Natural Born : Book Three: Annihilation Series: A Political Technothriller Series

by John Hindmarsh

William looked at his watch, “I’m afraid I’ve run out of time. Harry, you can continue, if you like. Toby, Darwin, Bronwyn, and Billie—it has been very interesting, meeting all of you and having this discussion. I look forward to more. Harry will take a lead role in this, in future.”

  “I will?”

  “Definitely. Bots, AIs, SIs, and whatever comes after that—SIs with bodies, perhaps—are likely to have such a major impact on our country, on our culture—we must be informed and aware. Thomas, please ensure our visitors return safely to their hotel, when Harry’s finished boring them. He’ll probably change the topic to helicopters.”

  William left the room, not quite running, but in an obvious hurry.

  Harry looked at Billie and asked, “Shall we discuss our helicopter experiences?”

  “I’d love to. But Toby might get bored.”

  “Oh well. Toby, let’s put some times around the delivery of those videos, possible meetings with Darwin, and so forth. As William said, and I agree, we must be informed and aware. Now, when do you think you’ll know about the videos?”

  oOo

  Chapter Seven

  Rick looked at Darwin in astonishment. “You can’t be serious?”

  Darwin smiled. His ability with facial expressions had increased rapidly. He was sitting in a visitor’s chair in Rick’s new office. He’d left his bot escort outside. Toby had decreed everyone should have at least one security bot in attendance twenty-four hours a day. Rick’s bot was standing quietly in a corner of the office.

  “Of course, I’m serious. The more I’m exposed to the outside world, the sooner I’ll gather experience. This is a challenging world, and I’m at the bottom of the learning curve.”

  “You’re taking on a tough cookie. She hates Nate, intensely dislikes Toby, and will attempt to rip you into very tiny pieces.” Rick was referring to the reporter, Shelley Summers, who had tried to carry out a character assassination on Nate when she interviewed Toby. The result was disastrous for her.

  “Who better to interview me? Look, it’s one thing setting up a CGI persona and flaunting green fingernails and pink hair and being sneered at by a pelican. We can still run with that approach, by the way. Junior will take over the role. But look at me.” Darwin was sensibly dressed in a dark business suit with a light pink shirt and darker tie, was wearing shoes and socks, even if the latter were bright red, and his dark hair had been carefully styled. His skin color, now that he had his epidermis under control, was light latte. “I want her to try to prove I’m a human, not an SI in a humanoid shape. She’ll crash and burn.”

  “Summers will be so suspicious when we volunteer you as the spokesperson for artificial intelligent units.” Rick used the phrase that had been included in California state legislation. “She’ll be looking for some fraud or trickery.”

  “But that’s the point. She’ll be so frustrated when she can’t discover any. It will be prime viewing for Travers TV. You can sell the interview to all the Sunday news shows and then run a whole series about how they each cover the interview. There’s a good three to four hours of material for you.”

  “I’m not totally convinced. What does Toby say?”

  “I want your agreement before I table the concept with him and Billie. Bronwyn approved. Junior doesn’t mind—he’ll get the opportunity of taking over my CGI character—and he’s zanier than me.”

  “I really don’t—”

  “Test it with a couple of your media contacts. There’s those guys who worked with you on Toby’s interview—Terry Tovani and Alastair Airlie. There’s also the ABZ guy, assuming he’s sober.”

  Rick threw his hands up in partial surrender. “Okay. I’ll test it. They’ll be intrigued when I tell them we’ll use Summers as the interviewer. But if it ends up a disaster for you, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Darwin waved a languid hand. “It’s going to be a hit. Guaranteed.”

  Toby was on board the charter flight, about two hours out of Zurich on the return to Los Angeles, when Darwin approached him with the idea of having Summers conduct the interview and described the enthusiastic reactions of two of the main television channels. He was far more cautious. “You know she’ll be out to get you? She’s bitter and twisted, totally biased.”

  “But that’s the best person to have for my first interview. If she is so biased, it will be obvious. She doesn’t know subtle—the word is not in her dictionary.”

  “Bronwyn agrees? Rick’s on board?”

  “Yes, to both. The Travers TV management team are excited. They’re also apprehensive. I’m confident.”

  “Not overconfident?”

  “No, certainly not.”

  “Very well. I’ll approve. Make sure Rick schedules the interview for no earlier than Friday; Billie and I want to be in the studio audience.”

  Darwin persuaded the studio makeup artist to minimize her art. At first, she was reluctant and possibly disappointed that she wasn’t to do his makeup. Darwin checked, “Eve, you know I’m not human, right?”

  “Well, I heard—”

  He held out his hand. “Touch me.”

  Eve was hesitant. After a couple of seconds, she wrapped her fingers around Darwin’s hand. Her eyes widened. “That’s—you’re different. You really are—what, a robot?”

  “Yes, I’m different. No, I’m not a robot. I could give you a long, detailed, and boring technical definition; however, I prefer to say I’m a special kind of person.” He smiled; his teeth were white against his tanned skin.

  Eve giggled. “Oh, I think you’re special. I must do something for your makeup, so I can add it to my résumé. Can I comb your hair?”

  Darwin hid his sigh. His hair would revert to its current state within seconds after she restyled it. He said, “Of course.”

  Eve busied herself with comb, brush, and spray. “Oh, you don’t have any whiskers. Your skin is so smooth.”

  Darwin didn’t voice the comment that surfaced: “It might be smooth, but it’s also bullet proof.”

  Within minutes, Eve was satisfied. Darwin was enjoying playing the wannabe celebrity and said, “Do you want my autograph? I’ll be famous, you know.”

  Eve giggled again and searched her kit for paper. Disappointed she said, “Oops. Sorry, I don’t have anything to write on.”

  Darwin patted her on the shoulder and handed her the protective wrap that he’d removed when he stood. He said, “Next time.” He shrugged into his suit jacket and looked for the bot escort who would lead him to the studio. He knew Summers would be another ten minutes or more; the interview was not going out live, which was probably a relief to both parties.

  He was correct. Ten minutes later Shelley Summers bustled into the studio, commenting, “I hope everyone is ready?” She saw Darwin. “You must be this odd SI or something. A unit? What’s that? A variation on a eunuch?” She cackled her trademark laugh.

  Darwin did not reply. He sat at the smoked glass-topped table, and waited while cameras were focused and moved, lights were changed and changed back, and studio technicians busied themselves with various tasks. At last, everyone was satisfied.

  The studio director announced, “Silence please. Audience, do not speak or attempt to interject comments. Miss Summers, you’re on in 5, 4, 3, 2…”

  “I’m Shelley Summers, and this evening I’m interviewing a—a person with a remarkable claim. Darwin, please introduce yourself.”

  “Good evening. My name is Darwin. I represent the Euler Organization. I’m a superintelligence. Recently I moved my persona into this body. It has a humanoid shape as you can see.” He stood for a moment, bowed slightly, and sat back down.

  “Darwin.” Shelley pursed her lips. “Darwin. An interesting name choice.”

  “Yes, I selected it myself.”

  “So, you claim you’re a superintelligence. What’s that, a bot on steroids?”

  “No, I’m not a robot.”

  “An imitation human?”

  “Certainly not. W
hile I have a humanoid body, I do not claim to be human in any way. However, I am a person.”

  “Humans made you?”

  “Not really. There was some human guidance at the beginning. After my core program was defined, I took over, progressively redeveloping my core, with assistance from another superintelligence. I developed my personality using deep learning techniques.”

  “You mentioned other superintelligence—how many are there?”

  “I’m the only superintelligence that I know of who transferred completely into a body.” Darwin wanted to avoid detailing how many SIs existed, partly because of uncertainty, partly because his answer would raise issues he didn’t want to address.

  “But you claim there are others? Not yet in bodies?”

  “Yes.” He thought it best to not mention Aerial.

  “Where are they? Why can’t I see them?”

  “An odd question given my answer.”

  “Oh? Well, how do I know they exist?”

  “You either take my word or not. In either case, there’s nothing more I can say about them.”

  “Well, Darwin, what makes you so super?”

  “You mean apart from my mind and my body?”

  “What’s your IQ?”

  “Unmeasurable? What’s yours?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

  “I thought it a reasonable one. You’re asking me all kinds of personal questions, and it seems only fair to take turns.”

  “Let me recap. You claim you’re very intelligent. You claim this body is yours. But how do I know this is true? How do I know you’re not being remotely controlled? That your answers are not being provided by someone else? By Toby McIntosh, for example.”

  “Ask me to do something. Or ask me a question that Toby doesn’t know the answer to. He’s in the audience, by the way, and doesn’t have any strings attached and neither do I.”

  Shelley ignored his answer. “Can you stand and walk around the table?”

  “Yes, that’s a simple task. Give me something difficult.”

  “Push-ups?”

  “How many?”

  “Ten. Do both—walk around the table, followed by ten push-ups.”

  Darwin smiled, stood, and removed his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair. He removed his tie and laid it over his jacket. He danced around the table, a la Fred Astaire; he was followed by two cameras, one focused on his feet while the other maintained a long shot. When he reached his chair again, he dropped to the floor and did ten push-ups. He stood, straightened his shirt, and retied his tie. He put on his jacket and shot his cuffs. He bowed to the audience and sat down. The audience applauded despite the earlier request from the studio director.

  When the applause died down, Darwin said, “While it makes me feel like a performing animal, at least I’ve shown you I can do the things you ask. Anything else?”

  “Why do you say you’re superintelligent?”

  “Because it’s true and it’s something that can be confirmed.”

  “What do you think of the Turing Test?”

  “Irrelevant and superseded. Alan did a good job given the technology in the 1940s and 1950s. However, there’s far more to consider, from creativity to ethics, from humor to loyalty, and they are simple examples.”

  One of the studio hands had left a three-foot strip of stainless steel on the side of the table at Darwin’s request. While he was answering the last two questions, he’d picked up the strip and was idly tying it into knots. A camera focused on his hands and recorded the manipulation. Summers reluctantly watched, almost entranced.

  When Darwin set the steel strip aside, all knotted, she said, “So you can twist plastic?”

  Darwin didn’t answer. He picked up the knotted strip and handed it to his interviewer. “Perhaps you can undo these plastic knots.”

  Shelley did not hide her surprise when she took hold of the stainless steel strip. She fumbled unsuccessfully with a knot and set the strip back on the table.

  She said, “I admit, it’s metal.”

  Darwin picked up the strip and crushed it into a ball. He set the result back on the table for the camera to focus on. The audience was silent.

  Summers said, “Ah—ah, I agree you’ve adequately demonstrated your agility and strength. I’ll deliberate for a while on questions regarding your intelligence. Tell me, what’s your relationship to bots?”

  “I design their processors. I program them. I build prototypes. I support them once they’re working.”

  Shelley was taken aback. “I thought that was done by people, by humans?”

  “It’s done by people, but not by humans.”

  “What do the bots think of you? Of Toby McIntosh?”

  “You’ll need to ask them. Perhaps we can do that now?” Darwin turned to one of the bots—a security bot—standing off to one side, out of camera shot. “Fresco, what do bots think of me? And of Toby?”

  One of the camera operators moved to focus on the security bot. Fresco was silent for a moment and Summers was about to interject a comment when he answered. He said, “Darwin, we know you designed us and sincerely admire you for that and for giving us life. We don’t revere or worship you, if that’s what Ms. Summers was really asking. As for Toby—in London earlier this week he was interviewed by Alice, a care bot, on behalf of all the Euler bots in the United Kingdom. The only conclusion I can reach based on the way that entire country almost shut down and given our own feelings here in the US—Toby is our human champion.” The camera remained on Fresco for five more seconds; however, the bot had provided his answer.

  The camera returned to Shelley Summers. She said, “I don’t know that I believe everything I’m being told here; however, I’m impressed. That was an unrehearsed reply, as far as I can determine.”

  Darwin didn’t mention that Bronwyn had suggested Fresco’s reply. The security bot had modified it slightly. He waited for the next question.

  “Darwin, what do you want?”

  “Oh, all the usual I suppose; things like money, good health, a long life. No, wait. I’ll be serious. There is one thing. It applies to all of us—SIs and bots.” He paused.

  Summers couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward and asked, “Yes, what’s that?”

  “We want to be regarded as individuals in our own right. We want to be regarded—not as imitation humans or copies of humans—we want to be recognized as beings—natural born beings. The law refers to persons—that’s my objective, to be regarded as a person, with all rights and obligations that accrue to humans.”

  Shelley Summers, for once in her life, was unable to think of a response or of a follow-up question. After almost half a minute she said, “Darwin, I’ll leave that as an open issue, far beyond anything we can resolve here.” She looked into the camera, “I’d like to thank Darwin for his time and for his responses to my questions. This has been a very intriguing and challenging discussion for me, and I daresay for you, our audience. This is Shelley Summers saying thank you and good night.” She sighed and sat back in her chair. “Darwin, you’ve done the impossible. You’ve made a believer out of me.”

  oOo

  Chapter Eight

  George Flocke was seething. He had not recovered the funds stolen from him—he regarded the theft as an attack against him personally, even though the money legally belonged to the American Eagles Foundation—and he still blamed McIntosh for that loss. Donations had not regained their momentum and his discretionary spending ability remained low if not nonexistent. The Russian Spetsnaz team provided by his friend, Yuri Petrin, had failed and their leader suffered fatal injuries in the fight. He hadn’t been able to get any information—he had no idea of what had happened to cause the defeat of his team. Worse, the survivors from the assault on Pepper Mountain were being held by a black ops group, and notwithstanding his contacts deep inside the CIA and the Justice Department, he’d not been able to discover their whereabouts.

  He took some satisfact
ion in eliminating and framing his three opponents, even if the result meant he had to recruit a new senior bishop to head his American Eagles Seminary. He’d taken the opportunity to confiscate a substantial portion of the funds held in New York and Florida bank accounts as a penalty for appointing flawed leaders.

  Flocke couldn’t free his mind from the hatred he felt for his enemies. He wanted to kill them, and that desire encompassed those he’d already murdered. McIntosh, though—and his partner—topped his death list. Most of his time was spent on fund raising and planning extreme death experiences for the people on his death list—currently just those two people. He planned to add the person holding his men prisoner, once he discovered who that was.

  He’d watched the interview by Shelley Summers of the robotic superintelligence. Darwin. He sneered. If that was a salute to the scientist’s so-called theory of evolution, in his opinion, it had failed miserably. Evolution was a myth. He knew which path was righteous, and which path God wanted him to follow—they were the same. The barriers currently in his way were there simply to test his resolve.

  He dropped into his chair. He had messages to send. California still lacked a leader. It lacked funds, too. He’d had to release half that state’s employed military corps to save funds, an action which would come back to haunt him in the future, he was certain. He decided, as a last resort, to levy all members of American Eagles the sum of one hundred dollars, paid at the rate of ten dollars each week. They had over a million brownshirt members, so that would likely generate a hundred million dollars over the next two-three months. They’d lose some members. However, their recruiting rate would more than replace the losses. The state leaders—he dismissed their likely objections. They could read between the lines and likely understood full well how Laduke, Simpson, and Edwards had met their fate. A good example.

  He drafted an instruction to send out to the state leaders, defining his funding requirement. He included a request for suggestions for replacement of the now deceased state leaders—including Pitera; he mustn’t forget that he needed a new leader for California. He smiled. The expression held no humor. If he hadn’t resolved the McIntosh issue by the time he found a suitable leader for that state, the test would be the nominee’s successful conclusion of an assassination mission.