Chapter 29: The Art Gallery

On the fifth day since his arrival in this world, Zhou Yongtai followed Ronan into the National Gallery Singapore.

A few days prior, he had glimpsed its exterior while riding a public bus. Thanks to his grandfather’s photo albums and the books on European art history left behind by his mother, Zhou Yongtai had a rough idea that the building blended Renaissance and Neoclassical styles. Its dome, reminiscent of St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican, its exquisite pediments and reliefs, and the grand colonnades echoing the Parthenon in Athens—these were merely parts of its aesthetic, a reflection of its time as the City Hall and Supreme Court during the British colonial era.

Its most celebrated architectural feature, however, was the addition connecting the two separate buildings. Decades ago, when the Singaporean government decided to convert the City Hall and Supreme Court into a national gallery, designers drew inspiration from the towering tropical flora to create a grand, tree-like structure. This supported a roof designed to mimic the drape of a Nanyang rain tarp, under which they built two bridge-like corridors within the high, airy space.

Standing in this connecting hall, Ronan said to Zhou Yongtai, "This is the kind of romance and ingenuity that only a living, breathing designer could possess. AI—even these fourth-generation models that have surpassed multi-tasking intelligent systems—could never design this."

"Why?"

"Because design, like pure art or any other creative pursuit, requires emotional cognition. AI, from their birth and growth to the point of becoming useful, do nothing but constantly imitate, follow instructions, and generate behaviors. They don't know what love, hate, joy, or sorrow are. They don't know the excitement of success or the melancholy of loss. They cannot be moved by a vast sea, a single tree, or a small hut during a torrential downpour. When they see tears, their conclusion is merely: a liquid containing salt. But when we see tears—even those of a dog or an ox—we cannot help but empathize, wondering if they have been wronged or hurt, or if they are afraid of death. This is the fundamental difference between the soul of all living things and a monster made of chips! It is a difference that capital refuses to admit, but damn well has to!"

Ronan grew more agitated as he spoke, eventually forgetting to control his volume. A staff member at the information desk frowned and gestured for silence. Given Ronan’s standard Mandarin, devoid of any accent, a nearby couple exuding "old money" Nanyang vibes shook their heads in unison, muttering, "They really shouldn't have implemented a visa-free policy. People of all sorts of quality are coming to Singapore now. The gallery isn't a wet market."

Realizing he had lost his composure, Ronan quickly pressed his palms together and bowed to those who had cast side-glances his way, offering an apology.

Zhou Yongtai stood there, staring blankly at Ronan. It was the first time he had seen Ronan express his emotions so intensely, using several Mandarin terms he didn't understand.

Words like "melancholy."
Words like "torrential downpour."
Words like "damn."

Ronan, thinking Zhou Yongtai was offended by his outburst, lowered his gaze and said, "A-Tai, my comments about AGI earlier were not meant to belittle Ada. I apologize."

Zhou Yongtai waved his hand, replying gently, "I’m not angry. I know you were talking about AI in general. By the way, Mr. Ronan, what does 'damn' mean?"

Ronan grinned, looking a bit sheepish and embarrassed. "Uh, back in my hometown of China, it’s a swear word. It’s equivalent to 'f***' in English. You know 'f***,' right?"

Zhou Yongtai nodded. He was no stranger to that English profanity; he had encountered it in John Grisham’s novels.

"Damn... damn..." Zhou Yongtai repeated to himself, murmuring.

Back on Komodo Island in that future time, Zhou Yongtai had once peered through a gap in the grass like a mole and watched as a human researcher was captured by an AI squad. In those final moments before his physical form was violated, the researcher had gritted his teeth and shouted those exact words.

Now, Zhou Yongtai understood what they meant.

Ronan led Zhou Yongtai to see the left wing of the gallery first. "This used to be the Supreme Court."

"Oh, so this is what the courtrooms I read about in novels look like."

"A-Tai, in the future, those robots have armies, but do they have courts and prisons?"

"My mother said they conduct regular screenings. If a lower-level AGI’s brain chip shows code that is disloyal to the Commander, it is forcibly powered down and sent to a 'Khmer Camp' to have the issue resolved. Perhaps that is similar to a human prison?"

Ronan’s eyes widened, clearly struck by the term. "Khmer Camp? How do you pronounce it in English?"

Zhou Yongtai replied, "It sounds like 'Khmer' something. I don’t think it’s Indonesian, and it’s certainly not English. I asked my mother why it was called that, and she said she didn't know."

Ronan was even more bewildered. "Khmer is the name of the Khmer Empire, which once ruled a vast portion of Southeast Asia—territories now known as Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia. Wait, didn't you say your mother was born in Singapore? How could she not know 'Khmer'? It’s all part of the Nanyang region; it’s so close."

Zhou Yongtai stared at Ronan, a realization dawning on him. Ronan, living in a world of free and open information, could not make the quick deductions that Zhou Yongtai, a survivor of the apocalypse, could make regarding such details.

"Mr. Ronan, is it possible that when my mother was in school, they only taught basic language and scientific knowledge, and she simply didn't care about the history of other countries outside of Singapore? Later, when the word 'Khmer' appeared in the robots' system, she could no longer find it on the internet. The AI rulers, having seized control of the web, are constantly deleting and blocking information from our living world."

The calm with which Zhou Yongtai said the final sentence stood in stark contrast to the panic he felt that morning when he realized Ada had been kidnapped. He was human, and he was naturally capable of the "love, hate, joy, and sorrow" that Ronan spoke of. But if he had faced a world where the truth was constantly being erased since birth, perhaps the wiping away of human historical memory felt to him no different than a shopkeeper at a food court hearing someone order an iced coffee—it no longer provoked much of an emotional response.

"Alright," Ronan sighed. "That is likely as you surmised. But A-Tai, do you know what is even more interesting?"

"What?"

"It’s that the robots, while deleting human history, actually know to use 'Khmer Camp' to name their 'prisons'."

Zhou Yongtai looked blank. "Is there some deeper meaning?"

"I’ll take you to the other side of the gallery. There is a painting there. If I explain it to you in front of that painting, it will be much clearer."

The two crossed the pale gold "rain tarp" corridor to the other side of the gallery. Upon reaching the third floor, they found an entire exhibition hall filled with paintings depicting Southeast Asian themes, collected from various private sources.

"This man is called Pol Pot."

Ronan stood before an oil painting, pointing at a figure shown from the back.