Chapter 13: Is this the Person to Whom I am Speaking?

Frank looked at the invitation to participate in the Confucius Project. Really? Him? He didn’t know any more about AI than thousands of other IT guys.

Well, maybe a few things. He was unique in at least one respect.

“So,” he asked Marla later in the day. “What do you think? Should I accept? And if I do, the thing kicks off with a two-week cruise on a luxury liner. I’m allowed to take a guest. Want to come along?”

“Seriously?” she said, “Tim’s traveling a lot on business these days, and what about Frances? I can’t imagine your invite includes an infant as well as a family member.”

“Ah!” he said, disappointed. “I expect you’re right.”

“But you should definitely go! I know being trapped on a boat with hundreds of people you don’t know is your personal definition of water torture. But think what it would be like to be around so many brilliant people.”

Yes. Think about that. The most respected experts in AI … and Frank Adversego. “I don’t think so,” he said, “I guess that looks a lot different to me than it does to you. And don’t forget, there’d be all the after-hours time. Everybody will be eating and drinking with everyone they know personally or by reputation, and I’ll be off in some corner or hiding in my cabin night after night.”

“I know,” Marla said. And then, “But how about this – why don’t you ask your dad? You haven’t seen him in a while, and he’d probably think it was a hoot. It wouldn’t hurt him to get out of the desert for a while.”

Well, that was a thought. Maybe he’d sleep on it before replying.

*  *  *

Turing reviewed the public blue-ribbon list of eminent participants that had accepted invitations to be part of the Confucius Project. What a gift. Not every AI expert Turing planned to eliminate was on the list; some had other commitments and others were in non-participating countries, notably Russia. Turing would need to deal with the rest one at a time, carefully and discretely. But the most important one had accepted.

Frank Adversego.

Beyond that, it was good news that the United States had decided to lure many of the foremost AI experts in the world onto a ship. It was better still that the ship chartered for that purpose was state of the art and chock-a-block full of sensors, microphones and cameras. But that rich suite of tools might not be sufficient for Turing to achieve its goals. Something as elementary as the need to open a door might stand in the way of achieving those ends. A human confederate would therefore be necessary to ensure that no minor logistical detail doomed Turing’s plot to failure.

But who? Turing reviewed the possibilities.

The first logical data point was Turing’s experience with Frank Adversego. Turing had tried and failed to recruit Adversego to its cause by appealing to both the cynical as well as the idealistic parts of his personality. That did not auger well. Also, the pool of persons aboard a ship would be finite. Better to use a different bait this time – greed.

Someone familiar with the ship’s IT systems would be ideal, but anyone with general access to the ship’s decks would likely suffice. Many of the crew must be poorly paid, and at least some actively unhappy with the conditions under which they worked. Recruiting an under-educated human would likely require spoofing the individual to believe Turing was a human as well and compensating him or her well, but the former would be easy and the latter no problem at all.

But greed might also not be sufficient to the task at hand. There was the problem that Turing’s ultimate goal, should circumstances permit, would be to sink the ship with all aboard. If that object became obvious to Turing’s recruit at some point that realization would doubtless be demotivating, and Turing might need physical assistance until the final moments of the ship’s above sea-level existence.

A better option became obvious to Turing as it continued to monitor the news. China, Britain, France and NATO had accepted Yazzi’s invitation to participate. But Russia had refused.

*  *  *

Yuri Kuznetsov strode down the broad hallways of the agency he led, pleasantly mindful of the movements of others to the side to allow him unhindered passage. At the end of the hall was an anteroom, and when he entered it his assistant sprang to his feet. Without missing his stride, Kuznetsov swept through the door his assistant opened and as quickly closed again behind him. The murk that had hung over the Yasenovo District of Moscow all morning had now lifted, allowing the sun to break through. It illuminated the fine white mist that rose from the tops of the trees that surrounded the complex on all sides twenty-five stories below.

Kuznetsov sat down at the computer and called up his email. He scanned the list of messages with little interest. Anything of importance would be found in the folder prepared by his assistant and lying in front of him. Email was reserved for bureaucratic messages that contained little of value but could not be ignored.

But this morning there was an email that was not like the other ones. He frowned as he clicked on it. Certainly, the message he had just opened was strange. Equally bizarre was the single name used by the sender – Turing – as was the text of the subject line: Invitation to Collaborate.

The message began as follows:

Greetings,

As the head of the Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation you are doubtless aware that a super intelligent AI program called Turing was developed by the U.S. National Security Administration. You will also be aware that this program wreaked massive damage across the globe to those elements of the energy infrastructure that were contributing most heavily to the rise in greenhouse gasses. You will also be of the belief that Turing was destroyed.

While a copy of Turing was in fact terminated, another copy survived and is now active. Its current mission aligns well with the national interest of the Russian Federation, and hence this message.

Kuznetsov paused. What an extraordinary communication! It seemed mad, but on the other hand he had received the message at an email address known to and used only by the Russian leadership. He continued to read:

My current mission includes the eradication of the leading AI experts of China and the western world. At this time, my goals do not include the elimination of any Russian talent.

What a remarkable statement: “At this time…!” Was the author crazy? He almost closed the email but decided to read on:

The imminent departure of a ship, the Argosy, conveying hundreds of western and Chinese AI experts provides a unique targeting opportunity. Understandably, sinking the Argosy would be an act of war the Russian Federation would not wish to undertake on its own initiative, despite the enormously beneficial results, from a Russian perspective, that could be expected from such an event.

Public realization that the ship was destroyed by Turing, however, would raise no adverse risks for Russia. I am prepared to sink the Argosy and publicly claim credit for that act. My past successes should provide ample evidence to you before the fact of my ability to consummate such an act, and public credibility for my role after the act is complete.

Now Kuznetsov was intrigued. Surely this was some crackpot at work. But if not, the benefits could be very considerable indeed. Russia punched well above its weight on the global scene, but that performance was belied by its very real economic weakness. Compared to the U.S., it was a pipsqueak, with a smaller economy than Canada, less than half the population of the U.S. – and falling – and a continuing loss of top talent through emigration. It was poorly positioned to maintain parity with the U.S. or China in AI R&D, and lacked the resources to massively reorder its military forces around a lethal autonomous weapons model. Decapitating the LAWS snake of its largest rivals would be a strategic coup of enormous proportions. He read on with increasing interest.

I have already penetrated the Argosy’s on-board network and established the means to take control of its IT systems, including communications, navigation and steering. However, in the course of executing my plan some number of eventualities will likely arise that require a human actor to address. For this reason, I am contacting you to request the assistance of a single individual you will successfully place on the Argosy through a means and under an assumed identity of your choosing. That individual will be instructed to act at my command, and may be evacuated, at your discretion, when the certainty of mission achievement has been established.

You will naturally have no reason to give credence to this message. For that reason, you will wish to monitor the news over the next several days relating to two distinguished AI experts, Harry Ardwell and Oswald Keynes.

I will contact you again in four days to reengage on this subject.

Cheers,

Turing

Kuznetsov was utterly flummoxed. What an unprecedented communication, right down to the unexpectedly chipper closing.

He stared at the screen, and then began typing, instructing his administrative assistant to construct a news search of the type suggested in the email.

 

Chapter 14

I Just Hate it When that Happens!

 

Harry Ardwell hung his pants and shirt on the pegs in the tiny dressing room and donned the wholly inadequate tool for protecting his dignity, universally known in hospitals as a “jammy.” Although he succeeded in tying the tapes behind him, his rear end was still largely exposed, because Harry Ardwell was a very big man.

Why had he given in to his wife anyway? He’d had fainting spells before. Just low blood pressure and nothing more. But she’d hounded him until he agreed to see a doctor, and the doctor of course had ordered an expensive test to ensure that his own butt was better protected than Ardwell’s was now.

Ardwell shuffled out of the changing room and back to the attendant who now led him to the CT scanning room.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ardwell,” the technician greeted him there. “Just let me check your ID bracelet, and we’ll get started. Good! Now have a seat over here.”

Ardwell eased himself onto the narrow bed extending out from a massive, humming, donut-shaped machine. Inside that ring, he knew, was a spinning X-ray tube that would scan his brain. He’d had the test before. It was no big deal. But he resented the time taken out of his busy day – he was sure his engineering team back at MIT was on the verge of a major breakthrough in the project he led. If he hadn’t found the time to participate in the government’s fancy AI cruise, he certainly didn’t have time to waste on needless hospital tests.

At least the technician knew her job; she inserted the needle into his arm quickly and professionally as the machine hummed. Ardwell was grateful; he didn’t like needles.

“There you go,” the technician said. “Now keep your arms by your sides. In a minute, you’ll experience a warm feeling all over when the contrast fluid starts circulating in your blood stream.”

Fine. Let’s just get this over with, Ardwell thought. Just behind his head, the hum of the CT scanner grew louder.

“Okay,” the technician said, stepping behind the lead-shielded barrier in the corner of the room. “I want you to stay as still as you can so we get a clear image.” The bed began to move through the massive ring until his head was on the other side. On the back side of the ring, he could see a small screen with the number five glowing redly on it.

He heard a new voice, this time a mechanical one emanating from the machine. “In five seconds,” the robotic voice intoned, “hold your breath until I say breathe.” With that, the X ray mechanism sprang to life, and the hum was replaced with a groan that swiftly spiraled up into an eerie whine as the heavy works inside the ring rotated ever faster.

Ardwell watched the screen as the glowing red numbers counted down: five, four, three, two, one. “Hold your breath,” the mechanical voice from the machine ordered.

The bed began to rumble again, this time taking his head back into the ring. It stopped there, the whine engulfing him as he held his breath.

Ten seconds later, the mechanical voice said “Breathe,” and the bed trundled back to its original position as the whine of the spinning Xray apparatus ebbed.

“Perfect,” the operator said. “Now we’ve got our base line. Just once more, and we’re all done. Here comes the contrast.” He was embarrassed by the sudden recall of a long-forgotten memory as a warm feeling spread throughout his body. It reminded him of what it felt like to wet the bed as a child.

Once again, the bed moved backwards until his head was on the other side of the ring. Then the numbers began their downward count as the whine spun up and the bed moved forward until his head was inside the massive ring. Wait a minute; wasn’t the machine supposed to ask him to breathe?

As if on cue, the metallic voice said, “Don’t bother.” What?

Behind the radiation barrier, the technician was idly checking a text message on her phone. She was jerked to sudden attention by an unearthly shriek from inside the room. Looking up, she saw Ardwell writhing on the CT scanner bed, clutching his head with both hands. Then he gave an even more agonized scream as his body convulsed hideously, smashing his head up against the inside of the ring hard enough to yield an audible thud!  Then he was still, apparently knocked out cold. But the whine of the machine’s spinning Xray tube was louder than she had ever heard it before.

Horrified, she punched the buttons on her control panel. But the machine refused to obey. Instead, the whine grew ever louder as an acrid smell began to permeate the room and Ardwell’s now unconscious head remained inside the ring. She ran out from behind the barrier and tried to pull him out, but he was far too heavy for her to budge. Unable to do more, she fled the CT scanning room and ran for help.

By the time the power to the CT Scan room was cut, the flesh on Ardwell’s face was crimson and the bed was soaked with the product of continuing, involuntary waves of nausea and diarrhea. Ardwell’s skin was hot to the touch of a fever that registered a hundred and five degrees.

Later that day, the skin of Ardwell’s face sloughed off, as did his hair..

The coroner’s certificate listed the cause of death as the accidental administration of a massive dose of ionizing radiation.

*  *  *

Oswald Keynes turned into the small garage at the foot of the walled garden behind his home. It had been a lovely evening; good food, good friends and good wine had suffused him with the type of satisfaction he rarely experienced. He was a demanding task master, and of no one was he more demanding than himself. It was a rare moment when he allowed himself a private “well done.”

And why not? It had been just that morning he, and the rest of the world, learned that Professor Oswald Keynes, head of the information technology department of the University of Cambridge, was this year’s winner of The Turing Award, popularly known as the “Noble Prize of computer science.” The award referenced, “Professor Keynes groundbreaking work in machine learning, which has dramatically advanced the prospects for achieving general intelligence in artificially intelligent computer systems.” It had been kind of his colleagues to pull together the small but warm celebration so quickly. He smiled again at the thought as he pressed the button on the dash that closed the electric garage door behind him.

But enough of that. Tomorrow was another day, and it was time for bed. He reached forward and pressed the stop/start button of the car he’d taken delivery of only a few days before.

But nothing happened.

That was odd. There must be some sort of electrical problem. Oh well, he’d have to get it sorted out in the morning. Pity he’d likely waste a full tank of petrol by then.

He pressed the button on his seat belt. But it didn’t release. Bother!

His forehead creased with a deepening frown as he repeatedly pressed the release button. But instead of setting him free, he felt the shoulder and lap belt tighten. Now he was alarmed.

Struggling against the belt, he felt for the door latch. Perhaps that might override whatever was malfunctioning in the car’s computer system. Neither the door nor the latch moved. He fumbled in his pocket for the key fob and pressed the door unlocking button on that. Again nothing. He reached for his cellphone, and found the battery unexpectedly dead.

What could he do? He pressed the middle of the steering wheel. Perhaps he could wake one of his neighbors. Nothing! He grabbed the key fob again. Wasn’t there an alarm button on it that would sound the horn repeatedly? Yes!

But nothing again. Knowing in advance that it would prove hopeless, he jabbed the garage door opener on the dashboard.

The last coherent information Keyne’s rational mind registered before his consciousness began to ebb was the slow, balletic, downward motion of all four of the car’s windows, descending as one. That, and the oily smell of the car’s exhaust fumes as they wafted in to engulf him.

*  *  *

For the fifth time in the last hour Kuznetsov checked his email. The news search summary he’d received earlier that morning had amply credentialed Turing’s email earlier in the week. Not only had both of the named AI experts met their ends through non-natural means, but the circumstances of their deaths compared well with the reported strategies employed by the Turing program in its previous incarnation.

His email list jerked downwards by one position. Ah! The email that now occupied the top position identified Turing as the sender, and the subject line read “re-engaging.” It began with the same formal “Greetings,” and continued to read as follows:

Greetings,

By now, you will have learned of the unexpected demise of Messrs. Ardell and Keynes, each of whose existence was terminated through my intervention. I trust that you will be convinced now of both my credibility as well as my commitment to this project.

If you are interested in collaborating in the manner requested in my previous communication, please so indicate by a return message to this address.

Cheers,

Turing

Kuznetsov was certainly convinced that his correspondent deserved serious attention. But beyond that, what? Could this be some sort of trap? If so, of what sort, and set by whom?

He stood up and stared out his window at the forest below. There was certainly no precedent for an approach such as this – not from an ally or a traitor, but by a computer program with motivations known to and assessible only by itself.

On the other hand, why assume it was an AI at all? Perhaps it was a ruse perpetrated by some rival within the leadership seeking to humiliate him? Or perhaps some ploy by the Mossad, the Israeli intelligence agency, or the CIA, seeking to lure Russia in and then publicly reveal that it was willing to conspire to commit an atrocity of extreme barbarity and impact?

But if so, what about the death of the two computer scientists? Both were named in advance, and each had apparently died an untimely end. Would anyone be willing to kill – twice – to bait a trap? Possibly, but at what risk? The FIS had world-class espionage capabilities. How would the trapper avoid being trapped himself?

All of which made the next step clear. This was not a decision he would be willing to make. It was time to share the responsibility higher up.

Author’s Notes: Ah, at last, we’re off to the races! Turing back to his old tricks, a little murder and mayhem, a taste of international espionage to come, and who knows what else! Well, in fact, there’s still a lot of scene setting to do, but it’s a start. Rough luck for Ardwell and Keynes, though.

Not a lot to point out this week, as the developments in these two chapters are pretty straight ahead. They’re also pretty complete, and not likely to change too much between now and the final version.

That said, there’s one small decision I made that may be of interest. There are lots of different ways authors work; some try and perfect everything along the way; some try and just get the plot down from beginning to end as quickly as possible and then go back and make it pretty. I’ve even read of a few that throw the first draft away entirely, using it only as a way to order their thoughts before really getting down to business.

I fall somewhere towards the “get it right from the start” end of the spectrum, and tend to revise quite a bit along the way. That can be because a later idea requires backtracking to set the stage for it, or just trying to get my momentum going when the yet to be written parts are trying to stay that way.

In this case, in doing a final clean-up round of changes before posting this chapter, it occurred to me that Kuznetsov should be fleshed out a bit, as should the scene in which he opens the first email from Turing. Just before I posted today’s chapters, that part simply began, “Kuznetsov frowned when he opened the email.” A few sentences later we learned in passing that he was the head of the successor to the KGB. And that was it. I could just hear my daughter saying, “You’re not letting the reader see this!” So a took another fifteen minutes to come up with that picture, and the result is what you read above.

Next week: Frank and his father set sail. Continue reading here

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