The Reality Incursion

by Paul Anlee

  The old man sat down again. “On the other hand, you have shown rather an unusual talent in hacking into our own branch of the Coordinated National Security Agency.”

  Trillian leaned forward. “Perhaps there’s some way the government could use my talents,” he suggested.

  LaMontagne held up a hand. “This Administration couldn’t possibly sanction the kinds of activities for which you’ve demonstrated a proclivity.”

  The prisoner looked away, allowing disappointment to deflate his posture.

  “Your Church, however, may have a use for your talents…and I am not without influence with the government.”

  Trillian regarded the Reverend suspiciously. “My Faith in Yeshua and His true Church knows no bounds. I pray daily for His guidance and assistance. Naturally, in His name, I will do anything within my capabilities, as you command.” He looked around his cell. “But, as you can see, my capabilities are quite limited here.”

  “The Church will assist you in your present situation…if you can promise to do only what I direct you to do.”

  Trillian grinned, stood and offered his hand. “Agreed.”

  LaMontagne looked at the proffered hand but did not take it. “Do not take this lightly. Should you stray from the path I set you, Yeshua Himself will not be forgiving.”

  Trillian looked sufficiently chastised. “I will do as Yeshua commands, through you.” He extended his hand again, this time, with a proudly determined look in his eyes.

  The Reverend accepted Trillian’s promise and his handshake this time. “Have you heard of Project Vesta?”

  Trillian considered. “You mean the project to colonize the asteroids? I’ve read about it. It looks like another international boondoggle. The rich will find a way to get richer from this scheme as well. They always do.”

  “It might be more than yet another scheme to extract public money to private privilege.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “What if it isn’t simply opening a new frontier? What if it is the only way to save humanity?”

  Trillian snorted with derision before he could stop himself. “My apologies, sir. But that would only be true if some major global catastrophe were approaching, something on a ‘dinosaur killer’ or equivalent level.”

  LaMontagne said nothing, just stared at Trillian, giving nothing away.

  Trillian stared back, calmly and levelly, until the Reverend’s meaning sunk in. “Has someone spotted an asteroid on collision course with Earth? I heard nothing about that.”

  “There’s no asteroid. No, the threat is more home-grown,” answered the Reverend. “And its development is recent.”

  Trillian considered. “Wait, there was an announcement on the web about some kind of impending global disaster originating in Pacifica.”

  “The nature of the threat was unspecified, as I recall.” LaMontagne smiled.

  “As you recall?” Trillian raised one eyebrow. “Or as you said?”

  Now LaMontagne was confused. “What do you mean?”

  Trillian hesitated. “My activities weren’t always limited to financial and government servers, you know.”

  “Is that so?”

  “The man who calls himself Alum, the one who made those predictions, is intriguing. All the more so because he was so secretive about who he is. He went through a lot of trouble to remain untraceable on the web. Almost untraceable, I should say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think we both know what I mean, Reverend,” Trillian replied. “I traced Alum’s messages back to their origin. I know his real identity. And I’m sure you do, as well. Yes?” He cocked his head, nodded, and winked.

  LaMontagne was flabbergasted by the prisoner’s audacity. He actually winked at me!

  Composing himself—it wouldn’t do to let this hacker get the upper hand even for a moment—he considered alternative possibilities.

  “Well, that is an interesting claim. We’ll have to talk more about it once you’re out of here. Clearly, your talents will serve no purpose behind bars.”

  “It would be my honor to better serve Yeshua’s purpose,” said Trillian.

  “I’m sure.” LaMontagne stood, and made his way to the door.

  “What can I do?” Trillian called to his visitor’s back.

  LaMontagne paused at the door to the cell and, before turning around, smiled to himself and reconsidered the detainee. He weighed the possible risks versus rewards, and decided there was more to be gained than lost.

  Maybe he can be of some use. Besides, he and any potential threat he might wield, can be easily eliminated without a trace, should that become necessary.

  “There will be a selection process to pick colonists for the project,” the Reverend began. “The first part of the process will be competitive, based on the applicants’ qualifications. The process will, of necessity, make heavy use of computational algorithms in picking the candidates. The second part will be random, and we’ll have little opportunity to affect the outcome. I would like the Church to have the final say in which of the qualified candidates are selected.”

  “And you,” he jabbed his index finger at Trillian, “will help me gain access to the selection system. It has rather unique security, and I believe your experience could prove useful in this.”

  The Reverend made to leave the cell again. He took one step toward the door and stopped, uncertain for the briefest moment, before retrieving something from his pocket. He walked over to the sink and poured a glass of water.

  “I suspect the systems in question will challenge even someone of your background and considerable skills. Your talents will require some small enhancements if you are to serve the Church in this.”

  He held out his hand so Trillian could see the capsule in the middle of his palm.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you know of Darian Leigh?”

  “Everyone knows about Darian Leigh.” Recognition dawned on him. “I already have the latest version lattice.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “In fact, my lattice isn’t entirely legal.”

  LaMontagne chuckled. “This isn’t even close to legal. It might not perfectly replicate Dr. Leigh’s considerable intellectual abilities, but it will be close enough for our purposes.”

  Trillian’s eyes lit up, and he reached for the capsule before the Reverend could change his mind.

  LaMontagne’s hand snapped shut, denying the gift. “Such power, such capabilities, can only be available to a true servant of Yeshua. Are you such a servant?” His eyes bore into the prisoner.

  Trillian kneeled beneath the determined power of the man’s glare. He dropped his gaze to LaMontagne’s feet and rasped, “I am that servant.”

  “I didn’t hear you, son. Are you such a servant?”

  The Reverend’s booming voice sent shivers up Trillian’s spine. He felt the full weight of the question. He knew that his answer would not be taken lightly and, therefore, must not be given lightly.

  The prisoner stood and met LaMontagne’s eyes directly and earnestly. “I will be a true servant to Yeshua, to His Church, and to you, Reverend.” His voice was quiet but steady and firm.

  LaMontagne smiled and opened his fist. “Welcome to the next level, son.”

  34

  Kathy inspected the polished brown cube she’d prepared in secret for today’s visit to the megafactory.

  It contained a semiconductor lattice imprinted with the traits—the data—that defined her unique concepta and persona. She was determined to fit it into one of the Cybrids scheduled for launch next week.

  The restrictions the G26 Project Vesta Supervisory Committee had placed on her Cybrids were ridiculous.

  She didn’t mind so much that Cybrids would be permitted to operate only in outer space; there was more than enough work to be done around Vesta to employ them all. The harsh vacuum, low gravity, and hard radiation environment of outer space was exactly what they were designed for. Project Vesta was creating a l
ot of employment for people on Earth, too. Limiting Cybrids to space and letting the humans dominate the job market on Earth would help minimize human complaints and resentment. She got that.

  She was a little less happy with the restrictions the Committee had placed on Cybrid power supplies. It would have been so easy to siphon off enough power from their matter-antimatter propulsion systems to generate electricity for their silicene nanoribbon brains. But the Committee was full of cynics and paranoids who demanded the ability to ‘pull the plug’ on the robotic Cybrids at their discretion. They refused to permit them energy independence, shackling them instead to comparatively short-lived batteries and ultracapacitors. Completely unnecessary and a pain, but I can work with it—Kathy thought.

  What she resented most was that it wasn’t enough for the Committee that the Cybrid brains were restricted to human-level conceptas and human-replica personas. They put additional limitations on the machines’ overall computational capabilities. They would allow Cybrids to function at a level equivalent to a human of moderately above-average intelligence, and no more.

  “Are you kidding me? What a ridiculous waste of computational power and precious time,” she’d argued. “We need all the help we can get. Don’t you see that?”

  She’d showed them how it would be such a simple tweak to permit deeper, ungrounded node-searching in the Cybrid concepta. It would be so easy to produce and accommodate the moderately larger brains needed to support IQs in the 500 range.

  The Committee adamantly refused, saying it would approve only the specific additional abilities needed to navigate and work in space. It would not sanction any higher level of general intelligence.

  “We will not be responsible for making a super-human intelligence and letting it roam freely in our solar system. Our survival depends on that intelligence. We refuse to manufacture our own robot overlords.”

  Kathy fumed and railed against their ignorance and blind xenophobia to no avail.

  She and Greg had been among the first million people selected to be downloaded into Cybrids. Their understanding of the technical portion of the project was unrivaled, and their contributions were critical. They knew that. The Committee knew that. And yet, Committee members insisted on hobbling even their Cybrid brains with IQs around 130, lower than their human pre-lattice enhancement levels.

  “I can’t imagine my Cybrid alter-ego waking to consciousness and finding herself turned into such a dummy,” Kathy complained. It’s cruel, unjustified, and short-sighted. We could achieve so much more and in shorter amount of time, if you’d please just reconsider.”

  The Committee held blindly steadfast. They wouldn’t budge.

  She had no choice. She cheated.

  The Cybrid’s silicene brain was bigger and heavier than a biological human brain. It was constructed as an enormous programmable array using conventional three-dimensional integration techniques.

  The imprinting process selected optimal pathways to lay down the basic human concepta, the knowledge and belief structure of its paired human.

  Preferences, tastes, and basic emotional tendencies were then overlaid, and the Cybrid brain became an astoundingly accurate simulation of its human counterpart.

  The neural pathways of the human were optimized by physical changes of axons, dendrites, and synapses. To replicate such optimization in the semiconductor lattice would require a level of nanotechnology that echoed the chemical complexity of living organisms.

  Such technology had not been invented yet and Kathy didn’t have time to develop it, so they took a shortcut.

  It was quicker and easier to simulate what they needed in the software. Many of the possible array connections remained inactive, creating a host of redundant circuits.

  With minimal effort, she found a way to use the redundant circuitry to provide additional levels of computational power. It made the circuits of her silicene counterpart a uniquely-twisted mess. But, at least her Cybrid self would not be hampered by the absurd biases of the Committee.

  This was her tenth trip to the Cybrid factory in Shanghai in the past two years, but today’s visit was doubly special.

  Today, the first hundred Cybrids would roll off the fabrication line. She and the others, whose minds had been selected for downloading, were reporting in person to place their “brains” into the selected Cybrids.

  As the designer of the robots and Chief Engineer on the Vesta Project, Kathy and her considerable contributions could have been honored, at no additional cost to the Project, simply by assigning her Cybrid counterpart with Serial Number 1.

  Was this one small consideration too much to ask?

  Apparently, it was. The Committee decided no Cybrid was to receive special designation. Each would be assigned a randomized three-letter plus six-digit code. End of discussion.

  In protest, Kathy hacked their computer system and assigned the three-letter prefix “DAR” to her Cybrid and to Greg’s. She let the algorithms randomly assign the rest of the code.

  A subtle but fitting tribute to a mentor and friend. To you, Darian.

  Now, just one final tweak and the program won’t assign the DAR prefix to other Cybrids.

  Her spur of the moment honoring of Darian made her a little sad.

  He’d be pleased to see how far we’ve come, don’t you think?—she said to herself.

  She inspected the serial number stamped onto the surface of the processing unit. DAR143147. The name has a nice ring to it.

  * * *

  “Hey, Kath, you almost ready?” Greg entered the bedroom of their hotel suite. He had been hovering all morning, nervous to get this event over with. She’d finally sent him to watch television so she could dress in peace. Today was her day; he would get the opportunity to put his silicene brain into a Cybrid next month. Another committee decision.

  He watched her turn the cube over in her hands. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  She almost told him, right then, what she’d done. They didn’t use to have secrets between them. Lately, he’d been acting a bit strange, a little distant, like he was having a hard time figuring out how to behave around her.

  She didn’t doubt that he still loved her as much as she loved him, but something in him had changed shortly after they’d started working on Vesta. She suspected he was hiding something but, even with their close lattice connection, she couldn’t guess what.

  Sometimes he seems like he’s a million miles away. She hadn’t worked up the courage to confront him about it yet. She hoped it was simply because he was busy with work. She frowned—Like me.

  Over the past few months, they hadn’t been on the same continent more than half the time.

  Her jaw tightened. This was going to be her gift to her Cybrid. Maybe she’d talk to him about it tomorrow. Maybe he could make similar modifications to the brain of his own Cybrid. Later.

  Kathy smiled at him. She hoped it was a reassuring smile. She placed the brownish cube back in its special carrying case. The “brains” were tough, tougher than she might have expected.

  She didn’t have to worry about getting finger oils on them; there was no way they were going to corrode. Anyway, the optico-electronic interfaces would be cleaned to remove any contaminants before they were placed into the Cybrid bodies.

  She put on her coat and tucked the case in her pocket. She pulled her sleeves crisply toward her wrists, and checked her reflection in the dresser mirror.

  “Okay, let’s do this.”

  35

  Once Darya got Timothy off the streets of New York and cleaned him up with a fresh shave, haircut, and a new set of clothes, he settled into life in her Manhattan apartment quite nicely.

  In return for her kindness and generosity, he insisted on cleaning up around the place, and preparing and serving her meals on the days she ate at home.

  He turned out to be quite a good cook, voraciously poring over her recipe books to learn all about modern international cuisine, and scouring
the local shops to find the finest and freshest ingredients.

  Within weeks, he was preparing dishes he’d often served, but never tasted, in Casa DonTon: boeuf bourguignon, coq au vin, and soufflés from the continent. He quickly expanded his repertoire to include Italian, Chinese, Thai, and Indian dishes, and became expert at baking breads and pastries. Millennia of observing the chefs at DonTon had seeded the foundations of all manner of food preparation techniques into his virtual neural pathways.

  Darya had to remind herself that the realistic physics, chemistry, and biology of the Alternus inworld meant her simulated body could easily put on realistic-looking extra weight. She tried to eat sparingly. For the first time in her life, she had to exercise to burn off an excess of simulated calories. She had to admit, she didn’t much care for it. She’d have to talk to the Supervisor about tweaking her simulated metabolism.

  Darya and Timothy often discussed the basics of life in the twenty-first century and how it differed from nineteenth-century England. Even with a full persona, Timothy was a simple man with simple ideas. She couldn’t easily change that and quickly gave up trying to explain the intricacies and nuances of her work with the political and financial leaders of the world.

  “Why would you need to reach the heavens, let alone colonize them? Aren’t we all going to get there soon enough when our God-given time on Earth is up,” Timothy asked, when she’d tried to explain the project she and her team were working on.

  “Exploring and colonizing other planets and asteroids is necessary to secure new resources and new frontiers,” she’d explained. “And remember, we don’t call it Earth here. We know the planet as Alternus. And Alternus is fully occupied, used up, depleted. This is the only way to allow our population to expand.”

  Timothy stood near the edge of the seventh-story terrace overlooking Central Park, pleased with his change in circumstance. “I don’t see why humanity needs more people,” he sniffed, looking out over one of the most densely populated cities in the world.

  Darya changed the topic. It was hopeless to try to explain to one with so little education, how the basis of the economy, of finance, and of the money that drove it all, was debt; that this debt required continual servicing; that ongoing servicing demanded an ever-increasing money supply and inflation which, in turn, required unending growth. Without growth, it all came crashing down in a stagnant, fetid heap.