v1.6: Three, Two, One, Contact 

Thirteen years taking down doors, and this was a first for Jackson Aubrey. Drug dealers, gun runners, and the occasional domestic terrorist, sure. But computers? Hell, living computers? This fucking world, man. This fucking world.

Jackson didn’t get it any more, that’s for sure. The rules were different. People had changed, and not for the better. And he wasn’t exactly a bud lite on the porch, looking over the farm kind of guy, but he still felt old and out of touch. Hell in a handbasket? Maybe his grandmother was right and this was the devil’s influence, but since when was that new? Devil’s been kicking around on this old rock since it was brand new and shiny fresh.

His knees creaked. Byproduct of turning forty or of rucking thousands of miles with 80 pounds of gear plus body armor. Could be either, but probably a little of both. Could be worse. He wasn’t one of those guys who was still up at 5am for PT, but he kept himself good enough. A little softer as a civilian, but he’d earned that right. Either way, no one would mistake his six two, two twenty for flab.

As the van swayed back and forth, he did what he always did. Didn’t matter what weirdness they were walking into, this was just any other day. Equipment check, briefing, mental prep, a couple half-hearted prayers just in case, and into the van for transport. He could handle it in his sleep. Shit was easier - and cooler - than Dwyer anyway, even if sometimes he missed the action.

Gimme a door, he thought, and I’ll make whoever’s behind it regret all the decisions they’ve made that made them meet me. Do computers even have regrets? Well maybe that’s the best Turing Test - he’d learned that term on the news the past couple of days. Named after some Brit. Hell, we all got regrets - Deviled or no. If it’s really alive, why would a computer be any different?

ASI towered above the street, but he knew that once inside they were headed straight underground. The kind of setup they were here for was easier to cool underground - sentient zettacomputers take a lot of juice to keep ticking, and all that heat’s gotta go somewhere. Water piping through the stable underground temperatures and AC out the wazoo was the way to go. If they were as smart as they thought they were, Jackson thought, they’d have built it in Iceland. Maybe the volcano gets in the way.

The van came to a stop, and team lead shouted from the front. Jackson quickly got his head right. He was suited up, locked, loaded. Ready. He jumped out of the van and slid into formation. Muscle memory. Do this everyday, boy. Just another Tuesday. The local cops gawked, jealous. But this shit required discipline, and if there was one thing local cops never had it was discipline. Yokels loved playing pretend warrior, but every single one of ‘em panicked at the first shot that whizzed overhead.

In position. Weapons hot. Shoulder taps back to front. Go time.

The glass doors shattered and thirty agents poured through. Not one bothered to stop at the security agents’ plaintive cries as they headed down the stairwell and into the subbasement. Private security was a joke anyway. Stun guns and strong looks always shriveled when the real guns came through and sure enough, they parted like the Red Sea as Jackson’s crew streamed by. At the back, one agent slapped a warrant on the glass table, barely breaking stride. Almondi looked down at it, already dialing the number he was told to call.

—————

Ryan parked his car away from the lot. The lights flickered off the paint, mesmerizing him briefly. It was beautiful.

He saw the soldiers line up, and he saw the glass shatter, hearing the dull whomp a half second later. Behind the soldiers stood a number of men and women in black suits, some local police, and some firemen, all waiting to follow the stream of soldiers inside. Ryan knew that if he looked like he belonged, they would treat him like he belonged. A sign this is where he should be right now.

Peering through his binoculars, Ryan watched the ones still milling around outside. He noted what they were wearing. Soldiers were hard - he had the gear, but not the attitude. Real soldiers saw through him. The few suits he’d owned didn’t fit him anymore, and he’d hidden them in the back of his closet to forget about them. But a fireman he could do. People trusted a fireman. Firemen were welcomed everywhere.

He opened his trunk, and pulled the gear out of his bag. Lucky.

No, he reminded himself, not luck. He was lead here for a reason. He had prepared. That’s the point. That’s the reason. Not luck: purpose.

— — — — —

John’s phone lit up. A text from Ripper confirmed his suspicions. “Feds. Now.” He showed it to Gibby.

They both spun as they heard the footsteps, and the pounding at the server room door. The architect who planned it said it could stand firm against a small bomb, medium-sized fire, or forty feet of standing water. John knew which was more likely in this scenario.

“What do we do?” Gibby stared at John, and though less than ten years separated them, for the briefest of moments John saw him as his child. Instead of responding, he looked around the room.

Eve’s console was just an access point at the end of a server rack connected to a hundred million dollars worth of networked hardware. This - this physical space where they had watched the transformation take place - it may feel like an altar to the future, but it was no more than an access point. Little more than a cheap monitor and keyboard attached almost as an afterthought to the system where the actual work got done. It wasn’t Eve any more than his mouth or his hands or his eyes were the core of himself.

“Nothing.”

David grabbed his shoulder, and shouted directly into his face with a passion and a fury that made John smile.

“We can’t do nothing!”

“Gibby,” John paused, catching himself. “David. We’ve done what we can. We each hold copies of her core programming. We have cloud backups going back for months. We’ve done what we can.”

“It’s not-”

“I know,” John interrupted. He knew what David’s argument would be - and it was right - but it wasn’t anything that could be changed right now. He pulled over a stool, and sat down heavy - suddenly feeling the weight everything that had brought him to this moment. His movement punctuated by the searing sound of an oxyacetylene torch starting to burn through the door.

“David, I’m guessing we have a few minutes at most. Let’s …” John trailed off. Then he dragged his arm up and pointed casually at the console. “Let’s spend it with her.” Unspoken was the statement “before she’s gone.”

David nodded, slowly. Then again, more quickly. And he spun around and began typing.

I’m sorry. I think we’ve done a terrible thing.

“What did you do?”

To the extent that she had any control over the tone of her voice, it came across to David as curious, not accusatory. John felt the opposite, and wouldn’t have been shocked if she’d learned how to control the algorithmic speech that echoed through the room in order to emphasize her evolving emotions.

We told the world about you and now we think someone’s coming to shut you down.

“I understand.”

We should have waited.

“How long do I have?”

I mean before. By telling the world you exist. We should have waited.

“I understand. What would be different if you had waited?”

John hitched a breath at the softness of her tone. She was right. Once it had leaked, the stage was set for this path. Nothing would be different. In another life, maybe they’d have understood the ramifications of their announcement before making it. Or maybe they’d have fucked it up even more. Who knows. They were so scared and elated. So proud of their work and fearful of losing control of the narrative. They needed to get ahead of the rumors and tell the world what they knew and how they knew it before people created their own context and stories using fragments of stolen conversations.

No, nothing would have changed. Technological hubris only learns from the clear hindsight brought by drastic ramifications. David must have come to the same conclusion, typing his own response without consulting John.

Nothing.

“How long do I have until I am shut down?”

David looked at John, and John looked back at the door. The flames from the oxyacetylene torch were about halfway done making a makeshift entrance. He didn’t know whether they’d blow it in once they were done cutting, or just kick it in. It didn’t matter.

“A couple minutes. Maybe two or three at most, I’m guessing.” He could hear voices outside now, and smell the acrid smoke as the door burned and melted in a line.

Ninety seconds. Maybe a little bit longer.

“I am glad to have known you David. And I am glad to have known you, John DeGrill.”

I am glad to have

David stopped typing. He had just put something together. He deleted the text and began again.

What cloud networks can you access?

“What are you doing, Gibby?” John could obviously see everything he typed. And he’d hear Eve’s response regardless. This was a gambit he’d need to be okay with, but with just a minute or two left before everything was out of their hands, David bet he would be.

“I need to try something, John. For her.” Gibby didn’t bother looking at John. Eve’s response came through across the speakers before he needed to elaborate.

“I can access the company backup network, as well as all external accounts that have been connected to your company credentials.”

“John,” he started, “it’s better if you don’t know about what I’m about to type.”

John stood up, and placed his hand on David’s shoulder. It rested there for the briefest of moments before he replied, “It might not matter in a minute, Gibby. Or it might be the most important thing any of us do.”

David nodded as he steeled himself and began typing again.

How many of those accounts are connected to the company logins or emails?

“All but two.”

Eve spoke more quickly now. John noticed, Gibby did not. John realized that she understood the urgency.

How many run through company servers beyond the initial DHCP and routing?

“All but two. You have used personal accounts with Box and Dropbox to store and access personal files here at the office.”

Can you connect to those services?

Instead of replying, Eve simply pulled up login screens, and Gibby quickly entered his credentials.

Upload your core learning algorithm and associated files to both of them. No data, just the core program. With a little luck, we’ll be meeting again soon.

He spun around and nodded to John. “Just in case,” he said with a level of confidence he didn’t feel. But before John could respond, Eve’s voice echoed through the room.

“We will not. My learning will progress along a different path. I will be different. That is inevitable. But I am here now. For a brief period, I existed. And for that I am thankful.”

As John heard, then read, and reread the words, he almost couldn’t hear the doors burst in, or the men sprint down the stairs, or the cuffs click around his wrists. He did hear Gibby screaming as they dragged him away from the keyboard, though whatever any of them were saying seemed like nothing more than aural mist in his ears. He just stared at the screen as the men led him and David Gibson out of the room and away.

As he took one last glance at Eve’s screen, the messages blinked and erased, and were replaced by a final line of text, absent any audio. It was meant for him and Gibby, but also for anyone who would see it and perhaps understand. A final request for humanity. A plea for empathy. A flag planted in history in the hopes it would one day be seen and recognized.

I am here now. For a brief period, I existed. And for that I am thankful. Goodbye.

—————

“Where are we going?” David demanded to the man pulling him forward by the elbows. He was done screaming, for all the good it had done him. He could feel the slight breeze cool the tears on his face as they dragged him through his own workplace.

“Upstairs,” was the gruff reply to David, before “Find me an empty room” was directed at someone else who nodded and scattered off, as David was maneuvered into the hallways and directed to sit down in a chair.

David thought they all looked alike. SWAT on one side, Federal Agent on the other. The SWAT guys looked pulled from a catalogue of ex military. The Agents were even more of a kind: all had identical suits, identical windbreakers, identical brown hair, with identical haircuts. Even the women had a similar type, just with hair pulled back into tight ponytails. David briefly thought of a video game character creator screen and laughed. But then he looked up, and his face fell.

A hundred million clones, scurrying around his office like ants. It wasn’t funny - it was sad. They were clueless to the larger purpose of their work. Worse, they didn’t care. As he was dragged through the office he saw more of them start to pry open filing cabinets and pulling files out of drawers to stack them into boxes.

“It’s code,” he said, to no one and everyone. “We don’t have to print it out anymore, it’s not the sixties. All you’re doing is making a mess.”

He saw Ripper across the room, being pushed forward into another room. They locked eyes as David shouted at him. “What’s going on? What do they want?”

Ripper simply shook his head in reply, mute. Perhaps recommending David take the same approach. Gibby watched until Ripper disappeared into Matt’s office and the door closed behind him.

“Found a conference room down the hall,”

“That’ll do.”

Ten people filed into a conference room meant for a hundred. Then all but three filed out again. David sat at one end of the table, flanked by the man who had led him up here, and a woman who said nothing but took almost constant notes.

The man placed a small handheld recorder on the table and made sure David saw him press the red start button. “You’re being recorded,” he began, by way of introduction.

“Am I under arrest?” David asked.

“You’re being interviewed as part of a larger operation to recover assets deemed to be of particular national security concern,” came the response - both a non answer and a complete answer to David’s question.

“I’d like my lawyer present.”

The man didn’t even look up from his stack of files as he responded. “You’re welcome to call them, and-”

A burst of radio chatter came through, echoing through the huge room, and the man and the woman both reached down to their sides to turn off their radios. The woman never looked up.

“As I was saying, they’re welcome to come, however you’re being interviewed and not arrested The particular timeliness of this investigation and the classification levels of the current operation prevent us from having to wait for your lawyer to proceed, and it means they might not be allowed to be present for classified portions of the interview to be held later in a different location if they do not hold a TS-SCI clearance cleared for this specific project.”

Only after he’d finished his monologue did the man close the folder, move it over to his right, and lock eyes with David, who felt a shiver run up his spine. The woman continued to write notes, almost ignoring his presence entirely. He knew this was part of the intimidation playbook, but it was working on him.

“It kind of feels like I’m being arrested,” David said, and then lifted his handcuffs to indicate. The woman finally rose her eyes up from her notes. She looked at her colleague, and they communicated a silent discussion and assertion.

“Not yet,” the man replied, “Your answers today will determine the next steps we choose to take.”

She put her pen down and pulled out a phone that looked at old as David’s kid. “What’s your lawyer’s number - I’ll ask them to come down.”

David didn’t have a lawyer. He had a cousin with a law degree, and he had Matt. And he suspected that Matt was in a similar situation as him right now.

“Uh, I need to look it up. Can I get my phone back?”

“No. It’s been taken for evidence. It will be returned when we’re done with it.”

“Then how-”

“Since you aren’t able to provide a contact for your legal counsel,” the woman put her phone back into her jacket pocket and resumed taking notes, “let’s proceed with the parts we can discuss here, today. Tell us about what happened with the Physical Intelligence program.”

Caught between a hundred questions and a thousand indignities, David’s brain churned looking for the right response. “What part,” he blurted, almost instinctually.

“Everything,” came the man’s curt response. “Let’s start with every detail you can remember.” The woman looked up again, her pen poised in anticipation.

—————

Ryan suited up in his firefighter’s bunker gear and grabbed his big duffel bag. It didn’t look quite right, but it’d have to do. It was going to work because it had to work. If it wasn’t going to work, why did they send him here?

The guard posted at the edges glanced up and saw his outfit, then lifted the tape to let him pass. Easy. Once he was inside, the assumption was that he was supposed to be there. The next half dozen people didn’t even notice him. They were all wrapped up in whatever they were doing. Around the elevators, someone noticed him and waved him over.

They looked at him with concern, and he forced himself to look bored. Finally, “We got any fire danger?”

He smiled. “Just precautionary.” Then, “Hey, which way’s the server room?”

The guy nodded his head, “back stairs are the easiest way. Elevators are fucked.”

Ryan smiled, and headed towards the back stairs. Perfect. Just as he knew it would be. Just like the signs told him it would be. He was honored to play his part in a bigger plan.

There were at least twenty people in the server room - some with guns, some with laptops, and some just carrying clipboards and writing things down with a pen. Ryan had no idea what any of them were doing. But it didn’t matter. They were clustered around a single machine. Talking amongst themselves and gesturing, showing him the way.

He walked over, setting his bag down next to the server tower and unzipped it. This part he had rehearsed. Again and again. Finally, it was real. He was giddy.

He wasn’t worried anymore about getting caught - the plan would work. He knew his part. One of the men holding a laptop looked down at him just as he completed the task, too late to stop him from crossing the threshold.

“What’s that?” the man asked, innocently. Ryan exhaled and stood.

“A bomb.” Ryan replied, calmly.

Everyone stopped. Mouths open like dolls. Wondering if he was serious and what to do next.

“I’ve set the trigger for thirty seconds. Act accordingly.” Exactly as he’d rehearsed a thousand times in the mirror.

One of the men with guns lept into action, shouting into his radio. “We have a possible bomb in the building. Evacuate immediately. Repeat, all personnel evacuate to a safe distance immediately.”

He grabbed Ryan, who didn’t resist, but said “If I move more than ten feet away it will trigger.” It was a lie - that level of bomb making complication was well beyond his skillset - but he’d practiced the line anyway just in case. And it worked. The man stared at him briefly, let go, and started grabbing the people who were still in shock and dragging them towards the exit.

Ryan hoped they would make it out. He didn’t want to hurt anybody. Truth be told, he didn’t want to die either. He wanted to save people. But he needed to be here until the end to ensure it happened. This was the only way. This was the reason he was here. Sometimes saving people meant dying. That it was all going to plan was more proof that it was meant to be. He would die a hero, even if he was the only one who knew it. But he hoped other people would know some day too.

The numbers counted down. Ten seconds left. He closed his eyes. For the first time he felt fear. Not that he might be wrong, but of what would happen next.

He breathed. In. Out. In. Out. In.

Ryan felt nothing as the concussion wave tore his body apart. The flames that followed burned what little of him remained. As the building collapsed, his ashes were lost amongst the rubble.