Too tired to object, Gray sank into the seat’s thick leather cushion. A sigh inadvertently escaped him. He was exhausted, but also drawn as tight as a piano wire by the night’s tensions.
Painter stayed upright but leaned on his desk chair. He remained silent for a full breath, plainly trying to decide how to approach the topic at hand. When he finally spoke, the choice perplexed Gray.
“How current are you with the latest research into artificial intelligence?” Painter asked.
Gray frowned. After being recruited out of Leavenworth to work for Sigma, he had undergone a fast-tracked postdoctoral program, studying physics and biology. So he knew a fair amount about the subject, but certainly not how it connected to the night’s attack.
He shrugged. “Why are you asking?”
“The topic’s been a growing concern over at DARPA. The group’s been pouring money into various AI research programs. Both public and private. Did you know that Siri—Apple’s ubiquitous assistant—was funded through DARPA research?”
In fact, Gray hadn’t known that. He sat straighter.
“But that’s barely the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Across the globe— from corporations like Amazon and Google, to research labs in every nation—a fierce arm’s race is under way in artificial intelligence, to be the first to make the next breakthrough, to take the next step. And currently we are losing that race to Russia and China. Not only do such autocratic regimes appreciate the economic advantages of AI, they also see it as a means to control their populations. Already China is using an AI program to monitor and study their populace’s use of social media, coming up with a ranking, a scorecard of their loyalty. Those with low numbers find their travel limited and their access to loans restricted.”
“So be good or suffer the consequences,” Gray muttered.
“Hopefully they don’t do that with Tinder,” Kowalski said. “Guy’s got to have some privacy while looking for a booty call.”
“You have a girlfriend,” Gray reminded him.
Kowalski huffed a stream of smoke. “I said looking for . . . not going on a booty call.”
Painter drew their attentions back. “And then there’s the matter of cyberespionage and cyberattacks. Like with the Russians. A single machine-learning AI can do the work of a million hackers at keyboards. We’re already seeing that with the automated bots infiltrating systems to spy, wreak destruction, or sow discord. Still, that’s all scratching the surface of where we’re headed next at breakneck speed. Right now, AI runs our search engines, voice-recognition software, and data-mining programs. The true arms race is to be the first to push the boundary even farther—from AI to AGI.”
Kowalski stirred. “What’s AGI?”
“Artificial general intelligence. A humanlike state of intelligence and awareness.”
“Don’t worry.” Gray glanced over to Kowalski. “You’ll get there someday.”
Kowalski took out his cigar and used its length to flip him the bird.
Gray took no offense. “It’s good to see you’re already learning to use basic tools.”
Painter sighed heavily. “Speaking of getting there someday. The director of DARPA—General Metcalf—just returned from a world summit about this very matter: the creation of the first AGI. The summit included all the usual corporate and government players. The group’s conclusion was that there is no way to halt technical progress toward the creation of an AGI. Such a prize is too tempting to ignore, especially as whoever controls such a force will likely be unstoppable. As the Russian president said, they will control the world. So every nation, every hostile power, must pursue it at all cost. Including us.”
“How close are we to that threshold?” Gray asked.
“From a poll of the experts, ten years at the outset. Maybe as short as half that. But definitely in our lifetimes.” Painter shrugged. “And there are some indications, we might have already done it.”
Gray failed to hide his shock. “What?”
1:58 A.M.
“C’mon, baby, wake up,” Monk whispered in his wife’s ear. “Kat, just give my hand a little squeeze.”
Alone in the private room in the neurology ward, he had pulled a chair to her bedside. He had never felt so helpless. Stress heightened his every sense. The chill in the room. The quiet chatter out in the hallway. The acrid scent of antiseptic and bleach. But mostly he focused on the persistent beep of the monitoring equipment, keeping track of each breath, each beat of her heart, the steady drip through her IV line.
Tension ached in his back as he hunched at her side, his muscles ready to explode if anything changed. If the EKG showed an arrhythmia, if her breathing should slow, if the flow of edema-combatting mannitol should stop.
Kat lay on her back, her head elevated to reduce the risk of further brain swelling. Bandages covered her lacerated arms. Her eyelids showed only cracks of white. Her lips pursed with each exhalation, while a nasal canula delivered supplemental oxygen.
Keep breathing, baby.
Doctors had discussed intubating her and putting her on a ventilator, but with her pulse-ox holding steady at 98 percent, they opted to hold off, especially as tests were still being run, with additional procedures lined up. If they had to move her, it would be easier if she weren’t on a ventilator.
He stared at the pulse-ox device clipped on her index finger. He considered double-checking himself with his neuroprosthesis, but he had detached his hand from its wrist cuff. It rested on the bedside table. He was still getting used to the new prosthesis. Even detached, its synthetic skin transmitted wirelessly to the cuff, then to the microarray wired in his brain, registering the cold of the room. He willed the fingers to move and watched the disembodied digits wiggle in response.
If only I could get Kat’s fingers to do the same . . .
A scuff of a heel drew his attention to the door. A slim nurse entered with a folded blanket under one arm and a cup in one hand.
Monk reached to the table and reattached his prosthesis. He felt his cheeks flush, slightly embarrassed to be caught with his hand detached, like being caught with his fly open.
“I brought an extra blanket,” the nurse said, holding up the plastic glass. “And a few ice chips. Don’t put them in her mouth, just paint them across her bruised lips. It can be soothing, or so patients who’ve recovered from coma have reported.”
“Thank you.”
Monk took the cup, grateful to be able to offer even this small bit of comfort. As the nurse tucked in a second blanket over Kat’s lower half, Monk gently rubbed an ice chip across her lower lip, then upper, like applying lipstick—not that Kat wore much makeup. He searched her face for any reaction.
Nothing.
“I’ll leave you be,” the nurse said and exited.
Kat’s lips pinkened slightly under his care, reminding him of all the times he’d kissed her.
I can’t lose you.
As the ice chip melted away, the head of neurology entered, carrying a chart.
“We have the second set of CT results,” Dr. Edmonds said.
Monk placed the plastic cup on the table and held out his hand, wanting to see the results himself. “And?”
Edmonds passed them over. “The fracture at the base of her skull has resulted in traumatic damage to the brainstem. There’s a distinct contusion involving both the cerebellum and pons region. But the rest of her brain—her higher cerebral regions—appears undamaged.”
Monk pictured Kat being struck from behind with the mallet found on the kitchen floor.
“So far, there does not seem to be any active bleeding at the contusion site. But it’s something we’ll be monitoring with successive scans.” Edmonds stared over at Kat, though it appeared less like he was checking on her than that he was avoiding eye contact with Monk. “I also ran a long EEG, which showed a normal sleep pattern, interrupted occasionally by a wakeful response.”
“Wakeful? So she may be aware at times. Does that mean she’s not in a coma?”
Edmonds sighed. “In my professional judgment, she’s in a pseudocoma.” From his grim tone, this was not good news. “During her assessment, she showed no response to pain stimulation or loud noises. While her pupillary response to light is normal, we’re seeing only minimal spontaneous eye movements.”
During her initial neuro exam, Monk had been heartened to see Kat blink when her lashes were brushed. Still, while he had a background in medicine and biotech, he was no neurologist. “What are you trying to tell me? Be blunt.”
“I’ve consulted with everyone here. The consensus is your wife is suffering from locked-in syndrome. The brainstem trauma has cut off her higher cerebral functions from her voluntary motor control. She’s basically awake—fully aware, at times—but can’t move her body.”
Monk swallowed, his vision darkening at the edges.