Free Human by Robert Berke Page B

eyebrow to call attention to the irony in Bayron's last remark, and Bayron realized what Sharky apparently already knew: that the entire project was predicated on faith in science and a love for people.
    Bayron felt comfortable sharing his concerns with Sharky. He was, after all, a very human engineer.
    Sharky continued brainstorming, "Here's a negative for you. Even if we didn't have to worry about corruption to the Smith model, maybe we have to worry about mingling a sentient and intelligent data set with the repositories of all human information. If Smith were malicious, he would be an absolutely unstoppable virus capable of infinite adaptations. And I mean unstoppable. Theoretically, he could replicate himself an infinite number of times and filter every single piece of information that exists in electronic form, which is everything. Smith could put whatever spin he wanted on the entirety of human knowledge. If he woke up one day and decided that the moon was made of green cheese, he could insert that fact into every repository of human information in an instant. He'd be the ultimate arbiter of truth."
    Bayron looked Sharky square in the eyes, "Not just of truth. He'd be the ultimate arbiter of reality itself. Once he controls the sources of truth, there would be no difference between truth and lies. The facts would cease to exist and they would be replaced with whatever Smith decided the facts should be. He would be the mind of the entire world. That's a fellow you would not want to piss off." Bayron quipped. "He'd literally be able to make sure that no differing opinions could ever be aired."
    "Did you ever try to get toothpaste back into a tube?"  Sharky asked. "There'd just be no fixing even a single instance of that kind of thing. Remember that kid who still gets all those get well cards?  You can't just undo something once it proliferates over the Internet.
    "Okay, let's think about it tonight and make some decisions tomorrow." Bayron concluded.
     
    Sharky lived with his mother. Even though he was paid very well by SmithCorp-- very, very well-- he could never leave his mother alone. Since his father had died she almost never left the house. The bedroom he slept in since he was a little boy was still his best thinking place.
    "Sako," his mother called him by his childhood nickname as he came in the front door, "Sako, come eat. I made tacos." Her thick accent made the word 'tacos' sound like a traditional Armenian dish even though she had never seen or heard of a taco until Sharky was a teenager. He was embarrassed by the ethnic food his mother prepared. He wanted American food. Hamburgers, macaroni and cheese, crunchy tacos and the like. His mother, always accommodating of his wants, not only learned to make these "American" dishes, but actually enjoyed them herself.
    "I have a lot of work to do, ma, can you fix me a plate to take up with me?"
    "Ach, my little working man. Just like your papa. I make you nice plate and bring it up. You make me proud."
    Sharky climbed the stairs to his bedroom feeling more and more exhausted with each step. He lay down on his bed and looked at the ceiling, his mind awander. He knew exactly how to get Smith on the Internet. He had worked out the details on his way home. No challenge in that. But, he knew that was not what Bayron had wanted him to think about.
    Was it possible that Bayron hadn't considered this before? Was it possible that this issue had only just crossed his mind? Even he had thought about some of the wider implications of the project himself but always felt comfortable in the knowledge that the ethics of the situation were Bayron's problem.
    Now Bayron was looking to him for ethical guidance. He didn't like it.
    Sharky opened the drawer on his nightstand and took out a small pipe. He patted down the marijuana in the bowl and decided there was enough there for one good hit. He lit the bowl with a disposable lighter and as he lit it a small flame shot up, reminding