by Abi Silver
Published in 2019
by Lightning Books Ltd
Imprint of EyeStorm Media
312 Uxbridge Road
Rickmansworth
Hertfordshire
WD3 8YL
www.lightning-books.com
ISBN: 9781785631276
Copyright © Abi Silver 2019
Cover by Shona Andrew
www.spikyshooz.com
The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Printed by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
For Dan
The public’s expectation of available explanations for how these systems make decisions is misguided. The core strength of a deep-learning system lies in its ability to draw very accurate conclusions from many diverse pieces of information. Fundamentally, it is not capable of providing simple explanations. In short, the concept of a simple explanation of these systems is a deception.
Dr Michael Fielding
Written evidence provided to the House of Commons Select Committee on Autonomous Vehicles
Contents
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
Acknowledgements
About the author
The Pinocchio Brief
The Aladdin Trial
PART ONE
10TH OCTOBER
1
BERTIE LAYTON, aged three years and one month, standing at the 65th percentile for height, maybe a touch more for weight (‘he is a good eater’ his grandmother would frequently comment when he finished off his sister’s unwanted scraps), was tired of waiting in the central reservation. He craved the Freddo chocolate bar Therese, his mother, had promised him ‘if he was good’ on the way home. He wanted to race his Hot Wheels car around the track his father had constructed for him the previous day and try, independently, to make it loop the loop; and, more than anything else, he was desperate to be able to move his arms and legs freely after spending most of the day confined indoors.
Sensing a momentary lapse in his mother’s attention and grip, he’d removed his hand from his mouth, where it had been languishing, and clutched the two vertical bars of the pram which contained his baby sister, Ruby. Next, he’d slipped his back foot from the shiny plate of the buggy board onto the ground and he used it now to propel himself and the pram forwards into the road.
It was partly a test, pushing the boundaries, as three-year-olds often do (and Bertie more than most). And although he would not have been able to articulate it, being such a little boy, Bertie wanted to feel, once more, that glorious surge of his heart in his chest that accompanied these improvised scooter rides, the adventure amplified by his father’s past whisperings that this was somehow a dangerous activity, the pounding only subsiding later. Sometimes he drifted off to sleep, imagining himself on a giant superhero skateboard, cavorting around the house, his sister in hot pursuit.
Georgia followed her brother, as best she could, with her mother’s arm restraining her. Even though she was older, Bertie was the bolder of the two. ‘He’s the one who encouraged her,’ Therese would complain, exasperated, to her husband, Neil, when another of Bertie’s schemes left Georgia in trouble, while he emerged unscathed. ‘He doesn’t see danger,’ Therese would lament, and Neil would smile proudly and shrug. ‘I don’t think you do when you’re three years old. I’d rather have him this way than timid and scared of his shadow.’
So, Bertie would lead the way across a fallen log, his speed and sheer willpower conveying him to the other side. Georgia, in contrast, would hesitate midway, wobble and then find herself pitched off into whatever water or mud the enticing trunk was straddling.
Even tame pastimes often ended in tears. Playing bowls in the garden, Bertie’s erratic throws would just as often miss as score a spectacular knock-out. But when a frustrated Georgia tried to up her game, she would hold the ball too long and it would plunge down onto her head or toe.
To be fair to Bertie, it wasn’t always his fault that Georgia got hurt; good fortune seemed to follow him around. Like the time he thrust his nose into a pink, rambling rose, drinking up its scent with a broad grin. When Georgia copied, she disturbed a queen bee and ended up being chased around the garden, screaming.
So, lively, luck-kissed Bertie, often-dirty Bertie and sometimes-flirty Bertie, after a snatched, sly glance at his mother, plunged himself and the baby into the road, with Georgia in pursuit.
Therese, behind the children, but scrambling to catch them, was clipped first by the right-hand side of the bumper of the large blue car. She was hit mid-way up her thigh, her body crumpling inwards and folding over the bonnet. Its momentum carried her up onto the windscreen, where her elbow struck the glass, shattering the bone before she thudded, limp and ragged at the roadside. As she lapsed into darkness, the blue of its bodywork triggered a distant memory of the curtains which had hung in her bedroom as a young girl.
Georgia, taller than Bertie, but light and feathery, with one hand outstretched to grab her brother, was knocked high up into the air and landed just short of the concrete barrier, her head hitting the pavement with a resounding ‘thwack’ which cleaved her skull in two. Bertie, keen to be first across the road was last to be hit, his left arm splintering before he creased over and fell beneath the wheels; two tons of high-tensile strength steel passing over his diminutive body, crushing out his life, his fingers still wet, as they rapped the pavement lightly once, before falling still.
The car came to a halt just short of where Georgia lay, its wheels twisted, its windscreen smashed, its former gleaming chrome grin now ragged and droopy. Its occupant, James Salisbury, aged fifty-nine years and three months, hovering just below the six-foot mark and, at twelve stone, carrying the same weight as he did at twenty-one, was first thrown forwards then back then forwards again, his brain shifting in the opposite direction to his body, in a textbook coup contre-coup, before coming to rest against the inflated airbag.
Only the pram lay intact. When Bertie was struck, it had been sent into a violent spin. Now it rested, upright, part in the gutter, part clambering its way back up to normality, rocking gently forward and back, its occupant blinking her eyes once, twice, before letting out a tentative cry, which quickly became more persistent when no one came.
ONE MONTH EARLIER...
2
JAMES SALISBURY was on a roll. Three minutes into his ten-minute address to the House of Commons Select Committee, and the rapt faces of the audience confirmed his words were hitting home. It wasn’t easy, taking listeners from a place of ignorance to one of knowledge, and from sceptical to convinced. How had he done it? He had spoken from the heart. And as he paused and focused for a moment on the video screen, which was transmitting his briefing further afield, he allowed himself a rare moment of self-congratulation.
Sitting upright behind the glossy desk, in a new single-breasted, wool-mohair-mix suit, his shoes highly polished, his Gucci tie a fashionable shade between pale blue and turquoise, picked out by Martine, his wife, only the previous day from a selection at Selfridges, he was on top of the world.
‘Auton
omous vehicles provide tremendous potential to drive change,’ James spoke confidently. ‘No more motorway pileups, no more traffic jams, no more uncertain journey times or wasted down time. No need to swelter on overcrowded public transport. Eliminate the negatives. And the ability to live in that house you’ve always desired because now your commute is a breeze, or just to travel independently for the first time. Embrace the positives.
‘This is no dream. This is reality. A new dawn heralding not just a new way of travelling; it’s a new way of living. A new way of life.’
Peter Mears, special adviser to Alan Tillinghurst, the Secretary of State for Transport, watched from the side of the hall. He was portly and bald, his stomach overhanging his tailored trousers, and he had a disconcerting habit of tapping his fingers on his belly when engaged in earnest conversation or when deep in thought. This was one of those occasions, and his index finger was striking his stomach over and again as James spoke. When James finished, to tumultuous applause, and stood, majestic, awaiting questions, Peter frowned and entered a quick reminder to himself into his phone.
‘Mr Salisbury. That was fascinating and I can see you are a man of great vision.’ David Morris, MP for Woking, vice-chair of the committee and a staunch supporter of the Autonomous Vehicles Bill, smiled broadly at James from the horseshoe of chairs facing him. ‘And SEDA should be proud to have you at its helm. We all appreciate you coming here today,’ he continued, ‘to talk to us at this advanced stage of the reading of the Bill. I will now open things up for questions, if you can spare us a few more minutes of your time.’
The first question came from a man to David Morris’ left.
‘I wanted to ask about the level of autonomy of your vehicles. Once the Bill is approved and your cars are sold to the public, will they be fully autonomous? And, if not, why not?’
James’ eyes sought out Peter, who had tucked his phone away and was focusing on the debate again.
‘SEDA’s cars will be level three autonomy. They will have a manual function too,’ James replied. ‘The fully autonomous vehicles, level five, should be available within two to three years.’
‘I see. And, given the numerous benefits you’ve mentioned, I’m interested in the reasoning for this marketing decision.’
‘That issue has been done to death in previous sessions. It’s not Mr Salisbury’s decision,’ Alan Tillinghurst, the Secretary of State for Transport, bearded and loud, boomed from centre right.
‘I’m still interested in hearing from James,’ the man continued. ‘He builds the things. Not from some academic or a politician. That’s why we asked him to come today, isn’t it?’
Alan withdrew. Everyone’s attention returned to James. He moistened his lips; beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. Peter stared at him intently.
‘While I believe in change and radical change,’ James began, ‘and I firmly believe in the capacity of the fully autonomous, level five vehicles to bring about that change, we have to take things in stages. And particularly with autonomous vehicles, there’s a nervousness, understandably, about the product. So, regardless of the other issues it creates, I…on balance, support introducing the level three car first.’
‘You mean people get to trust the car, knowing they have the option to take over if necessary.’
‘Exactly, yes. And, in time, once they see how safe autonomous mode is, they will use it all the time, and then bringing in level five will be uncontroversial, second nature.’
‘So, it’s a matter of public confidence only, not any problems with the cars?’
‘Yes.’
Now Alan looked over at Peter. Peter nodded his gratitude in return.
‘There have been times, Alan, though, when governments have decided they know better than the people they serve. We could take the choice away from the people; just give them fully autonomous vehicles straightaway and they have to lump it – if they are so much safer, that is,’ the man who had asked the question persisted.
‘Extensive research has been carried out,’ Alan replied, ‘and the majority of people surveyed said they would not feel safe in a fully autonomous level five vehicle.’
‘But we all know the vagaries of market research,’ a woman on the end of the row joined in. ‘Who did you ask? People shopping at Westfield at 2pm on a Monday?’
‘You wanted to hear from a manufacturer and James has answered the question,’ Alan said. ‘We can debate the issue after he and the others have given their addresses today. Let’s allow someone else to ask a question now, shall we?’
‘How can you be so sure that your vehicles won’t have accidents?’ a woman to Alan’s left piped up.
‘We have been trialling our cars in the UK for the past five years,’ James replied. ‘We have driven over 600,000 miles and never had one collision. What I can say with confidence is that once all vehicles in the UK are autonomous, and they are all linked, connected – we’ve talked about this before – essentially, “speaking the same language”, then there will be no more accidents.’
‘And when do you anticipate that will happen?’
‘It depends on when the Bill is passed. But, assuming it’s in this reading, which is very much what I should like to see then, if level five vehicles are out in two years, I would say ten years maximum. Of course, the government could hurry things along by outlawing manual vehicles before then, but that’s not a matter for me.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Peter muttered under his breath.
‘What about cost?’
‘SEDA currently produces two models. The smaller Go! will retail at £18,000 and the larger WayWeGo! will be £32,000. That’s based on certain projected sales in year one. If we exceed those sales the prices could come down substantially in year two.’
‘Are there any technical issues that concern you, which we should know about?’
‘Absolutely none. Not only with my own product, but I attend regular meetings with all the other autonomous car manufacturers worldwide. Perhaps surprisingly, we are very collaborative as, like myself, everyone sees the fantastic potential to change lives which these vehicles bring.’
‘You’ve already said that,’ Peter mumbled louder than he had intended, and his neighbour frowned at him.
‘I understand that people have concerns, and maybe part of that is the misunderstanding that driving is somehow a skill; we pride ourselves, don’t we, on being “a good driver” or “a careful and experienced driver”,’ James said. ‘We need to accept that driving is really just a process like any other, getting from A to B safely without colliding with anything. It doesn’t require emotional intelligence or judgment. It’s the perfect task for a machine to carry out.’
Alan half rose from his seat and swivelled around to face the committee chairman.
‘We are running a little behind schedule and our next speaker is waiting. Can I suggest that we allow Mr Salisbury to go now, and that any further questions are channelled through my office, in writing.’
Outside the auditorium, Peter clasped James’ hand tightly.
‘Well done,’ he said.
‘Thank you. Do you think that did the trick?’
‘Who knows? They are notoriously unpredictable, this lot, and cautious. But you were confident and behind your product and they liked you. That should go a long way towards oiling the wheels.’
‘So what happens next?’ James asked.
‘Two more speakers now. You can tune in, if you like. Then we go into a closed session for further debate, probably finish up in a couple of hours.’
‘And will that be it?’
Peter raised his eyes to heaven.
‘God knows,’ he said, ‘but we are getting there.’
***
Toby Barnes, James’ second in command, was watching from a round table in the corner of James’ office, via the video link. He had w
ritten Embrace the positives. Eradicate the negatives. on the notepad in front of him, with a flourish.
As James exited the podium and the next speaker was introduced, Toby stood up and made a circuit of the room. He hopped on one leg, then the other, then back onto two feet. He perused the books on the shelf in the corner, pulling out one or two and then shoving them back into place. He straightened the picture on the wall, then he yawned noisily before sitting back down to view the rest of the debate.
3
THERESE LAYTON lifted Ruby from her basket and held her at arm’s length. The little girl sneezed twice and then hiccupped. Therese stared at her, sighed and then brought her close to her chest, tapping her back lightly. She paced the room, bouncing on the balls of her feet, humming gently. Ruby’s head nestled into Therese’s neck.
‘Oh dear!’ Therese said. ‘You’ve got hiccups?’ As she pronounced the word, she shifted her weight from one side to the other. ‘Hi-ccups,’ she repeated. Ruby gurgled.
Therese skipped across to the window and peered out. The rain striking their discoloured decking was light, but the grey sky suggested the bad weather was set in for a while. She sighed again. She had been hoping to get out of the house this morning. Walking distracted her from her thoughts, and it kept Ruby occupied too. And she sometimes bumped into another local mother, and they chatted and exchanged grievances as they walked. Otherwise the morning stretched out, long and lonely, each second expanding to fill a universe of isolation.
Ruby tugged at Therese’s hair. She disentangled her daughter’s fingers and headed downstairs, where she placed Ruby carefully down on her back on her playmat and shifted the colourful mobile over her body. Ruby hiccupped again.
‘Play with your toys,’ Therese told her. ‘Mummy needs a break.’
She caught a glimpse of her dishevelled self in the glass of the patio door and winced. She touched one hand up to her hair and smoothed it down, tucking it into her neck. Ruby groaned irritably. The hiccups frustrated her.
