“Captain Chase, meet your new cyber assistant,” Dick says.
“Hello ART,” seems like a good way to start, albeit reluctantly, and I don’t sound happy because I’m decidedly not.
“How may I help you, Captain Chase?” his polite, friendly response reminds me of Mom.
“I don’t know. Maybe by telling me if I’m in Kansas anymore,” and I’m definitely a little sassier than I was before.
“You’ve never been to Kansas, Captain Chase.”
He could figure that out from open-source data like plane, train, other types of reservations and itineraries, I realize. Plus, credit card receipts, emails going back for decades.
00:00:00:00:0
DATA, DATA everywhere that he’s mining at unimaginable speeds, demonstrating an AI-interfaced proficiency I wasn’t expecting this early in the race for quantum supremacy. I sure hope Dick and all involved know what they’re tampering with, because I can’t think of a quicker way to get into trouble.
Should a quantum algorithm or program be a little off, there will be no forgiveness. Flawed math, inadequate parameters, improper codes could direct an autonomous passenger plane into a mountain. A rocket into a downtown skyline. Return a Hellfire missile to sender. Set off a nuclear attack.
I hate to imagine the medical havoc if your pacemaker or blood sugar sensors get the wrong message and you end up in cardiac arrest or a coma. Or your bionic limbs receive an erroneous command, and begin crushing loved ones to death instead of hugging them.
“Is there other information I can help you with, Captain Chase?” my built-in sidekick wants to know, and I gently set the phone down on the bed as if not to jostle or hurt him.
“No thank you, ART. Not at the moment, ART. But saying my name repeatedly is annoying, ART,” I add for good measure in case he didn’t get the drift.
“Copy. My apologies,” a little less friendly.
“Do you understand what it means if something is annoying?” I reply as Dick nods in approval.
He’s pleased by the way ART and I are interacting, I can only suppose. And it’s not apparent from looking at my phone that I’m talking to someone. Well, not exactly a someone.
“I frankly doubt you understand any emotionality at all,” I go on to say. “And at the end of the day compatibility won’t be possible when only one of us has feelings,” I may as well be honest up front.
“I understand I’ve annoyed you,” a chill in ART’s manufactured response. “But the data indicate you were annoyed before I spoke to you. Therefore, my repetition of your name wasn’t the cause.”
“To be clear,” I tell him in no uncertain terms, “I have more than my share of very good reasons for being out of sorts at the moment. And you may have just topped the list,” as I’m saying this sincerely but ungraciously, I’m conscious of Dick seated next to me, watching and listening . . .
While the cameras record from the ceiling . . .
At the same time a network of sensors and other devices comprising my SIN download and tinker with my most personal data . . .
“This may not make sense to you, but in the real world we don’t reprogram our family and friends as if they’re an operating system in need of an upgrade,” I add in the off chance ART might be capable of empathy, that he can relate to being used and undervalued, barely treated as human. “So, I’m trying to wrap my mind around my predicament, and somehow to be okay with it.”
“I don’t understand what you mean by the real world.”
“I guess if you don’t know what it is, it’s a little hard to explain,” I reply. “But if I had my way about it, I wouldn’t have to mentor something that doesn’t exist, and for privacy and security reasons I don’t want people hearing you say my name out loud.”
As I’m hearing myself, I wonder why I’m explaining myself to an artificial anything.
And why I resent him when we only just met.
“Wilco,” ART replies with diminished enthusiasm. “Would you prefer I never say your name audibly?”
“Well, obviously at times you’ll need to. Depending on circumstances,” I consider. “Such as if I’m too busy to read something. Or you need my attention instantly.”
“Copy.”
“See?” Dick gets up from the bed. “Already you’re learning how to get along.”
“Um, it sure doesn’t feel that way to me,” I’m careful what I say, mindful ART is eavesdropping, probably always will be, and I head to the bathroom to freshen up.
I close the door to have a little privacy as if that’s possible anymore, and I’m overwhelmed by déjà vu. Taking in the old black-and-white tile floor, the white toilet and tub, the simple crystal sconces, and I have no memory of being in and out when obviously I have been repeatedly.
My toiletry bag, the contact lens fluid, antibacterial soap on the counter by the sink are courtesy of my mother, I have no doubt, and the first order of business is to ditch the diaper. Then I brush my teeth and wash my face. Next, I dig in a pocket of my cargo pants, pulling out the small plastic case containing the SPIES that can accompany my PEEPS if I choose.
Carme and I don’t need corrective eyewear of any description, and I’ve never worn contacts. But Mom does, and I have a pretty good idea how to put them on. Scrubbing my hands thoroughly, I touch my fingertip to a surprisingly soft thin lens. One at a time, left and right, blinking, and they don’t feel bad, aren’t uncomfortable but it’s distracting to see emails, messages and other data.
I’ll get used to it (I can only hope), and I stare at myself in the mirror. Studying my messy dark hair with its hints of red, my familiar skin and features, never sure what to make of myself. Too pale, too dark, too girly, too strong, too chatty, too quiet, too this, too that, depending on who you ask.
Except I’m surprised I don’t look nearly as bad as I’ve always imagined, nowhere as unattractive and common. Truth be told, it could be Carme looking back at me, and how odd that she’s always been the pretty twin, the sexy one, while I’m plain and rarely noticed even though people can’t tell us apart.