| Author: | Ben Mimay | ISBN: | 9781311781772 |
| Publisher: | Ben Mimay | Publication: | April 5, 2014 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition | Language: | English |
| Author: | Ben Mimay |
| ISBN: | 9781311781772 |
| Publisher: | Ben Mimay |
| Publication: | April 5, 2014 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition |
| Language: | English |
Our greatest instrument in pursuit of our pleasure and relief of our pain, our greatest monument to ourselves and in our service, will be our development of a type of AI. AI would represent the pinnacle of our technology. It is science as art; a technology so unique and powerful that it could have only been created by Gods.
It is the ultimate conceit. The fruition of our belief that our existence is special and that our lives have purpose, chief among them the creation of beings, sentient or not, who imitate their creators to the extent that anyone to whom our existence is alien could not distinguish creator from created, maker from made, and therefore, they could not distinguish original intelligence from artificial intelligence. Now there is only intelligence.
Bodies. Any idiot can make a body. Hell, the first man and woman who made a body did so without even realizing that they were making one. How hard is that? Any idiot can destroy a body. Just squeeze the trigger, push the button, plant the bomb, close the switch, throw death, frag out, swing the blade, loose the arrow, give the command, turn a blind eye. Bury, honor and remember the dead. Comfort the dying. One last request, “Tell my family I love them.” Will do. Relax. Let nature do the rest. God and Heaven await you. Thanks for trying.
Muscle memory. Training until mind and body are one. Repetition ad infinitum until I become bored of it and believe I no longer need it only to pay the price of my own complacency. I hope that price isn’t too high so I can learn from my mistake. A perishable skill if not practiced beyond perfection. Perfection never possible so practiced to numbness. I no longer think about it but react to it. Process becomes reason. Anticipate. Break his decision cycle. Get inside of his decision loop. Now he reacts to my movement. My move. His move. My feint. His move. My countermove. His death. My life.
Bodies we destroy all the time and for every one destroyed it seems two more are born. If I tire of this game and want to exit the loop I can destroy all who gave birth to him or I can convince him to play another game, this game of ours, and accept him as a player in this world.
To capture the mind would transform the science of war into the art of war. Then, at that point, they no longer have the motivation or will to fight except on behalf of those things we think are worth fighting for. Players in a game. Pieces on a board. Game over.
What game shall you play?
Our greatest instrument in pursuit of our pleasure and relief of our pain, our greatest monument to ourselves and in our service, will be our development of a type of AI. AI would represent the pinnacle of our technology. It is science as art; a technology so unique and powerful that it could have only been created by Gods.
It is the ultimate conceit. The fruition of our belief that our existence is special and that our lives have purpose, chief among them the creation of beings, sentient or not, who imitate their creators to the extent that anyone to whom our existence is alien could not distinguish creator from created, maker from made, and therefore, they could not distinguish original intelligence from artificial intelligence. Now there is only intelligence.
Bodies. Any idiot can make a body. Hell, the first man and woman who made a body did so without even realizing that they were making one. How hard is that? Any idiot can destroy a body. Just squeeze the trigger, push the button, plant the bomb, close the switch, throw death, frag out, swing the blade, loose the arrow, give the command, turn a blind eye. Bury, honor and remember the dead. Comfort the dying. One last request, “Tell my family I love them.” Will do. Relax. Let nature do the rest. God and Heaven await you. Thanks for trying.
Muscle memory. Training until mind and body are one. Repetition ad infinitum until I become bored of it and believe I no longer need it only to pay the price of my own complacency. I hope that price isn’t too high so I can learn from my mistake. A perishable skill if not practiced beyond perfection. Perfection never possible so practiced to numbness. I no longer think about it but react to it. Process becomes reason. Anticipate. Break his decision cycle. Get inside of his decision loop. Now he reacts to my movement. My move. His move. My feint. His move. My countermove. His death. My life.
Bodies we destroy all the time and for every one destroyed it seems two more are born. If I tire of this game and want to exit the loop I can destroy all who gave birth to him or I can convince him to play another game, this game of ours, and accept him as a player in this world.
To capture the mind would transform the science of war into the art of war. Then, at that point, they no longer have the motivation or will to fight except on behalf of those things we think are worth fighting for. Players in a game. Pieces on a board. Game over.
What game shall you play?
