Singularity

by Steven James

  And to let him know that someone had been in touch with the undersecretary, sharing details that should have—without a doubt—remained under wraps.

  Curiosity gets the best of me.

  “Hey, Xav, can I ask you what you’re reading? What Fionna gave you back at the house?”

  “Her answer to my question yesterday.”

  “And that was?”

  “Why she doesn’t want her kids reading the classics.”

  Ah.

  Yes, that’s right.

  I almost forgot about that.

  “What does she say?”

  “Let’s see . . .” He shows me that there are three pages of meticulously written notes. “Read it or summarize it for you?”

  “A summary is good.”

  “Give me a sec.”

  As Undersecretary Williamson drove away from the Plyotech Cybernetics R&D facility, she put a call through.

  A voice answered. “Yes?”

  “Reschedule my flight. I’m going to be staying the night in Vegas.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It’s here. They’re hiding it. I’m not sure where, maybe another level that doesn’t appear on the schematics.”

  “What do you propose we do?”

  “I’ll call you later. In the meantime, I’m going to pay a visit to a friend of mine to find out what’s really going on here.”

  “Well, she actually makes some good points,” Xavier tells me.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “For starters, does anyone cry today when they read—or watch—Hamlet?”

  “I’d have to say probably not too many, no.”

  “That’s what she says too. But people will cry watching a Hallmark commercial. Why?”

  “Hmm. I guess because we have to mentally translate Shakespeare, and the story becomes an intellectual exercise rather than an emotionally engaging experience.”

  “Exactly. And, as Fionna says, ‘By forcing students to read stories that don’t emotionally resonate with them, we systematically teach them to hate reading. It’s happened to a lot of kids.’”

  I can’t argue with that. I hated some of the “classics” I had to read in high school and college.

  “And,” he continues, “she believes that the classics weren’t as well written as stories are today. The authors simply didn’t have the ability to edit and word process like we do today, so they were forced to settle for manuscripts that were good enough rather than the best possible. A good author today might edit a scene twenty or thirty times. Can you imagine retyping War and Peace or Moby-Dick thirty times?”

  “That’s not really how I’d like to spend an afternoon. Or every afternoon. For a year.”

  “Me neither. She points out that writers a couple hundred years ago didn’t have as much competition as writers do today, so they didn’t need to be as good to get an audience. They could . . . let’s see . . .”

  He flips to the next page. “I’ll just read this part. ‘Writers in the past relied on gimmicks that are too puerile for today’s narratively astute and discerning readers. For example, Charles Dickens often used coincidence to solve his plot problems. It’s lazy writing, and contemporary readers know that and expect better stories. You just can’t make that fly today. You can’t introduce characters, develop them, and then just discard them (i.e., Les Misérables). Or be heavy-handed and didactic (Pilgrim’s Progress) or all but incomprehensible (Ulysses). Marketable stories today (that is, stories people read because they want to, not because they were told they’re supposed to) have to be, and are, better crafted.’”

  “Wow. And this from a homeschooling mom.”

  He considers that. “Maybe homeschooling isn’t a lost cause after all.” He peruses the sheets. “There’s one last section here. The competition part. ‘Today hundreds of thousands of titles are published every year. Obviously that wasn’t the case a couple hundred years ago. Today’s writers are competing for people’s attention against millions of other writers, billions of websites and blogs, not to mention video games, television, Facebook updates, tweets, movies, and so on. They have to be better just to survive.’”

  “What about the test of time? Remember how she told us that The Catcher in the Rye and Silas Marner hadn’t stood the test of time?”

  “Well, she says that the test of time is if people in the future still want to read a book and don’t just do so under threat of punishment.”

  “A bad grade.”

  “Exactly. A book you’re forced to read but would never read if you had the choice hasn’t stood the test. So, Poe’s stories have stood the test of time, The Lord of the Rings has stood the test of time; Silas Marner has not.”

  “Fionna sure thinks outside the box.”

  “Yes.” Xavier seems deep in thought. “She does.”

  Undersecretary Williamson found out that her friend wouldn’t be able to meet until seven.

  It wasn’t what she’d been hoping to hear, but she went ahead and set up the meeting at the Arête.

  Which was, as it turned out, the most natural place for the two of them to have their chat.

  Charlene helped Fionna look through Emilio’s files, following up on any references to Dr. Schatzing, RixoTray’s progeria researcher.

  As she did, she told herself not to worry about Jevin and Xavier. They were big boys. They could take care of themselves.

  No, she didn’t want to be clingy or overprotective. No, no, of course not. She didn’t want Jevin to change for her. The very fact that he was a bold, adventurous adrenaline junkie was one of the things that had attracted her to him in the first place.

  And, yet, in a way she did want him to change.

  It was all very confusing, as if something was getting lost between her head and her heart.

  She didn’t think it was fair of her to ask him to give up something essential about who he was just to be with her, but if he didn’t, she was afraid she might lose him for good.

  You have to let go of someone to let him fly free, but if you don’t hold on to him you might lose what you care about the most.

  The house phone rang, and Fionna looked at her strangely. “I didn’t even know that was connected. The whole time we were house-sitting here it hasn’t rung.”

  Charlene eyed it.

  “So you’ll text, no problem,” Fionna said, “but you really don’t like talking on the phone.”

  “No I do not.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Call it a quirk.”

  The phone continued to ring.

  “Should I answer it?” Fionna asked.

  “Not too many people have this number,” Charlene muttered.

  Another ring.

  Maddie’s voice floated down from upstairs. “Should I get that, Mom?”

  “We got it,” Fionna called back, then asked Charlene, “Well?”

  Charlene finally picked up. “Hello?”

  “Yes, this is Clive Fridell. I was looking for Jevin Banks. I tried his cell but he’s not picking up.”

  “Mr. Fridell? This is Charlene Antioch, his assistant. We’ve met a few times.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, Miss Antioch. I didn’t recognize your voice. Good to speak with you.” She got the impression that he really did remember her and really was glad to be talking with her. “Is Jevin there?”

  “He’s out, I’m afraid. Running errands.” She decided not to elaborate: He’s currently sneaking into a top-secret military installation. May I take a message?

  “And how is he? I mean, after last night? Be honest, now.”

  “He’s alright. He’s a pretty resilient guy.”

  “That he is. I’m glad to hear he’s recovering. And how have you been through all of this?”

  “I’m good. Thank you for asking.”

  “Well, I told him I’d call back when I knew more about the status of tomorrow evening’s show. I’ve been talking with our lawyers and it looks like we’re a go. But the piranha tank is o
ut, I’m afraid. We’ll be removing it in the morning.”

  That was going to be a chore. She had no idea how they were going to get it off the stage before the evening show.

  “Jevin won’t be happy to hear that.” Actually, she wasn’t either. It was going to be hard to top that for their finale.

  “I understand, but some matters are out of my hands. Oh, one other thing. Emilio had a locker that he used when he performed here. As I understand it, he didn’t have any family in the area?”

  “That’s right. We’re taking care of his estate.”

  “Perhaps you or Jevin would like to pick up his things. There are a few notebooks and some paraphernalia for a couple tricks. It’s not much, but I don’t want the box to get lost or misplaced.”

  “Are you there now?”

  “We have the items in the security office.”

  “I should be able to come by tonight. If that’ll work.”

  “No rush. Give me a call when you get here.”

  “I will.”

  “See you soon.”

  He told her his cell number and they ended the call.

  Then Charlene went back to helping Fionna with her research.

  But, honestly, it was hard to concentrate.

  Her thoughts of Jevin just wouldn’t leave her alone.

  And now, her curiosity about what might be in Emilio’s notebooks was edging in, a close second.

  Groom Lake

  4:46 p.m.

  4 hours left

  In the late afternoon sunlight, desolate mountains rise in the distance.

  As we approach the base, we review the information from the files Fionna pulled up. I can’t help but think of our discussions regarding the essence of human nature, and that sends my thoughts back to the sermon from this morning, to the paradox of terror and beauty that the missionary pointed out lies at the heart of this imperfect world.

  I summarize the message as concisely as I can for Xav—the incongruity between who we are and who we aspire to be, what we dream of and the nightmares we have to live through.

  “I wonder if that’s what makes us different from machines,” he reflects.

  “What’s that? Being incongruous?”

  “In a way, yes. Or free will, the ability to choose. We’re not programmed to do it.”

  I think of equivoque, or the magician’s choice, when the person we’re doing an effect for appears to have free will but doesn’t. We force him to choose a specific card or we don’t tell the audience what we’re going to do, so we still have control over the outcome. Then we can adapt to what they choose to make things end the way we want. It’s one of the keys to mentalism. “Like a psychological force.”

  “But the deal is, in real life we have freedom, the ability to do otherwise, and no one is out there stacking the deck against us. If free will didn’t exist, all societies would have to abandon their justice systems because behavior would simply be hardwired in our brains.”

  “And you can’t hold someone accountable for an action if he can’t do otherwise, if he has no actual freedom to resist that act.”

  “Right. A world without a belief in free will would be one without accountability. And, I guess when you think about it, it’d also be one without punishment for criminals. In fact, no concept of crime or morality or right and wrong at all—that’s our turn up ahead. About a quarter mile from here.”

  I slow down and look for the turn, but all I see is an unmarked, dusty road off to the left up ahead. “That’s it?”

  “Yup. It goes a couple of miles across public land. They use dust, not gravel. It’s so the Cammo dudes can see any vehicles approaching.”

  “They can probably see us from a mile out.”

  “At least.”

  I turn onto the vacant road, sending a cloud of dust trailing in the pickup’s wake. “So you’re saying that we can create machines that respond to algorithms, make decisions based on complex protocols and vast amounts of data, but the machines can’t choose to go against them. You can have all sorts of robot laws, but as long as they have to follow them, they’re not free.”

  “Right. Machines don’t choose to go against protocol, but we do. Humans do. We’re incongruous, like you said a minute ago. We go against our nature. That’s why we hold people responsible for their actions. We wouldn’t condemn a drone to be destroyed—the same as a death sentence for a human—because of firing a missile at a civilian or for following its protocol or being true to its mission. No, we would hold the human designers or software producers responsible.”

  My thoughts float back to what we were talking about yesterday: computer technicians being held accountable for war crimes when all they did was program in a certain algorithm.

  Our conversation trails off and silence takes over. I have the sense that, for both of us, it’s a lot to think about. Especially considering the autonomous weaponry and unmanned aircraft we know—or at least highly suspect—is being tested and manufactured here at Groom Lake.

  Aircraft that can, for all intents and purposes, choose on its own when to fire and who to target.

  Calista was impressed with how well Jeremy Turnisen was holding out keeping the launch code sequences from Derek.

  She couldn’t tell if Derek was getting frustrated or not. He was not an easy person to read.

  “I know you’ve been developing drones that can fly autonomously,” Derek told Jeremy. “Unmanned aerial vehicles that can be flown using the neural impulses of pilots in remote locations.”

  “Thought-controlled drones?” Jeremy gasped. “This is crazy. I’m telling you, I’m not the man you’re looking for. Please, you have to—”

  Derek went on unfazed. “I want one of the drones you’ve developed. I have someone waiting across the border in Mexico to take delivery of it. All I need from you is the updated launch codes for tonight’s test flight, and we can both be done with this unpleasant business.”

  He removed the robotic arm from the suitcase in the corner of the room. He placed the needle between its thumb and forefinger, set the arm on the floor next to Jeremy’s leg, and removed the man’s left shoe.

  Apparently he was going to use it to do some of the stitching.

  Calista had been sitting on the bed doing her nails. Now she stood and entered the conversation. “Just tell him, Jeremy. I’m serious. I have stuff to do, and things are just gonna get worse for you if you don’t.”

  “You should listen to her,” Derek said. “She knows what she’s talking about.”

  Jeremy took a deep, painful breath. “I don’t know any launch codes. Please, just let me go. I won’t press charges. I swear, I just—”

  Calista rolled her eyes. “Derek, maybe he’s telling the truth.”

  “Dear, perhaps you’d like to watch some TV. Leave the two of us alone.”

  “Whatever.” She left for the other room of the suite.

  Condescension. No, she wasn’t stupid. And feeling talked down to was not something she liked.

  Yeah, sometimes Derek was sweet to her, but sometimes, like right now, she didn’t like the way he talked to her.

  Not at all.

  “Try the walkie-talkies,” I tell Xavier.

  He goes through the channels and can’t find any signal from another unit. “Strike one. Let me check the cells.”

  He pulls them out while I drive. “Looks like we have a couple of bars out here. Surprises me a little—we’re in the middle of nowhere. Not great for conversations, but we should be able to text. I’ll give it a provisional strike two.”

  Eventually, we come to a small parking area and a sign prohibiting photography. The road continues to the west. There’s no gate, but there is another prominent sign, this one warning that deadly force can be used on anyone caught on the property.

  “That’s gotta count as strike three,” I say.

  “Don’t worry, they don’t usually shoot people. They just detain you and then turn you over to the sheriff’s department for tresp
assing.”

  “And you know this from firsthand experience?”

  “Yeah, a couple of them. But I only had to spend a few nights in jail. Nothing serious.”

  “Ah. But they could shoot us.”

  “Theoretically.”

  “The sign doesn’t say anything about theoretical deadly force.”

  “I’ve never heard of anyone actually getting shot.”

  “Have you ever heard of someone impersonating Cammo dudes and driving all the way to the research area of the base?”

  He hesitates. “Not recently.”

  “Remind me once again why we’re here?”

  “To find out why Emilio was murdered. And to find out who was ultimately behind it.”

  I let the truck idle and consider what Charlene told me, the look in her eyes when I mentioned that I hadn’t thought of her before leaping off the cliff in the Philippines.

  Finally, Xav breaks the silence. “We could turn back.”

  “Yes, we could.”

  “If we drive any farther we’ll officially be in deep—well, I think you probably know—if we get caught.”

  “You mean when,” I say. “You don’t think we’re actually going to be able to pull this off without getting caught, do you?”

  “Well, we can at least hope we will—get caught, that is.”

  “You’re hoping we’ll get caught?”

  “Yeah. Instead of shot.”

  “Oh.”

  “Theoretically.”

  “Right.”

  I look at him. “We still have eight miles to go?”

  “It’s a couple more miles from there to where we’re supposed to be meeting Fred. But yeah, eight miles to the front gate.”

  “You mean to the security guards at the front gate. The ones authorized to use deadly force on trespassers.”

  “Pretty much. Remember last night when Fred said that the codes looked legit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s hope he was right.”

  For a long moment neither of us speaks.

  Then I pull forward off the public land onto the outer fringes of Area 51.