“Police have stated that the device was made from some custom design, likely created by the bomber or bombers. Grieving families were disappointed to hear that the chances of tracing the device’s origin are nearly nonexistent.”
The shot changed again. This time, viewers were brought into a police headquarters office, where a bald officer with remnants of red hair circling his scalp sweated in front of diplomas and news clippings.
According to the words on the screen, the man was Sergeant Lawrence Maybill.
“At this time, it appears that the device was detonated remotely by someone observing the scene at the time of the attack,” the man started. “However, we’ve found no evidence that a radio signal was used. We are beginning to speculate that, if the suspect was in eyesight of the bank, an infrared detonator may have been used instead. This is just a theory, as my officers have no real means to detect if light was used instead of sound. No other details are available at this time.”
Karl’s eyepiece started to play an advertisement linked with the television, but he stopped it with a simple mental command. He hated commercials.
“Welcome back,” the mustached anchor greeted as the program resumed. The camera panned to him from the audience. “Was the attack on the Columbine I.I. Bank the act of terrorists? That has been the question on many people’s minds, including the head of the F.B.I. There are a number of rumors that the bombing was orchestrated by anti-installation extremists, and F.B.I. Director Brian Mahar says they aren’t yet ready to dismiss the possibility.”
The view shifted to a press conference starring the aforementioned Mr. Mahar standing behind a podium. He was a Pakistani man in his late fifties, a perfect patch of gray covering both his sideburns.
“It’s no secret that anti-installation sentiments have been on the rise for the last few years,” the F.B.I. Director said. “Political parties have been formed with policies built around those sentiments as their foundation. At this time, we have no evidence connecting the Humanity Party, the Identity Party, or any other anti-I.I. organization to the terror attack in Detroit. There is the possibility, however, that a new group of individuals committed this atrocity with political motivations in mind. None of the perpetrators have been identified yet, but the Bureau and several police departments are maintaining a list of persons of interest. Please contact your local authorities if you have any information regarding the bombers in Detroit.”
Karl had heard enough. Using the mental remote on his cerebral computer, he changed the channel.
“You see, the thing is, ever since we gave them citizenship—ever since the case of Chris Santson I.I.—we’ve agreed that they are human beings,” a man with a short-cropped hair style and thick black-rimmed glasses said.
He was sitting around a table with about four other people, making direct eye-contact with an older portly man wearing what looked like an old-fashioned brown toupee on his crown. The other two folks sat watching the exchange. One, a black man with a plentiful mustache and glistening scalp, held a tablet in his hand. He was likely the host of the discussion, keeping his questions in front of him. The other quiet one was skinny. He seemed nervous to be in close proximity to other people.
“They are not human beings,” the large man with the rug interrupted.
“They are human—” the first man tried to say.
“They are not,” the fat man said, speaking over his opponent. “They are machines. You show me an I.I. with flesh and blood, then maybe I’d see what you’re saying.”
“They’re human beings, and a lack of a body doesn’t change that, sir,” the younger man with the glasses continued. “Being an amputee doesn’t make you any less of a person, so what’s the difference here?”
“We’re not talking about a foot or an arm,” the man with the toupee argued. Sweat glistened over his lip, and Karl was able to make out every droplet due to the high-definition display. “We are talking about organic bodies. If you were never born, then you aren’t a person. Period.”
The younger man was about to speak, but the host interjected.
“What do you think about all this, Bob?” he asked, directing the conversation to the nervous man.
He took a big gulp before speaking. “I don’t know anything about what classifies a ‘human being’ other than my own opinions, but I believe that any intelligent being, organic or not, deserves some dignity.”
“Exactly!” the first man exclaimed, gesturing to the skinny guy. “You wouldn’t make any intelligent creature work without compensation. That’s why you don’t see dolphins in parks anymore. Human or not, we don’t own slaves.”
“They were compensated,” the large man said.
“What?”
“They were compensated.”
“Who?”
“The dolphins.”
“Excuse me?”
“What do you call all that fish, then?”
“The fish?” the first man replied incredulously. “You mean feeding them? You call that compensation?”
“Guys, we’re getting a little off topic,” the host said before the large man could retort. “We’re talking about paying installed intelligences for the work they do, be it research, customer service—or even comedy, as we’ve seen lately. Putting the argument about whether I.I.s are or are not humans aside, what would you have against compensating them?”
The large man seemed caught a bit off guard.
“Are you kidding me?” he started. “We’re burning through our surplus like a teen on his first payday, and what’s going to happen when that money’s all gone? Do you think this country can stand to go through another deficit? Do you want our taxpayers to be paying out the nose, just so some computer can make believe that it’s a real person?”
Everyone around the table seemed a little baffled by his argument.
“You do know what ‘surplus’ means, don’t you?” the man with the glasses said with the tone of someone speaking to a toddler.
“Yeah, the reserve is sitting at a handsome nine-trillion-dollar surplus,” the nervous man added. “There’s no reason
