by Travis Borne
The chair to her right remained empty but she saw a blur float above it. She looked away for a second, tightly squeezed her eyes, then back again; Jim had arrived. He sat up slowly and noticed Amy had beaten him. She was sitting up and staring into his newly formed eyes, then blurted loudly, “You promised me a drink.”
She’s quick, he thought. Before I can even... He shook off the transitory lag and took a moment to compose his new virtual self, and he found it easier to keep his thoughts on this side of the line even though his happy-poison had already worn off. “Sure, but non-alcoholic of course.” He grinned, laughing on the inside. “Okay then, let’s hit up the bar.”
A shady path through the palms led up to it—a smaller one farther from the main resort. The surrounding area was strung with lights, and now not so surprisingly, the wooden shack of a bar already had a bartender. A Jamaican man in a yellow and green unbuttoned shirt was cleaning glasses and hanging them. He was happy and dangled his dreadlocks to the rhythm of island music. Jim smirked, noticing the quick arrival of DCs while in her company. Others neared: tourists by the gobful. Amy popped onto a wooden stool and fluttered dangling legs, again waiting for Jim. She spun herself around on its swivel and it eventually stopped with the chance of a roulette wheel. Her focus locked onto it: that large pelican in the distance. A cool breeze passed. The pelican deserted its post in a display of intensity.
It swooshed within mere inches—and grabbed. The tourist leapt for his hair but it was gone, and those at the bar shared company with a newly balded and very upset man. Jim looked up at the awkward surprise with squinting eyes and the pelican flew into the sun with the hairpiece. Amy giggled, and then he too—he couldn’t help it, she made him feel good. He took a seat next to her and ordered two margaritas: one non-alcoholic. The bartender quickly whipped up their drinks and upon serving them Amy nearly yanked hers from his hand.
“Whoa girl, you thirsty,” he said, in a laid-back manner, chuckling.
“Thank you. Mmmm,” Amy said, savoring it impatiently, then winced a little after the salty rim did its part. “It tastes, real. Salty but delicious!” And without delay her attention shifted and her eyebrows teased an angry look toward Jim. “Now you got some more explaining to do, Mister.” She quickly swapped the angry face about as fast as she’d formed it then took another sip after wiping away the salt. “Okay, bad machines yes, but good ones?” Bad machines, the words echoed in her mind. Suddenly a flash, she remembered a scary image from her childhood—a flying drone with glowing red eyes.
Jim took a sip of his drink, noticing how quickly she could swap emotions, feelings, and thoughts. His patience faltered just a bit and he wondered how he would ever be able to keep up with her. “Okay. I’ll explain more, but no more questions until I’m done. Deal?”
16. PART III - Ear Damage
Twenty-five years earlier.
“Get back here! We’re not—you can’t just—” The boardroom went silent. The door slammed hard enough to cause ear damage.
“I think he just did, Steve,” Larry said, a bit late. His voice stopped the ringing in their ears like a finger to a bell. Pratik's mouth fell open and his peppermint balanced on the side of his tongue then fell into the thin cavity of his skinny jaw.
“Steve, think about what he just said, what if he really can—”
“We’ve all have seen what he can do,” Beth interrupted. “Nancy is right, what if he really can pull this off?” Beth looked dazed, as if she’d been slapped with a sure chance to win the lottery. Burdis grunted, then heads began to nod at the mere thought. They’d been carried to a special dimension in time and space where anything is possible—he had that power, he’d used it on them before. They became drunk to the very idea of it. Their drunkenness was a gateway drug and quickly they became addicted to possibility. The room went silent and Nancy talked, but only with her eyes. Dazzled hungry eyes.
With a thirst for power such as theirs, each for a different reason, the proposal couldn’t be rejected. Acceptance lit the room in their minds like a bulb about to pop. Even the most pessimistic among them allowed the concept its limelight—and that’s all it took.
17. Rab
He plowed away on the code, beginning to feel it—the drag. The multiple curved screens above his desk were alive with his own custom interface; he slapped his face and continued on.
They called him Rab. No one had called him by his real name in a long time. Herald L. Tompkins, a man of puzzles, because besides partying that’s what he loved to do. He was just good at it, always was and coding hit the sweet spot: the ultimate puzzle. With his mind focused and his sleeves rolled up, his fingers burned through keyboards.
The nickname stuck. A demonic rabbit tattoo painted his entire left forearm. It was clawfully wicked, as if the artist had forged it while burning in hell. His only other tattoo also had a rabbit, although more realistic. It covered his right forearm: his father, proud on his custom chopper before an orange sunset. And there was a passenger, no one other than Radar. Above the tattoo read: Never Forget. The death of his father had a huge impact on him. Lung cancer. Smoking. The end came only three months after the diagnosis. But before passing he wanted to give his son something special; his stern wife never let Herald have any pet, or much else for that matter. Ultimately, and defiant against Margarette while he could still function, Dad brought home a grey-white chinchilla rabbit. It was his best, yet most painful birthday. The final gift, a tangible memory of his dad, Radar became his only friend in the world, one that he clung to…until he could stand it no longer.
Rab never cared for tattoos. The demented one, he couldn’t even remember having it done, things had gotten really out of hand for a while; he’d forgotten entire chunks of his life in the madness. And the other, when things got even worse: depressing, suicidal, a blender to his grey matter. The memories of his father, his rock, the only one who’d ever cared—he thought of that movie, and himself flying red with rage around the Earth in order to get it to spin in reverse. So, at the time he felt he had to get that one—because he never wanted to forget again.
His employers and the few acquaintances he’d acquired had always thought it—the name, Rab—was a tag that just stuck, attributed perhaps to the tattoos, or the speed at which he could code: light; or the fact that for years he brought the obese rabbit to work. They didn’t know his mother threatened cooking the creature and eating it for dinner. They didn’t know how she cursed every night. They didn’t know what she’d really done. They didn’t know a lot of things.
In the early years Rab’s first boss had no problem allowing Radar in because of his exceptional work performance. And this became typical. Through the years Rab received many special exceptions and perks wherever he’d worked. He landed his first job programming for a software company at only fifteen years old, was paid under the table, and had managed to save a hefty chunk of cash while working there for a few years.
Rab had eyes that, depending on his state of mind, could transition between blue and green. He had a face full of acne scars and high cheekbones, a decent chin and thick black hair. His bangs were long and he usually slicked them straight back. Most days he wore long-sleeve shirts, left a few buttons undone and rolled the sleeves halfway up. And rarely did he wear pants. Cargo shorts, mostly.
Now, at only 28 years old, he’d achieved prodigy status and had a stake in one of the largest tech corporations in the world. He was brilliant and creative, and people were curious, and he occasionally tossed a bone. So, he’d conceded to a few tests and several attempts to rate his IQ went forward. He scored average every time. See, just a regular guy, he’d later said simply; experts were at a loss to explain his special talent. But none of it really mattered to the big boys—talent equaled money—and a regular guy with his talent equaled lots of it.
The corporation made billions from his unique ideas, powerful programs, and derived products—although he’d only been there officially for a little over four years. The top
floor of the building was now entirely his domain, made specifically to his liking. And he’d sit at his computer for hours, days, weeks on end up there, high in the sky. When he was in that special mode, time stopped, so he said. It’s all about the focus, he’d say.
And he’d really gotten the ball rolling—either snowballing into oblivion for the company, or bowling a strike for the world—to ignite monumental change. With an unlimited budget at his disposal Rab and his team embarked on the world’s most significant challenge ever: the global rat race to develop the first artificial intelligence. Having already developed many projects that seemed to have a life of their own, Rab knew they were nothing compared to a true creative consciousness: endowing a machine with the ability to think abstractly.
The year: 2020, and many companies around the world were fighting hard to be the winner of this one; some claimed they’d already achieved success, but had nothing solid to back it up. Meddlinn Technologies Corporation had Rab. Coding, atop the tallest building in LA, he solidified them as a top contender—in it to win it.
18. 11:11
He blew the cancer out as if he’d been punched. Tim extinguished his hundredth cigarette and rotated his telescopic camera lens with shaky, anxious hands. Rab stood tall: arms held high, gazing into the sky, torn and faded jean shorts, his shirt completely unbuttoned, and the office looked bright inside. From a half-dozen stories below, in the adjacent building, he watched. “What in the hell is he doing now?” He took the shot. Damn. He tried again. “What in the blazing—”
It all began a year ago.
Rab stood gazing from his quarter-floor office window. A low rumble of thunder, some lightning flashed. It was a dark, stormy day and he was taking it slow that morning because of a nightmare that had twisted his mind into knots. He breathed deep, trying to clear his mind while watching the clouds spar with one another. A flash—everything went white. His eyes readjusted, pulling him out of the darkness.
There was a knock at the door—it cracked open.
“Sir?” Lucy said quietly.
“Everything okay, Lucy?” he asked, turning to see his new secretary peeking in.
“Rab, I’m sorry, the meeting. I couldn’t get a hold of you so I—” He looked at the clock. An hour had passed, but it felt like only a minute. He joggled his head for a second.
“Everything’s fine, Lucy, just—daydreaming.”
“Okay. But it’s over. The summary, um, I’ll just set it right here.” She set the file on the oak table next to the door and meekly squeezed away while holding the aim of her smile.
Something new was there, in place of the missing hour. Again, he looked over to the red glowing digits of the clock on his shelf. The time, still 11:11. He turned back to the window; the clouds were gone. The day was clear and the sunlight warm on his face. He lifted his chin to catch more; it melted all traces of the morning nightmare. And it brought with it extreme clarity. The idea was born.
He splayed his arms and fingers wide, placing them on the wall of glass and stood looking out for as far as he could see. His thoughts were organized and easy to follow, more so than ever. He followed them as far as he chose to dream, then retraced every step clearly and exactly. Then back again. Multiple paths were hot arcs of energy and he dove into them, to the ends of his creativity, endless branching branches on a white-lightning tree, and all the way back, jumping across the streams, crisscrossing extra-dimensionally for as far as he dared take it. He began to obsess over the possibilities. Can this really be? Rab thought.
He referred to it as DAY ONE. He called it so because of his profound realizations; that and he kept seeing repeating 1’s everywhere he looked for the rest of the day. It was the second time he had experienced such a moment: a life changing event that brought extreme clarity of mind, this time, outstanding in the way it activated a single pivotal idea. But most importantly, he’d traced a path to achieve it. In his mind, he knew it was the just the beginning, of what would eventually change the world. By day’s end Rab tossed all projects aside, later just canceled them altogether. Within a month he had a solid plan and a workable outline. But it wouldn’t work without going wild to the extremes. He calculated what it was really going to take, and knew he’d have to throw all normalcy out the window to make it happen.
19. A Blunt Proposal
“…and that’s my proposal. I won’t wait for an answer because I already know what it is. When my floor—and roof—are ready give me a shout.” Rab finished addressing the board with his plan and requests. “I expect you will want to finish it within the week. Strike while the—” He tapped his temple with two fingers. “—iron’s hot.” He wasn’t trying to be a dick; he knew they were using him, anything to get an edge, to further overstuff their bank accounts.
He stood tall and looked at the eleven members one last time, holding steady for a moment. He grinned. And they looked at him, quiet, mouths pulled open from the top. The board sat drape-armed and stiff, their underwear stretched out of their asses, high up and around their backs, pulling on their foreheads, oddly hunched and speechless, and he knew it to the bone, ready to agree. Stern Steve, gross; today Stained Steve, brown streaks mohawking his underwear mask. Fat bastard. But Steve wasn’t half as fat as some of the others. Nancy wasn’t wearing panties so her skirt was pulled up, leaving her naked; a nice sight—she had quite the figure.
Rab always used some type of imagery to get him through the board meetings. Today, wedgies. It was perfect, hand in hand with a slap-to-the-face proposal. They’re all so fucking funny, and gross, he thought. A peppermint fell out of old Pratik’s mouth and hit the floor. His underwear drew his head back, mouth ajar, and his pencil-thin muscles were unable to compete. His Indian frame distorted, muscles ripping under the strain, underwear pulling him under, everyone, yanking them all below the table. Rab left. He slammed the door harder than he ever had.
His proposal was short and to the point, although some might debate that it was just reckless overconfidence, brash and cocky promises—but he did have the past record to back it up.
“…what if he really can pull this off?” It was the last thing said for at least five minutes.
They knew they wanted it, and wanted it bad, and it was very clearly proposed. Introspection, money, speculation, money, fantastic hallucinations—money. Nancy sat at the head of the massive table, her eyes rolled up and over and back like slow windshield wipers following each lung-tingling breath. She was well acquainted with Rab’s blunt demeanor—and she knew a lot more than that about the guy. She broke the silence.
“All in favor?” she said, holding a hand up. She could hardly control the tingles now. She breathed deep, holding it. Her pressed smile was about to explode into rapturous laughter. Every board member raised a hand, except Steve.
Before day’s end the profit projections came back: overwhelming, world conquering. “If the punk could just—I mean if he actually pulls this shit off,” Steve said, talking to himself in his overly adorned office, hunting trophies packing it full: directly above, the King of the Jungle. His chair creaked under the strain of his 300-plus pounds while he scrutinized every inch of the proposal, calculating, dreaming of the possibilities. Most were ludicrous, but all were intriguing. Rab included a long list of potential uses for AI. How did he come up with this? Steve thought, scrolling through the list again.
Even though it was too late—he’d already been outvoted—Steve bowed to the possibility. He ceded with his signature and relinquished his top-floor office.
Construction began late the next day after the suits had moved out. It finished on time in one week, and like he’d said, Rab got started right away. He spent the first morning on the roof in the warm California sun getting acquainted with the team he put together. While others were developing sophisticated hardware and quantum computers, Rab declared—confidentially to Meddlinn—to do it with only software, programming that would run on any system. And most importantly—he declared to complete the proje
ct in a single year, or less.
20. One: Suits Get The Boot
One.
The boardroom, top-level offices, the entire floor, was vacated then demolished. The roof was erased flat. Anyone who might have deserved the space—kicked out. The suits got the boot. The top of the world was built to Rab’s every requested detail—stipulation number one.
No need to be lavish, he wasn’t a high-roller. Rab didn’t demand gold-plated doorknobs or waterfalls, although many aspects were top notch. Divided into three major sections the layout was efficient, comfortable—different. Living quarters—with the best view in LA nonetheless—and the lab, Rab’s personal work area, were constructed next to each other. The rest was designated usable space for the team. Rab’s living room had a spiral metal staircase leading to the roof, and of course no television. He never watched TV. He had a kitchen and a master bedroom, all average size, basic and simple. His apartment was accessible through the lab, which a large sliding-glass door could block, effectively creating a hallway. The other side of the hallway contained a one-way mirror as long as the room was wide and made visible his team’s work area.
