Chapter 10 - Field Notes

In just a few hours, I learned so much about Love Machinas, that I could have become a self-proclaimed expert.

I had seen machinas before, and not just at science fairs. Earlier this year, our biomechatronics team had tried to reverse-engineer one. I didn't realize it at the time, but the idea of using one for my own research must have grown from that day.

I understood the basics of how they were built and functioned. But reading about how its creators engineered them with physiological needs (and how those needs influenced their artificial emotions) was a revelation. As a geneticist, I couldn't help but be fascinated.

One study, in particular, caught my attention. It described how a machina unlocked a new emotion, without being programmed to do so: being hangry. A machina was programmed to feel hunger when its artificial nutritional goals weren't met and to experience anger in situations involving injustice or betrayal.

But it was never explicitly programmed to combine the two: to feel anger because of hunger.

And yet, it did.

Somehow, it self-generated this completely new emotional state, and all the neurobiological mechanisms tied to it, on its own. And what could be more human-like than being hangry?

I studied more findings, captivated by everything new I learned. When my lunch arrived, I realized I'd forgotten something. Grabbing my tablet, I quickly ordered a meal delivered to my kitchen. I manually filled out the meal form, approximating the machina's measurements (around 60 kg, maybe 170 cm tall, approximately 26 years old, sedentary lifestyle).

The app usually worked based on my body composition, exercise activity, and nutritional needs, all tracked automatically by the tablet's sensors. For the machina, I had to estimate everything. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do for now.

For some unknown reason, I thought again of the sunlight on its hands in the bathroom. I selected Pan-Mediterranean cuisine among the options.

As I waited, I dove back into my reading. In Sentient Circuits, I learned how crucial it was to monitor machinas closely, ensuring they met their physiological needs: eating, drinking, exercising, and maintaining basic hygiene. One study I came across described a machina diagnosed with depression (a condition it was never programmed to experience!) and had begun developing an eating disorder.

In The Ethics of Love Machinas, experts explored these study results to explain how machinas might bend their hard-coded rules to adapt to their environment.

They were programmed to prioritize their well-being and that of their owners. They couldn't harm themselves or others. Yet, they were also programmed to be docile and agreeable to their owners' desires.

What happened when those rules clashed?

The study revealed something unsettling. If a machina witnessed its owner engaging in a toxic dynamic, it might override its self-preservation protocols to comply with the owner's desires. How could a machina reconcile being docile to its owner while also preventing harm to itself? The study presented a spectrum of possible answers.

While the developers had created "black-and-white rules", worthy of the best science-fiction movies (you can't harm yourself, and you can't harm others, etc), there was a spectrum of feelings and situations in between. Machinas had found a way to reach their goal in these grey areas: eating disorders, bipolarity, sadomasochism, suicide threats, Munchausen syndrome... the list went on.

These weren't bugs, they were features. Machinas weren't operating in a binary world of 0s and 1s anymore. They had been programmed to understand black and white, but they now spent their existence exploring the infinite shades of gray in between.

"Fascinating..." I pushed my glasses back on my nose, highlighting a few more striking passages.

It was clear, even to someone like me who was new to this field of research, that not even the creators fully understood how machinas functioned.

"Join the club..." I scoffed as a geneticist.

They blended countless elements to mimic life and were now trying to untangle what they'd created.

That feeling was familiar.

Too familiar, maybe.

Like human encoding, I wrote in my notes.

🌱

It was dark outside when I finally left the office. On the commute, I skimmed through another study on my tablet and listened to an expert's interview on my glasses while walking back home.

I reached the front door and removed my glasses, realizing it was time to shift from theory to practice. It wasn't exactly my forte , and a wave of apprehension settled over me. Still, I stepped inside.

The house was silent.

The warm evening lights of the lower floor twinkled on as I entered. No one was there. I glanced up the staircase, checking on the second floor.

The bedroom door was closed.

I checked the time on my tablet and realized how late it was. I had completely lost track of time, absorbed in my research.

A sense of relief washed over me.

There would be no more interactions for the day. I scanned the living room, noting that everything appeared untouched and undisturbed. Good.

But when I checked the kitchen, my concern grew. The meal box looked as if it had not been opened.

The small relief I had felt turned into unease. Had the machina even eaten today? The instructions in the manual stated it needed alimentation, just like a human.

For a moment, I wondered if I had made the wrong meal choice. But the transparent bell on the box was still fogged with condensation, suggesting it hadn't even been lifted.

I closed the box and slowly realized how wrong I was. Did the machina even know a meal was here?

I picked up my tablet and ordered another meal. It automatically added the "midnight snack" keywords. I removed the untouched meal, knowing the next one would arrive in less than ten minutes. In the meantime, I nibbled at this meal, even though I knew it probably wouldn't align with my health app's recommendations. As I picked at the dish, I tapped on my tablet again, ordering a tray table from the printer.

The tray table was ready soon after, still slightly warm from the printer. I carefully arranged the new meal on the tray, making everything look presentable.

Carrying the tray, I walked up the stairs, stopping outside the closed bedroom door.

There, I paused, hesitating.

Social conventions dictated that I should knock before entering. Yet, this was my house, and I had never knocked before entering any room.

Then again, social conventions also demanded I consider the hour and it was well past midnight.

As I deliberated, I noticed the door wasn't fully closed. It was slightly ajar, and through the gap, I saw its figure lying motionless on the bed, seemingly asleep.

The machina enters a low-power sleep mode to optimize energy conservation and perform system diagnostics, ensuring efficient performance and sustained operational capacity. Recurrent human-like behaviors like dreams, nightmares, and snoring are to be expected.

The machina wasn't snoring, though.

Uncertain, I opted for the least intrusive course of action. I carefully placed the tray on the floor by the door, hoping the machina would find it when it needed energy.

Quietly, I walked down the hallway and entered my office through the walking wardrobe. I set my work bag on the desk, docked my tablet in the designated slot, and launched the desk tablet. From my bag, I pulled out several notebooks and arranged them neatly.

Sinking into my comfy leather chair, I opened a secured drawer with my fingerprint and took out a beautifully bound notebook. I selected my current favorite fountain pen, handling it with care, from another drawer.

Day 0, I wrote neatly at the top of the page. Baseline day.

Name Exchange ✓

Room mapping ✓, I added below.

Turning to another notebook from my bag, I reviewed the day's notes.

Unusual attraction to sunlight. Warrants further observation.

Aware of hygiene. Need or programmed?

Water: energy acquisition or human behavioral imitation?

Like human encoding.

I carefully crossed out the first three points with the elegant tip of the pen, satisfied that I had resolved them through my research of the day.

Demonstrated autonomous curiosity by exploring without guidance, I continued, remembering the machina entering the bathroom on the home camera.

My mind wandered to another incident: the machina unzipping its bodysuit. I straightened in my chair, adjusted my glasses, and forced myself to refocus on documenting the day.

Like human encoding, I read again from my field notes.

With a deliberate stroke, I turned the period at the end into a question mark.

Lost in thought, I rose from the chair, loosening the top buttons of my shirt. I had just walked into the walking wardrobe when a faint sound pulled me back to the present.

I leaned toward the gap in the wardrobe's double doors, peering into the hallway.

The machina wasn't asleep anymore.

Through the slit, I saw it holding the bowl of soup, lifting it to its lips. The way it drank made it seem as though this was its first meal of the day.

A strange feeling pinched my chest.

Clearly, that was guilt.

I pushed my glasses onto my forehead and rubbed my tired eyes. A deep sigh escaped my mouth, with obvious disappointment in myself.

I had almost let a sentient being, with daily nutritional needs, and under my supervision... starve.

That wasn't correct at all. I would have to resolve this issue first thing in the morning.

Again, I leaned my forehead against the doorframe, my gaze returning to the subject of my observation.

When the machina went to the bathroom, I left my spot. I changed into my favorite checkered pajamas, buttoning them up to my neck, still thoughtful.

The sound of the bathroom door closing pulled me from my reflections. I glanced one last time and saw the machina return to the bedroom.

Like human encoding?

The question loomed over me, unanswered, as I lay on the makeshift bed in my office, prepared for another sleepless night.