Magic, Machines and the Awakening of Danny Searle

by John McWilliams

  “Is this the control chip?” I asked. “Does it work?”

  “We’re down to the last few adjustments—but yes, it works.”

  “What about the nano-nodes?”

  “We’re getting there.”

  My father opened a nitrogen cabinet, removed a petri dish, and placed it under the microscope. “These are NMC-N3 nanocomputers suspended in dielectric gel,” he explained. “They’re bigger and dumber than what the N5s will be, but at least this’ll give you an idea.”

  He connected a power supply to the circuit board running underneath the dish and, through the microscope, I watched as the eyelash-thick N3s started to move. The rectangular buggers clustered together, broke apart, then clustered together again—like some kind of entomological water ballet.

  “How are they doing that?”

  “Inductive coils. The coils allow them to communicate and move. But these are just prototypes responding to a gross magnetic field. The N5s will be smaller, smarter, and there’ll be a million of them assembling and networking within their own electrodynamic grid.”

  “So, you’re literally making a brain in a vat.”

  My father shut off the fiber-optic light and put the petri dish away. He invited me over to the break table and poured a cup of hot water, handing it to me along with a bag of Nestlé hot chocolate mix.

  I sat down in one of the foldout chairs and tore open the hot chocolate, dumping it into the water. “You know, it’s a lot better if you put the chocolate in first,” I informed him.

  “Sorry.” He stirred his coffee, tossing the spoon into the sink. “Look, Tyler, your mom and I have been pretty patient—now hold on, let me finish.” He fixed me with his steely gray eyes. “You’ve had more than enough time to decide what you want to do with your life.”

  “Time? What time? You keep dragging me into your projects.”

  “Two minor projects—in what? Twelve months? And don’t give me that crap about you and José hiking up the Appalachian Trail. You two have been a week away from that trip for the past three years. It’s time you stepped up. It’s time you put your talents to a real test—like this A.I. XPRIZE competition.”

  I poked at a lump on the surface of my hot chocolate.

  The A.I. XPRIZE is an international competition similar to the XPRIZE competition that helped launch the first privately funded rocket-plane into space—only this one focuses on artificial intelligence.

  Competitors for the A.I. XPRIZE are given no specific goals to reach, no distances to cover, no speed to exceed, no altitude to reach. It was believed that such constraints might hinder creativity. Competitors are merely required to impress the hell out of the A.I. XPRIZE board, a twelve-member panel of engineers, scientists, and business people.

  “How long would you need me for?”

  “Well, the presentation is in sixteen months.”

  “Okay, so… How long would you need me for?”

  “Sixteen months. Tyler, we’ve been working on this project for nearly ten years—longer if you include the development of CPL.”

  CPL—Complexity Programming Language—is an agent-based programming language that my father and two others from MIT created, using me—or more precisely, my developing brain—as a test bed for determining the capacity of the human mind for manipulating abstract objects. The program mirrored my abilities. Or maybe it was the other way around.

  “—longer if you include your experiments on my brain,” I retorted.

  “Oh yes, I forgot about cutting your head open.” He frowned.

  “What’s the thing called?” I asked, not wanting to get into this old argument.

  “The thing?”

  “Your brain in a vat.”

  “Prometheus.”

  “Not exactly original.” I smiled cleverly. “Isn’t Prometheus that guy who got his liver eaten out by a vulture or something?”

  “He gave knowledge to the world—” He sipped his coffee. “You know the story.”

  Great. Now he’s just staring at me.

  I inhaled deeply, taking in the aromas of fresh paint, rubber floor mats, and coffee. I could sense the electronics rack looming behind me.

  “You ever wonder if any of this really means anything?” I asked, trying to break the intensity of his gaze.

  “Our research?”

  “No, I mean everything. Our lives. Our existence here on this planet.”

  He smiled. I knew he couldn’t resist a chance to regale me with his thoughts on philosophy.

  “Way too many youthful hours have been wasted mulling that one.” He stared into his coffee for a moment and then back at me. “The answer couldn’t be simpler: No one will ever know. But if there is meaning to any of this—to life—then it’s probably a good idea to do something constructive with it, don’t you think? And if there isn’t? Well, then what does it matter? You might as well waste your meaningless time betting that there is.”

  “But”—I held up my index finger—“if there is meaning, then no matter what you do in life, by definition that life has meaning.”

  “Sure, but would you say a slug’s life is as meaningful as a human’s?”

  “You think meaning has degrees?”

  “I think slugs are pretty disgusting, is what I think. Hold on. Did you hear that?” He listened. “Did you leave the outside door open?”

  “It closes by itself.”

  “Hello?” a female voice called out. The door shut.

  “Who is that?” I sat up straighter.

  “Around here,” my father called out, in response to the attractive voice.

  “I’m here about the bookkeeping job. Am I in the right place?”

  I followed my father’s gaze as he looked to my right. At the end of the electronics rack was a young woman with the most mesmerizing blue eyes I had ever seen. She was wearing a black leather jacket, a plaid skirt and, below her shapely calves, black ankle boots. My eyes returned to hers. She smiled.

  “Is this Quantum Bay Labs?” She read the name from a piece of paper.

  “Yes, it is.” My father made his way around the table as I brought my lips together. “You took us by surprise,” he said. “We don’t get a lot of Indians around these parts—especially such pretty ones.”

  “Oh, the feather.” She rolled her eyes up as if she could see the bright orange feather tucked into her auburn hair. “You like that?”

  “Love it. But who doesn’t love pilfered bird appendages? Except maybe the birds.” He leaned in, examined the feather. “You know, that looks an awful lot like a South American Condor feather.”

  “That’s exactly what it is,” she said, playing along. “And you’d be surprised how mad those birds get when you pull a feather out of them.”

  “Well, you must be quite brave.” My father glanced at me for agreement.

  I nodded inanely.

  “Oh, and look at this,” he went on. “I got so caught up in our bird talk, I’ve forgotten my manners: I’m Aiden Cipriani and this is Tyler Cipriani.”

  “Danny—Danny Searle. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” She paused, stared at my father. “Are you…? You’re Aiden Cipriani? The Aiden Cipriani? Wow, I just read one of your books.”

  “Really? Which one?” My father couldn’t possibly have been more delighted.

  “Of Consciousness and Machines.”

  “I’m impressed. But that’s not exactly a beach read.” His face morphed from smile to furrowed brow. “Kind of an odd choice for an aspiring bookkeeper, isn’t it?”

  “Can’t a bookkeeper explore her non-pecuniary interests?”

  He smiled again.

  I smiled too. I couldn’t help it. Her voice, her eyes, her presence, had control.

  “So, are you in school?” my father asked.

  “Yes, for finance. But I’ve also been thinking about a more general business major.”

  My father stepped back to look at her in full, rubbing his chin.

  “Is something wrong?” sh
e asked.

  “I don’t know. There’s something not quite right here, but I can’t figure it out.”

  “What do you mean, not quite right?”

  “It’s like you’re a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit the puzzle.”

  “Maybe it’s the puzzle that doesn’t fit me.”

  “Sounds like something Jasmine would say.” My father glanced at me knowingly. He turned back to Danny. “Jasmine is one of my daughters. So, Ms. Searle, how did you happen to come across Of Consciousness and Machines?”

  “An old boyfriend had it.” She removed her jacket, and a sleek diamond-encrusted watch slid down her wrist. “He has a whole library of philosophy books—other books as well. But I’ve probably read more of the philosophy books than he has.”

  “Really? So, why aren’t you studying philosophy in school?”

  “Because I’d like to make a living once I graduate.”

  “You don’t exactly look poor. Those clothes certainly weren’t bought at Target, and that watch is fancier than my Bulova.”

  “Gifts. My aunt has quite a bit of money.”

  “And she won’t pay your tuition? Does she not like you?”

  “Hold on,” I said—waking from my daze. “Isn’t this getting a little personal?”

  “It’s okay,” Danny said.

  “No, he’s right. I sometimes get carried away. I apologize.” My father glanced at the office door. “Let’s see if I can’t expedite things.”

  He knocked on the office door and soon had Peter’s other bookkeeping candidate on his way. He introduced Peter to Danny, then he and I returned to the front yard and the twins. Ishana went back inside.

  Looking up at the billowy clouds above the conic dome of the Turret, I slowly panned over to the white Camry in the driveway.

  “Interesting young woman, wouldn’t you say?”

  I turned. My father was sitting on the quilt, petting the mother cat, Marigold.

  “She seems nice,” I said flatly.

  “Nice?” He laughed.

  “Tyler, look, this one’s named Muffin.” Tara held up a particularly fuzzy orange kitten.

  “This one is Pillow.” Jasmine held up an all-black kitten.

  “I really don’t think it’s a good idea to start naming these things,” my father said. “And who names a black cat Pillow? It should be called Shadow or Spooky or something.”

  “I don’t think you’re very good at naming things,” Tara said, giving him a sour look.

  “I named the two of you, didn’t I?”

  “Mom did.”

  “I believe I had some input on the matter.” He shaded his eyes as he looked up at me. “Just go ask her out.”

  “Ask who out?” Tara asked.

  “A girl that Tyler likes.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Very.”

  “And she’s here for an interview,” I said. “Not to be hit on.”

  “According to you”—my father pulled his shoulders back, stretching—“you don’t even work here anyway. You’re free to do whatever you want.”

  “Is that her?” Tara pointed toward the driveway.

  It was: auburn hair, plaid skirt, leather jacket casually draped over her arm.

  “Can we show her the kittens?” Jasmine asked.

  “Good idea,” my father said. “You two go lure her over.”

  The twins took off across the lawn as fast as their tiny legs could carry them, returning moments later with Danny.

  “It seems you won’t be getting away so easily, Ms. Searle,” my father said, sounding like James Bond’s nemesis as he stroked a tiger-striped kitten’s head.

  “Well, if you’re going to use kittens and these two little angels—who could resist?”

  “We’re not angels,” Jasmine corrected her. “We’re witches.”

  “Witches?” Danny knelt down between the girls. “Do you have any magical powers? Of course you do. All twins have magical powers.”

  “They do?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Great. Just what they need—more delusions,” my father said.

  “I take it your dad doesn’t believe in magic.”

  “He’s a muggle,” Tara said.

  “A super-duper muggle,” Jasmine added.

  “Well, what if we were to show him some actual magic? Do you think he’d believe then?”

  “Do you know any?” Jasmine asked.

  “It just so happens that I do. How about you, Tyler?” Danny looked up as I quickly tore my eyes away from her exposed knees. “Do you believe in magic?”

  “You mean like magic wands and stuff?”

  “I’m just going to take that as a no.” Danny patted the girls on their shoulders. “I believe we’re going to need some industrial-strength magic to convince these two.”

  She went to her car and returned with a purple bag. It had yellows stars all over it.

  “What in the world is that?” my father asked.

  “It’s a wizard’s satchel. Don’t laugh; a wizard gave it to me.” Danny set the bag down on the quilt and dug into it, pulling out a black scarf. “There you are, my old friend.” She shook the scarf out, dusted it off. “Now all we need is a good spell. How about a spell that’ll make a kitten disappear?”

  “How about a spell that makes them all disappear?” my father quipped.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Danny told the twins. “We’ll make one of these little guys disappear and then bring him right back. Does that sound good?”

  Danny looked up at me, and somehow I felt compelled to sit.

  The twins debated which kitten to send into the ether, but Danny quickly settled things by informing them that a black kitten was the best suited for this type of spell. Pillow won by default. Jasmine, now uncertain whether she had won, handed her kitten over.

  Danny wrapped Pillow in the black scarf and stroked its head—the only part of the kitten showing. “All we need now is a set of twins—oh, right. Perfect.” Danny draped the final corner of the scarf over Pillow’s head and instructed the girls to repeat after her: “Sim koala limbo lim, sim koala limbo lim, sim koala limbo lim.”

  Danny let the scarf fall open—and Pillow was gone. Holding the scarf by two corners, she showed us both sides.

  “Holy shit,” my father exclaimed. “How did you do that?”

  I’m not sure what I had been expecting. Certainly nothing like this. Whatever she did, however she made that thing disappear, it was… seamless.

  “You really do know magic,” Jasmine said excitedly.

  “Really real magic,” Tara added.

  “Okay, that worked,” Danny said, sounding utterly unimpressed with herself. “But that was the easy part. Now we have to get her back.” Danny laid the scarf out flat on the quilt. She lifted its center. “So Pillow has room to reappear,” she explained. “All right, let’s try this again.” Again, she and the girls chanted: “Sim koala limbo lim, sim koala limbo lim, sim koala limbo lim.”

  Danny whisked the scarf away—and there, resting on the quilt, was a softball. A real, honest-to-God, red-stitched softball.

  “Uh-oh. Apparently, the same words don’t work as a reversing spell.” Danny put an index finger to her temple. “The word ‘koala’ can mean either kitten or ball. And the word ‘sim’ generally means soft. So that makes sense.”

  “Does it?” My father picked up the ball. “How in the hell did you get this in front of us without us seeing it?” He turned to me.

  I shrugged. Of course I knew it was just a trick, but for some reason I now felt concerned for the kitten.

  “It’s magic, Dad,” Tara said emphatically.

  “I hope these two aren’t going to be permanently damaged by all this.” My father looked at his two wide-eyed daughters.

  “Maybe your dad should do the spell with us this time,” Danny said.

  “Oh, no, no, no…” My father chuckled. “I’m going to watch you very carefully this time. And don’t you try
to distract me with those big blue eyes, young lady.”

  Danny blushed. She placed the ball on the quilt and draped the scarf over it.

  “All right. The reversing spell is simple: sim koala limbo bim. Just replace the lim with a bim,” she told the twins. “And no wisecracks from you,” she admonished my father.

  “Just do the silly trick.”

  “Dad, it’s not a trick,” Tara said.

  “And it’s not silly,” Jasmine added.

  Danny and the girls performed the reversing spell, and when Danny whisked the scarf away the ball was gone. But, still, so was Pillow. The only thing that remained was a dent in the quilt where the ball had been.

  “Oh, I know what this is,” Danny explained. “Sometimes these old scarves can get a little cranky.” She balled the scarf up, then let it unfurl. Out rolled Pillow.

  Jasmine scooped her up.

  “That’s incredible,” my father said. “Why in the world would you ever want to be a bookkeeper?”

  “A lot of people can do this sort of thing.” Danny stuffed the black scarf back into her wizard’s satchel.

  “No one I know.” He looked at me.

  “No one I know, either,” I agreed. “That was unbelievable. And you improvised the entire thing.”

  Danny looked at me, and for a moment I forgot to breathe.

  “Can we make Muffin disappear now?” Tara asked.

  “No, we can’t,” I said, suddenly feeling protective of Danny—even if only from my tiny, pestering sisters. “She just came here for a job interview, not to entertain us all afternoon.”

  “But Dad wants to see more—right, Dad?”

  My father was staring at the house, lost in thought.

  I nudged him.

  “Huh? Oh, right. Tyler’s right,” he said reflexively, still not fully returned to the here and now. “We’re very fortunate that Danny has taken the time to show us what she has. Thank you, Danny.”

  I offered Danny my hand. She stood up.

  “You know, I get the whole misdirection thing,” my father said, still seated on the quilt. “But I watched you very carefully. Where did you learn this stuff?”

  “I worked for a short time as David Levinson’s assistant.” She looked at us as if we should know the name. “Well, he’s a really popular magician out in Las Vegas. But it takes a certain kind of personality to survive in that world, and it really wasn’t for me.”