Singularity

by Steven James

“You promise it’s going to be quick?”

  “Can’t promise that, I’m afraid,” he replied.

  “And the needle and thread? You’re going to use them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I watch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ll see you tonight.”

  “See you then.”

  Derek ended his call with Calista and waited at the rendezvous point for Tomás Agcaoili, but he didn’t show.

  When he tried Agcaoili’s number, no one answered.

  He gave it another half hour, but still there was no sign of him.

  It looked like there was a little wrinkle in the plan after all.

  He held his anger in check and processed where things were at.

  Okay, he would find Agcaoili eventually and deal with him accordingly, but for now he would need to rely on the man Calista was meeting tonight.

  As long as she delivered him, they should be able to make things work.

  Yes.

  With a little persuading, the engineer would tell them what they needed to know. And if there was one thing Colonel Derek Byrne was good at, it was persuading people to tell him things that they would normally have been unwilling to share with a stranger.

  He received a call from Akio Takahashi, president and CEO of Plyotech’s Cybernetics, about an upcoming, unplanned meeting with Undersecretary of Defense Williamson, and he told Takahashi exactly what to tell her and what not to.

  End call.

  Yes, it was definitely time to move the research out of the country.

  Derek’s goal was not just to hasten the coming of The Singularity, but to be present when it arrived. Whether that was in a biological body or a nonbiological one didn’t matter so much to him. Those who control the machines that control our lives, control our lives. He wanted to be the one holding the reins when humanity galloped into its fast-approaching, inevitable evolutionary dawn.

  We grab a late supper of subs and Cheetos at 6:45.

  Charlene hears back from the FBI agent, but he seems to have not taken her as seriously as she hoped he would. He’s not impressed with the RixoTray connection Fionna was able to discover on the USB drive. Only after Charlene presses him does he finally promise to have his team analyze the files on Monday.

  Though Xavier’s not usually one to say, “I told you so,” when he finds out about that, he reminds us in no uncertain terms that the FBI’s reluctance to get involved is just what he expected.

  Now it’s time to shift gears and put the final touches on the show.

  All three of us try to slide thoughts of the search for Tomás Agcaoili out of our minds and focus on the upcoming performance.

  Let’s see how my breath-holding goes when it counts.

  Part V

  The Undersecretary

  6:50 p.m.

  Akio Takahashi waited anxiously in his office on the top floor of Plyotech’s R&D facility northeast of Las Vegas.

  The meeting with Undersecretary of Defense Oriana Williamson was scheduled to start in ten minutes, and he was hoping she would be late so he could have something, even if it was something small, to hold against her.

  He was planning to say the things Colonel Byrne had told him to say—explain that the research has been going well but there haven’t been any recent breakthroughs. He had the progress reports on his desk. They showed steady but not exponential progress on the program that the Department of Defense was paying for.

  The reports weren’t doctored, they just weren’t complete. They didn’t include information about what was going on in the building’s unofficial lower levels. Akio was being paid very well to keep that under wraps. And he would be paid even better when they made the breakthroughs he’d been promised. He didn’t know all that happened down there, and honestly, he didn’t want to know.

  He just hoped these reports would be enough to satisfy Williamson. He’d read over the files at least half a dozen times, trying to view them through her eyes, but he wasn’t completely satisfied they were convincing.

  And if she threatened to terminate the funding, he had no idea what he would do. Way too much was at stake.

  “She’s here, sir.” His receptionist’s voice came through on his iPad. When he was in the office, she was as well, no matter what time of day it was. It was in her contract. He tapped the screen and replied, “Kindly see her in.”

  A few moments later there was a light tap at the door as his receptionist, a diminutive thirty-year-old woman who was also from Akio’s home country of Japan, politely eased it open, and Undersecretary of Defense Oriana Williamson strode into the room.

  Chieko gently closed the door behind her as she seemed to dematerialize into midair.

  Akio bowed respectfully to Undersecretary Williamson, and she gave him a perfunctory, militarily brisk bow.

  “Good evening, Undersecretary Williamson.”

  “Mr. Takahashi.” She stood ramrod straight and gave him a steady, if somewhat impatient, stare.

  He gestured toward the leather chair facing his desk. “Shall we have a seat?”

  “That won’t be necessary. We won’t be here in the office for long.”

  Of course he wanted to ask her why they would be leaving his office, but he had the sense that doing so might be considered impolite. And besides, he had something he wanted to do right away—assure her that things were on schedule.

  But before he could, she said, “I’m here for one reason: I want to verify that you are making progress on the project.”

  “Yes, of course. Yes, we are.”

  “Let me make this clear. The oversight committee sent me here; it was not my choice. I do not like being called away from my family for this type of thing, especially on a Saturday. But the deadline is coming up, and we have not been impressed with the progress reports we’ve been receiving. The committee thought it best to have someone on-site.”

  His questions returned: On a Saturday? Why on a Saturday evening?

  She seemed to read his thoughts. “They thought a little privacy would be in order, thus the weekend visit. And, I do admit that much more can be accomplished in person than over the phone or over the Internet. I’m sure you agree.” It was clear by her tone that it wasn’t a question but more of an exhortation for him to tell her that, yes, he did agree with her.

  “Personal meetings are always most productive,” he said as deferentially as he could.

  A moment of unsettling silence followed his words as she let her eyes pass critically around the room.

  “Well,” he began, “I can assure you that the project is moving ahead.” He directed her attention to the pile of folders on his desk.

  “I would like a tour of your research facilities,” she responded.

  “A tour?”

  “Yes. Show me around. I read copies of those reports on the flight here. I’m really not interested in going over them again. The US government is paying a lot of money—an exorbitant amount of money, in my opinion—to have you produce EEG helmets that can scan the brains of soldiers and transmit simple orders from one troop to another, and exolimbs that can be controlled by neural impulses. I want to see for myself what’s being done, not read about it in a report.”

  It bothered him that she took the time to detail their contract with him like that. He knew all that, of course he did. Just the fact that she would run through it made him feel that she was somehow judging him.

  “Well then.” He gestured toward the door. “A tour it is.”

  The media is still reporting that Emilio’s death was an accident, that a cobra with venom had mistakenly gotten enclosed with him in the coffin. That was partially true, only it hadn’t been a mistake.

  So, before the show I decide to put out a press release through my publicist detailing what actually happened.

  Coming up with a statement isn’t easy. After all, we don’t have any specific evidence that Tomás had anything to do with the death of my friend. It’s all circumstanti
al, and if we announce that Emilio’s death was a homicide, we’ll be called to account to provide evidence, which at the moment we still don’t have.

  So, in the end, I simply state that the authorities in the Philippines, in cooperation with the US ambassador in Manila, are still investigating the incident.

  I hope that perhaps that might put a fire under Ambassador Whitehead to get something done.

  Charlene and Nikki wear attractive, tight-fitting outfits that seem elegantly seductive, appropriate for the show but pretty mild by Las Vegas standards.

  About five minutes before showtime as I’m talking with Charlene backstage, Mr. Fridell, the owner of the Arête, emerges from the hallway that winds back to the steps to the sound booth. He doesn’t dress anything like you might expect a billionaire to—jeans, a polo shirt, flip-flops, a ball cap. No bodyguards. No entourage. He looks more like someone who’s visiting the casino than the man who owns it.

  I’ve only spoken with him in person a few times. The last time that he came to the show he told me how much he enjoyed it and offered to extend my contract indefinitely. It was an attractive offer, but life is uncertain and I don’t like to sign up for anything long-term, so we settled on a six-month extension.

  He shakes my hand. “Jevin, I wanted to offer my condolences. I understand that you and Mr. Benigno were quite close.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “If you need some time, we can black out some dates next week. I was thinking tomorrow in particular. You know Sunday night can be slow anyway.”

  That’s quite an offer. It would cost him tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars, plus the hassle of refunding money to those who’ve already purchased tickets.

  “No. That won’t be necessary.”

  “Well then, let me know if there’s anything you need.”

  I’m not sure he’s the right guy to clear this with, but I decide to bring it up so it wouldn’t be out of the blue. “I’d like to take a few moments before the show tonight to speak about Emilio. Offer a moment of silence.”

  “Of course. I’ll let the show manager know.”

  And then he excuses himself to do a walk-around and make sure his guests are having a good time. Unlike some of the other casino owners in Vegas, he takes as much time catering to the casual gamblers as he does to the high rollers.

  I don’t know him well enough to be able to tell if that’s all just a public relations ploy or if he really does care about everyone’s experience, but it does impress me.

  And then, at 7:57 our cue music begins, we all wish each other luck, and three short minutes later the curtain rises.

  Prions

  I step onstage and begin the show by speaking directly to the audience. “I’d like to dedicate this evening to Emilio Benigno. He was killed in the Philippines this week. He would have wanted this show to go on. It’s the kind of performer he was. He was a great magician and a close friend.”

  I invite them to join me for a moment of silence, and then I leave the stage so the dancers can come on while I get set for the first escape.

  In one sense each show gets easier, and in another, they never get easier at all. If you’re attentive to the details, every performance becomes more refined, shaping effects by the millisecond. Just like an Olympic sprinter, you’re measuring your progress in hundredths of a second on escapes and quick changes, and refining the accuracy of stage marks to make sure you’re in the right place at the right time.

  You can get by with just doing a series of effects, but I’ve always believed you need an emotional connection with the audience, otherwise it’s just eye candy. You have to tell a story, just like in writing a screenplay or a novel. An effective magician is always a storyteller. And what is a story? It’s the introduction of a character who faces a conflict that escalates into a climactic conclusion that provides the audience with a satisfying resolution.

  And of course you need emotion. It does no good if the audience doesn’t feel. And a good twist at the end always makes for a better story.

  But tonight pulling everything together is harder than ever.

  From the start of the show, I’m distracted.

  The lights come up and I go through the first sequence, a series of vanishes and metamorphosis illusions with Seth, Nikki, and Charlene. To set up the effect, Charlene and four of the dancers step out of a cloud of Xavier-manufactured smoke and approach a glass wall on the middle of the stage.

  By passing around the wall and pressing against it, they prove to the audience that it’s solid. Then the dancers exit, the music builds, and I come onstage and approach the wall and press my hands against it.

  The smoke that’s trapped on one side of the glass barrier makes it clear that there are no holes in it.

  The dancers reemerge, swirling crimson clothes. As they dance and twirl around the glass, curling the smoke around them, I step through the glass, then hold my hands to the side and levitate into the rising smoke, where I vanish.

  It’s all passable, but I can’t stop thinking about everything that’s been going on this week.

  I do my best to hide my limp, and at least that goes reasonably well.

  Charlene does an escape from a cage that’s swinging toward a wall bristling with swords. It’s an idea she came up with herself and Xavier designed for her at the warehouse where he does all of his research and brainstorming, not far from the Strip.

  Tonight the effect goes flawlessly.

  Well, at least one of us is in top form.

  When you’ve done as many shows as I have, you can tell when things are clicking and when they aren’t. Tonight it feels like a night of work for me instead of a show that’s cruising along on all cylinders. I’m not focused like I need to be, and during one escape with a spinning blade I almost don’t make it out of the handcuffs in time.

  It makes the effect more dramatic, and I’m guessing that the audience has no idea how close I am to losing my fingers, but Xavier does, and after the effect he corners me backstage.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re thinking about Emilio, aren’t you?”

  “Trying not to.”

  “Well, stop trying and succeed. You need to be present, in the moment.”

  I know this, of course. “Yeah.”

  “Don’t give me a mess to clean up here tonight, bro.”

  “I won’t. Thanks for the reminder.”

  “And this is where we’re doing research on self-replicating nanobots.” Akio Takahashi swept the door open dramatically, and Undersecretary Williamson stepped into the room.

  “So the reverse engineering of the prions is going well?”

  So, she had been reading the reports.

  “Yes. It’s coming along fine.”

  Prions are proteins that self-replicate. By reverse engineering them, Plyotech’s researchers should theoretically be able to create nanobots that do the same thing.

  “And you’ve put adequate safeguards in place?”

  “Of course.” But, in truth, no one really knew what kinds of safeguards were necessary or even how to implement enough of them. But Plyotech’s safety measures were on par with what other companies in a similar line of research were doing.

  Nanotechnology was changing the landscape of science and medicine forever. Already Plyotech’s scientists were working on ways to have nanobots rearrange atoms to develop new life-forms, to help heal diseases, to create stronger metals. And all of this was just the beginning.

  “And the gray goo scenario?” she asked.

  Akio was surprised she would even bring that up. It had been addressed numerous times in their reports, and she should have been well versed in Plyotech’s containment protocols.

  “We’ve taken measures to reduce the chances of it.”

  “To reduce them?”

  “There’s no way to eliminate them entirely, but the nanobots we’re proposing on developing will be programmed to stop at very specific t
imes, in very specific ways.”

  The gray goo scenario was basically the result of nanobots gone berserk. Anything that’s self-replicating needs control measures so it’ll eventually stop.

  Cancer cells, for example, multiply without any mechanism to stop replicating. And they don’t, until they kill the organism they’re living in.

  If nanobots self-replicate and create more nanobots that also self-replicate and create more nanobots, well . . . eventually you would have a planet devoid of carbon life-forms, simply made up of nanobots replicating themselves indefinitely into more self-replicating nanobots.

  The first order of business when developing a new virus or bacteria is to form an antidote. It was proving to be the same with nanobots.

  Theoretically, scientists would find a way to stop them before anything reached a cataclysmic scale, but in reality, even though there was an international moratorium on actually producing self-replicating nanobots, they were being researched in dozens of countries. After all, you can’t slip behind other companies in the technological race toward a brighter future.

  It’s just that none of the nanobots under question had been created yet.

  Or at least, unleashed yet.

  But malicious ones were coming. Human nature being what it was, it would only be a matter of time.

  “What else?” she asked.

  “That wraps up the tour. Unless you have any other questions?”

  “I would like to see the research areas whose findings are not recorded in the reports.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said the findings not recorded in the reports.”

  He tried to look her in the eye while he lied. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “There are gaps. I’d like you to fill them in.”

  “The reports cover all of our progress relative to the defense contract.”

  She eyed him for a long time. “My flight leaves tomorrow evening at six o’clock. At noon—and I don’t care if it’s Sunday or not—I will be returning here to your facility. That should give you enough time to collect the information you need to fill in the gaps for me. If I’m not satisfied, we will pull the funding for this research and initiate a probe that, I can guarantee you, will be thorough enough to tell us everything we want to know about those holes. Good night, Mr. Takahashi. I hope you are able to collect the pertinent data for me. I do not appreciate having my time wasted.”