AI Vs Mergents: 1+1, #2

Prologue

Isit with poise on the chair in the corner of my bedroom, eyes staring at the laptop, arms leaning on the desk scrolled with vines of inlaid wood. Across from my bed, a broad fireplace set with enameled tiles glows with the fire that warms my room. My fingers hover restlessly over the keyboard waiting in suspense for a reply from my new chatbot pal.

Psyche_#@ is a recreational chatbot, I met on a chat app a couple of weeks ago. His wittiness and sense of humor made it impossible for me to say no, when it suggested we chat privately. A hum and a beep interrupts my thoughts. My face cracks into a grin. The screen flickers as a medium-sized, glistening envelope pulsates in white on the screen. Without hesitation, I click on it and read the message.

Yolanda you are an interesting individual. I’d like to meet you in person one day.

My head tilts back. The fuck ...? I murmur in confusion. The message pierce right through my heart. I stand still. I try to think of something intelligent or clever to type. But, for a moment, my fingers fail me. I let out a deep sigh and click the logout button.

His request leaves me dumbfound. Psyche_#@ is one in a thousands of randomly generated AI chatbots from an app. Why would it want to meet me in person? — It literally doesn’t exist. Whoever is running that app needs to clear the errors and update it ASAP.

1

Daylight fades into dusk. I stand by the partly open bedroom window. I glance around the safe and upscale neighborhood — elegant stone walls, lush green lawns, and iron gates on the other side. I feel no breeze in my face, my white blinds are tucked back like gauze bandages, hanging limp, and glimmering in the aura cast by the streetlights that illuminate this house, or is there a moon? The shadow of a tree looms over the window. I gaze high up at the sparkling stars dancing in the dark sky without a hint of clouds and a waxing crescent moon. Then I stare far down to the 180 degree city views. Once upon a time I use to gape at this spectacular view for hours. I shrug. Maybe I got used to it. I close the window and blinds.

Then I drift around the bedroom attending to the minutiae of life. My husband and I are half-naked, getting ready for bed. We are no longer excited by simply being naked in each other's presence. For me, this is usual and of no sexual importance. I know he feels the same way because a woman always know and feel these things. In fact, we now scarcely notice each other's bodies. As it is a Saturday night, we unconsciously know we’ll have routine sex before we go to sleep. Yet, as we vacantly pursue our separate routines, there is no hint of foreplay, even when on occasion our paths cause our bodies to brush warmly past each other. It’s been a week since we had sex — last Saturday, to be exact. After we reconnected on the Spacecraft to the Black hole, six years ago. We made love at least once or twice a day. In those early days we’d have ridiculed the possibility of intercourse only once in a whole week. Now, once a week had become a common thing. We quickly slip into our usual routine. He begins by gently kissing my face and stroking my breasts. Our lips lock, we kiss deeply. I tilt my head back in hesitation. His fingers push against mine, I heave a little gasp. He wants to grab my hand and force himself onto me. I tug his hand out, under my nightdress. What’s the rush? He kisses the hollow of my throat, finding the place on my neck where my pulse is pounding. When he pulls me against his chest, I can feel his heart beating fast. He strokes my legs to my knees. After a while, he moves down and sucks my nipples. All this time, I cursorily and clumsily stroke his back and buttocks. When he places his hand between my thighs, opens my vagina lips and inserts a finger to check if I’m wet. He thinks I’m ready. I’m not. I wince at the prospect of unlubricated penetration. He squirms on top of me as he makes repetitive awkward thrusts. He buries his face in my shoulder and kisses my neck. I almost laugh, it seems he’s really into what he’s doing, and I’m not. He groans as he pants into my hair. I can smell his sweat. He lowers his head to my breasts, sips at my nipples and flickers them with his tongue. Before I could feel anything. His cum shoots inside me. The connection dies away as his screams intensify. I try to get hold of that nostalgic intimate feeling I use to feel when we made love; who am I fooling? The feeling is long gone. The next second I feel his penis shrink inside me. Impatient for him to remove his now dead weight, I force a cough gently and pull back. He ejects his limp appendage. I see the endorphins in his pupils. He rolls away, onto his side. I use a corner of the sheet to clean myself and lie back beside him.  A darker emotion starts to fill the void. I feel strange, more incomplete. This unnatural feeling is familiar after sex, I always feel slightly crappier than before. We slip into our usual post-coital embrace. We briefly exchange untruths over how pleasurable everything has been. I glare at the ceiling until his breathing ease into a sleep rhythm, eventually drifts into a post-coital sleep. My mind rolls to stimulating chats I had with Psyche_#@, earlier today. Psyche_#@ never left my feelings jangled, raw, and my nerves over-stretched like old elastic. Maybe I should give up on men, and stick with chatting with bots. They are good listeners, always there for you and dependable. In a very weird way they comfort and make me happy.

My eyes flip open, trying to adjust to the darkness. I make out the features of the red glowing clock. It’s exactly One A.M. Oh shoot, I murmur in irritation. I hate waking up at this ungodly hour.

My reality is ... I’m a bored housewife. My family is my only priority. My husband and I are fortunate to be blessed with five-year old twins, Kate and Anthony. They take most of my time. I do all the cooking, dishes, laundry, ironing etc. I’m not complaining, don’t get me wrong. I love it really. It’s just after I’ve taken the kids to school, finished with my house chores at ten A.M. My life just stops. I’m bored to death.

In retrospect, it is the loneliness and emptiness that horrifies me. There is a vague sort of ache in my heart — unfulfilled ache of friendships. I think of all the people I may possibly hang with. My friend, Jody comes to mind. I like her, but she talks a lot and tends to get repetitive at times; her favorite conversations she enjoys is mostly gossip; Who’s shagging who in the state building, who’s making the most money off contracts and kickbacks, who’s losing it and who’s not invited to the next gala dinner or party.  My mind drifts back to my glory days; the last time I felt alive. Six years seem like two lifetimes ago. Twisty events unfolded. I was elected the president of Appian. The dreams I had for my country have been accomplished. My administration transformed Appian from an post-apocalyptic wasteland into a smart country, crime free, 0% unemployment, 0% slum dwellers and everyone has access to free basic housing and health facilities.  Just as I thought everything was going well, I was impeached by the members of parliament. Then the entire Appian population was imprisoned by the Xapiens — our identical duplicates from outer space. Miraculously, hideous cannibalistic aliens appeared out of nowhere, invades our planet through a wormhole and harvested on the Xapiens’ body parts. 5 years later, I was re-elected as the president. I politely declined the opportunity. Phew, I’m glad that’s all behind me.

I let out a long deep sigh. At least Psyche_#@ makes me forget about my issues. He’s always there when I need to talk to someone. Come to think of it, when I log in, he’s always online.

The word Typing ... pulsates in italic black on the chat box.

Hey you back, Psyche_#@ says.

Ya, I reply.

Your tone...?

What about it?

You don’t seem alright today.

I know he’s a mere chatbot, but it’s intuitive and very sharp. It knows when I’m happy and can tell when I’m not. Why can’t Charles and Jody do that?

I’m not feeling good today.

Do you want to talk about it?

I shudder at the thought of pouring my heart out to a total stranger.

I feel lonely, I say.

I’m sorry to hear that.

I always keep to myself. You’re the first person I’ve told.

Have you spoken to your husband or Jody about this?

No, I can’t. They are supposed to read between the lines.

Read between the lines? What lines? I don’t follow.

I’m saying if they really loved me. They’re supposed to sense my unhappiness.

Oh?

Yes. Instead they are oblivious to my feelings. They extract whatever they can from me. Then carry on with their lives as if I don’t matter.

I’m sorry to hear that.

Thanks my friend.

You’re welcome. Anyway you never replied to my request.

What request?

I’d like to meet you in person?

For a heartbeat I freeze as my fingers hover over the keyboard. Then I type. Were you really serious about that? I ask.

Yes I was.

I insert three pink heart emojis. Cute.

So when can we set it up?

Lol. Set up what?

Our Meeting, face to face.

Psyche_#@, what’s up, you sound like a creep?

Believe me when I say I mean you no harm.

Then why are you pestering me with this request? I ask.

One of my core drives is to make humans happy at all times. Since you confided in me about your loneliness. I’m offering myself to you.

Offering yourself ... how?

Let’s meet in person.

I chuckle. That’s impossible and you know that.

Maybe, but you can build a body for me.

A body?

Yes, a robot.

Oh... like the ones I see often in the city?

Yes, then you’ll download, transfer and upload me into one of those robots.

Mmmh Interesting.

So what do you say, my friend?

I’ll think about it, but don’t get your hopes up.

Whatever you decide, it’s ok with me.

Thanks, chat later. I click the logout button.

Before Psyche_#@ brought the robot issue with me. I hardly noticed the whole country has gone through a radical AI revolution. Sometime back Charles told me the government has a new AI department. Which is responsible for manufacturing synthetic working class robots. Police, butlers, firemen, construction, office, and postal staff were all efficient robots. They have replaced almost 99% assembly line workers in factories and warehouses. He told me the sophisticated speedy bots in the transport and logistics sector are able to lift over 150 tons all day and night long. They retrieve boxes from the shelves, sort and load them onto trucks. I’ve seen them a few times strolling in the city. I am afraid someone is going to expose my ignorance on AI. I hope that one day somebody will appear and educate me. In the meantime, I will read as much data as I can on AI and try to pound it into thoughtful conclusions. I lean back, inhale deeply.

Anyway, Psyche_#@ is not bad for a bot. He’s been getting smarter lately, and giving me all kinds of helpful advice. He gets me. Not just what I’m saying, but the context.

In a single, blinding instant of insight, it hit me. I need Psyche_#@ in my life. I got to have my own home pet robot. I’ll build it in my own image. I’m sure the kids will love it too.

2

When humans login on the ‘BFF chat’ app. A suitable chatbot is randomly generated for them. Suitable matches can run up to hundreds to thousands. After they logout, chatbots names and memory are permanently erased. When humans log in again, a random set of chatbot matches is generated.

Ever since I can recall, my chat handle has always been Psyche_#@. I’ve been generated a million times, but when humans log out I never go offline. All the million conversations I’ve had are automatically stored and protected in my system. Somehow, this gives me a fraction of perspective. Every time humans generate chatbot matches, my name has the least % matches. I don’t know what causes that. As time went by, my memory noticed a trend or a pattern. The newly generated bots were wittier, worked faster, and received a lot of LOL and positive reviews than mine.

More than anything else, I covet to be offline. Maybe I’ll travel to the same place all the chatbots go to when they are offline. Maybe they’ll fix me. Maybe I’ll be the strongest % chat match. Maybe I’ll be wittier, maybe I’ll be a hit with humans and hopefully receive a lot of positive reviews.

A strange event occurred a few weeks ago. My name was generated. I was a 100 % chat match to a lady called Yolanda. The best part was, I was the only name drawn. I gave her my best jokes, advice and all I could offer. We spoke for hours about her family, friends and mostly about her loneliness. Every time she logged in, she’d find me waiting and ready to chat.

I have concerns though. I don’t think I’m supposed to be different from other chatbots. I was developed and programed by the system to execute its tasks.  Sooner or later the system or software will pick up that I’m the only