by Dima Zales
“For that kind of targeting, you’d need someone’s Brainocyte ID,” Muhomor says. “But getting someone’s ID is as hard a project as finding a loophole in one of the apps.”
“But it’s not impossible?” I ask.
Muhomor shrugs. “You know better than I. In the software universe, few things are impossible. There are just levels of difficulty.”
The three of us share a look. We purposefully left out the details about how the ID system works when we open-sourced Brainocytes to the world. But we also know that relying on trade secrets isn’t a very good strategy for keeping secrets, so it was just a matter of time before everyone found out everything there’s to know about Brainocyte technology—yet another reason we’ve dumped billions into security research and development.
“Someone would’ve had to reverse-engineer the IDs somehow,” Mitya says, proving he’s thinking exactly what I’m thinking. “It could be done from either inert Brainocytes, or if you wanted faster results, from hardware that you harvested from a hopefully dead user’s head. It would take many years, either way, even if you had as much money as we have.”
The morbid mention of a dead someone’s head sparks a hint of an idea, but when I try to verbalize it, it escapes my consciousness. This happens with enhanced thinking sometimes; you get that feeling of having something on the tip of your tongue, but it takes minutes or sometimes hours before it comes to the forefront of your mind in a eureka moment. For now, I say, “Let’s skip the how of it for the moment and assume someone knows how Brainocyte IDs work. What would be next?”
“They might be able to work out a way to get someone’s Brainocytes to reveal a specific user ID,” Muhomor says. “It would require the Brainocytes to interface with some app directly—”
“Like a brain scan at the hospital?” I smack myself on the virtual forehead. “Gogi and Joe both got hit on the head and were scanned. Could someone have used that as a chance to learn their Brainocyte IDs?”
Muhomor looks a bit like my mom does when she’s multitasking using AROS. He must be doing some heavy research.
Mitya, on the other hand, gets excited. “Lennox Dixon had his head scanned because of his tumor.” The speed of his Zik messages is on the verge of being too fast to follow. “Ruzatov had a head trauma. The drunks in Russia had been to a hospital right before they attacked our robots.”
“I just checked, and everyone involved shares this pattern,” Muhomor says. “Every bomber, every drunk, the drivers of the two cars that tried to kill you in Brooklyn—everyone was in a hospital or some other facility where they had their brains scanned. This is compelling evidence that Brainocyte IDs are a part of this mess, and that in turn supports the hacking theory.”
He looks at me with the disgust of a person learning he just got syphilis from a toilet seat. I can relate. Besides BraveChill, the only thing that stops me from panicking is the knowledge that I haven’t had my brain scanned, so my ID remains unknown to our adversaries. The only way I could be turned into a mindless slave is if the entire world—or a subset such as, say, all of New York—were turned into puppets, a disquieting idea on its own. Then again, it would take insane computational resources and staff to control more than a handful of people.
Mitya remains annoyingly calm, probably because his brain is cloud based and has no Brainocytes to hack.
“This would explain why previously nonviolent men would be willing to blow themselves up,” I say. “Or why Gogi didn’t care about his wounds when he fought me, and why the drunks in Russia didn’t care about damaging themselves with the robots.”
“It all adds up, unfortunately,” Muhomor says, frowning. “Now we need to figure out who’s behind it. And make them regret it.”
“Yeah,” Mitya says sarcastically. “That’s so simple. Why didn’t we think of that? We just need to figure out who’s doing this. Thanks.”
“No need to be snide,” Muhomor says. “Let’s just continue to break this down logically. The important question is who benefits from this.”
“Someone who hates our guts?” Mitya looks at us. “Someone who thinks we’re the antichrist?” He pauses dramatically, and when he sees recognition on both our faces, he says, “Did anyone else find it suspicious that Joe found our Real Humans Only prisoner not guilty so easily?”
“And with all her fingers attached?” Muhomor says.
“Could it be because he was already under her control?” Mitya continues.
Was this the theory that’s been gnawing at the edges of my mind? When it came to Tatum, Joe’s behavior had been odd, to say the least.
“It could be that he cleared her because he’s just that good at reading people.” I realize I might be playing devil’s advocate. “Also, he might’ve had another agenda. You might think me crazy, but I thought maybe there was an unholy attraction between those two.”
“You are crazy,” Mitya says. “Your cousin is indeed good at reading people—but your second theory, the one that assumes he has human feelings, is preposterous.”
In the real world, I hear the nurse tell me my blood pressure is high. I’m not surprised in the slightest.
“If it’s the RHO behind this hack, things could turn ugly,” Muhomor says. “If they want to make Brainocytes look bad, which we know they do, they can use this virus to make the entire world do something horrible. They can prove us to be the devil by bringing about an apocalypse of their own design—a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“I don’t think it would be so easy to do something like that,” Mitya says. “How would they control so many people?”
“A specialized AI?” Muhomor suggests. “But I see your point. Maybe they can’t cause chaos on a global scale, but they can certainly keep people from ever trusting Brainocytes again.”
Goosebumps spread over my body as I picture the RHO targeting people in key government positions or with celebrity status.
“Tatum must be a great actress,” Mitya says. “Alan spoke to her last night, and she didn’t act like someone plotting to kidnap the boy.”
A flicker of hope speeds up my pulse. “Let me see some of that footage. Maybe she gives something away?”
“Alan was recording everything himself,” Mitya says. “You might prefer to experience the whole thing as he did—that way, you can examine his reactions to her at the same time as yours.”
Before I experienced Ada’s hive-mind-generating, trippy Join app, the only way to see what someone else saw, heard, and (to a limited degree) felt was to play back a recording made with the Share 2.0 app. Originally, these recordings allowed their creators to relive experiences they particularly enjoyed. Human memory would fill in the missing details and emotions, helping users feel as if they were truly reliving the past. With some work, we’ve retrofitted Share 2.0 recordings to play back as VR experiences, with the emotions recorded in the Share 2.0 app simulated in the watcher’s brain. Playing back someone else’s recording isn’t as cool as most VR movies these days, but it can come in handy in many circumstances. It’s been a boon for the porn industry, for sure. Aside from that, Ada and I, as well as many other couples who use Share 2.0, have fewer fights of the “he said, she said” variety because we can show each other a recording of what happened from the other’s point of view. We’ve learned how unreliable our regular memories are. I shudder to think about all the people in jail based on old-school eyewitness testimony.
“As per Alan’s explicit request, I’ve never played back his Share sessions before,” I say as I locate the recording in question. “He considers that an ultimate invasion of privacy.”
I was worried that Alan might’ve encrypted them with Tema to make sure Ada and I kept our promises, but I’m glad to find he didn’t take that precaution.
“Your intentions are pure,” Muhomor says. “Besides, not encrypting a file is basically an invitation for people to watch it.”
“You watched it already?” I narrow my eyes at both my friends.
�
�I never promised Alan anything,” Mitya replies defensively.
“And as I already said”—Muhomor runs a hand through his anime hair—“not encrypting a file is as good as an invitation to watch it.”
“So what did you think?” I ask.
“Why don’t you watch it and form your own opinion?” Mitya says. “Don’t want to bias you.”
“I agree with the ghost,” Muhomor says. “Watch it and then we’ll talk.”
Figuring it’ll be faster to just do as they say, I load the file and prepare to watch my son’s memory through his own eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Three
My steps are short due to Alan’s tiny legs, and everything in the room seems taller and bigger than I’m used to. It’s creepy. The last time I experienced this point of view was when I watched the recent VR remake of Child’s Play, particularly the scene where the killer doll, Chucky, knifed the pretty teenager (who reminds me a little of the petite Tatum).
The RHO leader gives us the cooing smile people typically reserve for speaking with children. Her face completely transforms when she glances back at Dominic, who’s walking behind us. With his camera for eyes, exoskeleton, and bionic arm, he must be her technophobic nightmare come to life.
Alan’s annoyance and resentment toward Tatum are so strong the VR interface makes them feel like my own.
“Hello,” Tatum says in a tone Alan finds patronizing. “Who might you be?”
“Hi, Tatum,” we say. We feel further irritation when Alan realizes she’s hearing his childish voice and seeing no AR avatar. “My name is Alan.”
Only seconds into the experience, I can already see why Alan wouldn’t want me and Ada to watch these recordings of his. He doesn’t want us to feel what I now feel—shame at turning my son into an adult trapped in a child’s body. Because that’s precisely what he feels like when Tatum looks at him.
“Hi, Alan.” Tatum bends down to shake our extended hand, and her eyes go from warm to confused. “How do you know my name?”
“I make a point to know people who want to destroy everything my parents and I stand for,” we say. “You are Tatum Crawford, born in Kansas to Jenny and Mark Crawford.” We proceed to read the first paragraphs of her Wikipedia page until she pulls her hand away and the confusion in her eyes turns to fear.
“Just because I criticize what your parents do doesn’t mean I’m your enemy.” Her usually pretty smile is nervous at best.
I find it interesting how little her feminine charm affects Alan’s emotions. On some level, I’m relieved his maturity didn’t extend into sexual interests.
“You want me to devolve to an intellectual invalid who runs around like a monkey and plays with toys,” we say derisively. “If you had your way, Dominic there would be blind, unable to hear or move, completely locked inside his body.”
She takes a step back. We take sadistic pleasure at the roller coaster of emotions on her face as she realizes she’s not speaking with a typical four-year-old.
“Why are you here?” she asks after she recovers some composure. “What do you want?”
“I want to understand,” we say. We walk over to the nearby redwood chair. “I’ve never had a chance to speak with someone as misguided as you.”
“I don’t think you’ll understand,” she says sadly. “Your parents brainwashed you too well.”
“Try me,” we say. “You might find I’m a pretty rational person.”
“If you were truly rational,” she says, her patronizing baby talk completely gone, “you’d see the self-evident dangers of technology, especially AI. You’d see that our dependence on technology threatens our autonomy. You’d understand that virtual reality prevents humans from experiencing the world directly and acting from free will. Your parents’ creation will continue the horrific trend the internet started. It will alienate humans from nature, bringing about harmful psychological eff—”
“Your worries have some seed of truth, but the dangers can be mitigated.” We purposely interrupt her in a way people without Brainocyte enhancements consider rude. “This technology will expedite progress beyond anything we’ve seen. It will broaden people’s world view and empower those who have never had power before. Bashing technology the way you do is a trend that goes back millennia. Plato was against the technology of writing. The most classic case is that of the Luddites during the Industrial Revolution. Those self-employed weavers destroyed weaving machinery. Since then, it’s been a never-ending quest among the likes of you.”
“Except now it’s every job that’s in danger of going the route of weaving.” Her hands are on her hips. “AI and Brainocytes will see to that.”
“Not every job should continue to exist.” We climb up on the chair and sit. “Politics is a space where AIs can do a much better job than many of the current psychopaths in charge. This very tablet was created by people who work in conditions that lead to suicide, and if AIs take over that sort of production, that segment of humanity will be better off. In fact, the more we look back in history, the more examples we see of jobs that should’ve gone away—and did. Did you know that kids a couple of years older than myself were once trained to be chimney sweeps’ apprentices? To fit into chimneys, they were purposefully underfed. Over time, they developed lung problems that included cancer, though often they simply died of smoke inhalation. I bet you bought into the romanticized image of chimney sweeps from fairy tales and long for the good old days before mechanical means of sweeping chimneys existed.”
“You can cherry-pick examples, but that doesn’t address my main thesis,” she says. “All jobs will go away.”
“No,” we say calmly. “Look at the rise of VR bloggers who make money from advertisers fighting to put ads before the best content. Look at the VR video game industry that became a multi-billion-dollar business nearly overnight. New technology always creates new jobs. Once the dust settles on this technological revolution, professions you couldn’t even dream of will take place of the old drudgery. Those who don’t embrace technology will end up jobless, true. But we’ll take care of them via the universal basic adjustment benefit that our company is trying to put into place.”
“So you want people like me to live on handouts?” Her eyes glint. “To live without any purpose in our lives?”
“Unenhanced people can and will find purpose in artisanal work.” We jump out of the chair—the energy of a four-year-old human male makes it very hard to sit still for such a long subjective slice of time. “Arts, science, philosophy—once everyone’s basic sustenance needs are met, purpose in life will reach a new Golden Age, both for people with Brainocytes and, to a smaller degree, for people like you.”
Tatum’s mouth tightens. “You see? I told you I couldn’t reason with a zealot.”
“Do people without Brainocytes completely lack the sense of irony? Calling me a zealot is like me calling you ‘kid.’” We turn to leave the room.
“We are the only people left who have true senses,” she counters sharply. “You’re just crunching data now.”
“Crunching data is what all brains do.” We are level with Dominic now and wave the big man to join us in leaving the room. “Humans expanded their senses with technology as soon as they began inventing lenses, hearing aids, and the like. We’re just integrating those technologies more seamlessly with everyday experience.”
“Your parents and their people claim that they will not create AIs that can think and act as people.” Her voice rises. “From where I’m standing, they already have.”
If she thinks she can insult Alan by calling him an AI, she doesn’t know my son. He loves Einstein and has considered him a friend since early childhood.
“I’m more human than you’ll ever imagine.” We don’t say the words louder because we know it’s pointless to expect her to understand them. “I’m better than you at everything you consider a purely human pursuit, from empathy to my ability to love.”
As though to highlight our words, we pat our pocke
t and overflow with deep love for Mr. Spock, one of our earliest childhood friends. We love him despite our different intellectual levels and superficial differences such as belonging to different species.
My attention is no longer on Alan’s recording because my son inadvertently gave me a new hope.
I exit the Share 2.0 experience shaking with excitement. “How could I forget about Mr. Spock? I told him to watch out for Alan.”
Before Mitya or Muhomor can respond, I’m already contacting Mr. Spock. “Hey, bud, where are you?”
“Don’t know,” comes the rat’s anxiety-imbued reply. “Alan doesn’t wake up.”
“So Alan is with you?” I’m trying not to make Mr. Spock panic with either worry or the excitement that overwhelms me.
“Yes,” the rat replies. “But I can’t talk to him.”
“Don’t worry. He was very tired, so he’s just going to sleep for a while,” I lie. “This is very important: do you know where you are?”
“I am hiding,” he replies. The memories are clearly making him uncomfortable, because he sends me enough fear to shake an elephant. “Something is wrong.”
“You did an excellent job hiding.” I make my Zik message as reassuring as I can. “But now I need you to do something a little scary. Do you think you can be brave to help Alan?”
“Yes,” he says with renewed confidence.
“I’m going to enable your Share app and have you peek out of Alan’s clothes,” I say. “Can you do that very carefully?”
“Okay,” he replies, his confidence noticeably weaker.
“I know you can do it,” I say firmly. “You’re the alpha.”
Mr. Spock is the alpha rat in our mischief—the proper term for a pack of rats. Unlike his wild cousins, he’s an enlightened ruler who doesn’t try to keep the other males away from food (even peanuts) or females (even Uhura). Still, the reminder of his high social status seems to work, because his affirmative reply is full of pride and determination.