Читать книгу The New Republic of Texas - E. Mandervellt - Страница 7

Carlisle sat aboard an antique, twin engine Osprey that had been overhauled to serve as a shuttle for non-combatants. The squad seating had been gutted and the cargo bay ribs covered with paneling. Carpeting, televisions, a cocktail bar, and luxury seating with workspace rounded out the set-up and resulted in an in-flight experience rivaling first-class on either of the two U.S. airlines still in operation. An attendant decked in the sharp, Prussian blue uniform of the Air Force served him drinks and, when she discovered that he had worked on Tango Alpha, delighted him with conversation on the nature and operation of artificial intelligence. Fascinated by the idea that consciousness could emerge within a non-biological substrate and frustrated at her inability to understand how it emerged from a wholly biological one, she had enrolled in night school and was taking courses to become a programmer.

As the two chatted, Carlisle watched the F35 escort fighter on their starboard flank, its control surfaces twitching rapidly to compensate for turbulence and maintain perfectly level flight. A magnificent machine, now in its third round of development, the Lightning had survived postwar austerity that forced military industrial firms to scrap more advanced designs in favor of a proven air-frame easily enhanced by upgrading components. He explained to the Staff Sargeant how predictive systems controlling the planes were crude intelligence networks designed to learn flight styles and interpret a pilot's desired output given his or her commands while taking external conditions into account. Her questions were on point and she clearly displayed a reasonable understanding of neural network interactions. Carlisle had little doubt that she would make an excellent engineer upon discharge. They exchanged cards and he promised to give her a chance at Machine Core once she'd finished school. Liu was always complaining about the workload, so it might be time to expand.

The two spoke for another half hour about his work on the infamous AI, she prodding the edges of the nebulous blackbox of information deemed classified, he doing his best to divulge what he could. Eventually, she internally checked her clock and made an expression of surprise, then informed him that she must absolutely return to reports which were due on landing. With a winning smile, she handed him another drink before returning to her work.

Carlisle slumped down in his seat and drained half a glass of good whiskey. Amy Proll, Staff Sargeant, USAF, the card read. A tutor at heart, he relished any opportunity to aid others in understanding the materials of his craft and had been engaged and at ease in discussion with the Sargeant just moments ago. Now, his face slowly became long as his anxiety returned and he was left alone to contemplate. He took a few minutes to experiment with his new augmented reality display before disabling it in disgust with a grunt so foul that the young woman opposite him looked up inquisitively from her report.

They're never really off, he thought. They run on your neural potential for God's sake! I wonder if it's true, if they record every thought you have and ship it to some digital warehouse so they can do God knows what. Makes me sick. Mac's Secretary said they would remove it after the meeting, but I bet they come at me with something else. I should have tried harder to negotiate. Gotten some sort of assurance they would forget about the paper. Oh, well.

He downed the rest of his whiskey as he pulled his computer from its case and set it atop the work table. Before the trip, he and Liu had done some digging and found a piece of open source software that would allow them to monitor certain metrics of the NeuralLink's output. The readme said that the program was based on experiments with the operating system of the other major neural interface, LinkUp, which was standard in the PRC. Though the hardware was essentially the same, each system monitored and moved data differently. The technician who installed his unit was aware of his aversion to integration and graciously spent almost an hour explaining the mechanisms that allowed it to operate, what was measured, and the details of brain-Link interaction. Nodes were distributed about the brain and complex calibration enabled the nanobots comprising the interface to locate inlets and outlets for functional groups corresponding to sensory input / output, whereafter the device could respond to the user's thoughts and present him with auditory and visual data.

He booted the software on his computer and keyed his identifier. To his relief, the program could not detect any voltage greater than normal background neural activation. No metrics were available and he was glad to see that the monitors for meta-metrics like anxiety, happiness, etc. were each labeled with a notice that his interface did not support the function. Satisfied, he deactivated his interface, set his computer aside, and let his thoughts drift to Sarah. Had his interface been on, he'd have been prompted with an invitation to call her.

She's definitely going to want to keep the damn thing.

The Carlisles' anniversary date was almost scuttled when Sarah expressed her desire to join her husband in getting a NeuralLink installed. She knew his feelings on the topic and openly agreed without fail, but something about the way she'd always spoken of the tech gave the lie to her professed opposition. She'd said that she wanted to support him by going through the experience alongside him, later admitting, after more glasses of wine, that she really wanted to try drafting a book in ThoughtType. John had no choice but to consent. They were strictly ordered not to connect via interface in the interest of concealing Sarah's location and identity from hostile states who, though the chance was slight, might attempt to shadow John in Texas. Thus, they could neither call one another nor share messages. That was fine by John, who preferred speaking to his wife directly. What wasn't fine was even the slightest possibility that his interface could be hacked and data drawn from his visual and auditory cortices. Yet that is exactly what Defense planned to do to him during the meeting. The General's secretary claimed the presence of other eavesdroppers was unlikely given the difficulty of the feat and the secrecy surrounding the purpose of his mission, but this did nothing to assuage his apprehension. One listener was bad enough.

Precision of the interface was proportional to its frequency of use. Defense required him to write letters, browse the internet, and phone with a DOD conversation partner for a set time per day in order to achieve high accuracy, or submit to a full brain scan. He left the thing off at all other times. Sarah, in contrast, never turned hers off, editing new chapters of Pillars while she worked out, while she shopped, while she sat painting with him in their studio. She estimated that she could elevate her output by one or two novels per year which, if true, would make her deintegration a tough sell.

Carlisle had poured himself another whiskey without disturbing the Sargeant and reclined with eyes shut, concocting some ill-fated plot to rid Sarah of the dreaded Device, when the plane abruptly changed attitude in what felt like an evasive maneuver, violent enough to soak his trousers in booze and knock Amy from her seat with a yelp. Mouth agape, she pointed out the port window and Carlisle leaned over to see a rocket trail stretching off to the horizon. The plane returned to level as the Osprey's pilot broke their shocked silence.

"Sorry, folks. We're over Kansas and it looks like the locals are getting hungry. And bold. If you want to see some fireworks, I invite you to look out of your starboard viewports," he rattled, as their escort fighter peeled off to engage.