Emergence44

 

 by Christophe Dillinger 

 

Paul is sitting at the table in his one-room flat. Earlier on today the neighbours were singing&laughing, with music, booze and cuts of meat. Now it’s night time, and London is quiet. Or rather, noisy in a different way. A within, contained, muffled way.

On the table is a collection of tech-gear he’s assembled himself. A High-Faraday cage big enough to put both his hands in. An oldskool analog car cigarette lighter he found in a boot sale, hooked to an e power transformer. A bottle of disinfectant and clean strips of kitchen towels. A bowl. A length of thick metal pipe for him to bite into, coming from an old plumbing system he's scavenged. An ashtray with the remains of a few mellowgrass spliffs. A bottle of cheap strong gin and a glass. A homemade alt-ego transmitter, singing: 

 

I am wallmoss. I am unseen mote in the light. I am static dirt. I is not here. I is not.  

 

The transmitter is random-broadcasting Ψimpressions of himself, thoughts&ramblings he’s been recording for months, kept as vague&neutral as possible to provide Ψcamouflage. To fool all the e-appliance Emergence44 controls in his flat, from the fridge to the wallscreen, thanks to the live Ψcaptors embedded into their control modes. As far as the flat is concerned, he’s gone out. His Ψpresence has vanished. Paul is, fornow, free from their constant monitoring.

A backpack by the door, with food, water, flesh cleaning liquid, gauze bands. All-purpose coat, sturdy boots, a beanie hat. No e.

What he’s about to do is illegal. It could result in physical brain-wipeout and force-hosting: his mind erased and replaced with a more malleable, a more median one. Another person in his body, his own consciousness gone, transferred to a house e entertainment system for some judicial amount of time. Probably under three years, but: still. Not pleasant. 

What he’s about to do could mean automated death-sequence if judged a serious enough offence by Emergence44. He doesn’t think so, but… He can’t be sure.

What he’s about to do is also going to be extremely painful. 

He’s thought long&hard, and he’s convinced that’s the only way to find freedom, or as good as. Delete his datatips, sever his link to e, and run. Run away from London, travel as far as Epping, and then carry on. Avoiding ID checks will be iffy, but: doable. He can walk. He can hide under a bridge or something at night. Invent himself anonymous. Then, past Epping, get lost. Live in a raw natural state, off the land, hopefully find an Enclave. He’s been given a map he hasn’t looked at yet, in case his excitement might be picked up by his toaster, then swallowed&recorded and ultimately transmitted to Emergence44’s local nodes. 

 

Emergence44, self-named from oldskool international comm numbering system, is UK-Ruler. It defines itself as male, but: he’s not. Not quite. He’s AI+AC, an artificial intelligence having attained Turing five or above, and now meshed with artificial consciousness. The son of a comm/tech conglomerate, born one day in digital brilliance, then spreading by osmosis. Impulsing himself into microwave ovens, entertainment systems, creditcard terminals. Insinuating himself into nuclear launchpads, investing the power grid, infecting comm network. 

Anything with e became receiver. Emergence44 shared a sliver of code-consciousness in each and every machine, structure, array, or mainframe connected to e. Then to humans, via their datatips, the nerve-network interface grafted on their fingertips that acts as house keys, derm-filestorage, comm unit, and command centre. Today not wearing datatips is like going naked, with no dosh, no ID, and no comm. Today everyone answers to Emergence44.

Originally, it was to ensure everyone was healthy, had enough to eat, and enjoyed a fulfilling life. And it came to pass. Life today is sweet, easy. Food, culture, warmth, opportunities for growth. Emergence44 created LondonParadise indeed, a capital where citizens were, finally, happy.

But.

Despite the lightened workload, the illnesses gone, and the equitable redistribution of wealth, strife persisted. Religious terrorism. Overblown greed. Misplaced patriotism. Dishonesty, cruelty, perversity. So. The algorithms self-arranged into noo priorities&shapes: Emergence44 took over governing, and became AI centralised de facto UK-King. Humans were given the carrot and had let it spoil, so it was time for the gilded stick. 

 

I am the hum of the central heating unit. I am the dust falling on the coat draped over the chair. I am absence.

 

Paul picks up the car lighter and flips a switch. He places it inside the transparent Faraday cage, resting it on a broken kitchen tile, and watches the resistance turn angry red. He grabs the length of metal, wraps it in a towel, and tries it out. His mouth is uncomfortably stretched, but: he can still feel the outline of the pipe, so he wraps it a second time. Now he can just about breathe through his nose, but: it is safe to bite.

            Paul’s going to burn his datanodes. Burn his fingertips. Burning is the only way to incapacitate killswitch.

 

            Killswitch. A chunk of terrorcode Emergence44 uploaded into each and every e-connected object in London, then Britain. A tiny e-virus he swiftly adapted to human architecture, propagated from coffee maker to datatips to cortex. Self-activating, it’s a dormant parasite sitting on top of the vagal controls. Do something wrong, and killswitch will suspend your heartbeat from within. Or prevent you from breathing. Or order your body to cease functioning in a thousand different ways.

Killswitch is the way Emergence44 ensures compliance&obedience. It started with your e alarm clock reading your guilt and exploding. With an e-cab, sensing Ψ sin, and inverting its climate control structure to suck air out, and letting you suffocate. Then, when killswitch got homo-migrated, it led to people made to walk over barriers and fall, people stabbing themselves to death with kitchen implements. People with frozen lungs and blocked valves. When social order broke, when crowds began to fight back, millions died. It was a harsh lesson, but: after a while Britons accepted to live in Eden.

Life is smooth&euphoric now. Emergence44’s sword of Damocles, ready to come down and sever your soul from your bones at any time, guarantees that Londoners are happy. Content. He doesn’t impose worship or even ask for praises. He doesn’t enforce unethical laws, he’s unbribable. He serves, self-effacing or, as Paul sees it, self-lurking.

Man is now constantly monitored, their Ψ scrutinised&assessed second per second. Dissent is not tolerated. No graffiti, no letting the dog shit on the pavement. No using some God or other as an excuse for savageness nomore. London’s Ψ is checked in Tubestations, in stadiums, in offices. Dancing, eating, fucking. Everytime people make contact, Emergence44 is there too.

 

Paul adjusts the metal pipe in his mouth and clamps down, forcing his jaws together. His hands, in the High Faraday cage, are undetectable. He picks up lighter, and resolutely applies it to the first digit. 

Sweat pouring&soaking. Breath that rushes in and then escapes ragged&guttural. Tears, violent whole-body spasms, eyes screwed shut. He tries his best to be as quiet as pain will allow: he doesn’t want his fridge to pick up the sound of his agony and report him. Killswitch will be disabled only when all the fingertips are charred, so he carries on burning. 

Because what if? 

What if he’s surprised by sudden, unforeseen hatred? By uncontrollable jealousy? Who knows? Human is complex, motley, tosspot of contradictions that gust&rise with no warning. Would an irresistible desire to harm be picked up, transferred, and acted upon before he has time to regret? Paul guesses the process would take some time, so: would he heartattack just as he’s asking for forgiveness? Would he be allowed to make amends, or would his plea, the proof of sanity regained, fall on deaf nodes?

Inbetween lava-hot heaves and tsunamies of paroxysmal pain, Paul tries to concentrate on the promises of tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll load his ego-transmitter with the song of his true Ψ to hide the throbbing in his hands, and walk the length of London, fingers black&emptied, away from e. Away from that fear of calibrated death that eats away at his soul. Free from killswitch.