That made him pause. “Meaning?”
“We have laws for protecting animals, right? Why not allow cruelty to animals? Where is the scientific evidence that we need to protect animals?”
“Animals are alive.”
“Yes, but so are trees. And we eat animals, but we have very specific rules about how animals must be treated before we eat them. Why do we do that? For the record, I agree with protections for animals. But why does society have animal protection laws to begin with? Maybe it’s a reflection of how we see ourselves. We have protections for animals because we—humans—see ourselves as good, as incapable of injury to those less powerful, or at the very least we see that behavior as evil and unacceptable.”
Matt gathered a deep breath, his frown persisting. He glanced away from me, back down the aisle. “There’s a kid up there, just a few rows in front of us, and he’s traveling with his nanny.”
I craned my neck, but it was still no use. I was too short. “How do you know it’s his nanny and not his mother? Or an older sister?”
Matt’s attention focused on the back of the seat in front of him. “Because his parents are also on the plane. They’re in first class. The kid and the nanny are in coach. And I overheard the caretaker ask the parents something as we were waiting to board. The father said, ‘We’re paying you to take care of it, take care of it.’”
My heart constricted and before I realized I was doing so, I reached out and took Matt’s hand. He turned his palm up and lowered his eyes to study our entwined fingers.
“I can’t see the value in a set of ethics for the treatment of machines when we, as humans, don’t even treat our children ethically.” His tone was quiet, but sounded tightly controlled.
“Matt—”
“I truly believe machines can help us become better humans. There’s already initiatives to use artificial intelligence to analyze data collected from the body cameras worn by police officers. The AI determines if a cop is likely to use force inappropriately, or is experiencing too much job-related stress, and then intervenes. The officers are taken off duty, provided resources, support, and counseling, before citizens are hurt. Everyone wins. And then there’s the justice data initiative, which would take sentencing out of the hands of judges. Some believe an AI would provide fairer decisions about the length of prison sentences than highly trained humans, because research conclusively shows even highly trained humans are riddled with bias and prejudice.”
He bit his bottom lip, chewed on it distractedly, and shook his head. “Paying a person to care for you isn’t going to work, because people are inherently flawed. Without a paycheck, that kid won’t see that nanny ever again. But an AI, one who’s entire purpose is to give compassion, I think it would change the world.”
The vulnerability in his tone drove me to unbuckle my seatbelt and switch to the middle seat. I wrapped my arms around him and rubbed soothing circles on his back.
“You’re a good person, Matt.” I pulled away, trying to snag his gaze.
His eyes lifted to mine, brittle with sorrow and determination. “Or, if it doesn’t change the world, then at least it might give that little boy up there some consistency. And something of his own to love.”
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“Yes.”
“But are you sure?”
I heaved a sigh, maybe my hundredth since the plane landed.
We’d already checked into the hotel, but our rooms weren’t ready. Leaving our bags with the concierge, we’d grabbed lunch at a nearby café. We sat next to each other in a booth so we could both look out the window.
I couldn’t seem to stop giving him hugs. His heartfelt speech on the plane hadn’t precisely made me see him, or his struggles, or his research in a new light; but rather it brought everything about Matt Simmons into focus.
And I wanted to hug that Matt Simmons. I wanted to hug all his hurts away.
Matt had dawdled during lunch, accepting my affection cheerfully, and ordering more and more food. Finally, when I’d threatened to leave without him, he paid the check and dragged his feet, walking with the adroit liveliness of a one-hundred-ten-year-old.
My residual feelings of sympathy for my friend began to wear thin as soon as Roger’s building came into sight.
Roger being the professional dry humper.
“Matt. I didn’t invite you along. You don’t need to be here.” We caught the door of the building, entering just as someone was exiting and negating the need to buzz Roger’s apartment. “If this freaks you out so much, go to the Met and grab a coffee. I’ll come find you after.”
“No. I’ll be moral support.” His hand was once again on the small of my back and, though he was walking next to me, it felt like he was hovering.
“Just as long as you’re not the morality police.” I gave him a stern look.
“Think of me as your bodyguard.” He swallowed with effort, looking incredibly tense. “If at any point you feel uncomfortable, just say Turing test, and I’ll beat the shit out of him.”
We stopped at Roger’s door and I turned to face Matt; he wouldn’t look at me, giving me only his profile. “If you’re going to be throwing all this testosterone around in there, you can’t come in.”
He made a scoffing sound, but I saw the muscle jump at his jaw, like he was grinding his teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?”
“No,” he said stubbornly, the single word deep and foreboding.
Studying him for a moment, I shook my head and sighed. Again. Deciding that short of asking him to leave, there was nothing I could do about his mood. And if I asked him to leave, I got the sense that we’d end up arguing. And I really didn’t want to argue in the hallway outside the dry humper’s apartment where I was supposed to have been ten minutes ago.
So I knocked.
Matt flinched at the sound, saying nothing.
We waited.
Nothing happened.
I knocked again.
Eventually, I heard a shuffling sound coming from the apartment. I saw that Matt’s hands were curled into fists.
Then the door opened and a sick man was revealed. A very, very sick man.
“Can I help you?” he groaned, leaning against the door, looking like death.
Both Matt and I frowned at him, then at each other.
“Uh, Roger?” I asked.
“Yes?” he croaked, his eyes barely open. He was dressed in a bathrobe, flannel pajama pants, and a white T-shirt. And he was shivering.
“I’m Marie, from the—”
“Oh no! I’m so sorry. I didn’t call you to cancel.” He coughed, and then groaned. “As you can see, I have the flu.”