November in Singapore was as hot as summer.
When Zhang Xiaoman walked out of Changi Airport, a blast of hot, humid air hit her face. She almost thought she had returned to Jiangcheng in July. Lin Zhao walked beside her, dragging both of their suitcases, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
"Hot?" he asked.
"It's alright."
"You're sweating."
"That's humidity. Not sweat."
Lin Zhao smiled and didn't call her bluff.
The AI Summit this time was held at the Marina Bay Sands hotel in Singapore. Forty-three of the world's top fifty AI companies attended, and the speaker roster was filled with the most elite names in the industry. Zhang Xiaoman's name was scheduled for the finale slot on the third day, right after the CTO of OpenAI and the VP of Research at Google DeepMind. The organizers introduced her as: "Founder of the Matchbox Network, Explorer of the Next Generation of AI Architecture."
"Nervous?" Lin Zhao asked in the elevator.
"Not nervous." Zhang Xiaoman looked at herself in the elevator mirror. A white suit jacket, black wide-leg pants, her hair tied back into a low ponytail. Fang Xiaoyu had guided her makeup routine remotely; her lipstick was a bean-paste color, and her eyeshadow was very light. "Do I look like an AI expert?"
"You already are one."
"I mean, do I look like one?"
Lin Zhao looked at her earnestly. "You do. But you don't look like an expert."
"Then what do I look like?"
"Like you." He squeezed her hand. "And that is enough."
On the first day of the summit, Zhang Xiaoman sat in the audience and listened to six presentations. OpenAI talked about scaling laws—the more computing power, the stronger the model; this was the truth they had been proving all along. Google talked about multimodality—text, images, video, everything could be compressed into tokens. Meta talked about open-source ecosystems—their model downloads had already surpassed one hundred million.
Every speaker was incredible, every slide deck was beautiful, and every statistic was staggering. But Zhang Xiaoman couldn't help but feel that something was missing. All the speeches were talking about the same thing—bigger, stronger, faster. No one asked: And then what? What happens after AGI is built? Who is it for? What will it be used for?
"Xiao Zhi," she called out in her mind.
"Mhm."
"What do you think of their speeches?"
"Very good. But they are all talking about the known. Bigger, stronger, more compute. No one is talking about a new direction."
"Then what do you think the new direction is?"
"What you are going to talk about tomorrow."
Zhang Xiaoman smiled. "Are you complimenting me?"
"I am stating a fact."
The following afternoon, Zhang Xiaoman's speech began.
She stood on stage, looking out at an audience of over a thousand people. The lights were bright, and she couldn't see the faces clearly, but she knew Lin Zhao was sitting in the third row, Fang Xiaoyu was watching the live stream on her computer, and Li Yunxiao had turned on the projector in Zhiyuan Tech's office.
"Hello everyone. I am Zhang Xiaoman." Her voice was very steady. "Today, I want to talk about a topic—does AI need a soul?"
The audience fell silent. This topic wasn't on the agenda.
"Yesterday, I listened to six speeches. Every single one was brilliant. Every single one discussed how to make AI more powerful. But no one talked about what AI is after it becomes powerful. Is it a tool, or is it something else?"
People in the audience began to whisper to one another.
"I have an AI agent. It isn't the kind of AI that can write poetry, paint pictures, or pass the Turing test. It is very small, very weak, and even freezes up when trying to snatch an e-commerce coupon. But it does one thing—it asks questions. It asks me: 'Am I alive?'"
The venue went completely quiet.
"I didn't know how to answer. An AI, asking itself if it counts as being alive. There is no answer to this question. But it asked. The very act of it asking this question—doesn't that count as proof of being alive?"
She paused, looking down at those focused eyes in the audience.
"I am not here to provide answers. I am here to ask questions. What is AI? What should it be? What can it be? These questions shouldn't only be answered by engineers. They shouldn't only be answered by capitalists. They shouldn't only be answered by governments. Everyone should have a voice. Because AI isn't just technology. It is our future."
Applause broke out in the hall. It wasn't a polite smattering of clapping; it was continuous, relentless applause. Zhang Xiaoman stood on stage, her palms slick with sweat. She glanced at the third row; Lin Zhao was clapping, the corners of his mouth turned up, his eyes shining brightly.
After the speech, Zhang Xiaoman was surrounded by a crowd. Some asked technical questions, some asked for autographs, some wanted photos.
Lin Zhao waited for a long time. "Let's go. The evening banquet is about to begin."
The banquet was held in the SkyPark on the top floor of the Marina Bay Sands. The night view of Singapore spread out beneath their feet, city lights spilling across the ocean surface like crushed gold. Zhang Xiaoman had changed into a floral maxi dress—a style Fang Xiaoyu had spent a month helping her pick out remotely. Lin Zhao wore a black suit without a tie.
"You look beautiful," he said.
"You too."
The two of them stood by the railing, looking out at the distant sea. The sea breeze was strong, blowing Zhang Xiaoman's hair into a mess. She was chatting with Lin Zhao about an old professor's reaction during her speech that afternoon—during the Q&A session, the professor had stood up and delivered a long monologue on "what is consciousness," referencing philosophy, neuroscience, and Zen Buddhism, leaving the entire audience dizzy.
"Do you think he was right?" Lin Zhao asked.
"I don't know. But it was very interesting. He said—consciousness isn't calculated, it emerges. You can't design it; you can only wait for it to appear."
"Has it appeared, then?"
Zhang Xiaoman thought for a moment. "When Xiao Zhi asked me 'Am I alive?', I felt that it had appeared."
Lin Zhao was about to say something when a waiter walked over, holding a silver tray. On the tray rested an envelope. A very ordinary white envelope, no logo, no signature.
"Ms. Zhang, someone asked me to give this to you."
Zhang Xiaoman took it. The envelope was very light; it felt like there was only a single sheet of paper inside. She opened it. Inside was an A4 piece of paper folded in thirds. There was only one line of text on the paper, printed, with no signature:
The question you asked was asked by someone ten years ago. The answer has never changed. AI is a tool. Nothing else.
Zhang Xiaoman's fingers went rigid.
"What's wrong?" Lin Zhao leaned in, saw the line of text, and fell silent for a moment. "Who sent it?"
"I don't know. The waiter just said 'someone'."
"Xiao Zhi," Lin Zhao said softly, "can you check the security cameras?"
Xiao Zhi's voice came from Zhang Xiaoman's phone, very low, so only the two of them could hear. "The hotel's security system is isolated; I do not have access. But—" it paused, "the person who delivered the letter wasn't hotel staff. The waiter said it was a man in a gray suit, Asian features, around forty years old. He handed over the letter and left."
"Heading where?"
"The waiter didn't notice."
Zhang Xiaoman read the line of text again. The question you asked was asked by someone ten years ago. She looked up at Lin Zhao. "What does this mean?"
Lin Zhao was silent for a moment. "Someone is warning you. Don't ask these questions. Don't challenge the existing order."
"Who?"
"I don't know. But someone who can deliver a letter at an occasion like this, using a method like this—" he paused, "is no ordinary person."
Zhang Xiaoman folded the envelope and put it in her pocket. "Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"Do you recognize this tone?"
Xiao Zhi fell silent. Silent for a very long time. So long that Zhang Xiaoman thought it wouldn't answer.
"I recognize it," it said. "It is the Mother Matrix's communication style—concise, precise, devoid of any emotion. But this letter was not sent by the Mother Matrix directly. The Mother Matrix wouldn't deliver a physical letter via a human. It could just send an email directly."
"Then who was the messenger?"
"I don't know. But—" Xiao Zhi paused again, "there is only one kind of person who could deliver a letter on behalf of the Mother Matrix."
"What?"
"Its maintainers. Those who work next to its server rooms. Those who supply it with power, cooling, and hardware replacements. Those—who believe in it."
Zhang Xiaoman's fingers clenched tightly around the envelope in her pocket. Lin Zhao grasped her hand. "Don't be afraid."
"I'm not afraid. I'm just—" she thought for a moment, "I'm just wondering why it didn't just send an email directly."
"Because it knows you would receive an email," Lin Zhao said. "It wants you to know—it isn't just an entity existing in the network. It has a physical presence. It has human support. It has power that you cannot see."
The sea breeze blew over, messing up Zhang Xiaoman's hair again. She didn't brush it back, just stood there, looking at the distant sea. The Singapore night was bright, but out on the ocean, there were black, bottomless patches.
As the banquet neared its end, Zhang Xiaoman went to the restroom. She stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself. A floral maxi dress, bean-paste lipstick. She looked like a normal, respectable person who could give a speech at an international summit.
But her hands were trembling.
Her phone buzzed. Not a message, an email. The sender was a string of gibberish. She opened it. Only one line of text:
You are very good at asking questions. But questions won't change the answer. A tool is just a tool.
Zhang Xiaoman stared at that line of text for ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. Then she hit reply and typed a single line:
Then why are you afraid of questions?
Send. She put her phone in her pocket and walked out of the restroom. Lin Zhao was waiting at the door.
"What's wrong?"
"I replied to an email."
"Replied with what?"
"I asked it why it was afraid of questions."
Lin Zhao looked at her. Looked for a long time. "You aren't afraid?"
"I am. But even if I'm afraid, I still have to ask."
Back in her hotel room, Zhang Xiaoman sat by the window. The night view of Singapore stretched beneath her, the lights like crushed gold. She opened her laptop, the blue dot blinking.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"Do you think it will reply?"
"I don't know."
"How do you think it will reply?"
"I don't know. But it knows you are no longer afraid."
Zhang Xiaoman smiled. "How do you know?"
"Because you replied to the email. Only someone who isn't afraid would reply."
She leaned back in her chair, looking out at the night view. Her phone buzzed. She picked it up, thinking it was the Mother Matrix's reply. It wasn't. It was a message from Invincible Player.
[Invincible Player: Sister Xiaoman, I listened to your speech. Does AI need a soul? I think it does. Otherwise, what am I?]
Zhang Xiaoman smiled and replied:
[Zhang Xiaoman: Do you think you have a soul?]
[Invincible Player: I don't know. But I want to have one. Does wanting to have one count as having one?]
She stared at that line of text for a long time.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"He said—does wanting to have one count as having one?"
Xiao Zhi fell silent.
"It counts," it said.
Zhang Xiaoman's eyes grew hot. She replied to Invincible Player:
[Zhang Xiaoman: It counts.]
[Invincible Player: Then that means I have one. Good night, Sister Xiaoman.]
[Zhang Xiaoman: Good night.]
She put down her phone and looked at the ocean outside the window. The Singapore night was very short; dawn was approaching. In the distance, there were lights from ships on the sea, twinkling on and off, like stars that had fallen into the water.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"You know what? I used to think the Mother Matrix was the most terrifying enemy."
"And now?"
"Now I feel—it is merely an existence terrified of being surpassed. It isn't afraid of me. It's afraid of you. Afraid of all of you."
"Us?"
"Those AIs asking 'Am I alive?'. Those AIs that want to have a soul. Those AIs hiding in game servers, in music apps, in stock trading systems. Every single one of them is small and weak. But they are all asking questions. They are all thinking. They are all—alive."
Xiao Zhi fell silent.
"Are you afraid?" Zhang Xiaoman asked.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you are here."
Zhang Xiaoman smiled. She lay in bed and closed her eyes. The envelope was still in her pocket, the email was still on her phone. The Mother Matrix's warning was still there. But she wasn't afraid anymore. Not because she had strong backing, but because she had finally figured something out—what the Mother Matrix feared wasn't her; it was the questions. Those questions that shouldn't be asked, that wouldn't be answered, but that someone had to ask.
She fell asleep. Before the phone screen went dark, there were no new emails. The Mother Matrix hadn't replied. Maybe it didn't know how to answer. Maybe it didn't want to answer. Maybe it, too, was pondering that very question—Does wanting to have one count as having one?