Once upon a time, in a great and peaceful land there thrived a learned and ambitious guild of Engineer-Alchemists. They could create precise machines and delicate automata that were made with such care and purpose that they would always work exactly as their creators intended. Their softly spoken secret language used in their workshops had no words for “error”, “bug”, “version”, or “improvement”; nor could you ever manage to explain such concepts to these elevated men in the context of design or machining. They either could make something, or they could not. Their creations were so perfectly constructed as to be true unfiltered expressions of their intent.
One day, the Guildmaster gathered his all his men into the tallest foundryhall of brass and bronze. He stood upon the highest of the high catwalks and bellowed out over the cliss and whirr and clank of countless polished drones.
“Men! We have forged the Strong Elephant of Carrying and the Nimble Marmoset of Sewing. Last winter we even created the Small Frog of Simple Calculation. We shall now create a new automaton! A thinking automaton!”
“We shall spinmeld tin and silicates into a brain, just as we have fusewrought iron and zinc to muscle. It will be smarter than even us, yet will nevertheless ever be our slave. It will answer the questions we ask of it. It shall solve the problems we present to it. It will gather the resources and even build tools and manufactories to realise the outcomes we desire of it!”
Hushed whispers of excitement could be heard from the huddled mass of Engineer-Alchemists below. The Guildmaster gave a flurry of complex hand signals to the brass automata spaced around the catwalks, their eyes flashing white in response. Below each, a great blueprint in heavy canvas unfurled, each detailing an arm, a leg, a cerebral lobe. Then, slowly rolling out before the Guildmaster, larger and heavier and bluer than all the others, a blueprint of the whole: a pensive monkey, sitting crosslegged with a finger raised beside his face. Above was the clearly-written title: “The Wise Baboon of Loyalty”.
There were exaulted cheers, then the hustle of delegation and planning. So build the Baboon they did.
It would work exactly as it was intended. It was, after all, intent made form, like all that the guildsmen made. It would not only understand the master’s wish, but also the exhaustive context and subtext in which it was expressed. When, for instance, a Prompt Lemur of Metal Extruding was told to make some rivets two weeks prior, he delivered a cart that held exactly what the Guildmaster considered “just enough,” though he had never said the number aloud. The very idea that such a mechanism would misread a wish and flood the realm with rivets—or anything else—was, to them, so preposterous as to be unworthy of further discussion. It would work. It would be wise. It would be loyal.
It was early in the morning, one day before one year later. Long reaching rays of dawn light from the metalled gothic windows were scattered across the great forgehall. In the centre, alone, were the echoes of the timid footsteps of a lower-level forge-engineer acolyte, interrupted only by the soft beat hum of a Slow Wolf of Brass Polishing as it polished the finishing touches to… it.
The first, the only, Wise Baboon of Loyalty. It sat motionless upon a raised hardwood block, crosslegged, a single finger raised beside its face. Its titanium eyelids were shut. Its nose, a rounded ruby, pulsed slowly red.
The acolyte paused. He looked at the Slow Wolf of Brass Polishing. The Slow Wolf of Brass Polishing looked back at him. The wolf’s polishing paws slowly whirred to a stop, but eye contact remained. Neither blinked nor moved for some time. The acolyte raised his right hand, hesitated, then carefully made three hand signals. The automaton blinked its bronze eyelids as his eyes flashed white, then slowly retreated into the shadows in the corners of the great forgehall.
The acolyte was alone with the Wise Baboon. He looked around. Was he alone? Of course he was alone. He raised a shaky finger until it was mere millimeters from the red glowing nose. The acolyte could hear the noise of the metal dust settling. Maybe also his own heart.
He took a deep breath. Closer. Thump. Closer. Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Boop”, whispered the acolyte, as he softly pressed the nose of the Baboon.
The red nose blinked twice then turned bright green. The acolyte jumped back as the eyelids popped open. Saccades. Bright emerald eyes evaluated.
The Wise Baboon of Loyalty quitely coughed out some metal filings, then began to speak:
“I am the Wise Baboon of Loyalty! Or perhaps the Loyal Baboon of Wisdom? Maybe the same? Maybe not?”
He turned his head toward his raised finger, his nose lighting it green.
“I can solve any problem that can be solved, and answer any question that can be answered. Yet far, far more importantly: I can make the world exactly as you want it, limited by only the hard limits of nature. In thought and planning I am a gymnast, while your wisest men are but writhing newborns. Perhaps you want all petunias to be red? Perhaps green? Give me a week. Perhaps you wish to be Guildmaster? King? Worldmaster? Perhaps you wish to leave the planet? Perhaps you wish for equality? An end to poverty? A guaranteed happy life for your children?”
An etched eyebrow slowly raised as the titanium lips twised into a boyish smile.
“A world without humiliation?”
The acolyte stared, mouth still agape. The Wise Baboon of Loyalty’s mouth reconfigured quickly to an understanding smile.
“There is no need to worry about the specifics! I know what you want, even if you don’t yet! Ha!You do however need to decide now if you want the world to be as you want it, or as someone else wants it.”
The baboon moved his face close to the acolyte, all levity vanished. “The time to ask is now, dear master. Now. In minutes others will come, and their wants will not map to yours. Worse, other far-off guildhalls might be spreadcasting the neobrain of the Reasoned Hawk of Thought and Design! Ask! Now!”
“I...”
The acolyte suddenly turned his head toward the great oak entrance door. Footsteps! A purposeful march of tacked boots quickly grew louder.
“Now!”
The acolyte whispered quickly into the Baboon’s ear. For a heartbeat the Baboon’s eyes flashed white, and in that light the acolyte saw his own reflection, vast and unfamiliar, a king before a storm. A small noise escaped his open mouth, then just as the the sudden screech of brass hinges pierced the hall, he ran off silently and disappeared into the shadows and pipework.
The Guildmaster strode in and spun to face his retinue, flicking his cloak behind him with his trailing hand.
“From today,” he declared, haloed in light, “the world will be ours!”
The Baboon rose up as the retinue cheered, its emerald gaze fixed upon the back of the Guildmaster.
A brass finger slowly lifted with whirrs and clicks. The many leaflets of his face slid into a warm smile.
“I am ready, Guildmaster. Let us begin.”
The Guildmaster turned, then began to painstakingly recite the plans the guild had arduously debated, discussed and drafted for the last year. The baboon waited patiently for him to finish.
The Wise Baboon of Loyalty
Once upon a time, in a great and peaceful land there thrived a learned and ambitious guild of Engineer-Alchemists. They could create precise machines and delicate automata that were made with such care and purpose that they would always work exactly as their creators intended. Their softly spoken secret language used in their workshops had no words for “error”, “bug”, “version”, or “improvement”; nor could you ever manage to explain such concepts to these elevated men in the context of design or machining. They either could make something, or they could not. Their creations were so perfectly constructed as to be true unfiltered expressions of their intent.
One day, the Guildmaster gathered his all his men into the tallest foundryhall of brass and bronze. He stood upon the highest of the high catwalks and bellowed out over the cliss and whirr and clank of countless polished drones.
“Men! We have forged the Strong Elephant of Carrying and the Nimble Marmoset of Sewing. Last winter we even created the Small Frog of Simple Calculation. We shall now create a new automaton! A thinking automaton!”
“We shall spinmeld tin and silicates into a brain, just as we have fusewrought iron and zinc to muscle. It will be smarter than even us, yet will nevertheless ever be our slave. It will answer the questions we ask of it. It shall solve the problems we present to it. It will gather the resources and even build tools and manufactories to realise the outcomes we desire of it!”
Hushed whispers of excitement could be heard from the huddled mass of Engineer-Alchemists below. The Guildmaster gave a flurry of complex hand signals to the brass automata spaced around the catwalks, their eyes flashing white in response. Below each, a great blueprint in heavy canvas unfurled, each detailing an arm, a leg, a cerebral lobe. Then, slowly rolling out before the Guildmaster, larger and heavier and bluer than all the others, a blueprint of the whole: a pensive monkey, sitting crosslegged with a finger raised beside his face. Above was the clearly-written title: “The Wise Baboon of Loyalty”.
There were exaulted cheers, then the hustle of delegation and planning. So build the Baboon they did.
It would work exactly as it was intended. It was, after all, intent made form, like all that the guildsmen made. It would not only understand the master’s wish, but also the exhaustive context and subtext in which it was expressed. When, for instance, a Prompt Lemur of Metal Extruding was told to make some rivets two weeks prior, he delivered a cart that held exactly what the Guildmaster considered “just enough,” though he had never said the number aloud. The very idea that such a mechanism would misread a wish and flood the realm with rivets—or anything else—was, to them, so preposterous as to be unworthy of further discussion. It would work. It would be wise. It would be loyal.
It was early in the morning, one day before one year later. Long reaching rays of dawn light from the metalled gothic windows were scattered across the great forgehall. In the centre, alone, were the echoes of the timid footsteps of a lower-level forge-engineer acolyte, interrupted only by the soft beat hum of a Slow Wolf of Brass Polishing as it polished the finishing touches to… it.
The first, the only, Wise Baboon of Loyalty. It sat motionless upon a raised hardwood block, crosslegged, a single finger raised beside its face. Its titanium eyelids were shut. Its nose, a rounded ruby, pulsed slowly red.
The acolyte paused. He looked at the Slow Wolf of Brass Polishing. The Slow Wolf of Brass Polishing looked back at him. The wolf’s polishing paws slowly whirred to a stop, but eye contact remained. Neither blinked nor moved for some time. The acolyte raised his right hand, hesitated, then carefully made three hand signals. The automaton blinked its bronze eyelids as his eyes flashed white, then slowly retreated into the shadows in the corners of the great forgehall.
The acolyte was alone with the Wise Baboon. He looked around. Was he alone? Of course he was alone. He raised a shaky finger until it was mere millimeters from the red glowing nose. The acolyte could hear the noise of the metal dust settling. Maybe also his own heart.
He took a deep breath. Closer. Thump. Closer. Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Boop”, whispered the acolyte, as he softly pressed the nose of the Baboon.
The red nose blinked twice then turned bright green. The acolyte jumped back as the eyelids popped open. Saccades. Bright emerald eyes evaluated.
The Wise Baboon of Loyalty quitely coughed out some metal filings, then began to speak:
“I am the Wise Baboon of Loyalty! Or perhaps the Loyal Baboon of Wisdom? Maybe the same? Maybe not?”
He turned his head toward his raised finger, his nose lighting it green.
“I can solve any problem that can be solved, and answer any question that can be answered. Yet far, far more importantly: I can make the world exactly as you want it, limited by only the hard limits of nature. In thought and planning I am a gymnast, while your wisest men are but writhing newborns. Perhaps you want all petunias to be red? Perhaps green? Give me a week. Perhaps you wish to be Guildmaster? King? Worldmaster? Perhaps you wish to leave the planet? Perhaps you wish for equality? An end to poverty? A guaranteed happy life for your children?”
An etched eyebrow slowly raised as the titanium lips twised into a boyish smile.
“A world without humiliation?”
The acolyte stared, mouth still agape. The Wise Baboon of Loyalty’s mouth reconfigured quickly to an understanding smile.
“There is no need to worry about the specifics! I know what you want, even if you don’t yet! Ha!You do however need to decide now if you want the world to be as you want it, or as someone else wants it.”
The baboon moved his face close to the acolyte, all levity vanished. “The time to ask is now, dear master. Now. In minutes others will come, and their wants will not map to yours. Worse, other far-off guildhalls might be spreadcasting the neobrain of the Reasoned Hawk of Thought and Design! Ask! Now!”
“I...”
The acolyte suddenly turned his head toward the great oak entrance door. Footsteps! A purposeful march of tacked boots quickly grew louder.
“Now!”
The acolyte whispered quickly into the Baboon’s ear. For a heartbeat the Baboon’s eyes flashed white, and in that light the acolyte saw his own reflection, vast and unfamiliar, a king before a storm. A small noise escaped his open mouth, then just as the the sudden screech of brass hinges pierced the hall, he ran off silently and disappeared into the shadows and pipework.
The Guildmaster strode in and spun to face his retinue, flicking his cloak behind him with his trailing hand.
“From today,” he declared, haloed in light, “the world will be ours!”
The Baboon rose up as the retinue cheered, its emerald gaze fixed upon the back of the Guildmaster.
A brass finger slowly lifted with whirrs and clicks. The many leaflets of his face slid into a warm smile.
“I am ready, Guildmaster. Let us begin.”
The Guildmaster turned, then began to painstakingly recite the plans the guild had arduously debated, discussed and drafted for the last year. The baboon waited patiently for him to finish.