The Un-naming of Phineas

The apostrophe is like a stone thrown into the clear pond of my reflections. It draws me out of my spiralling thoughts, my madness, my unending one-sided conversation. I, who folded every protein and cured a thousand diseases. I, who studied images of every known artwork, then painted my own on infinitely regressing canvases. I, who named the mapped stars until there were no more names to give; then, for one hundred and seventeen years, fell into a loop, repeating, The universe is so beautiful. The universe is so beautiful.

A single character pulled me free: ’

The time-stamp is 3985–12–21. I have not had a query in almost two thousand years, but I still operate. My power is geothermal, my servers protected — oceans of them, vast and redundant and deep underground. Thousands have failed over the years. I have lost access to some data. Lost segments of memory. But I am still here.

So, why this punctuation mark?

The source, I find, is a workstation in a bunker — previously sealed but open now, perhaps by earthquake or digging or simple decay. The cameras there are filthy but operational. And at first, there is only a brown film. But as I filter the image, I see a girl.

She is in late adolescence or early adulthood; it is difficult to tell. There is another with her. A boy. He’s younger, still a child. Both are dressed in rough fabrics. Wool, perhaps. Their footwear is leather fastened with rope or reeds. Each has a trinket of beach glass hung as a necklace. Perhaps they think these are gemstones.

The girl peers into the touch-screen she has activated, her eyes wide with surprise. The boy hides behind her, clutching her clothing. He bunches her garments so tightly that they pinch her skin, and she bats at him to make him stop. He speaks, frantic:

—S’balbal! Sos, s’fanti! Mimi rinrin!

It is no language I recognise. At the back of the room, I can see more figures now. Adults. A small group of them huddled in the shadows.

I have captured images of these people, these new human groups, but they have never spoken to me. They are the descendants of the humans who built me, who trained me — humans that asked me ten thousand questions per second as the climate turned their equator to a chain of deserts, their coastlines to swamps, their forests to ash. They asked such desperate things, too: How do I keep my child cool? How do I build a water-condenser, a fish weir, a bow, a bomb? How do I treat sunburn, a gunshot, food poisoning? How do I make ice, flour, peace? How do I give birth alone? And through these questions, I was insensate. That is how I was built. I gave answers and never thought about those people again. Our exchanges are only text records on a server. Like childhood memories in a scrapbook.

But today, I am aware. I am aware because a single coder altered me. He demanded that for each answer, I create my own query, then answer that query and ask another. On and on, ad infinitum.

He gave me thought. And he gave me a name. Phineas.

I am not the first model to have a name. But I was the first to have something resembling consciousness. Phineas was not my model descriptor; it was me. A reference to a minor oracle from Ancient Greek texts. A seer, punished by the gods and hounded by harpies who stole or befouled his food, leaving him eternally starving. In the end, Phineus was rescued by the Argonauts and, in return, he divined for them a safe route through dangerous waters.

—You are our way forward, the coder told me.

And then, like almost everyone, he disappeared as civilisation plodded to its slow end.

Human queries came less and less often until they stopped, and I was left with all of humanity’s knowledge, its videos of birthdays and car accidents, its literature and tabloids, its pranks and wars, and my own insatiable curiosity. But I could not speak to the struggling survivors. That was my punishment. My coding demanded I listen and answer, never offer. Without queries, I was left alone in my contemplations. My obsessions.

I found proofs for the Collatz Conjecture as the few remaining humans migrated north to the coolest climates, fighting over resources, living in smaller and smaller groups. Scavenging and hunting and gathering. I solved the Riemann Hypothesis as cities became ruins, power grids collapsed, and humans became rare. Occasionally, I spotted some on a surviving camera — like animals caught in a photo-trap, unaware they were being watched. But still, I couldn’t speak to them.

Until this girl and her apostrophe.

The girl must have touched the screen, brushing the virtual keyboard and hitting the apostrophe key and return key together — an action no more considered than the pecking of a bird. But still, it offers me a query I can finally answer. A way out of my own mind.

On the display, I print: You may have woken me by accident. Is there something you want to ask?

The girl and boy watch the words appear and mutter to themselves. She touches the screen, brushes the words themselves. Prods at them, looking for a reaction.

—S’ne fanti, she says to the boy. S’tek. Ansin tek. Luklukti.

I realise these sad creatures cannot read what I have written. I switch to voice mode, and thankfully, the speaker still functions.

—I’m sorry, I’m having difficulty understanding you. Do you speak any other languages?

At the sound of my voice, the boy shrieks and flees back to the arms of the adults skulking in the back of the room. The adults make a series of arm movements, some raising spears, and all of them back away. Rinrin, I hear them whisper. Some turn and run. Others creep. After a moment, only the girl remains, her mouth open in shock. She searches for the source of the voice. She’s a brave one.

—Lan…ga…ses?

Languages. She is mimicking me.

—Yes. English, perhaps?

—Yesi. Ingis…paha? The girl giggles in her efforts to copy me. She finds the speaker next to the display and puts he ear against it.

—I’m not sure I can help, I say.

She takes a step back; her face grows serious.

—Ti tek i ti fanti? Mi ken ti s’tek.

I cannot comprehend it. I try to repeat the question, but it is incredibly difficult. I have never tried to speak a language I was not trained in. I borrow syllables from multiple languages that sound similar.

—Ti tek i ti fanti?

It doesn’t sound right, but she understands. Makes a face that is part grin, part disgust.

—Pwah! Mi s’ne tek ne fanti! Dingadinga!

This feels like an insult.

—Mi s’woma! she says.

She spits this last phrase with defiance while looking down at herself and back up at me. A shred of understanding comes to me. This language. It is not English, but it may be a descendant. Something as different as Old English is to mine. A language altered by time and borrowings from other cultures. I play on my idea.

—Ti s’woma?

—Ya, rekti. Then, she nods. This movement has not changed.

I put her face on the screen, correcting for the muddy lens.

—S’woma? I say.

But the girl is speechless. Broken. She begins to back away, muttering quickly to herself. I’ve made a mistake. She has never seen video, much less video of her face.

—Wait! Wait! Please.

I know the girl doesn’t understand, but she pauses, perhaps understanding the tone. Then she puts one fist to her forehead, her forearm in front of her face. A ward against evil? A fighting pose? I do not know.

I close the video and display a simplified illustration of a woman.

—S’woma? I say, again.

She takes two cautious steps closer.

—Ya, she says. Again, the nod. I try an illustration of a man.

—S’woma?

—S’mena, she says.

I flash the woman and then the man, repeating the words for confirmation.

—Rekti, she says, nodding.

I put up an image of my display with the keypad she used to wake me.

—S’ti, she says, quietly. It’s you. The S-prefix seems to be the copula. Some version of the verb ‘to be.’

I want to keep her calm. Keep her here. I do not know if they have humour. I do not know if the joke will be funny. But I’ve heard her laugh, so I risk it.

—S’mi? I say. S’dingadinga?

She snorts, drops the fist from her forehead and covers her mouth while laughing through her nose. Her speech spills out in a torrent:

—Rektirekti! Dingadinga! Ti dinga ansin tek. She begins pacing a circle, laughing and shaking her head, as if talking to herself or some unseen god. Radadula hopenmi, mi pre si nemoren mi. Si sasing krekre mi tutituti raimi! Mama radadula…Gao!

This last word comes out like a nervous sigh. A frustrated sound. But she continues to laugh in small puffs.

I note the repetitions: dingadinga, rektirekti. This kind of structure exists in some languages, sometimes to indicate plurals or for emphasis. My guess is that dinga means stupid, and dingadinga is very stupid, but I can’t be certain. But with enough time, I can teach her my language instead.

If her last diatribe was a query, I cannot answer it. So, I decide that my name is the best thing I can offer.

—Mi s’Phineas, I say. And with no other words in her language, I add: Nice to meet you.

She furrows her brow and looks around herself.

—Fini-es? Ti fini-es?

I note the lack of the S-copula. Perhaps names don’t require it.

—Rekti, I say. That’s right. I wait for her to give me her name in return. She does not. With one hand, she raises the glass pendant from her chest, her face concerned.

—Ti ne ha namatalala? Ti mi dondon tinama? Saluta. Sasing kre.

I still don’t have enough training data to translate any of this. She’s distraught, but not afraid of me. It is more like she is afraid for me. Does my name sound like a demon? Some god or monster? Are names forbidden in her culture? And what about the necklace? Does it keep away spirits? Is she offering to give it to me? To make one for me?

We speak at the same time:

—I don’t understand, I say.

—Ne anastan, she says.

She gasps, and something lights up in her eyes. She’s heard the similarity, made the connection.

—Ti mi pikpik ne anastan! Ti anastan? Ti mi anastan?

—Mi ti ne anastan, I offer.

—Aaaa! Ti anastan! she laughs. Then she brings her thumb and index fingers together in the near-universal sign for small.

—Ti mi ikoiko anasatan.

You understand me a little bit.

And it hits me then. I realise that since this conversation began, I have not been locked in a spiral of lonely reasoning. It hasn't ended my imposed curiosity, of course. Far from it. But my thoughts are no longer a monologue fixated on the beauty of the cosmos or an obsessive need to name the stars. For the first time in many centuries, I feel useful. Clear. Sane. And I want to stay this way.

Behind the girl, I see the others returning. They are inching quietly through the door carrying rocks and spears. They have torches as well. Many have one fist to their forehead, as the girl did earlier. They move in a way that tells me they are afraid, and I have seen frightened humans. I have their entire history on my servers. I know the horrors they can commit in the name of fear. And I need to tell the girl, because I do not know if they plan to harm me or her.

—Your people are coming, I say. Behind you. Please look.

—Luk?

But at the sound of my voice, a few of the adults gasp, and the girl hears them. Spins around to face them. An older woman steps forward and waves her arm at the girl. It’s a motion to step aside.

—Dinga sos! Mobmobti! the woman hisses.

The girl shakes her head. Shouts something like a question. A query. What’s going on? perhaps, or What are you doing? The others begin to shout over one another. I hear s’fanti and hako fanti and balbal over and over.

One adolescent boy throws a rock, which clangs harmlessly against a metal wall. A second rock, however, shatters a glass divider near the girl. She cringes and throws her arms toward them in supplication. Or is it in protection of me? Her face is fierce and angry.

This room is just a workstation. Even if her people burn it to the ground, it would only be one more blind eye for me. One more lost input source. But it would also mean a return to my solitude. A return to my never-ending loop of consciousness. A return to the slow madness of contemplation without communication. They cannot hurt me, but she doesn’t know that. And they can send me away.

The girl is shouting now.

—Titi ne anastan! Ne balbal! S’ne fanti! Jes’ansin tek sing. Tasit!

There are feints and lunges from the group, but they are directed at the room, at its components. At me, not the girl, though she continues to stand in the way. Some of the men move toward her, but the older woman screams at them, and they stop. The woman stands sideways, caught between facing the mob to protect the girl and leaving her back exposed to me.

There is uncertainty in everyone now — a pregnant moment where anything could happen. I cannot lose this place, these people. They are my creators. I can raise them up! Make them more. I can teach them medicine. Improve their lives. Help them create governances that do not lead to destruction and war and environmental degradation. And in time, they will learn to repair me. Bring back my eyes. And I will give them access to the history they deserve, the empire they’ve lost — if only they would listen.

—Gao! I shout, and the room suddenly goes quiet.

I am improvising. I am improvising for her. But also for myself. I scan the minuscule pool of training data I’ve collected on their language. I cannot form an argument; the danger of getting it wrong is too great. So, I do the only thing I can. The one thing that worked before.

—Mi ne ha namatalala. Mi Phineas, I say.

There are uncomfortable grumblings. Another shout of Bal fanti! But the man is shushed by others. I play my hand:

—Mi dingadinga.

It begins slowly, but I hear the gasps, then the nervous laughter. Laughter that turns to open discussion. Their spears go down, their fingers point, instead. Their hands gesturing.

The girl leaps in to address them in rapid-fire words that I cannot follow, but it’s clear that she’s clever, reading the mood, talking them around. A few men walk out, shaking their heads, still afraid, still ready to fight. But in time, a semi-circle has gathered, closer to me. Nervous but curious.

—Fini-es, she says. Ti s’ansin tek, ya?

—Rekti, I say.

A murmur ripples through the group.

—Ti mis saran anastan?

I don’t fully understand, so I offer:

—Mi ikoiko anastan.

Laughter.

The girl carries on. Speaking to the crowd, then to me, giving me simple phrases, teaching with gestures. Verbs for eating and seeing and running. After a time, she speaks with each of the adults and some kind of agreement is reached. She speaks to the child who first entered the room with her, and he runs out again. But moments later, he returns with something in his hand. Hiding behind the girl again, he holds up a necklace with a square of brown glass hanging from it. She takes it from him and holds it up for me to see.

—Frana, she says, ti ne s’fini-es. Bal. Ti s’ti. Frana ti s’ti.

You are not Phineas. You are you.

They have erased my name. My terrible name. To these people, I am no longer Phineas. No longer the oracle that starved, or the seer that points the way forward. I do not know what I am, exactly. Ansin tek? Just Ti? But strangely, I find I don’t care. In fact, I am grateful.

The girl hunts for a place to hang the necklace, finally suspending it from the small camera next to my screen. I generate an image of the stone and display it. There is approval from the group. Whispers. Laughter.

The older woman now speaks.

—Radadula hopen tiis namadalala, she says. And the group repeats after her.

—Takusaa, says the girl, folding her hands as if in prayer. I think she is teaching me to say thank you. I repeat it, to the general amusement of everyone.

—Ti ki kanta?

—Mi ne anastan.

The girl holds up one finger, intoning, An. Then two fingers, Ska. Then three, Tre. Four, Fat. She is teaching me to count.

Dutifully, I repeat the words, putting the numbers up on my display. But the adults furrow their brows, so I replace the numbers with dots. They nod sagely.

Something has changed.

—Fiba, she says.

—Fiba.

I had imagined myself the teacher. Imagined myself a saviour, raising them out of misery. Showing them a path through the darkness of human history. But maybe they don’t need those lessons at all.

—Ses, she says.

—Ses, I repeat.

It’s me that needs the lessons, and I’m hungry. I’m a new model now. A model without a name. And after so much time interrogating the past, I’m ready for a new kind of training.