by Rahul Bhagat
“Let’s take it one by one. First, perception, which is sensing, seeing, hearing. AVs use their cameras and radar to do that. Second, vehicle control. That refers to all the systems that control movement and speed. Third, localization. By that, we mean where the vehicle is relative to objects around it. Does it know its location on the map? And fourth, planning, which is simply its intended action. Is it going to move forward, backward, turn around… You get it?”
Martin nodded. It was a lot of information, but it made sense.
“Okay. So our job here is to tease each of these functions apart. Was there a problem in perception? Did all the sensors work? Or was the problem in vehicle control? Was there any component failure? As you can imagine, there are hundreds of potential scenarios where things could have gone wrong.”
Charlie interrupted their conversation. “Martin, would you like a drink?” he asked from across the room. “Jared has quite a selection of single malts.”
Martin hesitated only a second. “I’ll take one on the rocks, whatever you’re taking.”
“And you, Jared?”
“No. I’m okay,” Dr. Cabrera said and continued his conversation. “The component that controls everything is the Controller AI.”
“Like a conductor in a symphony,” Martin said.
“Yes, more like the brain of the AV. The part that does the actual driving. It decided to hit the guardrail. Why?”
“Exactly my question.” Charlie came back with the drinks and handed one to Martin.
“That’s why I invited you guys,” Dr. Cabrera said. “We think there is some issue either in the perception or the localization function.”
He fiddled with the laptop, and the Living Wall at the head of the table came alive. It displayed a wireframe diagram of the tunnel and the highway where the accident had taken place. Pointing at the screen, Dr. Cabrera said, “As you can see, immediately after the tunnel, the highway took a sharp left turn. When the AV hit the guardrail, it was still running the prior map for the end section of the tunnel. The map was out of sync by about a second, which is a lot.”
“Stop, stop, rewind. What the hell is a prior map?” Martin asked.
“All the roads in the United States, except remote ones like in the mountains, are continuously being mapped by imaging bots. They travel the roads and create a rich 3-D rendering of their surroundings, with traffic sentinels, road signs, sidewalks, everything. That’s what we call a prior map,” Dr. Cabrera said.
“And… what do we need them for?”
“Before starting on a journey, an AV downloads the latest prior map of its route. While driving, it continuously compares the map with the images its sensors are receiving from the outside world. This allows the AV to better detect obstacles because they can see what should be present based on the map, like a street lamp, and what shouldn’t be, like an animal crossing the street.”
“Got it!” Martin gave a thumbs-up signal.
Dr. Cabrera shifted the conversation back to the issue. “A shift in prior map is not uncommon; AVs do that all the time, whenever they are accelerating or slowing down. But what was surprising in this case was the duration: almost a second. That’s unheard of.” He shook his head in disbelief. “It could be that sensor signals were delayed, but why would that happen? And why would it persist? It should have synched with its surroundings in a fraction of a second.”
“Who’s interrogating the controller AI?” Charlie asked.
“Ron Garcha.”
“Oh, the renowned AI whisperer,” Charlie said.
“He’s expensive, but we had to bring him in. MobileSense Z53 is installed in seventy million vehicles.”
“Has he made any breakthrough?”
“Nothing so far,” Dr. Cabrera said. “The AI keeps insisting that the feed from its sensors matched the prior map. And we already know that’s not true. We are checking to see if there was a bug that caused a delay in signal transmission.”
Charlie Doud and Dr. Jared Cabrera dived into a technical discussion that went over Martin’s head. He felt brain dead by the time it was over. As they were getting up to leave, Dr. Cabrera said, “There is something I’d like you to look into.”
“What?” Charlie stopped in his tracks.
“The AV was customized for manual mode.”
“I know that,” Charlie said.
“But the controller override, it was CasperX,” Dr. Cabrera said.
“What’s a controller override?” Martin asked.
“An illegal piece of electronics for manual control,” Charlie said. “What about CasperX, Jared?”
“It’s a well-known vendor on the dark web. They specialize in remote AV sabotage,” Dr. Cabrera said.
There was silence in the room.
Charlie finally broke the silence. “Are you saying the AV was remotely controlled?”
“No, it wasn’t,” Dr. Cabrera said quickly. “Traffic sentinels won’t allow that, but CasperX is known to have pioneered many of the AV hacking tools, and this could very well be their work. Something entirely new. The override was custom-made, one of those technology demonstration models. Dean Callaghan could do things with his AV that no one else could. It was for stunts, like flipping around in midair. And the controller wasn’t bought off the web. It was specifically made to order.”
A frown sat on Charlie’s face as he considered this new piece of information. “What about the OBD2 port? Is that clean?” he asked.
“OBD2 is clean,” Dr. Cabrera said.
“Guys, you have to help me understand.” Martin drooped his shoulders and made a helpless face. “What’s OBD2?”
Martin’s self-deprecating ways made them laugh.
“An example of government overregulation,” Charlie replied enigmatically.
Dr. Cabrera came to the rescue. “When AVs first came out, their functionality was totally locked down. This created a huge problem because mechanics couldn’t service the vehicles. It led to a big hue and cry. You know how many small businesses are mechanic shops? So the government had to step in, and in their typical boneheaded ways, they mandated that every manufacturer should expose an on-board diagnostics port, or OBD2 port, so that third parties could gain access to the vehicle.”
“I remember that,” Martin said with a laugh. “Fair Manufacturing Practices Act. What a circus it was.”
“Right. And none of those idiots had the brains to see that if you stick a remote controller in the OBD2 port, you could control the vehicle remotely,” Charlie said.
“Does that mean every vehicle has a port where you can insert a wireless device and control it remotely?” Martin asked.
“Well, technically, you can’t,” Dr. Cabrera said. “Traffic Sentinels will immediately disable any AV that’s remotely controlled. But places where you don’t have traffic sentinels—remote places, poor countries—that’s fair game.”
Charlie was ready to leave. “Jared, thank you. As always, you’ve been very helpful. I’ll dig into CasperX.” He snapped his fingers and turned around.
“If you guys are not in a hurry, I have a request from Mr. Lott,” Dr. Cabrera said. “He would like to meet you.”
“Really?” Charlie asked. He looked at Martin. “Not everyone gets a chance to meet the man who controls this vast enterprise. What do you say?”
FOURTEEN
THE EXQUISITE ELEVATOR was made entirely of glass. It was like a delicate bubble rising over the lobby of the Lott head office. The building was hollow inside and contained a mini rainforest, complete with parakeets and a twenty-foot waterfall.
An old man in formal attire and silk gloves received them on the top floor and led them through doors that were fifteen-feet high. He spoke in a deep baritone and educated them about the storied history of Lott Enterprises. From humble origins, the organization had grown into a vast conglomerate with interests in AV, offshore wind power, and space mining.
“Space mining. Really? I didn’t know that,” Martin said.
> “Indeed,” the old man replied sharply. “We were pioneers in space mining. We were on the moon, scooping ice long before anyone else. In fact, over seventy percent of our revenue comes from ice mining. We are the biggest player in the extraction and supply of H2O in the entire inner solsys.”
“Inner solsys?” Martin asked.
“Inner solar system. The area between the sun and the asteroid belt,” the old man said and opened a set of enormous doors.
They stepped into a relatively dark room. The place was huge; it was full of tall, narrow windows that stretched all the way to the ceiling. Sheer curtains fluttered lightly, and faint sunlight streamed into the room. Far away in the corner, a man stood by a window. He had his back toward them and was looking outside.
“Mr. Lott,” the old man called. His voice echoed in the room.
There was no word from Mr. Lott, but he turned around and slowly walked back to his desk in the middle of the room. As he sat down, the room became brighter. Now Martin could see him more clearly. Richard Lott was an aging billionaire, old and wrinkled. He had a comical, worried face, like that of a man who had just remembered he’d left the stove on and was miles away from home.
“Sir, it’s a privilege to meet you,” Charlie said deferentially.
Lott didn’t respond but indicated that they have a seat. Martin and Charlie sat down, but the old man who had accompanied them kept standing by the side of the table.
“You wanted to see us?” Charlie asked.
Richard Lott’s voice was dull, like a bland milkshake. “Yes. These are troubled times for us, and now this accident. It will tarnish our image; our goodwill with the public will go down the drain.” Lott paused to gather his thoughts. “I want to make sure my organization is fully cooperating with your investigation.”
“We have no complaints, Mr. Lott. Your staff is very helpful,” Charlie said.
“Good, good.” Lott nodded. “How soon do you think you can wrap up the work?”
“That’s hard to say. Dr. Cabrera has uncovered some promising leads. That may help speed up our work.”
“There is a petition circulating to ban all Lott AVs. You understand what that’ll do to us,” Lott said.
“Sir, this is not just a case of AV malfunction,” Martin intervened. “Two people are dead.”
“I understand, Detective,” Mr. Lott said. “I’m just asking for a helping hand.”
“Sir, rest assured that we’ll do our work as efficiently as possible,” Charlie said. “But Detective Stump is right—there were two fatalities. And unless the police are satisfied”—he looked at Martin—“the investigation will continue.”
“Of course, of course.” Lott nodded at Martin. He closed his eyes and appeared to mumble something to himself. A minute later, he snapped open his eyes and started talking again. “What did you find at the lab?”
Charlie told him about the issue with the prior maps. While Charlie was explaining, the old man approached Mr. Lott and whispered something in his ear.
Mr. Lott turned toward his guests. “Do you mind if I attend to quick business?”
Charlie got up from his seat.
“Oh no, stay,” Mr. Lott said. “This won’t take a minute.”
Martin heard the sound of heels on the floor. A woman appeared in the room; she was strikingly similar to Julie. He didn’t want to stare at her but couldn’t help doing so. The resemblance was uncanny.
“Stacy, you finally found me,” Mr. Lott said.
“Yes, Mr. Lott. You’re hard to track down.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“Oh! It’s the position of Workplace Safety Director. We really have to fill it immediately.”
“You mentioned that months ago. What’s going on? What’s the problem?” Lott asked Stacy.
“Just can’t find a good candidate.”
“What are we looking for?”
“Ideally, a retired or near-retirement police officer,” she said and glanced at Martin.
Mr. Lott turned to his guests. “Any suggestions, gentlemen? You must know a lot of police officers.” He looked directly at Martin. “It’s a director’s position, generous compensation, and lots of perks.”
Martin squirmed in his seat. “I’ll check at the precinct,” he said vaguely.
“Very well,” Mr. Lott said. “Stacy, stay in touch with the detective and seek his advice in shortlisting candidates. Would that be all right, Detective?”
Martin nodded. He wanted the meeting to end.
FIFTEEN
THE RED MOBILE home they had seen in the video was parked in the driveway. Martin and Charlie got out of the police cruiser and walked up to the entrance of the bungalow. Martin paused at the door. There was a lot of noise coming from inside: children playing and screaming. He wondered if the people even had any inkling about the accident.
He rang the doorbell. The house immediately went silent, then moments later, a middle-aged, well-built man opened the door. His hair was long and bunched in a ponytail that fell down to his shoulders.
“Yes?” He looked at Martin then at Charlie with questioning eyes.
Before any of them could say a word, a blood-curdling shriek from inside the house shattered the calmness. Martin and Charlie reacted instinctively and tried to push past the ponytailed man.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” He tried to calm them down then turned inside. “Girls, that’s enough. We have visitors. Please behave.”
Young heads poked through the crack in the door. Two girls, around eight and twelve, looked at the visitors with mischievous eyes. Martin’s mind was flooded with memories of his own daughter, some of the happiest memories of his life. His daughter was around the age of the older girl when Cheryl had moved out, taking his daughter away from him.
The investigators were invited inside. When the girls learned Martin was a police detective, they peppered him with questions. Can you do this? Can you do that? Where is your gun? Cops are so strong; they can lift AVs.
“Lift AVs? Where did you hear that from?” Martin asked. He was totally enamored of the kids. He had forgotten all about the purpose of his visit.
The girls’ father provided the answer. “They were watching a movie where a police officer in an exoskeleton lifted a vehicle to rescue a trapped driver.”
“Oh that!” Martin laughed. “Yes, we can.” He gently ruffled the hair of the younger girl, who had perched herself on his lap.
“Can you lift our mobile home?” the girl turned around and asked.
“Yes, yes. Lift our mobile home,” the older girl chimed in.
Their father intervened. “Girls, the officers are here on a job. They can’t do that.”
“Yes, go play. Grown-ups have to talk now,” Charlie said irritably.
But Martin calmly asked the little girl to get off his lap and got up.
“Martin, what are you doing?” Charlie asked, a little irritated. “We don’t have time to play around.”
“Five minutes won’t make a difference. Let’s go, girls.” Martin headed for the door.
The girls ran ahead of him, yelling with joy.
It was a good thing they had driven in a police vehicle; an exoskeleton was standard equipment. Martin retrieved the HULC suit from the vehicle and strapped it on. It was just metal bars for a spine, shoulders, arms, and legs with a power pack that sat on the hips. He activated the hydraulic switch and moved mechanically toward the red mobile home. He crouched in front of the vehicle, extended exoskeleton arms under the chassis, and easily lifted the front of the vehicle; hydraulic pistons were supplanting his muscles. The girls cheered, jumped, and clapped their hands.
Martin held the van for a couple of minutes till the cheering subsided. “Happy?” he asked and gently lowered the vehicle back to the ground.
“What about the quadcopter? Where is your quadcopter?” the older girl asked.
“Okay, girls, that’s enough.” Their dad intervened. “Go inside now.” He shepherded them
inside the house and closed the door behind them.
The rest of the conversation on the driveway was brief. Martin asked the guy if he recalled anything unusual from the day of the accident. He just shook his head; he wasn’t even aware of the accident and had only come to know much later, through the news.
Back in the vehicle, Charlie complained loudly that this was a waste of his time. He had a deadline breathing down his neck; he had to complete the review of the traffic sentinel report today. He suggested that they skip the other guy and head back to the NTSB office.
But that was not acceptable to Martin. In his opinion, Charlie should have either picked another day to interview these people or not come at all. They sat silently and looked outside at the suburban surroundings. The vehicle waited for its next destination.
Martin relented. He had to be a professional. He decided to have a rational conversation with Charlie. “This is the uninteresting part of the job,” he said. “But I can tell you from experience, I’ve lost count of how many breakthroughs I’ve had because of mundane, routine investigations. It works, Charlie. It definitely works.”
Charlie said nothing, but he did look at Martin. After a moment, he abruptly got up and walked to the kitchenette to pour himself another coffee.
“All right. Let’s go. But we’re going to make this fast. Okay?” Charlie said with a grin.
“We will.” Martin smiled and instructed the cruiser to take them to the guy in the white van that was traveling in front of the crashed AV.
The cruiser dropped them in front of a shabby house. It was in a run-down part of the town, with crumbling sidewalks and tall grass in the front yards. The white van was parked in front of the house.
Martin walked to the house and knocked on the door. There was no response. The next time, Charlie knocked—sharp, impatient knocks.
A sleepy young man barely out of his teens opened the door. He didn’t have a shirt on, and his chest sported a tattoo, some long word in fancy lettering. The kid had droopy eyes and a thin mustache, and a strong smell of sweat emanated from him. Martin took a step back.
