After On

by Rob Reid

  Worse, even complete physical isolation from outside data networks might not be enough to contain a super AI. It might learn to oscillate its processors or other circuits in ways that generate far-reaching electromagnetic fields, thereby creating an outbound wireless signal to “escape” through. It might invent ways to transmit signals over the power grid. It might somehow infest the portable devices of Sagan personnel and escape through them. Protection against these and other escape vectors may be devisable. But combined, such protections would isolate the super AI so thoroughly that substantially no benefit would accrue to society in exchange for the enormous risks incurred.

  Today, sustaining an artificial general intelligence (AGI) program like Project Sagan requires the resources of a highly developed nation. Because NO other country is known to have such a program, and ALL countries at ALL levels of development significantly lag the US technologically, ceasing AGI development in the US will be tantamount to ceasing it worldwide. Authority leadership therefore unanimously urges that AGI development cease immediately, AND THAT ITS PREVENTION AND INTERDICTION INSTEAD BECOME A TOP SECURITY PRIORITY.

  An immediate and intensive diplomatic initiative should meanwhile be launched to promote a global AGI development ban. This effort should take place far from the public eye, to avoid alarming the populace and the markets so soon after the Pentagon and World Trade Center attacks. In the 10–25-year term, general computing will advance enough to allow large corporations, universities, and think tanks to launch AGI programs. At that point, overt bans, and/or an aggressive covert surveillance program directed at all foreign and domestic actors, will be necessary. Meanwhile, THE SCALE OF THE LONG-TERM THREAT WARRANTS THAT THE FORERUNNERS OF THESE PREVENTION AND INTERDICTION PROGRAMS BE DEVELOPED AND LAUNCHED IMMEDIATELY.

  “Aaaaaaand, Ka-CHING!!!” Nickerson said. It suddenly all made sense. The exotic act of a government agency voluntarily terminating a high-budget program. The abandonment of all of that groundbreaking gear and code by senior scientists and technologists—people hardwired to cherish and defend any advance! Yes, intellectually honest concern drove this (not even he was cynical enough to doubt that). Still, it made far more sense as part of a pitch for an interdiction program covering “all foreign and domestic actors”—bureaucratese for every person and organization on Earth.

  This meant that for every dollar budgeted to this Sagan, hundreds would eventually be spent to preclude the rise of the next one! All manner of advanced snooping technology would be developed, and at far higher budgets than Sagan itself! And all this would call for untold numbers of new generals, colonels, and their civilian equivalents, which would mean oceans of promotions and hires. While this might seem a tall order, the top brass were getting good at marshaling resources at this scale. Over the few months since the 9/11 attacks, Nickerson had marveled to watch the bureaucratic, political, and budgetary machinery gin up a society-encompassing response to Al Qaeda that would surely cost trillions and run for decades.

  Ergo, “It’s time to move on,” Nickerson rumbled, in a mock-conspiratorial tone. And he had a bit of time, because for all the word’s appearances in the document, nothing in government happens “immediately.” It had already been over three weeks since it was written. And any decision requiring presidential review and coordination across a range of military commands would take longer than that. So, yes: he and everyone else on Team Sagan would be scattered. But not for a while yet.

  “The ear-ly bird…” Exaggerating the “ur” phonemes, Nickerson said this in a goofy voice that sounded vaguely Swedish, and started composing a request for a transfer. It might not get approved before Sagan was guillotined. But the brass would have scads of reassignments to make when that finally happened. They were also lazy by nature, and a pending transfer request would make one of their countless decisions easier. So beating the stampede should all but guarantee him his pick of intelligence posts. But where to? He summoned a map of the US to his screen—and it hit him. The post-Sagan interdiction program would spawn countless career paths in which his direct Sagan experience could provide a huge leg up! And where would most of that interdicting go down? Clearly, amidst the world’s densest concentration of brilliant engineers, government-shunning iconoclasts, and tech-hungry capital!

  And so, “California, here I come,” Nickerson sang in a remarkably good baritone as he started typing his transfer request. If his nascent career was like a seedling, then these interdiction budgets would be like…fertilizer. Great, steaming clumps of it, cooking under that California sun! And as his stalk thrust skyward, Nickerson might just catch the right eye, and get recruited by…why, by the Authority itself! Yes, yes, yes, he could see that! Alfred Nickerson, Authority Cryptomancer! The digital ninja of an agency so dreadful, deadly, and secret that only the highest intelligence honchos are even allowed to know it exists!

  And maybe they’d have him go…undercover? “Yes, yes, YES!” Nickerson affirmed aloud. My, but he’d like that! He’d ask for a badass alias. Perhaps one evoking a venom-spitting predator!*1 And then he’d document all of this—in some brilliant, iconoclastic way (yet to be determined!)! This may seem an odd ambition for a wannabe spy to harbor. But as I already let slip, Nickerson fancied himself something of a writer. A budding one, anyway. Yet one whose pen could one day change the world! Yes, this was a touch delusional. But you can judge the results yourself, when all of this is over.

  Nickerson was making his transfer request for undeniably selfish reasons. But there was a somewhat altruistic dimension as well. After reading this chilling memo, he shared the Authority’s alarm about emergent intelligence. His interpersonal history also indicated that he’d never become a parent, someone’s hero, or the love of anyone’s life. AND THIS REALLY, REALLY, REALLY, AND SERIOUSLY DID NOT BOTHER HIM ANYMORE!!!

  But he did want to have some kind of impact on his fellow man. So, then: let this be his legacy! He would be the mortal enemy of Man’s last Earthly enemy. The non-Man. The anti-Man. The post-human! The emergent super AI that he and the Authority would link arms to prevent, preclude, and forestall. Yes, this line of thought was pure cartoon-superhero kitsch! And yes, he was in it mainly to rev up his ego! But when Nickerson committed to something, he was ALL IN. And not just one, but three restraining orders out there would attest to this! And so, in quietly vowing to lay down his very life to resist the rise of a rogue super AI, Nickerson was as serious as anyone swearing an oath before king, country, and flashbulbs.

  And so, gentle reader, stay tuned to see if our hero’s wish is granted! Because quite a bit hinges on that. And I’m done with feeding you spoilers.

  Back again in our modern year of twenty-something-teen, it’s Pitch Day at Phluttr, and the first two guys to present to their Phoundr, “Beasley,” and Mitchell are impossibly young. One is chatty and extravagantly self-satisfied. The other quite possibly lacks a tongue.

  “So tell us about Phluttr.Dfen.dr,” Jepson says, muddying the preposterous name by lingering on each of its never-ending consonants.

  “It’s a hardware-as-a-service play,” the talker begins. “Or as we say, HaaS” (pronounced, perhaps fittingly, like “ass”). “I’m inventing it because as a recovering victim of childhood non-inclusion and bullying, I believe that everyone, regardless of race, gender, orientation, socioeconomic group, or family-of-origin, deserves to be free of violence. Violence of any sort. Because—”

  “You’ve got five minutes—get to the point,” Jepson snaps, to Mitchell’s considerable relief.

  The nonmute pauses and blinks. Clearly a very recent graduate, he may not realize that such harangues can be shushed out here without the shusher’s immediate shaming and expulsion. “Okayyy,” he continues. “So, Phluttr.Dfen.dr is a dedicated single-purpose device—”

  “You mean a gadget, right?”

  “A dedicated, single-purpose device, that forestalls mugging and other street violence. For a recurring monthly fee. Thus the hardware-as-a-service—or HaaS—designatio
n. It snaps seamlessly onto a Phluttr-enabled smartphone.” He produces an iPhone and a Galaxy. Each has a tiny strip of matter clipped snugly into the power interface at its base. The industrial design on the iPhone snap-on is particularly handsome. It’s shaped in a way that essentially extends the phone by about a quarter inch, rounded corners and all. And as the kid said, it’s seamless (literally), which renders it all but invisible.

  “They’re gorgeous,” Jepson allows. “Tell me about the technology.”

  “The PhastPhorwardr bought a startup back in July which designed the supercapacitors. A November acquihire is behind the matte-black LEDs.” Their presenter points at the seemingly blank surface of the iPhone snap-on. “Then, through some very clever engineering, the hardware will also function as a panoramic lens with a very fast sensor.”

  “You guys have done a lot of prototyping,” Jepson says.

  “Will do,” the presenter admits. “This is mainly a concept piece for now. But the PhastPhorwardr guys’ve signed off on the specs and assure us it’s producible. Anyway, you hold it like this.” He lofts it overhead, Statue of Liberty style. “And it takes a perfectly illuminated 360-degree panoramic shot.” He scrunches his eyes shut, then blinds the rest of them with a tremendous flash.

  An explosion of tingles instantly suffuses Mitchell’s body, deadening his muscles. These are deep, muddy, gut-punch tingles; long-lasting and sedating. They’re like bass notes compared to the treble of a sleeping foot, which is all short, sharp, pinpricks. Mitchell has become a master zoologist in the bestiary of bodily tingles, and these are doozies. And soon The Blur is threatening. This is Mitchell’s word for the bedlam of every sensory datum demanding attention at once—the capstone of a stronger Falkenberg’s attack. Give in, and he’ll pass out within moments! So he fights. Luckily, he’s seated in a stable chair, and no one’s paying him the slightest attention. If they were, he’d just look bored (epically so, should drool start pooling at the left corner of his mouth, which is rare, but happens).

  “And exactly how does that…defend me?” Jepson is asking.

  “If someone pulls a knife or whatevs, you flash ’em. And, bam! You’ve got a comprehensive image of you, your aggressor, and your surroundings, which is uploaded straight to the Web via 4G!”

  “So I can…turn the instant of my death into a social media post?” Jepson says. “I mean, I thought the hipsters got carried away when they started live-streaming from the delivery room. Because we all know what else birth canals are used for, right? But self-produced snuff movies…?”

  The presenter shakes his head. “It’s an image, not a movie. And you capture it before your aggressor makes her or his move. Then an automated distress call goes out to 911 with your exact coordinates, provided by the phone’s GPS. So now law enforcement has everything. Your aggressor’s picture. Your picture. The time and location. And, you let your aggressor know this.”

  “My…aggressor?” Jepson says. “I didn’t know there were politically correct terms for muggers now. What’re the kids calling rapists these days?”

  Like a Selma martyr debating an unreformed bigot in an after-school special, their presenter visibly struggles to keep his cool in the service of a higher purpose. Then, “Your aggressor can threaten you all she or he wants. But the data’s been sent, and there’s no getting it back. So he or she probably just takes off. Because if she or he goes ahead and attacks you anyway, it’ll be a serious felony, with enough evidence for an open-and-shut case.”

  “What if she, they, it, or he are wearing a mask?”

  “You’re still a lot better off with law enforcement coming straight to your exact location.”

  Jepson nods slowly. “This kind of reminds me of an old NYPD Blue episode. D’you know which one I’m talking about?”

  “No—I’m too young!” You’d think the smug tot had been awaiting an opening to proclaim this. “I wouldn’t even know about The Wire if it weren’t such a landmark series!” Perhaps mistaking unimpressed silence for stunned admiration, he adds, “Too young! Way too young!”

  “What if the cops who show up are all a bunch of racist fucks?” Beasley barks.

  “We’ve given that serious thought,” is the earnest response (their presenter having missed the sarcasm). “We’ll offer an option to request a community response rather than the police, for users who are concerned about that possibility.”

  Confounding thought can speed recovery from cataplexy. So Mitchell tries to imagine being too committed to postmodern politics to summon the cops to his own mugging. He finds this to be very difficult indeed, and the tingling fades.

  The pitch goes back and forth for a few minutes, then Jepson ends it without revealing what he thinks. “Goddam millennials,” he says, once the door’s shut. “They can’t open their mouths without boring you with their life story. Or blathering about empowering the differently advantaged, or something.”

  “You’d turn out weird, too,” Beasley snorts. “If! You grew up getting a trophy every time you kicked a ball. Or! Took a shit.” For once, Jepson finds a Beasley joke as funny as Beasley does. And as they bond over the scornworthy coddling of his generation, a wisp of a grimace infiltrates Mitchell’s poker face—and Beasley notices. “The fuck is your problem??”

  This outburst astounds Mitchell, who would’ve thought the guy was oblivious to even blaring social signals. Thinking fast, he gently teases, “I’m just surprised at how young the crabby old men are getting these days.” A side bet on the boss having a sense of humor.

  “Good one!” Jepson laughs, and it’s not feigned.

  Mitchell pushes his luck. “I mean, I’m a millennial myself, and have yet to receive a single trophy for moving my bowels!”

  Jepson laughs harder. “We can work on that!” he says—and Mitchell relaxes, suspecting a jokey awards ceremony lies in his near future. “Also, point well taken. I pissed off plenty of baby boomers in my day, so it’s my turn to be annoyed! It’s also part of my job.” At this, Beasley seethes, staring daggers.

  The conversation moves on to the Phluttr.Dfen.dr idea, which all agree gets a D-minus at best. “They’re building better and brighter LEDs into phones all the time,” Jepson notes. “And though I’m sure a bigger flash would help a hi-res panorama shot, muggings just aren’t a mainstream concern these days. A phone’s built-in hardware should be good enough for most people, gorgeous as that plug-in LED extension is. So I see this more as a cheap app than a—what’d he call it?”

  “A dedicated single-purpose device.” Beasley guffaws. “The idea’s definitely stupid all over. But! We should probably learn more about supercapacitors. And! Breakthroughs in hidden lens technology are definitely on-mission.”

  “Right, right,” Jepson says, half-engaged. “If they can actually build it.”

  “I say we give them ten million bucks to try. And! A dozen engineers. Then see what happens.”

  “Sure, Nickerson,” Jepson says absently, as if Beasley just suggested they grab some takeout on the way to an offsite (or rather, as if someone named…Nickerson suggested that?). For his part, Mitchell stays mum and puzzles. Both over Beasley’s odd habit of exclaiming conjunctions and at how these utterly random technologies can merit this scale of investment. Sure, money’s practically free to Phluttr in the wake of the latest financing. But engineers are treasured scarcities to everyone. And Jepson just committed a dozen of them to this screwball concept as casually as a Cheesecake Factory maître d’ throwing a few extra busboys at Dining Room C! Or rather, Beasley did, didn’t he? And Jepson just shrugged and went along with it. So who’s running this clown show? And what’s up with calling Beasley Nickerson?

  As his boss reads through the synopsis of the next pitch, Mitchell resolves to do some serious digging into his bizarre new employer.

  IS PHLUTTR ANGLING TO BECOME THE UBERX OF SEX?

  Surprise, surprise; Phluttr just went and launched a hookup service that’s immaculately tuned to ease the proposal, planning, and (yes)
execution of no-strings sex. Boldly dubbed “Guttr,” it de-risks things with several ingenious tools—tools whose two key ingredients are the legendary social analytics and the pathological lack of shame that the company uniquely possesses. In other words, Facebook could do this, but they won’t; and GoDaddy would kill to, but they can’t. I therefore see Guttr becoming a monopolist in its sordid market (which, being “Sex,” must land somewhere between Food and Shelter on the ginormity scale).

  Let’s start with the most important innovation (for those who don’t want to inspire a “Law & Order: SVU” episode, anyway): all players are verified non-felons, with social connections that look “healthy and normal” to Phluttr’s freakishly astute algorithms. Furthermore, if you’re married, in the closet, or otherwise inclined to build some mutual assured destruction into your trysts, Guttr can match you with equally covert paramours (and again, Phluttr’s analytics will bust anyone who’s lying about their status).

  More ingeniously, diabolically, or both-ly still, every user’s sex appeal is rated by 100 perfect strangers, and you’ll rate 100 strangers yourself as part of your on-boarding (I know that sounds like a lot, but it takes just minutes—think Tinder). This way, everyone gets an objective 10-point appraisal from a global panel of like-minded perverts with the same things on their minds as you. It’s like the Nobel Committee of hotness! And the Review Panels (they’re seriously called that) aren’t assembled randomly. If Phluttr knows you want to get jiggy with a VGL man, 20–30 w/a BBC who is HWP, then guys with those specs will be rating you for the benefit of their brethren (who, needless to say, will have zero interest in how you strike a DWM who’s a BHM, 45–60).