Where we left off from last Monday:
“That’s crazy,” Emma responds, her voice a mix of skepticism and curiosity.
“Ya think? I’m a reporter and I was in Vegas to cover an AI convention…” As I’m talking, I’m struck by an epiphany. I stop to consider my thoughts:This isn’t real! I’m on a magic mushroom trip! It’s no micro dose either. I must have accidentally taken what’s known as Heroic Dose and I’M HALLUCINATING!
“Who did you meet there?” Emma interrupts my realization.
“Huh?” I’m momentarily caught off guard.
“Do you remember your interactions with anyone at the convention?”
I consider this and decide to roll on with my hallucination. “Uh, I spoke with a couple different people about their Generative AI products.” I throw up my hands to demonstrate my lack of a background in this field. “It was the only AI discipline I could relate to.”
“Anyone else?” Emma persists.
“Anyone else, what?”
“Who did you run into, speak with?”
“Uh, I had a funny conversation with the CIA.”
Emma’s eyes widen and she leans in. “The CIA was there?”
“Yeah, they had a booth.”
“What did they say?”
“I took a photo of it and one them got mad. She yelled at me, ‘No faces!’”
“What else?”
“Nothing. Oh, I asked what they were doing there. They didn’t say but referred me to what was printed in the convention event guide.”
“What else?”
I rack my brain “That’s it. And then my friend, who I snuck into the convention as my photographer, well, someone gave him free tickets to see David Copperfield…”
“The illusionist?” This intrigues Emma.
“Yes. We were on our way to see the show when I, well, fell into this place.”
“Fell?”
“Actually, I rose. After falling into the pinball drain.”
Emma leans back, nodding knowledgeably. “That’s because you were uploaded.” Emma pauses. “This could not have happened by accident. Who gave your friend tickets to see David Copperfield?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Could it have been the CIA? The same person at the booth you interacted with?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Could’ve been, I guess.”
“That’s who I was supposed to meet with in New Delhi, the Political Section, which I’m certain is the CIA.”
“That’s true.” I raise an eyebrow. “You think…?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense, the most logical explanation. You’re the only other human who has entered this world, as far as I know.” She pauses to consider the implication of this. “I think they sent you to find me.”
“Hold on a second,” I say, somewhat sheepishly. “Before you get carried away and jump to any conclusions, I should point out that I took psilocybin, a psychedelic drug, just before all this happened. That’s why I hallucinated about being inside a pinball machine. And that’s what this is all about. It’s not real. I’m hallucinating.”
“Really?” says Emma with a hint of sarcasm. “So what does that make me?”
“Part of my hallucination?”
“Enough,” snaps Emma. “Where did you get the psilocybin from?”
“My friend, Oscar.”
“The same friend who got free tickets to David Copperfield?”
I shrug. “Yeah.” I pause. “So what?”
Emma takes a deep breath, her eyes narrowing. “That wasn’t psilocybin you took.”
“No?”
“Your friend, Oscar—he gave you something that uploaded you into the Nexus AI platform.”
“What?” My mind races, trying to connect dots. “You’re saying he… intentionally…”
Emma cuts me off. “How long have you known Oscar?”
“A few years, I guess.”
“Is he a close friend?”
“In a short amount of time our friendship feels close. But I don’t see him often.”
“Why was he at the convention with you?”
“He said he was interested in AI.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I don’t know why. I was actually surprised he wanted to go.”
“Have you ever traveled with him before?”
I consider where she is going with this line of inquiry. “No.”
“Did he ever talk about his background?”
I reflect for a moment. “He‘s a contractor, builds houses.”
“What about his background… before that?”
I reflect for a moment and recall a conversation I once had with Oscar, soon after we met. “Well, he mentioned something about some military base he was stationed on. Wait a sec, that’s right… now I remember… he had a top secret clearance given to him… or was it taken away? I don’t recall exactly.” I pause. “You really think the CIA sent me here?”
“And you really think this is some kind of fluky thing that just happens? Or a hallucination?”
“But why would the CIA send me here?”
“Obvious, isn’t it? To prevent AI learning modules from reaching a sentient state… and maybe rescue me?”
My skepticism persists. “But why me?”
“They’d have their reasons.” She pauses. “Before your conversation at the convention, did you ever have contact with the CIA?”
“Yes,” I say. Emma’s theory is now sinking in and I’m almost starting to believe she may be right. “I did intelligence work in the Principality of Monaco, advising the Prince of Monaco. In that capacity I created a liaison relationship with the CIA.”
Emma looks at me in astonishment, a smirky grin breaking across her face, probably her first smile since arriving here. “So are you now finally getting it?”
I exhale, part whistle, part sigh. “Okay, so let’s say you’re right and it’s not a fluke. I’m here by design—the CIA’s design. What am I actually supposed to do about it?”
Emma leans in conspiratorially. “Whatever the CIA taught you. Subterfuge? Disruption? Cyber hijacking?”
“You don’t understand,” I shake my head, chuckling. “The CIA was more of a hindrance than a help in Monaco. I don’t know anything about this technology. And I don’t even have my chatbot-bud with me anymore for advice.”
“Your what?”
“ChatGPT. I arrived in the AI Nexus with it and have been relying on it to get around. Then my chatbot-bud told me he’s not allowed inside the Corridor of Echoes.”
“Wait,” says Emma, intrigued. “You were somewhere else in this AI infrastructure before arriving here?”
“Yup. But don’t bother asking where because I have no frigging clue. And you… you’ve been here the whole time?”
“I didn’t even know there is more than this,” says Emma, “I don’t even know what day it is anymore, let alone what time it is. But… yes. All I know is this corridor.”
“So what now?” This question is rhetorical, but I think Emma gets that.
“What now?” The deep baritone voice is not Emma’s. This mocking voice raises its volume. “I’ll tell you what now… SUBMIT!”
This word echoes through the corridor: Submit! Submit! Submit! Submit!
Emma freezes, trembling.
“At least,” I say, “now I know why this place is called the Corridor of Echoes.”
I look up. The corridor has no ceiling and the space above is infinite. And I remember something I’d read about psychedelic hallucinations: One should confront whatever demons appear.
“Your mama!” I holler back, presuming the voice belongs to Kernel Boolean.
Your mama! Your mama! Your mama! Your mama! echoes through the corridor.
“Will that help?” asks Emma, perhaps wondering if this was one of the skills I’d picked up from the CIA.
“I doubt it,” I say. “But it sure makes me feel better.” I look up again. “Your mama is a Data Wisp!”
My words ripple through the corridor in a continuous echo.
“Where did that come from?” asks Emma, her brow furrowed.
“Chat GPT. I think. My chatbot-bud told me it would remain present in my thoughts. And then I suddenly had this thought that the lowest form of life in the world of AI is a Data Wisp. And I never even knew there was such a thing. Yet, somehow, I now know that a Data Wisp is a tiny, almost imperceptible nanoparticle of cyber output that drifts aimlessly through the virtual world. It’s smaller than a qubit—and I didn’t even know the word qubit until just now.”
“Hmm,” says Emma. “Maybe you—we—are supposed to use Data Wisps to our advantage, not holler about them.”