Filling in the Blanks With Giraffes

A room of chilled recycled air, soft buzzing electricity, chemical sanitation. Windowless. Harsh white lights.

Three gather around the Simulacrum Screen. Below, a brain is submerged in translucent amber fluid. A wire runs from the brain to the screen. A tube runs from the brain to a pouch like an IV drip.

The brain has been stained so that its purple vein highways contrast with the dull grey flesh. On another screen, neural lightning bolts flash and fade.

"Progress, Ambrose?"

"We tried love this morning."

"I told you to try fear."

"It's too soon. I don't want to break him."

"It. It's a brain, not your pet rock."

"When did you last check in? Had we set up the screen yet?"

"Not yet. What does it do?"

"No? Right. Well, injecting it with emotions by themselves was ineffective. A feeling without context is immeasurable. We can inject it with any cocktail of dopamine, endorphins and serotonin - but what use is it without attachment? Right?"

"I'm following."

"So, haha, I started by feeding it images."

"Ambrose..."

"Um. Right. I started with a- I thought it would be funny to start with a giraffe. So, I repeated the experiment. I stimulated the limbic system, injected the same neurotransmitters, and waited to see what happened."

"That's what this screen is for?"

"Precisely. Actually, I have the recording."

Ambrose fiddles with a television remote. A blue square outline moves from thumbnail to thumbnail. Ambrose clicks the middle button.

Upon the screen, brown and beige patches churn and morph into abstract shapes. Eyes appear and turn into purple tongues. The scene is a vine-laden jungle of giraffe.

"You see. Uh, it's never seen before. It didn't know what to make of it. I tried love, fondness, sadness. I just got that." Ambrose catches the stern stair of his superior. The suited man has a sullen, thin face.

"Ambrose, I can tell you're having a lot of fun here," he says with a sigh. "But we have deadlines. This isn't a playground. I said to try fear, but you haven't. We don't need love. That's a gimmick. Sure, it gets our name out. Fun for the consumer. Good for PR. But it's not viable in the long term. The average person isn't our target customer. We want to sell to the military, the government, hospitals and businesses. This is a race to a new economy. We're not in the attention economy anymore, that's all sold out. We're in the emotion economy."

Ambrose fiddles with his lab coat, inadvertently backing away. "Ah, yes. Yes. I'm aware. But it's so remarkable. An artificial brain? Why aren't you selling that?"

"Are you being silly? We all have brains. Who needs more? No, listen to me. What creates behaviour?"

"-Logic."

"-Emotions. No. Emotions, always. More than that, fear. The outside world is monopolised. It's unpredictable. Do you like dogs, Ambrose?"

"Sure?"

"I hate them. Same stimuli, different emotion. So, let's not sell dogs. Let's sell the feeling! Brand colours, mascots, jingles. Those will be a thing of the past!"

"But fear? Surely not everything can be explained by fear."

"Ok, sure. Let's play this game. What makes a gambler keep playing? Fear of what they’ve lost. Fear of what will happen if they give up. Ask me about any behaviour. I guarantee I can link it back to fear."

"Um. Watching a movie."

"An avoidance response of boredom. What happens when you’re bored? You’re alone. Nothing scarier than that. Here, I've got one for you. Why do you work?"

"Money. I get to feel good at something. Gives me purpose."

"Fear of poverty. Fear of inferiority. Fear of the existential. Just think of the implications for worker productivity. We ramp up those feelings. Overtime will become the new norm."

"Well, what about you then? You're driven by fear too then, by this logic?"

"Don't get so upset. Yes, of course. Do you think I wouldn’t prefer to be living it up in Hawaii? What, you think injecting fake brains with emotions was my childhood dream? It’s what we have to do. I’ve got as much to prove as anyone else. It’s not just my reputation on the line, but the company’s too."

"Okay, Mark. I hear you. God, you think I don't know my job? I've been working toward fear. It's just going to take a while. We can't measure the products without context."

"So? Give it context."

"I have a Planet Earth documentary. I was going to feed the brain that next."

"Then you move onto Dora The Explorer? I said to give it context." Mark's eyes focus onto something behind Ambrose. "Where's that feed going to?"

Ambrose turns around, his eyes scanning the white, shadowless walls. His eyes catch mine. "The camera, sir? That goes to security."

"Download it. Feed it to the brain."

"That- Mark. That's too much, far too soon. Do you want to kill the damn thing?"

Mark towers over Ambrose. His bloodshot brown eyes tighten. "Listen, you will do as I say. I can break as many of my brains as I want. Do it."

The crackling of electricity marks the silence with anticipation.

"Yes, sir."

***

Three gather around the Simulacrum Screen.

"It's almost caught up," Ambrose says with a stirring in his voice. "Look at how fast it processes. That's hundreds of hours, flying by in seconds."

"Wait. It's stopped. Look, there's us."

Ambrose's eyes widen. "Jesus, Mark. It can see the screen! Why didn't we think of that?"

Mark looks closer. The Simulacrum Screen, visualising the brain's every thought, displays a repeating tunnel of images, devouring within itself.

"It's gone recursive. This can't be good. It's like holding two mirrors up to each other. If you show it a screen, then the screen it sees will be shown on the screen!"

"Ambrose, you're not making any sense! Get a hold of yourself, what's the problem?"

"No computer can calculate infinity. What chance does a brain have?"

"I don't like this look in your eyes, Ambrose."

"We have to terminate! We'll have to start all over again. This is bad, Mark. This is real bad!"

"Nothing's broken yet."

"No, Mark. We're torturing it. Imagine seeing the same thing for eternity. That's hell. That has to be hell."

"It's not a person! It's a sponge! It's meat. This is why... Ambrose! Ambrose, calm down, man." Mark's eyes softened. "The screen could be wrong. We don't know what the brain is really seeing. Look, shouldn't it be from the perspective of the camera? So why aren't we looking at the backs of our heads?"

Mark spins around and waves at the camera. "See? Why did we see the side of my face?"

Ambrose pants nervous breaths. "What?"

"Look. It's seeing us like it's right next to us. So, nothing to worry about, right?"

They turn and look at me.

"There's nobody there,' Ambrose mutters. "Does it... think it's one of us?"

Mark's brow furrows. "Hmph. Brain. Can you understand us?"

I look at the brain, and back at them.

Mark's lips curl upward. "Did it just look at the brain?"

Ambrose starts panting heavier.

"Look, brain. I'm reaching out. But I'm touching nothing! How could this be? People have bodies, you know. So why aren't I touching you?"

I look down at my chest. His hand wipes away at my body, leaving a blurred afterimage of the lab floor.

"That's you, brain," he says, pointing to the wrinkled orb in the vat.

"Mark, the readings," Ambrose stutters.

Mark's smile widens, his teeth bared. He laughs. He laughs.

"There it is. Fear."

"What do we do, Mark?"

"Discard this one and replicate the experiment."

"But-"

"This one's tainted. Look, it hates me! We need clean fear. Next time, make it see itself right away. No need for us to be in it."

He looks at me. "Are you going to hurt me? How? Do you have a knife?"

I put my hand in my pocket and retrieve a knife.

Mark cackles. "Look, Ambrose. It's never seen a knife before. Giraffes! I see the humour now. What a way to live. Knowing nothing but fear and filling in the blanks with giraffes."