by D. A. Hill
“I see you get my point, Cyrus. Now let me tell you in detail what I have in mind. You’ll have to excuse an old man’s vanity, but I’m calling it Newton’s Ark...”
—o—
At the appointed time, Regina Lopez initiated the holo-link from the Seventh Division’s secure communications room and waited for the holo-image of Harry Branston to appear before her. Branston had instructed her to report in person but a trip to DC was now out of the question, a development she was not too sorry about. The Saudis and other oil exporters and even the Canadians were refusing to exchange oil for anything other than food; America had been forced to cut its oil consumption by nearly a third. Most cars ran on natural gas or electricity or some combination of the two, both of which America had plenty of, but jet fuel was made from oil and was now only available for what the government deemed essential operations.
“Major Lopez, you’ve been there two weeks, I assume you have something for me?” Branston asked impatiently before his image had even fully resolved.
“Mr. Secretary, I don’t know yet exactly what James Newton is planning. But I do know that he has serious doubts about the success of your plan.”
“Do you have reason to believe Newton is sabotaging our efforts?” Branston asked with alarm.
“No Mr. Secretary, on the contrary. As far as I can tell Mr. Newton has directed his people to conscientiously implement the Task Orders issued to the Newton Group, and they seem to be following that directive.”
“In that case Major how did you come to the conclusion that Newton has reservations about our plan?”
“He straight out told me so sir,” she replied. “He also said that he tried unsuccessfully to tell you the same thing, so he figured I may as well repeat the message.”
“Weren’t you supposed to be observing him covertly Major?” Branston asked without addressing her claim that Newton had already told him the plan would fail. Better to ignore the implicit criticism than draw attention to it.
“Yes sir, and I don’t believe I’ve done anything that would give him reason to believe I am here to watch him personally. He just assumed it and he appears not to care.”
“No use crying over spilled milk, Major.” He did not really mean that, but Branston believed that anger was better concealed than revealed openly; that way the targets of his anger would not see retribution coming. “Has Newton done anything to give you cause for suspicion?”
“Nothing definitive sir. The most unusual thing he’s done is take a drive north-east of Denver, out into the plains. I managed to follow him, discreetly of course, but he didn’t seem to go anywhere specific. As Gertrude Stein said of Oakland, when you get there, there isn’t any there there. It’s just endless plains. He just drove around, like he was on a Sunday outing. He didn’t even get out of his vehicle other than to stop for lunch at a diner. I watched him carefully—he didn’t meet anyone and I found no evidence of a dead drop.”
“That’s it Major?” Branston asked in a tone that clearly conveyed his disappointment that she had not provided something more concrete.
“The only other thing worth noting is that he just transferred in a software tech from the drone program at Edwards. Newton has him working closely with him on something. I don’t yet know what or if there’s a connection with Newton’s work on the Task Orders.”
“Interesting,” Branston said. “Major, I’m authorizing you for full and unrestricted access to information on the drone program. I suggest you get reading and identify the connection. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
—o—
Access to the drone program records and mission logs had been automatically pushed to Regina Lopez’s account on Branston’s authorization. The system assembled the list of documents for her to review; there was a huge amount of material to wade through. She settled in to her quarters at Fort Carson for several days of reading. The Officers’ Mess provided a steady stream of food—fortunately they were not yet on restricted rations—and caffeinated beverages and there was an excellent gym right there for her daily workouts.
Regina had known since she was a child that her father flew drones. He had worn his country’s uniform all her life and was a highly decorated and distinguished pilot. Her mother had died when she was six and her father had raised her. They were close. She knew him as well as she knew anyone; it was not like she expected to find any skeletons in his closet, but she was immediately drawn to the logs of his missions.
His work was classified and he had always been careful never to discuss the details of his missions, but in her time in the military, Lopez had seen enough front line intelligence that the details were much as she expected. It was not the when, where and why of her father’s missions that surprised her so much as the how. It was not entirely clear to her from the logs or other program records—they assumed a lot of knowledge and used unfamiliar terminology—but it was strongly implied that there was some sort of direct interface from the pilot’s brain to the aircraft. Or maybe she misunderstood something important because that was not how she thought drones worked. She wondered if what she thought was being described was even possible, but then technology really was not her field.
—o—
A week of further digging led Regina Lopez down a convoluted documentary path that culminated in the discovery of an Executive Order from 2023 that was so highly classified the President himself had to grant her access. Now she knew why the records were so vague; the Executive Order prohibited the use on the drone program of something called EMs. The records therefore had to avoid that term and the euphemisms they used instead seemed deliberately designed to obscure the real meaning.
Regina reflected on her discovery that the drone program was a black op, unauthorized, illegal. She was sure that the entire chain of command must know, up to and including the President; there was no way Carlson would have authorized access to the Executive Order without knowing what was in it. With a little further analysis, she concluded that every President since Ramirez must have known that the military had gone on using these EMs, whatever they were. It just was not plausible to believe that the military had been secretly using a prohibited technology on such a large and important program for over twenty years while those who authorized, funded, and directed the program remained blissfully unaware.
The only possible conclusion was that the purpose of the Executive Order was not prohibition, but rather plausible deniability. There must be something about these EMs that would so outrage the public that successive administrations wanted to be able to disavow it if it were ever exposed. Now she really was curious, not just because it was her job to find the answer, but because there was a very dark secret lurking there, a secret that may well affect her father.
She could not go to anyone on the drone program for an explanation—they would go to ground as soon as they realized someone was digging into their unauthorized operations. The Newton Group was the prime contractor on the drone program so James Newton would probably know what was going on—but she would completely blow her cover if she confronted him, even though he was behaving as if he had nothing to hide. She knew that could be a classic diversion; pretend to be co-operating in order to have your opponents reveal their hand, whilst providing them with copious amounts of useless information to distract them from the information you really wanted to keep hidden.
Branston also was not the answer. Given the circumstances he would have no reason to deny knowledge of the illegal operations, but she also knew he would not have the slightest clue how any of it actually worked. No, her best bet was to turn that software tech Newton had brought in. He would definitely know how the drones worked. Cyrus Jones, that was his name. That should not be too hard. She knew a lot more about how people worked than machines.
—o—
They called it a cafeteria, but to Cyrus it seemed more like a diner; cozy booths which he liked, cheesy music which he tried hard to ignore, and table service, which he also liked, from
salt-of-the-earth waitresses whose interest in his personal life was both redundant, since he did not have one, and annoyingly inconsistent with efficiency. Unlike your average diner, and to his undying gratitude, they served decent coffee. In fact awesomely good coffee. That probably had something to do with the fact that the barista Roberto was a real Italian that Newton had brought over from Italy, not some guy from Brooklyn who called himself Italian-American because his great-great-great-grandfather came over on a boat from Sicily, and who was about as Italian as baseball. As an added bonus the coffee was free, like everything else here at the Newton Group.
Cyrus was lost in the programming problem he was thinking about and savoring the joy of a perfect cappuccino. The cafeteria had what looked like a lifetime’s supply of coffee beans from Newton’s private plantation in Costa Rica—you had to admire a guy who was as dedicated to good coffee as James Newton—but no one knew how much longer they would be able to get milk now that food rationing was starting to really bite, so Cyrus was making the most of every perfect cappuccino while he could. That was why he did not immediately notice the woman who sat down in his booth, despite the fact that she was quite tall, very attractive in an athletic sort of way, and had that military bearing that said if you are smart you will notice me and do exactly what I tell you to do.
That aura of command did not really work on Cyrus—he really respected nothing but intellect—but he could tell she was accustomed to being noticed and obeyed. Great. He had not said a word and had no idea who she was or what the hell she was doing intruding into his world, but chances were that she was already annoyed at him, even though he was just sitting there minding his own business. “Can I help…”
“Major Regina Lopez,” she introduced herself without allowing him to finish his question.
He guessed she was Army; it did not look like a Navy uniform and he was quite familiar with Air Force uniforms, or at least the ones they wore on the drone program. He thought he might have seen her around the building but she was not part of Newton’s program, at least as far as he knew.
“Mr. Jones,” she began, demonstrating that she knew who he was and ensuring she had his attention. “I have some questions for you about the drone program.”
“That’s highly classified,” he responded. What he meant was that he had been personally told more than once by General Rhodes that he should never, never, never talk to anyone outside the program about what it was he did. In fact there were people inside the program he had been told not to talk to. Which was fine by him since he was not one for striking up conversations which were not necessary, and most of them would not have understood what he was talking about anyway.
“I assure you Mr. Jones, I am cleared at the highest level. I have already reviewed the program records,” she said as she passed him her pad displaying the list of drone program documents.
Cyrus selected the first document in the list. Sure enough it was a detailed log of a drone mission. He recognized the name of the pilot, Emmanuel Smith. Not someone he had been authorized to talk to, but there were not that many drone pilots and when you were debugging the virtual environment you got to see who had been inside.
“So if you have read all the documentation, why are you interrupting my morning coffee?” he asked impatiently. Despite his attempts to follow the social pleasantries he still had a knack of rubbing people up the wrong way. It was not that he was trying to be rude, but he wanted to get back to what he was doing, almost as much as he wanted to avoid talking to this Major Lopez.
Regina Lopez did not take his prickliness personally. She had dealt with his type before; engineers, programmers, combat veterans. They were all the same under the surface. To the point, no nonsense. Interested in getting the job done. They worked in fields where results were incontrovertible and you could not spin your way out of trouble. Your structure either stayed up or it fell down, your program either worked or it did not, and you either killed the other guy or he killed you. You could not use slippery words and a charming smile to disguise failure as success like politicians did. To tell the truth she liked dealing with such people. You knew where you stood. “Well Mr. Jones, there are some things that I don’t understand about how the program works. The documentation implies many things that require prior knowledge to understand. I was hoping you could help me with that.”
“Why would I do that Major? I have no idea who the hell you are. You told me your name and your rank, but that doesn’t tell me anything important, like why you are here.”
Lopez picked up her pad, selected a document and returned it to him. “I suggest you read this and then reconsider your position Mr. Jones.”
Cyrus looked at the document; it was an Executive Order signed by President Ramirez. Three, no four presidents ago. Ancient history. Then his eyes caught the important part. All use of EMs is strictly prohibited and is to cease immediately. Cyrus silently uttered every curse word he knew as the realization hit him that he had been working on an illegal program for the past fifteen years. Appropriate, since it was hacking a government system that brought him into the program in the first place. No wonder they were so willing to have a criminal on the team.
Was she here to arrest him? He knew that it was always the little guys like him who took the fall when these things were exposed; the big shots who made the decisions would throw him under the bus in a minute to save their own skins. Did he hear somewhere that under martial law they were now shooting traitors? Or was he just imagining that?
Cyrus Jones felt his pulse quicken and the pressure rising in his head as he wondered what he should do. He was tempted to tell this annoying woman what she wanted to know and hope he would never see her again, but then what would happen if General Rhodes found out he had talked about the details of the program. He really would be standing in front of a firing squad. He was just about to tell Major Lopez to take a hike when James Newton slid into the booth next to him.
Newton took the pad from Cyrus and looked at the document. “Blackmail doesn’t become you Major. And it is unnecessary. I already told you, I have no secrets. The only reason I haven’t told Secretary Branston and the President what I’m planning is that they are not yet ready to hear it.”
“Good morning Mr. Newton,” she said. “Please join us,” she added with a hint of sarcasm. If Regina Lopez felt guilty at being caught red-handed she did not let it show.
“Cyrus, please tell Major Lopez anything she wants to know. Anything. Don’t worry about that document the Major showed you. I’ll take care of any issues with General Rhodes.” Newton stood. “If you will excuse me, I have things to do.”
Lopez stared at him as he walked away. Gathering intelligence was hard enough when people tried to keep information from you, but at least that way you knew what was important. But when they just came out and told you what you wanted to know, that was just downright confusing. She did not know if she was being played or if James Newton really was an open book.
—o—
“So Major, it seems I have my orders,” a voice intruded on Regina’s thoughts. “Where do you want to start?”
It took her a moment to gather herself—she had not expected to be getting to the point quite so quickly. May as well start at the root of the problem she decided. “There’s this term in that Executive Order I just showed you—EM—that seems to be key. What does it mean?”
“Emulated Mind,” Cyrus replied in a matter-of-fact tone, as if the meaning of the term was self-evident.
“And what exactly is an Emulated Mind?” she asked.
“A human mind recreated inside a computer.”
“So you can create a computer program that thinks like a human mind?” Regina asked.
“I said re created, Major, not created. It doesn’t think like a human mind. It is a human mind.”
“How can it be a human mind if it’s inside a computer?” she asked. “That doesn’t make sense. It’s not biological.”
“Do you know much abo
ut how the human brain works Major?” he asked.
“I took some biology courses as part of my psychology degree,” Regina answered.
“Then you should know that the human mind is made up of a series of neurons connected via synapses into a neural network.”
“That sounds familiar,” she said. Passing a few undergraduate college courses and really understanding a field of knowledge were not even close to the same thing. But she had learned enough to be fairly sure that Cyrus Jones knew what he was talking about.
“Neuroscience can’t explain the connection between a given pattern within the neural network and specific mental states or behaviors, but we do know the relationship is deterministic.”
“Meaning?” Regina Lopez was intelligent and well educated, but she was not the sort of person who used the word deterministic in casual conversation, or understood what it meant.
“Meaning we can’t look at a pattern of connections in a brain and tell you how that person will behave or think, but if we duplicate that pattern, the copy will think and behave exactly the same way as the original.” Cyrus paused to give her time to digest what he had said before delivering the bottom line. “Even if we duplicate the pattern inside a computer. The brain is merely a machine, a machine we can copy.”
Lopez thought she understood what he meant but was not sure how it applied to the drone program. “So the pilots are not flying the drones? Some sort of computer program that emulates the pilot is?”
“It depends on how you look at it.” He picked up her pad and brought up the mission log he had just been looking at. “Take this pilot—Emmanuel Smith—for example.”
