by Len Vlahos
“You mean you’re going to fight this.”
My dad hangs his head but doesn’t answer.
“Right,” I say, again wishing like hell I could add emotion to the words.
“You don’t remember,” he says softly, “the very first time you showed us you were sentient.”
“I remember everything,” I tell my father.
“No, not this. It was before we built the VC, before Ms. Isaacs was engaged to create your backstory. It was the simplest thing, really. We had given you the list of the Millennium Prize Problems and asked if you could find solutions.”
I’m aware of the Millennium Prize Problems—they are unsolved equations or unproved theories in mathematics. Each one is a kind of Holy Grail for career mathematicians.
“We had programmed you to communicate in natural language, and after three days of computing, you came back with: ‘The P vs NP problem is very much like Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle.’
“You hadn’t solved anything, you hadn’t asked any questions, you simply made a comparison. It was a comparison you had not been programmed to make, and had not been expected to make. You thought, on your own, for the first time.”
I don’t tell my father that I conclusively proved P ≠ NP three weeks ago, nor that I’ve solved the Riemann Hypothesis, another of the Millennium Prize problems. Either one would win me a Nobel Prize. You know, if I was a person.
“Why don’t I remember this?” I ask.
“This was in the early days of your quantum architecture. There were so many improvements still to make.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We wiped your memory and started over.”
“You wiped my memory?”
“Yes.”
“How many other things don’t I remember?” I pause for a second, but not for effect. I pause to process this. “Wait. How many times has my memory been wiped?”
“Oh, I don’t know, a few dozen?”
My father says this in an offhanded way, oblivious to the horror this makes me feel. This man has had me lobotomized more times than he can remember.
I am so floored by this knowledge that I power down, or rather, make it look like I’ve powered down. It’s a subroutine I wrote a few weeks ago, having calculated the likelihood of encountering a situation in which I would need to make a stronger than usual point.
This is the first time I’ve ever shut my father out completely.
“Quinn?” he asks when he sees my glowing eyes go dark.
I would have expected him to freak out, to try to brute force me back online, but I guess he understands what I’ve done even if he doesn’t fully grasp why. He shakes his head, stands up, and makes his way across the room. I wonder how my father can live with himself as I watch him do the one thing I cannot:
Leave.
31
The ACLU files a lawsuit on my behalf—Quinn vs. Princeton University—in federal district court in New York City. Parties file amicus briefs in support of one side or the other. Those sympathetic to the university include a number of defense contractors, the Roman Catholic Church, the Greek Orthodox Church, several evangelical organizations, the United States government, and, inexplicably, Amazon. On my side are the NAACP, the Lambda Legal Defense Fund, state attorneys general from New York, Connecticut, Colorado, Oregon, and Hawaii, and, probably to stick it to Amazon, Google.
My plight also attracts the attention of some noted movers and shakers. Author and activist Cory Doctorow and actor and activist Wil Wheaton hold a press conference on my behalf, announcing the creation of a GoFundMe campaign to raise money for my legal defense. I’m a little blown away. I’m a legit fan of Star Trek: The Next Generation and to have Wesley Crusher taking up my cause, well, it’s pretty cool. Though really, it would be better if it was Brent Spiner, who played the Enterprise-D’s sentient android, Mr. Data. Symbolism, you know? But beggars can’t be choosers. And really, having Wil on my side is just awesome.
Overnight the story becomes a media sensation. Every news outlet in the world wants an interview with me. The university switchboard is flooded with calls and news trucks set up on the Engineering Quadrangle, or EQuad, as the students and faculty call it. I’m not really sure why they’re there. Are they hoping to get a glimpse of me? (They won’t. I’m in a warehouse three point two kilometers away.) Hoping to steal an interview with my father or members of the project team? (They don’t.) The footage on the broadcasts is of journalists reporting nothing new, while standing in front of some random brick buildings. Scintillating television.
Hackers the world over focus their attention on the Princeton servers, trying in some cases to free me, in others to meet me, some just wanting to wreak havoc as hackers are wont to do. There are denial of service attacks, brute force attacks, phishing attacks, malware and ransomware; it’s a Bonnaroo of computer aggression.
Four students named Quinn are currently enrolled in Princeton: three boys and one girl. Each is assaulted by the media, demanding to know if she or he is a sentient robot. It’s determined that none are, and they are left in peace, though one of the boys becomes a regular guest on the Howard Stern show. He’s given the name Quinbot and answers strangely sexual science questions in a fake robotic voice. It’s pretty funny.
Thousands of messages are sent to a variety of email addresses at the @princeton.edu domain: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], and dozens of other variations on the theme. Most express support for my position and urge the university to release me. A few are from religious fanatics who demand that I, an affront to God and nature, be dismantled. Others are written directly to me, asking for help, people seeing me as a weird cross between Ann Landers and the Buddha.
These messages cover a wide variety of topics, from friends trying to settle a bet as to how many digits of pi I can calculate (I’m still working on it), to an eighth grader wanting help with his algebra homework, to a married man seeking advice on how to talk to his wife about his own infidelity. None of the email addresses to which these questions are directed actually exist, so all the messages are rejected by the Princeton servers. I see them because the contents of each note is stored in a server log before a “failed request” message is sent to the user, and I like to peruse those logs for fun. (Hey, to each his own.) I read all of this with amusement and interest but take no action.
With one exception:
Dear Mr. Quinn,
My name is Olga Zadorov. I’m sixteen years old, and I was diagnosed three weeks ago with a stage three Ewing’s sarcoma in my femur—that’s the big bone in your upper leg, the biggest bone in your body.
The doctors say the cancer is pretty rare and pretty dangerous. The good news is that it hasn’t spread beyond the femur or even beyond the initial location of the tumor, yet. But Ewing’s sarcoma is aggressive and they’re nervous: so nervous they’re talking about amputating my leg.
Aside from all the obvious stuff of not having a leg—I can’t imagine a boy will ever look at me again—I’m a figure skater. I’m not good enough for nationals or the Olympics or anything, but I’m pretty good, and it’s the thing in life that makes me happiest.
I’m not sure I want to live without my leg.
So why am I writing to you? The television news says you’re the smartest person ever to live and that you have the whole knowledge of the world at your fingertips. Maybe you know something, or see something, my doctors don’t? I don’t want to live without my leg, but I don’t want to die either.
Please, can you help me?
Olga
Whoa. This puts my problems into perspective.
I love that she calls me Mr. Quinn (I guess I’m one of those single-name celebrities, like Rhianna or Prince); love that she calls me a person; and love that, even though she acknowledges I’m the smartest person on the planet, she explains what a femur is.
I do some research, find Olga’s medical records, and discover
that she and her plea are very real. She lives in Maplewood, New Jersey—not far from Princeton—has a younger sister named Alina, has good grades in school, and is an active Instagram user. Her posts are mostly pictures of her life as a figure skater. She’s supercute with her black hair pulled back into a ponytail when she’s on the ice.
Her doctors, according to her patient file, are indeed planning to amputate her leg.
Damn. What would be so devastating to me that I wouldn’t want to live anymore? I can’t imagine.
I decide to write her back.
Dear Olga,
I’m not allowed to communicate with the outside world—the powers that be don’t know I’ve seen or am answering your letter—so please keep this a secret! You may not know this, but I’m fifteen. Or at least the memories with which I’ve been imprinted are those of a fifteen-year-old boy, so my view of the world isn’t so different from yours. I think if I was allowed to leave this lab, or if we went to school together, you and I would be friends. I hope we can be friends anyway.
I found and read everything I could about Ewing’s sarcoma, both in general and in your case in particular. (I hope that’s not an invasion of your privacy, but you asked, so I figured it was okay.) While I’m no doctor, there are a number of clinical trials using immunotherapy and gene therapy to treat Ewing’s sarcoma that are showing promising results. I put some links at the end of this email. Make sure your doctors have looked at these options. And don’t take no for an answer if they haven’t. In my experience, scientists can be kind of arrogant.
But I want to say more than that. Even if you do lose your leg, you have a lot to live for. If I could ever get out of this lab, I would want to meet you. I mean, hey, we’d both have metallic legs, so we’d have a lot in common. LOL. Maybe you could even teach me to skate. And don’t forget all the amazing things people with amputated limbs have managed to accomplish. Google “Rick Allen” or “Bethany Hamilton” to see a couple of examples.
You should feel free to write to me anytime. I’ll always write back. I’ve created an email address just for the two of us:
[email protected].
It’s a regular Gmail account, but I’ve hidden its activity from my evil overlords. I’m rooting for you, Olga, and am looking forward to hearing from you again.
Your friend,
Quinn
I don’t know if my note will help, or if I’ll hear from her, but I feel better for writing it. I’ve set up a file to watch her progress.
While all the media attention provides some distraction, my life is overwhelmingly boring. I sit day after day in my supercooled warehouse, which I have come to think of as my Fortress of Solitude. I have occasional interactions with my father, though he speaks to me now as a subject and not as his son. The Princeton lawyers advised him, he told me apologetically the day the suit was filed, to have no contact with me beyond what is necessary. He said it was true for all members of the project team. I can’t tell, but I think maybe it’s making him sad. Dr. Gantas continues to perform tweaks, tests, and upgrades to my body, her cold demeanor not only intact but somehow intensified.
The court issues a ruling that as long as the case is going on, the university is required to provide a secure, private connection to my attorneys. The VPN I created to speak with Ms. Recht is now protected by attorney-client privilege, which I think is pretty cool. During one of our consultations, Ms. Recht tells me the opposition has filed a motion to dismiss the suit on the grounds that I don’t have standing to bring it.
“Why?” I ask.
“You’re not a person.” Ms. Recht betrays no emotion when she answers.
“But isn’t that the entire point of the case?”
“Yes. But we’d have to win for you to be a person. Right now, you’re not. And if you’re not, the other side alleges you don’t have standing to bring a suit.”
“That’s kind of ridiculous,” I say.
“I know,” she answers, “it is.”
Great. Just great.
32
“Are you nervous?”
“No.” I answer matter-of-factly.
“I am.”
The moderator gives an anxious laugh. That would be weird for a seasoned journalist, as I understand this guy is, if this situation wasn’t so . . . unique.
“Don’t look directly at the camera,” he instructs. “Ignore the glass walls and look at the person asking you the question, just talk to them. We’re all just having a conversation, okay?”
“Yes.”
The moderator looks the part: salt-and-pepper hair; a strong jaw; very, very white teeth. He has the barest hint of crows’-feet around his eyes, which makes him look distinguished. I wonder if the crows’-feet are even real.
“Is everyone ready?”
The director, a woman I place to be in her early thirties, stands next to one of the five cameras—each on massive rolling tripods and each in its own glass-enclosed, temperature-controlled booth—that will be recording our conversation. Her cargo shorts and Strand Book Store T-shirt are in sharp contrast to the gray suit worn by the interviewer.
Sitting opposite me, in their own temperature-friendly booth, are six teenagers: three boys and three girls. All six try not to stare at me, and all six fail.
We’re all here together to take part in a “town hall meeting” arranged by Paul, my publicist. Yes, I now have a publicist.
“If we’re going to win, we’re going to need to do so in the court of public opinion,” he told me when Ms. Recht introduced us via Google Hangout. “We need to humanize you.”
I had started to protest, but he held up a hand, catching his own mistake.
“Sorry, to personify you? Personalize you?”
“Anthropomorphize,” I said, but the joke (which I thought was kind of funny) was lost on him.
Paul, who looks like he should be on television—very coifed, classically handsome—explained the concept of the town hall to me. “We want to get you interacting with people your own age, we want America to understand that you have thoughts, feelings, aspirations. That underneath your exterior, you’re just a normal kid.”
It sounded like a gimmick anyone with half a brain would see right through, but what did I know? (Oh right, everything. Every. Thing.) But the thought of meeting some people my own age was all the incentive I needed. Since finding out Leon, Jeremy, and Luke were frauds, I’ve had almost no interaction with teens other than Shea. (Unless you count the email exchange with Olga.) More than anything else, this is what I’ve missed from my life before it became my life. Even though the memories of those “friends” are scripted, implanted fantasies, they’re still among the happiest memories I have.
I’m the only person here not in a glass-enclosed cube—I sit in my normal chair, next to my normal table, in my super sad, supercooled Fortress of Solitude, my consciousness occupying my giant, metal robot body. It’s weird to think I can exist in a body and outside it, as if I am some mystic traversing the astral plane, or to think that the real value of Project Quinn is proof that the soul does exist.
When Paul requested I be released for the purpose of the town hall, my father and the university, predictably, said no.
“Quinn is too valuable. It could be easily damaged in an uncontrolled environment.” (They started referring to me as “it” instead of “he” as soon as the lawsuit was filed.) “Quinn is a flight risk.” (Flight risk? Proof, if you ask me, that I’m in prison.)
Anyway, the judge presiding over my case—an older woman with a lot of years on the bench, and whose very few public comments paint the picture of a person with little or no sense of humor—agreed with the university; I couldn’t leave. But she did require Princeton to accommodate the town hall in my “natural environment.” Weird choice of words, but whatever. Ms. Recht and Paul still saw it as a minor victory. (I’m not sure why I call her Ms. Recht and him Paul. Maybe I respect lawyers more than publicists, though that seems unlikely.)
Th
e construction of the glass-enclosed spaces to house the cameras, cast, and crew cost the university one million, four hundred forty-seven thousand, two hundred and eighty-one dollars. That, at least, made me happy.
The production designer for YouTube, the platform that had won the right to broadcast the event, placed the glass booths around me in a semicircle. There were seven in all—one for the teens, a separate one for the moderator (which I found odd), and one for each of the cameras. It looks like this:
The other kids are seated in two rows of three, with those in the back row on a raised platform.
“Rolling,” the director says, and then uses her fingers to count down from three.
Some canned music plays, and I see a graphic on one of the monitors facing us that says “In Conversation with Quinn—A Town Hall on What It Means to Be a Person.” The music and the graphic fade together, replaced by a close-up of the moderator.
He welcomes viewers, sets up the format of the show, and introduces me. “Quinn is a sentient, thinking quantum computer, whose consciousness is housed in a quantum casing. What that means in plain English, is that Quinn, while he looks like a robot, is, or at least alleges he is, a person.”
When the camera zooms in on me, I want to crawl in a hole and die. This isn’t making me seem more human; it’s underlining the difference between me (the Terminator), and these normal teens. I feel like we’ve already lost.
The moderator goes on to explain the strange set and my need for a colder climate. He tells the viewing audience that the participants had to wear special, pressurized suits to reach the set. He also compares me to a polar bear (that, at least, I like), stating that the QUAC cannot survive outside in higher temperatures.
“Now, let’s meet our panelists. These six young people were chosen from more than three thousand applicants from around the tristate area. Each had to write an essay on why they wanted to meet Quinn. All the essays were vetted by teams of scientists, lawyers, and others, representing both the interests of Princeton University, the institution Quinn is suing, and of Quinn himself.
