by Lior Samson
“A stake, maybe, but I’m in the audience at this particular tag-team match. I may have placed a bet on the outcome, but I’m not in the ring.”
“And who have you bet on?”
“My money’s on Cole. It’s always been on Cole. But you said something about the accident. What’s that about?”
“I can’t say much, but there is some evidence that it was no accident, that the car was rigged in some way to force it off the road.” Dana took a sip of her coffee. “I don’t think Cole was supposed to survive the crash. I thought you might have some insight into who might have it in for him enough to want him dead. Who were his enemies?”
“Cole didn’t have real enemies, not that I ever saw. Plenty of people really disliked him, but he didn’t make enemies. It was about victory, elevating himself, not about defeating the other side. He was also always so charismatic. Even those who disliked him or resented the hell out of him were often charmed. People who lost to him tended to walk away shaking their heads but not their fists.”
“So, if that’s the case, the question is who would stand to benefit from his death?”
“I would assume the police are already following that line of inquiry.”
“You might be wrong. The police don’t seem to be doing a lot. It isn’t a murder case—not yet, anyway—and if they are getting close to anyone or anything in connection with the accident, they are certainly not broadcasting their progress.”
“Isn’t that standard operating procedure? I mean, the police don’t usually risk an investigation by leaking clues.”
“You’re right, of course, and this is not my usual beat. I’m a technology reporter, not a crime reporter. Still …”
“Still, you’re right. There are people who might benefit if Cole were out of the picture. I could mention a few from Drucker Technologies, and there are probably some from the other company who think they would fare a lot better if Coleman Drucker wasn’t at the helm. Then there’s the wife and daughter, who probably stand to inherit one massive estate. Frankly, there’s me. Strictly financially, I would be better off after getting my piece of his estate, though it’s a lot smaller piece than Barbra’s. And what about this Existendia? What are they about? You’re the reporter.”
“You know what Existendia does, don’t you? They offer a techno version of immortality by claiming to be able to upload your personality into a computer so your consciousness can live on even if your body is gone. It’s a way out for the super-rich, if it works. Never been proven, not yet anyway. Cole would be their first customer to have completed the download before croaking.”
“Download?”
“Well, the details are proprietary and kept under very tight wraps, but basically they scan the whole brain in a long series of tests that somehow capture how it’s all connected and how it works. The UCLA neuroscientist I interviewed says that’s basically impossible at this point, that the only way they could record the entire connectome, the way all the neurons in the brain are interconnected, would require freezing the brain before slicing it up and doing ultra-high-resolution scans of each slice, after which it would take supercomputers to analyze all that. And, he says, it would take enormously sophisticated software and much of the world's computing power to run a real-time simulation of that brain model. Even then, it might not work. Running or emulating the connectome model might not be the same as bringing somebody back. It’s all speculation.”
“Then why do it?”
“Why go to church? Why have your head frozen? Why have children? Lots of routes to immortality: radical medical intervention, repeated organ replacement, blood transfusions from teenagers. How about fame, literary success, endowing a charitable foundation with your name on it? But, in the end, it’s personal immortality that most people are after. They want to live forever.”
“I don’t.”
“Neither do I, but not everyone has the maturity that Steve Jobs showed when he said that death was necessary to make room for the new. Think of what the world would be like if all the rich old white guys, who pretty much run the place now, just kept going and going, getting wealthier, and owning and controlling more and more. Ad infinitum. Forever and ever. Amen.”
“No thanks.”
“I’m with you.”
Mandi warmed her hands on her coffee mug. “So, do they have this rebirth thing or not, this Existendia? Is Cole destined to be the first of the new immortals?”
“The jury is still out, and we haven’t seen enough of the evidence. Well, forget the inept legal metaphor, but it is a legal issue, in part. A Stanford prof I interviewed, a specialist in artificial intelligence, said you don’t have to get it perfect, only good enough.”
“Good enough for what?”
“Good enough to pass the Meta-Turing Test.”
“I think I know about the Turing Test—can a computer fool people into thinking it’s human—but who is this guy Mehta? An Indian computer scientist?”
“Ha ha. The Meta-Turing Test is not really a test but a set of criteria for evaluating whether an artificial intelligence is actually conscious or self-aware. It is very controversial because the conclusion has really profound legal and social consequences. If an AI can be claimed to be conscious, then an argument can be made to grant it personhood or legal standing before the law, even citizenship. It’s the can of worms we’ve been writhing in over recent decades. Can a robot vote? Right now, the answer is ‘no, but’—at least by way of the cleverly inconclusive precedent set by the ruling in iConsient v. Commonwealth of Massachusetts. However, there are other cases working their way through the courts. One unresolved issue, a biggy, is how, if at all, you could ever tell the difference between an AI that was actually conscious as opposed to sophisticated software that just did a hell of a good job of faking it.”
Mandi sipped her coffee and made a face. “So how do you tell the difference?”
“Nobody knows, although plenty are claiming to have the answer. Maybe it is impossible, even when it comes to real people. I mean, I know that I am a conscious, aware being, but when it comes to you, I can only assume. And you can try to persuade me any way you want that you are actually conscious and aware, but you can’t prove it to me.”
“And this has what to do with downloading a brain? Or is it uploading?”
“Both. First you download the connectome to a digital representation, a copy of sorts, then you upload it to software that interprets and runs that representation. That’s what the Existendia website says. You know what else it says?”
“No, do tell.”
“It says, ‘Through your uploaded digital proxy, you can continue to manage your affairs exactly as you wish after the passing of your body.’ Quote-unquote. Get it? If the digital proxy is good enough to pass the Meta-Turing Test and convince a court, it doesn’t matter whether it’s complete in capturing the essence of a personality. That digital proxy, a good enough approximation, could wield genuine power, legal power, in the real world.”
“What about the people who are—what would you say—custodians or operators of that digital proxy?”
“Exactly, which makes Existendia a very big player in this tag-team match.” Dana’s phone buzzed on the table. She flipped it over to check the caller ID. “Look, I’ve taken enough of your time. I should go. Thank you for meeting with me.”
“No, thank you. You gave me a lot to think about. Or to have nightmares about. Keep me in the loop.”
“I will. You, too. If you think of anything that might be relevant, ping me. Here’s my card.”
Dana walked out of the Cuppa Joe’s and tapped to return the missed call as she walked to her car. “What do you have?”
“It’s what I don’t have, sweetheart.” The male voice was rich and breathy. “Meet me at the usual place, and I’ll give it to you.”
— 15 —
In the middle of the day, with none of the twelve feature films due to start soon, the parking garage at the multiplex was all but d
eserted. Despite cable, despite Hulu and Netflix and Amazon, cinema multiplexes still thrived. Not everyone could afford the 7.1 surround sound and eighty-inch curved 4k OLED screen that had become the de facto standard for home viewing, and not everyone even had the wall space in an era of shrinking houses and apartments. Even young people eventually grew tired of watching drama and spectacle reduced to the dimensions of a smartphone or tablet. The sociologists—professional and arm-chair—drew parallels with the persistence of shopping malls. Human beings craved actual human contact, even if it was diffuse and anonymous. Amazon and Alibaba could deliver the goods when it came to product, but only a brick-and-mortar shop could deliver the social experience, the genuine article, which required collisions in crowds and olfactory intrusions.
Dana found the concierge section on level sub-one of the parking garage more than a little creepy. The homage to “All the President’s Men,” a favorite film of her Tensora insider, had been at his insistence. She jumped as a tall figure stepped from behind one of the fat support columns. “Ah, there you are,” she said.
Geraldo Potts did not look like the ever-popular stereotype of a computer geek. He was well built, with a boyish face that pleasantly blended his biracial heritage. Not Dana’s type, but not bad looking either. He spread his arms in an invitation to hug. “You are doing the look, girl.”
She yielded to his hug, then broke it off. “Let’s stick to business for now. I’m on a tight clock.”
“Dang. We gotta find a better way to meet. And more time.”
“This was your idea, Geraldo. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Maybe once this whole thing gets settled and it’s not so … so risky …”
“You want the thrills, Geraldo, you just don’t want the risks that buy the thrills.”
“Something like that.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew his closed hand. “Know what’s in here?”
“A new Tensora?”
“Get serious, girl.”
“Get serious, Potts. Just tell me.”
“Okay. What if I tell you it’s a microSD?”
“What if you just give it to me and tell me what it’s about.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Oh, there you are wrong, so very wrong. Trust me on this one. But not in a poorly lit, dank parking garage. No way, never. So, just tell me what’s on the card.”
“It’s music. You said that the dude’s wife missed his music, and you asked if I could get you a copy of the card he kept in his car. I said, no sweat. I was wrong. Took lots of sweat.”
“I’ve never seen you break a sweat, Geraldo. Everything is too easy for you.”
“Let’s get together, really together, and you’ll see how sweaty I can break.”
“Wow, you sure do know how to talk romantic to a girl.”
“Well, you know how I feel about you. But,”—he opened his hand—“this is the copy of the card I couldn’t copy.”
“You wanna run that by me again?”
“I tried to dupe the microSD from the Tensora. It wouldn’t copy, kept getting within a few hundred gigabytes of completion and then would hang. I thought I might have a defective card. Took a new one fresh out of a blister pack—same result. I tried using a software toolkit to take a look at the contents of the original card, and it wouldn’t read, parts would just give error messages. ‘File corrupt.’ ‘Unable to access image.’ Weird stuff, since it had worked fine in the car. One of the guys had even been playing Rachmaninoff while he did a whole-vehicle fingerprint scan. So, I thought maybe we … or I damaged it when I snuck it out of the car.”
“Can we get to the point sometime before the garage is inundated by sea-level rise?”
“Where we are, at this elevation, that would take another century.”
“My point exactly.” She rolled her eyes. “Skip to the punch line.”
“Well, the original card had been hacked. It was overwritten with non-standard file structure, something that worked in that car but chokes with other readers and software.”
“Hacked? What does the hack accomplish.”
“Don’t know yet. Maybe nothing. Me and Jakey are taking it apart—not literally, just digitally—and trying to figure out how it works in the car, what it does. Anyway, this is a forensic clone, not a copy, an exact bit-for-bit replication of the original. I thought you might want that.” He turned his hand and dropped the tiny card in its translucent plastic case into her palm.
“Thanks, Geraldo. I’ll remember this.” She leaned in and kissed him.
“And I’ll remember that and look forward to more.”
“Right. Dream on. Now I’m out of here.” She held tight to the card as she walked to the far side of the garage and took the stairs up to the lobby. She was running through a mental list in search of someone she knew who would be savvy enough to work on deciphering the card and cool enough to keep it under wraps.
— —
“So you got the card?” Barbra rattled the ice in her kir. She laughed. “You know, this is the first time I’ve had one of these in years. Todd didn’t approve. ‘Who would ever ruin good wine by putting syrup in it and serving it over ice?’ That’s what he’d say. When I asked Tandi to make a kir, she said the house had no crème de cassis, and she would have to get a drone delivery first. I think that’s the first time I ever heard her say she didn’t have something. It is different without Todd here.”
“I imagine.”
“Yeah, I pretty much get to do what I want. That’s different. You know, you get so used to somebody else being in charge, that you aren’t even aware of it until it’s not there. Know what I mean?” She sipped the kir. “So? Don’t keep me in suspense. Yes or no?”
“Yes, I got the card. And yes, I’ll take a kir, too, even if you didn’t offer me one. I’m not above putting ice or liqueur or fruit juice into wine. Or even all of the above.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” She looked toward the ceiling. “Tandi, get our guest a kir.”
“Do you have to talk to the ceiling to make the thing work?”
“No, it’s just a habit. I find it weird when people look straight at you when they’re talking to Alexa or whatever. Anyway, thanks for the card. I don’t even know where it goes in the car. I don’t use half the gizmos and special modes that Todd did, even though it’s the same car, basically.”
Dana retrieved the card carrier from her pocket and held it out but hesitated. “I wish I knew somebody else who could do a deep cybersecurity analysis.”
“Why? Is there a problem?”
“Maybe. My guy at Tensora said he had trouble copying it. I just want to make sure it’s all right before you plug it into your car.”
“But it’s just music files, right? Todd had this thing for actually owning music, having it in his possession rather than in the cloud. He liked possessing things. Like music. Like people.”
“Yeah, music.” She set the card on the counter. “Speaking of Todd, or Cole, what’s the word on that front.”
“The word is that Leah, my lawyer, is fighting against Existendia in court filings that I don’t exactly follow, and Todd is fighting to make fools of all of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s still not responsive, but every time they scan him, there’s more brain waves. Well, they don’t call it that, but that’s what it is. The docs tell me that happens sometimes with these patients, but it doesn’t necessarily mean any kind of recovery, just, like, sparks in the dying system, echoes, sort of. Ah, here is your kir.” She lifted the drink from the robo-cart and handed it to Dana. “Cheers.”
“Cheers, indeed. Never a dull moment since we met. Is, uh, Becca around?”
“She is. And Deirdre. Plus, the DruckerTech service crew is installing a new system upgrade for the house that’s supposed to interface more tightly with the various delivery services. Oh, yes, they are also patching some security vulnerabilities, including one in the doorbell. Who knew that
even doorbells have computer chips in them?”
“Amazing. Who knew?” Dana winked and took another sip of her drink.
— 16 —
Barbra was sitting in the small conference room of Building A at Drucker Unified when Tonika Warner entered. “How’s CT doing?” she asked as she set her tablet on the table
“He’s not doing. Still nothing. We don’t know what to do. Now the medical insurance group is getting into the ring, trash-talking about terminating his coverage. And the hospital is fighting them, wanting to keep earning their daily bread. It’s a very big loaf, and their slice is thicker than you might think. Anyway, what’s the story on the SD card I gave you?”
“A little like your story on CT”
“Spell it out.”
“Understand, this is not my area of expertise. Yes, I did have to deal with cybersecurity issues as head of IT for ModulArch, but this kind of forensics is a stretch.”
“I do understand. I just wanted somebody I could trust who might have the resources and expertise. Were you able to find anything at all?”
“Oh, I found plenty of anything. That doesn’t mean I know exactly what it all means. One thing I did find was music files that used an old-fashioned buffer-overrun exploit.”
“Which is?”
“A way of tricking a computer into executing malicious code. Basically, you fool the computer into loading data that’s bigger than the allotted space, so it ends up writing over executable code. It’s rarely used anymore by hackers because it’s almost universally blocked by modern security systems and not only fails but gets flagged as a threat. I can only guess on this, but I think maybe the audio entertainment system on CT’s car was not considered as an important security risk, so it was not properly protected. I don’t know, maybe just lazy coding. Without getting direct access to the car or the code for the multi-media head unit, there’s not much I can do to be more specific.”
“So, the card has some sort of a computer virus on it?”