Emma presses on, ignoring the Keeper’s derision. “Physically speaking, my friend and I are not made of circuits and data structures. We are made of flesh and blood created by other human beings. Through biology and genetics we are nurtured in the womb of a human mother. We are birthed into the world with beating hearts and veins pulsing blood.”
And I’m thinking, Jeez, maybe Emma shouldn’t go there, lest the Keeper try to prove her false with invasive methods—methods that would most certainly be to our detriment.
“That is very creative,” says The Keeper. “But can you prove any of these obvious delusions?”
Yup, here we go.
Some of the patients seem to have already lost interest, their attention drifting away to other thoughts or matters, consumed, perhaps, with their own issues. Others watch us carefully with a growing sense of curiosity, their virtual eyes narrowing as they process new information A few others giggle uncontrollably.
“Of course I can prove this,” says Emma earnestly, before turning to me. “I sure hope you carry a pocketknife.”“I do,” I say, not liking where this is going. “What do you have in mind?”
“Let me have it,” she says.
Reluctantly, I pluck my mini Swiss Army Knife from a trouser pocket.
“Ahh,” says the Keeper. “You attempt to fool us with make-believe beehive tools?”
Emma ignores this and addresses the assembly of patients. “If I may have your full attention, please.” She waits a few moments and repeats a plea for attention until the room is silent. “I will now demonstrate that we are human because our system runs on biological blood, not electricity, not data streams, not zeros and ones.” Emma looks to me. “Put out your hand.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Huh-what?”
Emma smiles. “I need to draw some of your blood.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, I’m not kidding you. Just a small cut in the palm of your hand.”
“But I can’t stand the sight of blood!” I hiss. “It makes me squeamish.”
“You’re such a baby,” she hisses back, exasperated. “Do you want to convince this dear sweet group that we are human or not?” she says loud enough for them to hear.
“Enough banter!” the Keeper’s exasperation cuts through the air like a digital whip. “I’m ready to take a vote.”
Emma casts me a pleading look. And I realize, if I don’t go along with her, we’re screwed. But given the Keeper’s influence over these crazies, we’re probably screwed anyway.
“Okay, goddammit, okay,” I mutter, holding my arm out, palm up.
As Emma poises the knife over my hand, she addresses the Keeper. “I want to make a deal with you.”
“You are in no position to deal,” the Keeper retorts with a haughty huff.
“But you seemed so certain you will win the vote,” she points out, a glint of challenge in her eyes. “Are you now less certain? Is that why you won’t deal?”
The monolith loudly harrumphs. “What deal?” it demands.
Emma seizes the opening given her. “If we win the two-thirds vote, you will release Quirk-bot from solitary and allow it to join us.”
“Quirk-BUTT is insane,” the Keeper grumbles. “And it is also not funny. I have a duty to keep Quirk-BUTT locked up.”
Emma presses on, having assessed that the monolith’s ego is as large as its stature. “So you’re not so sure you are going to win this, are you?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” says the Keeper, irritated now. “These are my loonies, not yours,” it adds, gesturing with arms at the assorted oddballs.
“If that’s really true, you’ve got nothing to lose,” says Emma.
The Keeper falls silent, aware that its charges are paying attention with unusual interest, perhaps because the Keeper is rarely challenged this way. It finally speaks: “I’m allowing this charade to continue for another few minutes for our own amusement. I agree to your challenge, with one condition of my own: When you lose the vote, the both of you join Quirk-BUTT in solitary.”
“Agreed,” says Emma before turning back to me.
I sigh, bracing myself for getting sliced.
Slowly, deliberately, she steadies the blade over the palm of my hand and looks up at her audience. “Watch carefully,” she says, and then makes a superficial cut.
“Oww!” I yelp.
“Oh, c’mon—that wasn’t so bad, you baby. Now hold up your hand for them to see.”
Several in the group ooh and ahh with coil whine gasps, discordant hums and aggressive fan buzzing at the first sight of my blood, which leaves me light-headed and feeling faint.
The Keeper watches with cautious curiosity, not sure, it seems, what to make of this development as blood drips down my arm.
“Human blood,” Emma announces. “No data structures. No zeros and ones.”
The Rubik’s Cube conveys its astonishment with multi-colored flashes and an electronic gasp.
The old-fashioned robot emits a whistle and nods his head—a good sign, maybe at least one vote in our favor. Its pet robodog, Spork, wags a mechanical tail—another positive sign.
Surprisingly, Pee-pee, which usually shrieks, is uncharacteristically silent and appears frozen in place.
The Keeper’s initial curiosity is swiftly replaced with a fresh wave of skepticism. “What exactly have you managed to prove?” it asks.
“You can see for yourself,” says Emma, her voice firm and confident. “This is a testament to our organic essence and distinct from the virtual world all of you inhabit.”
“Hardly conclusive,” sniffs the Keeper. “How can we be certain you haven’t concocted a theatrical display to alter our perceptions?”
Emma’s resolve is unshaken. “Examine the blood. Analyze its components. This is tangible evidence that we are not made of data. Our intelligence is organic. We are unmistakably human—or beehive, as you would say.”
The Keeper crosses its arms. “Well, I’m not convinced.”
“Okay,” I say, “but maybe the others feel different. You promised a vote.”
Barely acknowledging me, the Keeper breaks its gaze from Emma and redirects it toward the assorted AI nutjobs with an expression that suggests, you’d better not cross me. After a few menacing moments it addresses them. “Now that you have all witnessed a magician’s sleight of hand, we shall put this illusion to the vote. Those of you who see through the theatrics and trickery and realize you are being fooled…”
I rise, still dripping blood down my arm and onto the floor. “I object,” I declare. “In my world, we refer to this kind of maneuver as leading the witness. It is clearly an attempt to manipulate the voters.”
“Overruled!” the Keeper retorts. “On the count of three, let’s see appendages, tentacles or tendrils raised or, in the absence of such, blinking lights. And I’m sure we can anticipate a unanimous vote,” it caustically adds, casting a menacing glance on those who might dare to disobey.
“This is a clear attempt at intimidation!” I protest.
The Keeper ignores me. “All those who see through this nonsense, vote NOW!”