SOPHIA - Age of Intelligence

by Mike Donoghue

CHAPTER THREE

  One week later, NYC

  SIMON BROUGHT his silent Tesla Roadster to a stop in front of New York’s Rockefeller Center. Its electric motor defied the perception of a high performance sports car, but a body immortalized through its sleek design did not. His feet had barely touched the ground when his valet, a woman young enough to be his daughter, replaced him in the driver’s seat. In an instant the attendant sped away, to where he wasn’t even sure. Suddenly, his worst fears conjured a place he’d rather not envision, Tolkien’s Mines of Moria. He imagined his car jockey jumping clean before his prized blacked-out coup plunged over an immense cliff. Simon shuddered while wrestling his thoughts free from the exulted Lord of the Rings series. Recovering, he wished he hadn’t given his driver the night off.

  Venturing inside the impressive building, he was soon the lone occupant of an elevator destined for the sixty-fifth floor. He used the time wisely, adjusting the carnation in his lapel. His dark-haired profile was likewise considered, any nuisance hairs being pressed into shape. The lift’s floor to ceiling mirrors testified to a tailored tuxedo and an expression fitting to the wearer of fine clothes. Inner reflections were another matter, however. Within moments, the doors opened, and he found himself at the event to which he was invited. He was met first by a striking woman holding a tray of glasses filled with champagne.

  Taking one, he proceeded in the direction of her subtle prompt.

  It was a formal gala, the award ceremony for the Carnegie Medal of Philanthropy. Awards would be handed out to those who exemplified the task of transforming personal wealth into public enrichment.

  As a rule, Simon disliked evenings such as these. Immersing himself into the spectacle was as uncomfortable as slowly descending into an off-season swim in the Saint Lawrence. He turned his thoughts to summer evenings at the cottage to lower his internal tempo. Visualizing the lights of local island residences, as well as those across the river, on the American side of the Seaway, helped to dissipate any lingering sense of anxiety. He took a sip of champagne before walking into the Rainbow Room.

  “There he is,” a familiar voice announced. It was New York State Senator, John Anders. The white-haired gentleman in his late sixties was gesturing for Simon come over.

  “Senator,” Simon stated, extending his hand.

  “The man of the hour,” the elder senator exclaimed, drawing his wife’s attention toward Simon. “Margaret, this is Simon Taylor, Chairman of PurIntel.”

  “I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Taylor,” Mrs. Anders said. Her tasteful gown was as pleasing as her comportment.

  “And I, you, of course,’ Simon respectfully replied.

  During last year’s senatorial race, it became known that Simon had contributed to Senator Anders’ political campaign. The fact that Simon didn’t endorse Anders’ protectionist leanings or that he donated equally to the Senator’s opponent went unreported. Nevertheless, at least one headline resounded with the revelation. Few eyebrows were raised, though. Senator Anders was an ardent supporter of democratic reform, especially the compensation model that Simon’s company was offering the state’s cities.

  Ideologically based pursuits, particularly in the health and energy sectors, were finally recognized as being financially unsustainable for all levels of government. Simon was happy to know that he and John Anders were on the same page. Both knew governance solutions were becoming more complex with every passing year. But what Simon believed more than anyone in the room was that super computers like Sophia represented the key to unlocking an otherwise untapped resource.

  The senator’s wife was charming, yet candid. “You know, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but the world would be a better place if we had a few more Simon Taylors in it.”

  “Come now, Margaret,” Mr. Anders said, “You’re embarrassing the poor man. On behalf of both of us, Simon, let me offer our congratulations. The night belongs to you.”

  “Thank you, Senator, and Mrs. Anders. You are both very gracious.”

  After the Senator’s wife caught Simon exchanging a glance with an attractive woman on the other side of the room, she suggested to her husband that Simon be allowed to greet other guests. A few moments later, Simon was offering cordial comments while navigating the room.

  The Rainbow Room had been completely redecorated recently. It was obvious to Simon that opulence continued its reign. An Art-Deco décor seemed to link the present with the past, while large windows revealed a timeless New York skyline.

  Hearing his name once again, Simon glanced through an abundance of formally dressed attendees. He was happy to recognize another familiar face. It was the spirited reporter he granted an interview with last year. “Nice to see you again, Susan,” he said.

  Susan Frost worked for Vanity Fair magazine. Her intended half-hour interview at Simon’s office turned into an hour-and-a-half. Thirty minutes for Simon and an unexpected sixty for Sophia.

  “I can arrange for an introduction if you’ll grant me another interview,” Susan pitched. Her full-length satin gown was a compelling step up from the business attire in which Simon last saw her. The striking blues of her dress highlighted her medium-length blonde hair. Her entire ensemble complimented the bubbly personality with which Simon was now familiar. “An introduction … with whom?” he asked.

  Susan tilted her head in the direction of the woman who Simon had previously noted. “I’ve been watching you make your way across the room.”

  Simon almost blushed. “A reporter’s instincts?” he asked.

  A waiter appeared with a tray of champagne glasses. Susan exchanged hers for a full one, while Simon deferred another to later.

  “A woman’s intuition,” Susan admitted. “Besides, I want to talk to Governor Wilkinson ˗ you want to make small talk with the Goddess standing beside him.”

  Simon tried not to look again. He knew Governor Wilkinson was standing beside the woman with whom he had exchanged glances. She was both vivacious and exotic, possibly of East Indian origin. Her form fitting dress was obviously of designer quality, a stunning variation of gold transitioning into white. Flattering high heels made her stand almost as tall as her companion.

  “I thought you already got his story?”

  Susan tried to remain subtle, but couldn’t help her eyes being drawn to the attractive governor. “If it were up to me, our next chapters would be unfit for print.”

  Only then did Simon realize why a woman might be attracted to the dashing and confident politico.

  “Follow me,” Susan stated.

  Moments later the pair was making their way through the affluent of the world. Most deserved to be there, having made serious contributions to redistributing a measure of their wealth. Though significant amounts thereof had been redirected to the less fortunate jurisdictions of the globe, elevating some present to the ranks of the benevolent elite, tonight was a function of opulence. The tailor’s hand was supplemented by the banker’s. Haute Couture ruled while diamonds reigned.

  There were the others as well; those who needed to be seen in the right company. Several reporters were in attendance. The chroniclers rubbed elbows with those both willing and reluctant to be chronicled. When Susan found herself within range, she pulled Simon from a nearby conversation. Her specialty: pretending to make an inadvertent introduction.

  “Governor Wilkinson,” Susan announced, “It’s a pleasure to meet you again.”

  “Good evening, Ms. Frost, nice to see you as well.”

  Robert Wilkinson had ascended to State Governor on a platform opposing some of the work with which Sophia had become synonymous. Although Wilkinson was also in favour of democratic reform, it was the accelerating advances in the field of genetics, which had drawn the ire of like-minded fundamentalist Christians.

  Susan continued. “And I’m sure you are acquainted with …”

  “Simon Taylor,” the Governor interjected, offering his hand, “Founder of PurIntel, creator of Sophia.” Wil
kinson wanted to go on, but after their handshake it was obvious he had lost Simon’s attention. The Governor took the hint and introduced the woman standing beside him. “Simon, this is Roshnie Gill.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Taylor,” Roshnie stated. Her voice was the first of several enchantments. Tipping her head forward to acknowledge him, her dark, pinned-up hair accentuated the line of her neck.

  Acquiescing to instinct, Simon allowed his eyes to be drawn into the deepness of hers. The proffering of her hand could only be answered with a kiss. “I can assure you the pleasure is all mine,” Simon said.

  Robert Wilkinson glanced between Roshnie and Simon, instantly understanding the connection for what it was. He smiled before trying to finish the introduction, knowing his next words would capture Simon’s attention. “Ms. Gill is with UNESCO’s International Bioethics Committee.”

  “Please call me Rose,” Roshnie said to Simon. Having grown up in a house still heavily influenced by Britain, her accent was a pleasing blend of British and Indian.

  While Simon’s expression defied the inner struggle between emotional and rational thinking, the journalist in Susan could not be suppressed. “Rose Gill,” she stated. “Your name sounds familiar.”

  “My brother is …”

  “Praveen Gill,” Simon interjected. The straightening of his posture was subtle, yet discernable. For Simon, the present instantly connected with the past. “You left Indi Pharm at the height of the pandemic.”

  Indi Pharm was a global pharmaceutical giant headquartered in Mumbai, India. Having replaced his father more than a decade previous, Prav Gill assumed control of the family empire after his younger sister resigned from its board of directors.

  It was during the peak of a worldwide SARS Variant pandemic that Indi Pharm came under the scrutiny it deserved. In the spring of 2021 the crisis was in its second year. Some twenty-seven million souls had perished while a cure remained elusive. Although the mutated virus’s lethality was concentrated in Asia, its creep into North America was no less unnerving than when its close relative originally hit Toronto.During the panic, limitless funds were made available to whomever could provide a cure. Resources of every denomination poured into Indi Pharm as a pharmacological solution was sought.

  By the time it was over, Prav Gill had become the embodiment of unethical and immoral scientific experimentation. He tried to mitigate the cost of his company’s human trials, but there was no end to justify the means. The slums of Mumbai still reverberated with drug-induced deformities, irreversible psychoses. When Prav’s only sister discovered what was taking place, she denounced him vociferously: “You are destroying the company that took a lifetime to build,” she shouted. “Our father is an honourable man … there is no honour in this!” The same day, Roshnie left the family empire, decrying she would never return.

  Governor Wilkinson felt compelled to advocate on Roshnie’s behalf. “Rose is now heading a special working group with the IBC (International Bioethics Committee). She has devoted the last few years of her life to ensuring another …”

  “I want to deprive the world of another Prav Gill, Mr. Taylor,” Rose interjected, matter-of-factly.

  Simon was taken aback by Rose’s candour. If she struggled with the remnants of her past, it certainly wasn’t obvious. In fact, her confidence appeared undiminished. To make such a principled stand revealed a depth of integrity. In Simon’s eyes, that made her even more compelling.

  “And what of the Sophias of the world?” Susan asked.

  Rose turned to the inquisitive reporter. “My experience, Ms. Frost, suggests few are worthy of what the world heaps upon them.” Rose looked back at Simon, “Fewer still recognize the high ground for the opportunities it presents.”

  “Truer words were never spoken,” Wilkinson agreed.

  Simon reflected on the events that brought him here this evening. Recognizing the high ground for the opportunities it presents certainly has its perks, he thought, not the least of which being the intriguing woman in front of me. Simon couldn’t help feeling attracted to her.

  “That would put our short-listed guest in a very select group, wouldn’t it, Ms. Gill?” Susan suggested.

  “It would indeed,” Rose attested, smiling. “It would indeed.”

  Susan sensed what was transpiring. An extended connection between Simon and Rose came across as both discernible and compelling. “Even fewer know how to put the lectern to good use,” Susan joked, directing her comments to Simon. “Feel free to mention a certain reporter when you’re up there.”

  Governor Wilkinson reached into his pocket and pulled out his vibrating cell phone. “You’ll have to forgive me. They need me to get things started.” The Governor had agreed to be the event’s Master of Ceremonies. “It appears they’ve put you at our table, Simon,” he added.

  Wilkinson looked toward the front of the room, to where he would be presiding over the evening. “My wife will be joining us as well. There she is in the blue gown, talking with Senator Anders. I’ll see you at our table then?”

  “It would be a pleasure, thank you, Governor,” Simon agreed.

  “Ms. Frost,” Wilkinson added, “until we meet again.”

  Susan only nodded, thinking, that’ll never be soon enough!

  After the Governor left, Susan felt compelled to do the same. “My journalistic instinct is telling me there’s a juicy story somewhere in this group … besides you two, I mean. You don’t mind if I join you later, do you?”

  “No, of course, Susan. The truth awaits you.” Simon said.

  “The truth is boring, Simon,” Susan stated, looking around the group now moving toward their tables.

  Simon smiled at Roshnie. “A sad fact, is it not, Ms. Gill?”

  “Please, Simon, call me Rose. And, yes,” she said, adding to Simon’s levity, “the virtues are tragically underrated.”

  “Rose it is, then,” Simon agreed. It was clear to him that he had been missing something in his life for far too long. Something tells me I shouldn’t let this woman get away, he thought.

  Later on that evening, Rose and Simon were seated at a large round table. It was relatively close to the front, the larger assembly of which included more than two dozen. All together they accounted for nearly one hundred and fifty place settings. Rose sipped slowly on a glass of white wine and watched the last recipient of the Carnegie Award finish his speech. Sitting beside his wife, the Governor took the cue and returned to the microphone. He adjusted the mic upward, the handsome six-foot man being one of the taller speakers at the podium. Medals for education, entrepreneurship, and the arts had already been presented.

  “And our final award for the evening,” Wilkinson began, “the Carnegie Medal of Science recognizes an outstanding commitment by an individual who has demonstrated the desire to leverage their resources in the field of science and technology in order that they may be employed towards making the world a better place to live.”

  “Tonight’s recipient is a man who needs little introduction. If I may quote from Vanity Fair magazine, and the reporter who authored the article herself,” Wilkinson cast an acknowledging glance toward Susan, seated at a nearby table. “When accused of amassing an empire, the modest man suggested it was designed to conquer all that ails the world. When it was suggested he had become one of the wealthiest men in America, he casually reflected: money is as much a tool as it is anything else; for me it has become a means to create a meaningful end. When labelled by this magazine as one of the most influential men of our time, the man paused. The distinction obviously made him uncomfortable. In his eyes I could see a parade of individuals he wanted to march before me; those who were instrumental in helping him along the way. Alone we are nothing, he said. The problems facing the world are made smaller, more manageable, when we embrace the potential beyond what we ourselves have to offer.”

  “A man who reflects the ideals of Andrew Carnegie himself; for safely weaving together the genetic structure of the C3
and C4 plant types and gifting their enhanced productivity through UNICEF to the people who need it most, the world’s poorest, the Carnegie Medal for Science goes to none other than Doctor Simon Taylor.”

  A resounding applause accompanied Simon as he got up from his chair. By now, most of those present understood the value of transitioning some C3 plants into C4s. C3s are those that exist within the human food chain, while C4s generally feed the world’s livestock. C4 plants are more robust, yielding a better ratio of agricultural inputs to harvested output. They are also capable of thriving in more strenuous climatic conditions, those that predominate in the third world. In one philanthropic gesture, global food production soared.

  Simon mockingly pointed an accusing finger at a smiling, cheering Susan. Rose took his hand. After getting up with him, she gave him a tantalizing embrace. Any nerves that rose with Simon suddenly evaporated. After a heart-warming gaze, he turned and walked toward Wilkinson amidst continued applause.

  The Governor put a medal around Simon’s neck then offered him a bust of Andrew Carnegie cast in bronze. The pair shook hands before Simon nodded and acknowledged a few hoots from Susan. He tried to set the bust down on the angled podium, but it almost tumbled. The irony of the mishandling was not lost on Simon; with his outward composure often belying his inner feelings, he hoped it wasn’t obvious that an equal measure of uneasiness accompanied him to the lectern. A female attendant standing close by came to Simon’s aid, however. She held the weighty award to one side, allowing Simon to regain his composure.

  “Thank you very much,” he stated, looking down at the medal now hanging at chest height. He took a deep breath before continuing. “And thank you to the Carnegie family of institutions and to their selection committees as well. What can I say that hasn’t already been said? I guess that’s the drawback of being the last to speak.” Simon looked out over his audience. “I suppose I should also thank Ms. Frost for her wonderful article. Actually, if Vanity Fair ever goes out of business, Susan, I’m sure you could easily write your way onto the Times best seller list … under the genre of fiction.”

  “It’s all true, Simon, and everyone here knows it!” Susan hollered.

  The audience chuckled along with the Governor, who was now seated by his wife. The sight of Rose’s smile quickly settled Simon’s nerves. When the room quieted down her expression was one of enrapture; her attention willingly offered to Simon’s every word.

  “I guess that just confirms the fact that I’m always the last one to know. No, seriously, there are, in fact, too many people to thank this evening, so I will make an effort to keep it short. To this point,” he said, glancing at Rose, “the most important people in my life are my daughter, brother, and, of course, my mother and father. And in case you are listening, Sophia, you have been short-listed as well. You have no idea of how temperamental she is,” he joked. “If I didn’t mention her name I would never hear the end of it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Simon said, refocusing his thoughts. “I once thought if the Taylor family was a tall ship on the high seas, my brother would be the inspiration from which we would draw the courage to face everything Mother Nature could throw at us. Jennifer, my daughter, would defy any order to remain safely below. Myself, I would obviously be busy granting interviews and accepting awards.”

  The audience laughed while Simon made an effort to continue. “My mother; the one to teach me how only through selfless dedication do we keep the sails fit and trim. And my father, how to keep us on course and out of harm’s way.

  “When I started my first business, hired my first employee, my father couldn’t help dispensing some sage advice: ‘Son,’ he said, ‘quality is never found in the first ninety percent. Within that margin the customer finds the same line and tackle that every merchant has to offer. Real quality can only be found in the last ten percent. Therein the client will discover the relationship, the values that support excellence within your organization. Successfully manage the relationship and success will forever be yours.”

  “Given the opportunity to refine that, I know my late mother would suggest what motivates us to successfully manage that relationship can only be found in the last one percent. It is life’s most precious commodity, what inspires every redeemable deed and what brings us together here tonight. I can attest for both of us,” he said, looking directly at Rose, “that one percent is nothing less … than love.”

  “Thank you, again. I will cherish this award always.” After another handshake, Simon turned the podium back over to the Governor and then joined an admiring Rose at her side. He basked in her admiring glow.

  Within the hour, the award ceremony had concluded. Congratulations arrived in the form heartfelt words and warm embraces. Susan Frost, the Senator and his wife offered their thoughts before Simon and Rose found themselves walking slowly toward the elevator by which they had separately arrived.

  “Can I give you a lift home?” Simon asked Rose. “Maybe we could stop for a drink or a coffee on the way?”

  The two found themselves the only occupants of a descending elevator. Rose nodded. “A nightcap would be nice.”

  The ride down seemed to suspend earthly concerns. With every moment, a new perspective found something special in each other’s eyes, something wonderfully unique. It was the one percent to which Catherine had referred. Tonight, however, that last one percent had splintered into a million pieces, yet each new fragment shone with the brilliance of its former entirety. Simon wanted the moment to last forever, to never end, but it had to, unfortunately. Gravity intruded on his sense of wonderment, as their lift slowed to a stop on the ground floor.

  Moments later, Simon’s Tesla was pulling up in front of the Rockefeller Center. The same young woman who had disappeared with the car earlier stepped out, smiling. The Mines of Moria had gone surprisingly easy on his coveted possession. His eyes scanned its lines, nevertheless.

  Simon took possession of the keys. He offered his hand, helping the subject of his newfound desire through the passenger door. When Simon climbed in, he looked over at Rose. She tossed her head back, smiling, laughing. Simon couldn’t help being equally light-hearted. Pressing down on the accelerator, the car quietly sped away.