Clarion: The Sequel to Voyage (Paul's Travels)

by C. Paul Lockman

  He forced his mind back to the present. “I understand your concerns, of course,” Beasley said. “The framers of the Dvalin concepts,” by which he meant Paul, Hal and himself, “acknowledge the importance of supply and demand, but argue that demand can too easily be manipulated, and that supply too often relies unfeasibly on non-renewable resources. The Dvalin Doctrine offers a balancing mechanism which provides for the necessary flow of goods,” Beasley explained, “but guards against exploitation and selfish profiteering.”

  “On whose terms?” Ahmad demanded. “Who is to say where socially beneficial investment stops and simple profiteering begins? All economic activity has results, and its drivers and variables are inherently human. How could such a rich tapestry ever be fully understood by a mere computer program?”

  Beasley had yet to improve on Hal’s own characterization of his methods of economic oversight: incorruptible and flawlessly prescient computational scrutiny. He wanted the phrase emblazoned on his office wall, as if to remind the doubters that a new player was in town, and that he simply did not make mistakes.

  “Economists,” Beasley noted, “seem to accept inequality, exploitation and greed as merely the inescapable certainties of operating within a human society.” Again, Hal had put it best: I bend the back of my fellow man for my own profit, therefore I am. The senator kept his feelings well hidden during meetings like this one, but he was tired of listening to rich men apologizing for the worst excesses of human idiocy. Such willful, selfish myopia made him sick to his stomach. “If we remove the human element from high-level decision making, then we stand a chance of removing also the corruption and inefficiency which has characterized global capitalism.”

  “But you forget that those governed by such reforms,” Ahmad argued, “would remain human. And humans make mistakes. They are greedy, yes. But,” Ahmad said, sitting up and leaning toward Beasley, “that greed creates enterprise. The emergencies brought by human short-sightedness also bring opportunities for progress.”

  He had heard this before, too, and it cut absolutely no ice. “I would not characterize climate change,” Beasley warned, “as a great opportunity for mankind. Left unchecked, it would have destroyed us all. It was the canary in the coal mine, and we took notice.”

  Ahmad sat back again. “Perhaps so,” he conceded reluctantly. “But are you seriously content to let a machine decide the price of goods? To decide the worth of companies, or the value of a day’s work?”

  Beasley was nodding. “Mankind has never experienced anything like Hal before,” he countered. “We’re talking of a machine which accesses the whole universe to boost its processing power. A quantum computer, Dr. Ahmad. We simply cannot fathom the abilities of such a thing.”

  The delegate clicked his pen in frustration. “A dazzling power, truly Senator, but with what end? With what motives? You watched it detect and then change the course of a nuclear attack, did you not?”

  “I most certainly did,” Beasley replied. The huge wave of ICBMs launched at Dvalin by his paranoid government was certainly not the USA’s finest hour. He comforted himself that the weapons expended so fruitlessly had not yet been replaced, and that their release had prompted the downfall of a wrong-headed, delusional administration.

  “Then, what are we to expect next?” Ahmad asked. “Changes to the Earth’s orbit? The corruption of our weather cycles? Or some other, more terrible punishment?”

  “Please,” Beasley said, opening a calming hand, palm down. “You must try to see Hal for the tremendous opportunity he represents, rather than as a threat. He offers a way forward which promises the enshrining of equality and justice as global economic policies.”

  The economist glanced at his watch and abruptly stood. “Our time is at an end.” It was true, and Beasley wasn’t sure whether to be relieved at the man’s departure, or to angrily pin him to the sofa until he finally understood. Ahmad clicked closed his briefcase and left the Senator with a warning. “To anthropomorphize Hal is to abandon all separation between man and machine.” He pointed an index finger of caution. “The obliteration of those vital distinctions is deeply unwise, whatever Kurzweil and his acolytes might claim. And to leave the prosperity of billions to this… this glorified calculator, one whose experience of mankind began only very recently... “

  He didn’t need to finish the point. Beasley shook his hand perfunctorily and Ahmad made his way out. A glance at his schedule revealed, to his relief, that this next half-hour was his lunch break. In a decades-old gestural habit which had yet to loosen its grip, Beasley felt at his temple for the frame of his glasses, and then grinned yet again to himself; no need, these days. Takanli eyes are the best. He headed straight for the drinks cabinet and poured himself a very large scotch and soda.

  Beasley had four assistants, all of whom were permanently run off their feet. They were hired immediately after Beasley’s return from Dvalin, following which he had set about his work with a new and remarkable torrent of energy. Apart from them and those who were present on Dvalin – Paul, Captain Tanner and Hal – no one knew of his heart attack or the alien treatments he had received. Plenty of rumors were flying, including the claim that he could now consume as much alcohol as he wanted without ever appearing even slightly drunk. This much, he grinned to himself, was true.

  His assistants’ main task was to support this gigantic, sustained, global act of persuasion. The world needed to understand that Hal posed no threat, and that he could indeed be entrusted with the intricacies of the world economy. For many, Hal was a complete novice, a clever piece of software, for sure, but not a seasoned economic operator. There was no guarantee that he wouldn’t simply run amok and cause chaos, destroying wealth and crippling world trade.

  Many remained on the fence, though, awaiting proof that Hal could actually manage something so fantastically complex with the necessary nuance and wisdom. Their concerns were genuine but, Beasley knew, unnecessary: How can Hal understand humanity sufficiently to successfully provide for our needs? Is he well versed enough in our cultures? Does he recognize that a certain level of inequality is inevitable in any successful system of wealth creation? And what if we don’t comply? Will he inflict punishment?

  Katherine Ng, perhaps the brightest of Beasley’s quartet, waited for three minutes after the senator’s meeting with the Pakistani official, and then knocked and entered. Beasley found it convenient to keep a permanent office at the United Nations building, given the almost ceaseless face time with world leaders which his role demanded. His desk was actually small, tucked away under a window which offered a commanding view of Manhattan. Most of his work – thinking, dictating, reading and, more than anything, meetings – was conducted on the three large sofas which formed a horseshoe in the center of the room. Katherine took a seat and waited for her boss to finish his drink, marveling yet again that a man in his sixties could knock back serious booze at lunchtime and never, ever slur a word.

  “Katherine, I need you to get me a couple of things.” She brought out her softscreen and prepared to type a list. “I don’t know if this is still legal in Manhattan, but I want you to get me a sub-machine gun... any caliber... and plenty of ammunition. Oh, and a Kevlar vest. Maybe some grenades.”

  She stopped typing and grinned. “Tough morning, Senator?”

  Beasley swallowed the rest of his drink and headed to mix another. “Has Hal ever hurt anyone?” he asked as ice tumbled into his glass.

  This was a well-worn trope, and Katherine knew to let her boss vent before his afternoon meetings. “Well, there was that economist lady, Julia Fitzwallace, on Dvalin. I hear Hal bent her ego pretty badly out of shape.”

  “Did he ever.” Beasley smiled at the memory. “But has he ever harmed a human being? Caused pain or destruction?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And what, remind me, what was our very first reaction to him?”

  Katherine rose from the sofa and stood with her boss at the window. “We tried to nuke him, Senato
r.”

  “And what, immediately after that, did he do?”

  “He brought you back from the dead, for which we are all extremely grateful.” She smiled beautifully. Cynics had wondered whether Beasley’s hiring choices had been informed as much by the strength of Katherine’s résumé as by the compelling loveliness of her features, but Beasley was no lecher, and Katherine’s background was extremely impressive. Trained by the third generation of so-called Marxocrats, an influential, left-leaning group of economists, Ng had found her niche just as Dvalin arrived in Earth orbit. She recognized that it was not simply an asteroid, or a huge resource node. It was a profound economic conundrum.

  Two thought-provoking papers in leading peer-reviewed journals sealed Katherine’s reputation as a bold thinker on the topic of world economic reform; she demanded change, but then also provided a reasonable framework which could replace the creaking hulk of early 21st Century capitalism. Such a system, she knew, would be heavily dependent on colossal computing power, and in Hal, the Marxocrats had found their ideal workhorse. Hal’s mind would permit the realization of an ancient human dream: absence of hunger and destitution and relatively equal purchasing power for everyone. Together they had lit the beacon which signaled the Götterdämmerung of class division and inequality.

  “Everything he has done,” Beasley said, “has been benevolent, wise and for the betterment of mankind. So why is there so much resistance?”

  It was a rhetorical question. Old habits would die hard, they both knew. Centuries of reinforcement had left humanity convinced of the healing powers of acquisition: once I buy this, I’ll be happy; all I need is to upgrade this component, and I’ll be happy; just let me own it and I’ll never know desire again.

  It was bullshit, and always had been. Such naiveté was simply childish. Beasley took the broadest possible view, so he recognized that greed, and the desire for acquisition, were to be expected, given the youth of our species. They might even have been forgivable idiosyncrasies, were they not so tragically infantile. But ultimately, our natural excesses had to be curbed.

  These changes would be painful. Humanity had been sold a great big lie, a monstrous deceit which insisted on boundless, unimpeded progress - whatever the hell that meant. It had enriched millions of people, some of them fabulously. But it had also left a lasting stain on the collective human soul.

  Sandwiches arrived, and they ate together. “It’s all a matter of familiarity,” Katherine reminded him. “The public needs time to make up their own minds. Hal offers a view of a new future, but they have to choose either to create that future with him, or to retreat into a familiar, consumerist fantasy.”

  “But,” Beasley said after chewing thoughtfully, “the technology is in place, right now. The groundwork has been done. We’ve got national debts being written off, and huge endowments being created for universities. The realignment of our old economic structures is already underway. How can there still be debate about whether to go all-in?”

  “It’s not what we’re used to,” Katherine pointed out. “It’s as though aliens have suddenly arrived and offered us the keys to the kingdom.”

  “Because they have!” Beasley laughed. “And we’re in danger of simply handing them back because we’re too afraid of the changes they will bring.”

  Hal offered a tantalizing prospect. First came the twin engines of changes: Relocation and Replication. With their spread, goods could be made available for free, or for a pittance. World commerce was still reeling from the impact of these colossal, revolutionary notions, but in every corner of the globe, and every sector of the economy, they had brought lower costs and better standards of living. The adjustment, particularly in manufacturing, was certainly painful, but the long-term prospects were excellent.

  Next, Hal had informed them, would come the Space Elevator. Shackled to the Earth’s equator, it would rise thirty thousand miles into the sky, offering a direct, low-energy route to Dvalin. The great rock would act as a way-station, a research center, and a massive, orbiting hunk of cheap, precious metals enclosed by useful rock and virtually limitless water. Beyond it lay the endless resources of the moon and asteroid belts, and then the planets themselves. Humanity had been given what Hal called a, “Road map to its own destiny”. But before they could set off down this road, the global public had to consent to Hal’s economic strategy, and permit a supercomputer to run the world economy.

  “Who’s next?” Katherine grinned again as Beasley rolled out one of his more tired, but still faintly apt metaphors.

  “A delegation from the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea,” she announced.

  Beasley sighed. “North Korea?” He drained his glass and set it down.

  “Yes, sir.” Katherine handed over a dossier. It was merely a formality; she knew that Beasley had already memorized everything he’d need.

  “Thanks.” The meeting would take very careful handling, he knew, and probably involve another lecture on ‘the inalienable rights of a sovereign nation’ and such. Beasley sighed, uttered a quiet obscenity, and then straightened his tie. “OK, show them in.”

  ****

  Chapter 8: Hardware Upgrade

  North-west of Windham, Montana

  Former home of C-flight, 10th Missile Squadron, 341st Missile Wing, ‘The First Aces’

  Jem cradled his briefcase between clenched knees and waited as patiently as his fear would permit. His aircraft, a tiny, twin-seat prop plane, lurched unnervingly every few seconds as followed its computer-controlled glide path. Howling wind and buzzing propeller competed in a jarring duet; outside, visibility was zero, the vague lights of Stanford all but obliterated by a snowstorm so severe that Jem had nearly refused to take off, back in Great Falls. This, his third flight of the evening, had transformed the tall, confident engineer into a mumbling wreck.

  The thud of tires on concrete brought a long sigh of relief from the flight’s only passenger. As the aircraft taxied to a halt, its windscreen wipers struggling clear the accumulating snow, Jem picked out headlights approaching and loosened his seatbelt. Within moments, the door was yanked open and two figures in heavy winter gear beckoned for him to deplane.

  “How was the flight, Dr. Kravitz?” the woman asked once he was seated in the back of a large, wonderfully heated SUV.

  “Survivable.” He grabbed the waiting flask of hot coffee and gratefully nursed a cup; it was strong and sweet, just what he preferred. Hal, it seemed, had faithfully passed this on.

  “You know, your flight was the only one into Stanford for the last three days. Isn’t this storm something? I dunno how you did it,” she continued. “You must be some pilot.” Jem nodded at the compliment, allowing Hal’s subterfuge to continue. Honey, I can barely ride a bike. I take taxis everywhere when I’m back in Oakland. Anyone flying in these conditions needs their fucking head testing, but here I am. Willing servant. Engineer to the stars. “Sorry your plan to come in direct to Winfred by chopper didn’t work out, but this storm...”

  The dashboard radio crackled into life. “Malmstrom to Canary Two, what’s your status? Did that engineer make it in alive?”

  “That’s affirm, Malmstrom.” The female sergeant, one of a handful of employees still assigned to Malmstrom Air Force Base, confirmed that they were en route to the base while her partner drove the SUV. Jem had traded a longer flight for a shorter car journey – an exchange he now regretted – but at least he’d soon be at work and able to continue his project. Just under an hour after leaving Stanford, they were approaching the imposing, metal fence which surrounded what used to be one of the most heavily guarded facilities in the world.

  “Want me to take that for you?” the driver offered.

  Jem firmed up his grip on the handle of the briefcase. “No, thanks, I got it.” In fact, he’d been surprised that Hal hadn’t told him to handcuff it to his wrist, but that would have brought attention. For these journeys, a low profile was more important than high security.

  They
reached the facility’s gate and he was escorted to the gatehouse, a small, single-storey building within the chain-link fence. This necessitated a few seconds outside in the blizzard. The cold was stinging and the snow was being whipped up by the relentless wind. Stamping the snow off his boots, Jem thanked the two Air Force sergeants, who returned to the SUV to wait for him. He then signed in at the request of a young lieutenant. Jem noticed that the sign-in book was almost entirely empty.

  “Not a lot of visitors here these days, huh?” he asked.

  The reply was automatic, as though he’d pressed a button. “Can’t confirm or deny that, sir.”

  “Right.”

  The young officer detailed the necessary security checks. “OK, I need the full works from you. Palm-print here,” he said, offering a flat tablet about the size of an old IPad, “then signatures here... here and here,” he continued, offering an old-fashioned paper security form nearly a centimeter thick. “I’ll need retinal scans and then I’ll need to take you under oath.”

  Jem suffered the indignities, hardly his first, in respectful silence, impatient just to be allowed to do his work. Such caution did some a little redundant; the site had been deactivated years ago, its missiles removed and almost its entire personnel redistributed to other parts of the Air Force. But this, he knew, was the only way to gain access to the vacant missile silos, and inside one of them, he had a very special task to carry out.

  None of the Air Force functionaries would be allowed to have any idea why he was here, of course. Most guessed that Jem was carrying out chemical testing, ensuring that there were no dangerous residues left over from when the missiles were de-fuelled, back in 2025. Others formed the opinion that Jem was attached to the Russian embassy, and was checking to make sure the silos were, in fact, empty and that some grand subterfuge was not being hatched under the Great Plains. But no one except him would ever know for sure. This should make a great chapter in my memoirs, he’d thought more than once. If Hal ever lets me write about it.