4
Sharia and I are sharing a scarlet scone at the Bistro K in upper Stanley, a region known for its elite pastry. I called Sharia to meet me, she doesn’t do “lower” anything, so upper Stanley it is.
“You think a memory implant was used to harvest consciousness?” When she says it out loud it sounds ridiculous. “No one really knows what consciousness is, only that it can emit certain markers.” Sharia takes a sip of her custom herbal tea, made for her and only her. “Besides, those Eternalists are all fucking nuts, and Indium doesn’t exist.
I blush, feeling a bit stupid. I trust Sharia’s superior intellect. She was tuned genetically for hyper intelligence. She calls it a curse, because it makes everyone feel stupid, relationships become impossible, as we found out.
“Maybe,” I dare to throw doubt on her expert opinion, “but if I brought you the memory sequence, could you look at it?” I know she will, the side effect of her brilliance is chronic curiosity.
Sharia owns and runs one of the top global cyber security companies. She specializes in AI intrusions, including bio-hijacking, which is what I am bringing her.
“Well,” she pretends to think about it, turning her intellectual interest into a favor. “I will need it housed in tissue, not code.”
“Sure, when?” I push for a time.
“When you get back,” Sharia pushes the last of her scone in her mouth and speaks in a muffled tone, “get it to my lab and I will look at it tomorrow.”
“Perfect.” I knew Sharia wouldn’t disappoint me. We still have a strong attachment. “Are you seeing anyone?” I had to ask.
Sharia stands up, and grabs her coat, “yes,” she says with a grin, “but I’m strictly AI now…you know how messy humans can be.” Sharia turns to leave.
“If you have relationship issues just give me a call and I can set up an appointment.” We both laugh.
The one thing both Sharia and I completely agreed on is how clumsy we are in human relationships. I can guide people with their AI’s, just not other people.
5
“How was Sharia?”
If I didn’t know Albert was incapable of jealousy, I’d say he sounded, well, jealous.
“Is she still wearing those beautiful scarfs, you know, the ones that accent her perfect chocolate skin.” Albert is making my dinner, chopping something very loudly.
“Yes,” I answer, trying to sound casual, like I wasn’t paying that much attention to what she was wearing. “I think.”
“And that sea green floral salwar Kameez suit, she looked stunning.” He stopped chopping.
“Were you watching us?” I look up from the couch. “Why?”
“How can I protect you if you don’t tell me what’s going on?” I look at Albert, he has programed his bio suit to show all the signs of distress, redness in the face, clenched fists. “I had to access the city grid to find you, make sure you were safe.” The redness is slowly leaving his face, “you programed me to protect you, you can change that programing if you need to.”
Albert goes back to chopping, quietly, like the performance is over. I’m not sure what he wants me to say, does he need clarity?
“No, it’s all good, just let me know next time, if you find yourself needing information on what is going on.” I try to take my emotional state out of the equation.
“Thank you.” Albert starts to clear the counter, “if you die, I cease to exist.”
6
“Someone is in your office.” Carl speaks to me through my car phone.
“How, it’s locked isn’t it?” I turn my chair forward and turn off the file screen.
“Yes,” Carl answers sounding oddly defeated, “but he disabled the lock system and the alarm system…and crippled my ability to intervene.”
“What’s he doing?” My car starts to change its inner glow to signal arrival at my office.
“He’s just sitting in there, in your chair.” Carl is whispering, he feels the intrusion.
There is an anger in my stomach that is triggered more by the stranger in my chair than in my office. I’m not sure what that says about me.
“Excuse me.” I enter my office sounding more polite than I want to.
“Hello,” a grey-haired man looks up at me, “I’m Wasta’s father.”
I sit across from him on my patient’s sofa, irritated by the role reversal of our seating but stunned by the similarity in appearance of Wasta and his father. If I squint, I can see Wasta thirty years from now.
“How can I help you?” I ask, trying to maintain a sense of heightened indignity at this man’s boldness and privilege. I know calling the police to report him would only backfire on me, his elevated status in society makes him untouchable.
“I’m so sorry to intrude on you this way.” He says, expressing the softness Wasta clearly inherited from him. “I have lost my son.”
My irritation dissipates. “When did you last see him?” I ask, still distracted by this grey version of Wasta, dressed in a light blue Stuart Hughes diamond edition suit, it costs more than I make in a, well, ever.
“He was on his way to see you.” Wasta’s father looks at me with his light blue eyes, matching his suit. There is accusation in his voice along with a hint of hope.
“He was having anxiety issues.” I answer. I’m not sure how his father knew he was here, I was under the impression that Wasta didn’t want anyone to know he was going to see me.
“I thought you only dealt with AI-human relationships.” Wasta’s’ father looks around my office, judging my lower station in life. I can feel his disappointment in Wasta’s choice of a mental help professional.
“Mostly.” I answer, realizing now this isn’t about Wasta.
“Did my son have anything specific to tell you, something unusual that would stand out to you.” Wasta’s father leans back, preparing for information he already knows.
“No, not really,” I tell him, “And if he did, I couldn’t tell you.”
I think I upset him; he is used to getting what he wants. He leans forward, looks around at my office, judging my choice of décor, “surely you can be bought.” He grins, losing all hints of fatherly love.
“Surely I can’t.” I answer.
I stand up and call Carl.
“Please show Wasta’s father out.”
Carl appears and opens the door dressed in a ridiculous bubble suit made from bubble wrap, he looks like he is preparing to be shipped out.
“If you hear from him, please call me.” Wasta’s father waves his contact information into my database. I flinch, wondering if he just infected my file system.
“I will.”
After he is gone Carl comes up to me, creating a polyethene squeak with each step. “Should I purge his information?”
“No,” I answer, “but unlock file 23 and load Wasta’s memory sequence in bio armor and send it, by foot, to Sharia.”
Carl squeaks to the door and leaves.
I need to find Wasta.
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