I sink down into a giant chair that looks like a stuffed piece of strawberry-frosted cake. Alistair frowns, sensing my despair.
“Maxim’s birthday party is tomorrow,” I say. “Ben is dropping the twins off in the morning.”
“Bernard always throws a nice party,” says Alistair gently. “The whole family will be there. Henley, even.”
“I think the twins are starting to hate me a little,” I say. “I think maybe I’m starting to hate them a little, too. Like Mom hated us. They are more Ben’s children than mine at this point. I don’t even really feel like I know them. Is it weird to be scared of your own children?”
“Well, you don’t see them very much,” says Alistair. “I mean, you could see them more.”
“There’s no time,” I say. “I dread seeing them. No shit. I think they can tell I dread them. Are all children little sociopaths?”
“Children are mostly wonderful,” Alistair says. “They just need more from you than adults do.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe they are doomed to be spoiled little shitheads who will never be worth a damn, like Henley. Being useless runs in our family just as much as loving toys does.”
“Anyway, I’m looking forward to seeing them,” Alistair says. “Are you doing okay? You don’t seem particularly well.”
I lean forward and take the phone out of his hand. I use it to scan the walls for more portals filled with more scrolls that might hold more games that will help me make more money for Planned Parenthood and more abortions. The wall behind him is filled with portals.
“I want to buy Playqueen,” I tell him. “Dad won’t even talk to me about it. There is a ticking clock here: we don’t have much time to acquire them, steal everything they make, and put them out of business before the next shareholder meeting. Are you going to back me on this?”
“They do good work,” says Alistair. “I like their physics kits and detective playsets. I think they have a very inventive point of view, and obviously they have a real insight into the preoccupations of under-ten girls, which has always been a weakness of ours.”
“It won’t work unless you are behind me all the way,” I tell him.
“You know I’ll support you,” he says.
“I can’t even remember being under ten anymore,” I say. I reach into one of the portals and pull out another scroll. I click the button on the phone, which lets me interact with it. Three faces show up. Three middle-aged black guys are scowling while walking down the street. Two of them are the same person and one of them is different. I click on the one who is different and am rewarded by another set of faces. All three are teenage girls with black hair, sitting in a diner booth. I frown. Actually, all three images are of the same girl. There is a button to click if that’s the case. I click it. In one corner of the screen, a counter shows me how much money I am making for Amnesty International.
“Look at me,” I say. “I’m saving the world. Actually, it does feel kind of good. I can see this catching on. The games need to be a little more complex, perhaps.”
“We don’t really have control over what the jobs might be,” says Alistair. “Those will all be set by our partners.”
An idea hits me. “Of course, we’ll also have access to whatever data gets harvested through these games,” I say.
“Yes, I suppose we would. But what would we do with it?”
I look around the R&D department. All these fun, creative people making fun, creative products. They are brilliant engineers and artists, but they aren’t playing the same big-picture game that I am. They don’t have a twenty-billion-dollar business to protect.
“You know CAPTCHA?” I ask. “Those little tests that websites do to see if you are human?”
“Yes,” he says. “Of course.”
“Well, the data from all those CAPTCHA tests is being used to help train AI. Did you know that? Very efficient. Use every part of the buffalo, right?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Well, we could work the same hustle,” I say. “We’re getting people to do the same kind of work as CAPTCHA by playing a fun game for charity. That’s all up-front and aboveboard. But we could then use all that data for our own purposes, creating a massive database of all the ‘good people’ of planet Earth that we could then exploit, while at the same time using the aggregate of all this data to train our own AI, which we would be able to train much faster than any individual client.” I pause, noting the sardonic look on Alistair’s face, and add, “I use the term ‘exploit’ here in the technical sense.”
“That’s very sinister,” says Alistair.
“You are so sweet, little brother. So dedicated.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks me again. “Seriously, is something wrong?”
“I can count on you, right? All the way? We’re on the same team here?”
“All the way,” he says. “I am Knuckles and you are Snap.”
4
Eventually, I have no choice but to go home for the night. I have to get things ready and prepare emotionally to see my little angels in the morning.
My Townhouse is actually rather modest, considering.
