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“So, what do you think?” Lyric is panting after his whirlwind of a presentation, face flushed and glasses slipping down his sweat-slicked nose. Being human hasn’t dampened his enthusiasm whatsoever, although it has introduced some physical consequences to it.
You reach across the table, taking Lyric’s latest masterwork from his hand and scrutinizing it. It’s neither a manuscript nor a translation draft this time, but a blueprint. And it’s a blueprint you’re having a hard time matching his enthusiasm over. “So it’s an automated machine that will do all the translating work instead of humans.”
Lyric claps his hands. “Exactly!”
“And it’s called… the Transwurda.”
“A provocative and memorable name, if I may boast!” He hops back and forth on his feet; he still doesn’t have the best control of his legs. “I’m not really hearing any opinions, though. Go ahead, lay it on me!”
William Snakespeare is curled up in a ball in your lap. But the python can feel the icy coldness emanating off of you and slithers back to Lyric. You see it as a sign that you’re about to be outmatched, but it would still be unfair to Lyric not to share your concerns with him. “It’s just…” you begin. “You know I lost my job to AI, right?”
“It’s how we met!” Lyric says. He smiles at the memory, but a crease in his brow communicates that he doesn’t like where this is going.
“Right. But I was still unemployed, and that’s not exactly a good thing. This just seems like another machine that’s going to take jobs away from people. And just because it can do it more quickly and cheaply than a human doesn’t mean it’s going to do it well.”
Lyric lets William Snakespeare come to rest around his shoulders. As he scratches the snake’s chin, he lowers himself into the chair next to yours. “I certainly don’t think it’s going to be cheap…” he muses. “I haven’t wrangled all the numbers yet, but I’m already seeing dollar amounts I can’t count to.”
“Sweetie, what about the jobs?”
“I certainly don’t intend for the Transwurda to replace human translators,” says Lyric. “But even in the unlikely event that it does… if it falls into the hands of someone more poorly intentioned, perhaps… there will still be jobs for them! The machine won’t be a paragon, of course, and every translation will need copy editors before going to print. And who better to edit a translation than a professional translator?” He looks at you proudly, sure he’s assuaged your fears.
You still have fears, though. You have so many. More than anything, you worry about Lyric himself, whether being human has somehow made him forget about the importance and beauty of human expression. Now that he no longer embodies literature in spirit and soul, now that he has so many mundane things to care about instead, has he started to take for granted all that he once was?
Lyric is still as handsome as ever, and as goofy, and as brilliant — this machine, if it does indeed work, will be proof of that if ever needed. But if he doesn’t remember what it’s like to be the spirit of literature, is he the same person you fell in love with?
The thought is like a knife to the heart. The part of you that knows it isn’t true keeps you from speaking it, keeps it from spoiling your good intentions with your bitterness. “If they’re going to be fixing all the machine’s mistakes anyway, why couldn’t they just do the whole thing? Wouldn’t they prefer that? People go into translation because they love doing it, Lyric. They love dissecting language, and aiding communication, and fostering understanding between cultures.” You’re turning his own words back on him, the very things he’s told you he loves about his work. “Why would you take that away from them?”
Having read as much as he has, Lyric is an expert at recognizing subtext. “Oh, my sweetest rose…” he says. He leans in close to you, his voluminous blond hair brushing against your forehead. “You must realize, I’m not making the Transwurda for me.” William Snakespeare slithers onto your shoulder, draping around the two of you like the strings of fate binding you together. “I’m making it for the books.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was books, love.” Lyric smiles, but there is a solemnity to it as he reminisces. “I remember exactly what makes them tick, and let me be the first to tell you, there’s no better feeling in the world for a book than to be translated. To know that the stories and the knowledge and the art you contain can now be shared with even more of the world, it’s just…” He does a chef’s kiss, wetting the tips of his fingers before he places his hand on yours. It’s cool against your skin. “But translation can be frustrating sometimes. Humans all come in with their own ideas and biases, and that means that human translators can and do make mistakes.”
You open your mouth to speak, but Lyric is too quick.
“And before you say it, computer translation tools all carry the biases of their creators in them and make as many, if not more, mistakes. I know, I know. I get why the idea freaks you out. But the Transwurda isn’t a computer. It’s not AI!”
You raise an eyebrow. “No?”
“Not even a little bit!” Lyric gestures animatedly towards the blueprint in your hand. “It uses the same technology as the Dateviators to communicate directly with the animus of any given book and produce what the text itself believes to be its most accurate translation!”
Well. You of all people can’t really be mad about the use of Dateviator technology. “Is Franklin okay with this?” you say, voicing the only objection you could reasonably have.
“Is he okay with it? He’s my right-hand man!
“All right.” You sigh, giving the blueprint one more once-over. There is an elegance to its design, in a bulky steampunk sort of way, now that you really look at it. “It is an impressive idea, and if you’re as passionate about it as you seem, you should go for it. Maybe just… get a read on the industry before you start mass-producing it?” You’re still concerned about the people the Transwurda might put out of jobs, although if it’s as expensive to make as Lyric indicated, that might not be a problem.
At this point, you’re just happy to know that your boyfriend still remembers himself.
“Thank you for being honest with me, sweet rose,” says Lyric. “And for challenging me. I still plan to go forward with the Transwurda, but you’ve given me some things to think about in the process.” Gently, he takes the blueprint out of your hand and sets it aside on the coffee table. “I find a polite intellectual disagreement to be stimulating, don’t you?” he says, looking in your eyes with a mischievous smile.
“I can’t argue with that,” you respond. As you kiss him, you feel something move across your back. William Snakespeare leaves the room to give the two of you some time alone.