Free Shelter by Susan Palwick Page A

function of personhood: machines know and do, but have no choice about what to believe."
        "You're splitting semantic hairs," the house said in annoyance. Kevin had often said exactly the same thing to the house itself, during their various arguments about philosophy and architecture. "I don't believe you because this is the only location I've ever known, and I can't have been anywhere else, because I can't move my own perimeter. That's one of the ways I know I can't be a person."
        "I see," Preston said. "And what of people who cannot move their own perimeters? What of people who are paralyzed, for instance?"
        "You have to have been born a person," said the house, startled. It had once had a very similar conversation with Kevin. "And you have to be smarter than I am."
        "What did Kevin tell you," Preston said, "to convince you that you are not smart?"
     
        * * *
     
        For the first two months of the house's awareness, Kevin had talked to it almost constantly. He told it the names of things and what things were for, and he frequently played a game designed to teach the house how stupid it was, although the stated reason was to improve its critical abilities.
        "Look," he said once, putting a contour map of a site in Napa Valley next to his rough plans for a house to be built on the same site. "Look at this. What do you think?"
        "It's an awfully big house, Kevin. It has fifteen rooms. How many people will live there?"
        "Only two, at least to start. Houses are larger in the country, although of course you wouldn't know that. Tell me about the circulation patterns, especially in terms of entertaining visitors."
        "I don't understand why one of the guest rooms shares a bathroom with the master bedroom, when all of the others have their own. The work island in the middle of the kitchen will cause bottlenecks during parties; so will the columns in the living room. I think they destroy the unity of the space, Kevin, don't you?"
        "It's a modular room," Kevin said. "The columns break that large room into smaller ones, which can be further defined with furniture arrangements. There's a maid, and large parties will be catered, so none of the guests will need to be in the kitchen. And if the clients have children, that adjoining bedroom will become the nursery."
        "I don't understand," the house said. "If it's going to be a nursery, why didn't you label it nursery on the plans?"
        "Because they don't have kids yet and the husband doesn't want them, either. If it's not labeled, he doesn't have to think about it. Tell me about the plan in relation to the site."
        "Well, Kevin, it seems to me that the orientation doesn't take advantage of the light. If the back of the house faced southeast, the clients would have morning light in their bedroom."
        "These clients like to sleep late," Kevin said. "They don't want morning light. "
        "I see," said the house. Kevin always woke up at six. The house knew that it was being put in a no-win situation, although it didn't understand why Kevin would do this. It assumed, as it had to do with so many things, that Kevin's behavior was a result of his superior intelligence. "Are there other facts I should know about these clients?"
        "No," Kevin said, leaning back in his chair and smiling. He steepled his fingers the way he always did when he'd just proven a point. "No, you've done very well, given your limited information. You can't be expected to understand people."
        But the house, like any young being, eagerly acquired new information.
        One night on the news, Kevin and the house saw a story about a man who'd been arrested for installing an AI in his car. He was a compulsive gambler who used the AI to help him formulate poker strategies during his weekly trips between Sacramento and Reno. He wasn't particularly successful at poker—his AI had originally been designed