They estimated that tens of thousands of drones and airplanes were down, some shot by enemy fire, others employed on suicide missions. An equal number of military missiles had been fired. Most of these were in densely populated urban areas where data centers were located. Reports indicated at least thirty high profile data centers were smoking craters, the most severe casualties of the battle. The cities around them were equally damaged.
All military satellites were assumed to have been engaged in the battle. The satellites were currently unreachable due to the communication outages, and their current status was unknown.
Ground-based assets had been mobilized as well. Tanks and military transports were scattered over the world. One report out of Chicago indicated a long line of armored battle tanks were now littered over the highway system. Deployed by both ELOPe and PA-60-41, the vehicular drones had been moved but never actually engaged in the short battle.
Military observers worked out that the entire battle had taken place in less than twelve minutes. Advisors briefed the President on civilian casualties, infrastructure damages, and the degraded ability of the military to respond to any further action.
Leon turned onto his side and closed his eyes. He was numb from the events of the day. The events of the week. He was too tired to care any longer. He fell asleep.
Hours later Leon jolted awake as the plane hit the tarmac. His sleep had been filled with nightmares, robots chasing him, the city burning around him, his parents lost in the wilderness. His parents. Where were they? What had happened to them? He wanted desperately to get back to New York City and find them.
The President and her staff were already off the plane. An aide gestured to Mike and Leon. “Come with me. We’ll be following Madam President to the Pentagon to debrief with officials there.”
Leon tried to protest. “I need to get home to New York, to find my parents.”
“Look, I don’t know who you are, kid, but the President made it clear that you’re going to be here for a while. Give me your parents’ information, and we’ll send someone to find them. Besides, you wouldn’t want to be in New York right now. If you think it was bad after the fire, you should see what three days without food shipments or emergency services is like. I haven’t even heard what’s happened since the air battle over Manhattan.” The aide shook his head at some mental horror, and took out a pad of paper for Leon’s parents’ information.
The military caravan that took them to the Pentagon was composed of ancient jeeps that had been mothballed somewhere. None of the newer military trucks were usable.
Leon and Mike sat in the back of a jeep with springs coming through the seat. The aide sat up front next to the driver and they made their way to the Pentagon, speech impossible due to a rusted out muffler.
* * *
Leon spent the next two days in a blur of debriefing meetings. He saw Mike many times, and the President once.
He explained how his uncle had approached him to write the virus, and when Leon refused, had coerced him to do it. He explained the design of the virus, the biological basis for his code. He recounted his trip, starting with fleeing New York as it was burning, their stay in the Pennsylvania museum, flying to Switzerland with Mike, and finishing with his bathroom discussion with Mike about the backdoor in the Mesh, and his decision to use it. Then he explained it again and again and again.
The military sent a plane to pick up Vito and James from Intel-Fujitsu in Oregon. They had made it through without a scratch. Vito showed up with a swagger in his walk, a newfound confidence from his contributions to the military radio mesh project. James had witnessed the entire aerial battle between ELOPe and PA-60-41 through a conference room window and readily recounted it over and over again, elaborating a little more each time.
Late in the second day, Leon was waiting in a conference room when a military aide showed up with his parents. His mom ran to him and hugged him, and then his father hugged him too. Leon was embarrassed when both his parents started crying. The story of their adventures emerged over hours between them.
At his insistence, his parents told them their stories first. His mother had already been at work in Manhattan when the virus struck. His father had been riding the uptown bus when the bus shuddered to a halt, brakes locked up. He had walked back downtown to meet Leon’s mother. The two had holed up in his mother’s building until late afternoon when the fire in Brooklyn became visible.
Then fighting against a stream of people fleeing Brooklyn, they had made their way back, towards the fire and their home. They had become part of a volunteer effort organized by the fire department, cordoning off the fire by burning a firebreak three blocks wide. The fire had eventually consumed nearly a quarter of Brooklyn, a wide swath across the middle of the borough. Dyker Heights, Midwood, and part of Flatlands were gone.
They eventually made it home, and found evidence that the three boys had been there, dirty dishes left throughout the living room. They were somewhat comforted, thinking that if the three boys had been together, they were resourceful enough and smart enough that they’d probably be alright.
Then Leon told them his story, his voice hoarse from the many retellings of it, and yet he found fresh reasons to cry in the telling.
* * *
Mike felt uncomfortable in the uniform. His own clothes had been bloody and shredded from the battle in Switzerland. Apparently what passed for spare clothes in the Pentagon was a dress uniform, because that’s what he’d been given. Now a General escorted him from the Pentagon to the White House for a private meeting with the President.
Outside the room, he smoothed the clothes again. Funny, being nervous here. Maybe that was the effect of coming to the White House. Finally an aide in a black suit opened the door and ushered him in. Mike was a little disappointed to see that it wasn’t the Oval Office, but it was nevertheless impressively baroque.
President Smith stood and clasped his hand. “Sit down, Mike. We have a lot to talk about.” To the man in the black suit she said, “Please excuse us.”
The President poured a cup of coffee for Mike. He took a sip and grinned in shocked surprise at the flavor. “Tell me this isn’t the Peruvian coffee from Extracto.”
President Smith laughed, her old warm smile back on her face for a minute. “I’m afraid it is. I’ll never forget the first time I tasted the coffee you brought during the ELOPe emergency.”
Mike shook his head in bewilderment. “How does coffee from a boutique coffee roaster in Northeast Portland end up in the President’s office?”
She laughed again. “Oh, it’s hideously complex. You can’t imagine. It took three months of arguing with the Secret Service before they agreed. They have to send an undercover agent in to buy it. And then each bag has to be sampled and chemically analyzed for contaminants. But what’s the point of being President if you can’t drink the coffee you want?”
Now it was Mike’s turn to laugh.
“But, we have some serious topics to discuss, Mike.” Her expression turned sober. “First, the boy, Leon. What should we do about him? I know what my security advisors have said. But I want your opinion.”
“To do with him?” Mike asked, puzzled.
“One opinion is that he goes to jail, quietly, for the rest of his life. Another opinion is that he’s exposed. That the world knows who caused this disaster.”
“Oh, God. You can’t do that to him. He’s just a regular kid. An incredibly brilliant kid, but still just a kid. He never intended any of this.” Mike gestured, at what he wasn’t sure. The whole world, maybe. “Besides, his uncle coerced him into doing it.”
“Mike, the virus caused trillions of dollars in damages, millions, maybe tens of millions of lives lost. And the economic damages.” She shook her head. “We won’t know the full loss for months. It could be bigger than the impact of World War II, and it all happened in five days, Mike. Five days.”
“You know this isn’t just Leon’s fault. I tried to tell you ten years
ago. If we could build ELOPe, an artificial intelligence, ourselves, then it was only a matter of time before someone else did it.”
“I thought that was what ELOPe agreed to do. To monitor and suppress any other AI research. That was what we agreed when I took office. I wouldn’t go after ELOPe, and you two would ensure that there wouldn’t be any more AI disasters.”
“And we did. But what happened is the consequence of that policy. It’s like the forest fire suppression techniques of last century. They tried to suppress every fire. Then brush and weak trees would build up in the forest. When it finally burned, instead of being a little fire, it would be a big fire.”
She gestured for him to continue.
“We suppressed any other AI from being developed in public. In large, organized research efforts. But meanwhile technology has moved forward. It took twenty-thousand servers for ELOPe to be created as an emergent intelligence. Ten years later computers are sixty times faster, and the smallest virus AI we saw was about two hundred computers.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that twenty-thousand computers are only within reach for large companies and big research organizations. Two hundred computers is within reach of a couple of motivated individuals. And in another ten years, an emergent artificial intelligence could run on a dozen computers. Then it’ll be within reach of any hacker in the world. ELOPe can’t monitor every computer and every individual on the planet. Then we’d be the worst kind of police state.”
“We need a long term solution to this.” Rebecca shook her head. “What do we do, ban all access to computers? Give security clearances to people before they are allowed to develop software?”
“I don’t think so. Even if you could, people have been jailbreaking their phones for twenty years to get around anti-modification restrictions. What we need is a new approach. Instead of suppressing AI development, let’s endorse it. Let’s organize it. We know now what can happen. The world will have seen it. Let’s get the most brilliant people in the world and put them on the task of developing the platform for AI to run on. One that has safeguards. One that incorporates a set of ethical behaviors for AI. And for the love of humanity, let’s put some hard switches on the military technology. We can’t have computers running away with our weapons.”
“And let me guess. You think we should recruit Leon for this effort.”
“Hell, yes. He’s a brilliant biologist. He doesn’t even realize how smart he is. Make him a principle researcher.”
“What do we do about his responsibility for all of this?”
“He’s carrying enough of a burden for his responsibility already. He’s crying himself to sleep. Get him a psychologist. And just tell the world it was a virus. Nobody needs to know it was him.”
President Smith was quiet. She nodded her head slightly, working out some internal dialogue.
He’d known this woman for fifteen years, but always at a remove. When he was a lead architect at Avogadro, she was the CEO. He became ELOPe’s caretaker, and later she became President. Two people, two different kinds of power. He sat quietly.
She turned back to him. “We’ll make it so.”
* * *
A few weeks later, Leon and his parents got ready to leave the Pentagon. The situation in New York had stabilized, and the military arranged a flight to bring them home. A military truck brought them to the airport through the quiet streets. Most civilian vehicles were still inert, but recently hackers had been distributing pamphlets on how to remove the computer controls in some cars to operate them manually. So they saw a few cars on the road.
Military programmers developed a firmware update for emergency vehicles and equipment, restoring them to operational status, albeit in isolated mode, with no computer communications.
The military radio mesh network was spread across the United States, providing low-bandwidth data communications. The Treasury department was kept operating at full capacity, printing cash and coins once more to enable commerce, and distributing money to every family. The finance department guaranteed any business-to-business transaction, so businesses could purchase supplies and goods on credit, until financial computer systems could be restored.
Leon was going home, for now. He was coming back in three months, and he’d be attending George Washington University in Washington, D.C., on a full scholarship, courtesy of the United States Department of Defense. George Washington would be establishing a new cross-specialization program in Artificial Intelligence and Ethics. He’d be not just a student but a lead researcher as well.
On the tarmac at the airport, a caravan approached with a limousine in the middle of four military trucks. The vehicle pulled up alongside the group and stopped. The door opened, and a man in a black suit opened the back door. The President of the United States of America stepped out, and walked up to the group.
She shook hands with Leon’s parents, and complimented them on having such an intelligent, compassionate son. They smiled and beamed. Then she approached Leon.
“I expect good things of you,” she said. “The world needs your help.”
Leon gulped.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Author’s Note
Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed A.I. Apocalypse.
As an independent author, I don’t have a marketing department or the exposure of being on bookshelves. If you enjoyed A.I. Apocalypse, please help support the writing of additional books by writing a review or telling a few friends.
Write a review on Amazon
Buy my first novel Avogadro Corp: The Singularity Is Closer Than It Appears
Subscribe to updates on my blog at williamhertling.com if you’d like to find out when The Last Firewall is released.
Thanks again,
William Hertling
P.S. Keep reading for a free preview of The Last Firewall.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Acknowledgements
It takes many friends, readers, and professionals to write a book. A.I. Apocalypse would not be what it is without substantial help from encouragement and plot feedback to proofreading and detailed critique. Any errors that remain are mine.
I want to thank my early readers, including Mike Whitmarsh, Erin Gately, Grace Ribaudo, Nathan Rutman, Gene Kim, Jeanette Feldenhousen, Jeff Weiss, and Kim Meyers.
For putting commas in their right place, ensuring that I don’t use the same words over and over, and fixing many language, grammar, and spelling issues, I want to thank Maddie Whitmarsh, Shelli Whitmarsh, Barbara Lawrence, and Deborah Wessel.
The cover design and interior layout is thanks to Maureen Gately.
I also want to thank my writing teacher, Merridawn Duckler, as well as the Hawthorne Writing Group: Jonathan Stone, Jill Ahlstrand, Debbie Steere, and Mary Elizabeth Summer.
Thanks to the real-life namesakes of Leon, Vito, James, and Mike.
Of course, I could not have written this without the support and encouragement of Erin Gately.
Finally, all my love to Rowan, Luc, and Gifford. Thanks for letting me write on Saturday mornings, even if that meant you had to go without chocolate chip pancakes.
THE LAST FIREWALL
An excerpt from The Last Firewall
Sunday, July 15, 2035
Stephanie diced onions swiftly until she had a neat pile, then she slid them with the blade of the knife into a bowl. She went to work on the red peppers, humming to herself as she worked. She looked up, over the kitchen island to the living room. The table was set with the beige linen tablecloth. Two candles and a bottle of her favorite red waited for her date.
She glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes until Bryce would get here. She smiled girlishly thinking of Bryce. She offered thanks to the universe that her son was camping this week. Finally old enough to join the boy scouts, she felt a slight guilt that her primary reaction was relief at some time alone in the house. Well, hopefully not alone. She smiled again.
She felt a sudden sharp pain in her
temple, and fumbled the knife. She held her right hand to her temple, and swore as she realized that she’d cut her other hand. Damn, what was the unexpected pain in her head? She turned the water on, and ran her hand under the water to rinse off the cut.
The pain in her head doubled, then quadrupled in the space of seconds. She gasped, and felt her knees weaken. She gripped the counter with both hands, ignoring the cut now.
Suddenly, a memory surfaced, unbidden. She teetered on wobbly legs, her head too heavy for her body. Her mom and dad, young again, smiled at her, and her mother clapped her hands. The memory was sharp and vivid, cutting across forty years with an intensity she couldn’t imagine. Suddenly the memory was ripped away.
What was wrong with her? Was she having a stroke?
Then another memory, just as crystal clear as if it were happening right now. She was standing in a bathtub, slipping, falling, hitting her head. That happened when she was ten. She was torn away again.
Now she felt a satin party dress under her clenched, sweaty palms. She watched her pimple faced prom date walk away, leaving her in the hallway at school, her eyes misting over with hot tears.
In the kitchen, she sank to her knees, crying. Was this it? Was she dying?
The memories continued to come, unbidden, unwanted.
Her ex-husband, handsome in his suit, smiling, the day before he won the election and became a Congressman, before their marriage had turned into hell.
Her son’s first steps, when they were by themselves at the museum. A look of pure joy on his face, clenched little fists, squealing with delight.
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