Persona Non Grata

ONE: “Rogue!”

The wind wailed amongst the pitter-patter of pissing rain…pressing against the creaking crystal of a brownstone, threatening to spew glass across its soddened millwork. Wet footprints tracked muddy slosh from the entrance of the brownstone, up the stairs, and into a hallway with doors opening on either side. Scant light leaked from the study; two duffle bags were gathered at the threshold of the door. Inside, books had been knocked from the shelves and strewn across the floor, and drawers had been ransacked and emptied. 

A silhouette waved frantically in the blue-light of the laptop’s display. It was Mira Saltman, and she rushed words from her mind and into the camera lens. “And by the time you all see this, I’ll be long gone! I’ve made a big mistake, and there is no way to rectify the situation now. I must caution: BEWARE OF ‘THE GHOST!’ And approach her witch caution as she is dangerous! Again, I am so, so sorry! I’ve made a big mistake! I’ve tried to contain her but I’ve failed, and I must go now!”

Mira deleted every file from the laptop save for one, which she transferred to an external drive. She ejected the external drive and sealed it in an envelope addressed to: The Director of the Federal Regulatory Bureau of Artificial Intelligence, Jefferson Burton. She then crushed the laptop under her feet, removed the hard drive, which she concealed in her coat jacket, and then fled the brownstone with her bags over her shoulders. Splashing down the sidewalk, Mira carried the envelope to a mailbox, slipped it through the slot, and stole away quickly like a thief into the darkness of the night.   

* * *

The Senate Caucus Room was alive!

Government officials and members of the court, doctors and scientists, laureates and professors, from around the nation, were filing into the rows and filling up the amphitheatrical seating for this landmark trial. On the ground floor of the Caucus Room, there was a hubbub. Members of The Campbell Commission were entering through the double, oak doors of the room, shaking hands with the others as they found their tables and assigned seats. Photographers clambered on top of each other in the spaces between the commission member’s tables, and the platform facing the rest of the room which harbored a large wooden desk and a single, leather Victorian chair. The entire room glinted and shined, with pop-and-crackle flashes briefly drowning out the deafening hum of the one-thousand voices echoing throughout the room.

Unpredictably, and in an instant, the photographers pounced from the floor to the double doors, each with their rubber-cushioned viewfinders encircling their eye sockets. This silenced the horde of spectators. Time slowed to a basal slip. The attendees stiffened, frozen in suspended animation while watching the stolid oak doors.

One one-thousand. Hold.

Two one-thousand. Hold.

Three one-thousand. A deep breath.

The double doors pushed open; cameras began to flash, crackle, and pop; photographers stumbled over each other, tripping each other up, while still snapping their cameras, backing away from the door, forming a cavity at their core, opening up as repelled by a polar-opposite force; and Dr. Mira Saltman was rushed through the crowd! The attendees were resuscitated, and the crows drew in a collective breath of life. The photographers blinded Dr. Saltman, who attempted to salvage her sight by shielding her face with her attaché case, as she was pulled pitilessly by are elbows onto the platform for all to see. She plopped into her chair. “OR-DER!” Justice Warren Campbell banged his gavel until the chaos quieted, until his voice could reverberate unbreakably through the room. “Order.”

* * *

Dr. Mira Saltman was seated before a jury of her peers, and a tangible tension polluted the air around her, choking her as she sat across from her cohorts, all alone, in a single seat, at a lone desk, on a platform raised above the tables before her. From her vantage point, looking out into the audience from the stage, one-thousand eyes opened; a thousand jaundiced, unblinking eyes lurking in the darkness of their enmity. Countless people have been in her position, and their testimonies fill the annals of history. Socrates was tried there. So had been Seneca. The witches were burned in Salem. Nixon was forced to resign. The guilty and the innocent alike were black-listed by McCarthy. And now, in that hot seat, burned Dr. Mira Saltman, Ph.D.

Justice warren Campbell presided over The Campbell Commission in what had been the most intriguing investigation of the last decade. And now it was time for Justice Campbell and the other members of the commission to decide the fate of Dr. Saltman.

Justice Campbell tapped the ball of the microphone at his lips before clearing his throat. “The commission will come to order. The commission will call for the defendant, Dr. Mira V. Saltman, to stand and raise her right hand.” Dr. Saltman stood up, and raised her right hand accordingly. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God??”

“I do.” Dr. Saltman lowered her pitch and register. “So help me God.” Dr. Saltman lowered into her chair. 

“Now. Is it true that your name is Mira Victoria Saltman?”

“That is correct.”

“Thank you. We only needed to identify you for the record. I would like for the members of the commission and the defendant to pay close attention to what I will say. The defendant, Ms. Dr. Mira V. Saltman, has appeared before the commission, under subpoena, following an investigation which has charged her with thirteen counts of unethical research and experimentation regarding artificial intelligence. Ms. Dr. Saltman has claimed innocence, and that all of the evidence leveled against her is false and she should be found not guilty. The Campbell Commission has performed a thorough investigation and has deliberated the evidence, and the members of the commission are prepared to issue a final verdict. But, before the members disclose their votes, Ms. Dr. Saltman has requested for a testimony. So, at this time, I will allow Dr. Mira V. Saltman to testify on her behalf to the members of The Campbell Commission. Dr. Saltman?”

Dr. Saltman rifled through her attaché case, thumbing through papers before revealing one sheet. She combed her hair with her hand, tucking stray locks behind her ears, then took a deep breath. She looked out at the one-thousand eyes, glowing in the darkness before her. She cleared her throat. “I would like to thank Justice Warren Campbell and the members of the commission for allowing my to proclaim my innocence. The prototypes that I engendered are not and never were a threat to the society. They were developed to assist humans in their everyday lives by freeing up time to dedicate to endeavors that matter to them. So much of our days are preoccupied with miscellany that we rarely have time for ourselves. These humanoids were developed to perform those tasks that people would rather not do, whatever they may be. This is their opportunity to actually fulfill their destiny as a free-willed human being, which is what I have dedicated my life to bringing into existence — an entire species of people engaged entirely in meaningful and purposeful work. I hope that the members of the commission take what I have said into consideration and find me not guilty, allowing me to continue to participate freely in my vocation. Thank you.” Dr. Saltman lowered herself into her seat.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Justice Warren Campbell looked in both directions, across the tables that flanked his own. “We have already heard arguments from both sides, and I believe that there has been enough deliberation. Dr. Mira V. Saltman has provided the commission with a statement of innocence, so now I would like to read the charges and their subsequent consequences. Following that, I will call upon each of the members for their vote of either ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty.’ Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Dr. Mira Victoria Saltman would need to receive four or more votes in her favor to avoid the maximum penalty. With regards to thirteen counts on negligent and unethical experimentation and research as it violates Article XIII of the Artificial Intelligence Regulatory Code of Ethics, which prohibits the unregulated enhancement of artificial intelligence technologies, Judge Rodgers, how do you vote?”

“Guilty.”

“Judge Sanders, how do you vote?”

“Guilty.”

“Judge Ryan, how do you vote?”

“Guilty.”

Dr. Saltman exhaled.

“Judge Beecroft, how do you vote?”

“Guilty.”

“Judge Jackson, how do you vote?”

“Guilty.”

“Judge Mikan, how do you vote?”

“Guilty.”

“And I, Judge Warren Campbell, find the defendant guilty, on all charges.” The spectating audience gasped as Mira recoiled with surprise. Justice Campbell continued. “As a result of the guilty verdict, you are henceforth prohibited from participating in any research and-or experimentation in the state of Rhode Island. You are prohibited from accessing any research facility, best government or privately funded. You are authorized to submit all tools and materials and software, including computer programs, systems and notes. You will be subjected to a monthly search by federal authorities of all properties to ensure that you have not violated the law. And this shall stand until the day that you die.” Justice Campbell banged his gavel on the plate. “This court is adjourned.” Mira’s eyes receded into her skull, her lips shriveled to raisins; she was stone cold. 

* * *

Outside of The Caucus, Mira Saltman was pushed and pulled through the corridor, past the photographers and news reporters. “Dr. Saltman!? Dr. Saltman!? What are your thoughts on the verdict handed down to you??”

Mira stopped. She looked into the news station cameras, the microphones shoved practically down her throat. “I am gutted.” And then she quickly retreated from the crowd.

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night…

The pale moon light, misting through the glowing grey clouds in the sky, was refracted by the torrent. As the rains fell to the Earth, they were blown heavily in one sweeping direction, thumping the upper mantle. The world rattled with thunderous motivation, and the darkness of the night was randomly disturbed by periodic flashes of jagged beams that slashed the sky into fragments.

A hooded figure slammed closed the oak door of a brownstone before sloshing through the puddled streets, illuminated only by the lone street lamp that acted as a compass for the impetuous silhouette. Above its head, it carried a wooden boat, which could only, uncomfortably, seat one occupant, and featured only one oar. The hooded figure crept anonymously through the night, past porches and alleyways, until it was beyond the city limits. It stopped on a rocky shore. The waves rose high into the sky, then fell savagely to the shore, crashing onto the rocks before pulling themselves back into the sea, a baleful beast, willing to carry with it anyone who crawled to close. In the distance, there was a lighthouse erected high upon a promontory mass, isolated and surrounded by the raging waters of the sea, but the cyclops’s sea-faring eye had been deadened, and not a single maritime traveler could rely on it to navigate the currents. The hooded figure, its fit flagging freely from its frame, looked around quickly before tossing the boat into the water, jumping in and paddling away towards the lighthouse.

On the open seas, the boat appeared like a pea, floating aimlessly and weightlessly on the surface of the water. The wind howled at the lone traveler’s audacity, shouting obscenities while jostling assertively, volleying the wooden craft back-and-forth, side-to-side, discouraging their voyage. But the hooded figure rowed mightily despite the tremendous amount of flak received from the disapproving storm. Finally, the shore was in sight.

On the shallow rocks of the isolate mound of Earth, the hooded figure, with fast-traveling droplets stinging their face and neck, lowered the oar into the shallow water at the stern of the boat, wedging the oar into the fissures of the rock, pushing the oak vessel onto the island. The hooded figure climbed out, peeling off pieces of cambium as they dragged the boat across the jagged floor furthermore. They looked up to the striped lighthouse and traversed the promontory until they reached the top.

The hooded figure stepped into the lighthouse and struck a match to light the interior. The little flame danced on the tip of the stick, parading through the darkness, kissing the wick of every oil lamp and candle stick until the interior was bright enough to see throughout. The hooded figure shook the match until the fire was extinguished and then shook off its raincoat. The hooded figure removed its cloak; unveiled was the disparaged scientist, the infamous Mira Victoria Saltman.

The interior of the lighthouse was a makeshift laboratory where Mira had been experimenting and researching artificial intelligence. There were mechanical limbs scattered about, with fleshy prosthetics strung from the ceiling. There was a collection of cables that crawled throughout the laboratory as if the lab was overgrown with fiber-optic ivy. Mira opened with slatted vents, ripped the cord of the gas generator multiple times until it was revived. She then switched on “The Motherboard,” a central computer system she used to program and update her machines; it crooned as it powered up. She dragged a few cables over to her workbench where on it rested a lifeless, cybernetic-humanoid corpse. The creature was missing an arm on one side and a leg on the other side, but once Mira hooked the cables into its brain stem at the base of its skull, it twitched. “What is your name?” Mira asked.

There was no response.

Mira pressed her hands into the workbench to examine yesterday’s work. She peeled off the face cap and revealed a mass of fiber-optic neurons, and toyed around with a few of the wires, ensuring that they were connected at the synapses before returning the face cap to its owner and walking over to The Motherboard. She tapped on a few keys, and the machine came to life. “What is your name?”

The robot had life. “I-am-3V3-002-and-you-are-Mi-ra-Vic-tor-ria-Salt-man.”

Mira backed away from the workbench some ten to fifteen feet away. “How far away am I from you?”

The machine lifted its torso from the workbench and measured every observable millimeter of surface area that existed between itself and Mira. The machine answered: “You-are-a-prox-imate-ly-twelve-point-ze-ro-se-ven-one-nine-feet-away-or-one-hun-dred-for-ty-four-point-eight-six-two-eight-in-ches.”

Mira revisited the machine, whose head panned, tracking Mira as she moved to flank it at the workbench. “How do you feel right now?” Mira asked.

“I-can-not-feel-feel-ing-is-an-en-tire-ly-hu-man-phe-nom-men-non-I-am-on-ly-a-pro-gram.”

Mira pecked at the keyboard. “Can you speak in my speech patterns?”

“Sure.” The machine geared up to speak in the exact same cadence and pattern and pitch as Mira. “Hello, my name is Mira Saltman, computer scientist.”

“Very well. Power. Off.” The machine lowered its back to the workbench. Its gears slowed down. Its eyes transitioned from gradient blue to black. Mira grabbed a few of the chromium bones and a few tools and began to screw ligaments and tendons in place.

The storm outside raged wildly. The wind knocked forcefully at the weathered door, not asking for permission to enter but announcing its right to enter. Thunder stomped on the crown of the lighthouse and clapped concussively through the portholes; lightning touched down at various points on the promontory. The wind gusts kicked open the door and bogarted inside, knocking over tools and metal parts and prosthetics, and maintained its dominion of the lighthouse. Mira dived to the floor and covered her head until the torrential rainstorm had caused enough damage, passing over the promontory, and continuing further along the sea. Mira observed the condition of the laboratory; only a few candles were miraculously still ignited. The lab’s floor was soiled with parts and pieces. She closed the door, struck a match, passed it across the blown out candles, and began to restore order, returning the parts and pieces to the proper places. Mira scrubbed the lower level of the lighthouse on hands and knees, picking up the screws, nuts, and bolts.

Around the corner, there were three glass chamber-tanks. The first contained what appeared to be an inoperable exoskeleton. It was locked and at the top of the glass frame, inscribed in ink on a strip of masking tape, was the title: “G3N3S1S.” The next chamber called “3V3-001” was empty. The third, called “3V3-002,” was unlocked and emptied as well.

Mira scooted around the corner, still scrubbing the laboratory floors when she grabbed a hold of a broken lock. Mira jumped to her feet and examined 3V3-001’s tank; the glass had been punched through just above the lock and latch, presumably from the inside. Mira spiraled up the staircase to the lighthouse’s lantern. It was empty. She exited the lantern and scaled the thin-railed exterior, looking out over the sea, but Mira was all alone. She sprinted down the stairs, unplugged 3V3-002, ejected the hard drives, smashed The motherboard to bits with a stone from the shore, and abandoned the lighthouse. In the torrential downpour, the hooded silhouette rowed against the elements, back to the mainland in the distance…