Superficial Intelligence

As far as contemporary clichés go, this one was spot-on. Four hours of mandatory business ethics training at the home office, lead by what we expect is a machine.

Word had come out of last week’s class that the guy running the class was automated based upon a number of notable items. Namely: a “co-presenter” who sat in the front row but didn’t actually co-present anything, the far-too-perfect photo of the guy on the promotional handout, the lack of ‘ah’ and ‘um’ in his presentation, and the same thoughtful nod (that was exactly four nods each time) after any class participation, no matter how mundane.

Automated Human Stand-Ins,or AHSIs (pronounced ‘aussies’, much to the dismay of our human Australian friends – but also known as dummies, moto-sapiens and hummers – due to a constant low noise emitted by earlier models), have been in wide use for the better part of a decade now; primarily in customer service and sales roles. Car dealerships were early adopters of them, since AHSIs don’t earn commission and can easily be loaded up with the required information on dozens of cars, plus they can hold a salesperson's empty, toothy grin for an infinite amount of time.

The recent use of them in more traditionally human roles (E.R. nurses, fire-fighters, priests) has caused some controversy, and many humans have made a sport of identifying (‘outing’) them. Hard coded into each AHSI is the requirement for them to identify themselves as an AHSI if directly questioned. Children are big fans of the direct question approach – asking just about any adult in any situation. Whereas bored adults are more likely to try and deduce the presence of one by more covert means.

“Ethics,” announced the leader, as we were all checking our portables one last time before the class started. He had written the word ‘ethics’ on the touch-sensitive white-board with his finger, and the letters were now flashing in alternating carnival colors that made my eyes twitch. “Good morning ladies and gentlemen,” he continued. Then he cleared his throat and looked at his watch. “We’re at about five minutes after eight, and we’ve got a lot to cover, so let’s get started. Shall we?” I was absorbed in the task of peeling back the plastic lid of my coffee cup evenly. The kid next to me who looked to be fresh out of the university system was following the class leader with eyes like an eel and the set-jawed grin of a frat boy. My coffee tasted vaguely of BBQ sauce; you just can’t get away from the chipotle these days.

The guy leading the class told us that his name was Brian and his movements and mannerisms bore the careful aspects and creakiness of late middle age. There was nothing about him that suggested to me that he was an AHSI, but I'm not in the habit of picking them out. I am one of those that is usually surprised to learn that what I thought was a real human turns out to be a $90,000 machine (if you factor in the benefits you would need to pay a human employee, they pay for themselves inside of two years).

Within the first half hour, the kid next to me had caught the eye of a few of his peers in the class and after some stealthy pointing and nodding they began their testing. First they tried the paper airplanes. This “technique” used to work on the very early models, and the myth has been passed down like pop-rocks and cola. No-neck, who sat next to me, and his buddies tore sheets of paper from their notebooks and folded them into simple paper gliders, which they then threw at each other in intersecting patterns. The idea was, according to the legend, that the AHSI’s eyes, in an attempt to track both objects simultaneously would go to opposite sides of their head in a manner that was both hilarious to see and impossible for a human to duplicate. The only affect it had on Brian was to make him pause, sigh, and make a gentle, rattling, throat-clearing sound. It seemed to me that he was wise to what they were trying to do. He continued on with his presentation, complete with current, real-world references to items from the news. The others in the class brushed the downed planes off of their desks with mild annoyance. No-neck chewed ravenously on the cap of his ballpoint pen and studied Brian’s movements.

Throughout the next hour the boys tried various schemes – simultaneous sneezing fits, simultaneous standing, coordinated head-tics, and the sequential snapping of the fingers (like the wave that people do at stadiums, only with finger snaps). I felt like I was sitting in the waiting room for “West Side Story” auditions. None of this seemed to have any affect on Brian. At intervals he would regard them wearily and continue working through the Ethics Training handout. The woman who was listed as a co-presenter, turned around in her chair and peered angrily at us – not knowing which of us was involved in perpetrating the racket.

Three hours into the session, I was doing head fakes; falling asleep and letting my head drift back until I woke and whipped my head back to attention. I looked at the clock and bolstered myself for the last hour. When the right opportunity presented itself, I reasoned that I would skulk out the side door and get some air and more coffee.

Brian paused in mid sentence. “….and this refers back to the Golden Rule, or the Ethics of Reciprocity, which…..which….” He stopped and stared at the wall near the entry door. My neighboring sadist seized upon the opportunity. No-neck was on his feet and raising his hand – making the “oooh-oooh!” sound of a child who really knows the answer or really has to use the bathroom. This broke Brian’s trance. His eyes moved to No-neck and he asked, with genuine quizzicality: “Yes? Have you a question?”

No-Neck collected himself and recited (without any trace of melody): “A place, where nobody dared to go, the love that we came to know, they call it Xanadu. And now, open your eyes and see, what we have made is real, we are in Xanadu.” By the time he finished, all eyes in the class were on him.

“Olivia Newton-John & Electric Light Orchestra. Written by Jeff Lynne, 1980, from the original movie sound-track, ‘Xanadu’,” Brian rattled off with a precision that betrayed his programming. The index finger of his right hand moved tentatively up the side of his face towards his temple.

No-Neck went in for the death-blow. “What’s more scary, male or female ghosts?” he asked quickly.

The bizarre combination of these two non sequiturs (on top of the poor grammar) gave Brian great pause. His finger trembled near his temple and then went into a full-on vibrating twitch. The rest of his frame then froze solid – the look of contemplation stuck on his face and his eyelids lowered until they were nearly, but not quite, fully closed. The co-presenter got on her cell-phone and hurried from the room. No-neck’s buddies gave-out a cheer, and No-neck himself beamed with satisfaction.

Brian went into maintenance mode, lowered himself to his knees – all traces of fluidity now gone from his movements – and rested back on his heels. He placed his hands on his knees and his head lolled forward. One of the first AHSI mail carriers that we had in our neighborhood used to slip into this mode right in the middle of his route (my guess is that it was the high tension lines in the area). The first time I saw him on the sidewalk, his mailbag lying slack next to him, I thought he might be a human pausing to pray and I wanted to inform him that he wasn’t facing east. Instead, I stepped around him and continued walking.

Everyone in the class, those who were surprised and those who suspected, began collecting their things and checking their mobiles. No-neck was riding out his adrenaline high and was getting close to chewing the barrel of his ball-point pen in half. He smiled wildly at me and raised his hand for a “high-five”. I tried to meet his hand but, misjudging the arc of his swing, my fingers brushed the bottom of his palm and slid down his forearm. No-Neck looked at me with disappointment. I gave him the well practiced shrug I give the rest of my softball team every time I strike-out.

As I was leaving the room I moved to the side to let the two guys from the IT department get by with the wheelchair they were pushing ahead of them. No-Neck was having someone take his picture standing next to Brian; his hand resting on the machine’s bowed head.