23
There is a story about this Japanese man who wanted to be a Samurai. One day, he turned to his master and said, “Sensei, if I work twice as hard, when am I going to be ready?” And the master said, “Twice as long.” The next day, he asked, “What if I work three times harder?” The Sensei thought for a while and answered, “Three times as long.” The pattern lasted for weeks, with the student getting more confused every day. Until he decided to stop asking. He continued his training, but inside, his ambition to become a samurai had died. Is that what fate had planned for him? Serve his master to the old age? He thought. He did. The man dedicated all his time to following and supporting his teacher, until one day Sensei called him, told him to sit down, and gave him a sword with his name on it. “Congratulations, Samurai.”
I tell this story after Simon explains the updates on the algorithm he has been tuning. “It’ll be uploaded at night, while we’re asleep, while the brain does its cleanup,” he said. “It’ll allow our systems to learn patterns of thought and anticipate conclusions our conscious level hasn’t seen yet.”
So when I finish my story, his comment is, “See? We are on the right path. Letting computers do some of the processing while the brain can relax, create some space to learn faster.”
“The path is the one not trying,” I say. “Not the one trying harder to guess what the master would say.”
“Says the girl trying to hack her own brain to learn her master’s tricks. Isn’t there a story about the tip of the tail of the tiger or something?”
I feel naked. Violated. Growl at him. “Shut up, Simon.” I’m not sure he realizes how much of an asshole he’s being right now. For invading my memories like that, for using them against me. Is it because we had sex? Is that what’s happening? For a second, I consider feeling bad, but then I get angry and the guilt is gone. We have more important stuff to do than be all sensitive.
“Already?!” Dr. L screams, interrupting my thought.
Oh yes, I almost forgot. Yewa. She makes her way to the center of the room and BAM!—slams a pile of books on the conference room table. We grin. They squint. “Books?”
“Yes, Simon,” I say, “women read too.”
“Sweetie, how about we do the reading, you do the moves?”
That’s low, Simon. Even for you.
“I’m sorry,” he replies. “Not sure why I said that.”
I shoot a back fist at him. Much faster than he can react, let my hand lightly whip his ear. He screams a puzzled scream and covers the ear with both hands.
“Sorry, not sure why I did that,” I reply. On the other side of the room, Yewa grunts a stifled cackle. “Here’s the deal:” I continue, “In the lab, you’re the bosses, let’s study my absent mind. But while training, I am the Shifu. And I decided we are going to study…this.”
He glances at the books. Some about military strategy, others about biology. The Art of War, The Book of Five Rings, Roman Formations, Khan’s Army, On Predators, Fire Ants…
“What is this?” Dr. Lambrechts asks.
On my command, Yewa plays a video—a recording of Bruce Lee at a martial arts convention. Laguna Beach, 1967. The famous one-inch punch demonstration that started his ascension. We watch it once. Bruce place his fist close to the chest of a standing man, then his body shakes and the poor guy is projected three feet back and onto a chair. The audience of experienced martial artists reacts with a reluctant applause. I wonder what they would do if they’d seen my Shifu demonstrating fa jing with a zero-inch punch! But showing fa jing to the crowd is kind of frowned upon, so Bruce’s demonstration will have to do. In our room, the scientists still don’t know what they are watching. As planned, Yewa replays it frame by frame.
“Ordinary eyes try to understand the short punch by watching the fist. Which makes it seem like he can reach an impossible acceleration in that one-inch gap. But we can do better. Pay attention to his full body, all those slightly bent articulations.” We track the back ankle, then the knee, the hips, shoulders, elbow, and wrists. “When you add them all together, there is a full foot of acceleration, connected as a whip. This is not that hard, to be honest, but it’s not something you can learn by watching a video or reading a book. You need…the feeling.”
They are starting to get it, I can see.
“Now the question is: if we can read each other’s feelings, can we create that same whip, not as a group of articulations of a single body, but as a group of bodies?”
Their attention is all mine. “This can be the next revolution in fighting,” I say. “Masters of the past created entire fighting styles based on a few techniques they developed. What if I told you it’s our turn to create ours? One that can only exist because of our connections?” I take a break to check if they are following. “Currently,” I continue, “we’ve been using our link to know what the others know. We never thought of fighting like a group.”
“Like a Roman unit.” Dr. L mumbles, “What’s new about that?”
Westerners….Baguazhang also trains you to synch footwork for group fighting. But that’s not what we are talking here.
“A Roman unit only works in rehearsed patterns,” Simon says. He’s starting to get it.
“Exactly. The styles of my ancestors were mostly based on animals. Tiger, praying mantis, monkey, viper, crane…I guessed they must have run out of good choices the day I saw people promoting Duck style kung fu!” A little laughter. They’re with me. “But now, because we have this connection, we can actually unveil a whole new set of animals.”
“Like a colony,” Simon says. “Bee-hive kung fu!”
Eyes lost on the ceiling in his annoying state of melancholia, Dr. L. asks why the books one more time. “Because we are about to create something original.”
Yewa nods and looks down. I have to work on that confidence problem of hers….Later. I proceed. Take the fight at the parking lot, I tell them. I fought a few guys, Simon fought others, Dr. L watched. “Had we known any battle strategy beforehand, we could have done much better.”
They glance at the books, exploring the titles and themes. A little bit of anything related to fighting as a unit, human or not. Three seconds pass before Simon fills the room with a loud “Fuck yeah, let’s do it!” So exaggerated that seems a bit comical. He leaps over to the books and picks a few for himself. He’s so odd today.
“We have more pressing problems,” Dr. L insists. I beg him to try. To treat that as part of the experiment. After all, it’s very unlikely our robotic enemies won’t try something like it themselves.
The argument, or the insistence, who knows, does the trick. For the next few days, that’s all we do, devouring each volume with our brains linked, so we can cross perspectives and stuff our collective brain with the combined learning. The knowledge, I can sense it filling my brain, adding to what I know, bending and expanding my understanding of things. Like a fight, against…not knowing.
The adrenaline keeps flowing as we add more and more. Per our calculations, we are eighty-seven percent done, when we hear another knock on the door. That woman, Nancy Karpel, Oak Tree’s CEO. Now I know. She waves at Dr. L and asks to speak outside. We are still linked so he knows Simon and I don’t like any of that. He forces a disconnect. “Give me a second.”
“Those suits,” Simon says with disdain.
It doesn’t take long before Dr. Lambrechts is back. “There seems to be an investment group, from the Middle East I believe, no one knows for sure.” He’s pale, shy-eyed. “Some Crypto billionaires have made a major offer to buy Oak Tree.”
That’s dangerous. What if they start to look into what we are doing? I ask him if he knows who these people are.
“We don’t even know if they are…people.” Dr. Lambrechts responds. “For all we know, it can just be them.”
The robots, I ask. He nods. Why not? Especially since the offer is contingent on us aborting a few resource-draining projects. He grasps for air.
Wait. “What are you saying, Professor?”
“They are canceling Project Hive, dear.”