“I don’t know why you’re so confident.”
“Because I know who and what you are a lot better than you do,” he says, the C-17 picking up speed, pushing us down in our seats as we lift steeply with a roar worthy of a tornado.
“At the end of the day,” I resume when it’s quieter, “what happens if I get up there and don’t find anything? What if after all this we’re no closer to discovering what’s happening to our satellites? What if I can’t prevent our new spy satellite from being the next casualty? And I let everybody down.”
“You have a chance of detecting things from up there that we can’t from here,” he repeats, “because of the AI-assisted quantum computing capabilities, and the conductive skin among other things.”
My Chase Plane’s sensors will work in concert with my own, giving me an enhanced signal-detection sensitivity that should pick up on pretty much any intruder. With ART’s assistance once we reach GEO, we’ll be orbiting the Earth in a vehicle that has spectrum analysis capabilities.
In a sense, it won’t be all that different from my doing pirouettes as I scan with a mobile antenna. It’s just I’ll be some 35,000 kilometers (21,700 miles) above the Earth, scanning a much bigger area really fast, and with exponentially more at stake.
“The other thing to remember?” Dick adds. “Part of the objective is to put the PEQUOD and MOBE through their paces. To see if they’re all they’re cracked up to be.”
“I don’t like to hear the words if or cracked up right about now.”
“If all goes well,” and there he goes again, “then it will be a successful mission whether you find the target or not.”
“Let’s be honest, okay?” I’m warm beneath my blanket but my face is cold, and the seat hits my lower back exactly wrong. “The mission can’t be considered successful if our new spy satellite is the next casualty. Then what? A next, and a next? So, while it’s nice of you to act as if there’s no pressure, I know better.”
“Do you need to make a visit?” he opens his door to find the toilet.
“I’m fine.”
“I’ll be back in a few,” he gets out of the helicopter, and as soon as he’s dissolved into the shadows, I ask ART to go audible, placing my phone on top of my blanketed lap.
“What may I help you with?” and it’s nice to hear his voice again, sounding mellow but pleased as if he’s happy to hear from me.
“I’m sitting inside a helicopter that’s inside a C-17, and before that it was an Agusta and the White House,” I feel compelled to tell him as if catching up with a parent or a friend on Facebook.
“I don’t understand your question,” his response, and at disheartening moments like this I’m reminded that humans created ART and not the other way around.
He doesn’t exist separate and apart from Carme and me, those of us who are programmed to depend on him. Yet it doesn’t feel that way when he and I start talking. He seems as real as it gets while showing me all sorts of images in my lenses, and giving me alerts in my earpiece. None of it seems like it was anybody’s idea but his, and I could swear I’ve detected emotionality from him.
“I didn’t ask a question,” I let him know. “I was just talking the way friends do when they’re catching up.”
Silence. The throbbing noise of massive engines. The shudder of mild turbulence.
“You know, informing them, updating them,” I add. “Something you’ve not been doing with me, not today. I’ve heard very little from you and there’s been very little in the way of updates.”
What I’m getting at is I’d better not discover that ART was programmed to drop everybody (most of all me) like a hot potato the minute Dick comes around. I won’t be undervalued or invisible. I’m also not a cheap substitute because someone like my sister is unavailable.
Been there, done that, when the Conn Lacrosses of the world pay attention to me until something better comes along. Then suddenly I’m like Ranger in GHOST mode tagging along transparently. Nope, not happening. I’m not in high school anymore, and it’s not an option for me to be ignored because my artificial sidekick panders to someone who can’t sneeze without being saluted.
I don’t know who’s responsible for some of ART’s unfortunate ideas and attitudes. Maybe it’s Dick. Maybe Dad. Even Mom can be a tad old fashioned. But when I get my hand on the algorithms, I intend to make a few changes, and I pick up my phone, looking at it as if ART and I are FaceTiming.
“Is there a reason you’ve given me the silent treatment today?” I confront my blank display.
“It was my impression you weren’t to be unnecessarily distracted,” ART says.
“I don’t know who gave you that impression because it wasn’t me,” I let him know.
38
“I’M SORRY. What would you like to be updated about?” ART’s soothing voice might be slightly contrite.
“Status reports. How are things at home?” I inquire, and he shows me the live feed of police cars on our property, a state police helicopter circling.
It won’t be long before the media gets the scent of a huge story, and I worry what life will be like for all of us. How much more off-nominal can it get?
“Maybe send a text to Lex,” I decide, looking out the helicopter’s windscreen, watching for Dick, wondering if he knows I’m talking to ART.
“What would you like me to say?”
“Maybe tell Lex I’m checking on him, hoping he’s okay. I’m thinking about him,” and words like that have never been easy for me to say. “Maybe let Mom and Dad know the same thing. Also, Carme. And Fran. I know these last few days have been rough.”
“Wilco.”
“I assume there’s been no mention in the news or on social media about the White House briefing . . . Okay, shhhhh . . . !” I hush him as I make out Dick’s shadowy shape heading toward me.
“I don’t understand.”
“No more audio,” I lower my voice to a bare whisper. “I don’t want him hearing everything you and I talk about. He’s not listening right now, is he?”