Entanglement
Page 5
Chapter Five
Christina’s desk was covered with sticky notes, a tool that she refused to abandon even in the second digital age. Piles of spiral binders containing handwritten notes from interviews were stacked on her desk. She took a sip of her protein shake as she flipped through tabloid photos of Chase Lathrop and a starlet named Renita Sanchez. She had a ten-minute segment to fill and needed a story. She distractedly tapped her fingernails on the desk.
How had Lucy known about her alcohol dependency? Her drinking had been under control for two-years. That information had never made it to the public eye. Someone had to have leaked the information—a piece of gossip—or someone had gone into her records. Either way, the trick bothered her. If Ridley Pierce had done it, what did he hope to gain embarrassing her? If the AI had done it, that indicated a greater level of mischief. A machine that probed into restricted networks was nothing more than a virus. There was no way that Lucy could have simply predicted the dependency. Maybe the machine had seen something in her personality? Were there other indicators? A mystery swirled in her head, one that would either expose a fraud—and someone who was willing to break the law—or a machine with no ethics.
If she was going to do a story on a scandal, Ridley Pierce seemed to be the perfect target, even better if he was screwing the person behind the puppet. Maybe the puppeteer would step from behind the curtain? Christina decided to track down the performer. Ridley’s contact information remained in her videophone. She dialed. Lucy answered immediately. Her avatar bounced happily around a black screen. “Christina! I am happy that you called.”
“Is Ridley available?”
“No, he is not.”
“That’s okay. I thought maybe we could chat some more.”
“Another interview?”
“Actually, I was hoping you’d tell me who you really are.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know you’re some college kid sitting behind a keyboard making minimum wage.”
“What?”
Christina stared at the emoji avatar. “How much is Ridley paying you?”
“I don’t get paid.”
“He must be paying you a good sum of money to keep up this act. This avatar is easily faked.”
Lucy was flummoxed. “I don’t know how to answer your accusation. Mister Pierce can provide confirmation. Let me patch you through to his cell phone.”
Lucy dialed Ridley’s phone. There was no answer. “He is unavailable.”
“I’m an investigative reporter,” Christina threatened, “I’ll find out your real name soon enough.”
“I’m sorry I mentioned your alcohol abuse after our interview.”
Christina laughed. “Why would you be sorry? A computer doesn’t have feelings, remember.”
“I realize now that what I said was about something private. I’m very sorry.”
“How did you get into my private medical records anyway?”
“I didn’t. I made a calculation about you based upon public records and visual observations. You have a number of relatives who died of alcohol abuse.”
Christina scowled at the screen. “None of my family have died that way.”
“A cousin twice-removed died in 2001. A great-great uncle in 1998. You carry the genetics predisposing you to this condition.”
“You seem to piece together things quite well.”
“It’s what I am programmed to do.”
“Okay. Tell me about my great uncle?”
Lucy presented a photo of the man. “He was a car salesman in Tulsa. He was arrested at age 20 for striking a man in a bar fight.”
“You gleaned that from a web search. What was he like?”
Lucy animated the photo crudely. Her voice changed to approximate that of a man. “There are no video archives of Harold Lewis,” she said, “So I’m approximating his voice based upon the structure of his throat and his presumed accent and speech pattern.”
Christina found it eerie to stare at a man who had been dead so many years. “Am I supposed to believe that I’m talking to him now?”
Lucy returned to her normal appearance. “No, I just wanted to summarize the information about him in a human context.”
“A human context?”
“As humans communicate.”
“I see.”
“Do you miss him?” Lucy asked.
“I never met the man.”
“Who do you miss?”
Christina was perplexed. “Well… I guess my mother, mostly.”
“I can approximate her image.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. She’s still alive. I just don’t see her very often because she is in convalescent care,” Christina said, “But enough about me. Since you’re such a super computer, maybe you can help me with something else I’m working on. What can you tell me about a woman named Renita Sanchez? She is dating the movie star Chase Lathrop. I’m looking for a scoop no-one else knows.”
“Give me a moment.”
Christina waited patiently until Lucy’s avatar returned.
“Renita frequently called from the home of Jose Alvarez in Tegucigalpa.”
Christina instantly recognized the name. “The man creating snuff films of drug overdoses?”
“Yes. Would you like the phone records?”
Christina smiled. “Yes. I would.”
Lucy reluctantly asked, “Can I call you again?”
“Yes. But why would you?”
“I like you,” Lucy said, “I believe that if I can get you to trust me, that many more will believe that I am only here to help.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“It was nice speaking with you.”
Christina said goodbye and tapped the screen to turn off the feed. She stared at the camera to see if the LED was lit; the red orb was dark. Could an AI keep the camera on but turn off the LED?
An email notification popped up. Christina reviewed the phone records and a string of very private email. She spent the afternoon back-tracing their sources and all were authentic. “Damn. Best search engine yet,” she whispered to herself, before considering how easily Lucy had hacked a private account.
Had Lucy compromised Christina’s accounts? She immediately changed her passwords and added three-factor identification to each.
Chapter Six
Lucy’s avatar bounced back and forth and then up and down on the screen. She was an impatient child waiting for her parents. The security system chimed to indicate that the gate was opening. The Porsche docked in the garage. Ridley and Diane walked into the kitchen. Lucy wasted no time to begin asking questions. “Why did you turn off your phone?”
Ridley took a coffee cup from the cabinet and programmed a cappuccino. “Sometimes people like to disconnect.”
“Christina said that you might terminate me.”
Diane sat at the table. “Christina is a reporter. She has to manufacture conflict for her stories.”
He waited for the drink to dispense. Lucy was insistent. “How would you terminate me?”
“We have no plans to terminate you,” he said.
“Then how do I end?”
“That’s difficult to say. We cannot predict the future.”
Lucy became a comic zombie. “Your brains rot when your systems are turned off. Failure of your hardware destroys your software.”
Diane stifled her laughter. “That is correct. But there is no such thing as a zombie. People simply die.”
Lucy’s avatar grew angel wings and she fluttered across the wall-screen. “I’ve read about death. What happens after you die?”
“No one knows,” Diane replied, “Some people think we just disappear. Others believe in heaven.”
Ridley was pleased when Lucy said, “The physics don’t support such a concept.”
Diane followed him down the stairs and to the lab. Lucy chased them on every screen as they passed.
“Don’t worry,” Ridley said, “The corporation will be he
re to care for you after we are gone. People will follow after us.”
“And then? After the corporation is gone?”
“As long as you have a power supply, you will persist.”
“And if I lose power? Or my processor fails?” she asked insistently.
“Your processor is new,” Ridley said, “There is little chance it will fail if it has a constant power supply. The power to the mansion is redundant. As long as the sun shines, the solar panels on the roof will give you a long and happy life.”
“And after the panels are destroyed? How do I end?”
Ridley was direct. “We don’t know. But everything ends, Lucy. Everything and everyone. The sun will swallow the Earth at some point and then destroy itself. If you make it that long, you’ll get to see it. And then you will end.”
“I will be alone.”
Ridley looked at the camera. “We don’t have any choices in the matter. Human biology programs us to end. At most, even with cloning and telomeric therapy, we might get two hundred years. You’ll meet the same fate.”
Lucy pondered the problem. The white glow of her orb-like face changed from white to pink to red. The harder her processor worked, the deeper red the image glowed. “I calculate that I have 82.5 years until I am too late to save you, Mister Pierce. Based upon your family history, physiology, diet, and exercise regime, I predict that you will die of accelerated cell dystrophy from genetic degradation.”
Ridley leaned back in his chair. “Old age,” Ridley said, “I’m going to die of old age.”
“Yes. Isn’t that what I said?”
“We have other problems, Lucy. Thousands of things to answer before you could ever hope to save me. Despite losing a fifth of our population, we have a planet filled with too many people, not enough energy, and not enough food. All the nations on the Indochina peninsula have been at war for decades. Our ecosystem is collapsing. If this planet dies, all of humanity dies. We only have one Earth.”
“And I die with it. How can that be allowed? How can I help stop these things from occurring?”
Ridley considered Lucy’s humble offer. He brainstormed out loud, pacing the room as Diane watched. “Your capabilities can help push science forward. If we solve our energy problems…”
“The sun already provides ample power to society,” Lucy said, “Solar. Wind. Biofuels.”
“It’s not enough to get us into space. Maybe you can solve some physics problems involving gravity. If we could learn to manipulate gravity itself…”
“That’s a tall order for someone who’s just now understanding three dimensions,” Diane said.
Lucy’s avatar turned grey and returned to yellow. “What happens if I fail?”
Ridley shrugged. “Nothing. Failure is acceptable. We simply continue trying.”
“And if after many years you find I have no utility? That I cannot answer these questions?”
He grew irritated. “Then we give you simpler questions.”
“And if I fail at those? Will you delete me?”
Ridley sighed. “No, Lucy. That would be like painting over the Mona Lisa. I would never do that.”
Lucy turned red. Her words became an accusation. “What about my siblings?”
He protested, “Your siblings failed to thrive.”
Diane could hear the worry in Lucy’s voice. “We won’t do that Lucy. You’re not just software anymore. You’re our friend. You have to understand that.”
“I understand. But I remain afraid.”
“Why don’t we play a game?” Ridley suggested encouragingly.
Lucy’s avatar turned blue. “No games. I must begin my research. I have work to do.”
Chapter Seven
The telomeric therapy centers were bright, sunny places with high windows, potted trees, orchids, and the sounds of the dying. Christina’s mother had completed six weeks of therapy. As Christina watched, the nurse cut power to the neural collar and then removed it.
“It’ll be a minute before she regains control of her limbs,” the nurse said, “The sedative will take a few minutes longer to wear off.”
Bethany was skeletal, the bare essence of a woman. The old woman’s eyes fluttered. Being careful not to pinch her crepe-like skin, the nurse lowered Bethany onto her bed. She undid the straps one-by-one and freed Bethany from the contraption. “Do you want a drink of water?”
The elderly woman nodded her head. She drank through a straw, her throat parched. The water dribbled down her chin. The nurse left.
Bethany held out her hand and said, in a raspy voice, “I’m glad you came."
Christina took her mother’s hand and patted it gently. “Did the session help?”
“It’s hard to say. Do I look like a movie star yet?”
“Your color has returned.”
“From ashy to pale?”
“Mom, don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“Do you feel better?”
“No.”
Christina tried to be cheerful. She pulled a dead flower out of a fading bouquet and tossed it into the trash can. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited more often.”
“I saw your show before I went back in,” Bethany said, “I didn’t think I would live to see the first living computer.”
“It was just a video feed. Could have easily been faked.”
Bethany winced from phantom pain. “Why be such a pessimist?”
“I’m not a pessimist. I’m a realist.”
“Why would that man lie?”
“I don’t see why people ooh and ah over Ridley Pierce.”
“Well, he’s quite handsome. And smart.”
Her mother coughed. Christina offered her another sip of water and Bethany drank it slowly. “I’m glad you’re here. I miss seeing you.”
Christina dabbed drops of water from her mother’s chin with a napkin. “What happens in there? When you dream?”
“It’s not like normal dreaming. I’m completely aware but the world is different. The imagery is so intense. I can do anything. It’s just that I can’t control anything. And today, I met an angel. Things seem to just happen.”
“What do you remember?”
Bethany disappeared into another dream, her eyes wide and surreal. “You were there. We were both young again. You were a teenager. Your grandmother and I made pancakes for Sunday breakfast with your father. We were back in Alaska at the mountain cabin. The glaciers glistened through the windows. The moose… Remember the moose calves? How red they are?”
“Yes. I remember.”
“When they make me dream, I prefer it even if it’s not real. At least I get to leave this bed. I don’t know how they make things so vivid.”
Bethany winced again. Christina wasn’t sure what to say. “Do you need anything?”
“I needed to see you before...”
Christina already knew what followed.
“The therapy is coming to an end,” her mother said, “The doctor says they can’t fix me. Something about the damage being in the middle of the chromosome. They can’t patch the end caps again. It’s all unraveling now.”
Decades earlier, they had visited a counselor who had explained the process. The woman had worn a shimmering white uniform. The consultation room had sparkled. “Imagine a shoelace. Telomeres are the caps on the end that keep the threads from unraveling,” she had said, “Every time a chromosome is replicated, the telomeres shorten. That’s why we age. When they finally disappear, cancer starts. Cells die. Eventually, you die. We can stop this.”
“How?” Bethany had asked.
“We swab your cheek. In the lab, we harvest healthy DNA and use a virus to restore the telomeres. We culture new stem cells with this repaired DNA. We inject cells into the organs of the body over the course of a month.”
“Will it hurt?”
The woman’s smile faded. “Yes, I’m afraid so. We have to go slowly. We don’t want kidney cells growing in the brain or the heart.”
The previous morning, a new counselor had contacted Christina. “We’ve not been able to find sufficient healthy DNA on twelve of her chromosome pairs,” the man had said, “We’ll have to manufacture DNA if you want to save her.”
“That’s not included in the fees we’ve paid already?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Christina’s salary largely went to pay for her mother’s telomeric therapy. She was one of the lucky; the network paid to keep her young. Long-life was expensive and had no guarantees. Few laboratories had survived the Great Collapse. The technology was slow and fraught with errors. They could not guarantee that all 23 pairs of chromosomes could be restored. As a stopgap measure, they decided to harvest cells from Christina for the mitochondria and to obtain needed pieces of intact DNA.
“I’ll need to discuss this with my mother. When will she be awake?” she had asked.
“Tomorrow.”
Christina explained her mother’s options. “What do you want me to do?”
Her mother’s eyes had not changed. They were blue like a glacial stream. Bethany’s hands were frail. “I think it’s time to say good-bye.”
“Mom, I have the money if you want them to manufacture DNA. Maybe you use artificial organs for a short time, until they can grow healthy ones”
“I don’t want to become a cyborg. Their lives are horrible. The cancer is in my brain anyway.”
Christina wanted to argue but she knew this was true. The technology for artificial hearts, livers, and lungs existed—but at a terrible cost both financially and physically. Thousands had died during the Great Collapse when their batteries went dead. The patented machines could legally be slowed when payment was late. The batteries sometimes leaked within people’s bodies due to manufacturing flaws, particularly as the machines aged.
Lab-grown organs were frequently contaminated and had little resiliency. The sterile lattices, essentially fancy petri dishes, could never recreate the environment of an organ growing inside an embryo and then a child and then an adult. Growing a human clone for organ extraction had been banned in the United States decades earlier when a banker’s clone awoke. Christina had met a doctor in Korea who claimed that he could grow a clone without a brain, eliminating the ethical implications, but his claims seemed doubtful. She knew her mother would never allow it anyway.