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Authors: Richard Brown,William Irwin,Kevin S. Decker

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Just in case James Cameron’s nightmare ever becomes a reality, we should know what these two supposedly infallible signs are, so we can avoid being as thoroughly duped by the machines as Descartes believed his contemporaries had been. What can an ensouled being do that a machine allegedly can’t? First, while Descartes foresaw that machines might be designed to vocalize certain words in response to environmental triggers—like those animatronic Furby dolls that hit the store shelves in 1998—they could never learn to string words together in novel ways to express their thoughts or to respond to the meaning of what has been said to them.
14
 
Second, while we might build machines that far surpass human beings in some specialized skill—such as playing chess (like Andy Goode’s Turk, which “plays chess at a level that can defeat every human being that has ever lived and probably ever will live”) or piloting stealth bombers (which the T-101 in
T2
reports will “fly with a perfect operational record” after being outfitted with Cyberdyne computers)—they could never acquire the versatility with which human beings can apply reason across the board to any sort of problem or task.
 
But is that right? Not in the world of the
Terminator
.
 
The Sarah Connor Criterion
 
“Hey, buddy! Is that a dead cat in there or what?”
 
Something malodorous has been wafting from the T-101’s flophouse room, offending the nostrils of the janitor who hollers this confrontational question through the door. As the T-101 turns his head, we see something resembling a computer screen superimposed on a shot of the room as it appears from his point of view. On it there appears a list of “possible responses,” including “Yes/No,” “Or what?” “Please come back later,” and “Fuck you, asshole.” In a dazzling display of linguistic dexterity worthy of any human male past puberty (especially if he’s not
long
past puberty), the T-101 scrolls down the list and selects the one response that James Cameron knew would delight us most to hear intoned in that deep, Austrian-accented, emotionless voice. It’s quite possible that the T-101 was introduced to this phrase only hours before by a switchblade-wielding punk, in which case he’s obviously an exceptionally quick learner, having already acquired a feel for when a phrase like “Fuck you” can be used to good advantage. With a hard drive that stores up glib ripostes for all occasions, it’s a safe bet he could pass Descartes’ language test, as could his look-alike in
T2
, who displays a real flair for the
bon mot
, tossing off phrases like “
Hasta la vista
, baby!” with impeccable timing. Astonishingly, this mastery of witty banter is displayed only hours after John Connor has given him his first lesson in not sounding like a “dork.” Cameron, on
SCC
, also knows her way around the language, although admittedly she could use a little help in the “not-sounding-like-dork” department.
 
But can Terminators satisfy Descartes’ other test? Can they apply reason in versatile and flexible ways to a potentially limitless variety of tasks? On the one hand, the answer might seem to be obviously
not
, since singleness of purpose is a Terminator’s stock in trade. As Sarah Connor tries in vain to impress on Dr. Silberman, “they have been built to do one perfect thing: to kill you” (
SCC
, “The Demon Hand”). Of course, we also know that Terminators can be reprogrammed to do one other “perfect thing”: keep you alive, at least if your name happens to be John Connor or Kate Brewster. But the fact that a machine could be designed to perform one of these tasks much more reliably and expertly than any human being wouldn’t persuade Descartes that they’re “true men” rather than soulless automata. What makes a machine that can outperform us at killing any different from “a clock composed exclusively of wheels and springs,” an equally soulless mechanism that “can count the hours and measure time more accurately than we can with all our carefulness”?
15
 
On the other hand, in order to fulfill its mission of killing John Connor (or keeping him alive, whichever the case may be), a Terminator may need to marshal a broad arsenal of skills, ranging from proficiency in the use of weapons and motor vehicles (including the use of motor vehicles as weapons) to the ability to pull off a convincing imitation of a human being (albeit one who’s pretty severely maladjusted socially)—not to mention a wicked knack for computer hacking that would turn master hacker Kevin Mitnick green with envy. Moreover, as the T-101 reports in
T2
, “My CPU is a neural net processor, a learning computer,” so that once his “switch” has been properly reset, he can acquire new skills in addition to his factory-issued ones. Having a single overriding aim is not the same as being restricted to a narrow range of competencies, as can be seen by simply considering the enormous variety of skills we all bring to bear each day simply in order to ensure our survival.
 
But neither the linguistic skills nor the versatility of a Terminator can persuade Sarah Connor that a machine like Cameron is anything but a soulless “Tin Miss.” This dismissive sobriquet is, of course, an allusion to the Tin Man, a character from L. Frank Baum’s classic
The Wizard of Oz
. The Tin Man started out life as a Munchkin before his entire body—limbs, torso, and head—was amputated piece by piece by an enchanted axe and replaced with metal parts, leaving him without a human heart and thus incapable (or so the literal-minded Tin Man believes) of love or compassion. The Tin Man reference alerts us to Sarah Connor’s criterion of soul-having, which is very different from Descartes’.
 
Whereas Descartes associates the soul with certain linguistic and problem-solving skills that he (perhaps wrongly) believed a machine could never simulate, Sarah Connor locates the soul in the heart, where our emotional nature resides. And it’s here that a Terminator suffers a deficit that no amount of artificial intelligence can make up. However adept Cameron may be at reading John’s emotional state by registering his skin temperature, salinity, and pulse, she can never know what emotions feel like from the
inside
(
SCC
, “Gnothi Seauton”). According to the Sarah Connor criterion, this means
she really has no inside, no soul
.
 
The two emotions most conspicuously lacking in a Terminator are fear and compassion,
16
either of which might be considered a liability in a machine designed to be a soldier. As the T-101 explains to young John Connor in
T2
, he has no fear of dying, “no emotion about it one way or another,” only an imperative “to stay functional until my mission’s complete. Then it doesn’t matter.” What’s missing from the mechanical breast of the T-101 and his cyber-cousins is something fundamental not only to human existence but perhaps to any sentient form of life—an innate feeling for the preciousness of its own existence. This feeling, prior to any reflection on our part, instills in us a desire to avoid harm. Once that base is covered, it drives us to pursue whatever form of flourishing or happiness is suited to our nature. But a Terminator, having no instinctual preference for its continued existence, also has no inclination toward its own happiness. “I’m a machine,” explains Cameron. “I can’t be happy” (
SCC
, “Mr. Ferguson Is Ill Today”).
 
Conatus
is the word used by the philosopher Baruch Spinoza (1632-1677), a fierce critic of Descartes, to designate the drive of every living being to preserve itself and enhance its well-being to the fullest extent possible. This
conatus
is the basis for the emotional life of animals, human animals included, and the soul is simply our consciousness of this fundamental life process stirring within us.
17
From Spinoza’s perspective—and from Sarah Connor’s—a machine that has “no emotion . . . one way or another” about its own continued existence has no soul, no self—there’s really
nobody
home. And this is precisely what makes a Terminator such a “perfect” soldier. Having no
conatus
or soul of its own, it’s a perfectly compliant tool, carrying out its mission, whatever it may be, without resistance or complaint.
 
Unable to value its own existence, unable even to feel pain, how can one of these nearly indestructible killing machines ever learn to feel compassion, an emotion based on our ability to respond to the suffering of others as if it were our own?
18
Of course, the Terminator’s heartless disregard for the survival and well being of others (unless someone’s survival happens to be the “mission”) is one of the things that makes it so lethally effective in carrying out its assignments. As Kyle Reese desperately struggled to get Sarah Connor to understand the night they first met, “That Terminator . . . can’t be bargained with, it can’t be reasoned with. It doesn’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear, and it absolutely will not stop. Ever. Until you are dead!”
 
Did you notice how Kyle highlighted the Terminator’s
unreasonableness
? There’s a school of thought that regards emotions as an impediment to reason. Descartes was clearly enrolled in that school, since he claimed that emotions were produced mechanically in the body, whereas reason was an activity of the soul. But in Kyle’s speech the Terminator’s unreasonableness is of a piece with his heartlessness, as though reason were a plant that can’t grow without a rich soil of emotions to nourish it.
 
Of course, it all depends on what we mean by reason. If reason is simply the ability to solve problems and to determine the most efficient means to carry out your assigned “mission,” then our puny, fallible, all-too-human intellect is no match for the machines. It’s even possible that if Descartes were alive today, witnessing how versatile machines have become, he would revise his judgment and conclude that some machines have become “rational” enough to qualify for membership in his elite league of “beings-with-souls.” But there’s another meaning of “rational” that’s tied to an appreciation of what’s really important and an ability to order our priorities accordingly—and in this respect a Terminator is utterly irrational.
 
All sentient beings with an emotional investment in their own existence have needs rooted in their biological nature. Rational animals like us are aware of those needs and can prioritize them, weighing them against other concerns that express our social nature. A Terminator, however, can only carry out the mission of its programmer. Without a
conatus
(or a conception of its own well-being based on its natural drives) and without a capacity for genuine concern for others, there’s nothing to guide the Terminator’s actions in a reasonable direction. On this, let’s hear from philosopher Mary Midgley:
 
A computer would see no objection to organizing life on the principle of maximizing noise, getting everything as clean as possible, making everybody always tread on the lines between the paving stones, or minimizing emotion. Computers are not rational; they are stupid things. They do not know what
matters
; they are only consistent.
19
 
 
To Midgley’s list of organizing principles, we could add killing Sarah Connor, John Connor, or Kate Brewster, or keeping all or any of those persons alive. To a machine it’s all the same. And that’s why, regardless of how versatile and linguistically proficient a Terminator may become, it will always remain a soulless, irrational being.
 
Dreaming about Dogs
 
Sarah Connor twitches a couple of times and snaps open her eyes. “I was dreaming about dogs,” she gasps. As though explaining the meaning of her dream, Kyle Reese tells her, “We use them to spot Terminators.” No doubt Descartes would say that this is using one kind of machine to spot another. But if we employ Sarah Connor’s criterion of soul-having, then a dog’s protective sense of its own well-being, its
conatus
, and its sensitivity to the feelings of others reveal it to be a living soul, not a
bête-machine
. Judging from what Kyle says, it may even be better than Descartes at telling the difference between the two.
 
NOTES
 
1
A few philosophers have questioned whether Descartes really held this view. See, for example, John Cottingham, “‘A Brute to the Brutes?’ Descartes’ Treatment of Animals,”
Philosophy
53 (October 1978): 551-559. Still, the interpretation of Descartes presented in this chapter reflects the view of most scholars, perhaps because it fits so well with the mind-body dualism for which he is famous
 
2
René Descartes,
The Passions of the Soul
, trans. Stephen Voss (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1989), 22.
 
3
See André Kukla and Joel Walmsley,
Mind: A Historical and Philosophical Introduction to the Major Theories
(Indianapolis: Hackett, 2006), 81-82.
 
4
This is not necessarily the same thing as saying that nonhuman animals have no conscious awareness of what happens to them, only that thought and feeling play no causal role in their actions. Most of Descartes’ remarks on the subject, however, suggest that he believed animals to be entirely unconscious. See Cottingham’s “A Brute to the Brutes?” for a dissenting view.
BOOK: Terminator and Philosophy: I'll Be Back, Therefore I Am
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