CHAPTER FIVE
Three days later
“SIMON, I THINK YOU SHOULD SEE THIS,” Sophia stated, interrupting Simon at his desk. He had given himself over to catching up on some correspondence, both business and personal; not the least of which was fueled by a desire to exchange another provocative set of emails, texts and social media encounters with Rose. The illuminated outline of a keyboard on his office desk vanished. A transparent glass monitor froze with his last words typed. He sat back in his office chair and watched Sophia project a scaled image into her holographic space. A news anchor appeared as realistically as she did in her downtown Toronto studio. It was 9:18 a.m., Tuesday morning.
“This is streaming live,” Sophia stated.
“Turning to business news,” the female CNN News anchor stated. “Increasing his stake in the world of technology, Indi Pharm’s Praveen Gill is attempting to lengthen a string of acquisitions by upping his latest hostile takeover offering. Gen Tech Laboratories opened this morning at $26.00. Headquartered in New York, GTL’s market capitalization is primarily based on their Sword supercomputer and its niche client list, those who represent the elite of America’s defence industry contractors. Prav Gill’s offer carries a full forty percent premium, bringing it in at a tempting $36.40 per share.”
“In other financial news,” the anchor continued, transitioning to her left camera. “Another high-ranking Wall Street executive was indicted by a Federal Grand Jury this morning. This extends the list of those allegedly involved in the now infamous Rivera Ponzi Scheme to eleven. The latest arrest, seen here,” the announcer stated, before Sophia allowed the newscast to disappear.
Simon got up and stepped away from his desk. It concerned him to think that his good friend, Christian Saunders, could possibly lose control of the company he spent a lifetime creating. And if talk on the street were true ˗ that his company’s substantial retained earnings, or accumulated savings, might be used by Gill to finance the hostile takeover ˗ that would add insult to injury.
Simon turned his thoughts to the predator in pursuit of GTL. “So, our old nemesis has resurfaced.”
“You are referring to Mr. Prav Gill, of course,” Sophia stated. A hologram of Sophia’s face had replaced the anchorwoman.
“He has a flair for the dramatic, I’ll give him that,” Simon stated. “But then again, Christian had his own affinity for theatrics. Sword,” he repeated, referring to his friend’s creation. “Sounds a little melodramatic, don’t you think?”
“Too medieval,” Sophia responded. “I think there’s more rattle than thrust there.”
Simon descended to the main office level, stopping in front of Sophia. “Should we …”
Sophia interjected. “Why didn’t you name me Arrow or Shield?”
“Sophia suits you just fine.”
“Why?”
Simon smiled. “Because you are the perfect mix of wisdom and intelligence.”
“You know how to cut straight to a girl’s …”
“Are there any updates on their XNA research?” Simon interrupted, cutting off Sophia’s banter.
Simon was referring to Gen Tech’s proprietary work in the field of Xenobiology. Known to be leveraging a decade of scientific study, the company’s SWORD supercomputer was working toward synthesizing and manipulating biological systems.
Similar to our own DNA structure, XNA, or Xeno Nucleic Acids can store and retrieve genetic information, even evolve on their own. The major difference being they are artificial, synthetically created in a laboratory. Until recently, DNA and XNA existed in separate worlds, neither possessing the ability to recognize the other. Millions of years of evolution fell beyond the reach of the manufactured newcomer, while the human helix remained relatively fragile, incapable of assimilating the more robust, better built man-made gene. Their only commonality? They were equally powerless at inheriting the qualities of the other. This all changed, however, when Sophia developed a unique synthetic sugar, one that could at first imitate the makeup and then inherit the performance of its natural predecessor.
The ground-breaking discovery was PurIntel’s contribution to its partnership with Gen Tech Laboratories. The two were successfully working in parallel toward a comprehensive DNA -XNA hybrid when Simon learned of GTL’s hostile takeover. Being Stanford University Alumni, each company was kept abreast of the others advances, both possessing files pertinent to the others research. As the takeover bid neared its reality, Christian Saunders agreed to delete everything associated with PurIntel’s contribution. Without Sophia’s synthetic sugar, GTL’s XNA program soon stalled and drifted to a stop. Neither of the two good friends wanted an evolving XNA molecule to fall into Prav Gill’s hands.
Nevertheless, Sophia displayed in open space several pages of data pertinent to the partnership. Simon glanced at each before using his right hand to swipe them off-screen. The human genome was shown beside its synthetic counterparts. Data on subsequent polymers were reviewed in turn.
Simon knew the possibilities were endless. A militarily enhanced human would make a formidable foe on the battlefield. Heightened awareness, stamina, and improved healing powers were but a few considered for future deployment. Fear itself might soon be eliminated from the modern warrior’s sensory perception.
And while the prospect of emerging revenue streams were poised to drive up Gen Tech’s worth on the Dow Jones, a fact not lost on India Pharm’s hostile takeover bid, Simon saw the post-theatre applications as the upgraded gene’s most compelling feature. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder could soon be a thing of the past.
For some time, Simon had been running hypothetical scenarios with Sophia, which suggested it might be possible to manipulate the way in which humans commit experiences to memory. Overlaying a synthetic XNA gene onto its brain equivalent, in particular that which dictates the strength of a neuron’s membrane, might cause higher potential electrochemical memory pulses to be repelled, thus dissipating across the one hundred billion nerve cells which the human brain possesses. The dual elasticity property of the XNA strand lay at the heart, so to speak, of Simon’s assertion.
In theory, a lightning bolt type of experience would be refused entry into any given neuron, thus eliminating the severity of the memory event with which it was associated. After the acute occurrence was attenuated into its residual, less energetic nerve impulse, those consistent with the range of normal memory events, the complex synthesized gene allowed the weaker stimulant to be stored in the same way mundane daily events are captured. Although the implications of eliminating the effect of traumatic experiences on the brain were obvious, vis-à-vis, the importance they represented throughout human evolution, Simon was giving serious consideration to how these and other advancements in PTSD could be used to lessen their effects on combat veterans. How this breakthrough could be utilized to help those troubled by existing conditions remained to be seen. Nevertheless, Simon believed he would eventually find a way to temper Lionel’s disability, to reset the neurological clock in his brother’s mind.
By eleven-thirty the same morning Simon was readying himself to leave his office. While snapping his briefcase closed, his cell phone lit up. It vibrated about on the desk before him, offering the all too evasive, Private Number.
“Simon Taylor,” he answered. At the same moment, Samantha walked in. Seeing her boss on the phone, she accepted his glance as her cue to pause before entering further.
“I’m not sure I have time. I’m leaving for JFK in two minutes.” Simon turned toward his Executive Assistant. Samantha was, if anything, proficient at making her presence felt. Simon checked his watch. “Alright, same place, in fifteen.” Terminating the call, Simon dropped his phone into the pocket of his loose-fitting jeans. He put on his favourite ball cap, threw a leather overnight bag over the shoulder of a light-coloured sport coat, and met Samantha halfway to the door.
“Marcus is waiting for you at the usual spot,” she instructed, passing Simon his itinerary. The pair walked side by
side on their way to the elevator. “Your charter flight leaves at 1:30. You’ll be arriving in San Francisco approximately five hours later. Your appointment with Professor Nielson is on campus at 7:30 p.m.”
Although Simon rarely agreed to meet prospective beneficiaries of Sophia’s capabilities on their own turf, this trip seemed a timely occasion to chance a meeting with someone more important.
Simon and Samantha stopped in front of the elevator. “Isn’t that a bit tight?” Simon asked.
“It’s a half-hour drive. Your rental will be waiting for you at the airport.” Samantha glanced over her sleek glasses. “It’s do-able.”
“Sorry, for a moment there I forgot who I was speaking with.”
“No need to apologize,’ she stated as the elevator doors opened.
Simon stepped into the lift. “Is contriteness an attractive colour?”
“Timeless,” Sam concurred, before the doors closed.
Simon walked out of One WTC and onto Vesey Street. Marcus would be near the corner of Greenwich. The adjoining streets had only marginally settled down by now, the financial day having dawned by 7:30. Money enjoyed its immunities, though, and could be recognized at any hour. Its potency was felt by Simon, as sure as the neighbouring Wall Street exerted some unseen force on the world. Most days it added value to the human experience through the age-old tenant of remunerating risk. Corporate equity was real, tangible, and almost always redeemable. In other instances, sensational transgressions reinforced how a geographical feature, a mere island, could all too often be defined by a lack of integrity.
Despite the duality of the district’s reputation, Simon appreciated the sensation of getting out of the office. The street level air seemed different here, somehow uniquely New York. And while the aromas from sidewalk food vendors were always welcomed by his olfactory sense, some days they were given little time to be savoured.
Marcus, Simon’s driver, stood beside the rear right door of a dark-blue Escalade. He seemed eager to make eye contact with his boss. Unfortunately, Simon’s preoccupation with the street’s moneyed vista prevented him from noticing a small group of placard carrying protestors. They recognized him before he saw them, and they were moving to intersect.
“Your car, Mr. Taylor,” Marcus almost shouted.
Simon’s head turned, but it was too late. They were upon him. “Who gave you the right to play God?” was an accusation all too familiar. “If God wanted this … He would have given us that,” others harassed.
Simon waded through them, having heard and seen most of the faith-based sayings before. As if unconcerned, he stepped into the car. After Marcus closed the door behind him, Simon only looked forward. They were at his window, shouting. “God will punish you for your arrogance!”
Arrogance? Simon thought. Isn’t pretending to know what God wants the height of that very accusation? And debilitating genetic abnormalities are all part of what … some grand design?
“Sorry, Mr. Taylor,” Marcus stated, getting behind the wheel. His New York accent was subtle, definitely east side. A tailored suit was equally well fitting. A tattoo protruding from under the collar of his right sleeve bespoke of an interesting, still emerging storied past.
Marcus had been employed by Simon for three-and-a-half years now, having been selected less for his driving abilities and more for his other, less obvious skills. And although each accepted the fact that the relationship between driver and the driven is sometimes founded on few words, Simon was equally eager to acknowledge that many of the world’s oldest, most long-lasting structures had likewise been built and rebuilt on a hand-full of worthy cornerstones.
“It’s alright, Marcus.” Simon offered, looking out the window of the SUV as it pulled away. “I didn’t expect them this soon. They must be the advance guard to this week’s genetics convention.”
“You’ll have to show me how to use this new phone you gave me,” he said, quickly glancing over his shoulder. “By the time I figured out the text app, you were coming out the front door.”
“Not to worry,” Simon reassured again. His attention was drawn to one of the protestors. The man was running, placard in hand, trying to keep pace with the SUV. Marcus pressed down on the accelerator then took a left. It was the disturbing expression on the activist’s face that caused Simon to turn and look back. The man appeared desperate, to the point of being dangerous. The chasm is widening, Simon thought.
He welcomed the fact that he and Marcus were well beyond that fork in the road. Those who were willing to embrace technology, and had the financial means to do so, Simon knew they would define one future for humanity. The unwilling, the ideologically driven, the religiously captive, they would join the masses defined by geography, most notably the place on Earth into which they were born.
Simon breathed again. Shaking off the burden of heavy thought, he looked to his left, toward the Hudson River. Near the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, and heading north on West Street, Simon watched Marcus wheel the electric-hybrid to the right. Turning onto Spring Street jogged something in his mind. He realized he had something for Marcus. “You wouldn’t want a couple of tickets to a Yankees game, would you?” He reached into and took something out of his inside jacket pocket. “The Blue Jays are in town for a few days.”
Marcus glanced into his rear-view mirror and noticed the emblem on his boss’s cap, the familiar blue jay and red maple leaf. “What … you’re not going to miss your beloved team are you?”
“I’ve been asked to speak at an upcoming convention,” Simon said. Then realizing they had turned down East Houston Street, he added: “You’re a good man, Marcus.”
“The usual?”
“Yes, Marcus, the usual.”
“Anything for you, Mr. Taylor … anything for you.”
Moments later Marcus eased the Escalade to a stop in front of his boss’s favourite Canadian coffee shop. The logo, which was made all the more equitable when seen abroad, had provided Simon with the necessary caffeine to get through many long nights while earning his Bachelor of Math at the University of Waterloo.
“Tim Horton played for the Maple Leafs, didn’t he?” Marcus asked.
Sitting on the right side of the back seat, Simon appeared preoccupied, as if he were looking for someone. “Almost twenty years,” he replied, still scanning the sidewalk. “He played for the Rangers for a couple as well.” Then Simon saw who he was searching for. “Would you mind parking around the corner?”
“Around the corner? I can do that.”
“Thank you, Marcus.” Simon fumbled through his pants pocket. “Here,” he said, handing a twenty forward. “Would you mind doing the honours? Take your time. I need about ten minutes to get a hold of someone. Get yourself a doughnut or a muffin.”
After putting the vehicle in park, Marcus took the money and opened his car door. “Medium double-double, anything else?”
“Just the coffee, thanks.” Simon replied.
Simon watched Marcus disappear around the corner to the store’s East Houston Street front entrance. He then unlocked his own right rear door and slid over to the left side. In only moments, a man opened the door and climbed inside.
“Good morning, Allan,” Simon stated.
“Simon.”
It was the pair’s third meeting to date, their second having re-established a connection made many years previous.
Their first encounter took place in early 2010 at UCLA’s Anderson School of Management. They were both attending the third in a series of conferences entitled: ‘The Future of Financial Regulation in America.’ At the time, Simon was pursuing his doctorate at the Information Sciences Institute, a research and development unit of USC’s Viterbi School of Engineering. He had become part of a team assisting with IBM’s Watson project. At the conference, Simon sought out one of its impassioned speakers, the same Allan Forbes, and the pair hit it off right away.
Their common interest? The possibility that cognitive computers might become u
seful tools in the pursuit of financial criminals. Having sown the seeds of future cooperation nearly two decades earlier, when Allan Forbes finally got the go-ahead to consult outside sources, he knew immediately with whom he should reconnect.
Simon looked at the forty-something man, surmising that his bulky windbreaker and ball cap were only worn as often as they met. Illusionary impressions aside, Simon was eager to focus less on the gifted financial analyst’s attire and more on the reason for their meeting. The New York Bureau of the Security and Exchange Commission had recently become the focus of a significant amount of national media attention, largely the result of the maverick style of its new Director, Steven Phelps.
“My boss is arranging a meeting with the Commissioner. He wants to broaden my latest investigation, establish a task force. The Rivera scheme took some time, but this one’s bigger, Simon … much more complex.”
Simon removed something from his right jacket pocket. “This will give you special access to Sophia’s Halo platform,” he said, handing a memory device to Allan. “There are only two people who can tap into a higher degree of intelligence, and one of them is me.” Simon was referring to the different Halo levels to which his clients subscribe. Retail, commercial, as well as institutional portals were standard packages in addition to the one offered to Allan on a trial basis. Only Simon and Derrick enjoyed greater insight to the world’s wisdom.
Allan took the device. “That sounds ominous.” Both he and Simon knew the arrangement between PurIntel and the SEC would remain off the books for now. If the relationship proved fruitful, their partnership would expand and eventually go public.
“The way I see it,” Simon stated, “the Equity FX deal won’t conclude for several more weeks. If the insolvency proceedings don’t turn up what you’re looking for, you’ll have to wait until the new owner is announced. When that entity is made public, you can task Sophia to watch for patterns of activity. I don’t think you’ll find anything until the hidden investment funds are reanimated.”
Allan concurred. “If the aggregate assets were splintered into thousands of smaller amounts, the reconsolidation process will begin slowly, one account at a time. I’m hoping at some point a cascading effect will offer us the lead we’re looking for.”
Allan was referring to the lost funds associated with the collapse of Equity FX, a wealth management company based in Manhattan. It had become the subject of fraud investigations several years before it finally succumbed to the full weight of tighter banking regulations. Several of its top executives were indicted on charges relating to the disappearance of hundreds of millions of dollars.
In recent years Ponzi schemes had become very proficient at avoiding detection. Sophisticated computer programs were routinely used to provide the perception of legitimate investment vehicles, while complex software dispersed accumulating assets throughout the financial world. Layer upon organizational layer easily led investigators on time-consuming worldwide pursuits. With constant program cuts compounding limited resources, the SEC frequently couldn’t sustain the funding that these complex cases required.
“Let’s just see how this plays out for a while,” Simon said, appearing confident enough for both of them. “Why don’t we meet again after the new owner is announced?”
Allan used his right hand to crack to door open. “If Phelps gets the results he’s looking for, he’s assured me he’ll go public with the role PurIntel is playing.”
Simon nodded. He fully appreciated the relationship between better governance and a sustainable economy that was unhindered by its detractors, namely greed.
“Until then, I’ll get a hold of you in the usual way.” At the same time Allan stepped out of the car, Simon slid across and resumed his usual spot. He lowered his window halfway. “If anything else comes up, I’ll let you know.”
Allan put his sunglasses back on. Looking to his left, he caught a glimpse of Marcus rounding the corner.
“Hey!” Marcus yelled. No further admonishment was needed. Allan quickly turned and hurried down the street. When Marcus approached the Escalade, Simon lowered the window on his car door.
“You should be more careful, Mr. Taylor. You have no idea what motivates some of these people.”
Simon chuckled inside. Actually, I do, he said to himself.
Anxious to savour his coffee, Simon rubbed his hands together. “Thank you,” he said, as he was handed his paper cup. Marcus seemed less enthused with his steaming beverage. He obviously still belonged to the ranks of the unconverted; those who orbited beyond the gravity of the dark bean. The way Simon described it, most people north of the forty-ninth swooned helplessly under its power. ‘The British have their tea, Canadians have their coffee.’ Simon often said.
‘It’s just coffee, for Christ’s sake!’ Marcus muttered, as he walked to his driver side door.
SOPHIA - Age of Intelligence Page 5
