A Citadel of Dreams - Pittsburgh 2065
“The first ultraintelligent machine is the last invention that man need ever make, provided that the machine is docile enough to tell us how to keep it under control.”
–– I. J. Good, British Mathematician and Cryptologist, 1960
Part I
“The first aliens we meet won't be from another planet. They will be the ones we create ourselves.”
-- Morgan Adams, 2055
The body lay awkwardly on its stomach, legs at angles that legs don't normally find themselves when they're alive. The left arm was raised above his head, almost as though it was waving, except there was nothing but the hard, tile floor to wave at. The face had been shaved away with a laser. There was a trickle of blood, dark and red, running away from the left ear, which lay pressed to the cold, perfectly white floor. There had been little bleeding. The wounds had been cauterized almost instantly by the blast of the heat.
Whoever had done this had not surprised his victim. The prey had known the predator, and there had been no struggle. Perhaps there was even a conversation--some innocuous small talk, and then the flash of the weapon, and, for a split second, a realization of the betrayal.
It's odd to see a dead body; once so complex and alive, with its senses and organs and brain now silenced. One moment a citadel of dreams, a trillion-celled machine designed for living; built and orchestrated by uncounted years of evolution; and then the next, instantly and utterly dead.
When you thought about it, people could be so easily and permanently broken.
Chapter 2/ A Thousand Fingers
The room was sterile and a brilliant white. Too white. Morgan Adams squinted to make out the blurry nimbus of the monitors on the wall, and the mirrored reflection of the robot surgeon in them. The machine had been at work for more than two hours now, its thousands of titanium alloy feelers fluttering at high speed. Each tendril bent over his brain touching and sensing it like the antenna of a frantic insect. If the robot weren't a thing, you might call its pace feverish, but machines didn't get feverish. It was just that, to human eyes, there appeared to be an element of panic.
Morgan gazed back at the ceiling, his eyes wide now, locked in. Everything except his situation felt perfectly normal. It did not seem as though three-quarters of his brain cavity had been excavated, although he guessed that by this time the robot had delicately, one nanometer at a time, sliced it down to the nucleus accubens in the basal ganglia, the part of the brain that modulates addiction, motivation and pleasure.
Every robotic movement was delicate and precise despite its speed. On each pass the thousands of fingers carefully sensed all of the cells exposed on the top layer of his brain. The Quantum III computer nearby then recorded and transferred a digital representation–chemical and electrical–of what those cells were experiencing. Finally, in a voice as soothing and otherworldly as an angel's, it would ask if he would like to touch the button poised near his left hand to perform a reality check.
Reality check was almost too ludicrous a phrase under circumstances this unreal. Yet it was a literal request because when he touched the button, he was experiencing the information that the robot surgeon's delicate millipede fingers had already transformed into digital qbit signals and dumped to the Quantum. The purpose of the check was to make sure it matched what his brain was sensing before the surgeon deftly, and with perfect accuracy, removed that sliver of his brain.
Morgan tapped the button. He could hear the steady beeps of the EKG, the faint buzzing of the LED lamps. He could smell the high, antiseptic air in the room.
This was odd because the robot had long ago removed his visual and olfactory cortices. His auditory cortex was now gone as well. The surgeon was obviously doing a fabulous job transferring him--all of his senses and feelings, all of his memories and thoughts, all of the bubbling hormones, electrical signals, genetic and epigenetic data that somehow added up to him--into the computer. Even the signals from his metabolome and microbiome. Otherwise how could he even be thinking the thoughts that he was thinking?
He was being downloaded, first into the Quantum III, which would buffer him and hold a digital version of his "self" until the download was complete. Then into the cyborg that was lying in a gurney 10 feet to his left–a mechanical version of him draped with living human skin and fat and selected muscle (mostly cosmetic) over an exquisite machine consisting itself of billions of nanomachines. A thing that looked exactly like him. He would soon become the cyborg. Or it would soon become him.
Morgan Adams blinked, and answered the machine-surgeon's question. "Yes, Jules, it's fine." He had named the machine Jules after Jules Verne.
"Then I will now remove the next layer," said the surgeon. And in a blink another part of him was gone.
That was when the utter insanity of what was happening struck him. A talon of horror clutched his chest, and a sudden ripple of fear rolled itself into a massive wave of panic. He closed his eyes. He gulped air, and realized immediately that soon he would never again feel the sensation of air of any kind passing into his lungs. He would never feel his throat close and open when he swallowed, something so simple, something he did a thousand times a day, thoughtlessly. He was forfeiting his humanity. How could he do that?!
He tried to calm down.
"Your heart rate is increasing, Dr. Morgan." Said the robot, genuinely concerned. "Are you okay?"
He breathed again; eyes closed. The rate of the EKG dropped. He would be fine. No need to lose his mind now. He smiled. Bad joke. Yes, everything was fine. He was not dying. Not by a long shot. He was buying immortality. At last. He would never again have to fear death. The very essence of who he was would be digitally encoded into trillions upon trillions of quantum bits, and like an everlasting soul, it would become invulnerable, and it would be able to go wherever zeroes and ones went...which was everywhere. He relaxed.
Then, he saw a flash, as though lightning had gone off, except it had happened inside of his head, off in a corner. There was another, very brief. He shifted.
"Jules," he said to the robot surgeon. "Is there something the matter?"
Jules did not immediately respond. Then, "I'm checking, Dr. Morgan."
Suddenly there was another explosion in his head. This one felt like an incoming mortar shell. He forced his eyes shut. The darkness behind his lids filled with light and then color. There was a deep rumbling that seemed to emanate from the stem of his brain, moving up and down his body like his own private earthquake.
"Jules," he asked struggling to remain calm. "What is happening?"
"We have a problem, doctor."
The earthquake had now turned to spasms. He opened his eyes. His body jerked like a marionette, flopping beneath its table restraints.
"Jules!"
"I am trying to repair the problem, but can't find the source," said Jules. "I am calling for help."
Beyond the rumble in his head, Morgan could make out the beep of the EKG rising so rapidly he thought he would flat line. Emergency klaxons sounded. Loud and painful. He seemed to have risen out of his body and was now looking down on the scene. Two human doctors burst through the door and ran to the gurney. They tried to pin his jerking limbs. Morgan's body writhed. Jules backed away slowly on the four rubber tires at its base. Its thousand titanium arms rapidly retracted from the open brain case of the jerking man below, then blended into a single, seamless stem of silvery metal.
"I am losing him," Jules said remorsefully, and then the glistening metal arm slipped slowly inside its robot body like a sword into its sheath.
"Jesus!" screamed the jerking body.
One of the human doctors plucked a syringe out of his pocket. It was long and sharp, at least a foot long.
Adams opened his eyes, wide with panic. He could see the two doctors standing above him. They wore thin surgical masks. He saw the syringe. Why a syringe? Syringes hadn't been used for decades.
"H-help ... me!" He groaned, the words labored and guttural.
And then one of his flailing arms freed itself and involuntarily tore the mask from the doctor's face. And there behind the mask was his own face! He gasped and turned to the other doctor who slowly removed his mask revealing still another identical face. The two clones stared at him, smiling.
"Please!" Morgan cried through his spasms. "Help! Me!"
"We are trying," said the two versions of himself in perfect unison. "But you must cooperate."
They approached him with the syringes. His body writhed like a pinned insect against the table. He opened his mouth wide to scream, but when he did there was nothing but silence.
Chapter 3/Awakenings
Morgan lunged up, gulping air. He grabbed his head. It was still there. Thank, God! But it was difficult to believe. He surveyed the room. He was home. He lay in the broad bed, the down comforter rumpled at his feet.
Behind him the sun had not yet risen, but purple and rose fingers of light reached into a sheet of thin cirrus clouds. They were the color of bruises, but looked beautiful.
He glanced at the holograph that sat suspended to his left. 6:03 am. He closed his eyes hard and filled his lungs again, getting it into his head that it had all been a nightmare.
LOIS sat at the end of the bed; her thick, dark hair pulled back away from her face in a French braid. She looked at him and smiled. "Bad dream?"
He exhaled through his nose. "Bad."
LOIS nodded. "Amazing what the subconscious mind can conjure," she said. "Especially after working around the clock for three days straight."
Morgan walked into the bathroom and relieved himself. He looked into the mirror and threw water on his face. "You do the necessary things," he said.
"And all of it manufactured by those tiny, little neurons hijacking your mind," LOIS called out.
Morgan ran his sonic toothbrush over his teeth and stepped into the shower doorway. Except for the toothbrush, he was buck-naked. He grimaced foamily. "I hate it when I can't control those little neurons."
LOIS arched an eyebrow. "You hate it when you can't control anything."
"Can't hear you!" He said over the shower. "Must clean. What's on for today?"
Morgan lathered his body. Water pulsed from multiple locations at precisely 102 degrees, just the way he liked it. LOIS rose and followed him into the bathroom as he soaped himself. She was thinking.
After a moment she said, "Got most of the day blocked out so you can follow up with yesterday's big download. I tried to get the whole day cleared so you could be alone, but Huxley insists on talking with you about the project. He wants to be brought fully up to speed."
"Well, he is the Chairman."
"1:30 pm."
"Do whatever you can to move it to 5:00," Morgan said through the steam. "I want every contiguous hour I can get. Ever since he's gotten rich, he's forgotten what doing real research is about."
"Made you rich too."
"Or maybe it’s the other way around?" said Morgan.
He stepped from the shower, dried himself and wrapped the towel around his slender waist. He gazed into the mirror. Considering he hadn't slept for nearly 80 hours before last night, he thought he looked remarkably well rested.
"The cyborg team wanted to meet today too, but I pushed them to tomorrow. Wasn't easy. Hawthorne's ENT can be so ... "
"Stubborn?"
"Pushy, obnoxious, disgusting...."
"It's just the way Maureen had her programmed,” said Morgan. “ENTs tend to reflect the personalities of the people they work for.” He glanced again into the mirror, and noticed the dark gray of LOIS’s digital eyes.
"Is that why I am so controlling?"
"No. It's why you are so witty and charming." Said Morgan.
LOIS sat down in a chair by a polished cherry wood desk. She crossed her long, perfect legs, and turned to Morgan. "Well, anyhow they want to go over the project specs again for the tests they've performed on artificial muscle and the new skin we're trying out. Though they know this isn't your area, they want your input...being the genius that you are."
"Hmmm." Morgan said, looking in the mirror as he twisted and rubbed his neck.
"What?" Asked LOIS.
"Strange. I always had a scar across the nape of my neck. You know, right here." He turned and showed her the spot.
"Uh-huh," said LOIS, seemingly occupied by something else.
"It's gone...how could that be?"
"Hold on, I'm getting a call," said LOIS. "It's urgent."
Morgan turned from the mirror and sighed, knowing something was up. "Who?"
"Deirdre ..." then she looked up surprised, "and Huxley."
"Well, hell...,” said Morgan walking into the bedroom.
LOIS held up her hand. "I'm telling them you're in the shower. I'm taking a message."
"Thank you."
Morgan's clothes--dark pants, tan sweater, Shapeshifter shoes--were laid out. He decided against the tan sweater and tossed it at LOIS. She ignored it and the sweater passed right through her and landed on the chair she sat on. That always surprised Morgan because in certain light, and where her bandwidth was strong, LOIS looked so...real. The holographics for high-end ENTs really were getting good, he thought. They still didn't appear quite right in bright light, mostly because, Morgan suspected, they didn't throw a shadow, but otherwise, not bad.
Morgan walked to the closet and pulled a navy-blue V-necked sweater out and yanked it over his head.
LOIS shifted in the chair, listening. "They're very agitated. I can sense it in their voices. Plus they almost never call personally."
She paused and straightened her back, as if stretching. "They want to talk." She looked up at him, her faintly transparent eyes sharp. "And now."
"Shit." Morgan stood in the middle of the room and ran his hands through his wet hair. "I mean what could possibly be this important?"
LOIS shrugged and screwed up her mouth. It was a nice touch. Of all of the little human gestures and quirks he had programmed into her, that was Morgan's favorite. That and her laugh. Damn, he was good.
"Well, you'd better go," he said. "Maybe you can get a head start on the download log. Make sure it's squeaky clean. Hopefully this meeting won't take long. Now off!"
"Roger that!" LOIS said, as she saluted. Then she collapsed into a button-sized, iridescent blue dot and, with a pop, disappeared.
Morgan smiled. "Smart ass," he said to himself.
And then he walked out the door.
#
LOIS was the first of the Live Optimized Information Systems (LOIS) that Morgan had created; digital creatures holographically projected in high fidelity into the real world where the bandwidth allowed. LOIS was the original prototype, and since she was the first of her kind, Morgan had let her carry the name of the whole line of agENTies that had followed. Maybe it was just sENTiment, but he felt she was still the best of her kind.
Adams began developing ENTs while he was completing his doctorate at Carnegie Mellon University (CMU). Later he developed the initial working versions in the early days of Symbiosys, Inc. Symbiosys was co-founded by Daedalus Huxley, a CMU robotics and artificial intelligence visionary who eventually built the company into the richest and most profitable in the world. Adams and Deirdre Porsche, the company’s chief financial officer were the other founders.
Unlike Symbiosys's first, highly successful robots, Morgan Adam's ENTs were not robots, only software; holographic projections. Huxley agreed to test and deploy them free of charge to gauge users reactions.
The very earliest versions of ENTs were not holographic, just bits of code deployed within the GRID -- a rebooted, post-plague upgrade of the old Internet. At first, they were little more than digital drones built to graze for information, shop, translate e-mail and documents on the fly. People loved them. In a world where the Internet had completely collapsed, early ENTs quickly saved people immense amounts of time, and returned some of the old digital amenities they had remembered before the epidemic.
Later, Adams added two important touches. First, even the simplest ENTs were imbued with personality, attitude, a sense of humor.
"Anyone can churn out useful code," Huxley liked to say. "What I want is style, differentiation, humanity." Adams excelled at that.
Second, Adams engineered the ENTs to learn on their own, and tailor their interactions based on the quirks and interests of their owners from their buying habits, to the celebrities or friends they admired to their own senses of humor. As a result, the emails, texts and voice mails became increasingly witty and useful.
Adams next innovation was to upgrade his GRID-migrating ENTs into avatars that showed up on computers and digital pads and phones, and, where the bandwidth would allow, as small holograms, looking and acting increasingly human. They became, in the jargon of the time, more D'd, or designed: not just smarter but more emotionally adept and easy to use.
It soon seemed that everyone had some version of an ENT; a personal butler -- even personal confidants -- watching over them, though they had neither flesh nor bone, and not a single carbon-based cell among them.
Despite these advances, full-bodied, holographic ENTs like LOIS were still relatively rare. At first, only a few thousand existed. Their software was very sophisticated so they were expensive -- -1 million credits for each initial purchase. Mostly they were used by the wealthy, or large companies, government agencies and politicians. Now, in 2058, ENTs numbered two million, and, as their costs dropped, growing fast.
It could be sometimes be difficult to know the difference between a holographic ENT and a human, until you looked closely. They moved with uncanny human grace and behavior. Yet, they had no body mass. In this way they were ghostly.
There were other ways you could know the difference between an ENT and a human. For one thing, like LOIS, all ENTs were referred to with CAPITAL letters. As an additional identifier, the eyes of all ENTs were a dark gray. If you looked very closely, each iris had a fifteen-digit, unique, white identifying number so small it could be repeated thousands of times. As a result, to the human eye, all ENT irises appeared to be a deep and steely gray.
ENTs had made Symbiosys wildly profitable. But the company didn’t dare stand on its laurels. Market pressures required that the company make another punctuated technological leap. That was when, two years earlier, Adams, after careful consultations with Huxley and Porsche, secretly launched the company’s most daring project yet; an undertaking he was sure would change everything. He called it Doppelgänger. And at last they were closing in on completion.
