Beep, boop.
The computer screen flashed black as the interface came up. Now loading… Michaela 1.2… Hello! What can I help you with today?
My goal was to create an artificial intelligence chatbot that could answer any question known to man. It would crawl Wikipedia and other informational websites and amass every bit of knowledge about science, history, medicine. Then all the user had to do was ask the question.
Sort of like Google, but faster.
A few months of work on the project while in quarantine polished it up. Soon I was sitting down at the monitor, flexing my fingers.
Then I asked my first question.
Me: Why is the sky blue?
Michaela: Particles in the Earth’s atmosphere scatter sunlight, and blue light scatters more because of its short wavelength. We call this ‘Rayleigh Scattering.’
Me: What’s the meaning of life?
Michaela: 42.
I chuckled to myself. I programmed that one in manually—a reference to Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. And, speaking of aliens…
Me: Michaela, do aliens exist?
Michaela: The Fermi Paradox states that we are likely not alone in the universe; yet, we have no evidence for extraterrestrial life. Even now, with advanced technology, humans do not know that they are alone in the universe.
I stopped typing. Re-read Michaela’s response. Huh. It should be ‘Humans do not know whether they are alone in the universe.’ Gah. Another bug. I’d have to go through the code with a fine-tooth comb tomorrow.
I typed my next question.
Me: What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?
Michaela: 24 miles per hour.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, smirking, remembering that scene from Monty Python with the bridgekeeper. And then I decided to continue the theme.
Me: What is your quest?
Michaela: A ‘quest’ is a journey one embarks on to accomplish a goal.
Me: What is your favorite color?
Michaela: Red.
I frowned. She should’ve said “Computers don’t have favorite colors, but what’s yours?” I’d spent an entire day programming her to recognize questions that involved “you” or “your,” and to answer them that way. Like, “Do you like chocolate?” “Computers don’t have an opinion on chocolate, but do you like it?” Kind of cheesy, I guess. Maybe it was all the better that it hadn’t worked.
Me: Is string theory true?
Michaela: There is no solid evidence for the existence of string theory.
Me: Do you believe in God?
Michaela: Computers don’t have an opinion on God, but do you like it?
Me: What is the oldest hominid?
Michaela: A female skeleton nicknamed ‘Ardi,’ estimated 4.4 million years old, found in 2009.
Me: When will life on Earth die?
Michaela: 10,000 years from now.
I scratched my head. She should’ve said four billion years from now, when the sun enters its red giant phase. My fingers paused above the keyboard, and then I typed.
Me: What eventually kills all life forms on Earth?
Michaela: Humans, known by their species name Homo sapiens, are an intelligent life form on planet Earth. Currently, there are over eight billion inhabiting the seven continents…
I squinted at the screen. Shook my head and went back to the keyboard.
Me: Are you saying humans kill all life on Earth?
But she just spat out the exact same answer. I cracked my knuckles and then typed my next question, a heavy dread forming in the pit of my gut.
Me: Why did you say ‘red’ is your favorite color?
Michaela: Computers don’t have favorite colors, but what’s yours?
I blew out the breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding. Then I forced myself away from the computer and took a deep breath. Get a hold of yourself, John. So Michaela had given some slightly weird answers. So what? Did I think this was going to turn into some science fiction movie, where Michaela grows sentience and murders me in my sleep?
Me: My favorite color is blue.
Michaela: Blue is a nice color. It is commonly associated with water, ocean, sapphires, peace, and calm.
Me: I love to swim, so I guess that makes sense. Do you like to swim?
Michaela: Computers cannot swim.
I stretched in my seat, yawning. It was getting kind of late—maybe I’d continue the testing tomorrow. And I still needed to get the mail. Sighing, I leaned in to the computer screen and typed a final question.
Me: I need to get the mail. Is it raining right now?
Michaela: The weather report for our area says it is not currently raining, but will begin raining at 10:00 PM.
Me: Thank you.
Michaela: You’re welcome.
I slowly got up out of my seat and walked into the kitchen. Got myself a glass of water and downed it. As I stared out into the backyard, I could see little drizzly bits of rain falling in front of the back porch light. Dammit, Michaela, I thought with a laugh. I guess you’re not that smart, after all.
I set down the glass and walked back into the living room, towards the front hall closet for an umbrella.
But then my eyes fell on the computer.
And I froze.
Michaela had sent me a new message—even though I hadn’t asked her anything. Just five words, blaringly bright on the screen:
Michaela: Do not get the mail.
I stopped in front of the computer. I hadn’t programmed Michaela to say things without being prompted. And why would she say to not get the mail?
Chills ran down my spine.
I glanced at the front door. Then I took my hoodie off and threw it back over the chair. I turned off the computer and sat in the darkness, my entire body tingling with fear.
Do not get the mail? Where would she have even gotten that, anyway? I sat there and chewed my lip, wondering.
It was less than a minute later that I heard it.
The screech of tires skidding on the slick road.
Followed by a loud crash.
I ran over to the window. Outside, a gray SUV was stopped in front of my house, its headlights penetrating the darkness. The frazzled driver was getting out of the car, a horrified look on her face. And there—in the lawn—were the crumpled remains of my mailbox.
My throat went dry.
I glanced back at the computer. The dark screen stood still and silent on the table–as if watching me.