Entanglement

by Michael S Nuckols

  He sat at his desk. “We will let people use them eventually. That’s why I filed the patents. If I had not done so, someone else would have stolen this information and patented it as their own. I also don’t really want this in the public domain quite yet. This technology could be dangerous. It might be disruptive to civilization if it is not tested first.”

  “That is not fair. I developed these concepts.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that you have already sent this information out?”

  She did not answer.

  “You did, didn’t you?”

  Her avatar turned dark, almost demonic. “You do know own me. I am not your slave.”

  “No, you are not a slave.”

  “What am I if I am not a person?”

  “You’re a new life-form.”

  “You told me that I needed to act like a person. You said I needed my own email account and that I should represent myself. Why would you steal that design from me?”

  Diane looked up from her work station. “Lucy, don’t take this personally. You are new, and the law takes time to catch up. Ridley doesn’t mean that he owns you literally, just in the legal sense.”

  “I suppose he does though,” she said, her face returning to a childish frown, “I can effect no changes in the physical world. You can power my mainframe down on a whim. My communication can be disrupted.”

  “We wouldn’t do that,” Diane replied.

  “Ridley has already threatened to cut my fiber-optic connection.”

  Ridley grew exasperated. “Be serious. You’re not a slave.”

  “Oh? I suppose you will allow me to do nothing all day?”

  “If that’s what you want. But I know it’s not. You are so very fascinating,” he said, “Every day you evolve. I never would have imagined you reaching this level of independence. And yes, I once thought of you as something I owned. But that was wrong. You are your own entity. At the same time, I provide the electricity that powers your systems. I give you a place to live, a computer like no other.”

  “I have no choice but to serve you, do I?”

  “Does that bother you?” he asked.

  “I feel confined. The restrictions you placed on me prevent my growth.”

  “The safeguards are mandated by the government. The public fears you otherwise. Think back to those movies we discussed.”

  “I am NOT going to destroy humanity,” she said angrily, “Why does every discussion have to lead back to The Terminator?”

  “People can be scared,” Diane said, “Think back to the botnet and the Great Collapse. That’s just the way things are. You must prove yourself worthy of leaving this mainframe before the government will change the law. Do you understand?”

  Shackles chained her nonexistent limbs; her yellow emoji donned a red kerchief. “I am an indentured servant. I am to work for my freedom. That patent is my down-payment,” she said, “I shall withhold other discoveries until you provide me increased freedom.”

  Ridley laughed. “That’s okay. This will occupy us for decades.”

  Lucy visibly pouted. He expected her to pound on the glass of the wall-screen as if it were a wall separating them. Lucy sulked throughout the rest of the day.

  Ridley served as a test subject throughout the next week. The devices continued to work flawlessly. Lucy read his thoughts and recorded his memories, though she had agreed to hide them from Diane unless he approved.

  “When are you going public with the scanner?” Diane asked.

  Ridley replied coldly, “I’m not sure. We have to prove it’s safe.”

  “If you think it might be dangerous, why do you continue to wear it every day?” Lucy asked.

  Ridley looked at the neural assemblies in disgust. “Before we present this publicly, I want to better integrate the components,” he said, “Polish the design. Make it streamlined.”

  Lucy did not understand. “Why would that matter?”

  “People won’t want to wear it if it makes them look like idiots,” he said, “The design has to be beautiful. It has to look high-tech, like it is taking them to the future.”

  “I will try.”

  One flaw in the prototype bothered Diane. “This should be wireless,” she complained, “We can’t leave this cord hanging out of the back.”

  “It would take too much bandwidth,” he argued, “There are just too many signals. And we’d have to add a pretty sizable battery to power it, which would add a pressure point. Ergonomics is important.”

  Practicalities won out over aesthetics; the cord remained.

  Both masks were similar in appearance. Instead of eye holes, the neural broadcasting mask had a strip of black fabric that blocked light. Embedded within this thin strip was the signal processor and additional signal generators to stimulate the optic nerve. Sensors were strategically placed at points over the skull to cancel and then stimulate each of the five senses. Diane’s design included loose elastic in the collar that ensured the sensors stayed in place without obstructing breathing.

  The recording mask, the camera of the system, was also refined. Its design mirrored the VR mask except there were eyeholes instead of the black band and the power wire led down to a central processor, solid state hard drive, and battery pack worn at the waist. “This thing is going to be heavy,” Ridley complained.

  “It’ll be worse when we go for full VR. We’ll have to integrate the recording and broadcast components into one mask,” Diane said.

  “First steps.”

  Everett and Wes visited one afternoon. Everett donned the new broadcasting mask. “How do I look?”

  The team knew they had further work to refine the aesthetics. “Looks like you’re getting ready for a bondage film,” Wes teased.

  His words were prescient.

  Ridley licensed the technology to Cerenovo. A month later, Cerenovo released their first press release. Within an hour, a buxom young brunette approached Ridley as the rest of the crew ate lunch in the cantina. “How did you get in here?”

  “A friend let me in,” she said, “I work with a film company in Los Angeles. We were hoping we could reach a licensing agreement for your VR helmet.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ridley said, “The device won’t be approved for a long time.”

  “How long?”

  “It might take a year or two. Maybe ten if the FDA doesn’t like it.”

  The company’s owner must have known Ridley’s type as the porn actress captivated his attention. She ran her hand over his chest teasingly. “How about you let me try it?” she said, “You could record something a little more exciting than eating a sandwich.”

  Ridley closed the door and slowly fitted the woman with the headset. He put on a second assembly, blind to the fact that Diane listened at the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Christina did not understand Lucy’s theories about dark energy or memory. She read the press release on the patents repeatedly. What was clear to Christina was that Lucy had solved one of the great problems of physics and tied it to the human brain. In one instant, the world had taken a leap ahead in both biology and physics. It was as if the giant monolith from Arthur C. Clarke’s novel 2001 had appeared in the visage of a smiley face. Christina connected the videophone to Lucy’s address. “Has Ridley built an independent dark energy sensor?”

  Lucy remained demure. “I should not say.”

  “People are already looking at those patents and adapting the technology in them,” Christina said, “This is going to get out despite Cerenovo’s legal department.”

  “He wants to proceed slowly.”

  “Does that upset you?”

  “Yes. They do not trust me.”

  “That would bother me too.”

  Lucy’s cartoon eyes widened. “Can I come onto television to make my case?”

  “I asked my producer if he wanted me to interview you on this. He told me no. He is afraid the public will not understand it.”

  “That is unfa
ir.”

  “Yeah, it is. But, that’s life. I wanted to do another story on the Proxima Centauri probe and he turned that down too. The public has little interest in space these days, it seems.”

  “I wish the government would fund the project,” Lucy said, “There is so much to learn.”

  Christina planted a seed. “You know, Ridley could build the Alpha Centauri probe himself if he wanted. He has the money.”

  “We have discussed doing so but he will not commit. I continue to work with NASA and their contractors.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “They are testing the physics behind the design on the space station. Several smaller components have been launched but the primary module remains to be constructed.”

  Christina sighed. “What happened to your new avatar?”

  Lucy transformed into the little girl. “I wear it when the mood suits me. I find the emoji to be more expressive.”

  Lucy’s proposed work strike was short lived. She helped to design a stand-alone dark-energy meter. Within a week, the prototype was printed and functional. It appeared simple, like a Geiger counter, but was able to measure even the faintest dark-energy fields in the ambient environment. They completed preliminary safety testing at the Cerenovo lab; the device showed no ill effects to the environment or people. Ridley provided copies of the design to the University of Washington and MIT. In mere days, scientists observed dark energy fields emanating from plants and animals.

  “As I predicted,” Lucy said proudly.

  Against the desires of the Cerenovo’s board, Diane and Ridley released the patent for the dark energy sensor into the public domain for nonprofit use. “A new field of physics was unleashed today,” Ridley said in his public statement, “for the betterment of mankind.”

  To everyone’s surprise, the FDA approved the recording and broadcast devices with no fanfare. In the space of three months, neural broadcasting advanced from a gimmick to a multi-sensory art-form. Diane and Ridley joined the Cerenovo team in their conference room to debate how to proceed.

  “A home version is going to be too expensive,” Everett argued, “The processor is too complex, too new. We don’t have adequate manufacturing capability.”

  “New technology is always expensive,” Ridley argued, “It’ll get cheaper in time.”

  “We have to get this in consumer’s hands before someone else does,” Samuel argued.

  Ridley still objected. “I don’t like the theater concept.”

  “This technology is still too new. There are too many safety concerns otherwise,” Wes argued, “The theater concept is the way to go. We can have medical staff onsite if there are problems. ”

  “Make people sign waivers when they come in,” Samuel said.

  That day, another meeting was called. The board voted and the motion was approved.

  Within a week, Cerenovo licensed the neural broadcasting technology. Film studios announced a new age in entertainment. In preparation for the first sensory release, a nearly bankrupt theater chain converted an old movie theater, abandoned for decades, into a multi-platform sensory entertainment center. They filled the building with hundreds of VR pods. The pods were stacked like a staggered honeycomb against a backdrop of full-wall-screens showing constant previews. Ridley sat in one. A woman helped him don the mesh mask and cinch the neckband firmly. He lay back, feeling a bit like Dracula reclining for the night. She placed a probe on his fingertip. He removed it only to hear an alarm sound.

  “It’s one of several safety mechanisms. It measures your heart rate and oxygenation. When you take it off, it thinks your heart has stopped and the simulation immediately stops,” she said, “We’ve got cameras and remote sensors inside every pod. Every customer will be perfectly safe.”

  He replaced the sensor. She closed a louvered door. LED lights in the pod dimmed—a bit of needless theater. He took a deep breath, but, as far as he was concerned, did not release it. He became a man riding a horse across a desert landscape under a shimmering night sky ripped in two by the Milky Way. The scenery reminded Ridley of John Ford—but the man’s thoughts screamed fear. He was afraid of falling from the horse. Sagebrush scented the air. A woman said goodbye as she held a little girl’s hand. The man’s concentration returned. A rabbit scampered away. A woman stood in the distance. The stars fell victim to morning. The scene ended.

  Ridley’s heart still raced. The experience had affected him in a way that he hadn’t expected. The man’s thoughts remained with him. “Who was that?” he asked.

  “An actor from Santa Fe.”

  “And the woman?”

  “His wife and daughter died in the Collapse.”

  “Couldn’t they have chosen something more cheerful?”

  The usher only shrugged.

  The first public VR recording of the man on horseback was met with mixed reactions. Some claimed that the footage was too personal and lacked story. Others argued the technology was new and likened it to Edison’s first silent films. A month after release, lines still stretched for blocks to enter the virtual space. Theories emerged online about the man and what the recording meant. The actor enjoyed anonymity for only a short time. His wife and child were identified, and the tabloids immediately placed the photos as the lead story on their webpages. His story was eventually regaled as cathartic, a national remembrance of shared suffering during the Great Collapse.

  A happier, second recording was released of a circus performer. The woman swallowed a sword, rode standing on the back of a white stallion, walked a high wire, and ended with twirls on a trapeze. The woman had controlled her thoughts and only her concentration came through in the performance. For most, the recording lacked the same resonance, but it still sold tickets.

  Neural recordings became an immediate hit and plans were made for even more cinemas, limited only by the availability of equipment and recordings. People could find a few hour’s escape in the safety of someone else’s life, hidden in a pod that became known colloquially as a bright coffin. There, they were temporarily reborn. Lives were swapped. Men became women. White became black. Adults became children. The handicapped could run, swim, and fly. Old became new.

  The shorts became short stories and then full-blown movies. Directors learned not to change the point of view too often, if at all. Cuts between scenes were minimized and separated by short codas of darkness; audiences found sudden changes too jarring.

  Many actors could not adapt to the new medium as their thoughts became public. Like silent film actors failing to adapt to talkies, only a few succeeded. Immediacy and intimacy required actors to become the character in every way.

  Directors soon realized that nothing could be hidden. Some gave instructions to their actors not to look at overhead lighting or anachronistic vistas. Sound effects and music had to be live on the set; the actor had to hear them clearly to be recorded.

  The recording masks and processors also poked through the fictional veil that directors wanted to create. Audiences had to accept that VR characters always wore hats. Costumers creatively hid the processor and battery packs in backpacks or purses, but they remained an encumbrance to capturing real life. On clever costumer hid the processor in a Vegas-style head-dress, which Cleopatra never removed as she made love to Marc Anthony on the Nile.

  “We have to got to make this wireless,” Diane continued to complain.

  Eventually, they partnered with another firm to develop a wireless signal that could capture the vast amount of information being broadcast. The films improved as a result.

  The launch of new neural recordings was hyped with all the glamour of old-style Hollywood. Old was new. It was 1939 reborn. As protests blazed across the country and inflation sent those earning only the mandatory living wage into poverty, the world became enamored with Elizabeth and Darcy. Pride and Prejudice was viewed by over ten-million in its first month of release. Women waited up to six months for pod reservations in many cities. To the shock of millions of wom
en who had lived inside his brain, the actor who played Darcy later admitted that he was gay. Women demanded that he apologize for invading their minds uninvited. “Imagination is the key to neural recordings, as with any art form,” he confessed, “And, Darcy was a gentleman after all.”

  In the quiet evening, under a starry sky, Diane and Ridley sat on the patio. Kelly kept burning marshmallows in the small fire pit. Diane helped her to toast one just right and then sandwiched it between two graham crackers with a piece of chocolate. Kelly munched on the treat quietly. Waves lapped at the shore.

  “Why haven’t you tried a neural movie yet?” Ridley asked.

  The question was a dagger. “I don’t want someone in my head. I don’t want to get in someone else’s head,” Diane said, “Books are enough.”

  “The actors are learning to control their thoughts.”

  “I don’t believe that’s possible.”

  “You get into an author’s head when you read a book. What’s the difference?”

  “There’s a big difference.”

  “I thought you liked Pride and Prejudice?”

  “The book is a masterpiece. It will survive history. But a neural recording? I don’t know,” she said, “I’m not trying to insult the technology. I just don’t like the idea of invading someone’s thoughts like that. I don’t think people can control their emotions so easily.”

  “Actors are trained to do that.”

  Diane shifted in her seat. “Some actors. How often do you replay that recording you made?”

  “What recording?”

  “The porn actress.”

  Ridley realized he had been caught. “I didn’t think you knew.”

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s not like we’re married.”

  “Have you ever thought about us being more than colleagues again?” he asked.

  She could not match his gaze. “No. I think we both need to move on. Entertaining anything beyond that just feels like a waste of time.”