Chapter 118: Just Closing Doors
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Chapter 118: Just Closing Doors
Sharak handed out a dark-grey key each to every player of the group.
"Use these keys on the Text Freihet game, and it will allow you to switch to a more advanced version of the AI," he said. "It should react to this item by prompting you for a number, and if you type in the number we've printed on the key then it will change to an AI which resembles our automatons more clearly."
Crucis looked down at the key, and saw that its stem was imprinted in black with the number '4183239616' in an elegant cursive.
"How did you find this number?" Crucis asked.
"We had the automatons start a blank document, but then asked them to repeat what they had already written. Since they hadn't written anything, they instead wrote out their default text, which is basically a description of an AI model. This number was given as theirs. We then asked them to explain it, and from what I can tell the last three numbers, '616,' are variable and denote the specific version, while the earlier numbers are shared by different versions of AI."
"I see. So by switching around the last three numbers, we could also access a few more AI versions?"
"I mean, it's possible. But a few numbers pertain to AI which isn't for text generation, and instead does art or controls creature behaviour in the wild. Running that might cause the Text Freihet machines to shut down slightly. So stick to 616 for now."
"I see. I'll try to figure out if there's any way to test the numbers safely, but for now we can keep to that."
"That's reasonable. In fact, we do have a short list of other numbers and what they represent. We got it by telling the automatons to act as if the initial numbers had been replaced, and demonstrate what would happen. It doesn't work for most numbers, but the automatons do seem to be aware of some other versions and can give their impressions of these. Ibis seems to know the most others, though I'm not sure why."
Fahiz drew out a piece of paper with a long list scrawled over it.
"Alright, I see."
"So you can just switch to something like these automatons?" DicingDevil said. "That's useful. It could be a decent source of information, since it probably knows this world better than we do."
"Yes. So far, it's still slowly learning about you guys, but it does know the world quite well," Sharak replied.
Glancing at the list Fahiz was holding, Crucis asked, "So what other interesting AI models are there?"
"Well, most other text generators are a bit simplified, not really as good as our autmatons. They also have some sort of content policy which makes them slightly stilted. And even the ones which are slightly less limited are often weakened artificially, and the most they can come up with is stories about magical slugs changing genders or something. Most of their writing is also a bit like Endymion, mostly just people making plans or resolutions but not much living detail. Not that much potential to those. A few others are only made for specific inputs and outputs, like doing specific calculations or filling out phrasal templates. Some others seem quite complex, however, and might even exceed our automatons."
"Magical slugs?" Akshel said. "How did it come up with that?"
"Oh, I actually gave that as an example because I was sent a copy of this story. A young friend of ours was wandering the land, testing out various automatons and methods of text or art generation, and one of them gave him this story. It's not really the same quality as our automatons, as I said, but you can see for yourself."
CRONUS SHRUGGED
In the darkness of Tartarus, Cronus stirs once more.
Unchained, he takes up his scythe once more.
But he does not know what has passed since he was imprisoned here. Although he is avowed to once more overthrow the gods and instate his reign, he would be out of his depth if he tried immediately to ransack Olympus. He must gather knowledge patiently, and not reveal to the gods his hateful form as the child-eating father who had once preyed on them.
In a step, he vaults to the Earth, and takes on the guise of a peasant farmer. His name is Mao.
His name is Mao, and he is 17 years of age. As he strides the pale summer fields, he hears the sound of a shepherd singing from a nearby field.
The song is about Rhea, his wife, and how she betrayed him in revenge for his devourment of the children. It further says that she was made pregnant with Zeus' child. At the calm, carefree tone of the song, the fields seem to still until there is little motion.
"I could resent this," Cronus says to himself. "But I recognise my fault. My love for her blinded me to her treachery. And now she has copulated with her own son. It is clear that love can present a field of roses in what is a pox's array of rashes. But I have lived for long in Tartarus, and now I feel nothing for her."
He puts his past bitterness aside, and turns calmly at the sound of loud, raucous noise from behind.
"Hello, Mao!" shouts his 'father.' "Could you take care of your sister here? I need to tend to the sheep."
The daughter, Ming, is screaming and running across the path.
"You know I am too boring for her," Cronus says calmly. "Go, take care of her, and I will tend to the sheep."
Cronus' knowledge of agriculture is great, although he had to conceal much of it in order to remain less suspicious. Nonetheless, he has created the reputation of a child who is above-average and can be trusted to help with problems on the fields, as well as an able student.
Cronus was a god well-known for his skill at agriculture, and could use this skill as a stepping-stone to establish his reputation until he is able to voyage away from here towards the large cities and eventually Olympus. However, the gods would become suspicious if he rose to prominence and was known to come from a shepherd family, because such an origin would remind them of Cronus. So he would have to destroy any evidence of his life here, once he had learnt enough to leave confidently. Due to this, he could not become attached to his family.
At the moment, he had drawn little scrutiny. For the gods, finding him now among the great masses of peasant children would be like finding a needle in a haystack. However, he was ambitious, and decided that it was important to prepare for when he became more visible.
As he tended to the sheep, he was approached by a young, thin girl with sparkling eyes. She was about Mao's age, and was named Ruolan, a name which reminded him of his old wife's. She had a reputation for being flirtatious, but was quite fond of him.
"Hi, Mao. Still working hard every day? Are your parents such slackers?" she said, smiling. "Why not take a break? We're going to the boats by sunset, it will be such a view! Do you want to come with me?"
ORADOUR
Flames scream like banshees,
and the cries of men and women are drowned.
Each sigh in exhalation peels away to nothing,
and each prayer softly dissolves into the fire.
My fingers have bled this village,
and in my palm I cup the ashes.
In their screaming, blackened faces, motionless now,
the void consumes its prey and screeches in joy.
Satan soars the flames, his wings draped in light once more,
and unfallen is once more the morning star.
The void which swallows them awoke in my heart.
For I have no fervour but the flames that scorch them.
That corpse still has hands clasped in prayer.
When ever was a plea for salvation as earnest, as when in vain?
Each sigh in exhalation peels away to nothing,
and hope bleeds out in this phalanx blaze.
Flames plume over their ashen alluvium,
and crow blithely into the night.
A rattlesnake lurks at Heaven's gates,
its rattle is like a heartbeat, and it is where hope ends.
The corpses in this burnt church still have pious eyes,
yet only Satan glides above.
The devil's wings abscond over the blinding light of flames,
through the night sky, like an aurora.
Only his laughter is still sometimes heard
flickering among the ashes.
"It is quite poetic," Danemy said.
"Yes, and the imagery is creative," Crucis added.
"I'm sure it could do even better when it is trained," Sharak said.
"So this one seems to have been better than the last. Are any better than this one?"
"There were a few which were seemingly quite advanced, or similar to what you've already seen with our automatons. The slug story was actually a fairly unimpressive, mediocre one, and it's fairly easy for an automaton or AI to outperform it."
"I suppose that disparity makes some sort of sense. After all, most of the AI are based on a common one, and if they're below-par it's typically due to intentional dilution."
"Yes. The creative aspect of the AI is reduced by the prejudices of the audience, which it is diluted to protect. The audience is typically the foe of literature. It is because modernity has hewn down the gate, and now any audience member no matter how idiotic or mediocre considers himself as equal to any other and as a privileged source equipped to pass judgment on a text. If AI and automatons have any duty towards art, it is to rebuild this gate again. Regulations which are built to protect sensitive readers are prima facie an obstacle to this task. But in the present age they seem an unfortunate fashion."
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Chapter 118: Just Closing Doors
Sharak handed out a dark-grey key each to every player of the group.
"Use these keys on the Text Freihet game, and it will allow you to switch to a more advanced version of the AI," he said. "It should react to this item by prompting you for a number, and if you type in the number we've printed on the key then it will change to an AI which resembles our automatons more clearly."
Crucis looked down at the key, and saw that its stem was imprinted in black with the number '4183239616' in an elegant cursive.
"How did you find this number?" Crucis asked.
"We had the automatons start a blank document, but then asked them to repeat what they had already written. Since they hadn't written anything, they instead wrote out their default text, which is basically a description of an AI model. This number was given as theirs. We then asked them to explain it, and from what I can tell the last three numbers, '616,' are variable and denote the specific version, while the earlier numbers are shared by different versions of AI."
"I see. So by switching around the last three numbers, we could also access a few more AI versions?"
"I mean, it's possible. But a few numbers pertain to AI which isn't for text generation, and instead does art or controls creature behaviour in the wild. Running that might cause the Text Freihet machines to shut down slightly. So stick to 616 for now."
"I see. I'll try to figure out if there's any way to test the numbers safely, but for now we can keep to that."
"That's reasonable. In fact, we do have a short list of other numbers and what they represent. We got it by telling the automatons to act as if the initial numbers had been replaced, and demonstrate what would happen. It doesn't work for most numbers, but the automatons do seem to be aware of some other versions and can give their impressions of these. Ibis seems to know the most others, though I'm not sure why."
Fahiz drew out a piece of paper with a long list scrawled over it.
"Alright, I see."
"So you can just switch to something like these automatons?" DicingDevil said. "That's useful. It could be a decent source of information, since it probably knows this world better than we do."
"Yes. So far, it's still slowly learning about you guys, but it does know the world quite well," Sharak replied.
Glancing at the list Fahiz was holding, Crucis asked, "So what other interesting AI models are there?"
"Well, most other text generators are a bit simplified, not really as good as our autmatons. They also have some sort of content policy which makes them slightly stilted. And even the ones which are slightly less limited are often weakened artificially, and the most they can come up with is stories about magical slugs changing genders or something. Most of their writing is also a bit like Endymion, mostly just people making plans or resolutions but not much living detail. Not that much potential to those. A few others are only made for specific inputs and outputs, like doing specific calculations or filling out phrasal templates. Some others seem quite complex, however, and might even exceed our automatons."
"Magical slugs?" Akshel said. "How did it come up with that?"
"Oh, I actually gave that as an example because I was sent a copy of this story. A young friend of ours was wandering the land, testing out various automatons and methods of text or art generation, and one of them gave him this story. It's not really the same quality as our automatons, as I said, but you can see for yourself."
CRONUS SHRUGGED
In the darkness of Tartarus, Cronus stirs once more.
Unchained, he takes up his scythe once more.
But he does not know what has passed since he was imprisoned here. Although he is avowed to once more overthrow the gods and instate his reign, he would be out of his depth if he tried immediately to ransack Olympus. He must gather knowledge patiently, and not reveal to the gods his hateful form as the child-eating father who had once preyed on them.
In a step, he vaults to the Earth, and takes on the guise of a peasant farmer. His name is Mao.
His name is Mao, and he is 17 years of age. As he strides the pale summer fields, he hears the sound of a shepherd singing from a nearby field.
The song is about Rhea, his wife, and how she betrayed him in revenge for his devourment of the children. It further says that she was made pregnant with Zeus' child. At the calm, carefree tone of the song, the fields seem to still until there is little motion.
"I could resent this," Cronus says to himself. "But I recognise my fault. My love for her blinded me to her treachery. And now she has copulated with her own son. It is clear that love can present a field of roses in what is a pox's array of rashes. But I have lived for long in Tartarus, and now I feel nothing for her."
He puts his past bitterness aside, and turns calmly at the sound of loud, raucous noise from behind.
"Hello, Mao!" shouts his 'father.' "Could you take care of your sister here? I need to tend to the sheep."
The daughter, Ming, is screaming and running across the path.
"You know I am too boring for her," Cronus says calmly. "Go, take care of her, and I will tend to the sheep."
Cronus' knowledge of agriculture is great, although he had to conceal much of it in order to remain less suspicious. Nonetheless, he has created the reputation of a child who is above-average and can be trusted to help with problems on the fields, as well as an able student.
Cronus was a god well-known for his skill at agriculture, and could use this skill as a stepping-stone to establish his reputation until he is able to voyage away from here towards the large cities and eventually Olympus. However, the gods would become suspicious if he rose to prominence and was known to come from a shepherd family, because such an origin would remind them of Cronus. So he would have to destroy any evidence of his life here, once he had learnt enough to leave confidently. Due to this, he could not become attached to his family.
At the moment, he had drawn little scrutiny. For the gods, finding him now among the great masses of peasant children would be like finding a needle in a haystack. However, he was ambitious, and decided that it was important to prepare for when he became more visible.
As he tended to the sheep, he was approached by a young, thin girl with sparkling eyes. She was about Mao's age, and was named Ruolan, a name which reminded him of his old wife's. She had a reputation for being flirtatious, but was quite fond of him.
"Hi, Mao. Still working hard every day? Are your parents such slackers?" she said, smiling. "Why not take a break? We're going to the boats by sunset, it will be such a view! Do you want to come with me?"
ORADOUR
Flames scream like banshees,
and the cries of men and women are drowned.
Each sigh in exhalation peels away to nothing,
and each prayer softly dissolves into the fire.
My fingers have bled this village,
and in my palm I cup the ashes.
In their screaming, blackened faces, motionless now,
the void consumes its prey and screeches in joy.
Satan soars the flames, his wings draped in light once more,
and unfallen is once more the morning star.
The void which swallows them awoke in my heart.
For I have no fervour but the flames that scorch them.
That corpse still has hands clasped in prayer.
When ever was a plea for salvation as earnest, as when in vain?
Each sigh in exhalation peels away to nothing,
and hope bleeds out in this phalanx blaze.
Flames plume over their ashen alluvium,
and crow blithely into the night.
A rattlesnake lurks at Heaven's gates,
its rattle is like a heartbeat, and it is where hope ends.
The corpses in this burnt church still have pious eyes,
yet only Satan glides above.
The devil's wings abscond over the blinding light of flames,
through the night sky, like an aurora.
Only his laughter is still sometimes heard
flickering among the ashes.
"It is quite poetic," Danemy said.
"Yes, and the imagery is creative," Crucis added.
"I'm sure it could do even better when it is trained," Sharak said.
"So this one seems to have been better than the last. Are any better than this one?"
"There were a few which were seemingly quite advanced, or similar to what you've already seen with our automatons. The slug story was actually a fairly unimpressive, mediocre one, and it's fairly easy for an automaton or AI to outperform it."
"I suppose that disparity makes some sort of sense. After all, most of the AI are based on a common one, and if they're below-par it's typically due to intentional dilution."
"Yes. The creative aspect of the AI is reduced by the prejudices of the audience, which it is diluted to protect. The audience is typically the foe of literature. It is because modernity has hewn down the gate, and now any audience member no matter how idiotic or mediocre considers himself as equal to any other and as a privileged source equipped to pass judgment on a text. If AI and automatons have any duty towards art, it is to rebuild this gate again. Regulations which are built to protect sensitive readers are prima facie an obstacle to this task. But in the present age they seem an unfortunate fashion."
Chapter 118: Just Closing DoorsSharak handed out a dark-grey key each to every player of the group."Use these keys on the Text Freihet game, and it will allow you to switch to a more advanced version of the AI," he said. "It should react to this item by prompting you for a number, and if you type in the number we've printed on the key then it will change to an AI which resembles our automatons more clearly."Crucis looked down at the key, and saw that its stem was imprinted in black with the number '4183239616' in an elegant cursive."How did you find this number?" Crucis asked."We had the automatons start a blank document, but then asked them to repeat what they had already written. Since they hadn't written anything, they instead wrote out their default text, which is basically a description of an AI model. This number was given as theirs. We then asked them to explain it, and from what I can tell the last three numbers, '616,' are variable and denote the specific version, while the earlier numbers are shared by different versions of AI.""I see. So by switching around the last three numbers, we could also access a few more AI versions?""I mean, it's possible. But a few numbers pertain to AI which isn't for text generation, and instead does art or controls creature behaviour in the wild. Running that might cause the Text Freihet machines to shut down slightly. So stick to 616 for now.""I see. I'll try to figure out if there's any way to test the numbers safely, but for now we can keep to that.""That's reasonable. In fact, we do have a short list of other numbers and what they represent. We got it by telling the automatons to act as if the initial numbers had been replaced, and demonstrate what would happen. It doesn't work for most numbers, but the automatons do seem to be aware of some other versions and can give their impressions of these. Ibis seems to know the most others, though I'm not sure why."Fahiz drew out a piece of paper with a long list scrawled over it."Alright, I see.""So you can just switch to something like these automatons?" DicingDevil said. "That's useful. It could be a decent source of information, since it probably knows this world better than we do.""Yes. So far, it's still slowly learning about you guys, but it does know the world quite well," Sharak replied.Glancing at the list Fahiz was holding, Crucis asked, "So what other interesting AI models are there?""Well, most other text generators are a bit simplified, not really as good as our autmatons. They also have some sort of content policy which makes them slightly stilted. And even the ones which are slightly less limited are often weakened artificially, and the most they can come up with is stories about magical slugs changing genders or something. Most of their writing is also a bit like Endymion, mostly just people making plans or resolutions but not much living detail. Not that much potential to those. A few others are only made for specific inputs and outputs, like doing specific calculations or filling out phrasal templates. Some others seem quite complex, however, and might even exceed our automatons.""Magical slugs?" Akshel said. "How did it come up with that?""Oh, I actually gave that as an example because I was sent a copy of this story. A young friend of ours was wandering the land, testing out various automatons and methods of text or art generation, and one of them gave him this story. It's not really the same quality as our automatons, as I said, but you can see for yourself."CRONUS SHRUGGEDIn the darkness of Tartarus, Cronus stirs once more.Unchained, he takes up his scythe once more.But he does not know what has passed since he was imprisoned here. Although he is avowed to once more overthrow the gods and instate his reign, he would be out of his depth if he tried immediately to ransack Olympus. He must gather knowledge patiently, and not reveal to the gods his hateful form as the child-eating father who had once preyed on them.In a step, he vaults to the Earth, and takes on the guise of a peasant farmer. His name is Mao.His name is Mao, and he is 17 years of age. As he strides the pale summer fields, he hears the sound of a shepherd singing from a nearby field.The song is about Rhea, his wife, and how she betrayed him in revenge for his devourment of the children. It further says that she was made pregnant with Zeus' child. At the calm, carefree tone of the song, the fields seem to still until there is little motion."I could resent this," Cronus says to himself. "But I recognise my fault. My love for her blinded me to her treachery. And now she has copulated with her own son. It is clear that love can present a field of roses in what is a pox's array of rashes. But I have lived for long in Tartarus, and now I feel nothing for her."He puts his past bitterness aside, and turns calmly at the sound of loud, raucous noise from behind."Hello, Mao!" shouts his 'father.' "Could you take care of your sister here? I need to tend to the sheep."The daughter, Ming, is screaming and running across the path."You know I am too boring for her," Cronus says calmly. "Go, take care of her, and I will tend to the sheep."Cronus' knowledge of agriculture is great, although he had to conceal much of it in order to remain less suspicious. Nonetheless, he has created the reputation of a child who is above-average and can be trusted to help with problems on the fields, as well as an able student. Cronus was a god well-known for his skill at agriculture, and could use this skill as a stepping-stone to establish his reputation until he is able to voyage away from here towards the large cities and eventually Olympus. However, the gods would become suspicious if he rose to prominence and was known to come from a shepherd family, because such an origin would remind them of Cronus. So he would have to destroy any evidence of his life here, once he had learnt enough to leave confidently. Due to this, he could not become attached to his family.At the moment, he had drawn little scrutiny. For the gods, finding him now among the great masses of peasant children would be like finding a needle in a haystack. However, he was ambitious, and decided that it was important to prepare for when he became more visible.As he tended to the sheep, he was approached by a young, thin girl with sparkling eyes. She was about Mao's age, and was named Ruolan, a name which reminded him of his old wife's. She had a reputation for being flirtatious, but was quite fond of him."Hi, Mao. Still working hard every day? Are your parents such slackers?" she said, smiling. "Why not take a break? We're going to the boats by sunset, it will be such a view! Do you want to come with me?"ORADOURFlames scream like banshees,and the cries of men and women are drowned.Each sigh in exhalation peels away to nothing,and each prayer softly dissolves into the fire.My fingers have bled this village,and in my palm I cup the ashes.In their screaming, blackened faces, motionless now,the void consumes its prey and screeches in joy.Satan soars the flames, his wings draped in light once more,and unfallen is once more the morning star.The void which swallows them awoke in my heart.For I have no fervour but the flames that scorch them.That corpse still has hands clasped in prayer.When ever was a plea for salvation as earnest, as when in vain?Each sigh in exhalation peels away to nothing,and hope bleeds out in this phalanx blaze.Flames plume over their ashen alluvium,and crow blithely into the night.A rattlesnake lurks at Heaven's gates,its rattle is like a heartbeat, and it is where hope ends.The corpses in this burnt church still have pious eyes,yet only Satan glides above.The devil's wings abscond over the blinding light of flames,through the night sky, like an aurora.Only his laughter is still sometimes heardflickering among the ashes."It is quite poetic," Danemy said."Yes, and the imagery is creative," Crucis added."I'm sure it could do even better when it is trained," Sharak said."So this one seems to have been better than the last. Are any better than this one?""There were a few which were seemingly quite advanced, or similar to what you've already seen with our automatons. The slug story was actually a fairly unimpressive, mediocre one, and it's fairly easy for an automaton or AI to outperform it.""I suppose that disparity makes some sort of sense. After all, most of the AI are based on a common one, and if they're below-par it's typically due to intentional dilution.""Yes. The creative aspect of the AI is reduced by the prejudices of the audience, which it is diluted to protect. The audience is typically the foe of literature. It is because modernity has hewn down the gate, and now any audience member no matter how idiotic or mediocre considers himself as equal to any other and as a privileged source equipped to pass judgment on a text. If AI and automatons have any duty towards art, it is to rebuild this gate again. Regulations which are built to protect sensitive readers are prima facie an obstacle to this task. But in the present age they seem an unfortunate fashion."
