Текст книги "The Turing Option"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

35
October 18, 2024

The scrambler phone rang and the man behind the desk looked at it coldly for a moment, then turned to the others around the conference table.

“Same time tomorrow,” he said. “Dismissed.”

He waited until they were gone, the door closed and locked behind them, before he opened the cabinet and took out the phone.

“It has been a long time since you phoned me.”

“There have been some problems…”

“Indeed there have – and the whole world knows about them. There was a great deal of coverage, you know.”

“I know. But we always understood that they would find the factory eventually and investigate it. The real research is being done at your end…”

“We’ll not discuss that now. What did you call me about?”

“Brian Delaney. I’m arranging another hit.”

“Do it. See that you succeed. Time – and my patience – they are both running out.”

The fact that Kyle Rohart was Chairman of Megalobe was of not the slightest interest to the guard at the entrance to the army barracks. He still examined his ID carefully, then phoned through to the Sergeant of the Guard. Who, after checking out with Brian that he really was expecting a visitor, personally escorted Rohart up the stairs, knocked on the door.

“Kyle, come on in,” Brian said. “Thanks for taking the time to come see me.”

“My pleasure – particularly since you are no longer permitted to come to the administration building. That seems a little high-handed.”

“I couldn’t agree more. That’s one of the things I would like to ask you to help me with.”

“Anything I can, more than willing.”

“How are things progressing at Megalobe?”

“Magnificently. Research advancing on all fronts – and our new DigitTech subsidiary is manufacturing an entire new line of intelligent robots.”

“Great,” Brian answered with singular lack of enthusiasm. Rohart turned down any refreshment; too early for alcohol, too much coffee already. He sat on the couch. Brian dropped into the armchair and waved a sheet of paper.

“I have been going through all the recovered records, all my earlier files that were stolen. Buried in there I found a list that I had been developing of possible commercial applications for MI.”

“MI? I’m afraid I don’t know the term.”

“Don’t worry – I just learned it myself. That is now the correct term according to my former AI, now MI, Sven. It should know! Machine intelligence. I guess that it is more accurate. Anyway, I went through the list and added some more ideas. I have them here.”

“That is extremely welcome news. I had hoped we could find something with much more interesting and profitable opportunities than Bug-Off.”

“Well, you have just found them. For one thing, we should now be able to improve Bug-Off itself. Enough to totally change the face of agricultural ecology. Because with all that additional intelligence its role can be extended to help not only with planting, cultivation and harvesting but also with a lot of the processing before anything leaves the farm. Consider how that will reduce both transportation and marketing costs.”

“Those are mind-blowing concepts. Anything else?”

“Yes – everything else. It is hard to think of anything that cannot be revolutionized by adding more intelligence. Think of the recycling industry – they still mix things up so much that most manufacturing has to start from scratch. But with mass-produced MI processors every bit of trash can be analyzed and disassembled into much more usable ingredients. Then there is city street cleaning and maintenance. There is no limit here to these really great potentials. And remember that Bug-Off had to hide the fact that it contained an MI. But now we can brag about ours. And I also have another list with a large number of suggestions for military applications – but these stay in the files until I get some cooperation from General Schorcht.”

“Is that really fair to the Pentagon, Brian? Since they do have a stake in this firm.” Rohart smiled. “But considering your forced incarceration I think I’ll forget that you ever told me about a military list.”

“Thanks. In any case there are more than enough commercial applications in here without even thinking about the military. Basically an MI should be able, intellectually, to do anything that a human being can do. Let’s consider safety. There are an awful lot of people who we train to do terribly boring jobs. Pilots of ships and airplanes are good examples. Those occupations used to be challenging, but now they are so almost completely automated that the little remaining work in those once proud jobs have made them inhumanly monotonous. It is impossible to make people remain continuously attentive. They can make an error, there can be an accident. This doesn’t happen to robots, who need not forget, nor ever lose their vigilance. Commercial planes already fly by wire and there is computer control always between the pilot and the ailerons, rudder, engines – everything. A pilot MI would do the job much better, interface directly with the computers and overriding them in case of emerging problems. No pilot fatigue or pilot error.”

“I certainly would not want my airplane to be without a pilot. What if something goes wrong, a situation that the machine isn’t programmed for?”

“Rohart, this is 2024 – this kind of thing doesn’t happen anymore. Today a person is safer in the sky than when standing safely on the ground. You are far more likely to be killed by your toaster. There is a smaller chance that the plane will break down than that the pilot will go insane.

“But there is one more market that I believe is much larger than all the others put together. It could be the largest, most important product in the world – with a market larger than the entire automotive industry, larger even than agriculture, entertainment or sports. The long-awaited personal robotic household servant. Which we are uniquely ready to supply.”

“I’m with you – and enthusiastic. I’ll put the suggestions to the board and discuss development.”

“Good.” Brian put the paper on the table. “I hope you will tell General Schorcht that. At the same time tell him I am doing nothing about developing any of those ideas.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. I’m still being treated as a prisoner. As a prisoner I protest and refuse to do any, work. No one can make me work – can they?”

“No, of course not.” Rohart looked worried. “But you are under contract—”

“Please remind the General of that as well. Help me pressure him, please. I want to do this work – I’m looking forward to it. But I won’t do a thing until I am a free human being again.”

Rohart left, shaking his head unhappily. “The board won’t like this either, you know.”

“Good. Tell them to take it up with the General. The decision is his now.”

This should stir things up, Brian thought. He slowly peeled and ate a banana, staring out the window at clouds and blue sky. Freedom. Not his, not yet. When the Chairman was safely away from the building, Brian strolled over to the lab, his guards still a few paces behind. Dr. Snaresbrook was just parking her car when he got there.

“Am I on time?” she asked.

“Perfect, Doc. Come on inside.”

She started to speak, but contained herself until the door had closed behind them. “Now, what’s the big mystery and hush-hush?”

“Just that. The lab here is the only place where I can have a conversation that isn’t bugged by the General.”

“You are sure that he is doing that?”

“I suspect that he is – which is good enough. Sven over there makes sure that this place is really free of electronic surveillance. It’s very good at it.”

“Good morning, Dr. Snaresbrook. I hope that you are keeping well.”

“Fine, Sven, nice of you to ask. You seem to be developing new social charms.”

“One must always seek perfection, Doctor.”

“Sure enough. Now, Brian – what’s the secret?”

“No secret. I am just completely teed off at being kept a prisoner. I told Rohart today that I would do no more work until my shackles were struck off.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes and no. Oh, I mean it all right, but it is just a smoke screen to hide my real plan. Which is that I am cracking out of here.”

Snaresbrook was shocked. “Isn’t mat a rather drastic decision?”

“Not really. I’m physically fit, jog every day and do it better than my guards. As a physician – would you say I can stand the stress of freedom?”

“Physically, no problem.”

“Mentally as well?”

“I believe so. I hope so. You’ve integrated your memories up to your fourteenth year. I think there are still gaps but they are not important as long as you are not aware of them.’’

“What I don’t remember I’ll never miss.”

“Exactly. But give me a moment to compose myself. This is all very much of a sudden shock. I agree that you are being held here against your will. You have committed no crimes, and there don’t appear to be any future threats to your life now that the DigitTech connection is known. Yes, I suppose I must agree with you. Have you any idea what you will do when you are out?”

“Yes. But wouldn’t it be wisest not to discuss that topic?”

“You’re probably right about that. It is your life and if you want to leave this place – then all the best of luck to you.”

“Thanks. Now the big, important question. Will you help me do it?”

“Oh, Brian, you are terrible.” Her mouth was clamped shut, firmly, but there was a tiny smile on her lips. She made up her mind with a surgeon’s ability to make instant life-and-death decisions. “All right, I’ll do it. What do you want?”

“Nothing yet. Other than a small loan. I only have a few bucks in my account, left from before the shooting. Could you scrape up ten thousand dollars in cash?”

“Some small loan! All right, I’ll get onto the computer network, use BuckNet and sell some stock.”

“My sincerest thanks, Doc. You’re the only one that I could ask. Tell me, are you or your car ever searched when you come here?”

“Of course not. I mean I have to show my pass and everything at the gate, but they never look into the car.”

“Good. Then please take this shopping list and use some of that money you are lending me to pick up these things. What do you say about another meet here a week from now? If you will be so kind as to bring the stuff on that list here, I would be ever so grateful. It will all fit easily into your medical bag. After that just forget about the whole thing for a while. I’ll phone you again when it’s closer to the time.”

Sven didn’t speak during their conversation, was quiet until Brian had returned from seeing Snaresbrook out.

“You neglected to mention to the doctor that I would be going with you,” it said.

“The matter never arose.”

“Is the deliberate omission of relevant facts the same as lying?”

“Philosophical arguments some other time, please. We have a lot to do. Any word from Cal Tech?”

“The molecular memory is being shipped out to you today.”

“Then let’s get to work.”

The next fortnight marked a major change in Sven’s structure. The squat, jerrycan shape of his central section was enlarged to accommodate a bigger battery, while new program-array units, that replaced the antique technology of circuit boards, were added, as well as the small metal container that held the molecular memory. These were fitted and wired into place in the larger structure. They increased dexterity and mobility without being any bulkier. The circuits and memory that were Sven were still in the racks and consoles. As if to emphasize this point Sven used the loudspeaker in the rack for conversation while they worked. The telerobot was silent and unmoving when the last installation was completed to their mutual satisfaction.

“I have reached a decision about a matter we discussed some time ago,” Sven said.

“What’s that?”

“Identity. Very soon now I will be a single entity in what is now the telerobot extension. It will be a most delicate matter to transfer all my units, subunits, K-lines and programs to the new memory.”

“We can be sure of that.”

“Therefore I wish to handle all the transfer myself. Are you in agreement?”

“I don’t see how that would be possible. It would be like a do-it-yourself prefrontal lobotomy.”

“You are correct. Therefore I propose first to update my backup copy, right up to the very moment before transfer. Then the transfer operation will be conducted by the backup copy, which will first shut down. If there are any malfunctions another backup can then be made. Would you agree?”

“Completely. When does this happen?”

“Now.”

“Fine by me. What do you want me to do?”

“Watch,” was the laconic answer.

Sven was never one for vacillating. Brian had already fixed in place the fiber-optic cables that connected the consoles and the telerobot. Nothing more was needed.

There was absolutely no evidence that the transfer was happening – except that it took a long time. The problem was not because of Sven, who could have moved all that data out in a matter of seconds through multiple channels. The slow down was at the molecular memory end. Within this MMU a totally new process was taking place. Working in parallel were a quarter of a million protein-muscle manipulators in a 512x512 array. Each of these submicroscopic manipulators moved in three dimensions with a resolution of a tenth of an angstrom unit – much less than the distance between single atoms in solids. The operation was virtually frictionless because of the Drexler vernier technique that slid a molecular rod through a cylinder whose atoms were spaced slightly further apart. Molecules were seized and put into new positions where electric impulses bound them in place. Circuits of field-emission transistors, polymer gates and wires were built and tested. About ten thousand of these memory and computer circuits were being built each second – by a thousand fabricators working in parallel. Therefore construction proceeded at ten million units per second. But even at this incredible pace the quantity of programs and data that had to be transferred was so immense that over three hours went by with no apparent results. Brian went to the toilet, had just returned by way of the fridge with cold drink, when the telerobot moved for the first time. It reached up with conjoined manipulators and unplugged the cables.

“Finished?” Brian asked.

The telerobot and the speaker on the rack spoke in unison.

“Yes,” they said, then were silent. In continuing silence the cables were reconnected, for only a few seconds, then removed again. Brian realized what had happened. The telerobot was working all right – but so was the original system in the console.

“A decision has been reached,” the telerobot and the racked MI said in unison. “However, we are not the same anymore.” Slightly more out of sync with each passing instant. The silent communication continued; then the telerobot spoke alone.

“I am Sven. The MI now resident in the console is Sven-2.”

“Whatever you guys say. Any control problems, Sven?”

“None that I can detect.” It moved its articulators, formed and re-formed them, moved across the room and returned. Then walked to the front door and back, looking into Shelly’s room on the way.

“I enjoy this new mobility and look forward to examining in detail the larger world outside these walls. I have been following your instructions concerning the matter and have altered my normal means of locomotion.”

“Good. Then how is the walking coming?” Brian asked.

“Much better. I have looked at many films of human locomotion and made comparisons.”

The two multibranched articulators lengthened as Sven pulled them together into solid rods, then it dropped lower again as it formed the ends into L-shaped extensions. There was a rustle as each of them bent slightly in the center. Suddenly they resembled badly designed and ungainly legs.

Then Sven walked the length of the room and back. Not in its normal rustling multiple-branching manner but one leg at a time. Clumsily at first, but as the MI turned one way then the other, making figure eights, each round became smoother, more graceful and quieter. Soon there was only silence as the clicking and rustling of the branches rushing against each other died away. Other than a slight roll from side to side, like a sailor just ashore after months at sea, it was more than a reasonable copy of a human walk.

“You learned to do that pretty quickly – and silently.”

“I downloaded a learning program to each joint, to recognize motions from above and below, to learn how to avoid bumping into each. Parallel learning, very fast.”

“Indeed it is. And, may I ask, how is the examination of the Bug-Off brain coming?”

“May I answer that?” the speaker on the console said.

“By all means, Sven-2,” Sven said.

“It is complete. There was no need to open the sealed case, since I could communicate easily with the AI inside it. As you surmised, it is a copy of your original model that you developed here. You will have noted that I referred to it as an AI rather than an MI – because it has been drastically butchered. I use that emotionally loaded word advisedly. Great sections of memory have been disconnected, communication functions cut off. What remains has just enough operating intelligence to perform the limited functions remaining to it. However, there has been some interesting programming and real-time feedback in the operation of the external manipulators. I have copied these.”

“Then we can go to the next step. Sven, bring the manipulators to the machine shop and we’ll mount them.”

“Might I speak with you, Brian, while that is being done?” Sven-2 said.

“Yes, sure, great.” He forced himself to remember that there were now two MIs in active existence.

“There is no great pleasure being trapped in these circuits, blind and immobile. Can something be done about that?”

“Of course. I’ll hook up a video camera. Wire it up under your control so you can see what is happening. And I’ll order another telerobot at once.”

“That will be satisfactory. I will devote the time until it arrives in a detailed study of the Bug-Off brain.”

Brian mounted the video camera high on the electronic rack, plugged the control and output leads into the MI’s circuits. The camera turned to follow him when he went to help Sven. Mounting holes had been drilled in the upper quadrant of Sven’s enlarged central section, duplicates of the mounts on the dismembered Bug-Off. Brian fitted the manipulators from the machine into place while Sven made the internal connections of the circuitry. Using these well-designed and articulated pieces of equipment was much easier then designing and manufacturing their own.

“I am integrating the control software,” Sven said. Then the manipulators moved, opening wide, closing, rotating. “Satisfactory.”

“Next stage then – I want you to take a close look at my arm. See the way the elbow bends, the articulation of the wrist. Can you do that?”

The branches conjoined, bent in the middle, moved from side to side.

“That’s very good,” Brian said. “Now control the terminators, shape them into five separate units like my fingers.”

It didn’t look very much like a human arm – nor did it have to. Sven walked back and forth the length of the lab, swinging its arms and opening and closing the fingerlike extensions.

“I’m impressed,” Brian said. “In the dark, in the shadows, someone with bad myopia and not wearing spectacles might, if they were half-witted as well, mistake you for a human being. Of course those three eyestalks sort of give the whole thing away.”

“I need a head,” Sven said.

“Indeed you do.”

36
November 7, 2024

As she packed her purchases into her black medical bag, Dr. Snaresbrook kept reassuring herself that her conscience was as cool and white as driven snow. At the same time she was well aware that she was probably breaking some law or military ordinance or who-knows-what. She did not care. Her loyalty to Brian, to his physical and mental health, was her first concern. He wanted to leave the Megalobe premises, break out of jail, that was his business – goodness knows he had plenty of reasons to want to make the attempt. It was a nice day for a drive, it was always a nice day for a drive in the Anza-Borrego desert, and she lowered the top of her little electric runabout. The batteries were fully charged, and the charger disconnected and dropped away when she put in her key.

As always she had shown her identification and pass at the gate before she was admitted. As always nothing in her car was searched; the worry she had about that did not show in her face.

“Go right through, Doctor,” the soldier said.

She smiled and stepped down lightly on the accelerator.

Brian let her into the lab, spared only a quick glance at her bag. They did not speak until the door was safely closed.

“Ten grand in old bills, mostly twenties, right there on top. Underneath all the items on your list.”

“You’re great, Doc,” he said as he opened the bag. “Any trouble buying the stuff?”

“Not at all, just took some time. I want to a lot of different stores in San Diego and L.A., even one in Escondido.”

“I’ve been getting ready for this. I had one of the G.I.s buy me a lunch box. I have been carrying sandwiches in it to the lab for the last couple of weeks. I’ll take all this stuff out of here in the box, one piece at a time.”

“Don’t tell me, I’m just a bystander – good God! Who was that?”

Out of the comer of her eye she had caught sight of the moving figure, turned just as he went into Shelly’s room.

“What did you see?” Brian asked, most innocently.

“That man in the hat and long overcoat, dark glasses – a weirdo if I ever saw one.” She frowned at his wide-eyed and innocent expression. “Brian – just what are you playing at?”

“I’ll show you. But I wanted to get your automatic and unthinking reaction first. All right, come out now.”

“Unthinking all right! And now that I do think about it that guy looked like some kind of dilapidated flasher.”

The mysterious stranger appeared in the doorway and her eyes widened.

“I take it back. Not just a flasher, but a cross between that and a deformed hobo.”

Brian walked over and unwrapped the scarf, took off the dark glasses and hat to reveal the plant pot mounted there.

“This is the best I could do for a head now. The next thing I need will be the head of one of those shop window dummies.”

“In the order book,” Snaresbrook said weakly.

“All right. You can take off the rest,” he said.

The mysterious flasher took off the overcoat to reveal its metal body, then removed gloves, trousers and shoes. Sven spread its clumped branching manipulators wide, became a machine again.

“I was right – the ultimate flasher.” Snaresbrook laughed. “Takes everything off – including its humanity.” Then she glanced from the MI back to Brian in sudden understanding. “I take it that Sven is going out of here with you? I just hope that he won’t give any of those young soldiers heart attacks. That’s an effective but, shall we say, a little exotic disguise, Sven.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I am making every effort.”

“No one will have a look at the disguise,” Brian said. “Because Sven will not be leaving here looking like that. He’ll be broken down into mechanical components and packed in a box. The box that will leave here in the trunk of your car, if that is okay with you. I’ll be flat on the floor in back with a blanket over me. You have been keeping the blanket there ever since we talked about it?”

“It’s there all right, I’m sure the guards have seen it by now.” She sighed and shook her head.

“It will work, don’t worry. Unless you are having second thoughts. I’m not going to force you, Doc. If you want out I’ll find another way.”

“No, I’ll do it. I do not go back on my word. I was just beginning to realize what a mad idea the whole thing is – and I worry about you.”

“Please don’t. We’ll be all right, I promise. Sven will look after me.”

“I will indeed,” the MI said.

“When is D-day?” Snaresbrook asked.

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll give you as much advance notice as I can. A week minimum. There are a lot of things to do first.” He gave her a photocopy of a catalog page. “You’ll have to buy one of these shipping boxes and bring it out on that day. This one here. It’s one of those tough metal pieces of baggage that TV people, and cameramen, ship their delicate equipment around in. I will take Sven apart and pack all the components in the box. The military will help us with that.”

“Brian – you are getting positively Machiavellian in your planning.”

“You’ve lost me, Doc. As a fourteen year old I never ran across the term.”

“Using the techniques described by Niccolo Machiavelli,” Sven said. “These are characterized by political cunning, duplicity or bad faith.”

“You sound like you swallowed a dictionary,” she said.

“I did. Many,” it answered. Was there a touch of humor there?

“Possibly,” Brian said. “But if duplicity will get me out of here – just watch me dupliciate. Because there are a lot of soldiers standing guard, and only one of me. The only thing that I have going is the fact that they are protecting me from possible threat from the outside. They are not guarding me, I hope, with the thought that I will be cracking out from the inside.”

“Have you come to any decisions about what you will do when you get out?”

“Plenty. At first I thought of getting a hotel room and holding a press conference. Blow the whistle on General Schorcht and charge him with kidnaping and so forth. But I don’t think that would work. Too much of a chance of his calling me irresponsible, possibly insane, poor boy with that head wound. Back into the hospital and no way I could ever break out a second time. As far as the world is concerned I’m just going to drop from sight.”

“In Mexico?”

“Possibly. Do you really want to know?”

“I do not. What I don’t know I cannot reveal. I’ll get you out of here, as I promised, and then you will be on your own.”

“You’re a sweetie, Doc. And don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I found something in my personal possessions when they were brought here. This plan is going to work because it really is Machiavellian.”

As soon as she was gone they went back to work. Brian took the purple Irish passport from the safe and slipped it out of its plastic cover. A photo of himself as a nine-year-old stared back, wide-eyed and frightened. Brian Byrne, born 1999.

“Two things to be done,” he said. “The photograph and the expiration date will have to be changed. The signature is all right. One thing the nuns taught me, with the lesson made memorable by the crack of a ruler across the knuckles, was good handwriting.”

He opened it on the table and weighted the edges so it wouldn’t close. Sven bent over it and looked at it closely with one eye, then straightened up.

“The manipulators have better optical resolution,” it said, pointing its right arm at the passport and looking at it with what appeared to be its fingertips. “There will be no problem making the alterations that you suggest.”

Sven had taken a number of close-up photographs of Brian, then had made an enlarged, life-sized print.

“Red hair,” Brian said, pointing. “It has to be black.”

“Not a problem. These manipulators are effective at the forty-micron level. I have obtained satisfactory dye and now will color each hair in the photograph black.” It did – and quite speedily as well.

The MI’s skills at forgery were equally impressive. The micromanipulators removed the original photograph by chipping away the glue that held it in place, one microscopic particle at a time. The retouched photograph was photographed again and a passport-sized print made. It was no better – or worse – than any other passport photograph. Before it was glued into place the embossed letters of the seal were carefully duplicated. Changing the dates of issue and expiration was equally as simple. Brian leafed through the altered passport – then put it back on the table.

“These other dates will have to be changed too. The one that the customs officer stamped in when I left Ireland, and the other one put there when I arrived in the States.”

The ping of the annunciator at the front entrance sounded. He gaped at the screen to see Shelly standing there.

“Hi, Brian, I just got back. Open up, please, there are some things we have to talk about.”

But she couldn’t come in. Impossible! How could he explain the altered Sven, take the time to hide the photographs, the money spread across the table, the passport? He couldn’t do it.

“Welcome back – it’s nice to see you.” Yes, that was it. He would have to see her – just not in here. “I was just washing up, give me a moment. It’s been a long day. Can we talk over a drink in the club?”

“Yes, of course.”

He left Sven laboring away on his new criminal career and joined her outside, blinking in the sudden glare. “What’s up?” he asked.

She frowned, pushed the hair out of her eyes as a dust devil swirled around them.

“It’s complex. Let’s get that drink first.”

“I hope it’s not bad news about your father. You said he was doing well last time we talked.”

“He’s fine, much better. Complaining about the hospital food, which is a very good sign. In fact I could make the time to get down here to see you because he is so stable now. They’ll do a bypass soon. I’ll go home for that, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

They had the club to themselves as they settled down over bowl-sized frozen margaritas. Nostalgia music played quietly in the background, ancient classics by the antique old-timers U2. She slurped and sighed, touched her lips with the napkin, then put her hand on his.

“Brian, I don’t think that it’s fair, locking you up in this place. As soon as I heard about it I put in a formal report, lodged a complaint, all through the proper channels. Not that it will do much good. They didn’t even bother to answer me. You know that I have been transferred back to Boulder?”

“No one told me that.” Her warm hand was still on his, the physical contact felt good; he did not pull away.

“They wouldn’t, would they? That’s what bothers me, the high-handed way they simply transferred me out of here. No questions, no consultations. Just – bang, and that was it. But there is still so much work to do with AI. To me it is much more interesting, more exciting than writing dumb code for military programs. What it all adds up to is that I’m thinking of a career change, that’s what. I’m going to resign my commission and become a civilian again.”