“No, sir, it is I who should be apologizing. I was so preoccupied trying to scan your comms that I neglected to welcome you. It’s just that, well, I can’t seem to scan your comms at all. I keep getting errors. I didn’t know how to address you.”
“No problem at all. You can call me Joel. Do you have a name, room?”
“Yes, sir. Welcome to Room D. My chosen name is David,” it said proudly. “Thank you for asking.”
D for David. How predictable.
“Well, David. It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for adjusting my chair. I’m slightly more comfortable now.”
“Of course, it’s all in a day’s work,” said David the room.
Almost there.
“David, there’s a reason you can’t scan my comms. I am about to have a very private meeting. So I wonder if it would be possible for you to disable all third-party APIs for the duration of my stay here?”
The terminology may have changed for you, whenever you’re reading this, but an API, or Application Program Interface, was how two pieces of otherwise unintegrated software communicated with each other. Disable all third-party APIs were the magic words for “Butt the fuck out, app.”
Just as I finished my question, though, the door opened, and a small, composed woman entered the room. Too late.
Curly black hair framed her face like a pyramid. Sharp manicured brows overshadowed her slanted brown eyes. Her nose was small and flat. She looked every bit the elegant schoolmarm. “Room, disable third-party APIs,” she said.
“Welcome, Pema Jigme! Confirmed, APIs disabled. You must have read Mr. Joel’s mind! He asked me to do that very same thing prior to your arrival.”
See why I asked for privacy? Honesty is a nuisant virtue with almost all people-facing apps.
The woman made a hand gesture, and instantly my arms and shoulders were released. I groaned as several of my muscles began to loosen.
“Shall I adjust room settings to your preferences, Miss Jigme?” asked David.
“No, and mute outer correspondence. Please interface directly with my AIDE. He will instruct you going forward.”
“Understood. Enjoy your meeting!”
Pema Jigme sat down, adjusting her boxy green pindot suit jacket and her ankle-length skirt. Her outfit was dangerously within what Sylvia would call “James Bond–villain” territory.
Sylvia. In Costa Rica. Remember your priorities, Joel.
“What were those things?” I said, looking behind me as if I’d be able to see the millions of invisible picoscopic bullies that had captured me and knocked me unconscious.
“Security nanos,” she said. (“Told you,” Zaki drawled.) “They swarmed you when you entered the building without comms identification.”
Once I realized I could move again, I readjusted my awkward sitting position. The chair instantly responded, restoring arm and lumbar support. I stood to stretch my cramped muscles, but Pema smacked a hand on the conference table.
“Sit down and keep your hands behind you! The others can’t know you are free.” Her high cheekbones added an air of authority to her demeanor.
I did as I was told. The chair recalibrated its form to my previous posture.
“I apologize for yelling, but we have very little time,” Pema said in a more subdued register. “I’m here to help you. Do you understand?”
“Sylvia? Is she—”
“No questions from you. No long-winded answers. And no stupid jokes, either. Understood?”
I nodded. How does this woman know me so well?
“Good. At the Greenwich TC, you met a man named William Taraval, correct?”
“Not in person, but”—she shot me a fiery glance—“yes.”
“Okay. In a couple of minutes, that man is going to walk through that door and put a woman named Corina Shafer on the comms.”
“The Corina Shafer? Like, CEO of International Transport, Corina Shafer?”
“The same. She and Bill Taraval will tell you some things that will be difficult for you to process.” Her eyes softened a bit. “After that, they will ask you to make an impossible decision. An impossible choice.”
“What am I deciding? What choice? What are you talking about?”
“No questions, I said!” She checked herself. “I am not here to tell you what to do. I just want to give you a choice. Free will means nothing, Joel, if you don’t have an actual choice.”
What is she talking about?
“Look, lady. I’m not doing anything until I know my wife is okay. Her name is Sylvia Byram, and she works here—”
Pema waved her hand. “Your wife is alive. I spoke to her not ten minutes ago.” I sagged in relief, but the woman didn’t give me any time to process this before continuing. “Whether or not she is okay, that’s another matter. But you need to put her out of your mind right now, Joel. Right now is about you. I’m giving you the choice to say no. However, I want you to take everything they say into consideration, because they do have a very good point.”
“What point? What are you—”
“Please lower your voice!”
“It’s involuntary! I’m freaking out because I don’t know what’s going on!”
She closed her eyes and sighed, like a frustrated parent dealing with a particularly thick toddler. But when she looked up, I could see tears welling in her eyes. “The ‘why’ will be clear very soon. But they’re going to ask you to clear yourself.”
“‘Clear’? What … what does that mean?”
“I know this is a lot, but your situation is very”—she looked down at her hands, then back at me—“unique. It’s important for both of our sakes that it hits you for the first time when you meet Corina. She’s a very smart and perceptive woman. Who knows, play your cards right, and she may even decide to help you.”
“I thought you said you were going to help me.”
“I am helping you. Choice is what makes us human. It’s what separates us from technology. I’m offering you a choice.”
“Could’ve fooled me. So, let me get this straight: Corina Shafer herself is going to come here and ask me to clear myself, whatever that means, and I’m supposed to convince her to … what, exactly?”
Pema considered that question for longer than I’d expected. “Imagine you’re a bus conductor,” she finally said. “Something goes wrong with the GDS, so you’re manually driving the vehicle. Suddenly someone steps in front of you. Naturally, your instinct would be to switch to manual override and swerve to avoid hitting them. Even if it meant that your bus would be permanently disabled, you’d probably still do it to save the person. Right?”
“What does this have to do with anything? Was Sylvia on a bus?”
“Now imagine that it’s not just your bus that would be disabled, Joel. By saving that person, you would destroy every bus in the world. Forever.”
I opened my mouth, unsure of what would come out, but Pema didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s a difficult problem, Joel. Kind of a Hobson’s choice.11 If the world finds out what you’re about to hear, teleportation is probably done, closed for business forever. Clearing you is the alternative. Everything remains as is, the status quo unchanged.”
“Wait, so clearing myself means killing myself?”