possible to take the known and use it as a base camp from which to explore the unknown-pushing that frontier back just a little at a time, like ants exploring terrain.
As Strickland knew, even a person with Down syndrome was a generalized genius compared to special- purpose computer algorithms. Breaking things down to their simplest elements was the only way to accomplish anything useful. Prakash had worked out the architecture, and the design made Strickland’s head hurt. But if the damned thing worked, he’d forgive all of the man’s arrogance.
The scene on the left changed to a woman in a burka-a burka! What U.S. troops called a “BMO,” short for “black moving object.” DARPA bastards. No face, no clear view of her arms or torso. On-screen she resembled a walking bag. But if memory served, Vijay and Gerhard’s gait detection code should help assign the attribute of “human” to walking objects-and along with “humanity” came implied geometry, potential actions, and patterns of movement. The burka woman was moving along a narrow village road carrying what appeared to be a plastic water jug on her head.
The room waited with bated breath. Then the text started scrolling.
Person carries object down street.
Okay, so far so good.
The woman entered a dwelling through a doorway on the left, and the system correctly described her disappearance. Then all was quiet for a moment, until she reemerged without the jug on her head. This was the real test. Cognition.
#ALERT-DROPPED-ITEM: Person observed carrying object into building and leaving without it.
Strickland felt the importance of this moment as loud applause filled the room. They had just passed the bomber test. Years of work flashed before him. He felt the backslaps of his teammates, and he turned to their smiling faces in the semidarkness. He even grabbed hands and side-hugged Prakash. They’d never gotten along well-always struggling for the reins. But this moment was what they’d been working for. Even the eternally serious Prakash gave the barest hint of a smile. A smirk, really.
Strickland had to admit the guy knew what he was doing. “Great work, Vijay.”
Prakash nodded. “It’s a start.”
Prick. Couldn’t he enjoy anything?
There were calls for quiet as the test continued, but a warm tingling had settled across Strickland. They would get their research grant. He knew it now. The excited discussions among the judges told him they’d outperformed anything they’d ever seen. His professional career had begun, and he would forever remember this moment. He couldn’t wait to tell Sandra.
But then he remembered that they weren’t seeing each other anymore.
Strickland popped the cork on a bottle of cheap champagne and let foam spew in all directions as his research mates screamed in jubilation. Back in the KSL lab cluster on the second floor, there was much to celebrate. The lab was an open workspace with HD digital video cameras clamped to brackets and on tripods scattered here and there, rack servers in one corner, their LED lights flickering as though in time to the music. LCD monitors on desks and mounted to the ceiling scrolled Raconteur-generated text of the festivities… most of it not too far off-but then they would now have a federal grant to perfect it, wouldn’t they?
What they’d believed to be groundbreaking work had been recognized. The venture capital arm of a U.S. intelligence agency had tentatively agreed to finance their research project, but along with that came top-level introductions to other private venture firms. His team now represented the very bleeding edge in the field of visual intelligence. All their personal rancor and disagreements had been for a purpose, and now the entire crew shouted another toast, enjoying the moment-Chatterjee, Koepple, Prakash, Wang, Kasheyev-a truly international team. And then there were the other lab teams in the cluster, along with their faculty advisors. There were spouses and significant others, as well-turning it into a full-scale party. Strickland wished he had someone to share it with too. But that would come in time, especially now that success had found him. In a few years he hoped to be a partner in some venture capital firm on Sand Hill Road. He was on his way.
Strickland stepped up onto an office chair as someone steadied it for him. He raised his glass and Lei Li, their mentor, called out for quiet-with everyone suddenly shouting, “Speech! Speech!”
In a few moments the music got turned down, and in the sudden silence Strickland raised a plastic cup sloshing with champagne. “Guys, I want you to know what an honor it’s been to work with this team. I’m aware that the brilliance lies not with me, but with all of you”-he pointed-“Sourav, Gerhard, Bao, Nik, and of course, the inimitable Vijay.” There was applause and cheers with each name.
Prakash stood near the wall, arms crossed, watching Strickland with something approaching disdain. Prakash wore his trademark khaki pants and blue Oxford button-down shirt. His hair, as always, closely cut and perfect. Bollywood good looks.
What was the deal with this guy? Why couldn’t he just loosen up? Strickland tried to ignore him. “I think it’s fitting that in a building where Google was born-bringing Web search to the world-visual intelligence would also be born, bringing the ability to search reality in real time. You guys will make history, and I’m just glad to be along for the ride.”
“Hear, hear!” Another cheer went up and glasses were drained. The music came up again, and the crowd resumed shouted conversations, while lab members mugged before the video cameras.
Strickland noticed Prakash still staring daggers at him, so he waded through the crowd to him. “Vijay, what’s wrong with you, man? You look like Kolkata just lost the cricket finals or something.”
Prakash eyed him. “Speaking as one of the ‘brilliant’ team members, I don’t appreciate you monopolizing the conversation with DARPA. We make decisions as a team, Josh. The only reason you have the title of ‘team lead’ is because you’re good at dealing with suits, and it keeps you out of my way.”
“I was just setting a date for the next meeting. We’ll confirm it by e-mail later.”
“We need to be involved in every decision that occurs-no matter how small.”
“We’re not a hive mind, Vijay. Occasionally tasks need to be delegated, and I don’t see the point of bothering you with-”
Prakash got in his face, finger jabbing. “This is not the first time I’ve had to remind you. I do not work for you, Josh, and I expect you to represent the interests of the team, not just yourself.”
“Whoa, whoa! Hold on a second. We all agreed from the get-go that since I’m the extrovert that it would be best if I did the talking, especially with the defense folks. That’s what I’ve been doing.” He gestured back to the chair he’d been standing on. “Did I not just lay literally all of the credit onto everyone else’s shoulders?”
“And rightly so. The next time we communicate with the U.S. government, I expect to be copied, Josh.”
He studied Prakash’s face. Did he know? There had indeed been a few other communications, but it had only been an oversight. “Look, I don’t know what you think I’m up to, but in case you haven’t noticed, you’re sort of critical to this project. I can’t screw you without screwing myself. You’re on the patent applications.”
Strickland wondered if Prakash’s highly competitive upbringing was behind this. He knew that the guy’s father was a real type-A businessman-a real ballbuster who practically rode his sons with a riding crop. Old school. Very class conscious too.
Was that it? Strickland sometimes wondered if Prakash thought less of him simply because Strickland was straight middle class-the son of schoolteachers. He’d seen photos of the Prakash summerhouse in the south of France, and photos of Prakash literally in a polo outfit, holding the reins of a pony-like he was friends with the British royals or something. It was easy to forget that this guy might just look at him like he was one of the help.
The more he thought about it, the more it irritated him. He raised his cup again to Prakash and gave him an obnoxious wink, aiming a finger pistol at him in oily salesman fashion. “Who loves ya, guy? Eh? Who loves ya!”
Someone came up from behind and ruffled Prakash’s hair, laughing. Strickland took the opportunity to step away, heading outside for some air. He worked the room on the way out, and by the time he made it to one of the hallway doors, he could see the light on in one of the tiny, windowless offices that surrounded the lab cluster. There sat the childlike form of Nikolay Kasheyev, their visual processing expert, sitting at his desk.
Kasheyev had some sort of pituitary condition that gave him the appearance of a twelve-year-old, even though he was in his mid-twenties. He was often told he was a child prodigy, and every time people made that mistake, Strickland winced on his behalf. But the Russian seemed used to it.
He could see Kasheyev examining multiplexed video streams, tiled into squares on his screen. Strickland
