Operators need the added freedom. It is surprisingly difficult to get someone to sacrifice themselves in a hostage situation. Some people volunteer right away. They usually have military training, or at least some experience at being around death. The vast majority of subjects would rather watch the terrorists kill everyone in the building than to leave their fate in the hands of someone they’ve never met. Deep has always wondered if it is the fear of death stopping them, or the loss of control. Subjects are at the mercy of the terrorists; they are robbed of every power, every freedom, except for that one thing. They choose who lives and who dies. To let go of that might scare people more than the prospect of death. Whatever the reason, the fail rate is surprisingly high. Deep has studied every aspect of the kill, read all the papers it was based on, but he doesn’t understand how most people miss what is so obvious to him. The subjects aren’t asked to die for another human being, they are asked to take a chance in order to save a life. That chance has to be a very small one, at least for the next few kills. If someone volunteers to have a gun put to their head and saves two people in front of everyone, what are the odds the next person will pick them as the victim?
Deep is well aware that the art of K3 is in the hostage selection, all in the hands of the operator. His hands. There are very few guidelines on the hostage profiles: the data on the kill is too inconsistent. He can pick anyone, even people who look like him. He won’t dare, not today, but he likes knowing that he can. He thinks about Idir. Each subject responds to different cues, different triggers. It may very well be that what makes a subject choose self-sacrifice is entirely in their nature, that the end result would be identical no matter who was facing execution. Operators, for a variety of reasons they wouldn’t feel comfortable discussing, choose to see it differently. They believe—Deep does, all of them do—that context plays a part in the subject’s decision-making. How large a part? Each operator has their own opinion. But all share the notion that they are much more than simple observers, that their actions, the choices they make in the control room, help determine the outcome. In the few studies on retired BVA employees, K3 was cited as the most rewarding, but also the most significant contributor to work fatigue and depression.
Laura looks at her watch and turns to Deep. It’s time.
—Are you nervous?
—A little.
—Don’t worry about it. Just remember your training. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.
That isn’t true. She wants to use the time to call her sister in Leeds. They haven’t spoken in weeks and she feels bad for missing her birthday. She smiles at Deep, wishes him luck, and leaves the control room. She finishes her coffee on the way to her office and throws her empty cup in the recycling bin. She’s fairly sure it’s not recyclable, but figures she might be wrong.
Deep flips through his notebook. He’s been preparing for weeks but isn’t feeling as confident about his hostages anymore. He used years of statistics to create his profiles. Since K3 data is all over the place, he combined it with data from K2 and K4 to create a more stable model. Math doesn’t lie, he thought. But now, looking at a real, complex human being onscreen, his approach suddenly seems cold and incomplete.
Deep likes Idir. It’s not uncommon for trainees to develop some form of affection towards their first subject, and Deep knows it, which is why he’d never admit it. But he wants Idir to succeed. That much he’ll admit. What he sees on the big screen is a very moral man, someone guided more by principles than by subconscious attitudes. K3 should be no problem for him. And yet . . .
The AI is pushing too hard, Deep thinks. Operators control the general parameters of the experiment, but human interaction is too fast. One can’t simply improvise these things—a lesson that was learned the hard way. To keep the experiment as realistic as possible, dialogue is controlled by a computer program. It assigns character traits to the terrorist based on what it knows and learns about the subject. It is remarkably efficient, but Deep knows it can make mistakes. Sometimes the AI will focus on a detail that shouldn’t have made it onto the subject’s profile. Small things, likes and dislikes, hobbies. The people filling out profiles sometimes feel compelled to add things if there is nothing interesting about a subject. Some people are just inherently boring.
Deep thinks the AI is being overly aggressive. Even a man of Idir’s intelligence has his breaking point, and Deep knows what too much fear will do to someone. He’s worried Idir will follow his animal instinct and choose survival over reason. He’s worried the AI will cost him his citizenship. Not on my watch, he almost says aloud.
Deep rips the page from his notebook, crumples it, and throws it on the floor. He takes out a pen and starts scribbling. There’s some hesitation at first. Lots of scratching out. Then it all comes to him. Call it an epiphany, divine inspiration, whatever you want. His pen starts moving furiously on the page. He draws from biology: self-sacrifice goes against natural selection unless you shift the focus from the individual to the group to which it belongs. Social dynamics and game theory: consider the probability of survival as a resource and the goal of K3 becomes Pareto efficiency, a distribution strategy where one person’s situation cannot be improved without making another person’s worse. He remembers Nash: the best outcome for the group comes when everyone in the group does what’s best for himself and the group. That’s it, Deep thinks. Group belonging is the key. Redefine the ingroup to maximize the subject’s chance of success.
Deep can barely contain himself. This is going to be great.
6.
PLEASE KILL ME. I want to wake up from this nightmare. This is burning oil. Sharp pain. Like a stab, too much to bear, but it won’t go away, it keeps burning and burning. This is Shay?ān, evil, a ritual gone wrong. I want this to end. If I could die now and make this stop, I would not hesitate. I thought I was strong enough. I thought I could make it through, but I can’t. Not this. Anything but this.
—What’s the matter, Samaritan? Cat got your tongue?
—You have to stop.
—Why?
—I’ll do anything. Just don’t shoot anyone. Please!
I want to roll into a ball and weep. I want to close my eyes, shut them tight until it ends. I don’t want to see what’s across that window. I do what I can to stop from crying. I put all my heart into it. Stay strong. Stay strong. I believe I am but I feel the tears rolling on my face. I can taste the salt. How do I stop crying? I have to stop.
—Samaritan! Don’t go soft on me now. You’re just getting the knack of this!
—PLEASE!
—Why? What’s changed?
I cannot tell him. No matter what he says or does, I won’t. He’ll find ways to make it hurt even more, even if that doesn’t seem possible. I have to find a way to end this before he does what he wants to do. I won’t survive. I won’t want to survive. Not this.
—Stop this, sir. Stop killing people. Every time someone dies, you give them more reason to rush in and kill all of you. Whatever it is that you want, this is not the way to get it.
—Oh . . . OK, then. We’ll just leave. . . .
—. . .
—Do you think they’ll let us leave? I mean, I did kill a couple of people—they might hold that against me—but none of them were very young. That kid—that kid was a heart attack waiting to happen. He might have popped tomorrow, so really, all I did was rob him of his evening. How good could it have been? And we spent a lot of time preparing for this, you know. It took a lot of time and money. Ammo’s expensive. You wouldn’t believe it, it’s crazy. So yeah. Maybe we can forget about the whole thing. Even Stevens?
I won’t play his game, either. I have to keep it together. I have to. I can’t fall apart now or I might as well put a bullet through my head myself.
—You’re no fun at all, Samaritan! Where’s your sense of humour? You know the drill. You choose one of them or I kill them both.
—I can’t! Just please! Stop this. This has gone far enough.
—You forget your place, Samaritan. Are you really gonna make me count every fucking time?
—. . .
—Wait a minute. The crying, the “Please! Please!” Something’s changed. Do you know these people? They kinda look like you.
He knows. He suspects. My whole body seizes. I want to will myself away from here. I want to wake up. I want the police to storm in and fire a thousand bullets into him as I do. I want to kill. Him.
—I asked you a question, Samaritan. Answer me or I shoot one of them just for the hell of it.