It's late night in early November, the year 2050, and I am seriously getting frustrated by my lack of progress up this hill.
With the skies above hammering down in the pitch dark, I am struggling to see five feet in front of the car while I'm driving even with the fog lights turned on. There's so much water draining off the road down the hill into the forest below that I may as well be trying to drive through a shallow river. If I take too long out here the risk of dying in a mudslide is very real.
I'm frustrated because I'm being forced to less than 10mph just to maintain traction. Any faster this and I'll be skidding in place until the water flow carries me over the precipice. Mercifully, I believe I am close to my destination now. If I angle my head just right next to the window I can see the glow from the floodlights that ring the research facility.
Common sense dictates that I shouldn't be trying to drive in this weather, but I am compelled to reach my destination before midnight. If I'm not signed in before the calendar date changes, then the $2000 dollar express flight and $400 lease on this saloon, to say nothing of the effort to get out here on extremely short notice, would be wasted. Not only that, but I’d miss out on the opportunity I travelled 6000 miles to take advantage of. Given the severity of the weather I might be able to convince them to let me in anyway, but even then I was supposed to have arrived 2 hours ago, and I don’t want to push my luck any more than I already am by driving up this hill.
I give brief consideration to putting some music on to lighten the mood but I need to concentrate on the road ahead, and even with the cacophonous rainstorm drowning out even my ability to think, sound is my best early warning of anything potentially dangerous like the aforementioned mudslide. I grit my teeth and turn what looks to be the last bend before I crest the plateau, spinning the wheel aggressively right, while in contrast, pressing delicately down on the accelerator.
I can feel my rear wheels subtly drifting further along than I intended, skating across the water's surface.
The slope is alike to a rushing stream. The weight of the car is probably the only thing keeping me on the road. Spray from the water deflects off the slick tarmac and splatters on the windscreen in big fat gobbets, further obscuring my view of the road. If there’s any debris mixed up in that it had better not chip the bodywork or I’m going to lose my deposit. I can just picture that shit-eating service desk jockey smile the guy at the rental place will have as he hands me the bill.
My grumbling is cut short as I finally reach the plateau the research facility I’m here for a couple hundred yards down the road. Its design is the overly artistic, glass-walled kind that businessmen have been enamoured with for the better part of a century. Squat and square in basic form, with additional peaks and flourishes, the building rises a good 4 stories from the ground, and the perimeter is an imposing steel bar and barbed wire fence. The whole place is lit up like a Christmas festival, and I spy a small car park in front of the building with a few dozen expensive-looking vehicles – and an unmarked truck.
A light on the dashboard flashes on and a chipper ringtone starts to play as I approach the imposing front gates. Frowning I reach over and press a button on the touchscreen to take the call, confused as to who could possibly be calling me.
“Good evening,” says a distinctly hollow sounding man, “You are approaching a secure facility. Please state your name and intent.”
The voice is eerily sterile, immediately putting me in mind of a text-to-speech program, so I respond simply, “Cyril Lancaster. I’ve been invited to attend.”
Seconds pass.
“Name and purpose verified. Please provide proof of your identity by speaking the passcode you received on: <11/10/50>. Our security team will perform a second check to confirm your identity on site. Please ensure that you have the appropriate paperwork to hand. Failure to comply or impersonation of:
I stop the car in front of the gate and apply the handbrake, “CL1378.”
Another pause.
“Passcode accepted. Opening gate. Please proceed to the front desk for additional screening. Welcome:
The call ends as a buzzer sounds, and the gate steadily sinks into the floor.
I sigh in relief, “Made it.”
I lift my long coat over my head and hunch over as I sprint through the storm dragging my suitcase behind me and push through the door into a large, open reception. Letting my coat fall back down to my shoulders, I rub my dripping wet face.
To the right is a ring of comfy looking art deco styled armchairs and a glass coffee table with a collection of this morning's newspapers. I still find it fascinating that the printed version of these outlets still sees circulation, but I suppose the written word will never truly go out of style.
Across the hall, behind the large front desk a door opens and a tired looking Indian fellow in a sharp looking shirt and tie enters the room with a wide smile, followed by a stone-faced blonde woman in body armour with holstered shockstick – equal parts taser and nightstick.
The man speaks up with a cheery cadence in a mild Australian accent, “Ah, welcome! I must say I wasn't expecting any more attendees to arrive. Mother Nature is a scary old woman, is she not?”
His hands move expressively as he speaks, but the bags under his eyes and the slipshod way he's knotted his tie tells me that his enthusiasm is forced. I probably forced him out of bed. I almost feel guilty, but my empathy is tempered by the shit I slogged through to get here before the day was out.
“When Sharon Jennings gives you an invitation to an exclusive event, a little rain isn't a good reason to decline,” I chuckle, playing along with the small-talk.
My joke elicits a polite laugh from the man, “Too true, sir. Ah, would you mind if my colleague here checked your pockets and luggage? Standard security protocol, you understand.”
I nod, and the stoic security approaches me with a metal detector as I turn out my pockets on the desk surface.
“My name is Sanjit,” he continues, taking a seat and typing his login details into the sleek computer, “Welcome, again, to The Think Tank. We'll just get you signed in, Mr...”
He reaches up to the documents and ID I took out of my coat pockets, his eyebrows shooting up in shock, “Mr Lancaster. Ah, I see. Your thesis on human-prosthetic interfaces was truly revolutionary. My cousin can dance again thanks to you.”
This time his smile is genuine. It’s a reaction I’ve gotten pretty used to hearing when I introduce myself to people, and my reply hasn't changed much since the first:
“Please, don't give me too much credit. My theory may have broken the bottleneck, but I’m not the one who put it into practice. You'd be better off thanking the engineers and programmers who made the limb.”
“So humble!” Sanjit exclaims, the security officer backing away from legal groping to rifle through my suitcase, “But let’s get back to the important bits. As your invitation told you, a room has been prepared for you. In the morning there will be a presentation at 8 am sharp, after which, breakfast will be brought to your tables – if you made any specific requests when accepting the invite, the catering staff will do their best to accommodate you.”
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I asked for a stack of pancakes and a jug of fruit punch. Nothing too fancy, although I’m sure they'd have brought out a seared shark steak if I asked for one.
I mean, maybe.
“No communication with the outside world is permitted for the duration of your stay,” He continues, obviously reciting a memorised list, “And we are fully equipped to deal with any medical emergency you might suffer. Furthermore, the door to your room will be locked after you enter until 7:50 am when a member of staff will come to collect you and guide you to the meeting hall. In the event of a fire or similar emergency, the doors will either remain locked or else you will be escorted to a designated exit by a member of security. If you have any difficulties, your room has an intercom that is linked to the Pseudo-Intelligence which detected and contacted you on your approach to the gate.”
“Pseudo-Intelligence, you say? What’s that?” I ask, staring out the corner of my eye at the woman as she paws through my spare briefs, feeling vaguely embarrassed. I don’t envy her job, I’m just glad they’re clean.
Sanjit clasps his hands together and smirks, “Of course, everyone has heard of Artificial Intelligence, yeah? Well, a PI is like that, but without an ego or personality. It nigh-perfect mimicry of humanity's ability to solve problems, from logical step-by-step progression common of simpler machines to bursts of inspiration. It was quite a breakthrough when it was created 12 years ago, but it’s limitations, both intentional and not, have left it incapable of much more growth. Pill is, in essence, capable of thinking like a human - to a point - but lacks any emotional context for decisions.
Honestly, I’m impressed. Scientists the world over have been trying to understand how to create true AI for the better part of a century. Getting a machine to make non-deliberate leaps of logic is in itself amazing. And Sanjit says it’s more than a decade old? Makes me wonder what they’ve accomplished since then.
“It seems that I’m in for a number of surprises here today. Hurricane Jonathan turning north this afternoon may turn out to be the least interesting thing about this trip,” I laugh.
Sanjit doesn’t respond verbally, just giving me a wink before typing some more into his computer.
Just when I start to feel as though the damp is starting to seep through my clothes into my skin, the security officer stands up, handing my luggage back and giving me a curt nod, “No problems here, Mr Spiderman.”
Her face is deadpan, but seeing me wince, I think I see her smirking at me for a second.
Sanjit pipes up, “Mr Spiderman?”
“He has a pair of Spiderman-”
“Comics! I figured it would be a long flight over so I packed some reading material,” I interrupt, glaring at the woman. She stares back, amused.
“Well,” Sanjit coughs, obviously unconvinced, “I should be able to get the rest of the paperwork squared away pretty quickly. If you don’t mind can you show Mr Lancaster upstairs to his room? It’s number 11.”
The security officer nods, and waves for me to follow her to the elevator. I sigh, thank Sanjit, and follow after her.
Standing in the fancy transparent elevator, the woman snorts a laugh, “So...Spiderman, huh?”
“I will end you,” I growl, which only makes her laugh more.
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My room is actually surprisingly spartan, given how over-designed the rest of the building has been. More akin to a college dorm room or prison cell than anything else. The fact that I’m locked in here until morning makes me think the latter is a more appropriate comparison.
I’m honestly too tired to really care about the implications of that, but I can only imagine they don’t want us wandering around looking for a bathroom and stumbling across company secrets. Not that I’m entirely clear on what this facility is even for, just that the head researcher, Sharon Jennings is a world-renowned computer genius and her husband is the 4th richest man on the planet, and they’ve sent some confidential invites to a carefully selected group of people - myself included, naturally.
The room has a closet, a single neatly made bed, and a small ensuite bathroom. I waste no time in undressing, drying off and getting into bed.
It’s been a long day.
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I’m woken up by a buzzing noise coming from the intercom.
“Good morning,
After a quick shower, I comb my curly black hair straight and dress up in a suit and tie, complete with black and white moccasins, only to be interrupted in the middle of adjusting my tie by the door to my room being opened suddenly.
In the doorway stands a young woman with an exceptionally sharp face in a businesswoman’s attire, holding a tablet like a clipboard. I’m getting flashbacks to highschool just looking at her.
“Good morning Mr Lancaster. My name is Shirley, and I will be escorting you to the main hall. Are you ready to go?”
Her tone is certainly polite, but her bearing gives the sense that she expects the answer to be ‘Yes’. I nod almost on reflex, and follow her out into the corridor, fiddling with my tie as I go.
Contrary to last night, we don’t head to the elevator, but instead, follow the corridor past several other rooms into the second-floor veranda of an atrium that encompasses the back of the building. On the ground floor, a small stage and podium have been set up in front of a number of circular tables and chairs. About a dozen other people are milling around or sipping coffee.
Shirley waits patiently at the top of a spiral staircase as I try to pick out any familiar faces among the crowd. But, having no such luck I descend the steps behind her. Half of the people present are making excited conversation around one of the tables closest to the stage. Sat down, nursing a mug is an exceptionally attractive Asian man in his mid-twenties. I don’t know his name but he definitely seems like some kind of celebrity. I suppose that ignoring gossip columns and the like as a matter of personal dignity has decided to bite me in the ass at the strangest of times.
Whatever. I’m not planning on talking to them anyhow. Never been one for mingling at events like these.
A few people turn their heads when they hear Shirley’s heels clacking against the polished stone floor, but are distracted once again when another set of brisk footsteps can be heard approaching from behind the stage itself.
A middle-aged man walks on stage, and immediately all the talking stops, as the gathered crowd of people regards the strangely dressed newcomer.
I say, ‘strangely dressed’, but that’s only in the context of who he is and what he’d presumably come here to do.
The man is instantly recognisable, even out of the loop as I am, as the fourth richest man in the world, Stephen Jennings, head of an empire of gaming developers, travel agencies, airlines and telecommunications. As well as experimental medicine, in recent years, according to rumour.
The problem here, that several of us are having trouble processing, is that Mr Jennings is wearing what can only be described as pyjamas. Complete with old bunny slippers that have an ear missing from the left slipper.
Eccentric doesn’t seem to describe the first impression he’s giving.
Mr Jennings steps up to the podium and fiddles with something before tapping a microphone, “Hello? Uhh..volume up a bit...Hello? There we go. Good Morning! Hope you all slept well?”
He gives an awkward smile, stares at the microphone as if questioning its existence. Taking the silence as affirmation he continues, “So, I’m Stephen. You can call me Steve if you want.”
He scratches his bedraggled hair and adjusts his glasses, “And welcome, to my home!”
Steve(?) spreads his arms wide and does a little spin, “You’re probably all brimming with curiosity as to why my wife decided to invite you all here. She’s uhh..still in bed, though. Um, she’ll have a one-on-one chat with you after breakfast.
It’s kind of a long story, really. But you aren’t the first group of people invited here - although there’s a few less than we were expecting thanks to Jonathan turning his bluster north for a bit. I hear we had a bit of a daredevil who went ‘fuck that’ and showed up anyway though.”
He winks at me, as I take a seat, and I wave back, uncomfortable with the sudden attention.
“Gotta respect that. God knows I wouldn’t be caught dead in that storm. Anyway, for the past 20 or so years, my wife and I have been working on a bit of a secret project. One that’s, to be frank, cost us both billions of dollars. I don’t know the exact figures - I sleep better not knowing - but this project is the culmination of thousands of talented professionals and supporters worldwide. Each of them, like you, has signed an ironclad confidentiality agreement...err..”
He stops, staring at something on the podium for a moment, presumably his script, then clears his throat and starts again, “Yeah, you’ve all signed that. And we’ve spent a lot of money keeping the project airtight. You were all rigorously vetted before we even considered contacting you, and we’ve been keeping tabs on you since then to make absolutely sure that nothing pops up in the morning papers. Naturally, if you did, the story would be crushed, you wouldn’t be allowed in and you’d be getting a call from my lawyer army.”
He smiles, and suddenly I’m reminded of the kind of influence someone like him wields. Of course, I had basically no time at all to get packed and on the next flight, so the thought of running to the tabloids with this never crossed my mind.
“So congratulations on having integrity,” He claps, “But I’m getting off-topic. How about I ask you all a simple question, yeah?”
The pause that follows is morbidly pregnant.
“Given the chance, would you like to become a hero?”