by Tom Wheeler
I immediately ran into Dhilan’s living room, grabbed several books roughly the size of the hole the device had come from, and threw them in as filler so nobody would suspect another hidden compartment. If they did, they would find books. I headed back out, only to see a police car approaching, blue lights flashing.
“Darn it!” I exclaimed. “Think!” I opened the sliding back door, ran to the far side of the lawn with the laser-gun-size device, and dropped it over the fence and into the bushes of the neighbor’s yard. The light streaming from the neighbor’s home indicated the bushes would hide it. Then I ran back inside, hitting General Crane’s number on my phone. I was standing in the living room when the police officer entered.
“Put your hands where I can see them!” ordered the officer as he yanked his gun from its holster. I immediately raised my arms.
84
Persistent Reporter
After explaining my position at NASA to the police, confirmed by General Crane, I was released without further action. As I made my way home, my phone began to buzz, startling me. I scooped it from the passenger’s seat and decided to answer it.
“Mason Thomas? Lisa Cummings, New York Times.”
“What?” I asked, wondering about her impeccable timing as I made another turn out of Dhilan’s neighborhood. My eyes continued to dart to and from the mirror to make sure she wasn’t following me. I was sure she’d never call me again if I told her about my encounter with angels and demons. Then there was the fact that I’d almost been arrested.
“ ‘What?’ Is that any way to speak to . . . anyone?” she asked.
“Sorry, I’m a little busy,” I said, glancing in the mirror.
“That’s all I get for tracking you down after two weeks?”
“I’m not hiding,” I said. “What can I do for you, Ms. Cummings?”
“I understand Jack Dawson and Adam Carbel are dead. What were you working on at Phoenix besides the Akula?”
“You could be a bit more empathetic.”
“Sorry, I meant no offense. I truly am sorry for the loss. You’re right, I should have told you . . .”
“Besides, I no longer work at Phoenix,” I interrupted as I continued to maneuver out to the highway, on my way back to the Hilton.
“You work at NASA. Congratulations. That’s quite an accomplishment. Are you concerned for your safety?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Dr. Hannah was shot, and Wells Fargo confirmed that gold was indeed stolen from the bank during the riot in Palmdale. The guy who reported it was killed; you remember, the lunatic I reported on that everyone dismissed? Now Dawson and Carbel. It just seems . . .”
“. . . like everyone I’ve worked for has either been killed or shot,” I finished for her. “Coincidence.”
“Prophets don’t believe in coincidences,” she said, catching me off guard.
“Oh?”
“You warned the president about the bombing of the United Nations. In fact, because of your warning, he wore a bulletproof vest. Not that he needed it, as it turned out.”
“How the heck do you know that?”
“Why do people always ask me questions like that? I’m a reporter—it’s my job,” she said. I raised my eyebrows, understanding her point.
“But who would disclose that to you, knowing the president didn’t want it released?”
“Is that a serious question?” Lisa asked. “Have you already forgotten the former president?”
“I can’t comment. You know that,” I answered, once again understanding her point.
“Is Russia behind this?” she asked directly.
“Russia? Why would you even consider the Russians?” I asked, knowing I was in the middle of a spider’s web that someone else was spinning.
“Rumor has it the Russians are funding Phoenix,” she said. “I heard something about a CD. Do you know anything about that?”
My body responded with heat.
I stumbled a bit. “I don’t know, Lisa. Who uses CDs anymore?”
“Just asking. What can stop an android?” she probed, as only a reporter can do.
“I suppose an EMP or missile,” I finally answered.
“See, you do want to talk.”
“Ms. Cummings, I am sure you are doing your job, but that answer was standard for anything powered. Besides, even if I did know anything about what you’re asking me, telling you would break the law, and my ethical commitment.”
“What if Russia is attempting to integrate androids into our political system? Then would it matter?”
“Now, where on earth would you get an idea like that?” I asked, truly wondering why she would ask such a question.
“I don’t know, maybe because there are secret androids roaming the world camouflaged as rogue North Korean soldiers assassinating dictators, CEDRA blew up, the UN, and now there are rumors that Russians are involved in Phoenix . . .”
“Now I understand why Crumpler was so adamant about fake news,” I interrupted.
“Mason, we are on the verge of another war, depending on the reaction to the nuke and subsequent response by the US. Neither Iran nor North Korea is going to just sweep the fact that our government killed their leaders under the rug.”
“The alarmists have been proven wrong, nor is there proof we did it.”
“Oh, we did it. Mason, this is not about saber-rattling theatrics; not this time. I am talking about a full-scale war. But something tells me you are the last person I need to convince.”
“I don’t know anything about that, nor am I political,” I said, annoyed by the implications. Did she think I was supposed to speak to her about confidential information so she could tell the world, breaking every ethical code the US had? This wasn’t a matter of corruption, at least not that I was aware.
“I’m sorry, Lisa, I have nothing more to say.”
“Mason?”
“If I answer your question and say something that isn’t perfectly clear, I will be crucified by something you write because either it misunderstands what I said and/or meant, or someone more powerful than either of us makes me out to be an idiot. If I tell you nothing, you accuse me of keeping secrets. So, people like me communicate tit-for-tat without daring to tell the truth, because it will either be misunderstood and/or career-ending. Now, telling people to tell the truth is a good concept, but few people actually live that way; even people like you asking the questions. Push your boss like you push the folks you interview and see how long you keep your job. Then ask yourself why you, Lisa Cummings, hold back.”
“A little sensitive, are we?”
“I’m trying to be an upright, honest, ethically moral person in a culture that speaks out of both sides of its mouth. I am doing my very best not to be someone like that. In fact, like Gandhi said . . .”
“Be the change you want to see in the world. I understand, Mason. You’re right,” she said. “If you feel like there is anything I need to know, please call me. How long have you known Capucine?”
“What?” I asked, disconnecting. I blinked my eyes hard, knowing the journey I was on was moving at Mach speed, with Capucine arriving Wednesday. How does she even know about her? was my last thought as I made my way back to the Hilton.
85
The Meeting is On
October 16
NASA
Cape Canaveral, Florida
Neither of us said much on the way up to the conference room at NASA after Capucine arrived from France. We didn’t even talk about the meeting, most likely because of the butterflies in my stomach. My feelings and mental stability were on a roller coaster I’d have preferred not to be on right then, between loving a girl who lived in France whom I rarely saw, Dhilan’s shooting, and the discovery of a DVD that implicated me in the nuclear explosion on our soil. The sightings of angels and demon
s further roiled my spinning mind, as did my questioning whether all these events were somehow tied together in an apocalyptic scenario that I’d dreamt about. As difficult as it was, I had to act as if none of this bothered me. Help me, Emmanuel!
“It’s an honor to meet you, General,” said Capucine, extending her hand to General Crane at NASA.
“The feeling is mutual, Ms. Foushé. It appears it will be the four of us until Mr. Tuss and Dr. Mescher arrive. I take it you have met Tom Emmrich,” said the general, indicating Emmrich, a.k.a. our android Jerome.
“Yes, Mason introduced us. Impressive: lead scientist on Robonaut, drove the Curiosity Rover on Mars,” she said, slipping a photograph to Crane.
“What’s this?” he asked, eyeing it.
“The person next to me in the photo is Dominika Vladimirovich. I went to school with her at MIT,” she said. Crane’s eyes narrowed as he studied the picture.
“The resemblance is remarkable, don’t you think?” she said as the two exchanged looks. “I haven’t had any contact with her since school, but I happened to see this picture, and it reminded me of some of the flaws that might exist in facial recognition, since some systems might conclude that we’re the same person.”
“That is true,” said Crane. “What possessed you to—”
“I lost track of her. In fact, it appears everyone did, as if she were a ghost,” she said, as Crane nodded.
“Anyone care to clue me in to what the heck you all are talking about?” I asked, and Crane appeared caught off guard.
“Oh, I taught at MIT in the UK about 10 summers ago,” he said. “I guess Ms. Foushé knew that.”
“Well, I knew the United States had various intelligence officials teaching while I was a student. Yes, I did some research and, well, thought it was quite the coincidence,” she said. “Don’t you?”
“Indeed, I do,” he said, still analyzing the image.
“I believe Dominika was from Slovakia,” she continued.
“Slovakia? Not Russia?” asked Crane curiously. Capucine nodded.
“Shall we get started?” I asked, still confused. But apparently Capucine and Crane were not. The four of us took our seats at the conference table.
“We brought you here not because of your work with Peugeot, but because you are a neurologist,” Crane told Capucine. “We need your help. In exchange, we will assist Peugeot with advancement in biobatteries.”
“As I said prior to my arrival, I am happy to attend, but I already received those upgrades to the biobattery at CEDRA,” said Capucine, looking at me curiously. “It was Mason’s . . .”
“Not exactly,” I interrupted as General Crane looked on. “I developed a more advanced version that was never provided to CEDRA. It will double the power at half the size.” Capucine’s eyes widened.
“Well, since there are no free bananas . . . ,” she said.
“I believe you mean lunches,” I said with a wry look.
“What?”
“There are no free . . . Never mind, go on,” I said as Capucine flashed a confused look.
“What do you want from me?” she asked. “Normally I would know this in advance, but this meeting has been a bit more secretive.”
“We want to discuss a brain implant communicating digitally with the outside world,” I said.
“We haven’t mapped the brain,” said Capucine, a bit uncomfortable. “Some say it is impossible. And yes, I know the Brain Research Initiative, or whatever it is called, got millions in US government funding to do that—but they haven’t yet. Well, except with a fruit fly.”
“I didn’t know a fruit fly had a brain,” Crane commented.
“Exactement,” she said. “Just because they have the money doesn’t mean they can do it.”
“That’s what they said about the human genome project,” I said.
“Recording the activity of the tens of billions of neurons is a little different,” said Capucine defensively.
“That’s why we invited Leon Tuss and Dr. Steve Mescher,” said the general. “They are also working in this area.”
“Dr. Mescher?”
“A scientist at MIT labs. He’s also a neuro—”
“A neurosurgeon. I know who he is,” said Capucine. “He’s coming to this meeting?”
“He was invited and said he’d be here, yes,” Crane said.
“Leon Tuss developed the first step of mapping the brain by detecting neurons’ electrochemical signaling,” said Emmrich. “He is currently using neural dust to map the brain.”
“Yes, I know Mr. Tuss’s work. Neural dust is too large to be injected into the brain, even at 100 micrometers in diameter,” said Capucine, showing her intelligence.
“But StimDust isn’t,” said Dr. Mescher, entering the room. “Sorry I’m late, gentlemen, and lady,” he said cordially, looking at Capucine. “StimDust is 6.5 cubic millimeters in volume . . . ,” he continued, jumping right in.
“About the size of a granule of sand,” said Capucine.
“. . . containing a miniature CMOS sensor that measures the electrical signals fired through the brain,” said Mescher as if their minds were synchronized.
“How is it powered?” asked Leon Tuss, who had just slipped into the back of the room.
“Hello, Mr. Tuss. My name is Capucine—”
“Foushé,” interrupted Tuss. “I have read your work,” he said, and Capucine stood as if in the presence of a celebrity.
“Please, sit down,” he said, shaking her hand. “Hello, General, Mason, and . . .”
“Tom Emmrich,” said Tom, standing to shake his hand as Crane nodded.
“And Dr. Mescher,” Tuss finished.
“Glad you could join us, Leon.”
“Please, continue. I am sure I can learn something.”
“It is powered wirelessly by ultrasound,” Dr. Mescher said, “which the device then uses to power nerve stimulation at an efficiency of 92 percent.”
“Excuse me for interrupting,” I said. “Mr. Tuss . . .”
“Leon, please.”
“Leon. We know Neural-Eclosion is ready to test cognitive stamina in humans,” I said.
“Superhuman cognition, right. Our only restraint is cost,” said Tuss with a slight smile.
“Except we’re talking about implanting electrodes inside the brain,” I replied, “using Neural Lace technology implants.”
“You’re talking about merging biological intelligence and machine intelligence?” asked Capucine, surprised.
“BCI,” Emmrich supplied. “Tiny electrodes placed in the brain for direct computing capabilities.”
“Neurotechnology. That is what we hope to revolutionize,” I popped in, putting the actual name on the technology we were discussing.
“Cyborgs?” asked Capucine with a quizzical look, finally using the word most were afraid to say, and looking directly at Leon Tuss.
I paused as Capucine watched the body language of Mescher and Tuss, who flashed a look between them.
“Yes,” said Tuss. “Most of you know I believe the only way for us to put the brakes on artificial intelligence is to integrate computer intelligence into the human mind.”
“And NASA is looking for partners to map the brain, attach neurons, and allow these advanced humans to communicate with each other and with technology, without speaking,” I said, and Tuss’s eyes widened. “We have already made an arrangement with MIT. Dr. Mescher is going to demonstrate the Telepathic Auditor that will be a primitive example—”
“Later this year,” said Tuss with an intense look. “Technology is moving at a faster rate than we can manage.”
“Dr. Mescher,” I said, as he pulled out his device.
86
TELEPATHIC AUDITOR
Dr. Mescher stood up to speak. “The Telepathic Auditor interfac
es with the human mind, allowing humans to converse with machines or artificial intelligence assistants without any voice.” He paused. “Just by articulating words internally. Let me show you,” he said, attaching the device around his head, neck, and jawline.
“If you’ll look at the monitor,” he directed. “Rather than use a device to make my selections, I am simply going to think what I want to do, and it will be done.” We all watched the cursor move to the choices he made, which were all relevant to our conversation. Then the screen began to type a message.
“As you can see, I do not have to speak to this device in order to write this message. In real time, it is receiving my thoughts and turning them out as characters on the screen,” he said.
“How many words does the device recognize?” asked Capucine as the typing began. “I’d heard it was only 1,000.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with 1,000 words, but we’re at 10,000 right now,” said Mescher.
“Impressive.”
“The device I’m wearing captures neural signals when internal speech articulators are volitionally and neurologically activated, during a user’s internal articulation of words.”
“In other words, it reads thoughts?” asked Crane. Mescher nodded.
“This enables a user to transmit and receive streams of information to and from a computing device or any other person without any observable action, discreetly, without unplugging the user from her environment or invading the user’s privacy.”
“Capucine? You’re the guest. Would you like to try it?” Emmrich asked cordially. Capucine seemed to be caught off guard.
“Capucine?” I asked.
“I’m sorry; sure, I’d love to,” she said, slightly apprehensive.
“Please put this on,” said Dr. Mescher as Capucine complied. Emmrich stood next to her.
“May I?” he asked, wanting to watch closely. Capucine began thinking and the cursor jumped about, not as smoothly as for Dr. Mescher, but it was working.
“Must be your French accent!” Mescher joked.