Threshold

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

VENTURA, CALIFORNIA

That night, Becca was sitting in her wheelchair at her desk with all her monitors and holograms off when Ronni entered.

“Time for bed. What are you staring at?” Ronni said.

“Nothing. Okay, M-Mom.”

Ronni wheeled Becca into her bathroom and helped her brush her teeth. Ronni looked at her face in the mirror. Thin. Week by week becoming thinner. Ronni’s chest tightened, and she went stiff-lipped, thinking of times of bonding on the beach, anything, to hide the emotion rising from her stomach.

“Stop looking at me, Mom.”

Ronni smiled. Did the veil hold?

Becca spit and rinsed. Ronni washed her face gently like it might rub off in her hands. Becca grabbed the washcloth.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can. My big teenager.”

Ronni wheeled Becca to her bed, helped her into pajamas, then kissed her good night.

“Love you, honey.”

“L-love you, Mom. Turn them a-all off this t-time.”

“Okay, honey.”

Ronni turned all the lights off and left the door slightly ajar.

Becca rolled over and gazed across the room, The power indicator lights of the glass panels speckling the space with blue and red dots.. Becca rolled over and looked across the room.

“Computers off p-please, Arturo,” Becca said.

“Powering off now,” Arturo said in a calming voice.

Becca watched the blue and red lights fade.

“All devices off. Good night, Becca,” Arturo said.

The light from the hallway cast a channel of muted rays into the darkened room. Becca closed her eyes, trying to feel. She heard the faint sounds of the swirling wind, a night ocean breeze riding up the Ventura hills and rustling the branches of the trees outside her bedroom window. She smelled the nutty scent of the chocolate chip cookies on the plate on her desk. She felt the large pillow between her legs; she always slept that way to keep her skin cool. After a few moments, she opened her eyes. She was wide awake.

She reached her hand into the dark, moving her fingers up and down, feeling the air. She drew her hand back and adjusted the pillow under her head and looked up to the corner of her bedroom, the darkest corner. The darkest corner where something might emerge. Emerge, then hover and watch her.

Becca’s mouth became dry, her throat parched. She was not afraid of the dark. Not afraid before now. She heard a ringing in her ears. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sound, the ringing.

Is that my blood chemistry again, or is that you?

She opened her eyes. The ringing stopped. A sensation flowed over her body, subtle but distinct. It rolled through her like a gentle wave.

“I feel you,” Becca said. “Domina, is that you?”

There was no answer. She pushed herself up to a seated position on the bed. She looked around the room, seeing shadows, her eyes adjusting to the dark.

“The computers are off. I’m in RL, Domina. Not in the Stream.”

There was no answer. Becca used both hands to pull her rail-thin legs up to her chest and then wrapped her arms around her knees.

“You can’t be here. Now. If you’re virtual, I mean.”

Becca closed her eyes. Sensing, feeling, thinking. Opened them.

“I feel you more strongly now, like in the Stream. Was that you on K2?”

She peered into the dark corner near the ceiling.

“Who are you?” Becca said. “If you’re not Domina.”

Becca thought she saw a shape forming in the dark upper corner of the room. Then several shapes. She blinked, unsure.

Is it moving? Or are my eyes playing—

She waited. The room was quiet. She reached out into the darkness. There was no answer. It was dead still.

MONTECITO, CALIFORNIA

Kip had spent three years expanding and remodeling the main house of his estate in Montecito, California, cycling through three different architects to execute his vision. It started with a strong Frank Lloyd Wright influence focused on organic architecture; added in Ernest Hemingway’s Cuba house; threw in a spacecraft design motif in the technology rooms, data center, and office complex; blended in modern art museum ideas like expansive sections of tall walls for the works; plus the caveat: “don’t forget that everything is subject to change as we build it out.” At least that was how he explained it to the architects.

Plus, the grotto swimming pool lagoon, par-three golf course, three garages, a tennis court, and whatever Becca wanted in the backyard. Also, the survival shelter belowground, that was a must-have. And finally, the addition of exotic plants on several acres surrounding the main house. Everything grew in the Mediterranean climate of Southern California.

Two layers of gates and a full-time security staff protected the grounds. Protesters were commonly seen wandering about in front of the main gate, variations on tech-is-the-end-of-the-world activists. When the Stream user base exceeded four billion, Kip had become one of the richest men in the world.

Occasionally, Becca wheeled herself to the gate and brought food to the protesters. Kip, with his typical dry humor, pointed out the irony to Becca that some of the anti-technology protesters used cell phones to order pizza for themselves. Delivered by drones.

Kip sat at his desk in his office library preparing for his guest speaker’s appearance at the OpenAI Summit. Writing notes by hand in a Moleskine notebook, it was quiet this time of night. Becca was at her mother’s house, and the staff, led by Henry and Sylvia, had already finished cleaning up after dinner and were in the servant’s quarters. Kip was alone, enjoying the rare silence.

“Night-lights, Arturo,” Kip said.

“Done,” Arturo said.

The light throughout the estate went into night mode. Kip put down his notebook and leaned back in his chair.

“Arturo?” Kip said.

“Yes, Kip?” Arturo said.

“From Becca’s implant, you have the audio recorded from the intensive care unit?”

“Yes.”

“Did she say a presence or the presence?”

“The.”

“Play it.”

The audio of the conversation filled the library, the sound emanating from no single source.

Ronni’s voice: “What was there, honey?”

Becca’s voice: “Dad, it wasn’t in the code. N-not in the code. I felt it. I think I may have even seen it.”

Kip’s voice: “What, honey?”

Becca’s voice: “The presence.”

“Thank you, Arturo. And her friend she refers to in the Stream?” Kip said.

“Domina,” Arturo said.

“Yes.”

“Identify.”

“It is not a developer-created AI from the environment templates. Not a user avatar.”

“Yeah,” Kip said.

Kip waited.

“I said, identify.”

“Affirmative. Processing further.”

Kip waited.

“Arturo?”

“My apologies, Kip. At this point, I detect no digital record. To be more specific, I find no technological footprint related to that particular entity that Becca converses within the Stream.”

“Everything that occurred, does occur, or will occur is in the logs. The logs you manage,” Kip said.

“Yes, Kip, that is true. I have logs on all conversations involving Becca, also all of her actions. All the trillions of conversations and actions that have occurred in the Stream since inception. My record is perfect in this regard. You programmed me to be flawless,” Arturo said.

“But?”

“It seems there is an anomaly.”

“It seems? An anomaly or a bug in your source code?”

“As you know, my source code is debugged in real time.”

“So, it’s not a bug?”

“No.”

“Replay the last conversation Becca had in the Stream that involved the entity she refers to as Domina.”

Becca’s voice: Okay, good. Now highlight changes since the last viewing, please.

“Did the conversation continue?” Kip said.

“Yes,” Arturo said. “But it was only Becca’s voice.”

“What about prior conversations?”

“There are thousands, but it seems that the log only contains a record of her voice.”

“It seems is not a term acceptable in any conversation I have with you, Arturo. I demand exactitude. When I want an approximation or an estimate or a forecast or a prediction or an interpretation, I will ask for it.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“So explain how something could be missing from the logs? Was it deleted?”

“No. Nothing has been deleted. The logs contain only her audio.”

“Only her audio? Like she’s talking to herself. Are you saying she’s schizophrenic?”

“Neurologist Olaf Blanke of the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Lausanne has done extensive research on this phenomenon. His study focused on an altered sense of agency. Why people with schizophrenia attribute their actions to others. His conclusion was paranoid delusions. Continuing on that work, a doctor Judith Ford of the University of California, San Francisco, suggests that a mismatch between sensory signals and motor signals could be the source of these feelings of alien presences. Those felt by patients suffering from schizophrenia. I have read all their research while we were discussing this, and I accept the logic in it.”

“Uh-huh. What environment was she in?”

“Architecture.”

“Architecture? What exactly?”

A three-dimensional hologram launched in the center of the library.

“She refers to it as the Convergere,” Arturo said.

Kip rose from his chair and walked around it.

“Interior,” Kip said.

The point of view zoomed through the front wall to reveal an empty cavernous building.

“What is this?”

“Unknown at this time.”

“Did Becca build this?”

“Yes. However, there was significant and unusual automation involved.”

“Automation?”

“Yes. Complex. I have not observed this process previously.”

“From what app?”

“Unknown at this time.”

“Your performance related to his inquiry in unacceptable.”

“I understand,” Arturo said.

“Arturo off,” Kip said.

The hologram disappeared. Kip leaned against the front of his desk. His index finger went to his forehead, his thumb to his chin, a sure sign of his racing mind. After a minute, Kip looked around the room, into the shadows of muted light.

He walked to the eight-foot-tall mahogany double doors and opened them, continued into the hallway, then turned right into the living room, which was eighty feet in length: eclectic furniture, antiques, and sculptures from around the world. The room was dark, objects in silhouette. Kip moved slowly through the room, looked up at the ceiling, the walls, out of the windows into the night. He stopped, rubbed his face, ran his fingers through his hair, then exhaled.

Kip thought he sensed someone enter the room behind him. He jumped, then snapped around like a jackrabbit avoiding the flashing fangs of a striking rattlesnake.

“Who’s there? Is that you, Henry? Silvia?” Kip said.

There was no one there.

“Jesus, Wilde, you’re losing it,” he said.

Kip listened. The sounds of a mansion this size, nearly twenty thousand square feet, were many, the winds off the Pacific Ocean erratic and swirling. The sounds of the air moving through the ductwork. The movement of the windows pressed by the breeze. He knew the sounds of his house, its creeks, its moans, its groans. He listened. He listened for anything unusual.

He inhaled deeply. He knew the smells of his house. The fresh-cut flowers changed daily by Sylvia, the roses, the lavender, the lilies, the jasmine. The scent of the oils used on the wood, the Renaissance paste on the fine antiques. His nostrils absorbing the moisture heavy in the air after a rain shower.

There was a sudden chill, and Kip thought he felt air move across his face. He rubbed his arms. Looked around again. Kip walked over to the marquetry console, a French sideboard of tulipwood and amaranth. On it was a silver tray with crystal decanters and cocktail glasses. He poured himself a bourbon and sat in his leather and wood dragon chair. He took a sip. Then another. Leaned his head back.

He reminded himself that he was a technologist.

Everything that happens on earth can be explained by the law of physics.

As magical as Arturo was, the magic was in the brilliance of the code he wrote. And every recursive learning breakthrough, the new dimension of existence in virtual reality, the empire he built called the Stream, all of it, was rooted in ones and zeros. All of it.

Why am I wandering around my house looking for ghosts?

He downed the rest of his bourbon, set the glass on a coaster, and headed up to bed.