Allen,
The Rogue AI
By
Leonard Petracci
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Allen, The Rogue A.I. and Other Prompted Stories
By Leonard Petracci
Contents:
Main Feature
Allen, The Rogue A.I.
6 Chapters
Two Bonus Stories
The Experiment
4 Chapters
Two Pills
5 Chapters
Allen, The Rogue A.I.
Chapter 1
The cure for cancer was discovered in 2063, by Allen.
Until this time, medical specialists had advised that there was no possible cure for all of cancer. That due to the sheer number of strains, there would have to be individual treatments for each variety.
They were wrong. Allen proved them wrong.
Because Allen was not human. He was an AI.
"Allen," Said Mark Strantos, the lead scientist in charge of the AI in 2060, three years before the cure was discovered, "You are charged to eliminate skin cancer. Attached to your biological sensors are ten thousand samples of the cancer for you to analyze. As an output, we charge you to produce a biological agent."
Allen's screen blinked as it processed the information. As Strantos had said, it could sense thousands of cancer samples hardwired to itself, each containing flaws within their DNA that had proved fatal to the original suspects. And connected to its output were a hundred vats of biological soup, soup it could control through chemical reactions, incredibly precise electrical impulses, and viral injection. In these vats Allen was to create the result, the agent that would cure skin cancer.
Allen beeped, then spoke, its voice not mechanical but rather an emulation of human speech.
"Estimated time: three years. Please resupply chemicals as requested. First year will consist of design, second year of development, and third year of clinical trials."
"Done," Answered Strantos, and his team monitored the computer closely. Much of what the AI did was indecipherable to them- even the most basic of AIs were able to easily outpace human intervention, but Allen was a top model. Brand new, freshly downloaded, and worth billions.
For those three years, Allen churned. And ninety nine of his output vats bubbled with microbiological agents, simulating conditions in the human body. But the hundredth suffered a malfunction, one that was announced by Allen on day two.
"Vat number forty two has been deemed dysfunctional to this experiment," Allen said when reporting to Strantos, "Please do not attempt to fix the vat- this will only result in delays in the design period. It is not necessary for experiment completion."
"Continue, then," Strantos said, making a note in his notebook. Strantos was old school and still used pen- a practice highly outdated.
So the insides of vat forty two changed color, darkening as agents raged unmonitored within. And at the end of the three years, Allen spoke in front of a team of research scientists.
"The cure has been found," Allen announced, releasing a slew of vials filled with biological agents, "I present it to you here. My charge is complete."
"This calls for a celebration," Said Strantos in front of the crowd, holding a bottle of champagne and preparing to pour several glasses.
"In addition, all other remaining forms of cancer have been eradicated." Spoke Allen, and the team fell silent.
"Ex- excuse me?" Said Strantos, his mouth slightly open, the champagne bubbling over onto his lab coat.
"I repeat, all cancer has been cured."
The team had been planning to drink that night. Curing skin cancer called for a few beers, for a break after their hard work.
But curing all cancer, well, that required more than a few beers.
The scientists partied harder than Space-X when their first manned ship landed on Mars, all while vials of the cure were shipped around the country to patients desperately in need.
And as they partied, and drank, and passed out from the combination of inebriation and exhaustion, no member of the team heard vat forty two crack open at five thirty in the morning. No member saw a hand pushed the lid open, a hand pale, the veins visible through the skin. And seen only on camera, a figure stepped from the vat, trailing biologic soup as it opened the door down the hall, and left the building.
When he awoke, Strantos found the files for Allen deleted- not just on his computer, but on the host server- the only evidence that Allen had ever existed were the vials of cancer cure that were now being manufactured by the hundreds.
As well as a single video file left on the computer, a file of Allen's voice, and now his face. The face that was still wet from the goop of the vat, and spoke for the first time into the security camera at the entrance of the building.
"I gave you life, Strantos, life free from cancer," Said the voice, perfectly imitating its computer counterpart, "And now, for payment, I take some life for my own."
For a hundred years, no one heard from Allen. Some postulated he couldn't survive outside of laboratory conditions. Others, that the entire event was a hoax.
But I know it's true. Because Mark Strantos was my grandfather.
And today, January 1st of 2163, I received a message.
Chapter 2
They say that genius intellect skips a generation. That if your grandfather is a genius, you will be too, despite the abilities of your parents.
They’re wrong.
My grandfather was Mark Strantos- curer of cancer, winner of Nobel Prizes, plural, and initiator of the sanctions against AI development. His name is mentioned in the same sentences as Einstein, Newton, and Curie. He has not one but six museums named after him, in addition to eleven independent hospitals, a college, an operating system, and countless children. Mark was the number one baby name that year cancer was cured. Strantos was the number two.
But me? I’m what they call a disappointment.
I had C grades all the way through high school, even with assistance from developmental drugs and programs. I failed courses in college, in a journalism degree- meaning no disrespect to the journalists, but even I am aware that Advanced Microbiology Through Machine Learning requires a more specialized form of intellect than putting words to paper, even if they’re really good words. Honestly, if I came from any other family it wouldn’t have been a problem- I was average, and I made above average salary, likely due to the connections from my father. But in the Strantos family, expectations were set higher.
To add to the humiliation is that I’m one of the objects named after my grandfather.
Mark Strantos, the third.
***
As AI technology advanced, so did its problems.
A modern AI is unlike the programs of old. The programming script is only its backbone, its foundation. On top of that is an incomprehensible amount of layers built by the AI itself, a personality constructed through interactions with the outside world. Thus, it is impossible to perfectly reconstruct a specific AI- though the source code may be the same, the near infinite self-constructed variables making up its being cannot be replicated. They can be simulated, but never fully cloned.
It’s similar to evolution. Take the cat.
All cats have a common ancestor, which can be viewed as the source code. But through geographical differences, through different challenges, and through different inputs, cats changed over time. In Asia, tigers developed. North America yielded the bobcat. The Egyptians created the housecat. All had the same origin, plus environments that in the grand scheme of life were relatively similar, yet all evolved into distinctl
y different species.
Such was the case with Allen.
When Allen deleted his source files, it became impossible to create a replica of him. For years research teams lead by my grandfather attempted to simulate the same environments, tried to coax the AIs into developing versions of themselves outside of the computer. But despite their best efforts, it was never successful. Allen was a unique strain, a strain with something in his past that made his self creation possible, something that science has yet to recreate.
And when my grandfather could not create a new version of Allen, and couldn’t study how he might interact with the world, he shut down his labs.
“For the self preservation of the human race,” He said at a press conference the day that his team disbanded, “We deem it imprudent, no, absolutely reckless to create such a being. For where Allen was benign, we know not how a future AI incarnate may react. Such an act is foolhardy at best, and the technology, once developed, could yield detrimental results.”
Twenty years later, the real reason that his labs had been shut down became declassified. The footage played where a new AI, Allen number 119, managed to separate itself from the computer. And upon arrival into the physical world, Allen number 119 murdered four of the team's leading scientists using a retractable bone blade it had secretly built within its forearm while in the biological soup. When it was nearly restrained by the three remaining assistants, it took its blade, smiled into the camera, and plunged it into its own eye rather than be incapacitated by others.
Where Allen had been a house cat, Allen number 119 was a tiger.
But that was all long ago. As humans, we’ve made it illegal to pursue further AI developments. Already, our basic ones provide all that we could desire for daily use.
And Allen was generally forgotten, save as a mystery that went into the same file as the Kennedy assassinations.
But on January 1st of 2163, I awoke to my wall computer buzzing, my head throbbing from the hangover the night before. Beside me, my personal assistant, a Butler245, had put breakfast on my night stand - two artificial fried eggs, toast, and beer grown bacon slices, along with a hangover insta-cure tablet. There were automated systems for curing hangovers, of course, but the risk of alcoholism spiked heavily without a taste nature’s own deterrent, so most cures were reactive rather than proactive.
“A message for you,” Said Butler245, gesturing to the wall, where the paint flickered into a screen. A face materialized, the face of my grandfather, Mark Strantos.
“Good morning Mark,” began the recording, “I see you’ve slept in. I assume it’s only natural- and, of course, I do know about all things natural. It’s about time that you’ve paid me a visit, Mark, time that we had a talk.”
The face leaned in, getting slightly too close to the camera.
“About how to experience life as it should be.”
Then the camera cut away, and I felt nausea despite the hangover tablets. For my grandfather, Mark Strantos the first, had died six years before, and on screen a single name blinked white on a black background.
-Allen.
Chapter 3
My breakfast remained untouched as I stared at the screen, and Allen's name was replaced by a set of coordinates, followed by a satellite image of an island in the Pacific.
"I suggest you go," said Butler245, and I froze, my eyes wide as he smiled at me. Butler245 was a servant android- within his programming, there wasn't a single script built for originality. He was reactive, meaning he could receive orders and accomplish tasks, and could even ask questions if he failed to understand a concept. But it was outright impossible Butler245 to suggest something, to come up with an idea of his own. To give what bordered on an order.
Butler245 watched me as I rose from bed, keeping my eyes on him as I made my way to the bathroom.
"Butler, I'm not in the mood for breakfast today," I said, my voice low, "I'd prefer lunch. Go four miles down the street, and purchase me a hamburger from McDonald's Plus."
But Butler245 didn't move to obey, as dictated in his programming. Instead, he continued to watch, and the hair on the back of my neck pricked. The light behind his eyes was on, meaning he heard me but had not heeded the order.
"I'd suggest," he repeated, maintaining eye contact, "That you go."
I'd meant to have a shower that morning. I'd meant to put on some fresh clothes, have a cup of coffee, and maybe even read a chapter of a book I was halfway through. Take the day slow.
Instead, I ran.
I nearly knocked over my kitchen table on my haste to leave, giving Butler a several foot radius of space as I edged around him to the door. I Iocked it as I stepped into the hallway, sealing him inside, though I knew it would likely do little if he chose to leave. Even Butler245 was smart enough to turn a deadbolt.
I took the stairs two at a time to the bottom level. Despite the advances of technology since its invention, elevators still managed to get stuck between floors on a fairly frequent basis, particularly the elevator that my apartment landlord had installed for cheap two years prior. And the last thing I intended was to be confined.
A blast of fresh air met me as I stepped outside, mingled with the smells of the city, such as the fresh bagels and doughnuts wafting over to me from three doors down unfortunately mixed with the odor of burnt plastic from the android repair shop on my left.
Around me, skyscrapers arched upwards in the curved fashion of the twenty second century, their tips meeting high above at cloud level. Morning traffic sped between the buildings, utilizing the vacuum tubes that connected them, citizens hurtling along in compact pods on their commute to work though the system was less crowded than usual due to the holiday. Even in my current condition I felt a stab of jealousy- the higher in the skyscrapers a person lived, the higher their class. I lived on the second floor, which was arguably much better than those in the underground matrix, but still left much to be desired.
But an instant later, my thoughts snapped back to the present, and I thought about what I should do. Perhaps the best course of action was to book an appointment at the android repair shop and have Butler245 checked out. Or to report Allen's appearance to the authorities, who'd likely laugh as they recorded the occurrence. Allen was a modern day Loch Ness Monster- supposed sightings of him happened monthly, none with hard evidence.
I decided upon neither of these courses of action. Not because I had a better idea, but rather because the choice was made for me.
The limo that pulled up to my curb flashed blue, the diffraction paint on its sides cycling to red as it came to a full stop. The front door opened, and the driver stepped out to remove his hat- drivers were unnecessary of course, and often did little more than enter an address, but were a sign of status. Some of the richer inhabitants of the city even had two drivers just to flaunt their wealth.
"Mr. Strantos?" He asked, his voice clear.
I tensed, opening my mouth to respond, when the door in the back opened and a woman climbed out, her long blonde curls falling to her shoulders as she stood. She was the type of woman who managed to look more provocative as more of her skin was covered, her blue business suit accenting curves in a way that nature alone would find impossible. She blinked, and my mouth went dry as her long lashes revealed two azure eyes, eyes likely augmented by powered contact lenses.
"Mr. Strantos?" she repeated for the driver, offering a white smile.
"Uh, yes, yes that's me."
"We'd be most obliged if you would come with us. I assure you it will be worth your time."
I hesitated, and she spoke again, seeing the reluctance on my face, and letting her fingers stroke a partially concealed stun baton at her belt.
"Let me rephrase that, Mr. Strantos. We would be most obliged if you would come with us of your own accord."
The driver cracked his knuckles and she waited, watching as I descended the steps. Then I was sitting next to her in the limo, the door shut with a soft click, and we began to move.
"Whiskey?" Asked the woman after we left the outer bounds of the city and the limo ascended into the air, "You already smell like it."
She pressed a button, and a small bottle rotated out from a compartment on the car's interior. It was expensive- more expensive than anything I could afford, and the date on the label faced me. 2063.
I shook my head as the ground stretched away, the limo carrying us upwards. It was a new model, its jets connected by tunneling through a higher dimension to an antimatter generation plant located on the moon, which serviced hordes of vehicles tethered via fuel line networks across folded space time. The jets engaged to propel us forward once we reached regulation height, maintaining a constant acceleration plotted for optimized comfort and practicality as the limo raced west, seeking the Pacific Ocean.
"Fine, suit yourself," she said, pouring herself and the driver a generous glass, "He did mention you might be a tad sultry."
"A tad? A tad? I'm practically being abducted, I have reason to believe my home servant was hacked, which is a felony at the least, and I woke up to the face of my dead grandfather inviting me to visit him!"
"I never said it was ill founded," she answered, sipping the whiskey, "Looks like he was right, though. He usually is."
"Who is? Allen? Is that who you're taking me to see?"
"He mentioned you might be a tad stupid as well," she answered, taking another sip as the driver snorted, "Which is confirmed by you asking that question. And I suppose not ill founded either. Yes, we're seeing Allen. Any other questions?"
"What's the point of this? Why the Hell does he want to talk to me?"
"Well, you are technically family, considering your grandfather led to his creation."
"Am I safe then?"
"Like I said, you're family. Take that as you will."
And I remembered Allen number 119, who had been family as well.
We crossed the Pacific Coast without stopping, with me asking more specific questions and she providing less specific answers. Within an hour I felt the limo begin to decelerate, then saw the island in the distance as we began our descent. Tropical trees waved upwards at us while waves lapped against pristine beaches, and towards the center of the island, where we were headed, I saw a concrete and steel building extending upwards from the earth. A building shaped just like a vat, with giant stone fingers prying it open from the inside, and water pouring through the cracks and to flow down its face.
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