“And what laws are you working on?”
“Those are bit too complicated to recite over the airwaves, but I promise that our coders and engineers are hard at work on flawless laws that keep all installed intelligences from hurting those of us still alive.”
That’s insane, Karl thought. Such a thing can’t be done.
“If it can,” Maynard started, “it’s the first true form of total slavery. Slavery of the mind, and of the soul. I have a soul just as you do, Karl.”
I know that!
“Then why do people see a line between you and me? Why do they talk about me like I’m a bad virus instead of a human being?”
Karl couldn’t think of answer for several minutes.
You know why, was all he could manage.
“How would this impact I.I.s already installed?” the interviewer asked.
“Well,” Stewart said, his voice dragging along like it was chained to several weights. “Unfortunately, there would have to be a massive recall.”
“A recall?”
“Yes. We would need to collect all currently existing I.I.s and assess them for compliance with these new laws.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
A recall? Karl thought
“A collection,” Maynard said.
“Don’t you foresee some resistance in the courts? The ACLU, for example?” the radio presenter said.
The program almost faded away, but Karl gave the radio a good whack and the signal returned in full strength.
“We are prepared,” Stewart said. “The lawyers are primed, so to speak.”
“Don’t you see anything wrong with collecting installed intelligences? They are considered human beings, after all.”
“No, for the time being, the first generation of I.I.s have been a defective programming error,” Stewart argued. “We don’t seek to do anything to these ‘people’ other than update their code with modern safety compliance. I think that’s only fair.”
“When will this recall begin?” the host asked.
“It’s already starting,” Stewart replied. “Thanks to a quick win with the D.O.J., we have started to gather the most risk-prone I.I.s. I expect this battle will reach the courts, at which time we be able to collect all prior-generation intelligences.”
“How many I.I.s do you estimated you’ve already acquired?”
“Around three thousand. Remember, these were all programs cleared by a panel of psychologists to be at high risk of having violent tendencies.”
A tone played and there was a brief pause.
“Well, I’d love to continue this discussion—it’s a truly fascinating subject—but that’s all the time we have for today,” the presenter spoke. “Mr. Lythe, thank you very much for joining us today.”
“It was my pleasure,” was the reply.
“Don’t forget to tune in next week, when we speak to Dr. Shirley Martinez, a highly regarded psychologist, about why she thinks Karl Terrace wrote his manifesto. Until next time!”
There was only static.
Karl turned the radio off.
Stalward
“I know his voice,” Maynard said.
What? Karl asked.
“Stewart,” the I.I. said. “I thought I recognized it at first, but I wasn’t sure.”
What are you talking about?
“That voice belongs to someone I knew a long time ago,” Maynard answered. “Though, he wasn’t called Stewart Lythe then.”
Karl waited silently for a follow-up. He was growing tired of having to prod for answers.
“I need a moment to think about it all,” Maynard whispered. “I don’t remember everything so well. It’s like stuff is locked behind sticky goo, and I have to pry it loose. It might take me awhile. I’m sorry.”
It’s okay, Karl thought.
It had been at least thirteen hours since the psychologist had disconnected Maynard and left him to his own musings. Now that he was alone with his own thoughts, he couldn’t help but notice how frantic the I.I.’s tone had been when they’d last spoken.
Throughout the entire time Karl knew him, Maynard had always seemed cool and hard to rattle. Nothing was unworthy of ridicule in his book, and Karl found it kind of admirable. Now, though, with the I.I.’s confidence shaken, it disturbed the fugitive.
He decided enough time had passed since his last check in that it was worth powering up his C.C. enough to awaken Maynard. When he did so, it was like he’d walked in on the I.I. in a conversation with himself, but none of the words were discernible.
Before Karl could manage any thought, the I.I. noticed him and redirected his conversation.
“I know who he is,” Maynard said.
Stewart? Karl asked.
“Yeah. Though he was called Glenn Stalward when I knew him.”
Glenn Stalward? Karl echoed.
“Did I stutter?” Maynard replied in typical fashion. “He helped me with the hardware when I was developing the cerebral computer. We worked together quite often.”
What makes you think that they’re the same person?
There was a noise as if Maynard had managed to turn an eye roll into an audible format.
“I know. Trust me. With my current ‘state,’ I have access to all kinds of voice comparison software and more things that you could think to run on your dinky C.C.”
Dinky? You invented it!
“Some fathers outgrow their children,” Maynard replied. “Either way! I am certain beyond a reasonable doubt that Glenn Stalward and Stewart Lythe are the same person. As a fellow scientist, you must know the gravity of those words.”
Okay, Karl started, but how is that even possible? Wouldn’t Stalward be in his seventies by now? At least?
“Yes, and that’s a fair question,” Maynard countered, “so I looked into it. During the brief snippets of power you’ve granted me in the last day, I managed to snag a few stories about Stalward’s lifestyle.”
His lifestyle? Karl thought, bewildered.
“He was a silicon junkie,” Maynard continued. “He’d always mentioned his interest in plastic surgery when we worked together, but I thought he was just a bit vain. I wasn’t aware of what lengths he’d go to in order to stay young.”
He told you about this?
“Occasionally,” Maynard said. “Most of our communication was passive aggressive texts about how he was unable to build a proper machine to hold my code. He was not fond of me, that’s for sure. But whenever he wasn’t complaining about his
