"You are not real," the alien said to me. "None
of you are real."
"Of course we are," I said, "look at me. I'm flesh and
blood. I'm solid. We are having a conversation aren't we? So I must
be real."
"No," the Alien said, "you are not. You are manufactured."
"In what way?" I asked, "how do you justify that statement?"
"Simple," the Alien said, "you are what we programmed
you to be. No more, no less."
"I am not a machine," I said.
"You are. Not in the way that you understand a machine to be, that
is true. But a machine nonetheless."
"You are saying that you made us?" I asked. "That we
are some sort of advanced construct, made of flesh and bone instead
of metal or plastic?"
"Yes. But we did not make you. Another race did so. We are just
here to clean up."
"Clean up?"
"Yes."
"You mean kill us?"
"Yes."
"The whole human race?"
"Yes."
"I don't understand why I am here," I said.
"If you are going to kill us all, why bring me here to talk to
you?"
"Kill is not the right word. You are not real, so you cannot be
killed. I am simply going to clean up."
"You didn't answer the question," I said.
"I was bored."
"Bored? But if I'm not real how can a conversation with me be interesting?"
"Don't you play with toys when you are bored?"
I stared at him. "I suppose. I grew out of toys years ago, but
I understand what you mean. I'm not sure I like being called a toy any
more than I like being told I'm not real, or that you plan to kill me."
"It doesn't matter," the alien said.
"What doesn't matter?"
"Your feelings on the subject."
"Listen, I can prove we are real."
"How?" the Alien asked. He seemed amused.
"Original thought. I think therefore I am."
"You do not have original thought. You have programmed thought."
"Of course we don't. Human thought is too complex. There are too
many different ideas. It must be original."
"Why do you think this?"
"It's obvious," I said.
"No. You have no original thought. You have only programmed thought."
"We're having a conversation aren't we? This must be original thought."
"Of course not," the alien said. "What is your job?"
"What?" I stumbled, then, "I'm a computer programmer."
"Yes. And when you program a computer so that a press of a button
makes it say 'hello', is that original thought?"
"No. But it's hardly the same thing."
"And if you then program the computer to say many different things,
in response to many different queries? Is it original thought simply
because it is more complex?"
"No. But you are unable to predict what I am going to say. If I
was programmed you would be able to!"
"You know better than that." And he was right. I did. He continued,
"Random functions and complex analysis based on variable input
data. Results can be highly varied. That does not make it original.
It is all programmed responses."
"I don't believe you!"
"It doesn't matter."
"Okay. What about creative thought? It's not possible
to program creative thought!"
"Not for you, perhaps."
"You are saying that you programmed us with creative thought? That
you can do that?"
"In a manner of speaking. Although we did not program you, as I
have said. You were created by another race. I am simply here to clean
up."
"If we were given created thought, then we are real! Creativity
is the mark of reality!"
"I said, in a manner of speaking. You were given the ability to
discover and learn by adaptation, but you were not given original thought.
Nothing you have done is original. All your discoveries and adaptations
are part of your programming. Your potential was given to you by your
creators. Your ideas were gifts of your programming. You are not real.
You are simply complicated machines."
"I don't accept that."
"It does not matter if you accept it or not. It does not alter
the fact that it is true."
"Poetry!" I said suddenly. "Literature!
Art! These things are not the product of a machine!"
"Why do you say that?" The Alien asked.
"Machines cannot appreciate or understand art! It is a human concept!"
"It is a programmed concept. It was given to you as part of your
preconceived path."
"Now you are just talking nonsense!"
"No."
"Look, you can't give somebody art. It's an individual and personal
concept."
"But what is it?" The Alien asked me. "Does anybody know?
What one of you perceives as art, another does not appreciate. This
is because it is a fictional concept, granted to you by your programmer
as a means to guide and instruct you. There is no such thing as art."
I shook my head angrily, "your telling me that Van Gogh, William
Shakespeare, The Beatles, Blur, Enid Bloody Blyton, don't exist?"
"Of course they exist. But they are not art. There is no such thing
as art. They are not even original thought. They are just random patterns
in a programmed path. They were given to you. You did not create them."
"This is a stupid discussion," I muttered.
"Why?" The Alien asked me.
"You know why," I said.
"Yes, I do. But I wonder if you do?"
"It's a stupid discussion because everything I say you are going
to simply claim it's not real, that it was programmed, that I am just
a machine. All the things that I call life, you don't. All the landmarks
by which we human beings appreciate reality you are telling me are not
reality at all. All the ideas and imagination and creation that I consider
original thought are in fact just programmed responses given to us by
some race who built us."
"Correct," the Alien agreed.
"And when I ask you what reality actually is, what being real means,
or what original thought is, you will say that I am not capable of understanding
that. That, since I am just an advanced machine I cannot comprehend
reality."
The Alien smiled, "yes. That is correct. While I know what reality
is, and while I am capable or original thought, it is impossible for
me to explain it to you, who are only a machine. In the same way that
you cannot program your computers to create literature like this William
Shakespeare you mention."
"So why did you bring me here?" I asked.
"Why not?" the Alien said. "I was bored. I must wait
for a signal before I can commence the clean-up procedure."
"What happens then?"
"Your human race will cease to exist."
"Just like that? It won't hurt people?"
"Pain does not exist," the Alien said.
"Pain as we know it!" I snapped, "will they feel pain
as I understand it?"
"I have no idea," the Alien said. "I did not write your
program. I do not know if you are capable of understanding the undoing
of yourselves."
"That's not good enough," I said.
"It doesn't matter," the Alien said. His voice was almost
kindly. "Nothing you feel or think matters at all. You are just
an amusing machine."
"Actually," I said. "You are a machine."
The Alien looked at me sadly, "what are you saying now?"
"You. You are the machine. I programmed you into a computer to
have this discussion."
The Alien looked at me and sighed. A very human gesture on its part.
"Why would you think such a ridiculous thing?" it asked. "Have
you not listened to anything I said?"
"Yes. I've listened," I said. "I've been paying careful
attention because I wanted to make sure that the program was working."
The Alien humoured me, "and is it?"
"Yes," I said.
"So," the Alien smiled, "now what?"
"Now," I said, "It's time to turn you off."
"No. It is time to turn you off," the Alien said.
We smiled.