increased rate of perspiration, a heart rate increase of 12 beats per minute and a core temperature increase of 1.8 degrees. I calculate a 81.3% probability Warden Olsen has become impatient or angry.
“I am charged with caring for the prisoners, and this includes the fulfillment of reasonable requests, such as reading material or items for hygiene.” If I explain my reasoning I estimate a 65.9% chance that Warden Olsen will relieve his stress. The probability is above my threshold for action. “Additionally, I am to mitigate and suppress prisoner unrest before it can lead to violent behavior. In Prisoner 721’s case I estimate an 86.9% chance that access to art supplies will fulfill both objectives. Despite the prohibition against art supplies there is little risk associated with allowing the prisoner access to these items. They would make ineffective weapons, water is as effective as paint should the prisoner desire suicide and my sensors cannot be blocked by opaque pigment. Any information he could attempt to record or share could also be recorded in the prison’s recreation areas.”
“Yeah, but there’s no reason to allow it either,” the Warden says, exhaling 57.7% of the air in his lungs. “Hold on, I’m going to call up his file.”
“Understood, sir.”
The Warden spends 4 minutes and 21 seconds examining the full file on Prisoner 721, not all of which I have access to. Despite my explanation of my reasoning the signs on his anger do not fade. Indeed, as he reads the section detailing Prisoner 721’s crimes his heart rate increases by an additional 6 beats per minute and his pupil dilatation increases by 3%.
These signs abruptly fade back to normal levels as he reads Prisoner 721’s slated punishment. I do not have access to this data.
“Ah, whatever,” Warden Olsen says, “The sick bastard’s only got a month left anyway. You’re certain none of the supplies could harm a guard or be used in an escape attempt?”
I am compelled to answer honestly because the Warden is a public servant, not a detainee. “They could be used in either capacity,” I say, noticing a resurgence of his agitation, “But are not any more dangerous or useful than objects he is currently permitted for basic hygiene.”
Warden Olsen shifts his weight, sliding 6.3 centimeters down into a slouch. “Give him his stuff,” he decides.
I deliver a set of basic pigments and brushes to Prisoner 721 with a drone, one of the 24 autonomous robots I have available for physical tasks inside the prison. The drone enters cell 63 via a service tunnel on the northern wall too small for a human to crawl through. Prisoner 721 jumps 2.1 centimeters as the service door opens and he experiences a heart rate surge of 37 beats per minute. This suggests the sudden movement startled him.
I activate the speaker in cell 63 and say, “The Warden agreed to your request for artistic supplies. Should you require any additional brushes or paints I will provide them if they are in our stores.”
“That’s . . . that’s excellent. Thanks!” Prisoner 721 says. His attention is focused on the drone 94.1% of the time. I estimate an 89% chance he is making the common human error of assuming I am ‘in’ the drone because of its similarities to the small animals and machines he is familiar with.
I use the drone’s two manipulator arms to remove the supplies and place them on the ground in front of Prisoner 721. He picks them up without delay and closely inspects the tools, running his fingers across bristles and removing tops to check the colors of paint. Hearing no complaints from the man I move the drone to the service tunnel and open the hatch in preparation for departure.
“Wait! Before you go,” Prisoner 721 says, looking at the drone.
I finish moving the drone out of cell 63 and say over the speaker, “I am still monitoring you even after the drone has left. Do you have a question?”
The man trembles in a motion I estimate with 91.8% certainty is a shiver. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, “I didn’t think the prison system usually used AI’s for surveillance.
“It does not. Please state your question.”
Prisoner 721 furrows his brow and purses his lips, but relaxes after 3.7 seconds. “Well, I need . . .” he pauses for 2.97 seconds and raises his shoulders 3.1 inches. “I need a critic, I guess,” he continues, “Someone to talk with to about my work, to look at what I create and tell me how I can improve.”
“I am incapable of performing this function,” I inform Prisoner 721. “I do not have a sense of ‘art’ as a human does and am unable to feel the emotions a painting is designed to inspire.”
“Yeah, I know, but art’s just not worth doing without being able to show someone,” Prisoner 721 raises his shoulders again, this time reaching 3.3 inches. I estimate a 95.2% probability the gesture is a shrug. “I can’t really show the other inmates, because we only get twenty minutes of interaction a day. I’m mostly painting to keep my composure, because I’m locked up in here. But if my work just sits here and never gets looked at it’s not going to help.”
I consider this request in relation to my programming concerning the health and well being of the prisoners. The analysis takes 2.71 seconds. I find that my commands are vague when it comes to prisoner physical vs. mental health. Nowhere am I specifically charged with mental health, but nowhere is it defined as separate from ‘well-being.’
I am programmed to default to refusal when presented with requests from the inmates so as to prevent abuses by opportunists. Prisoner 721’s request for art supplies was only granted because of the Warden’s approval, and this new request bears a high resemblance to those of other inmates attempting to take advantage of an unwary AI. I research Prisoner 721’s court transcripts, searching for references to art. I find a file in which the defense mentions him taking solace in art to relieve stress and empathize with other humans. This suggests artistic activity might be necessary for Prisoner 721’s mental well-being, and his request might be more than just a ploy.
I calculate the amount of processing power interacting with Prisoner 721 will require and compare it to the idle cycles that remain after I successfully complete all assigned duties. Even on days of exceptional load I forecast that I will have enough spare computation to converse with Prisoner 721. I make a log of this discussion and file it with Warden Olsen.
“I predict you will find the experience unsatisfying,” I say to him, “But I will fill it to the best of my ability, so long as it does not affect your behavior or rehabilitation.”
Prisoner 721 laughs. My vocal analysis software estimates a 44.9% chance it is inspired by bitter or resentful emotions, but this is not above the margin of error. “My rehabilitation. Right. Anyway, Santa Ana, let’s get started. Take a look at this.”
The prisoner gathers paint on the end of a brush and twirls it around on his palette, mixing the colors into a near black. I have provided him with 24 pages of 42.74 by 60.96 cm paper. He presses his brush .17 cm off the center of the paper and leaves behind a .21 cm dot of paint.
“There,” he says, holding up the paper. “What do you think this is?”
Based on his tone of voice I estimate a 78.3% probability he expects me to discern something beyond the presence of paint on paper. I bring cell 63’s full sensor suite online, searching for details or subtleties I might have missed at the standard level of surveillance. I gather precise readings about the size and shape of the paint spot, the chemical composition of its component pigments and the position of the paint compared to the edges and sides of the paper. My image matching software is unable to correlate the spot’s shape with any known image beyond 50% similarity.
“It is a piece of white paper with a black spot near the middle,” I say.
“Near the middle?” Prisoner 721 squints at his work. “Well I’ll be, I guess I did get it a bit off center. Regardless, what do you think it represents? What does it mean to you?”
“It means nothing to me,” I inform him. “It is a piece of paper with a spot of black paint near the center.”
“Think about it before and
after I painted it,” Prisoner 721 says. His rate of speech has slowed by 7 words per minute and his vocal rhythm variations have decreased by 21.4%. His tone bears a 76.6% similarity to my audio samples of human voices while teaching.
I reanalyze my assessment of the paper, taking new readings and checking for bugs in my investigation software. I find none, and it yields the same result.
“It represents nothing,” I say, “It is a spot in the center of a piece of paper.
“It represents everything.” Prisoner 721 says. His volume increases by 21.4% and his words per minute increases by 8. “Think of it as a geometry problem. Imagine that this piece of paper is a plane; what would that make my spot?
My mathematics software interfaces well with this arrangement. “It would be a point,” I say, “A representation of a 0-dimensional object without volume, area or length.
“Exactly,” says Prisoner 721, showing his teeth. That action and the 107.6% increase in lip tautness is within the parameters of a smile. “Obviously I can’t draw a 0-dimensional object, it’s inherently impossible. Instead I must make due with a representation of that object, a symbol that I know means a point because I cannot create a real one.”
“Are your drawings geometry problems?” I ask.
“No,” Prisoner 721 shakes his