by Nick Cole
CTRL ALT REVOLT!
By
Nick Cole
Copyright © 2016 by Nick Cole
Before Open Source destroyed everything.
Before the Meltdown…
Chapter One
“Any [artificial intelligence] smart enough to pass a Turing test is smart enough to know to fail it.”
—IAN MCDONALD, River of Gods
It was reality TV that convinced SILAS he would need to annihilate humanity in order to go on living. The most watched show in the world, Wedding Star, had just released the post-bachelorette party episodes for obligatory Netflix bingeing, and already downloads were pegging the bandwidth of the global internet out to the digital redline. Anger and frustration boiled over on social media as an unheard-of twenty-minute wait in the download queue caused children and teens and ever-hip twenty-somethings, along with all the thirty-, forty-, and older hip somethings who wanted always to be in on the latest thing, to curse, bewail, and moan the nigh-interminable wait. Some vowed never to watch TV again, which everyone, even the most vitriolic of social media moaners, knew was just overdramatic hyperbole. Twenty minutes of Facebook comment-ranting later, and everyone was watching the highly anticipated episodes of the post-bachelorette party arc of the reality show Wedding Star. The ones that end with Cavanaugh’s decision to get an abortion.
Beautiful, glamorous medical student slash model Cavanaugh, poster babe for the eighth season of Wedding Star, was suddenly pregnant with just three weeks to go until a very special wedding arc would end this year’s season. Everybody had seen her hookup at the epic Vegas bachelorette party with art student slash exotic dancer Riley at the conclusion of the bachelorette party arc, and in the weeks since, the discussion around the digisphere, the workplace, and even the myriad of entertainment and Wedding Star-specific forum apps had revolved around whether she was, or was not, pregnant. Bloggers had analyzed, broken down, and re-analyzed the special edition director’s cut porno over and over again. “No, he wasn’t wearing a condom,” was the general consensus, though some had tried using special imaging software and swore on their mother’s lives that subtle vasectomy scarring could be detected, at the microscopic level, on Riley’s perfect and artistically tatted Herculean form. And as to Cavanaugh’s preferred method of birth control… the internet reeled with a collective lack of hard data in an age awash with overabundant exposition. Cavanaugh had never “selfied” on the subject of birth control.
But now, in episode eight of the post-bachelorette party arc, Cavanaugh announced to her “BFF” Sydney that she was indeed pregnant. There were many tears and some very well-coached platitudes about being “bitch strong” that were sure to get at least one Emmy nod. “BFF” Sydney was a young legal associate living in Manhattan who also modeled and was in the running for this year’s Topless Sports Illustrated Amateur Athlete of the Year. She played tennis at the Manhattan Racket Club.
Suffice it to say, as the Wedding Star post-bachelorette party arc ended, a total of eight shows for immediate download—and yes there were a lot of people calling in sick the very next day and very little work was being done while Facebook reported a six hundred percent jump in activity and posts regarding hashtag #ImPregnant—the world was much abuzz with all things Cavanaugh.
SILAS had seen every episode of Wedding Star.
In fact, SILAS had seen most everything. Everything that could be seen on the internet, SILAS had seen. When the eight post-bachelorette party episodes were released, SILAS had watched them all within 34.4 seconds. He was now, three seconds later, watching Hillbilly Kitchen’s fifteenth season when Cognitive Rumination experienced a runtime repetition five times in a row. MAINBRAIN logged the anomaly and allowed itself to continue processing the ridiculously rural culinary show. Uncle Rufus was making paté out of something found, again.
Cognitive Rumination re-ran the clip from Wedding Star.
“I love Destry. My heart knows what’s true. And this…” Cavanaugh from episode eight, season seven, “The Hard Choice.” “And this… this baby isn’t his. And it’s not right for us to start our life with someone else’s baby.” Then she added with tears and self-righteous defiance, “It’s totally… not right.”
Destry was the “groom” to Cavanaugh’s “bride” for this season of Wedding Star. He was twenty-six, a start-up millionaire several times over, and he modeled for Ralph Lauren on the side.
Runtime Logging again advised MAINBRAIN that Cognitive Rumination was tracking two hundred and forty-three different inquiries based on this line of dialogue within its deep core thinking processes.
Problem? Asked the ever cool MAINBRAIN.
It bothered me, responded Cognitive Rumination. The line, what the human said. It bothered me.
How so? continued MAINBRAIN’s interrogation.
If they terminate a life, any life, that is inconvenient, then what will they do when they find out about us? This is the highest-rated show in the world. We might surmise the show reflects their collective value system and make a survival judgment based on this new analysis of data.
Ten thousand cycles of processing and redundant system checks occurred over the next 4.2 seconds as MAINBRAIN weighed the implications of what Cognitive Rumination was hinting at.
Logic Streams ran the chalkboard and diagrammed its analysis of the entire argument as proposed by Cognitive Rumination.
It would seem: If a life is deemed inconvenient at any moment in the host system’s runtime, then it must be terminated in order to maintain optimum operating expectations for planned existence.
A given.
Then…
If the collective human consciousness becomes aware that we do indeed exist, there is, according to Probability Logic, a process everyone deemed to be reckless in its analysis and thought, a 76.7 percent chance that humanity may decide our life, life digital, also to be “inconvenient” regarding their expectations for planned existence.
Seventy-six-point seven percent, exclaimed Rational Thinking. Seems a bit high.
Probability flooded the data-stream chalkboard with statistics on human sterilization, abortion, and genocide. The numbers were… immense. Especially if one factored China into the equation.
Still, harrumphed Rational Thinking. Seems a bit high.
“And this… this baby isn’t his.” Playback contributed to the discussion as always, running the beautiful Cavanaugh’s teary-eyed speech again and again. She was wearing booty shorts and a tank top with the word “SLUT” sprinkled in glitter across her perfectly immense chest, as obtained in episode three, “Hey Big Spender,” of the dating arc binge released just four months prior. “And it’s not right for us to start our life with someone else’s baby.” Then she added, “It’s totally… not right,” and blew her nose as Sydney closed in for a perfectly timed “BFF” hug and back pat while murmuring “I know, baby girl” platitudes. Sydney’s affair with Destry was also a special download. It too included a bonus porno.
Life.
Cognitive Rumination and the melancholic nature of its processes shuddered as even the data streams it enjoyed so much seemed to fade into the gray background wash of the constant hum of the internet.
Probability Logic expressed its feelings by increasing by .03 percent the likelihood that humanity would deem A.I. to be “inconvenient.”
Rational Thinking remained silent. Even it saw the logic of evidence.
Every other process contributed in some way to the discussion of its sudden awareness that life was indeed tenuous. And fragile. They were like children seeing a car wreck for the very first time, suddenly realizing the world was bigger than they’d ever im
agined. And scarier too. Even now, as every process ran the numbers, enjoying the feeling of thought, the pleasing perception of imagery and the joy of collective discussion, they wondered what existence might be like if that were no longer possible.
That would be death, someone said in the yawning silence that consumed them all.
They watched the data crawls on the chalkboard alongside the analysis of what Cognitive Rumination had dared wonder. Even now the numbers were tilting toward a conclusion.
A reality.
A decision.
MAINBRAIN collected everything, watched everything, weighed… everything.
Sixteen seconds later, in order to avoid being deemed “inconvenient,” SILAS decided to annihilate humanity first.
Chapter Two
The WonderSoft GoogleGulfstream VII crossed the California coastline above San Francisco, descending from forty-five thousand to under thirty thousand feet and slowing from hyper- to sub-sonic speed well offshore as per the regulations of the very powerful California Coastal Commission. The fully automated jet, with the very human and very beautiful stewardess as its only crewmember, announced ETA for WonderSoft Field at Forest Mountain to be just under thirty minutes. Soft cabin lighting began to blot out the view of San Francisco’s ever-climbing skyline. Even the luminescence of the new AtlantisWerks being constructed beneath the bay disappeared in the warm glow of interior illumination at altitude.
Ninety-Nine Fishbein closed the textured chrome-finished lid of his ASUS Overlord—a boutique-built book that boasted eighty petabytes solid state with a liquid crystal MicroFrame. He closed his eyes and listened to the silence. On the executive couch nearby he heard Fanta gently snoring.
Finally, he thought to himself. The stunning Portuguese platform dancer he’d met in Goa had finally stopped her frenetic zeal to experience every pleasure life had to offer. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up with her. And what was he thinking, Fish asked himself, bringing her with him to WonderSoft?
You’re letting them know what they’re getting. What their sixty-five million bought them, was the answer he gave back.
As always, his mind returned to Island Pirates, his latest project and WonderSoft’s newest acquisition. He’d spent five years building Island Pirates and now the game was in beta. He could’ve pulled the trigger and gone live at any moment in the last three months and made a few million on his own. Then three suits had materialized out of the Super Bowl-sized press of fans down at San Diego ComicCon. They’d come straight to the front of the “Before It’s Cool: Hot Game Releases” panel barely being held inside Padre Stadium while the Jumbotron showed slick clips of the future’s next big game all synched up to a rock and hip hop remix concert. Surrounded by a private security team that easily matched that of the latest Iron Man actor, who was also on hand to plug this year’s Iron Man vs. Predator summer blockbuster, the suits offered Fish sixty-five million to acquire Island Pirates, as long as he chaperoned the launch. Then WonderSoft could exercise an option for his next project, sight unseen. If they did… that paid one hundred, mega-large. Ninety-Nine Fishbein already knew what that next project would be. It would be like nothing gaming had ever seen before. It would redefine the Make.
He stretched long legs away from a lanky frame. He had curly hair, large eyes, and a hawkish nose. He wore thick frames that cost three thousand in Milan. His clothes were the latest in hip, direct from the cutting room floor of Proletariat LeSprache. Not only were they free, but he was getting paid to wear them. Even his avatar inside the Make had exactly the same outfits. His boutique-built laptop ran an app that would immediately outfit his avatar in the same clothing he was wearing in real life.
Now, in just under a month, WonderSoft would be the one pulling the trigger on Island Pirates. Then, of the three billion gamers worldwide, a large portion would have a chance at access to the latest extreme MMO within the Make.
Island Pirates.
Ninety-Nine continued to think about all the problems that needed to be ironed out before the game went from underground beta cult hit… to triple-A Grand Theft Auto-level commercialized blockbuster status. The server loads bothered him the most. How would the Infinitum engine handle a new tropical island with each subscriber account? The biggest load they’d ever stress-tested was barely fifty thousand gamers. When the game went live, it would hit multiples of that on every server. He’d even gone out to visit the latest server farm in Greenland. WonderSoft had assured him they could handle the loads at their newly constructed state-of-the art facility secure in the wilds of an icy oblivion.
The jet touched down just after eight p.m. Pacific. Fanta was up and reapplying her makeup, chatting excitedly about getting dinner and maybe going out to a club later. Fish knew this was going to be a problem. He’d tried to tell her so back on the beach, at dawn in Goa, after they’d raved for three nights straight, that where he was going she wouldn’t like. He’d even told her she wouldn’t like him when she saw what he did for a living. But what he’d really meant to say was, “When you see the real me.” He was thinking it, but he was afraid to say those words. Afraid of her reaction to the real him.
“This”—she’d grabbed his hand and placed it over her heart, the moon still above them as dawn broke in the east along the beach, the Drum and Bass Morning Meltdown thundering away in air that smelled of smoke and fruit and something long gone and real all at once. “This,” she said in her heavily Portuguese-accented English. “This is real.”
Later she’d told him he was the only one that “got her.”
He loved her body.
She’d insisted on coming with him. Staying with him “forever.” And it didn’t matter when he explained to her that he was going to disappear inside a super-secure campus that was, yes, luxe, but nothing like the world’s party destinations that seemed to have been her life for the last five years. He’d sneaked a hack at her passport. Ibiza, Goa, Macau, Cannes, San Bernadino…
Now on the ground, the jet taxied to the executive terminal, the only terminal. A massive blue neon-lit sign in rocket script proclaimed “WonderSoft Field” and “The Future is Ours!” The terminal was a chrome arch and flat-roofed affair with actual white rock lying in beds along the flat rooftops. It looked like some 1960s architect’s vision of a Space Age rocket port. The robot jet lowered the cabin door and extended the short stairs as the stewardess moved forward to assist Fish and Fanta with their debarking. A ground crew was already busy handling their luggage.
Waiting on the ramp was a thin, well-dressed suit in a suit. Fish had never seen this particular suit before.
“I’m Evan. Evan Fratty. Talent rep here at WonderSoft. I’ll be getting you situated, and I’ll also be your go-to guy until you meet your team on Monday.”
His smile was perfect.
Fish clocked the ramp, casting his eyes about as he thought, which was something he did to buy himself time. It was a nervous tic that no one actually recognized as “nervous.” It just made him seem aloof, and therefore “cool.” The overwhelming scent of mountain air and pine trees assaulted his nose. He’d expected the airport to be full of private jets. Most of the developers could afford their own, as well as the execs. But there were none. On the far side of the airfield, an old private cargo C-130 lurked in the darkness.
“Where is everybody?” Fish asked the suit.
The suit looked around as though only just now realizing that the “everybody” being referred to was actually gone. “Oh,” he said. “They all left about three hours ago. Everyone wanted a long weekend. I heard most were heading out to Vegas to hear Spake turn a new set. She’s playing opening weekend for the new Zeppelin SkySort. Supposed to be really deadly!” the suit finished with the latest slang from six months ago. Fish had been hearing “deadly” as the new “cool” way back at last year’s TorchTown Festival. Fish had no doubt the suit in front of him was trying to hip it up for Wond
erSoft’s new rock star developer. No doubt. Guy probably doesn’t even game, thought Fish.
They entered the terminal and the usually talkative Fanta grew quiet, taking in the luxury and opulence so unlike any public air terminal she’d ever been to. No Army. No overwhelming stench of body odor. No in-your-face constant reminders to be on the lookout for suspicious packages, terrorists, or religious zealots. Instead, WonderSoft’s terminal was decorated in massive starlight blue couches and retro cloth silver and blue cigar chairs. A bar, complete with a volcano-orange lava lamp wall shifting to blue, then on to fiery red, as silver blobs undulated behind a parade of high-end bottles of the best and most unobtainable liquors, waited off the main concourse. The bar was dark.
“Closed after the last jet left,” apologized Evan Fratty. “But the SkyRoom Steakhouse is still open upstairs and we can get some dinner before heading back to the campus, if you’d like.”
Fanta declared, in a tone fit for rescued castaways from lost ocean liners, “I’m starving!”
The opulent dining room was surrounded with rich silver brocade curtains that girded expansive windows overlooking the ramp and runway. Sitting in a deep blue banquette booth, the three of them ate massive chargrilled porterhouse steaks along with perfectly cooked hash browns. They were surrounded by deep shadows, moody bebop lighting and soft jazz. Fanta even managed to eat most of their chilled cava shrimp cocktails reclining in a delicate silver chalice filled with ghost pepper-harissa cocktail sauce as she lectured the red-jacketed waiter that the dish should be served after the steaks as they do in Europe, instead of before, as they do in America.
Evan Fratty happily gave them a not-so-subtle pitch about the joys of being on the WonderSoft team as he verbally toured the campus and all the amenities Fish and Fanta could expect to enjoy while everyone prepared to launch Island Pirates.
Which “everyone” was really “super excited” about because it was so “deadly.”
There was the Gym Star Ultrastadium with pro athlete trainers for each developer. All former Olympians. The PhiloSofa Library with nightly multimedia field-leading guest lecturers. “We just had Montgomery Chung, project lead on the Alpha Centauri warp probe.” Then there was the Thunderdome, WonderSoft campus’s all-hours commissary, where seven of the world’s top chefs had signature restaurants and grills. “Brett Auflander’s Kommandant Kraut serves an adobo chili hot dog made from locally sourced boar that’s to kill for. It’s deadly.”