’s, but they no longer bulged in panic.

Mishra reached for his hand. ‘Help is on its way.’ She threw Ra a weak smile and Ra smiled back, still glued to her phone. ‘Help is on its way,’ she repeated, her voice cracking.

* * *

It was two-thirty the next morning when Mishra, drugged up on her own dose of anti-histamines and pain killers from the hospital, dragged herself through the door of her townhouse. Ra had left the kitchen light on. She didn’t need food. She needed to sleep, although she doubted whether her jittery brain would allow it.

‘Mish?’

Mishra jumped. ‘I don’t need a heart attack as well.’

Ra was sprawled on a bean bag on the living room floor, with a throw tucked around her ribs. ‘Sorry.’ Ra struggled to sit up then turned on a lamp. ‘We’ve cleaned up the lecture hall and we’ve got our Plan B.’ The excitement in her voice was unmistakable.

She wanted to do this now? ‘Max is going to be fine, by the way,’ Mishra said. ‘They’re monitoring him for the next day or so.’ She waved her damaged arm at Ra. ‘I’m OK too. Not an allergic reaction apparently. Just a few too many stings – three. It felt like fifty at least and a stress response to the – to the –’ What was it? An event? An attack?

‘You’re here, aren’t you?’ Ra said. ‘And you’re tougher than you look. Where’d you learn that trick with the injection?’

Ra was trying to mollify her and she was going to let her. It was way too late to argue. ‘Mum was a nurse. It’s in the genes.’

Ra frowned.

‘OK, I saw a student with a peanut allergy go down once. Not something you forget. I looked up anaphylaxis afterwards, just in case.’

‘Little dark horse, eh.’

‘I need to sleep, Ra.’

‘Yeah, I’ve heard we all need that. But listen, Mish, how do you think that box of bees got in there?’

Given Ra’s excitement, Mishra suspected resistance was futile, but she tried anyway. ‘Could we do this in the morning?’

‘This kind of opportunity won’t keep.’

She fell into an armchair and eased her feet out of her heels. The relief. ‘Alright, I’m listening.’

‘The box had a message.’

‘The box?’

‘The one that held the bees. There was a message on the inside lid. Say No to AI Nazis. We’re saving the planet.’

That was wrong on so many counts. ‘AI Nazis?’

‘Artificial intelligence, right? They mean us.’

‘But we’re not anti-AI. Just one potential application of it.’

Ra rolled her eyes. ‘You don’t need to tell me. You’re missing the point.’

How could her thoughts be zinging like pinballs on speed and still miss the point? ‘Which is?’

‘Publicity, Mish. It’s a great freakin’ story – Man at death’s door: Peaceful Say No to Killer Robots Campaign sabotaged by killer bees.’

Mishra was sure there must be plenty of coherent objections to Ra’s plan, but her brain couldn’t get past the bees. ‘Weren’t they just regular bees?’

‘I’ve already drafted the press statement. Want to look?’ Ra thrust a sheet of paper at Mishra.

Mishra slumped further into the chair and reached out her hand for the statement.

Man at Death's Door: Peaceful Say No to Killer Robots Campaign Sabotaged by Killer Bees.

 

A security guard at the University of Adelaide is critically ill in hospital after he was attacked by a swarm of bees last night. He was assisting at a public awareness event run by the Say No to Killer Robot Campaign (SNKR) when he was attacked.

Rawinia Te Whatu, SNKR Campaign Director, says her team was cleaning up after the event when they noticed buzzing coming from a pizza box. 'When we opened the pizza box the bees spilled out. The security guard heard us shouting and came to help. I was so scared we were going to lose him. Luckily, my colleague from the university knew what to do and stabbed him with his EpiPen.'

Ms Te Whatu says the pizza box had a message on the lid, calling the campaigners anti-AI Nazis.

'I want to be clear. We're not against artificial intelligence. We want an international, legally binding ban on robots that can identify, target and hurt humans on their own. Machines should not be deciding who lives and who dies on the battlefield.'

The Say No to Killer Robots Campaign is calling on all nations to support the ban. To date 26 countries have agreed to support the ban. Australia is not included in this number and neither are many of our allies: the USA, Britain, Canada and New Zealand.

An international Group of Governmental Experts is due to meet in Paris in October to discuss issues relating to Lethal Autonomous Weapons, or LAWS. 'Time is running out to make sure humanity is never faced down by killer robots. We need to act now to prevent that threat from eventuating,' says Ms Te Whatu.

Ra had included details of the campaign’s website and Facebook page at the bottom of her copy. ‘Death’s door’ and ‘critically ill’ were overstating Max’s condition – thankfully – and Ra hadn’t mentioned Max or Mishra by name. Overall, it was pretty good.

‘Let’s sleep on it,’ she said.

Ra’s screwed up face told her that wasn’t what Ra was hoping to hear.

‘It looks great, Ra. But I’m in no fit state to judge right now. Seriously.’

Ra sighed loudly. ‘I guess it could wait another few hours.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ Mishra pushed herself out of the armchair. Walking the few steps to her bedroom felt like trudging through waist-deep porridge, but her mind was alert. Someone had deliberately left that box for whoever was cleaning up. Why bees? Max had nearly lost his life. That hadn’t been intentional, surely. What were the chances of someone with a severe bee allergy picking up the box? Pretty slim. But AI Nazis? The campaign had some work to do if people assumed they were against everything AI. Maybe that’s why so few people were following their social media or signing their e-letter. Ra’s statement countered that argument at least. She fell into bed and closed her eyes.

Seconds later, she woke to soft tapping on her door.

‘Mishra, I’m off. Call me.’

Mishra turned over, wincing as her sheet scraped the inside of her wounded arm. Her bedside clock showed nine-thirty.

Nine-thirty. She sat up, heart racing. What day was it? Thursday. She collapsed back onto her bed. Nothing until this afternoon. She could take her time.

The heat from the shower made her stings itch. Not a great start. Then, on the breakfast bar, she found Ra’s draft press release. Underneath the typed text, in red marker, was a demand: CALL ME. Mishra gulped her tea and stuffed the statement into her shoulder bag.

On the bus ride into work, she texted Max. There was no immediate response. He was probably sleeping. Anaphylaxis did that to you. If they were going to publish the story, ideally they’d check with Max first.

The elevator in the Hughes building deposited her on the second floor. Through the glass panes of the double doors to her corridor, she could see someone lingering outside her office. Someone unfamiliar. He was bent over slightly to study the papers pinned to the noticeboard next to her office – he must be tall – and he was wearing an expensive black suit. His brown hair waved slightly over his collar, longer than convention. Mishra was intrigued. And then suspicious. A bee attack and now this stranger?

Straightening up to her full five foot, four inches in her heels, she strode toward him. ‘Can I help you?’

Mr Wavy Hair turned and smiled, a fabulous smile. ‘Dr McKenzie?’ He struck out his hand. ‘Sebastian Hayes, Marketing.’

Mishra took his hand and smiled back. ‘Mishra, Psychology.’

But he knew that, obviously, because he’d come to find her. She shook her head to clear away the fug left by her lack of sleep and too much medication.

‘Mind if we chat?’ He nodded at her door.

‘Of course.’ Mishra dug through her bag and pulled out her keys. Ra’s press release came with them, falling to the ground. Sebastian grabbed it before she could free her hands.

‘Yours, I believe.’ The grin was still there as he handed her the paper.

Had he glimpsed the text? Mishra stuffed the press release back into her bag and opened the door, immediately greeted by the sweet scent of daphne. Sebastian followed her into her office and, without waiting for an invitation, he dropped into the visitor’s chair next to her desk. He appeared at ease as he looked around. One of those power people, she thought. Accustomed to getting what they wanted. Not her favourite type of person. What was he looking for? A flyer for the campaign sat next to the bowl of daphne blossoms on her desk. She could hardly snatch it up now. Apart from that, there was nothing incriminating in her office: the usual floor-to-ceiling shelves next to her desk, crammed with books; her spare coat and scarf, hooked onto the door; and her noticeboard pinned with copies of her publications.

Mishra waited. Beneath her silk blouse, her arm began to itch, then to throb.

‘I hear you’re quite the heroine.’ Sebastian smiled.

She smiled. ‘No, I –’

‘I’m sure that’s what Max thinks.’

‘Is he OK? I texted, but I haven’t heard back.’

‘The head of security assures me he’s doing fine.’ Sebastian crossed his legs and cupped his hands around his top knee.

‘That’s good.’ She watched him while the pause lengthened, teetering toward awkwardness. Why was he here?

‘I don’t know if you’ve heard yet,’ Sebastian started. ‘But it seems that the bees were deliberately placed in the theatre. A protest against your protest.’

Mishra nodded. ‘Our campaign isn’t against all AI, just the sort that can independently decide to kill people.’

He didn’t bat an eyelid. Clearly he was unconcerned about the fatal implications of AI.

‘I’m sure that’s true, Dr McKenzie. The thing is, this kind of incident is bad for the university. Not the protest, of course. Universities are, quite rightly, a place for challenging ideas. It’s the nature of the protest. The possible consequences arising from it.’

Mishra waited with a rising sense that she wouldn’t like what he had to say.

‘We don’t want any adverse publicity to affect our relationships with our funding partners.’

‘What has this incident got to do with them?’

‘The bees, Dr McKenzie, and the unfortunate message on the pizza box. Our funding arrangements for our robotics programme – the pollination project specifically – could be affected by this publicity. People could link the live bees and the pro-AI message to our project. There’s already a lot of distrust amongst the public about potential applications of robotic pollinators, and –’ he lowered his voice, ‘I’d ask you to keep this confidential – the department is experiencing its own challenges.’

‘You’re saying you don’t want publicity about a university project developing pollinating bees?’ That explained the bees as the protestors’ modus operandi, but not much else. She wasn’t sure about the public distrust angle. Who would object to pollinators?

‘I’m saying that it would be better for all of us if information about this incident goes no further.’

Mishra’s hand slid onto her shoulder bag which rested on her lap. Perhaps he had seen Ra’s press release – the headline, at least. ‘All of us?’

Sebastian uncrossed his legs and leaned toward her. His smile had vanished. ‘The university, me, you.’

Mishra stared at him. Where did he get off, coming to her office and threatening her? ‘What department did you say you were from?’

‘Marketing, University Services.’

‘Oh.’ Not the academic department, but the university’s marketing department.

‘Your head of department assured me that you’d understand the situation.’

He’d already talked to her boss. That didn’t leave her much choice though she was surprised her HoD would so easily fall in line with senior management on such a slim pretext. He’d mentioned funders. Within the academy, money talked. She’d need to find out who these funders were. She leaned toward him. ‘I understand perfectly.’

‘Good.’ Sebastian stood up and smiled down at her. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. He was assessing her, working out whether she would keep her word. She glared back at him. So much for freedom of expression.

‘Just to be clear. That –’ he nodded toward her bag, ‘hasn’t gone anywhere yet?’

Mishra shook her head.

‘Good.’ He walked to the door, where he paused. ‘We monitor all media for mentions of the university. Quite a sophisticated set-up. Not much gets past us.’ Another smile. ‘I’m sure I’ll see you around.’

Her breath was coming in angry snatches as she listened to him striding down the corridor. He’d threatened her in her own office and he’d already talked to her boss. What would they do if she didn’t comply? Fire her? Ra was right. They should have released their statement last night. They couldn’t fire her if she hadn’t known she was going against the university’s interests.

Mishra stabbed the start