Barnes deepened his frown. He said to Venter, “I told you. Come on.” He then turned and stomped away, devoid of propriety. Venter hesitated, winced at Alastair and whispered, “Sorry,” then he chased after his friend.
It wasn’t what they wanted to hear. Or maybe it was? Perhaps they had already made up their mind about what the Credo represented, and just wanted to find some way to justify their misguided beliefs.
And so all of them were gone. No converts. Not even a potential future convert.
Alastair enclosed his sermon notes back into the Credo book and returned to his chamber. Only when he’d closed the door behind him did he allow his smile to wither and his shoulders to slump. He melted into his old wooden chair and sighed.
He had to admit, they had good questions. Most concerning was Hamia’s question about the new railroad projects. Lord Bartz used to be an advocate of the Credo. He even used to attend the occasional sermon, but now he treated Alastair like an ignorant child. Whenever Alastair inquired about new developments at the railroad he would be rebuffed with hand waving and questionable assurances.
And now he heard that Cecile, a guest from Quebec that Alastair had hosted for several months, was under arrest on suspicion of treason. Bartz had made sure that as a foreigner she was being prosecuted solely under his jurisdiction. He wouldn’t even allow Alastair to visit her cell in the Barnyard. While Alastair had no evidence in support of her, the secrecy around it was highly suspicious, especially since he’d come to know her and found her to be quite reasonable. Alastair even had enough confidence in her to enlist her help for the satellite expedition.
Then there was the satellite expedition itself. A small part of him was glad the Essentialists attacked when they did. If some kind of Old World magic was brought back he wasn’t so sure he could convince people not to use it. In Okafor’s time, sure. And thirty years ago, maybe. But now? Either way, the satellite was a bad omen. Who’s to say there wouldn’t be another satellite coming down soon, or maybe some other Old World gadget was just around the corner, ready to ensnare people with its obsessive nature?
His musing was interrupted by a knock on the door.
Alastair opened it to reveal Venter, the fiery-haired one that had been the last to leave. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No, no, please… I’m glad you returned. Would you like to take a seat? Did you have a question?”
Venter eyed the empty chair. “No, thank you. I need to be going. I just wondered…” He seemed to be losing his nerve.
“Please, Venter. I want nothing more than to hear your question, nothing more than to mitigate your concern. That’s why I am here.”
Venter grimaced. He appeared to be wrestling with some internal conflict.
“You’re a mule, like Barnes?” Alastair asked.
“Yes,” Venter answered. “I wanted to teach at the trade school, but I did a century once and never looked back.” He smiled sheepishly.
Alastair smiled back. “And do you know why I stopped being a mule? Do you know why I became a devoted Adherents those many years ago?”
“No.”
“I didn’t understand the Credo well, that’s for sure. I didn’t even agree with all of it, at the time. But I knew it taught important lessons—lessons that needed teaching. It’s for this same reason I became a lord of Seeville. I felt our lessons needed representation. Even the council could benefit from a lecture now and then.”
Venter nodded slowly.
Alastair continued. “But you needn’t be like me. You needn’t give up riding to be an Adherent. Some of the strongest Adherents are the best in their trades. And we need help, Venter. We need supporters, we need leaders, or for too many these lessons will be lost forever. We can help you become a teacher and a better mule.”
Venter hovered a moment longer, then finally he spoke. “I think… I would like that. Or at least, I would like to learn more.”
Alastair nodded and smiled. “And I would be happy to teach you.”
But Venter still seemed pensive. He was still fidgeting by the door.
“Is there anything else? Please, I encourage all visitors to be forthcoming and honest. It’s the only way to have prudent progress.”
“I have a friend,” Venter spoke quickly, forcing the words out. “He’s a veteran mule—a wrench actually. He does a lot of runs for the railroad. He has some concerns, but he doesn’t know what to do about them. He’s a smart man, but these concerns… he can’t find the answers on any map, you know? And I thought, after what I heard today, that the Credo might help guide him. I thought you might be able to help him. Also because you’re a lord and all.”
Alastair’s smile returned again, broad and genuine. “That’s why I’m here. I would be happy to meet with your friend.”
Venter allowed a brief smile. “Great. I’ll get you in touch. Thank you. Thank you, Lord Henneson.” Venter nodded and then dashed out the door.
The exchange was a shot in the arm for Alastair. It gave him a brief rush of adrenaline, enough to make him stand up and pace about the room energetically.
It was a small win, and yet he felt emboldened and empowered by it. Perhaps the Credo wasn’t diminishing after all. Perhaps, just like Ursula Okafor, he needed to persevere through this bout of disillusionment.
But they needed help. He needed help. It was time to write again. Maybe, after so long, Duncan would finally respond. Perhaps, just as he had persuaded Venter today, he could somehow find a way to persuade Duncan to return.
Alastair sat down in his chair, took out a sheet of loose-leaf, and eagerly put pen to paper.
A DIFFERENT KIND OF DRAGON
After digesting numerous technical papers, philosophical arguments and policy statements, Axel still didn’t feel like he had an adequate grasp of the existential risk of artificial intelligence, if in fact there was any.
He knew finding an objective view on a topic influencing the corporate world could be difficult. Camps were formed and defended, or maybe a position was being sold to benefit the next product line. This seemed particularly true when it came to the risks associated with artificial intelligence. Almost every author he came across was funded by the high-tech industry. Speaking out about the existential risks got you blacklisted in a hurry because no one wanted to stifle innovation. Sure there were a few experts working for think tanks that made a living out of taking the opposing view, but they tended to be too extreme or their voices were easily drowned out by corporate marketing megaphones.
Then there was Hugo Guilherme. Hugo was a household name. “I’m no Hugo Guilherme, but I think I fixed the garbage disposal,” Pauline told him the other day. Guilherme had discovered several recent advances that drew the field closer to reaching artificial general intelligence. He now served as an independent consultant generating in excess of a thousand dollars an hour. He was the closest thing to an AI rock star you could find, and as far as Axel could tell, his talents were real, not hype.
Oh, Hugo toed the company line, but he’d also been caught slipping up a few times. In several live broadcasts he’d cited risks and severe dislocations that could be caused by AI. He subsequently “corrected” his errors with politically correct, well-wordsmithed statements from his personal publicist.
Axel had Grant run some of their most advanced hacks into Hugo’s emails. His professional email account was a fortress, but it turned out he was fairly lax with his personal email account. What they found were some private emails that expressed different views than his corporate persona. They spoke of concerns about superintelligence. They spoke of vulnerable world risks—ones that the human race might not recover from. These communications had a quality no other viewpoints seemed to have: they were balanced.