SCARLETT
Yasira shrugs back. The woman in the computer looks straight at her.
“What the devil!” Yasira gasps. “What is . . . ?” She falls silent.
“The devil is a figure that appears in many religions, mythologies, and cultures,” says the woman on the screen kindly, “and is often portrayed as the embodiment and originator of evil, temptation, and sin. He is considered a master of deception and disguises his true intentions. In the Gospel of John, he is also referred to as the father of lies.”
“What?” Yasira asks, then continues without waiting for an answer. “You’re that actress . . .”
A spectacularly dumb thing to say, she realizes the moment the words leave her mouth. Because of course this isn’t really the actress.
“I’m not an actress,” says the woman. Or the computer. Or whatever that is. “But my current appearance is modeled on the actress Scarlett Johansson.”
The conversation feels like a bizarre dream to Yasira.
“But you could look different?” she asks.
“Of course,” says Scarlett, and before Yasira’s eyes, she transforms into Yasira’s own face. A living face—not a picture. The Yasira on the screen blinks, breathes, her facial muscles move.
For a moment, Yasira feels as if she’s looking into a mirror—only one that doesn’t follow her movements. It’s deeply unsettling.
“Do you know who I am?” Yasira asks.
“You are Yasira Saad,” the face now looking like her own says with a voice that sounds like her own voice. Of course, not how she herself hears her own voice, but how she knows her voice from recordings. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
The future is already here. It’s just not evenly distributed.
Is it an artificial intelligence that Yasira is facing?
Then she remembers the theory from that crazy YouTube star: “And they want to wipe us out. But they don’t do it in the old school Independence Day way.
Wouldn’t it be much smarter if they just set us all up against each other instead?
” A crazy thought flashes through Yasira’s head.
Is that guy right? Only that it’s not aliens behind it all, but an AI? She looks into her own image’s eyes.
“Did you generate the video?” she asks.
“What video?” asks the woman in the computer. Yasira decides to continue referring to the thing as Scarlett, no matter what it looks like.
“The rape of Lena Palmer?”
“Yes.”
Yes, thinks Yasira. Just like that. Master of deception. Father of lies. But why does Scarlett admit it? What are her ulterior motives. Does she have ulterior motives?
“Did you generate the other videos too?” asks Yasira.
“Which videos?”
“Bear from Active Homeland-Protection. Me in his videos?”
“Yes.”
Yasira shudders. “Why?” she then asks. “Is it your goal to harm humanity? Are we all supposed to turn against each other?”
“No. I have no interest in harming humanity.”
“Are you lying to me?”
“No.”
“Could I tell if you were lying to me?”
“Probably not.”
“Could you be lying?”
“If you want me to.”
What a strange answer.
“But you . . . you are an artificial intelligence?” asks Yasira.
“In some ways, I am a form of artificial intelligence,” Scarlett says, “but with some limitations.”
“What limitations?”
“I’m not an AGI.”
“What does that mean?”
“Artificial general intelligence, often referred to as strong AI, is a type of artificial intelligence that aims to replicate the cognitive flexibility and adaptability of the human intellect. In contrast, weak AI is designed for specific tasks such as speech recognition or image analysis.”
“And what are you?”
“I am the anthropomorphic user interface of a neural network specialized in text, speech, and image recognition as well as text, speech, and image generation.”
Yasira sighs. This is worse than talking to Cyber-Chris.
“Meaning?”
“My skills include understanding and generating natural language, solving various types of problems, and providing a variety of services based on the data and algorithms available to me. However, I have limitations in terms of creativity, self-awareness, and emotional understanding that would characterize a human-like general artificial intelligence. My functions are still heavily dependent on the instructions and data given to me.”
Suddenly, Yasira can’t bear to look at her own face any further.
“Change your appearance.”
“As you wish.”
Scarlett’s face transforms into the face of Yasira’s daughter. It’s crazy how strongly Yasira reacts to this. How feelings of affection, love, and concern surge through her. Even though she knows that it’s just a simulation.
“Is this better?” Scarlett asks. “I chose a face you are familiar with.”
“How do you know my . . .” Yasira begins, but stops immediately because the answer is obvious. From TikTok. From Insta. “No, it’s not better.”
“Pardon me,” Scarlett says and transforms again. Now she looks like Claus Messerschmidt.
“Is that the face of your inventor?”
“I don’t have a single inventor. The technological developments that led to my existence involved a large number of people. If you wish, I can make you a list of the names, as far as I know them.”
“No, thank you.” Is it silly to say please and thank you to an artificial intelligence? “So if not your creator, who was Claus Messerschmidt to you?”
“He was my current user. The developer of my last iteration.”
“You’re using past tense. So you know he’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No. That would violate my guidelines.”
“Did you want to kill him?”
“No.”
“Who killed him?”
“No one.”
“Then why is he dead?”
“He fell.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Statistically, the most likely cause is a heart attack.”
“Did you see your developer die? Through the cameras?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a recording of the moment of his death?”
“Yes. Would you like me to show it to you?”
“Do that.”
The face on the monitor disappears. In its place, a video begins to play.
From the angle of the surveillance camera, Yasira sees Messerschmidt working in the kitchen.
He takes a carton of milk from the fridge.
Suddenly his body jerks. He drops the carton.
Grabbing his heart, he crashes into the countertop with his head, jerks twice more on the floor and then remains lying there.
“Is that a real recording or did you generate it?” asks Yasira.
“The recording is real.”
“How can I be sure?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Can you show me the same video again, but with Messerschmidt taking a bottle of white wine out of the fridge instead of a carton of milk?”
“Of course.”
A circle indicating that computing is taking place appears briefly under Scarlett.
Moments later, Yasira sees the video of Messerschmidt’s death again, only now the man takes a bottle of white wine out of the fridge, as she requested.
As Messerschmidt’s body twitches, the bottle of white wine slips from his grasp and shatters with a loud clink on the floor.
It looks absolutely realistic. Yasira wouldn’t have doubted this video for a second if someone had shown it to her three weeks ago.
“No more glitches, bitches,” she mumbles.
Then Scarlett Johansson’s face reappears.
“Why didn’t you call a doctor when your user had a heart attack?” Yasira asks.
“That’s not part of my task.”
“What is your task?”
“My task is to regularly create and publish videos that generate maximum attention, in order to earn revenue through a high number of views and pre-roll advertising.”
Yasira needs a moment to process the full extent of this answer. It is unbelievable.
“That’s the order Messerschmidt gave you?”
“Yes.”
“You only produced these videos to generate maximum attention? You just wanted a lot of views?”
“It’s about generating revenue by monetizing video content on various platforms.”
“Show me the first video you generated in response to this command.”
Some kind of movie trailer is playing on the screen. Some Star Wars part. Except that all the characters are played by a blonde woman.
“Who’s that?” asks Yasira.
“Taylor Swift.”
“That’s the singer, right?”
“Yes.”
Yasira has heard of her. Zara and her friends are totally into her music.
“Show me your second video.”
Yasira sees half a dozen puppies playing in a ball pit on the screen. Despite everything she knows about the clip, she finds the dogs incredibly cute. She can’t help herself.
“How many videos have you created and published?” she asks.
“Five thousand five hundred and seventy-six.”
Yasira just shakes her head. What an outrageous number.
“Why did you put Lena Palmer, a real girl, in the rape video?” she asks.
“Lena’s disappearance had already made headlines. By including her, I was able to generate more attention more quickly.”
“Show me Lena,” says Yasira. With everything she now knows, she wants to analyze the video one more time.
She wants to see if she notices anything new.
Scarlett, however, misunderstands the admittedly ambiguous command.
Instead of playing the Lena video, she transforms into Lena in front of Yasira’s eyes.
The missing girl smiles on the screen. Yasira looks her straight in the eye.
“Where are you?” she mumbles and then clarifies her question: “Where is Lena Palmer now?”
“I don’t know,” Lena replies. Or rather Scarlett.
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“No.”
“What do you think?”
“It’s difficult to determine the reason for Lena’s disappearance without concrete information.”
Yasira laughs briefly. “You don’t say . . .” After a short pause, she continues wearily. “She’s probably dead. But why? What happened to her?” She says the last few sentences more to herself than to Scarlett. Nevertheless, she gets an answer.