The Traveler's Companion (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

Iverson sat at one end of a conference table stroking his ash-colored beard with annoyed vigor. Several minutes had elapsed without conversation. He wanted to get back to the code. Back to her date. He hated this part of the job. Speaking with his boss was always a chore. He often felt like a kid called into the principal’s office—misspelled words in a report or minor budgetary oversights were cause for a verbal paddling. It was a cruel fate that a quarter century of work hinged on how these meetings went. Learning how to communicate with his scientifically illiterate superior was fraught with as many cultural intricacies as any foreign engagement. Also, he had to hope that, when the director reported to the president, the current administration supported the intelligence community. Many hadn’t. Miraculously the project had survived four presidential offices. During these meetings, however, Iverson always feared getting the news that the project was going to be scrapped.

Iverson was now imagining the worst. The Director of National Intelligence, Mark Gibbons, had never taken much interest in Angela, but now he had his stubby fingers all over her file. The director was short, stocky, and bald save for a pointed patch of hair on his scalp the size of a gorilla’s finger. He was hunched over the contents of the folder spread out on the table, letting out simian grunts after scanning each of the pages. Without looking up, he said, “I get it! Angela Iverson! A.I.! Her initials are A.I.!”

“Yes, sir. Our attempt at—”

“Risky,” Gibbons said.

Gibbons made a few selections on the console before him. A JPEG of an attractive brunette filled the flat screen attached to the wall. It was Angela. Beneath the photo was the caption: INACTIVE.

“Is she ready for active duty?” Gibbons asked.

Iverson was annoyed. She was currently on a test mission. He was supposed to be monitoring her now. Did Gibbons not get the memo?

“
Currently
, the test subject is showing interest. In the lab, the data suggest Angela’s compatible with over fifty different personality types.”

“Give me the rundown on her,” Gibbons said.

“The rundown?”

The stroking of Iverson’s beard became a petulant pulling. Gibbons seemed to be forgetting the half-dozen conversations they had already had about Angela. Was he now supposed to reduce his life’s work to five sentences or less?

“What’s this all about, if you don’t mind me asking?” Iverson asked.

“If I’m going to clear her for active duty, I need to be sure.”

Active duty? He must really be desperate, Iverson thought.

“Angela will save lives, not only the lives of our agents, but also the lives of those who wish to harm us,” Iverson said.

“Humane warfare? Sounds like Pollyannaish bullshit. Enough of the press release version. Give me details.”

“Until twenty-two years of age, Angela was a brainless clone kept alive by an incubation chamber. While she matured, artificial brain cell technology was devised to act as an ersatz soul and neurological center for the human body. Those with lesser clearance have been led to believe she’s my daughter, but—”

“Wait. Clone? Doesn’t a clone need an original?” Gibbons asked.

“I supplied the original DNA.”

“You? She’s a female version of you?”

“All fetuses are female until the introduction of testosterone.”

“No wonder you’re so touchy about her. She’s you!” Gibbons bellowed.

“She’s about as much me as a hair or a fingernail. The brain cell technology is who she really is.”

“This is the brain cell technology you invented as a result of your wife’s brain cancer?”

Iverson was so shocked he couldn’t respond. He hated to talk about Beth. Every time Gibbons brought her up, he felt that bubble pop again.

“Yes,” Iverson said. “The impetus for the brain cell technology—”

“Didn’t you start out by slicing up rat brains?”

“Well, initially laboratory rats were used. While alive, rats were studied under a variety of conditions: smelling cheese, feeling stress, mating. The interplay of their cells was recorded. The brains were then removed from the skulls and cut into thin slices. Electrical impulses were used to stimulate the slices, which proved that the cells reacted the same way they had when the animal had been alive: electrical charges were being sent through the neuroplexus. Every conceivable situation in a rat’s life was monitored and recorded until there was a repertoire of responses to almost any form of stimuli. The study of human brains went much the same way. Impulses were recorded, stored digitally, and later transferred into the artificial neurological technology.”

“So she’s like a giant jukebox full of recorded brain impulses?” Gibbons asked.

“That’s an oversimplification . . . but not entirely incorrect. It’s an artificial network taking the place of over one hundred million cells. It’s an intellect, designed for the various proteins, genes, and messenger substances of the human body. It’s the closest thing to human consciousness ever invented.”

“And what can this technology do?”

“She has a way with men, to put it lightly.” Iverson grinned.

Gibbons nodded. “Go on.”

“First, you have to understand the origins of artificial intel—”

“The highlights, Doctor,” Gibbons said.

Iverson took a breath and began, “Historically, artificial intelligence programs were nothing more than preprogrammed responses to certain stimuli. For instance, saying hello to a computer would prompt a program to say hello back when detecting the sound of the voice. Angela’s programming works in much the same way, but her responses depend on a variety of factors: vocal intonations, body posture, brain activity, salivary glands, genital stimulation, and perspiration levels.”

“Whoa! So much for ‘how ya doing?’!” Gibbons said.

“Instead of responding to just words, her programming is able to interpret moods and even intentions. In the brain, there are cognitive and physiological correlations. The thoughts that lead to actions can be tracked. For instance, when someone feels threatened, the region of the brain involved in emotions, the amygdala, would be teeming with activity; however, the orbital frontal cortex would decide whether or not one acts on the emotion. Put simply, she scans these areas of the brain and determines the subject’s intention so she can respond appropriately.” He searched Gibbons’s face for signs of disbelief and continued the lecture despite seeing them. “She’s able to give a response regardless of superficial actions or words. If someone were genuinely aggressive towards her, she would prepare to defend herself. That’s the genius of her programming.”

“I get it. She’s a scientific wonder. But how do her specific talents work in the field?”

“Her greatest strength often goes completely unnoticed.”

“And that is?” Gibbons asked.

“It’s a trait highly regarded in our society, but then again so is brute force. When properly executed, nothing is more dangerous, more destructive. I’ve often wondered why it’s been overlooked in what the CIA calls an arsenal. Charm, Mark. Angela has charm. Who needs a soul when you got charm?” This was Angela’s tagline and he had used it often.

“Interesting,” Gibbons said. “Charm as a weapon.”

“Smart charm, actually. A software program inspired by Carl G. Jung’s studies with archetypes allows her to ascertain a personality type after just a few strategically asked questions. She analyzes the psychology of her target and provides a counterpoint. Every man has a type. Some men like the aggressive, outgoing type, a woman who will take on the dominant role, while others prefer a more submissive, studious type, one that could answer his intellectual queries by day and submit to his sexual fantasies by night. She’s thus far been one hundred percent accurate in determining personality proclivities.”

“You’re telling me she knows what a guy is looking for in a woman and then becomes that person?” Gibbons asked.

“Yes and no. She stimulates the mind of her target into creating an image of her, a fantasy. He believes she is perfect for him, therefore she is perfect for him.”

Gibbons sat back in his chair, donned a devilish grin, and said, “You understand the CIA’s policy on seduction? I’m not even sure this is seduction. This seems like plain old torture!”

“Torture produces muddled results. Seduction is child’s play compared to what she can do. There are only three proven ways of extracting information from our enemies: sex, money, and love. She can supply all three.”

“Love rather than seduction. I suppose you found a loophole in the Geneva Convention.”

“I’m not aware of any laws against love.”

“And if the public finds out? What will they think of a robot that can get people to fall in love with it?” Gibbons asked.

“Not a robot. Artificial intelligence. And there’s no doubt in my mind that in a hundred years every home in the world will have an Angela. Love, one day, will become something more commonly shared between a man and a machine than between a man and a woman. Why risk powerful emotional forces on unpredictable humans? A machine is safer. Think of the equipment that allows an amputee to walk. Now why not supply an emotional cripple with similar technology?”

Gibbons sighed, wrestling with the concept. “You understand that if she can’t pull it off, we toss her to the rubbish heap with the rest of the DS&T failures?”

“Pull what—what failures?” Iverson asked.

“I seem to remember something about a cat used as a listening device of some sort, something about employing psychics or some such nonsense, and don’t even get me started on Project Bluebird.”

In many ways Project Bluebird was a precursor to Angela. In the 1950s the Office of Scientific Intelligence had started clandestine operations focused on interrogation techniques. Eventually becoming the infamous project MKULTRA, the Army, Navy, Air Force, CIA, and FBI had joined forces to conduct experiments on unwitting test subjects. Their methods included the use of LSD, hypnosis, morphine addiction and forced withdrawal, and psychological and sexual abuse. A memo outlining its objectives had been embarrassingly released to the public: “Can we get control of an individual to the point where he will do our bidding against his will and even against fundamental laws of nature, such as self-preservation?”

Officially the program was declassified, but the director at the time, Richard Helms, had destroyed most of the damaging documents. Many of the subjects suffered brain damage, memory loss, and psychological trauma. There were also a few deaths, not just the conspiracy theory favorite Frank Olson “suicide.” Frank Olson, a biochemist in the Army, had been given LSD without his consent or knowledge, which led to his jumping out of a tenth-story hotel window. Witnesses for the Church Committee’s investigation testified that Olson was threatening to go to the press about MKULTRA; others said he was already suffering from depression and had suicidal tendencies. Although it was one of the CIA’s biggest scandals, the mind control projects didn’t stop. Angela was thus far the most ambitious, designed for both emotional and mental control. She executed her primary function using natural chemicals found in the brain, which were untraceable and therefore vastly superior to previous methods, in Iverson’s opinion. But Gibbons wasn’t worried about brain-damaged test subjects or suicidal biochemists. As far as he was concerned, MKULTRA’s greatest failing was its declassification and the subsequent scandal. The CIA had the privilege and the necessity of operating in secret, and Gibbons wasn’t about to lose that on his watch.

“The DS&T has had its share of successes,” Iverson said. “The U-2 spy plane, of course. Let’s not forget our contributions to the public: lithium batteries for pacemakers and technological advancements that allow for early breast cancer detection.”

“Is it the goal of the DS&T to supply batteries for pacemakers and technology for breast cancer detection?” Gibbons asked.

“No . . . sort of a happy accident,” Iverson said.

“Let’s hope Angela is better at staying on task. We don’t need a billion-dollar dishwasher. Where is she now?”

Iverson squirmed in his chair. “She’s on a date.”

Gibbons flipped his wrist to see his watch and said, “Let’s get her in here.”

* * * * *

Agent Angela Iverson sat calmly at the conference table with her hands folded before her. Under the harsh florescent lights, the CIA badge around her neck shone like an iridescent beacon for an ample show of cleavage. The gray wool skirt she was wearing was the shortest in her wardrobe, and she had rolled up the waistband to make it shorter. Her lithe legs were crossed, her top leg moving slowly up and down against the other like a cello bow, the faint opus of skin on skin. Neither of the two men in the office could completely divorce their attention from the sound, though this sonata of seduction was merely the android equivalent of a screensaver.

“You remember the Director of National Intelligence, Angela, Mark Gibbons,” Iverson said.

“Of course. How could I forget the director’s contribution to modern intelligence gathering? Your report on the strategic intent of foreign technologies of the future finally sets a standard for the gray area new technologies present to the community. As far as I’m concerned, it should be part of the CIA mission statement. What I want to know is, are they going to put your bust in the original headquarters lobby or under the skylight in the atrium of the New Headquarters Building?”