“So is Cristiano Ronaldo in trouble or what?”
Chelsea jerked around. Louis Massina had snuck in to watch the demonstration.
“I’m impressed that you know a soccer player,” said Chelsea. “But Peter’s on defense, and Ronaldo plays forward.”
“He doesn’t seem to be playing at all.”
“I know. I’m not sure why.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Analyzing every play he’s seen,” said Chelsea, freezing the screen that displayed data on the processors. “It accesses recent memory, but it’s also looking to compare it to its stored history.”
“Why?” Massina bent over her shoulder to examine the data.
“I don’t know. I could arbitrarily put a limit on the processing loops or time—”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Massina. “It has to learn. It should be able to set those limits itself. But it is similar to Syria. He adopts a base position when confused.”
“But he’s not in base position.” Chelsea suddenly felt as if she had to defend the bot. “He’s thinking.”
“He should react.”
“He usually does.”
Massina smirked, and Chelsea knew why—usually wasn’t good enough. And a human being in either situation would not have hesitated.
“The interesting thing is that this is new,” noted Massina. “Peter has learned to hesitate.”
Chelsea furled her arms in front of her chest and leaned back in the chair. She hadn’t thought of the situation that way before, but Massina was right — the bot had performed without hesitation in hundreds if not thousands of roughly analogous situations before.
Was this good or bad?
She glanced at him for an answer, but instead he looked at his watch and changed the subject. “I need to show you something.”
“OK. When?”
“Now.”
“I’m supposed to supervise the rest of the experiment,” she said.
Massina nodded at Peter, frozen on the field as the players moved around him. “I think he’s gone as far as he’s going today.”
“But Peter—”
“They can continue the tests and diagnostics without you. He’s grounded until we figure it out anyway.”
“But—”
“This is more important,” said Massina, starting away.
Ten minutes later, Chelsea got into the back of one of the company’s black SUVs, joining Massina. The truck had no driver; or rather, no human driver — it was guided by Smart Metal software, still being tested for commercial use, but more than adequate according to Massina.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Across the river.”
“Is this one of our projects?”
“It is, and it isn’t,” he said.
“Shouldn’t one of us sit in the driver’s seat?” she asked.
“You’re welcome to if you want.”
“Will you tell me where we’re going then?”
“The car knows. That’s enough.”
Chelsea stayed in the back. Massina spent the ride going through emails, checking in with his assistants — both real and virtual — and in general clearing away as much of his normal routine as he could.
Thirty minutes later, the SUV pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned shopping center. Built in the late 1960s, the place had succumbed to the competitive pressure of Amazon.com and Walmart a few years before. Its metal facade, virtually untouched since its opening, was streaked with rust. The sun-faded outlines of letters from old store logos lined the roof, a ghost alphabet of now-dead retail.
“Are we going shopping?” asked Chelsea.
“Not quite. Come on.”
Massina got out of the truck and guided her to a door that had once led to a restaurant at the side of the complex. Two armed guards were standing just inside the door. They nodded at Massina as he passed.
He walked through the former restaurant, now empty of furniture. A single light lit the interior until he reached the mall proper, where the light from the skylight was augmented by an array of LEDs whose color and output changed depending on the time of day.
“The escalator doesn’t work,” he told Chelsea. “So watch your step.”
Another pair of guards waited downstairs. The security station was augmented by a sniffer and a metal detector; a pair of combat mechs stood nearby. Each was a miniature gun chassis, with four 9mm machine guns. An elevator door stood about fifty feet away; Massina walked to it.
“Put your hand on the plate,” Massina told Chelsea after demonstrating. “We can’t go anywhere until it decides you are approved.”
“Am I?”
“Up to them.” Massina smirked.
Chelsea did as she was told, putting her hand on the plate. A light at the bottom glowed green, and the doors closed.
The elevator took them down to a mechanical level. Well lit, it was filled with large pipes and conduits, as well as stacks of furniture and other items taken from the stores above. Massina led Chelsea past them to a solid steel door, remarkable only because it was brand-new. He put his hand against another glass panel, then motioned for Chelsea to do the same.
The door opened with a pneumatic hiss. Behind it was a computing center. Six men sat at terminals. Two typed furiously; the others were scrolling and reading.
“What’s going on?” Chelsea asked.
“We’ve broken into Daesh’s communications network,” said Massina. “We’re monitoring what they’re up to.”
81
Ishmael Peterson — otherwise known as Ghadab min Allah, aka Samir Abdubin, aka the Butcher of Boston — squeezed his fist as the airplane rolled toward the gate.
It had taken him nearly forty-eight hours to arrive in North America. He still had a long way to go, but he’d calculated that the airport would be the most difficult hurdle, the one time when he had to stand face-to-face with the authorities.
He would show no fear, but that was hardly enough.
The door to the cabin opened. He rose from his seat in first class and joined the parade of passengers leaving the plane.
“Have a pleasant visit,” said the steward at the door.
He smiled, unwilling to test his accent even with a single word. His English itself was fine, but he wasn’t positive about the accent. He’d practiced by listening to podcasts for several hours each night over the past several weeks, but there had been no way of testing himself adequately.
Ghadab’s Canadian eTA — an electronic travel authorization — showed that he was an Israeli citizen. This matched his passport and driver’s license, as well as his credit cards and two receipts tucked in amid the bills. He also had a letter from his “cousin” in his pocket and pictures of his “family.” He’d memorized the details, of course, as well as his explanation for why he was visiting — sightseeing and vacation — as well as an extensive backstory.
But one little mispronunciation — a long vowel where a short was expected — could upend everything.
The bags took a while to arrive. Two men in uniform walked dogs around the crowd. Ghadab smiled at the dogs — more for practice than anything else. They took no notice of him.
Reunited with their luggage, Canadians headed for a lineup of machines that allowed for automated processing. Ghadab went with the other foreigners, joining a queue that looked almost exactly like the ones he had studied before starting his journey.
He clenched his fist again as he joined the line. The hardest thing was to smile.
Smile.
Who could smile after such a long flight? The passengers behind him looked worn and tired. A few were annoyed.