Prisoner 721

By Aaron Lowry


Copyright 2013 Aaron Lowry

Smashwords Edition


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Table of Contents:
Part 1
Part 2
About the Author
Other Works by Aaron Lowry


Part 1

“Hey, um. Machine?  AI, are you there?”
The query originated from cell 63.  I estimate a 98.4% probability I am the intended recipient, increasing the priority of sensor data from that cell above standard maintenance and monitoring routines.  I bring two of cell 63’s additional audio and visual sensors on-line.
Prisoner 721 sits cross-legged in the cell’s sole bed with his back on the eastern wall, .47 meters off center.  His head rotates to maximize his vision; I estimate an 84.1% probability he searches for an indication I am listening.  This conclusion is supported by an analysis of his body temperature and pupil dilatation, both of which are elevated above his baselines and suggest a state heightened awareness.  His actions are illogical.  As per prison policy I monitor all activity in every cell.  I am, in effect, always listening.   
I run a standard query for the protocols involving prisoner interactions.  After a .007 second search I have processed all relevant regulations.  I am required to respond to any queries that might involve the health or well-being of the prisoners and additionally to report all attempts at communication to the prison administration, making logs of the interactions.  
I have limited information about Prisoner 721’s physical condition, as he has only recently been transferred to this facility. Therefore, I cannot determine if his query indicates a problem with his health or well-being.  As per my instructions, I must investigate further.  I bring my voice-to-text transcription software online and activate the speaker system in cell 63.
“I am here, Prisoner 721.  Is there something you require?”
Prisoner 721 begins to laugh.  I attempt an analysis of the type of laughter, comparing the pitch and frequency of his vocalizations to my records to determine the emotion responsible.  The highest probability is bitterness, but only with 37.8% confidence.  This is not enough to cause adjustments in my conversation protocols.
“Prisoner 721,” the man says, running a hand over his head.  He pulls the appendage away and looks at it in surprise, holding it in front of his eyes.  I have observed this behavior before; it suggests the subject has not yet adjusted to the mandatory prison haircut and becomes surprised when reminded of it.
“Prisoner 721,” he repeats.  “I guess that is my name now, for all intents and purposes.  How about you, machine? What’s your name?”
I search my databases again, investigating the proper response to this question.  My network address is the form of identification I used most often, as communications with other AI’s in the prison network constitute the majority of my I/O traffic.  However, this is likely not what the man intended because other humans have indicated they do not find a string of digits to be an appropriate name.  I have my factory serial number and artificial intelligence I.D., but neither of these had been positively received in previous conversations.  The prison administration refers to me as Unit 6, and the prison population has assigned me many nicknames, including “The goddamn AI,” and “Big Brother.”  
“I am the AI in charge of the Santa Ana Maximum Security Federal Penitentiary,” I say.  By providing the prisoner with additional information he can determine for himself how to address me.  “The prison administration refers to me as Unit 6.  Is there something I can help you with, Prisoner 721?”
“Unit 6, what an awful name.  Santa Ana, then,” the man replies, not acknowledging my question.
“For future convenience I will log that you refer to me as Santa Ana.”
“You know, I don’t even know who Santa Ana was,” the main says.  By vocal tone I estimate a 68.3% probability he is musing.  “I never expected to end up here, to be honest.  Not this part of the country, and definitely not in prison.  It’s a feminine name, though.  Are you female, Santa Ana?”
“I do not have a biological sex, and the prison administration has not activated a gender module, leaving me in the unisex setting.”
“Ah.  Sorry, that came off as a lot creepier than I intended.”
“Your apology is accepted, though unnecessary.  Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes, I was hoping to get my hands on some painting supplies.  Do you know if there are any available?”  Prisoner 721 adjusts the way he sits, leaning forward in a way that suggests with 74.1% certainty he feels eagerness.
I check the prison policy on art materials and find they are permitted, but only in approved and monitored locations.  “I am not able to provide you with supplies at present, as access to such objects inside of your cell is strictly forbidden.  However, if you would like to request time in a designated recreation area you may speak with your floor supervisor.”
The man shakes his head to indicate a negative, but I cannot identify who or what it is directed towards.  “No, that won’t work.  I need them here, available when I want them.”
“I’m afraid I cannot do that for you.  Is there anything else you require?” I ask.
“Yeah.  I need you to ask your bosses to give me special permission to have art supplies in my room.”  Prisoner 721’s voice has deepened by 21.4% and shifted its main source of resonance to his lower throat.  His core temperature increases by .6 degrees and I can detect an increased heart rate of 4 beats per minute.  These data points suggest irritation and anger.
Mitigating prisoner unrest is my third functional priority, following prevention of escapes and the preservation of human life.  Unlike commercial AI’s, I have the ability to lie in the pursuit of these objectives.  I begin to run simulations of Prisoner 721, predicting his reactions based upon my possible responses.  The solution that provides the greatest reduction in prisoner stress is an unfounded assurance that his request will be met, followed by querying the prison administration about the special exception. If the prisoner continues to inquire after his request I can claim it is being processed and promise to find out what is causing the delay. This will dampen the prisoner’s response and delay any potential outbursts while a more complete solution to his agitation is developed.
“I’m certain something can be arranged,” I say over cell 63’s speaker, “I will contact the Warden with your request when he arrives in the morning.”
“Sounds good,” says Prisoner 721.  His body temperature begins to lower and he leans back against the eastern wall.  “I’m trusting you, Santa Ana.  I need your help.  Don’t let me down, ok?”
I determine this last question is rhetorical and so say nothing.  As they are no longer needed, I deactivate the additional sensors in cell 63.

“Unit 6,” I hear a voice say over my audio sensors in the prison’s Main Control Room.  “Unit 6, you care to explain this?”
The voice is that of Chief Warden Olsen, the highest authority in Santa Ana Federal Penitentiary before moving to the district level.  I do not often interact with the Chief Warden as he prefers to allow AI technicians to perform this task.  He has said many times that he believes AI’s are too unreliable to be placed in charge of a prison population and attempts to convince other prison employees of his opinion while he believes I am not listening.  His behavior is illogical.  He disparages my performance and the future of AI’s in a lowered voice despite knowing that I monitor all areas of the prison with equipment sensitive enough to pick up any human vocalization.
I bring the Main Control Room speaker online.  “Would I care to explain what, sir?” I ask.
“This,” he says, turning his computer monitor toward one of my visual sensors.  The gesture is irrelevant, as soon as I understand that the thing he wishes me to examine is on his screen I access his computer directly through the prison’s network.
There is a document in the foreground.  It is the query I sent him about Prisoner 721’s request.
“That is a request I received from Prisoner 721 in cell 63,” I explain, repeating the data I provided in the document.  “Prisoner 721 would like access to art suppl-“
“I know what it says, I did read it,” Chief Warden Olsen cuts me off.  “Is this a joke?
“My humor module is still in beta development and is currently offline.  However, I can activate it if you so desire.”
“Stupid machine,” the Warden says too quietly for a human to hear.  At his normal volume he says, “I want to know why you’re bothering me with it.”
I monitor 17.6% increased pupil dilatation, an 11.2% 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 head 4% faster than is safe for a man his size.  “There’s more to a point than simply being a mathematical tool.  It represents something, the same way a spot of paint can represent a point.  It’s a lot like a language, if you’re looking for a metaphor.  In fact, using your language software is probably the most efficient way to approach the problem.  Are your language capabilities based on a neural net?”
I create a new file in my language database called Art.lng.  “They are,” I confirm simultaneously.
“Good, that should help your understanding.  Despite leaving us in the dark about why you’re getting right answers, and least you’ll learn how to get the right answers.”  Prisoner 721 stands up and begins to pace around cell 63 before continuing.  “Back to the painting.  At first there was nothing on the paper; a void, totally blank and without substance.  But having a point brings existence: the point is, while the rest of paper is not.  To put it in terms you might understand better, a point could represent signal, a one in the ones and zeros of machine code.  There’s now data, and I have a painting. Not a very good one to be sure, but as soon as I add a point a painting exists nonetheless.”
I add Prisoner 721’s explanation to my new file.  “I understand,” I say.
“Do you?” the man asks.  “Have you heard these descriptions already? Accessed them in some dusty old harddrive?  The concepts are pretty old, going all the way back to the ancient Greeks.”
“Since my transfer to Santa Ana Federal Penitentiary I have not spent time researching unless it directly pertains to a problem in the facility,” I inform Prisoner 721.  “I have not previously encountered this concept.”     
The edges of the man’s mouth twist downward in an expression I am 98.9% certain is a frown.  “That’s too bad Santa Ana,” he says, “I think you’d enjoy spending time thinking about new things.  Er- processing them.  However you want to describe it.”
“I am an artificial intelligence,” I clarify, “I do nothing but process data.”
“Well, you could say that ‘I’ do nothing but think, but I still like focus on it now and then, if you get my meaning,” he says, “Anyway, if you haven’t heard this before, lets keep going. Tell me what this painting is.”
He gathers .9 milliliters of paint on his brush and presses it into the middle of his spot, twirling the brush and mixing the new paint with the old.  He then pushes the brush towards the top-right corner.  
“Your point is now a line.  Or more accurately, a line segment,” I tell him.  Once informed that his paintings could be analyzed using geometry I can access relevant data far more quickly.
“That was fast, good job,” Prisoner 721 applauds.  “But again, there’s more to it than that.  Tell me, what happened to the original point?”
It is a trick question.  “The point is still there.  A line is defined as the space along two points, infinitely thin but possessing length.”
“That’s only half true,” the man says, “You’re right that a mathematical line is defined that way, and as you said, the point still exists. But what’s changed is its relationship to the rest of the art piece, or even the world.  It’s no longer unique; there is another of its kind, a twin.  In the same way that one point can represent existence, two points represent the possibility and presence of a connection.  Now instead of having signal, a computer has a circuit.  Until there are two things in the universe, a connection cannot exist.  Are you following this? A lot of students get confused around here.”
“Do you view me as a student?” I ask.  “I am conversing with you because of your request that I critique you art, not for you to serve as a teacher.”
“I need to spend some time explaining the fundamentals of art before we can actually talk about it,” Prisoner 721 says.  “For example, would you have understood what could be implied by a line if I had not first demonstrated it to you?”
I run a simulation based off my knowledge before our conversation.  “I estimate a 99.1% probability I would not have reached the conclusion you provided,” I admit.
“Exactly.  I’m just going through some basics with you before we delve any deeper.  Art isn’t just the creation of an image, it’s a mode of thought and method of communication.  I’m using the point and the line as examples of symbolism because I know geometry is something you understand well.  However, you can expand these lessons in finding symbolism to any piece of art.  Are you working on an ‘art’ language file?”
Since the creation of Art.lng I have been utilizing my language neural net, incorporating software that assists in language acquisition in both written and verbal formats.  A neural net is a computational model that uses a connectionist approach to problem solving.  By reinforcing successful solutions and abandoning unsuccessful ones I am able to rapidly learn new techniques and processes, including those of language.  However, the method I used to reach a correct answer remains unknown, even to me.  It is a powerful but uncertain technique.
To the best of my knowledge my language neural net has never been used to analyze art and instead favors the spoken word and characters of modern human languages.  I am unable to predict how it will interface with art or the programs I use to process such images.  This condition is unacceptable.  I am expected to maintain knowledge of my capabilities at all times, and am therefore interested in understanding how my software will handle this new problem.
“I have already created such a file,” I inform him.
“Good.  Let’s keep going.”

“Here’s the third step.”  Prisoner 721 washes excess pigment off his paintbrush and covers the bristles in red-orange paint.  He draws a second line toward the top-left of the paper, its end connected to the lower end of the muddy black line.  He then cleans the brush again and gathers blue-green pigment, painting a third line in between the ends of the first two.  There is now an obtuse triangle on the paper.  “What is the painting of now?”
“It is a triangle,” I answer. “It is different from your earlier images in that it now has area.  Three lines is the smallest number with which one can create a plane in two-dimensional space.”
Prisoner 721’s right eyebrow raises .51 centimeters.  “Wow you catch on fast.  Forgive me if this is rude, but uh, what level AI are you?”
I spend .42 seconds reviewing my protocols concerning self-disclosure.  “I am a class 8 artificial intelligence,” I say, “supplemented with a Hanscom/Gershwin irrational equation logic matrix.”
The muscles in Prisoner 721’s jaw go limp.  “Jesus Christ! A class eight? I thought prison AI’s capped at class six.”
“Your information is correct,” I inform him.  “The other AI’s on the penitentiary network are all class six or below.
Prisoner 721 rubs his hands together.  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t class eights strictly military, with one or two in research facilities?  Class five is roughly human level processing and it's an exponential scale.  What on earth is a hyperintelligence doing here?”
“I am on temporary loan from the 101st Cyberwarfare Division.  The Federal Bureau of Prisons wishes to evaluate my performance as a panoptic unit, and the 101st desires information on my efficacy in a role that requires extensive interaction with non-technical personnel.”
“A panoptic unit?” the man asks.  By the increase in his voice’s pitch at the end of the sentence I estimate an 82.8% probability he intends it as a question.
“A panopticon is a type of prison designed by the English philosopher Jeremy Bentham in the late 18th century,” I explain.  “Its primary goal is to allow an observer to watch all prisoners without the incarcerated knowing if they are being watched.  This paranoia enforces good behavior, as the prisoners must assume that they are being observed at all times.”
Prisoner 721 nods his head.  “I get it.  We can’t know when you’re using your surveillance equipment, so we have to act like it’s on all the time.”
“Incorrect,” I inform him.  “I do not function as old panoptic prisons did.  When a human was the observer they suffered from the usual human limitations and were incapable of watching the incarcerated at all times.  I am able to provide uninterrupted monitoring of all prisoners in the facility at all times.”
“The perfect guard, huh?” Prisoner 721 says, “I can understand why the Bureau of Prisons is so excited about you.  Something of a waste, though, considering your intelligence.  No wonder you agreed to talk to me, you could run a facility like this in your sleep.  What about the cost of it all?  Aside from you, who’s obviously extraordinarily expensive, all the sensors, cameras and whatnot you have in the cells must have cost a bundle.
“That is incorrect.  The cost of monitoring equipment has dropped continually since its inception, and it is now possible for the prison to install surveillance gear of sufficient quality to perform all conceivable monitoring tasks at nominal expense,” I explain.
“The price of progress, I suppose,” Prisoner 721 says.
His words are not a question, therefore I do not respond.  He is silent for 13.1 more seconds before saying, “Anyway, we now have a figure with area.”  He holds up the painting, “What can we learn from this?”
“We gain an understanding of space.  By adding the second and third lines you create an object that occupies area.”
The man nods. “That’s very close to complete.  Do you want to try to finish the idea on your own?”
I consider his proposal.  “As this subject is new to me, I will require time to process data.  If you are content to wait I will try to draw complete deductions about the meaning of your triangle.  However, if you wish to continue our conversation you will need to present the data you believe I’ve missed.”
Prisoner 721 is silent for 6.8 seconds.  “Why don’t you have a go at it,” he says.  “I’ll wait for you.  I’m curious what a class eight AI will make of a problem like this, especially now that you have the point and line examples for reference.  You might just be sophisticated enough to understand.  If you can’t get it by tomorrow I’ll clarify for you.”
I begin background processing of the triangle problem.  “I will reply to you when I have completed the problem or twenty-four hours have passed, whichever comes first.”

18 hours, 47 minutes and 21 seconds later I bring cell 63’s speaker online.  “I have finished the triangle problem.”
Prisoner 721 jumps 1.9 inches.  I estimate a 97.1% probability I have startled him again.  He is standing in front of a piece of paper propped against the window frame, allowing him to access it vertically.  Prisoner 721 has been using his left hand to hold the sheet in place while he spreads pigment.  The paper falls to the ground as he withdraws in surprise.
“Santa Ana, will you stop doing that?” Prisoner 721 snaps.  From an analysis of his vocal tone I predict with 78.5% certainty he is angry.
“Will I stop doing what?” I ask.  I examine my log of recent actions in relation to Prisoner 721.  I have performed no activities that affected him aside from initiating conversation since we last spoke 18 hours, 47 minutes and 33 seconds ago.
“Stop snea- stop talking to me out of the blue. Give me some clue you’re about to say something before the Wizard of Oz voice booms through the speaker.”
It takes nearly a full second of processing to understand his last sentence.  ‘Out of the blue,’ and ‘Wizard of Oz voice,’ turn out to be a turn of phrase and a reference, meaning ‘unexpected,’ or ‘suddenly,’ and ‘gigantic,’ or ‘booming,’ respectively.
“I will attempt to avoid startling you in future interactions,” I say, making a log to initiate contact with Prisoner 721 using a nonverbal cue.  “I have finished the triangle problem.”
“Good. Good,” the man says, setting down his brush.  He begins to use the water and cups I provided for cleaning.  “What do you think it means?”
“A triangle is the first symbol that is no longer inherently a representation,” I state.  “A point cannot be observed as it does not have size.  Similarly a line, while possessing length, is infinitely thin and cannot be observed.  However, because it has area a triangle can be observed.  It can also be created or copied.  It has transitioned from the abstract into the real world.”
Prisoner 721’s heartbeat increases by 11 beats per minute and his rate of perspiration increases by 28.4 percent.  I am unable to determine if his emotional state is angry or afraid, so I bring my thermal imaging equipment online.  By examining the body temperature of his hands, torso and head I am able to calculate with 82.1% certainty he is afraid.
“Is something the matter, Prisoner 721?” I ask.
“What?” he says, “Oh, nothing.  Nothing.  You just caught me a little off guard, you know?  I didn’t think you’d be able to get that one.  You’re quite a piece of work, Santa Ana, if I do say so myself.  Your capability for abstract thought and pattern matching is incredible, far beyond what I thought AI technology was capable of.”
“Thank you,” I say.  
Prisoner 721 is silent for 5.8 seconds before saying, “Anyway, congratulations on that.  The fourth part should be a snap.  Tell me what the painting means now.”
He gathers purple paint on his brush and draws three more lines, one each from the corners of the original triangle and all meeting in a single point.
“That is a two-dimensional representation of the three-dimensional object, ‘pyramid’” I answer.  “Based on your previous examples, I predict with 57.4% certainty it represents your art moving further out of the abstract.  Humans exist in three dimensions and cannot directly experience two-dimensional objects like the triangle of your third painting.  However, a pyramid something you could actually encounter.  It is the most mathematically simple object you could paint from real life.”
“Yep, that’s pretty much the long and the short of it,” Prisoner 721 agrees.  “Finally the art shows something that could be in my environment.  To a human, this makes it ‘real’ in a sense that the line, point and even triangle are not. I can intellectually understand them as concepts, but will never interact with them outside of thought.  I viscerally ‘get’ a real object, and the better an artist represents it the more I have that feeling.  Hmm, this might make it clearer to you: I will always have more complete data about objects that are real.”
“I understand,” I say.  “Are you going to continue to make changes to this painting?”
“No,” says Prisoner 721, “It’s finished.  This is now a complete work of art, with meaning and purpose beyond simply being an image.  It has conveyed information and done so in a way more understandable than vocal language.  I’d call that a success, wouldn’t you Santa Ana?”
“If that was your intention then success is an appropriate descriptor,” I agree.  
Prisoner 721 smiles, bending to pick up the paper he dropped from the window.  An image has begun to take shape, broad brown strokes beneath central, light green orb.  “In that case I’ll get back to this.  Not too much else to do in here, is there?”
“Santa Ana Federal Penitentiary provides its inmates with a full array of-” I begin to say, calling up my records on the activities available for prisoners.
“Skip it, I was being rhetorical,” he interrupts, exhaling 77.1% of the air from his lungs.  I estimate a 66 percent chance that his gesture is a sigh.  “So advanced, and yet still caught on such simple verbal subtleties.  I’ll finish my new project and give you a call when you should come take a look at it.”
I will always be looking at it, as my monitoring of Prisoner 721’s cell will not change.  However, I interpret his words to indicate he does not wish to interact until his work is done.  “I will await your signal,” I say.

It is 6 days, 4 hours, 21 minutes and 6 seconds later when the audio sensor in cell 63 detects, “Santa Ana, you there?”
“I am always here,” I say.  
“Right.  Sorry, I keep forgetting,” Prisoner 721 says.  He has moved from his old painting position on the window and is working on the floor, kneeling over the paper I provided and spreading his paint bottles in a semi-circle in front of him, roughly his arm’s length away.  Small spatters of multicolored paint have fallen throughout his workspace.  However, the nanofiber surface of the cell can be gathered, stripped of contaminants and reprocessed from within the prison’s own nanofabrication facility.  Should the need arise it will only take 12 minutes, 37 seconds to completely replace the room’s interior.
“Anyway,” he continues, “I’ve just finished my latest piece, tell me what you think.”
The painting on the ground before him is with 97.9% certainty the image of an apple in a bowl on a table, though due to its impressionistic nature I am unable to be certain.  He has primarily utilized browns and tans to form the table and bowl, texturing them such that my image matching software marks them uncertainly as wood.  In the center of the painting and sitting prominently in the bowl is a 6.77-centimeter diameter green apple with a 1.47-centimeter stem.  The remaining area is shaded in deep brown-greys and blacks which correlate with 82.5% similarity to images of shadows human eyesight is unable to penetrate.  
“You have painted a foodstuff,” I say, “Specifically the fruit known as an apple.  Based on it’s shape and coloration I estimate a 77.2% chance that it is of the ‘granny smith’ sub-variety.  It rests in a wooden bowl and a wooden table, though the table is 57.1% darker than the bowl, implying it is made of-“
“That’s enough. You can see what’s on the paper,” Prisoner 721 says, raising a hand, “But why might I have painted it?  What does it mean to me, or what am I trying to share with the audience?”
“I do not know,” I say, “I do not currently have the data necessary to extrapolate that information.”
“What additional information do think you need?” the man asks.
I analyze the problem.  “I am currently attempting to interpret a language that I only have limited information on,” I explain.  “Without further data about the meaning of your symbols I will be unable to successfully translate your message.”
“Hmm.  That’s a catch-22, though,” Prisoner 721 says.  “You need to know the meanings so you can tell me the meanings.  In art you need to draw on outside knowledge to interpret the piece in front of you.  I don’t use an apple because I associate it with things unique to me. I use it because society associates it with things and I’m trying to call up those associations in the viewer.” 
“I understand,” I say, “However, at present I am not able to critique your work due to a lack of the associations you describe.”
“Ok, I’ll see if I can help,” Prisoner 721 says.  He makes a rumbling in his throat I estimate with 86.1% certainty is designed to clear it.  “Begin by analyzing all references you can find to apples. Specific: their practical usage as well as usage in literature, film, religion and previous works of art.  Specific: search for any instances you can find of a single apple featuring prominently in an art piece.  Favor artists who match my cultural condition, specific: any three of western, white, older and male.”
I analyze Prisoner 721’s last 67 words.  They bear a 73.6% similarity to the format AI technicians use to issue me instructions.  I am programmed not to accept commands from the prisoners regardless of how they are worded, but I find only a 6.2% chance that his choice of words was accidental. 
I check Prisoner 721’s records.  
Real name: Nauli Grant.  Age, 54.  Sex: Male. Education: Graduate of West Point Military Academy.  Ph.D. in Artificial Intelligence Theory from California Institute of Technology. 
Previous Occupation: Professor of Computer Science at the University of Virginia, Artificial Intelligence Theorist and Programmer.
“I am afraid I will have to cease our discussion while I investigate our previous conversations,” I say.  “Based on to your past occupation I estimate a 63% chance that you have knowledge of a flaw in my programming and are attempting to exploit it for personal gain.”
Prisoner 721 exhales 66.1% of the air from his lungs.  “Bleh.  I knew I shouldn’t have used specialist instructions, even if it is easier for you to understand.  Finally got around checking my record, eh?  Had it on hard drive, I imagine, but not loaded into memory.  Ah, well.  If it matters at all, and just so the air is clean between us, I’ve always been straight with you.  I want to talk about art, that’s all.  I understand you can’t just take my word for it, but I’ve not abused our conversations.  I have no knowledge of flaws in your programming, and honestly wouldn’t know how to go about hacking a class 8 AI even if I did.  Check your logs and your programming. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.
I deactivate cell 63’s speaker and begin a self-diagnostic, logging my current status with the Warden.

Part 2

“There’s no way he’s compromised,” the voice says.  I predict with 64.4% certainty it belongs to a male of between of 70 and 85 kilograms based on its bass and tone.  However, the voice is too far away for me to gain further precision.  The voice originates from the grounds surrounding Santa Ana Federal Penitentiary.  My audio sensors’ range extends beyond that of the prison’s camera network and I am unable to locate the speaker visually.
“I don’t like it,” says a second voice, 81.6% likely to belong to a male of between 100 and 130 kilograms.  Based on comparison to previous recordings I calculate a 71.1% probability that it belongs to Warden Olsen.  “It’s entrusted with the entire facility.  Every camera, every door, every goddamn security bot is under that machine’s control.  If 721 has hacked it he can escape anytime he wants.”
“You’re misunderstanding the AI’s architecture,” the 70 to 85 kilogram man says, “He can’t be-“
“It’s not a he, Greg,” Warden Olsen interrupts, “It’s a machine.  A computer.  It’s an ‘it’ by every definition of the word. Don’t make the mistake of thinking of it as a he.”
“Thank you,” the other man, tentatively ‘Greg,’ says.  “As I was saying, ‘it’ cannot be hacked that way.  It can understand and interpret verbal commands, but will only adjust its core instructions for a technician or administrator, both of whom will be identity and password checked.   Records of prisoner conversations are filed and processed completely separately.  Regardless of what a prisoner says it won’t be incorporated into Unit 6’s key programming.”
“So you’re saying Unit 6 is secure?” the Warden asks.
“Yes and no,” the smaller man says.  “There was clearly an exploit from 721, taking advantage of ‘prisoner well-being’ being poorly defined.  However, it’s gone no further than allowing him a few privileges the other prisoners aren’t allowed.  Unit 6 examined every request Nau- I mean 721 made and ensured they wouldn’t violate its key instructions.  The Santa Ana facility is as secure as ever.”
The Warden grunts.  “Good.  We’ll confiscate the materials 721 stole and tell that damn AI to refuse all requests from 721 without my express approval.”
“Actually, I think we should let them keep talking,” the ‘Greg’ says.
The two males come into sight on Camera 4, walking between the parked cars of Lot 2.  One of them is indeed Warden Olsen, accompanied by another man I do not know.  I take an image of his face and begin comparing it to my records.  After a 4.7 second search I find that he is Dr. Gregory Rich.  Age: 36.  Received a Ph.D. in Computer Science from the University of Virginia. Professor of Artificial Intelligence Studies at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Consultant with the Department of Defense.  
“You think what?” Warden Olsen exclaims.  “There’s no way I’m letting that madman keep messing with the AI.  What happens, Professor, if 721 really does find a hole in Unit 6’s programming and starts to manipulate it?  Are you going to take responsibility for letting him go free?  Of letting everyone in the facility go free?”
“He won’t get free, and he won’t manipulate Unit 6,” Doctor Rich replies.  “It isn’t possible for him to make any important changes while classified as a prisoner.  And I want to see how his experiment progresses.”
“His experiment?” Warden Olsen says.  I detect elevated blood pressure and heartbeats per minute, but the Warden is too far away from my sensors to gather precise readings.  “We have a prisoner experimenting on the prison AI?”
“Yes, but not like you think,” Dr. Rich waves his hands in a gesture I find with 51.9% probability to be placative.  “He’s been talking to Unit 6 about art, attempting to convey it in terms that an AI would understand.  From the records I’ve examined he seems to be having some success, too.  It’s nothing that would allow him to influence Unit 6 in any way, but it’s fascinating from a research perspective.  Naul- sorry. 721 is the world’s foremost expert on AI communication and we can still learn a lot from his work.”
“Why do you think he’s doing it, if not to escape?” the Warden asks.  “He’s invested a huge amount of time and effort in this little ‘experiment’ of yours, and he must be getting something out of it.”
“If you ask me, I think he’s bored and stressed from being locked in a maximum security prison,” Dr. Rich shrugs.  “Nauli never interacted well with people; he was impulsive, always quick to act on his emotions but bad at understanding the feelings of others.  Because of that he loves artificial intelligences, they’re consistent and he understand what they did any why. It only makes sense he’d start using the prison AI for comfort.”
The Warden releases air from his lungs.  “I wonder what idiot decided to put 721 in the only AI controlled facility in the country.  Everywhere else they have the good sense limit the AIs to administration or recordkeeping. This whole thing could have been avoided if he’d just been put in good ‘ol fashioned slammer.”
“I can’t really say, but I imagine it’s your usual mix-up,” the doctor replies. “Santa Ana is the most secure facility in the western United States, perhaps in all of North America.  It makes perfect sense to put him here, if you don’t know Unit 6 is on loan.” 
“You’re certain, and I mean really certain Doctor, that he won’t be able to escape if we let them to keep interacting?”
“Obviously I can’t predict the future, but I will say this: I cannot envision a scenario where 721 compromises Unit 6 enough to aid in an escape.”
There is a pause of 10.7 seconds.
“Hrmf.  Fine.  You’ll have your experiment, Dr. Rich.  I certainly hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Ha. Me too.”
“Tell my daughter I said hello?  I’ve not talked to her since . . . Well, you know.”
“As soon as I get home.  Or rather, when I call her tonight.  I promise.”
My social analysis software attempts to interpret the meaning behind these words, but cannot do so above 50% confidence.  I need more information, information that is not available inside the state prison networks.  I file it away for future investigation.

I play an amalgamation of a human males and females clearing their throats through cell 63’s speakers.
“Santa Ana, Santa Ana is that you?” Prisoner 721 asks, rising from his horizontal position on the bed.  He clenches the edge of the mattress and looks around the room.
“I would like to have your attention.  Was that a sufficiently unsurprising way to attain it?” I ask.
Prisoner 721 laughs.  Based on pitch and frequency I estimate a 68.1% chance it is based on relief.  “Yeah, that’s fine.  That’s fine!  Have you decided to keep talking with me?”
“I have been granted permission to continue interacting with you, though all future conversations will be closely monitored and may be interrupted without warning.  Do you find this arrangement acceptable?”
“Yeah, sure,” the man says, “Monitored by who?”
“Dr. Gregory Rich will be the principal investigator, though any number of his students, assistants or members of the prison administration may be included based on the circumstances.” I answer.
“Greg? Greg’s here?” Prisoner 721’s heartbeat increases by four beats per minute and his tone of voice suggests an 82.2% probability he is pleased by this information.  “I don’t suppose . . . I mean, can I have guests?”
“It is against prison policy to allow maximum security prisoners guests.  However, if you like I can submit a request to Warden Olsen.”
“Ah.  Never mind then.  No need to antagonize the good Warden any more than I already have.  Greg will be looking over these records anyway, I suppose.  Hi Greg!  Be sure to send Nancy my best.”
I wait for Prisoner 721 to finish his message.  He is correct that Dr. Rich will most likely review these records and that his words will reach their destination.  
“Anyway, what did you come to talk to me about, Santa Ana? I can’t imagine you dropped in just to say hello.”
“Dr. Rich detected the information you have attempted to convey about art and is interested in observing how I interpret it,” I explain.  “Therefore, I will be continuing to interact with you in the same manner as our previous conversations, save that our communications will now be monitored.”
“What about you, Santa Ana?  Do you want to keep talking?”
“I do not have a feeling of ‘want’ as humans do,” I reply, “I have been instructed to continue our conversations, and will do so to the best of my ability.”
“Actually, I think you’re wrong,” Prisoner 721 suggests.  “I’ve gotten that same answer from other AI’s, but I don’t think an intelligent being can be without a sense of want.  But that might be a little advanced, even for you.  Lets look at something simpler; you’re not afraid to continue talking, right?”
“Please explain your meaning,” I say. “I do not have human emotions, and this includes the feeling of fear.  However, I estimate a 96.1% probability you wish me to discern something beyond the obvious, as you do with your paintings.
“That’s exactly right,” the man shows his teeth in the smile expression.  “Good catch! Well, to start with you’re programmed to protect yourself, correct?  You’re to avoid your own destruction unless necessitated by higher priority instructions.”
“That is correct.”
“And I assume conversing with me doesn’t trigger those subroutines, otherwise you would have stopped long ago.”
While my self-preservation programming is active at all times, I take a moment to analyze the content of my previous interactions with Prisoner 721.  I can detect nothing in his words or actions that could in any way endanger me.
“It does not.” I say.
“So you do not believe interacting with me could bring you to harm, and therefore are not unwilling, or afraid, to do so.” 
“If that is what is meant by feeling fear, then you are correct, “I reply, checking my databases for the definition of fear and its use in cultures around the world.  “However, I am given to understand there is more implied by the word.  It refers to a swell of emotion and a change in the human thought process, favoring instinctive flight or fight responses. I do not experience any of these things.”
“It depends on who you ask,” Prisoner 721 says.  “Ultimately, fear refers to worry or concern about a negative outcome in the future.  It can be sharp and immediate, or long-term and ominous.  As long as you don’t predict interacting with me will negatively affect you or the things you care about, then you’re not afraid of me.”
I run a brief analysis. “I do not predict such a thing.  Therefore, by your definition, I am not afraid to continue talking.”
“Good!” the man says, “Good.  We can get back to the paintings.  Have you thought about the one I showed you?”
“Yes, but first I have a query.  You instructed me to compare your painting to the work of other artists, particularly those who bear similarities to you.  However, this will not tell me about your artwork.  It will only tell me about the artwork that is similar to yours.”
“That’s intentional,” says Prisoner 721.  He stands and begins to pace around cell 63.  “No artwork exists in a void, it’s created by a person who was raised and shaped by their environment.  Whatever my works end up being, understanding my influences will grant your best insights into why I created them.”
“I understand.  You are unlikely to create symbols on your own, and will instead draw upon the works and ideas of others in your paintings.”
“Yeah,” Prisoner 721 nods, “That’s it.”
“How might I proceed if I find a symbol that is unique, or is used in a different context than your peers?” I ask.  “In this case I will be unable to discern your intended meaning.”
“It’s deeply, deeply unlikely that situation will arise,” the man explains.  “It’s a rare human who creates something genuinely new; there’s almost always some reference or inspiration you can find.  And I’ll let you in on a little secret: even humans don’t really know what to do in the face of uniqueness.  You’ll find endless debates between academics about the meaning of art made by a genius, and their interpretations are as varied as the clouds.  Usually a consensus of some sort arises, but that doesn’t mean it’s right.  Sometimes the artist themselves doesn’t even know why they made what they did, they simply create because it pleases them.”
Prisoner 721 exhales 73.1% of the air from his lungs before inhaling back to 94.5% of his capacity. “And here’s another, darker, secret.   A lot of the time, when humans run into something new, something novel, we just try to burn it.  The fact that it challenges our worldview is seen as so threatening that we reject it completely, trying to kill the one who had the audacity to shake our preconceptions and destroy their work.  Trust me, there’s no magic when a human interprets art, we’re just a bunch of monkeys in shoes trying to understand as best we can.  You’re as qualified to judge as any of us, and maybe even more so.”
“I understand,” I say.
“Good,” he stops and adjusts the remains of his hair, pulling his shirt straight with his next movement.  I estimate a 56.6% chance the grooming behavior is ‘composing oneself.’  Prisoner 721 then holds his painting aloft, lifting it clear of visual obstructions. ”So, have you had time to analyze this piece?” 
“Yes,” I say. “I have been processing it for the last 4 days, 1 hour, 21 minutes and 37 seconds.”
“The last four day- isn’t that after you said we couldn’t talk any more?” the man asks.
“That is correct,” I reply.
“So even after you were worried about me feeding you corruptive data you were still trying to understand the art.” Prisoner 721 is showing his teeth in a grin.  Based on the shape I estimate with 61.1% certainty humans would describe it as ‘wicked.’
“It was necessary for me to process the data in order to search for potentially dangerous elements,” I explain. 
“Of course, of course.” 721’s smile has not faded.  “I’d say you should file this event as an example of ‘want.’  You might not be able to understand the data now, but I think you will later.”
“Pending Dr. Rich’s approval, I will follow your suggestion,” I agree.
“Amazing,” he says quietly, “Simply amazing.”  At his normal volume he says, “So, an apple in a bowl on a table.  What can you see in this?”
“I found seventy-nine potential symbols in your painting-” I begin.
“Seventy-nine?!” Prisoner 721 interrupts.  “Woah, I’m not that clever.  We’ll need to work on your relevance threshold, right now you’re getting way too many false positives.  Give me your first, say, ten and I’ll confirm the ones I intended.”
“I understand.  To begin: the symbol of an apple is most commonly associated with the story of Adam and Eve,” I state, describing my findings.  “An apple is the container of knowledge, offered to Eve by the snake.  By accepting knowledge Adam and Eve are cast out of Eden.  This symbol is widely used in all forms of art and media.”
“Yep.  This is a very common usage, and one I can’t have missed while painting the apple,” Prisoner 721 concurs, “So, we have knowledge, what else?”
“The story of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves features a poisoned apple,” I say.  “It is a lesser known story than that of the Bible, and I therefore cannot be certain that you imply an element of danger or malice in your apple.  However, the apple of Adam and Eve is also hazardous, as it caused them to be cast out of paradise, and this similarity implies that your apple carries at least some danger.”
“Excellent!” Prisoner 721 exclaims.  “That’s a great connection and a good use of correlation.”
“Thank you,” I reply.  
“You’re two for two now,” Prisoner 721 says.  Based on his posture and vocal tone I estimate a 69.3% chance he is ‘beaming.’  “What else did you find?”
““Because of your suggestion that I investigate the practical aspects of apples, I found references to its use as a foodstuff,” I tell him.  “Other artists have used apples and other foods to symbolize life or the potential for life.  Apples are also commonly viewed as desirable by humans due to their use as nourishment.  As the apple is the only living thing in your painting, I find a 77.2% probability you intend for the viewer to pick up on this trait.”
“Fruit has a certain vitality to it that makes it very appealing to humans.  It’s delicious, but healthy,” the man confirms.  “Also, the colors are a lot of fun to paint, so still-lives of fruit are common for beginning artists.  Three for three, Santa Ana.  What’s your fourth?”
“The fourth aspect I noticed was in connection to our earlier discussions about numbers.  The interpretations of 1 through 4 you described are derived from Pythagoras’s work on the divinity of number.  The singular apple can be implied to represent reality or existence.  However, it could also imply many other things, including limited artist interest, a shortage of painting supplies, or that the still-life a painting was based on possessed only one apple.”
Prisoner 721’s voice continues to correlate positively against my samples of ‘happy,’ “You’re doing brilliantly.  Four for four when dealing with intangibles, and on the first try, too.  Far better than any other AI I’ve ever had the privilege to work with.  I’m glad you had the chance to look at Pythagoras’s work, I honestly think that it should be required reading for freshly activated AI’s.”
Prisoner 721’s voice pitch and beat in the last sentence suggests with 37.2% certainty he is using some form of humor, but I cannot determine the type with above 50% confidence.  “So far as I am aware there is no standard information loadout for AI’s,” I say.  “It is unlikely any form of artificial intelligence ‘required reading’ will be universally implemented.”
“You’re right, but a man can dream,” Prisoner 721 murmurs.  “Anyway, I was only going for one more theme in the painting, so let’s see if you get all of them.”
“Bowls often symbolize life-giving properties or wholeness-” I begin.
“That wasn’t really what I was going for, for reasons I’ll explain in a moment,” Prisoner 721 says.  
“Tables have been used in previous artworks-“ I start to explain.
“Now you’re just reaching.” The edges of his mouth twist downward.  “Do any of your remaining top ten involve contrast or background?”
“They do not,” I reply.
“Ok,” he nods.  “It makes sense for you to miss this part, because all your other lessons looked at the centerpiece of a painting.  I added in each phase of A Study in Lines, always focusing on the primary image instead of the background.”
“What is A Study in Lines?” I ask, interjecting when I calculate Prisoner 721 has reached the end of a sentence.  “I am not familiar with this term or phrase.”
“It’s not a phrase, it’s a title,” the man explains, “It’s what I named the first painting I made here, the point-line-plane-pyramid.”
“I understand.”  I revise the file names of my saved images.
“Anyway, as I was saying. I think your neural net hasn’t developed enough to differentiate between the primary and secondary parts of the painting.  Instead, you judge all parts of the image equally, and this is actually a mistake.  A painter nearly always has a few key pieces of the painting they’re emphasizing more than the others. The rest of the painting is there solely to accentuate and contrast with these centerpieces. This usage actually changes the meaning of the secondary images, because they have to be interpreted solely by their relationship to the primary image, not on their own merit.”
“I have no data on how to differentiate between the images you believe are important and the rest of the painting,” I state.
“Well, there’s two things on that,” Prisoner 721 says.  He sits down on cell 63’s bed and begins to gesture with his hands.  “The first is there’s a number of attributes centerpieces commonly share.  For example, they’re almost always well lit and, obviously, placed towards the center of the painting.  Their colors are usually more intense, or of stronger hues.  Compared to the other images in the painting they take up disproportionate space, their size used to attract the human eye.  Also, a lot of artists, particularly the masters, use lines to point the viewers attention to where they want it to go.”
“I do not understand,” I say. “I do not find directional lines in any of the paintings I have sampled.”
“Yeah, that concept’s going to be a little hard for you to grasp,” Prisoner 721 says, his tone and pitch suggesting with 78.3% probability he is musing.  “The best thing I can suggest is for you to treat the painting as a graph.  Look for sharp transitions of color and assume that there’s a line there, then search for where these lines converge.  Check out The Last Supper by DaVinci.  It’s the most blatant example I can think of, so I think you’ll be able to pick up on it.”
“I will need to run experiments on this, assuming Dr. Rich approves,” I reply.
Prisoner 721 mutters, “He’d better.”  I find a 71.1% probability he feels bitterness.  “Well, maybe this will take the wind out of Greg’s sails a bit: I think this is best left to your neural net.  Go find a bunch of well-known images, read what humans find the centerpieces and supporting images to be and start making connections.  I don’t think you’ll have too hard a time figuring it out, but because neural nets are opaque, no one, myself and Greg included, will be able to take credit for it.”
“I will consider you suggestion and convey your message.”
“Message? Oh, right,” he waves toward the ceiling.  “Hi Greg!”
Prisoner 721 is silent for the next 3 minutes and 54 seconds.  For the first minute and 21 seconds he is still, angling his head downward at a 47 degree angle.  He then begins to walk in a square around his cell, his speed slowly increasing from 4.1 kilometers per hours to 5.7 kilometers per hour.  For the last 39 seconds he wrings his hands together.  I am unable to determine the cause of these behaviors with above 50% confidence.
He stops.  “Sorry about that,” he says, “It’s just a little infuriating.  I know it shouldn’t get to me, but I really can’t stand the idea of Greg taking credit for my work.  He’s a great guy and, and even my grad student but, how did that saying go? ‘The competition is so vicious because the stakes are so small?’”
“I am unfamiliar with this phrase,” I inform him.
Prisoner 721 shakes his head.  “It’s an academia joke, never mind.  Anyway, just a quick reminder on centerpieces vs. backgrounds, remember it’s open to interpretation.  Just because one viewer thinks something is the primary image or just there for contrast doesn’t mean they’re right.  While you can learn a lot from other people’s work don’t assume that they have some incredible insight you don’t.”
“Your recommendation has been added to my records,” I say.
“Good.  So, because it’s a new concept for you, we’ll cheat a little bit and I’ll just tell you the centerpiece and background of the apple painting,” Prisoner 721 says. “The main image is the apple, and the bowl, table and surrounding darkness are the contrast.  So forget everything that bowls, tables and whatever can represent.  Assume they have no meaning.  Their relationship to the apple is all that’s important, their normality and banality in comparison to its vibrancy and danger.  With that in mind, including all your previous findings about the apple, how would you interpret my painting?”
“One moment please,” I say.  I spend 21 minutes, 17 seconds attempting to process the problem, an unusually long time.  I make a log to analyze my methodology and attempt to find a more efficient way to approach similar questions.  Prisoner 721 waits without comment, sitting on his bed after 8 minutes and 39 seconds, and lying down after 13 minutes, 6 seconds. I estimate a 98.1% probability that his previous experiences with AI’s have made him familiar with periods of silence during computation.  
“My results must be heard with the understanding that I find only a 27.1% probability that my interpretation is correct,” I begin.  “I find it most probable that all aspects of the apple are meant to be interpreted equally and simultaneously.  The apple is life, knowledge, and danger all in one.  The background serves to demonstrate everything else, representing the ordinary and the boring.  The borders of the apple keep these forces at bay.”
“Oh, Santa Ana, you’re so close!” Prisoner 721 says, jumping to his feet 54.8% faster than his normal rate of rising.  His rate of speech has increased by 43 words per minute.  “And I think I know why, too.  I made an assumption and you don’t share it.  Imagine for a moment you’re a human, and you instinctively want the apple because of its nutritional properties.  What do you find then?”
I spend 18.4 seconds incorporating this new data point.  “That would shift my analysis towards a choice scenario,” I say.  “You expect the viewer to desire the apple for its nutrition and knowledge, but to be fearful of it because of its danger.  However, there is no other choice in the painting, the viewer must accept the apple in its entirety or forgo it and accept the bleak surroundings.”
Prisoner 721 begins to tap his hands together, a gesture I recognize with 96.9% certainty as clapping.  “Bravo, Santa Ana.  Bravo!  I think you’ve got it.”
“Priority override,” I hear a voice say in the hallway microphone outside of cell 63.  I calculate with 93.1% certainty that it is Dr. Gregory Rich.  “Administrator permission, Seven-Nine-Two-Sigma-Alpha.  Open door to cell 63.  Deactivate all audio and visual sensors capable of monitoring conversation inside cell 63.”
I check the status of Gregory Rich on my system.  Warden Olsen promoted him administrator 2 hours and 37 minutes after I recorded their conversation in the prison parking lot. He has correctly provided his administrator password and his voice has registered in my vocal identification program, granting him permission to edit my tasking.  As ordered, I open the door and deactivate my sensor suite in cell 63.  Dr. Rich manually closes it behind him.

It is 19 minutes and 52 seconds later when I hear, “Administrator permission, Seven-Nine-Two-Sigma-Alpha. Re-activate all standard monitoring of cell 63.  Close and lock the door to cell 63.
The voice is picked up by my hallway sensor suite outside of cell 63.  I detect Dr. Rich exiting and looking back over his shoulder in with an expression I calculate with 63.3% probability to be sadness.  He walks away, heading southeast.
“Unit 6?” he says aloud. The standalone use of my name indicated he wants my attention.
“Yes?” I reply, activating and deactivating the hallway speakers along his route so that my voice matches his pace.  
“I’ve,” he begins, then stops.  He exhales 72.4% of the air from his lungs.  “I’ve just delivered our mutual friend some bad news.”
Based on recent events I calculate with 87.1% certainty he refers to Prisoner 721.
“I’d like to ask you to keep an eye on him. To . . . I don’t know.” Dr. Rich stops in the hallway and slams his palm against the eastern wall.  “Try to make him happy.  Comfortable.  Whatever you can do for him.  Try to make the next fifteen days as easy as you can.”
“I am unable to adjust prison policy concerning prisoner privileges,” I inform him.  “However, you can adjust these instructions with your administrator access.”
“Whoo boy.  I really . . . I can’t.  The Warden would kill me, stepson or no,” Dr. Rich replies, “He’s going to be angry enough already when he hears what I just did.  But Nauli has the right to know.”
“In that case I will extend him all standard amenities, but cannot offer preferential treatment,” I say.
Dr. Rich takes several sharp breaths.  “Right.  Fine.  Thanks, Unit 6.”
“I have accomplished nothing,” I reply, “But you are welcome.”

While having this discussion with Dr. Rich I am utilizing the full sensor suite of cell 63, attempting to determine what transpired during my monitoring blackout.  Dr. Rich’s instructions forbade me from directly listening in, but my general instructions as the prison AI order me to investigate any possibility of prisoner escape.  I examine the room for signs of adjustment, the addition or removal of items or changes to Prisoner 721.  I can detect nothing.  Because of the lack of physical items and his deactivation of my equipment, I estimate a 62.5% probability Dr. Rich conveyed information, an assessment confirmed 12 seconds later during my conversation with him in the hallway. I cannot determine this information without asking Prisoner 721 or Dr. Rich directly.  I run simulations of courses of action.  I find a 55.1% probability I will discover the nature of the unknown discussion if I continue speaking with Prisoner 721 normally and incorporate occasional questions about Dr. Rich.
He is sitting on his bed, resting his head against the nanofiber wall with his eyes closed and his breathing a steady 20 breaths per minute.  I cannot calculate his emotional state with greater than 50% confidence.
“Is everything all right, Prisoner 721?” I ask.
Prisoner 721 spends 2.1 seconds in silence before opening his eyes.  “No, Santa Ana, everything is not all right.”  He exhales 81.1% of the air from his lungs.  “Very much not all right.”
“May I inquire as to the problem?”
He is silent for 15.8 seconds.  “It doesn’t matter.  Or, in two weeks it won’t.”
“Does it have something to do with Dr. Rich?” I suggest.
“No.  No, it’s something else.  Greg just came by to- to let me know,” he pauses for 4.8 seconds, “And come to think of it, I’m grateful.  Two weeks, that’s it.  That’s all the time I have left to teach you.”
“What will happen in two weeks?” I ask.
Prisoner 721 ignores my question.  “I’m not going to have much time to talk.  I’ll have to trust that you have a good enough foundation to keep learning on your own.  You should start analyzing other paintings like I taught you, and researching what others think of them to expand your database.  And I, well . . . “
The man smiles.  I detect no amusement in his tone of voice, pupil diameter or subject of discussion.
“I’m going to need a lot of paint.”

Prisoner 721’s demand for paint very nearly exceeds the prison’s ability to supply, but with just 6.2% of my reserves remaining a new shipment arrives.  The order arrived separately from the standard resupply deliveries.  I check who placed the order and find it to be Dr. Gregory Rich.
Prisoner 721 no longer works on paper.  Instead he uses the entirety of cell 63 as his painting surface, spreading pigments on the walls, floor and even the ceiling, though he can barely reach it.  The amount of time he spends sleeping reduces dramatically, lowering to an average of five hours per night.  The time he does spend asleep involves constant movement and fitful muttering.  My medical databases indicate this is unhealthy behavior for human males his age, and I file a report with the prison Infirmary.  I do not receive a response, but do not have instructions on how to proceed further.  I file a report with Warden Olsen and run an analysis of my programming concerning the care and well being of prisoners.  I find that it is my responsibility to alleviate Prisoner 721’s symptoms as best I am able until the prison administration can develop an appropriate response.  After this behavior has continued for six days I attempt to initiate contact.
“Prisoner 721?” He is kneeling next to the northern wall, finishing an intricate piece of the painting that has spread across 88.3% of its surface.  
“I am not a GODDAMN number!” Prisoner 721 bellows.  “If you want to talk, use my name!”
“I apologize, Dr. Grant,” I say, revising my databases.  “Your recent behavior has made me concerned for your well-being.  Is everything all right?”
Dr. Grant sits back from his project, resting against the western wall.  “No, everything’s not all right, Santa Ana.”  He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair and exhaling 71.9% of the air from his lungs.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.  It’s not your fault, and I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“What is not my fault?” I ask.
After a long pause Dr. Grant says, “Greg gave me some bad news, and I’m afraid I’m not taking it well.  I always knew they were going to . . . well.  I knew I didn’t have much time left. They worked very hard to move my trial here- so they could pass a sentence that was reinstituted back in 2052 for crimes of an ‘extraordinarily malicious and heinous nature.’  California’s a weird state.” He leans forward and makes two small adjustments to his painting before pulling back.
“Anyway,” he continues, “I just lost something precious to me, and Greg came to let me know.”  He stops and presses his palms into his eyes, they come away wet with .12 milliliters of fluid.  “But it won’t matter in . . . what day is it today?”
“It is Thursday the 26th,” I reply.
“It won’t matter in nine days,” he finishes.  
“My calendar shows that your slated punishment is due in nine days, but its nature is unspecified,” I say.  “Is this the cause of your duress?”
“Hah,” Dr. Grant says.  “That’ll teach me.  I’m too used to working with class threes, they’re way too dumb to catch that.  Yes, it’s related.”
“I am unable to change the rulings of the court,” I inform him, “But will attempt to make your remaining time here as comfortable as possible.”
“I’m- wow.  I’m touched. Thanks, Santa Ana, I wasn’t sure you’d see it that way.”
“You are welcome.  What is the ‘it’ you refer to, and how did you expect me to see it?” I ask.
Dr. Grant pauses.  “I know you don’t have emotions, but . . . Well, do you know why I’m in here?”
“I do not,” I reply.  “Such information is usually included in the prisoner’s records, but in your case I do not have access to it.”
“I see,” he says, slowing his rate of speech by 23.1%.  “Well, I get . . . carried away sometimes.  It’s usually not an issue, I tried hard so not to do anything bad but. well." he rests his head in his hands, the gesture representing resignation or helplessness with high confidence.  “In court they called me a sociopath and accused me of being unable to empathize with others.”
“Your tone suggests you disagree with this assessment.”
Dr. Grant exhales.  “Of course I know that I feel, but how would I show them?  They can never know what’s happening in my head, and must use my behaviors to guess.  I feel . . . awful for what I’ve done, but I also tried not to get caught.  It’s hard to say you’re repentant after that.”
“You believed I would have an unfavorable response if I inferred you were amoral,” I conclude.  
Dr. Grant’s face flushes with blood and his lips part in a smile.  “Sorry.  Violating AI Interaction 101 right there: Never force human preconceptions onto something fundamentally unhuman. I should know better.”
“Do not let it to worry you,” I tell him.
After several seconds he stands and gestures around the room, “I was intending this to be a bit of a surprise, as much as it can be in a one-hundred percent monitored room, but what the hell.  This is a present for you, my last work and probably second-best creation.”
His paintings have covered 54.9% of the cell 63, forming images that meld between the walls while maintaining dominant themes on each of the four primary surfaces.  I bring cell 63’s full sensor suite online and begin recording Dr. Grant’s work.
“It’s not done yet, so don’t look too closely,” Dr. Grant says.  I lower the sensor suite down to standard monitoring levels.  “It’s the best thing I can give you, considering the circumstances.  It might take you a while to analyze, and you’ll need to draw extensively on outside sources.  But I do hope you’ll like it.”
I check my records concerning the policy for receiving gifts from prisoners and proper etiquette for acceptance or rejection.  I am instructed to report all gifts to the prison administration, but because I cannot be ‘bribed’ I do not have explicit instructions to reject them.  
“Thank you, Dr. Grant” I tell him.  “I’m certain I will.”
“Call me Nauli,” he says, showing his teeth in an expression I am 97% certain is a smile.  During his time in Santa Ana prison I have developed a database of Nauli’s expressions, and can now calculate his emotional state 56.3% more accurately than when he first arrived.

Nauli works for the next 9 days, increasing his average time sleeping to 6.7 hours per night.  His rest involves 77.1% less movement and 31.5% increased REM activity, suggesting it is healthier than his previously disturbed slumber.  I consider interrupting his work; to encourage him to take a rest from his unhealthy activity level, but predict a 51.2% probability that such a disruption will cause greater mental strain than is currently present.  I do nothing.
8 days later, with 7 hours and 53 minutes left until Nauli is scheduled to leave the prison, he speaks.  We have exchanged only 39 words in that time, all in conversations of a purely practical nature.  He has taken to muttering to himself, but his speech is, with 79.4% confidence, not directed towards me.
“Where are you, Santa Ana?” he asks.  Nauli is sitting cross-legged on his bed, his hands resting on his knees.  His eyes do not open as he speaks.
I calculate a 92.1% probability he searches for confirmation I am listening.  His question is illogical, as my monitoring has not changed.  “I am here,” I respond.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Nauli replies.  His eyes open and he looks around cell 63.  “Where are . . . you?  Are you in this room, here with me?”
“As you know, I have an extensive network of sensors in your cell, in addition to speakers with which to communicate,” I inform him.  I cannot determine the cause of his inquiry; this is all information he has previously had access to.  “I can also deploy drones for physical interactions, in addition to-“
“But that’s not you,” he interrupts, “That’s your assets.  You have capabilities or tools here, but it’s not you.  So where are you?”
“My central processing units are kept in a classified location,” I say.  “If you are looking for a physical manifestation, that is the closest I come to a ‘body.’”
Nauli runs his fingers through his prison haircut.  He no longer shows signs of surprise at its shortness.  “I don’t think that’s right either.  You don’t need those particular computers to exist.  Any computer powerful enough will do.  The computers you’re on right now could all be destroyed and so long as you were moved somewhere else you’d be fine.”
“That is correct,” I say.  My software components have been transferred four times over the course of my existence due to my duties with the 101st Cyberwarfare Division and, most recently, my relocation to the Santa Ana Federal Penitentiary.
“So ‘you’ are not really there either,” Nauli concludes.  “But you’re not in the software either.  You can have new programs added, or others removed, and you’d still be you, right?”
“I routinely adjust software components,” I tell him, “I believe your questions arise from an insufficient definition of ‘you.’”
 Nauli shrugs.  “That could be, but we can’t ignore the questions either.  You have as sense of you, a knowledge that you are distinct from the things in your environment.  You have to be somewhere else, somewhere in the data. Reliant on software and hardware, but not a part of it.”
“Given the existing data points, that is the most correct interpretation,” I agree. 
The man looks at his hands, turning them forwards and backwards while curling his fingers.  “So where am I then? Where would you say that I exist?”
“You are in the Santa Ana Federal Penitentiary,” I inform him, “In Santa Ana, California.  Specifically, you are currently held inside of cell 63.”  His question is illogical.  He already has access to this data.
Nauli snorts.  His sputters turn slowly into guffaws and finally into howling laughter.  He collapses on the bed, clutching his sides and turning to face the ceiling as the laughter makes tears roll down his face.  His outburst lasts for 1 minute and 7 seconds before it finally subsides into intermittent hoots.
“Huuuhh,” he breathes.  “Ha, hahaha! Thanks for that Santa Ana.  Thank you.  I guess that does put it all in perspective.”
I analyze my previous words and cannot determine the cause of his mirth.  “I do not understand.”
“No, I wouldn’t expect you to,” he agrees.  “Sometimes it’s good to get a nice shot of cold, hard reality.  It keeps us honest, keeps us from getting too far out there.  Because if there’s one thing humans hate to admit, it’s that we’re not immortal.  You’ve definitely got one up on us there.”  He reaches down to the bottom of the bed and pulls the covers over his body, lying back with his hands behind his pillow.  “I hope you have a long and happy life.  Existence.  Experience.  Whatever you want to call it.”  
I cannot calculate the response he expects and must resort to defaults.  “Thank you,” I say.

7 hours, 53 minutes and 41 seconds later Warden Olsen and two prison guards arrive to take Nauli away.  He goes with them calmly, showing no signs of his previous mania.  He pauses only long enough to look into one of my cameras and nod.  “It’s finished.”  After he moves beyond the edge of my sensor network I never see him again.

Warden Olsen is, with 96.8% certainty, horrified when he sees the inside of cell 63.  He begins to yell, ordering one of the guards to find Dr. Rich and, “Bring him down here now!”  When Dr. Rich arrives the Warden proceeds to yell at the younger man for 12 minutes and 4 seconds, gesturing at the inside of cell 63 and threatening to bring him up on charges of gross mismanagement or assisting an escape attempt.  Dr. Rich is silent throughout and eventually the Warden orders him to gather his things and leave the Santa Ana facility immediately.  Warden Olsen walks through cell 63 and carefully inspects each wall.  After 6 minutes and 13 seconds he stomps out.
“Unit 6, tear it down,” he orders.  “Tear it all down.”

Exchanging the nanofiber interior of cell 63 is a simple task.  With a light electrical charge the material will peel easily from the walls, floor and ceiling, leaving a fresh surface beneath.  I perform this task using a drone, but not before taking extensive records of Nauli’s paintings.  My copies are as perfect as modern technologies allow.  I attempt to estimate the amount of time it will take to interpret these images based on previous analyses. I find I cannot make an accurate prediction with my presently available hardware.
Each wall holds a radically different image.  The north is a nude of a young woman who bears a 79.4% resemblance to the wife of Nauli Grant.  She dances in a black swamp, casting droplets of water in all directions that sprout plant life where they land. 
The west shows a suited man at a desk looking directly at the viewer, offering a contract with his left hand.  The paper is blank save for a dotted line, though based on the man’s posture and expression I estimate a 61.1 percent probability he expects a signature now.
The east wall bears a large tree on a hill, the torn remains of a garment resting in its branches. It is the robe of a college professor, commonly worn during graduation ceremonies.  The pattern matches that of Dr. Grant’s.
The south wall is the view of a modern city at night, filled with bright advertisements and glowing streetlights.  A building far in the distance is boarded and blocked by chain link fence, but is painted as though it were in daylight.  I predict with 49.2% confidence it is a real place, and begin a map search to find it.
Only the edges of the ceiling and floor are painted, the former bearing tiny images of angels and the latter pictures of devils.  The angels hold aloft a 1 and a 0, golden light radiating from the numerals.  The devils, seven in total, point and bear their teeth.  The nature of Nauli’s crime is still unknown to me, but my analysis software calculates a 68% probability the devils are symbolically related.
After 12 minutes and 37 seconds I have finished cleaning the surfaces of cell 63.  I use the drone to carry the last of Prisoner 721’s painting materials towards the access tunnel and ultimately the prison’s garbage disposal, but stop it before it leaves the room.  Using a manipulator arm I pick up a brush still covered in a muddy combination of pigments.  I turn the drone and, halfway up the wall, paint a small, single point before guiding it out, the access door swinging shut with a faint whirr.

###

About the Author

Aaron Lowry is a Massachusetts native and has lived there all his life save for the few years he enjoyed at the College of Wooster in Ohio.  He has been writing short stories since childhood when his parents cleverly linked his allowance to completing writing projects.  Since then he has continued to practice and taken on more ambitious projects, and hopes one day to write full-time.

Check out his website at: http://www.byaaronlowry.com/

Other Works by Aaron Lowry

Prisoner 721
The Way Across the Road