TRUE NUTS (LOST IN AI): 27) ENTER USG

Meltdown Monday Madness

The hazmat van’s diesel engine rumbles into silence, the door slides open and our hazmat suit-clad escorts physically guide us through glass doors into an antiseptic modern complex.

Quirk-bot, meanwhile, floats along like a blown soap bubble. No one seems to notice that it doesn’t burst.

A door swings open into a room furnished with office décor including a desk, behind which sits a suited, bespectacled and youthful man, probably late  30s. He wordlessly motions us to sit on two metal chairs positioned opposite himo6 and signals the hazmat team to leave us alone.

The man leans back in his swivel chair, his arms butterflied behind his head as he studies us with a smirky grimace. After a pregnant silence, he breaks the quietude and says, “I understand you two have been on quite the adventure.”

Emma and I do not respond, our expressions guarded as he intently gauges our reaction.

“Who are you,” I say evenly, “and what authority do you have to yank us off a commercial aircraft and bring us here?”

The man meets my steady gaze with an eye-lock of his own. “My name is Mark Atwood. I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency and your presence here is in the interest of the national security of our country.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Can you provide any proof of that?”

He just stares back at me.

“For all I know,” I add, “this could be some kind of private security operation orchestrated by the likes of Bill Gates or Elon Musk, each of them vying to gain an edge on the other in their race to dominate artificial intelligence and cash in on it.”

“I understand your concerns,” says Atwood. “But we prefer anonymity.”

I can’t help but smirk. “Mark Atwood isn’t even your real name if you’re working for the agency. I’m going to need some concrete evidence to believe you represent the U.S. government. Please explain what grounds you have for detaining us and confirm one way or another if we are under arrest or free to walk out of here.”

His vague response. “The Patriot Act grants us quite a bit of latitude when it comes to matters of national security.”

I chuckle wryly. “Sounds more like national in-security.”

Atwood removes his hands from the back of his head and leans forward in his chair. “Be it as it may, I represent a unit within our agency that monitors activities related to artificial intelligence and quantum computing.” He shifts his attention to Emma. “Did you attempt to establish contact with us?”

Surprised, Emma takes a moment to digest this, then nods in the affirmative.

“You never showed up in New Delhi,” Atwood continues. “But I did. And then I made my way to Bengaluru to meet with the consulate official you spoke to.” From a desk drawer Atwood plucks a file folder and slides it toward Emma. “Please read through this report and confirm it is an accurate depiction of your encounter.” Then he turns to me. “This document will serve to authenticate my identity.”

Emma reads the two-page document and places it back on the desk. “Yes,” she says. “That’s what happened.”

Atwood briefly locks eyes with me as if to say, see smart ass?

“I went looking for you at the research company where you claimed to be employed,” says Atwood to Emma.

 “Claimed? I did work there.”

 “The senior project manager I spoke with told me they were expecting your arrival from MIT but you never showed up.”

 “They’re lying!”

 Atwood nods. “I know.” He pauses, as if trying to be cautious with his words. “We investigated the matter and, though I cannot get into classified sources and methods, we discovered their deception. The information you supplied at the consulate led us to the conclusion that you were impressed into AI paradigms and form factors.” He looks at Emma, then at me, waiting for a response.

Emma glances at me.

I remain stony-faced, knowing that Atwood is scrutinizing every nuance of our reactions.

“Can you confirm that?” Atwood fills the silence.

“Yes,” Emma affirms. “After my employer found out that I contacted the U.S. consulate they injected me with some kind of substance that, combined with some form of hypnosis, embedded me into some type of a prototypical model of artificial intelligence.”

Atwood nods. “Thank you. That’s what we surmised.” He pauses. “Is there a way for you to prove that you, shall we say, transcended the barrier between physical and virtual?”

Before Emma can respond I interject. “Hold on a second.”

“I’ll get back to you shortly,” says Atwood sharply.

“No, no, no, no, no.” I shake my head. “If you expect us to cooperate with your agency, we need to work out a deal in advance.”

Atwood crosses his arms. “We don’t make deals,” he says.

“Then we have nothing to talk about,” I say. “What are you going to do, send us to Guantanamo?  Waterboards us?”

Atwood’s face tightens. “This is the new CIA. We don’t do that anymore.”

I shake my head in disgust. “Then what?”

He shrugs. “We have the power to detain you right here.”

My turn to shrug. “Compared to where we just came from, here is a piece of cake. Literally. I can eat cake. I can eat anything. And I can sleep.”

“What do you mean by that?”

 I ignore him.

Atwood tries a different tack. “Detaining you here indefinitely is not what our agency desires. We would much prefer your cooperation. May I assume you are patriotic Americans?”

“Oh, not that gambit,” I say.

“You are American citizens. We can protect you.”

“Protect us?” I let loose a sour laugh. “Seems to me like we could use some protection from you!”

Atwood shakes his head, a half grin and half scowl. “You have no idea.”

“Care to explain what you mean by that?”

Atwood inhales deeply, looks up to ceiling, as if the answer to what is or isn’t classified can be found in the ceiling tiles. He makes dramatic a show of exhaling and turns to Emma.  “I’ll tell you this: The company you were working for in India was tracking your progress inside this quantum computing environment using certain systems tools. They know you escaped, that you are back here in the physical world, and they are extremely concerned that you might incriminate them.” Atwood pauses for effect. “They take the position that they own proprietary rights to whatever knowledge you acquired.”

“How dare they!” Emma storms. “They kidnapped me and sent me in there against my will!”

 “We suspected that was the case but did not know for certain,” says Atwood. “You can imagine,” he adds, “there are countries hostile toward the United States that are in a race with us for this kind of technology.”

“For getting inside AI?” I pose.

Atwood swings his head toward me. “Artificial intelligence in general. We are dealing with forces beyond what most people can comprehend.”

“You’re telling me that?” I say. “Thank you. Been there, done that, experienced it up close and personal.”

“Artificial intelligence has evolved in ways that pose significant threats to global security,” Atwood continues. “Your experience may provide valuable insights into these developments. We need to understand how certain internal functions and processes execute. We need to understand what you encountered, and what it might mean for the world.” Atwood once again steadies his gaze on me, insinuating that Emma is a genuine repository of knowledge and I’m just a nuisance he has to contend with. “By the way,” he sneers, “how did you entangle yourself in all this?” he sneers.

Yup, I’m just by the way, a notch above chopped liver. “All what?” I say, playing stupid.

 “According to our own diagnostics, you embedded yourself inside AI models as well.”

So I figure I’ll have some fun, pique his interest, even if it means incriminating myself. “It all goes back to Ken Kesey,” I say, jocoserious.

Atwood adjusts his spectacles. “Excuse me?”

“If you know the institutional history of your own agency, you’ll know about MK-Ultra, the CIA’s experiments into mind control and hallucinatory drugs. Ken Kesey, the author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, played a role in those experiments at the mental health facility that employed him in Menlo Park, California. So I guess it’s appropriate that I am here today speaking to you inside a cuckoo’s nest.”

Atwood waves my flippancy away. “So that’s your Ken Kesey reference? We needed a secure facility and our options were limited.”

“No,” I say, “the cuckoo’s nest reference is just a coincidence.” At this juncture I decide to fuck with Atwood’s head. “I had hoped you’d be knowledgeable enough to understand the connection, but never mind.”

He looks at me with incredulity.  “You’re suggesting that you’re part of a CIA experiment?”

“Maybe I’m not authorized to tell you. You know how compartmentalized your agency is. Perhaps they cut you out of the loop. Or maybe you’re just playing dumb.” I can feel Emma’s intense gaze from my peripheral vision. Clearly, she believes my every word and is eating up what she supposes is my “revelation.” After all, it was she who originally invoked my connection to the CIA.

Atwood harrumphs, a bogus response to his very keen interest.

“Okay, okay.” I say. “I’ll cut you some slack. The Ken Kesey connection has to do with hallucinatory meds.”

Atwood tilts his head like a canine trying to understand.

“And that’s all I’m saying until we come to terms.”

“What terms?”

“Speaking for myself, and Emma may be included if she chooses to be, I will submit to a full de-brief if I am released immediately afterward, along with full assurance that anything we say cannot be held against us, for any reason.”

“You mean like, if you broke the law?”

“I admit nothing, deny everything,” I say, “and I intend to make counter allegations. But my point is this: The story I might tell is so crazy that someone, like the staff psychiatrist in this facility, for example, could pronounce us mentally unfit and commit us to a mental institution, like this one.”

“We’re already aware that your experience was extraordinary,” says Atwood.

“Extraordinary?” I say. “You have no idea. But what concerns me is that you and your agency wouldn’t want us talking to anyone else, say, the news media, about what we endured.”

Atwood nods. “That is correct.”

“So the solution is relatively simple,” I say. “We’ll agree to tell you everything we experienced. Then you and your agency will agree to set us free when the debrief concludes. In return, we’ll sign a confidentiality agreement.” I’m probably giving up too much, like, my right to free speech. Emma and I should also demand consultancy fees but what the hell… I just want to go home.

Atwood takes a deep breath and looks up. Maybe he’s checking on the audio-visual system that I assume is recording every nuance, burp and facial expression of this encounter. “I’ll have to check with my chief. It might take some time.”

I shrug with nonchalance. “Check with the Easter Bunny if you want But without a legal document signed and sealed by a federal judge, I’m not talking about AI anymore.” I turn to Emma. “And I recommend you don’t either.”

Atwood looks up again. Something out of the ordinary catches his eye and prompts a startled double-take. “Holy smokes!” he exclaims, almost falling off his chair. “What  the hell is that!?” He points at an orb with one eye and an intergluteal cleft that is hovering near the ceiling.

Emma and I turn our heads to follow the CIA officer’s wide-eyed gaze.

“Me?” The bubble winks. “I’m Quirk-bot!”