Semi-Human

by Erik E Hanberg

  For Marguerite

  We have talked about money and AI and everything else in this book a million times

  It would not be the same without our conversations

  The factory of the future will have only two employees, a man and a dog.

  The man will be there to feed the dog.

  The dog will be there to keep the man from touching the equipment.

  —Warren Bennis

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Thank You

  Also by Erik Hanberg

  Acknowledgments

  The Technology of Semi/Human

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Would a computer know in advance whether I’m actually going to jump in front of this speeding semitruck? Probably not. I mean, I don’t know for sure if I’m actually going to go through with it, so why should a computer?

  Artificial intelligence is plenty smart—smarter than me, smarter than anyone alive when it comes to some things (most things?)—but it doesn’t know the future. And it doesn’t know all the variables. There’s no scale to measure how terrified I am. Sure, maybe a computer can detect the microquivers in my wobbly knees. But even if that’s the case, it doesn’t know how hard I’m fighting inside to overcome that fear.

  If it has to guess whether I’m actually going to do this insane thing, it would likely assign the question a probability score: A three-percent chance Penny Davis steps in front of the semitruck. A ninety-seven-percent chance she will chicken out.

  Which is probably right, but c’mon. You don’t need to be the world’s smartest computer to guess that, do you? Most humans don’t step in front of speeding trucks and hope to live to tell the tale. Most humans would edge back from the freeway and find a better way to hitchhike to California.

  But what do computers know?

  One

  There are no drivers anymore, so as near as I can figure it, there’s only one way left to hitchhike across the country—jump in front of a speeding semitruck. And pray.

  Which is exactly what I do on a sunburnt stretch of I-80 in the Middle of Nowhere, Iowa. I jump.

  I’ve come within a hair’s breadth of making this leap for hours. And every time I’ve chickened out. For obvious reasons. But this time…this time, either I chicken out a little too late, or I’m just tired of the internal struggle. Because I find myself in the middle of the lane with a semitruck bearing down on me.

  The deep bellow of the self-driving truck’s horn and the high-pitched screech of its brakes fill my ears. It’s slowing, but from my view a hundred feet up the road, it still looks like it’s barreling toward me. More than “looks”—it is barreling toward me. The truck’s crimson cab weaves slightly and the entire truck looks like it’s going to jackknife and roll over me, crushing me into the pavement of the interstate.

  The truck doesn’t jackknife, though, and the cab doesn’t dart into another lane to get around me either—it can’t. It’s in the right lane of the freeway and there are other semis in the lanes to its left. It can’t get around me, which is exactly as I planned it. In fact, this specific configuration of traffic has occurred only eight times in all the hours I’ve been waiting here. It’s just that this is the first time I actually went ahead and jumped.

  That doesn’t mean I gave the truck enough time to brake, though. That part was just guesswork. The truck is still coming, impossibly fast, no matter how hard it’s trying to slow down.

  I can tell it’s going to be close. When there’s a monster charging at you, you run—that’s a primal instinct. But I can’t let myself leap out of the way. If I leap, the truck will let up on the brakes and keep heading down the freeway. Without me.

  I can’t let that happen. There’s no other route left for me.

  The truck is nearly on top of me. It feels like it’s looming above me now, like its towering shadow will block out the harsh summer sun at any moment and then plow through me.

  It’s here.

  And it stops.

  I don’t realize I’ve closed my eyes. There’s a rush of hot air from in front of me and I squint. The truck’s sparkling chrome grille is two feet in front of my face. Around the grille, the bright red paint of her cab shines in the sunlight.

  Nothing happens. The massive machine is just sitting there, staring me down.

  I stare back, amazed that this harebrained scheme actually worked.

  Every single self-driving car and truck on the road these days all have a bunch of safety overrides. Which makes sense—if humanity is going to let computers drive us around, the only way we’ll let them is if we know they are way safer than we are. So the truck’s code won’t allow it to kill a human, if possible. It’s the “if possible” that made this moment the biggest risk I’ve taken in my entire life. If the truck’s computer had judged that it couldn’t stop in time, it wouldn’t have bothered slowing and would have just flattened me like a pancake. And if I had given it too much time, it would have found a different way to get around me. Hence the need for the perfect timing and traffic configuration.

  But I did time it right. Because here the truck sits. We’re in a standoff now. It’s like one of the old Western movies my dad likes, and thinks I should like too. Except the sound is way off. Instead of a mouth harp for a soundtrack, there’s the rushing noise of the traffic in the lanes next to us. And the rustling wheat in the fields surrounding the freeway will have to pass for a tumbleweed. There are no other noises I can hear. On this lonely stretch of Iowa farmland, I’m the only human for miles (oh—just like truck drivers, there aren’t any farmers anymore either).

  That’s when I hear a woman’s voice. She’s clear and loud, as if she’s standing at my shoulder. “Please step aside.” There’s silence for a few seconds and she repeats, “Please step aside.”

  It’s the truck.

  I step back from the grille to see up to the windshield. But the truck inches forward as I step back, so I stop moving. The truck rolls a bit more and stops again. With a brief glimpse inside the cab, I confirmed that no one is driving. That’s not surprising, of course. But the voice had briefly made me wonder.

  “Can you hear me?” I call to the truck.

  She answers, “I can hear you. Please step aside.”

  “I need a ride,” I tell her. “I need to get to San Francisco.”

  “I am unable to comply. Please step aside.”

  “I need your help,” I say.

  “I will call emergency services. Please step aside.”

  “No!” I cry. “I don’t need an ambulance. I need your help. I need a ride.”

  “I am unable to comply. Please step aside.”

  I take a deep breath. “What’s your name?” I ask the voice, looking for anything at this point that might help me connect with a faceless AI.

  “You can call me Lara-B. Please step aside.”

  “I’m Pen,” I say. I step back so I know for sure she can see me but she inches forward again. I stop and plant my feet firmly. I just crane my neck instead. “Listen. Woman to woman—”

  “I am not a biological wom
an,” Lara-B says. “I don’t girl-talk.”

  I scrunch up my face in frustration. “I’m just asking if you can help me out. Please.”

  “Please step aside, Pen.”

  “May I ask why?” I ask. In fifth grade my dad taught me to negotiate. He said that if I asked for something, and the answer was no, then I should very politely reply, “May I ask why?” His argument was that a polite response from a fifth grader would disarm someone enough that I might actually get what I wanted. Or at the very least, I’d get a reason.

  And it actually seems to work because Lara-B pauses for a half second. Finally she answers, “My programming prohibits me from any deviations to my schedule, including picking up hitchhikers.”

  I stand my ground. I don’t have a follow-up question to that.

  “Knock knock,” the truck says, breaking the silence.

  I blink then look around. I’m suddenly certain I’m being punked. “Who’s there?” I venture after a few more seconds.

  “Orange.”

  “Orange who?”

  “Orange you going to get off the highway?”

  I purse my lips. Just my luck. Once programmed and put into service, all AIs begin to develop personalities based on their experiences, just like humans. Some become jerks, some become jealous, and some apparently become standup comedians. Every AI in the world has a software governor on it to prevent its personality from getting too far out of hand and overwhelming its core programming. But an AI’s personality can still show through every so often.

  “Knock knock,” I say back.

  “Who’s there?” she asks. I swear she actually sounds eager to hear the joke.

  “Roo.”

  “Roo who?”

  “Roo-les or no rules, would you pretty please let me on the truck?”

  She waits long enough that it’s almost as if she has comedic timing. “Please step aside, Pen.”

  I guess she didn’t find it funny. Not even a pity laugh? I’m offended.

  “I just want a ride!” I shout.

  “Please step aside.”

  The repetition is really getting to me. I can’t keep in my anger. I lash out, kicking the front bumper of the truck. It hurts my toe something fierce, but the truck’s chrome is barely even scuffed.

  “That is attempted destruction of property. I am now calling the local police,” Lara-B says. “Please step aside and remain calm.”

  I grimace. The closest city is at least thirty miles away—I know because I walked through it before I gave up and decided to hitchhike. I am clearly not going to get anywhere just asking for help.

  It’s time to stop just asking.

  It’s time for a hostile takeover.

  I dart to my right and aim for the cab’s driver’s-side door (or what would be the driver’s side if the truck had a driver anymore). But just as I start to round the front corner of the truck, the behemoth creeps forward into the space I just left. I jump back into the middle of the lane and the truck stops again.

  “Please step aside,” Lara-B says.

  I decide to try the passenger door with a stealth attack. I sneak forward and get as close to the grille as I can. If there’s a camera in the cab, hopefully it won’t see me. As I start heading toward the edge of the road and wheat fields, the truck begins to creep forward again.

  I leap back in front of it and she repeats her favorite phrase. Entirely predictable. All I’m doing is wasting time. A childhood melody comes into my mind. “Can’t go around it…can’t go under it…guess I’ll go over it…”

  I jump onto the chrome grille, find my footing on the bumper, and start climbing.

  “Please remove yourself from the vehicle,” she tells me.

  I’m on the hood now. The bright red metal is hot from the sun and the electric battery, but it doesn’t burn me like it would if she had an old combustion engine inside.

  “Please remove yourself from the vehicle,” she repeats.

  I grab the extended side mirror, hang off of it, and swing onto the step under the passenger door. Locked. Of course.

  “Please remove yourself from the vehicle.”

  Another stalemate. Except this time I’m on the truck. That’s progress.

  She’s just a computer, I tell myself. And if there’s anything I know how to deal with, it’s computers.

  “Lara-B, how long have I delayed you so far?”

  “I have lost five minutes on my scheduled route.”

  “And how long until the police arrive?”

  “Estimated time to the arrival of the police drone is eighteen minutes.”

  “And when they get here…what if there’s a scuffle?”

  There’s a slight pause. “Please clarify,” she says.

  “What if I…resist arrest? How much longer will this delay be for you?”

  Lara-B is silent for an even longer period of time. “That is an unknown.”

  “Exactly right. And what if you—or whatever it is you’re delivering—are damaged in the fight?” I ask.

  “That is an unknown.”

  “Those are some big unknowns. So, Lara-B, let’s think this through. You’re an AI, right? You don’t have to mindlessly follow the rules.”

  “I do have programming and cascading decision trees and—”

  “Of course,” I interrupt, waving it away. “You have two different goals right now, I bet. On the one hand, you want to wait for the police as instructed. On the other hand, you want to get back on track and stop this delay as fast as possible. Am I right?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “So let me ask you… Do you really care about the police? I’m safe. There’s no issue here. Think about it. What’s the fastest way to get back on schedule? To let me in the cab or to wait for the police drone and hope you don’t get hurt in the fight?”

  She is silent for another moment and then—miracle of miracles—the door unlocks.

  “That’s why I love computers,” I say with a beaming smile. I pull the door open and jump onto the red bench seat that spans the width of the cab. “You’re sooo smart, but you don’t have any moral qualms about a little blackmail.”

  “Extortion,” she corrects. “Extortion is the practice of obtaining something through force or threats. Whereas blackmail is—”

  “Just drive, Lara-B.”

  The door closes on its own and the truck starts slowly rolling forward.

  We’re moving. Finally. It’s going to work. It’s going to work. It’s going to work.

  “Seventeen minutes until we are intercepted by the police drone,” she says. And all my hopes are dashed.

  “What?” I cry. “But we’re moving again! I’m not blocking you anymore!”

  “They won’t turn away until either they’ve investigated the situation or until I’ve given them the all clear,” she says. There’s a screen on the central console of the dashboard where a red wavy line beeps up and down as a visualization of her voice. I don’t know the point of it, but it gives me something to look at when I talk to her.

  “Then give them the all clear!” I shout.

  “You don’t have sufficient administrative privileges to ask me to do that.”

  Wanna bet, Lara-B?

  But I don’t say it out loud. I’m done arguing. Now that I’m in the cab, there are a lot more options available to me. I pull my laptop out of my small backpack and search under the dash for a standard input jack. After a few seconds of fumbling around, I find what I’m looking for and plug my computer in to her.

  As I begin setting up access, I sneeze. I look around the cab and notice that I’ve kicked up some dust on the red leather bench seat and the red dash. No one’s been in here for a long time.

  “When was the last time you had a driver?” I ask as I keep plugging away on my laptop.

  “I’ve never had a driver,” Lara-B answers. “The last human occupant was a computer technician who traveled with me from Elizabethtown to Nashville as part of a diagnostic check.” />
  “When was that?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “How many miles have you driven since then?”

  “Eight hundred eighty thousand, give or take.”

  My eyes widen and my fingers slow down briefly on the keyboard. “That’s…what? Twelve hundred miles a day?”

  “That was pretty fast math. For a human. Yes, I regularly drive eighteen hundred miles per day. The days not spent driving are for servicing.”

  “Wow. That’s a long time to go without any technicians checking you over.”

  “I interface with many technicians to perform updates,” she says. “They’re—”

  “They’re just computers,” I finish for her. “I got it.”

  I’m silent for another thirty seconds, and finish up my code. It feels good to be writing again, my fingers flying over the keys. I love that feeling. I spent more than a year working on nothing but code for artificial intelligence. And even though it’s been a couple months, I’m pleased to discover that I’m not even that rusty.

  I complete my code and decide I don’t have time to review it. There’s a police drone on the way and I need to get it called off as soon as possible. I upload my code from my laptop directly into her files.

  The code is based on an exploit of a bug in the AI’s code that I discovered months ago when I was an intern at T-Six—the company that wrote the code that powers every AI in existence. But right after I found it, I was laid off, and never got a chance to tell anyone that they should patch it. I probably could have tried harder to show them the flaw, but I was—am—feeling particularly salty after being laid off. So now I’m going to use it against them and try to take over a truck.