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Raven Maddox: I think what’s intriguing is that a look into Jane Allgood’s proposed security plan for America, should she win the presidency this coming Tuesday, presents us with a shroud of secrecy and unanswered questions. First and foremost, what does the implementation of the Third Eye surveillance system mean for our lives? And should we be concerned that Nosticorp, the corporation behind Third Eye, will effectively become another department in the executive branch of the government? Is it Constitutional?

Joining me today from MIT is a young man who wears many hats: child prodigy, professor of Artificial Intelligence, high-tech guru, and now an activist and vocal critic of what the Third Eye bill is proposing. I’m happy to bring you Peter Kim. Peter, welcome. Thank you for coming.

Peter Kim: My pleasure. It’s good to see you again, Raven.

Raven Maddox: Professor Kim, I’m not anywhere near an expert on computers. I can barely get my car to sync with the automated driving networks. How do you explain to me, and people like me, what this bill means and why you’re concerned about it?

Peter Kim: Well, Raven, the easy part is the artificial intelligence. The world has been using AI for roughly a hundred years now, and more recently in the sense of true Artificial Super Intelligence. AI is an ingrained facet of society, most notably in self-driving cars and other automated applications and industries. We’ve had some road bumps along the way, but since the grid was installed, deaths by automobile accidents have pretty much been eliminated. But what this SP legislation wants to do is introduce Third Eye into the arteries of the internet. This will mostly be felt as an effect called “integration.”

Raven Maddox: Integration. Yes, this buzzword has been trending. What exactly is integration in this context?

Peter Kim: Since Third Eye is true ASI, let’s think of it as a living thing, like a virus. At some point it will be initiated from a source server inside the Nosticorp complex and start infecting technology from there.

Raven Maddox: Do we have a choice whether or not to download this… thing?

Peter Kim: No, we will not have that choice. Third Eye will start to explore places to inhabit, starting with your phone, your car, even your refrigerator. The things those computer scientists are doing over there is game changing. Yes, I can see the positive implications for national security, but the negative side effects are all too real.

The technology-atrocity hypothesis argues that major advancements in technology are often accompanied by an increase in the scale or severity of human atrocities. For example, the Holocaust. The systematic genocide of six million Jews by the Nazis could not have been carried out without the advancements in transportation, telecommunications, and data processing brought about by the industrial revolution.

Raven Maddox: Or weapons of mass destruction.

Peter Kim: Yes. The bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki during the Second World War. Or, thirteen years ago, the bomb dropped during the Battle of Tbilisi.

Raven Maddox: On the other hand, presidential candidate Jane Allgood says America needs to catch up with technology, that Third Eye is what we need in our society to defeat terror and get us back on the cutting edge so that we can survive as a nation.

Peter Kim: I think we should be suspicious of this kind of rhetoric, and we need to require transparency. Nobody really knows what will happen once the integration begins. Nosticorp is a very secretive company, and they do not allow anyone to study the code or the alignment philosophy with which Third Eye was created. If this is going to be imposed on the American people, we need to demand transparency.

Raven Maddox: Peter Kim, I’m not sure, but I think I understand better now. Thank you for your time. I believe we’ll need your expertise as things move forward. You’re always welcome back.

Stay tuned, because coming up next, we have a guest who says the mega hit series Eternal Love is actually indoctrinating children into the occult. That should be interesting. Stay tuned.

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D-Pad

Clear Hope Mental Wellness Clinic

Everyone Deserves Peace of Mind

The sign hung large and gaudy off the stone façade of Paul Murphy’s labor of love. Alan got out of his car and set the warm McDonald’s sack on the hood. He had five minutes, so he lit a cigarette. The snow hadn’t stuck in the humid environment of the lakeside town, but the cement was wet, and there was a chill in the air that smelled fresh off the water.

The clinic occupied prime real estate above Riverside Park. It was Murphy’s philosophy that the mentally ill should be able to take a short walk and settle their troubled minds on the natural beauty offered by Montana.

Like one of the patients, Flathead River seemed sad and deflated in the cockcrow of morning. The stony beach ran out farther than the dock, and the waters were melancholic, somewhere between daphne and gravestone gray. A man in a black jacket loitered down by the swings; a junkie, no doubt a spinner, a drifter, a refugee, a shadow.

He flicked his cigarette into the street, grabbed the cooling bag, and punched his access code into the front door. The lobby was empty and silent. He went to a large set of double doors, entered his access code again, and walked down the echoing linoleum to the high-security area in the back that housed D-Pad.

Clear Hope was a joint operation between the benevolence of Dr. Paul Murphy and the State of Montana’s Health and Human Services Department, providing mental health services to residents of Lake County who could not afford them otherwise. Part of that service was to work with juvenile offenders when the need arose, which was why Francis Builds A Fire was here.

“Hi, Sam.”

“Morning, Dr. Smith.” The large Black bodybuilder had his feet up on the reception desk. He was deeply engrossed in something happening in the reality of his glasses.

“How’s our guest?”

“Quiet as a church mouse on Sunday. But I don’t think he slept at all. He’s been sitting in the middle of the floor like that most of the night.” Sam pointed to the computer monitor on the desk. It showed a video feed of D-Pad and a hoodie-clad figure sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to the soft wall. “Around 3 AM, he started talking to himself. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. That lasted an hour. He’s been quiet ever since, just sitting there like that.”

“Why’s he in D-Pad and not a normal room?” Alan asked.

“It was Dr. Murphy’s orders. He told me to keep a close eye on him.”

“Any suicidal ideation?”

“None,” said Sam.

“Okay. I’m going to go in and see if he wants to talk.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll monitor from here in case you need anything. Cameras and microphones are recording.”

Alan approached the heavy, glass door to see the boy exactly as he had been on the monitor. Bzzt. The door automatically unlocked. He slid it to the side and stepped into the room. A faint odor of unwashed teenager hung in the warm air.

“Good morning. I’m Dr. Smith.”

The boy looked up at him, his left eye so swollen it was almost shut. He briefly focused on Alan and then glanced behind him from wall to wall to ceiling like a scared animal. The movement reminded him of the rabbits his sister used to raise for 4H—creatures destined for the chopping block. His bottom lip was cut and swollen, and the right side of his face was a massive bruise of purple and yellow. Mac Winesworth had really done a number on him.

For thirteen, the boy was small. He had a shag of black hair that protruded from his dark green hood and fell across his face past his shoulders. He wore a pair of baggy, gray sweatpants, the clothes he had been wearing when Deputy Wolf picked him up. It didn’t matter. They’d make him change when they arrested him in a few hours. No socks or shoes—D-Pad rules. His feet were small and scuffed with dirt.

“Are you okay?”

“Hello, s-sir,” he said, almost whispering, slouching his shoulders forward in a protective posture. “C-can I g-go h-home now?”

“Hey, buddy. I really want to help get you home, and we’re working on that, but I don’t know what the timeline is.” The boy just stared. Fuck, he knew he sounded fake because that was the way the system wanted him to sound. “My name is Alan Smith. You can call me Alan. What can I call you?”

“F-Francis,” the boy said.

“Okay, Francis. Hey, look here, I got you an Egg McMuffin and some orange juice.” Alan sat down cross-legged and put the bag with the food between them. “I got one too, but the coffee’s for me. Do you drink coffee?”

The boy pushed off his hood and brushed his hair out of his face, causing it to flutter like the mane of a shaggy pony. He fished out a packet of hash browns and took a crunchy bite, chewing carefully.

“There’s ketchup if you want.”

“Thanks. They gave me food last night, but I didn’t eat it.”

“I understand. This place can serve some real crap. There’s no kitchen, so they just do microwave meals. I’ll make sure you get something good for lunch.” Francis nodded and chowed down on his McMuffin. McDonald’s was junk food, but it was delicious and familiar. One of the best ways to strengthen a bruised psyche was with a little culinary comfort. They ate quietly. Francis sipped his OJ, Alan his coffee.

“Francis, we need to talk. The county has asked me to evaluate you to see if you are a threat to yourself. Do you know what that means?” It was a cold question right off the bat but necessary to gauge the boy’s level of maturity.

Stolen novel; please report.

Francis nodded. “You want to know if I’m gonna kill myself or something.”

“Yeah, basically. And just see how you’re doing. I’m sure this is a frightening experience for you.”

Francis shrugged.

“Before I start asking a bunch of questions, I want you to understand I’m not a police officer, and I’m not a lawyer. I’m just a⁠—”

“A shrink,” Francis said.

Alan laughed. “Yeah. I guess that’s what we’re called. You know why we’re called that?”

The boy shook his head.

“Well, there used to be a tribe of headhunters in the Amazon, the Jivaro. When they killed their enemies, they would cut off their heads and... well, actually, the process is pretty disgusting.”

“Sounds like it,” said Francis. Was that a smile at the corner of a swollen lip?

“The point being, the process of shrinking the head is quite difficult. There’s a relationship there between what the Jivaro did and what psychiatrists do. Anyway, it got popular in the 1950s in Hollywood. Back in the day, going to a shrink was kind of trendy with the movie stars who were known to have huge egos. So they’d go to the headshrinker to get their feelings of self-importance deflated.”

“Interesting. You kind of suck at telling stories, though.” Francis took the last bite of food and gulp of orange juice.

Alan chuckled. He was terrible at telling stories.

“Are you here to see if I have an inflated ego?” Francis asked.

“No. Not really. Being arrested is a traumatic experience for anyone. I want to help you if I can. Maybe all I can do is be someone you can talk to, someone who’s on your side.”

“I don’t think you can help me, Dr. Smith.”

“It’s just Alan.”

“Alan,” said the boy softly.

“Why do you say that?”

“Cause I’m really fucked up.”

“Do you want to talk to me about it? Maybe we can figure things out together.”

Francis pulled his knees up to his chest and hid his face between them.

“Listen, Francis. At some point today, the police are going to come in here and officially arrest you. They will start asking you questions. Tough questions. Whatever you say to them, they are going to use it as evidence against you in court. The county is going to give you a lawyer, and I’m authorized to advise your lawyer based on what we talk about together. So, if there are things you need to say about how you’re feeling and what you’re thinking, you can tell them to me. Maybe I can help your lawyer understand your situation better.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know you are. You know, as a doctor, I have some privileges. Whatever you tell me, I’ll keep it a secret. It’s protected by law, something called doctor-patient confidentiality. That means no one can make me reveal anything you say to me as long as I live.”

“So, I tell you all my secrets, and you won’t say anything?”

“That’s right.”

“What if they set your car on fire?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“What if they take all your money.”

“I don’t have much money. But, still, mum’s the word.”

“What if they arrest you, lock you up, and don’t let you sleep for forty-eight hours?”

“They can’t arrest me. And… torture is illegal. But I wouldn’t say anything just to piss them off at that point. If I counsel you, I swear on my honor, I will not break my oath as a medical professional.”

“And what if I’m crazy?” said the boy. He sucked on his fat lower lip.

“Crazy isn’t a term I like to use. It’s slang. It’s a non-clinical word, like shrink. If you think you can, try to put a little trust in me.”

“Okay, but you’re gonna think I’m fucking crazy.”

“No. No, I won’t.” He wanted to put a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder and comfort him, but the rules of medical professionalism prohibited even that small gesture.

Francis looked like he was sizing him up for a foot race. He smiled and winced at the pain. “I’ll trust you, Alan. You can be my shrink.”

“Deal.” Alan held out his fist, and Francis gave him a bump. “I’m going to ask you some questions. All I need you to do is tell me the truth. Can you do that?”

The boy nodded.

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Francis held up his little finger, and Alan hooked it with his own.

“Okay. Where are your parents?”

He shrugged.

“You don’t know where your parents are?”

“Dead, maybe,” he said.

“Why do you say that?”

“White Owl said they were on the spin pretty bad.”

“Is White Owl a relative?”

“No. I live with her… sometimes. She’s a witch.”

“You mean like a medicine woman or a shaman?”

Francis shrugged. “More like a witch.”

“That’s cool. I’m culturally sensitive.”

Francis smiled.

“Is she your guardian then?”

“No, she’s just the only one who would take me… on account of my… issues.” That last word came out with a breath of shame.

“Listen, Francis. I don’t think it’s productive to talk about yourself like that.”

“I’m crazy.” The boy raised his voice. “I say it because it is what it is.”

“Okay, tell me. What makes you so sure you’re crazy?”

Francis buried his head in his legs. Minutes passed until he finally looked at Alan. His lips tried to form a word, but he was mute.

Alan had seen similar behavior before in people who had suffered abuse, usually long, traumatic ordeals at the hands of a family member or caretaker. To speak would be to make real the suffering they had experienced for so long. It meant they would betray their abuser, maybe someone they loved who had hurt them profoundly. Their world would crumble, and they would not know how to pick up the pieces.

“Hey now, Francis.” Alan used a tone of voice he’d learned working with veterans from the eastern front who had experienced the horrors of war; a kind voice but strong, a voice that promised refuge, release, and protection.

The kid peeked from between his arms, shielding his face.

“Francis. I’m here for you. You’re okay. Everything is going to be alright.”

“It will not be alright.” Barely a whisper from deep within a well.

“It will. It will. Tell me who hurt you. I’ll make sure they won’t hurt you anymore.”

“You won’t believe me. You’ll call me crazy.” The boy was on the precipice of panic.

“Whatever happened is in the past.”

Alan was lost there with him. All the frustration. The weight of the world was crushing him down.

“Not just the past,” said Francis. He looked around the room as if a monster was going to jump out of the shadows and eat him. “Past. Present. And Future. And maybe… maybe beyond… cause no one knows what happens after…”

The boy stared at him, then stood and turned away. At first he didn’t move, then, in a moment of courage, he grabbed the hem of his hoodie and t-shirt and lifted them so they bunched around his neck.

“Oh my God,” whispered Alan, his mouth gone suddenly dry.

A long, angry scar, darker than the rest of his skin and jagged like a lightning bolt, ran from between his delicate shoulder blades, across the bony ridges of his spine, down to his narrow waist. Francis pulled his sweatpants down a little to show it continued across his right buttock. He lifted his arms and turned. Small, round scars dotted his rib cage, some old and dark, others scabbed over, others pale where the scabs had peeled away. Cigarette burns. He faced Alan and revealed another gash across his chest that looked fresh and weepy in the early stages of healing.

He allowed him to look, to inspect, then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats, bit on his swollen lip, glanced up at the security camera, and lowered the front of his sweatpants. Alan’s stomach churned. He felt a pounding between his eyes.

“My God.”

Above a light dusting of pubic hair… a brand… He had been branded. Some sick fucker had etched a word into the boy’s tender flesh—MAJI.

“Francis…” was all Alan could say.

Francis lowered his shirt, pulled up his sweats, and slumped onto the padded floor, pulling his legs to his chest. A tear trickled down his cheek. His hands trembled as if freezing, but the room was warm. It was too warm for Alan. He was sweating.

“Was it White Owl, Francis?” Alan asked as softly as he could.

“No!” the boy shouted. “No! She’s the only one who helped. They all left me, and she’s the only one!” He sobbed.

“Tell me, Francis. Let me help. Who did this?” A rage was growing in the pit of Alan’s stomach; it wanted to leap out and attack someone.

“The hunters.”

“Hunters?”

Francis nodded. “They’re angry because I helped Amy. They’re coming for me.”

“Francis, no one can hurt you. Let me⁠—”

“What the fuck can you do?” he cried. “You’re blind. You don’t know anything. You’re just like them!” He pointed behind him.

Alan turned. Two police officers in full gear were walking toward the D-Pad door. A tall, muscle-bound brute with a bald head and sharp-trimmed facial hair, and the other a petite woman with fiery red hair.

“I’m going to talk to these officers,” said Alan.

Fear of the unknown shone in Francis’s eyes. He went to the padded bed that stuck out of the far wall, curled into a ball, and pulled his hoodie protectively over him, motionless.

Alan approached the door, wary of their intentions. He needed more time with Francis. More time to connect with him, to figure out how broken he was, who had hurt him, and what it would take to help him.

“Hello, are you Dr. Smith?” asked the female officer.

“That’s right. This is my client. We’re in a session if you don’t mind.”

“I’m Deputy Wolf from the Lake County Sheriff’s Department. This is Acting Sheriff Comstock.” She gestured with her chin to the large cop who rested his hand on his holstered sidearm.

“Mr. Smith, we’re here to transport the prisoner downtown for questioning,” Comstock said.

“It’s Doctor Smith, and he’s my patient, not a prisoner. I’m evaluating his mental condition, and I’d appreciate it if I could finish my session with him.”

Comstock stepped forward until his face was only inches from the glass. “We’re taking him now. You can file the paperwork to meet with him after he’s been processed.”

“Come on. He’s just a boy. He’s scared to death.”

“Doctor? What kind of doctor are you?”

“I’m a psychologist.”

The burly cop laughed. “Right, okay, Doctor, that girl he tried to rape is just a girl, and she’s sitting in a hospital room right now, afraid to speak.”

“I read the police report,” said Alan. “Deputy Wolf, your report. It states there were no signs of assault, sexual or otherwise.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Smith. It’s just the way the system works,” said Deputy Wolf. Her voice was kind and familiar.

“As far as I can tell, this boy doesn’t have a recognized guardian. As his mental health professional, I’m exercising my right to act as guardian pro tempore.”

“Pro tem por ray?” Comstock shook his head with an ironic leer.

“Yes, it’s Latin for temporary. I want to be there for questioning.”

“Mental health practitioner? You liberal fucking snowflakes. Fine!” He shouted back to Sam, “Open!”

Sam’s voice came on over the intercom. “Sorry, Dr. Smith, they have a warrant.”

Alan nodded to the camera in the corner of the room. “Francis, you’re going to be okay. I’ll see you soon.”

The boy didn’t move.

Bzzt went the door, and Comstock shoved past Alan. He grabbed Francis by the scruff of his hoodie, ripping him out of his protective fetal position, slammed him against the wall with a thud, and twisted the boy’s skinny arm behind his back.

“Ow!” cried Francis.

The acting sheriff pulled his wrists together and cinched them with a pair of heavy handcuffs.

Francis sucked air through his teeth at the pain.

“What the fuck?” Alan shouted. “You got a goddamn misconduct complaint, you sonuvabitch.” Now Alan was in the cop’s face.

“Make my day,” said Comstock, dragging the boy through the clinic. “Francis Builds A Fire, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you do or say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

Sam rose from his desk, but Comstock pointed a gloved hand at him. “Back off, boy.”

Sam did not flinch.

They burst out the front door into the dim morning.

“Dr. Smith,” said Wolf under her breath, “don’t fight him. It’ll just make everything harder along the way. Follow the process.” She tried to put a reassuring hand on his arm, but he pulled past her, jogging after Comstock as he dragged Francis to an SUV with flashing lights.

An elderly couple in pastel jogging suits, each walking a poodle, stopped on the sidewalk to gawk.

“Francis! Francis! Listen, you don’t need to talk to them. Wait for your lawyer. Do not talk to them.”

The boy turned his swollen face on Alan with a look of defeat, as if to say, See, I told you. There’s nothing you can do to help me.

“Francis,” Alan said, panic in his throat, throwing out professional decorum for something more primal. “I won’t lose you, boy. I won’t lose you again.” Francis had heard him. He looked up at Alan and said something. Something about a hunter, just as the heavy door of the police vehicle was slammed in his face.

“Listen, you shrink fuck,” snarled Comstock. “That little girl, you know who her father is? Look it up, you fucking shrink piece of shit! Don’t you ever get in my fucking way again, or I’ll teach you the meaning of pain.”

The doors slammed, and the next thing Alan knew, the SUV was spinning its tires and whipping out onto the deserted street.

“Fuck!” he shouted.

The elderly couple were still staring.

“What the fuck are you looking at?”

Sensibilities reasonably offended, the pair pulled their poodles close and continued on their way, casting skeptical looks over their shoulders.