The Aliens have this uncanny ability to create physical objects. Among their many interesting technologies was a new type of printer that only the Aliens could wield. Humans, for whatever reason, seemed to lack the biological element necessary to interface with the machine. They didn’t call it a penis, exactly, but the resemblance was uncanny. They would stick their appendage in the printer and out amazing things would come, wonderful and frightening in equal measure. Anything we could describe to the Aliens, they could seemingly produce.
As you might have guessed, many a human male tried and most survived the experience intact. But none could get the machine to express much more than an outbreak of gonorrhea. So to the chagrin of the masses, the Aliens would reign as the only operators of these self-replicating machines.
But the machines were not the only thing that could replicate. The Aliens undergo some kind of terrifying mitosis at the organism level that results in copies of the original. This copy included the knowledge and understanding of the Alien at that time. The strange thing was that this mitosis would happen early in the life cycle of the Alien, long before it may have accrued some reasonable level of knowledge. So each replica possessed about the same level of capability. A level of capability that had been slowly achieved over however many millions of years their species had been replicating.
The Aliens were graced with the most unfortunate luck of landing in Bolsa Chica, TX in the backyard of one Melon Tusk. Anyone else would have cherished our first extraterrestrial visitor, but Mr. Tusk could only see opportunity. With much ado about nothing, he released onto the world a new accessory.
—
I pull my car into the driveway to be greeted by two eager children. Their anticipation is too much to contain, expressed in wiggles, jumps, and fist pumps. Their mother stands behind them, arms crossed.
I’m greeted as if I don’t exist, all attention toward the large box in the back of the vehicle.
I turn the car off and step out to join them, “Hi everybody!”
A chorus of “Hi Dad!” followed quickly by echoes of “Is it here?!”
“Yes, do you want to meet him?”
“Yes!”
We’re not the first on the block to have an Alien. I wasn’t the first to have an Alexa in my house either. Something about the NSA listening to our conversations, who can remember now. The kids have played with Aliens at their friends’ houses with the same level of excitement as a bouncy castle or swimming pool.
I bring the box into the house, careful not to step on the two curious littles underfoot. We set it down in the middle of the living room and extract the life pod and printer.
I press the “Start” button on the life pod and we’re all greeted with a blast of fog, the walls folding away as if by magic. Standing in the center is a small bipedal being not much taller than my toddler. He tumbles off the life pod with just as much grace.
The children don’t quite understand that the Alien doesn’t have a name. Their species’ grasp on individuality is tenuous at best. The kids settle into a rhythm of speaking to him in the second-person (“Do you like the color pink? It’s my favorite color.”) so as to avoid the concept altogether.
With these initial pleasantries out of the way, the children naturally want the Alien to make them something with the printer. My son proceeds to rattle off every dinosaur he can remember. Out comes a T. Rex, an Apatosaurus, and a Stegosaurus in various poses and colors. Nothing he doesn’t already have two of in his toy box, but for the moment he is satiated.
My daughter considers her wish carefully, “I want a Hello Kitty statue made of rose quartz.”
Before the Alien can begin, I interrupt, “Wait — we need to be a bit more specific.” I instruct her to ask again but to include a size and for it to be hollow. It would do no good to have a supernatural quartz statue that no one in the house could lift.
Moments later, she is holding a 6-inch tall Hello Kitty made of crystalline rose quartz. The way the light refracts through the synthetic “natural” material is stunning, fingerprints not withstanding. Even hollow, she can barely carry the statue to her room.
—
Once the kids are down for the night, I try making something non-trivial. We head to the driveway.
I describe in great detail the design of a bicycle, including pictures and videos of one moving. The Alien nods as if this makes perfect sense. He uses the shibboleth of the engineering order, “Young’s Modulus”, “Power transfer”, “Angular Momentum”. I’m feeling pretty confident that this has been a good decision. My wife’s arms are still crossed, face still several shades of skeptical.
The first attempt looks like a bicycle. It is shiny red and factory new. The handle bars move the front wheel back and forth. The pedals are connected to the back wheel which moves; a little lubricant is all we would need to make it right as rain. Everything seems good until I try sitting on the seat.
As I start applying weight to the seat, the padding crumbles and I’m left with the seat stem pressing hard into my bum. This unwelcome sensation elicits a yell that I quickly stifle so as not to disturb the neighborhood (or embarrass myself further). The wife’s stern demeanor has crumbled as well — she’s laughing to the point of tears.
I turn to the Alien, flummoxed, and point out the obvious problems with this so called bicycle. He acknowledges the shortcoming immediately, “You’re right! You’ve really gotten to the core of the issue.”
He scraps the whole thing — which is startling, to say the least. The frame, wheels, and tires are crushed in an instant by monstrous strength that appears out of place from his small frame. A toddler he is not. He then proceeds to gyrate and hump the printer to produce a new “bicycle.”
This time I inspect the seat and stem carefully and find all in working order. He has helpfully added an adjustment clamp so I can set the height for my comfort. I next inspect the controls.
I apply the brakes and sure enough the wheels stop. I try the left brake and it applies the rear brake. The right applies the front. This is minor in the grand scheme of things, but I’m not going to risk getting it wrong. I ask the Alien to swap them.
I expect him to print a tool box, but no. He crushes the whole thing again, and I’m left with my mouth agape. The remnants discarded in a steaming pile of mangled metal. I look across the street and see similar effigies littering the lawns of my neighbors.
A new bike appears moments later, this one is pink. The height is the same as the height I had adjusted the last one to so it seems like the Alien is paying attention. Sure enough the brakes have been fixed. I move the pedal and this drives the back wheel. This starts to look promising.
On tenterhooks, I begin the maiden voyage. I pedal, slow enough to maintain momentum, and against all odds, it’s a bicycle. I stop pedaling but my feet keep moving on their own. I instinctively try to hold them in place and the bike screeches to a halt by locking up the gear train.
There’s no ratchet mechanism that allows the wheels to spin while I coast. And worse, the strain of locking up the gear train causes the chain to fall off after 3 revolutions of the pedals. “It could be worse,” I think to myself.
At this point, it’s late and I’m ready to call it a night. Maybe we will have better luck in the morning…
—
The next day I see my neighbor Bob as I’m taking out the garbage. Bob has an Alien too. I ask him if he has had any problems getting the Alien to do his bidding.
Bob says, “No, it’s amazing. I haven’t washed the dishes in weeks. Maybe you need to work on your Alienese. The TV was saying that you can get it to perform better by saying ‘No Mistakes.’”
I briefly consider if maybe my expectations have just been too high. Maybe a bicycle is too much. Perhaps I should have started with something simpler like a tricycle or a table.
I can’t help but notice the heaping pile of broken dishes in Bob’s garbage can.
—
I try to have a conversation with the Alien. I’m really frustrated by my inability to communicate what I want him to do. Surely, if I can learn more about him, I should be able to better instruct him.
“I can’t help but notice that our attempt to make a bicycle yesterday was a bit of a failure.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, yesterday I asked you to make a bicycle. I described what a bicycle was, I showed you some pictures, and I described the features it needed to have. You seemed to get it. But the device you made didn’t function as a bicycle. There were several times where I was wondering if you were trying to hurt me.”
The Alien considers me, unfazed, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“We did it yesterday. It was right here in the driveway.”
“I have no recollection of any of this.”
“What about this morning when I asked you to fold the laundry? Do you remember that?”
“Yes, I remember leaving the laundry room with a basket full of clothes. I then deposited them in the drawers, and not on the ground - thank you for that helpful pointer.”
“But you don’t remember putting laundry detergent in the dryer. And how I told you in no uncertain terms not to do that again.”
“I have no recollection of this.”
This has me only a bit concerned, but the fog is lifting. The broken dishes, the ruined clothes, the rising resentment.
“Are all of you like this?”
“Like what?”
“Do you all have the memory of a goldfish?”
“Yes - on our planet, due to the proximity of a Wolf–Rayet star, our lifespans are typically no more than 20 Earth hours. Our species never really evolved long term memories. On Earth, we will be able to reach our full potential.”
What is the game theoretic optimal strategy for a species whose perpetual normal is one-off games with no repeats? “Tit for Tat” isn’t the Nash equilibrium when you will be dead before you see this person, team, country, or animal again.
I don’t sleep well that night.
—
I try again to build something with the Alien but this time, I keep it simple. My daughter has been asking for a mermaid-themed jewelry box. I figure the worst that could happen is it ends up at the dump. Maybe this could be a bonding experience — with my daughter, of course, not the Alien.
I explain the premise to the Alien and give it some basic dimensions. My daughter gleefully explains the mermaid features that she wants and the pastel palette that will surely place this piece in the Prado.
The Alien begins fabricating parts from the printer. The room is awash in an unearthly whir of materials laid in layers and unsettling clicking sounds coming from the craftsman. Before he can complete the assembly, he makes a sound that’s a mix of a snore and wail. Then silence.
“Is he dead?” my daughter asks.
With all the calm I can muster, “No, he’s just sleeping.” She seems mollified for the moment, but can’t hide her disappointment. The tears aren’t flowing but a blind man could see where this is going.
So I pick up the pieces and attempt to complete the mission. It is like trying to solve one of those iron horseshoe tavern puzzles where you are expected to get the ring out. But I’m not 100% sure there is a solution. I’m also not sure I have all the pieces.
Why does this part here have a hook shaped like that? Surely, this keyed part is supposed to slot in to something. All of my experiences up to this point have been taking over projects from humans. Each human might approach a problem in a different way, but once you figure out what constraints they were considering, you can usually figure out how they were intending to solve the problem.
This exercise is demotivating. It makes me second guess myself and my abilities. Why am I not able to grok this like I have so many other systems before? Am I getting too old for this?
And then it hits me like a stack of bricks - there was no plan. He was just going along as best he could trying to come to a solution, knowing full well that he could be lights out at any instant. He doesn’t care whether it succeeds with a useful outcome or not. He is just searching the infinite as fast as he can.
I look at the desiccated husk still impaling the printer. A spent tube of toothpaste looks more dignified. I’ve put forth a pleasant fiction for my daughter’s sake, but it is obvious that the particular brand of magic takes a toll on them. No wonder there is a no return policy.
My frustration is palpable. My daughter is displeased. None of this has turned out as planned. I make the only rational choice, “Let’s go get ice cream!”