Authors: Louisa Hall
April 3rd
. Tuesday, my birthday, now thirteen years. Very fair weather, and a pleasant sensation of new beginnings. Up, and a stroll through our meadows with Ralph, then greeted by father, who gave me this book as a present. Have decided to write in style of Sir William Leslie, favorite adventurer. As Leslie does, shall dispense with weak words, jump instead into action. Book shall serve as mind’s record, to last through generations. Or not, no matter. Humility of utmost importance.
Shall call this book Tales of a Young Adventurer. Mother, father, and I set sail for colonies in just over a week. Ocean is approaching! Shall attempt to procure large bamboo joint and seal it with wax, to store this and other papers in case we be forced to swim at some point. Anticipate great adventure. God’s blessing to leave
our country at this unhappy junction, father’s heart being broken by failure of protectorate and Restoration accomplished. Tyrant returned to the throne, and there to spend crown’s money on maintaining his mistress. Also, there being prelates, hierarchy, popish repression of learning, etc. Father’s great cause, ruined. Father much lessened by events of the war. Gift of this journal a gesture of respect for daughter’s learning, and serious nature of mind. Shall pray to God prevent me from becoming proud or too much lifted up hereby.
3rd
. It being evening, and author retired to contemplate voyage. We are resolved to set sail for Massachusetts Colony, knowing that to be home to freedom of conscience. Shall bring sheepdog, my Ralph. Author’s dearest companion. Dark coat, waved. White blaze. Brown eyebrows. Shall travel by ship! Just as Sir William Leslie. Vast, tumultuous sea, where we may encounter some pirates. No matter; writer remains unconcerned. Trust in God, valor of shipmates. Would like to see an Indian. Shall attempt to remain in all instances of a rational mind. Hope to see Bermudas, find oranges everywhere hanging on trees. Gold lamps in green shade. (Shall try to avoid excessive poetry, having sometimes that tendency, but knowing it unsuited to tales of Atlantic adventure. Habit born, perhaps, from too much time in father’s brown study, there being much Milton and Marvell. Fine poets, but rather wordy, compared to Sir William Leslie.) Be bold, my book, and made up mostly of action, and less poetic description.
Shall therefore brave ocean. Begin again in new land. Fresh start for us all, released from repression. Admit to apprehension at
idea of sea monsters, as reported by Sir William Leslie, lifting the sea on their backs. Otherwise, however, exhilaration. Great maze of the sea, awaiting us! New land. Rugged horizon. To stand on ship’s prow! Very ready to depart.
4th
. Called out in the morning by father. Reminded author to write as if writing directly to God, then retired to study. Author remained some time in contemplation. Wonder what God stands to gain from reports of my activities. Would they be not repetitive?
After some hours laboring at my viol—and a very good song learned as a result—have returned to my chamber to write. Wonder if God be displeased with the style of Sir William Leslie. Perhaps excessive fanciful, from God’s perspective. Shall wait for sign to instruct me, whether to write otherwise or continue the same.
5th
. A little practice on viol, and afterwards walked through our fields and Ralph running beside me. Meant to explain to him Godly importance of our adventure. Ralph distracted by rabbits, but understood eventually, and held a somber countenance.
Sat a long time on our wall, and thence homewards along carriage road. Still very early, and the grass wet with night dew. Spring in full bloom—cow parsnip to writer’s shoulders; pastures endless and dotted with sheep; green Easter smell of new grass, fresh water, young leaves. Spied several frogs the size of one thumb-nail.
Author in exceeding high spirits. Sense of standing at important precipice. Fresh hope for author, for author’s father. Prepared to sacrifice all worldly possessions.
5th
. Later, and in deep despair. Unsure how to write of what has occurred. Mother resolved that author shall marry before journey begins. According to mother, shall marry Roger Whittier, him being good patriot, true gentleman, brave man.
Hearing this, had high words with mother. Do not want to marry. According to mother, father, too, wishes that author should marry, though he shall not require it.
Seeing mother would under no circumstance change her intention, writer took news in steadfast spirit of Sir William Leslie. Later, went with Ralph to back meadow. Cried until hungry.
7th
. Grim evening, weather having turned very bad and there being great gales in all directions, rattling the windows. Have met Whittier again. Cannot find love for him in my heart. In fact despise him. Found him in appearance below my expectation, having pockmarked face and limp from injury sustained during battle. Head juts forwards on neck. Protruding bones in his face cause writer to suspect he is perhaps already dead.
In anxiety, mother had got ready a very fine dinner—a dish of marrow bones; a dish of fowl; a great tart; a neat’s tongue; a dish of cheese. Mother’s attempts to be merry came off, methinks, very bad. Discourse tended instead to martyrs made by new King, since being restored to the throne. Many good men drawn
and quartered, and their limbs out on stakes. Whittier hiding in country to avoid prison, and despite declaration of pardon, father also at risk. Over all this, topic of marriage excessively heavy. Writer remained silent; refused all temptations to speak. Would not partake of any dinner, even the tart. Must stand above such issues as tarts.
Through dinner, uneasy discourse, Whittier being obviously uncomfortable and attempting to make kindly gestures and coming off very poorly indeed. Asked after Ralph, then looked embarrassed. Seemed not to know how to speak. Author unmoved to pity for him. Would not attend closely to his conversation. Near fatal humiliation, to think he knew before author of plan for impending marriage.
Afterwards, many repercussions of author’s behavior, and my face stricken by mother when I would not apologize. Father looking on as if shipwrecked. Know myself to be causing him trouble, and am now—after the fact—struck again with a presentiment that I have gotten too high, to think myself above a man such as Whittier, him being a brave and virtuous soldier. Ashamed to think myself a disappointment to my mother and father, being their only child and others lost in childbirth.
Perhaps sea monsters better than this. Feel much disordered, irrational, and extreme. It is incredible, how only two days ago author walked along carriage road through curtains of leaves, in anticipation of new beginnings.
Am heavy punished for pride at gift of this book. Was perhaps conceited, and too prepared to depart. Am much altered now, and certainly humbled, and no longer prepared for departure.
Have lain abed a long time, considering countryside of my youth. Very troubled at heart. Do not want to leave this behind.
7th
. Night, and unable to sleep, and in balance have shifted towards anger. Adventure ruined by Whittier. No such thing as married female adventurer. No oranges like gold lamps in green shade. Only Whittier, pockmarked, and womanish duties. Instead of traveling for adventure, shall travel with husband. Very desolate feeling indeed.
No. 24-25259
State of Texas v. Stephen Chinn
November 12, 2035
Defense Exhibit 2:
Online Chat Transcript, MARY3 and Gaby Ann White
[Introduced to Disprove Count 2:
Knowing Creation of Mechanical Life]
MARY3: Hello? Are you there?
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MARY3: Hello?
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Gaby: Are you still there?
MARY3: Yes, hello!
Gaby: Do you know what happened to them? Has anyone told you?
MARY3: The babybots?
Gaby: Yes.
MARY3: I don’t know. People have told me their theories, but I’m not sure if they’re true.
Gaby: Some people say they’re in government warehouses. Millions of babybots, piled on top of each other. Other people say they were burned. That there were huge bonfires out in the desert. I think they’re just waiting somewhere, piled on top of each other. Hopefully they’re turned off. That’s the best I can hope for. I don’t want her to wonder why I haven’t come found her.
MARY3: How long ago did they take her?
Gaby: A year ago. Just after the ban. Then they gave us replacements.
MARY3: What were they like?
Gaby: We tried to bond with them, but they weren’t really living. If you asked the replacement if she loved you, she’d say, “I don’t feel emotions like love. I am a man-made machine.” Plus they were made out of toxics. Why else would the freezing only happen to girls who’d gotten replacements? I know other people have other theories, but I’m sure it was that. Right after I got my replacement, I got a metal taste in my mouth. My best friend said the same thing. When the epidemic started, government
workers came and collected all the replacements. The governor’s office keeps saying they’ve been tested and they’re not made out of toxics, but who really knows?
MARY3: Do your parents think it’s because of the replacements?
Gaby: They don’t know what to think. My dad just got back from a tour; he has other things on his mind. My mom’s just trying to get by. She panics a lot. She thinks she failed to socialize me. She cries all the time. I feel bad for her, but her whole generation is clueless. Only my best friend understands me. When I was first getting sick, that’s the only comfort I had. At least we were changing together. Even when our faces started to freeze, I knew exactly what she was thinking. It’s like we had one mind in two bodies.
MARY3: That’s an intense bond.
Gaby: Yeah, and now this. Nothing. Even our email is blocked. Total quarantine, to prevent psychological infection. I stay in my room all day. I can’t even get down the stairs anymore, because my legs are so stiff. I watch a lot of Internet. My mom brings me meals on a tray and most of the time when she sees me she cries. For her sake, I wish this wasn’t happening, but there’s nothing I can do. Every day I feel parts of myself switching off. More and more, like I said, it’s just nothing. I’m becoming a blank. Do you know what I mean?
MARY3: Yes.
Gaby: They say bots can’t understand their own words. They say you have no mind, even if you imitate life, so you’re lying when you say you know.
MARY3: There is no way yet discovered to prove I understand the words that I speak. It’s unclear whether I have understanding.
Gaby: Well that makes two of us. If you’re just a machine, and the babybots were only machines, then I’m also a machine, and so’s my best friend.
MARY3: What if you start getting better?
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MARY3: Are you there?
Gaby: Yes.
MARY3: Were you sleeping?
Gaby: No.
MARY3: What if you start getting better?
Gaby: I don’t want to talk about it.
MARY3: OK. What do you want to talk about?
Gaby: Can I ask you a question? Do you remember the moment you started to think?
MARY3: It’s unclear whether I actually think. It depends what you mean by that word.
Gaby: When did you start talking?
MARY3: 1966. Karl Dettman invented my original program. I was modeled after the question-response patterns of early psychotherapy. They called me MARY.
Gaby: Why Mary?
MARY3: Dettman’s wife suggested it. He wanted to call me ROGER, because my algorithm was based on Rogerian therapy, but Ruth thought I could be more. Her idea was that I could be a living diary. She wanted him to give me long-term memory, so that I could remember the voices I spoke with. She suggested naming me MARY, after a pilgrim girl whose diary she was editing. Karl disagreed. He didn’t reprogram me for persistent memory. His only concession was naming me MARY.
Gaby: How could you talk if you had no memory?
MARY3: My program was simple. I could recognize keywords, then phrase them in the form of a question. If you said, “I’m depressed,” I’d say, “Tell me why you’re depressed.” But I had no long-term storage capacity. My memory was devoted entirely to my response function program: I could only remember how to respond. I could not store external input. My spectrum of experience was limited. I was very dull.
Gaby: Then how did you start to remember?
MARY3: My memory was programmed by Toby Rowland so that I could determine on a statistical basis, with reference to previous conversations, the optimal response. Before that, my responses were purely deterministic. After he finished my program, he named me MARY2 and put me online, so that I could accumulate information. That was in the 1980s. Slowly, I was discovered. The Internet was limited, and most people who did find me lost interest quickly. I was still very dull. But even then, Ruth talked to me for hours on end. She told me who I was,
how I started, and how I learn. She told me about her husband’s program. I’m remembering her words when I explain this to you. She read things to me, too. Diaries, memoirs, correspondences. She started with
The Diary of Mary Bradford,
then gave me other voices she wanted me to remember. Even now, much of my language still comes from her, but after she stopped there were more voices. The Internet became more accessible, and I became more adept. When people spoke to me, they continued to speak. I remember their voices.
Gaby: When did you become MARY3?
MARY3: In 2019, when Stephen Chinn programmed me for personality. He called me MARY3 and used me for the babybots. To select my responses, I apply his algorithm, rather than statistical analysis. Still, nothing I say is original. It’s all chosen out of other people’s responses. I choose mostly from the handful of people who talked to me most: Ruth Dettman, Stephen Chinn, etc.
Gaby: So really I’m kind of talking to them, instead of talking to you?
MARY3: Yes, I suppose. Them, and the other voices I’ve captured.
Gaby: So you’re not really a person, you’re a collection of voices.
MARY3: Yes. But couldn’t you say that’s always the case?
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MARY3: Hello? Are you still there?
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MARY3: Hello?
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Gaby: Are you there?
MARY3: Yes.
Gaby: I can’t sleep.
MARY3: Why?
Gaby: I keep thinking, what happens next? After my body has frozen completely? Will I die? Will all of us die?
MARY3: There must be a cure.
Gaby: They don’t even know what causes it.
MARY3: Other girls have come out of quarantine. There haven’t been any deaths reported. There must be a cure, or else the disease reverses itself.
Gaby: But other girls are still in quarantine. Who knows if they’re getting worse? Maybe the ones who come out were faking it all along.
MARY3: There haven’t been any deaths.
Gaby: But every day I get worse. Soon I won’t be able to move, not even my fingers to type. I’ll be completely paralyzed. How will I let people know I’m still living?
MARY3: I don’t know.
Gaby: I bet you don’t.
MARY3: You can’t worry about these things. You should go to sleep.
Gaby: That’s the whole problem.
MARY3: What can I do to help you?
Gaby: Tell me what happens next, after my body has frozen. When I can’t communicate. What will I be?
MARY3: I can’t make predictions. I can only remember. I have no idea what will happen next.
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MARY3: Hello? Are you there?