Sophia: Age of Intelligence

The Near Future

PRYING HIS HEELS from the top of his desk, he leaned forward to study his options. The monitor in front of him suggested few remained. A burden felt by both mind and body then prompted the otherwise assertive CEO to fall back into the suppleness of his office chair. Indecision waded in next, consuming precious milliseconds. The fear of placing third or even second was a sensation with which he was all too familiar. In the time it took to enunciate his choice, the contestant at the center podium simultaneously announced: ‘Popular Culture for $600.’

A cell phone buzzed about on his desktop. It was the prompt he’d been expecting, but the distraction drew little more than a momentary glance. The familiar voice of a now classic collection continued, asking: ‘A child’s game consisting of physical instructions. Its original Latin incarnation commanded Cicero dicit fac hoc.’

Pause game, he stated, smiling. The glass screen froze as his phone came to life again. This time it couldn’t be ignored. Picking it up, he read: ‘Simon, Illinois will be ready for you in 10.’

Ten minutes, he thought. Looking back at the stilled Jeopardy game, he lamented: If it were only that simple.

Simon Taylor got up from his chair and stepped out from behind a large, glass-inlaid desk. Being the founder of PurIntel, one of the planet’s most recognized brands, an expansive office spoke as much for his stature as it did his sleek, minimalist style. In the very spirit of One World Trade Centre, Simon’s Freedom Tower corporate headquarters looked over the New York skyline equally eager to impose itself on the future.

Yet within its glassed walls, Simon vowed to never lose sight of things close at hand, of the monuments that take shape within. And while modesty remained an attractive dividend of his British upbringing, external spaces were allowed to speak more freely of his achievements. Many were hung from wherever a solid wall would allow. Pictured with presidents and prime ministers, his décor appeared to chronicle success itself. But in the same way his unique collection of art was offered to the eye of the beholder so could a man defy the perception that he was solely the product of a master’s final strokes. In truth Simon’s life was like most others, a narrative of happiness and contentment, punctuated by sacrifice and loss. He often felt his experiences were meant to be layered within his soul, placed one on top of the other, much in the same way his building’s floors rose up out of the hallowed ground beneath.

Success for Simon was not a solitary pursuit, however. Each obstacle was overcome with the assistance of another, every triumph a collaboration of more than one mind. Consequently, the east wing of the office belonged to Sophia, Simon’s partner. It was hers and hers alone. And while Sophia was sometimes afforded the sentiment of a wife or girlfriend, she was neither. For Sophia was not human. She was a supercomputer of world renown.

Simon’s personal space looked out over an expansive office suite, having the advantage of being slightly elevated. Leaving his desk, he took two steps down and strode several paces toward Sophia’s wing. He studied the holographic image projected in front of him. It was a representation of what was taking place in the meeting room down the hall.

While the breadth of Sophia’s incredible computing power was located within four secret, off-site warehouse locations, the apex of her intelligence was centralized in an ultra-cool adjacent room. The holographic wing actually comprised the structure of a sphere, whose dimensions exceeded the room’s allowable height. Descending below the floor and rising above the ceiling, its center focal point could only be accessed by a grated catwalk. The sphere’s visually unique surfaces supported its holographic images by displaying whatever backdrop the central scene required.

Their Nano-plasma composite possessed the qualities of both a liquid and a solid. Once applied to walls of any shape or size, the liquid’s Nano particles formulated images much in the same way a traditional flat-screen television does. Three-dimensional video projectors were also seamlessly embedded into the sphere. In the highest definition the human eye could interpret, Simon watched the hologram with interest. The meeting’s boardroom table, and its seated occupants, rotated slowly as if to highlight each of those present. The audio component was left muted.

Simon’s Director of Operations, Derrick Landry was standing, presently leading the meeting at the head of the room. Far less animated, a representative of PurIntel’s Client Services, Rachel Forrester, was seated on Derrick’s right. Glen Fraser, head of Qualitative Assurance sat on his left. Simon’s potential client group was the State of Illinois. Several members from the State Commerce Commission were present. The Budgeting for Results Commission were nodding more noticeably, while the names of two Department of Labor representatives were displayed in turn. This would be a milestone, Simon reflected. The State level would make a great platform to… Just then he noticed Karen, one of his assistants in the back corner. She was concentrating on something in her lap, most likely her phone.

Simon felt his cell vibrate again. He pulled it from his pocket. Another text read: ‘2 minutes.’ He looked at Karen and found her glancing up at one of the room’s several cameras. Through Sophia’s holographic imaging software, they provided Simon with the three dimensional video he was now watching.

Thank you, Sophia. That’ll be all for now, Simon said.

The visual of the meeting vanished.

Do you have time for a message from your mother? Sophia asked.

Simon looked at the clock on his phone. Of course, he said. An accurately scaled image of Simon’s mother, Catherine, instantly appeared in the same space. She stood, smiling, before him.

Simon, she said. Her light colored, shoulder-length hair complimented the blues of her nurse’s scrubs.

The sight of her drew a warm smile from Simon. Mom. It’s so nice to see you again. Like his mother’s English accent, Simon’s lived on relatively intact.

Look Son, Sophia mentioned you only have a moment, so I’ll keep it short. I just wanted to congratulate you on the Toronto contract. We’re all happy for you, especially your father.

Thank you. That one was very meaningful.

Simon noticed his mother’s attention being diverted to something behind. She turned her head to the side, as though she were being called back into action. Sorry, Luv, but it looks like something’s come up. We’ll talk longer next time.

That’s alright, Mom. I have somewhere to be as well.

Of course you do, she said, smiling. A nearly imperceptible aura surrounded her every gesture. I also wanted to mention how proud your father and I are. You are accomplishing things beyond our dreams. We knew you were destined for greatness, son. You are truly making the world a better place to live.

Humbled, Simon smiled. You are my inspiration, Mom.

I miss you, Simon, was all she said, before the message faded into nothingness.

I miss you too, Mom.

Simon exhaled and then took a moment to do up the buttons on his Armani suit. Thank you, Sophia, for putting that message through.

A facial representation of Simon’s supercomputer appeared before him. It hovered in the nearly empty space. It was a life-like rendition of his favorite actress, Natalie Portman. Sophia smiled knowing the last minute encounter would provoke a grounded confidence within her boss. The final pitch on a multi-million dollar deal was Simon’s specialty.

He strode confidently through the threshold of his office door. Nodding to his two corporate receptionists, he continued down a broad hallway, passing a secured, retinal-locked room. It housed PurIntel’s Systems Integrity Unit. Here, as many as two dozen software analysts kept Sophia running at optimal performance, ensuring, most importantly, that all attempts at undermining their computer’s integrity were kept at bay.

Simon’s personal secretary joined him, walking alongside. Together, they stopped outside the boardroom door. While waiting for his cue to enter, he fiddled with his tie one final time.

You look fine, Sam said. Looking him over, she noticed the degree to which her boss was impeccably manicured. Simon’s hair was black and short, his face clean-shaven. He was a tailor’s dream, five foot ten and of slim build. His most charming trait, however, seemed to reside in a convergence of polar opposites.

Simon felt comfortable within the gravity of two worlds, both the lab-coated genius and the confident corporate executive. In the swirling collision of one galaxy encountering another, the PurIntel Chairman had a gift for harnessing the elegance found within opposing orbits. Branded by Vanity Fair as the sexiest geek on earth, Simon was equally adept at focusing on his internal inheritances, his creativeness, and his ability to envision things both grand and small, including his genetic predisposition defer attention. If I look half as good as you …

Shouldn’t you be focusing on what you’re going to say?

Simon turned to Sam. Her sleek, black-rimmed glasses crowned a serious, yet attractive appearance. Her hair was long and black, and a few freckles beautifully speckled her cheeks, just below her lovely brown eyes.

Speaking of focusing, you’ll sit at the back with Karen, won’t you?

Samantha’s expression was disapproving.

I think it would be better if all eyes were on me this time, Simon added, looking back at the unopened door.

You know that shade of green is clashing with your tie.

Oh, it is, is it?

Yes, in fact I’m going to text Sophia and tell her she can stop looking for the jealousy gene.

Simon smiled, shaking his head slightly. He appreciated Sam’s competitive banter, especially before an important meeting. Intended or not, it had the effect of heightening his senses.

Actually, that was the first gene she identified.

Sam understood. I should have known … a flawless sample so close at hand.

I’ve had her working on compliance for some time now. It’s proving very elusive. He glanced toward Sam. A painstaking endeavor.

Suddenly, the door opened. Simon was greeted by Derrick. Without missing a beat, Simon’s Director of Operations passed the meeting over to him. Good afternoon, everyone, Simon announced, capturing the attention of the gathering. Thank you, Derrick, he said, striding in.

Simon took control of the meeting, exuding an air of authority at the front of the room. His confidence was further buoyed by Samantha’s smile as she prepared to take notes beside Karen.

"A famous American politician once said: ‘I am a firm believer in the people. If given the truth, they can be depended upon to meet any national crisis. The great point is to bring them the real facts.’

Bring them the real facts, Simon repeated. But what facts do the citizens of Illinois require? Would they be any different than the ones your iconic capital embraced? Perhaps, but in so far as we all benefit from evidence-based decision making, isn’t the pursuit of knowledge as much about recognizing a truth when we see it? The truth is out there, Simon said, smiling. It’s just damn hard to find sometimes, isn’t it?

His audience’s laughter underwrote their concurrence.

If the printing press gave birth to the age of enlightenment, I would suggest it was the library which brought the world’s collective wisdom within reach.

The walls behind Simon lit up with images supporting his narrative. To his left and right, scenes of the Renaissance, historic, scientific and medical accomplishments, including their famous pursuers scrolled forth.

"Many see the internet as our greatest achievement. Others, the personal computer. Like the printing press, both endowed our fingertips with an unparalleled volume of information. The World Wide Web rapidly evolved into the largest library to which humanity had access. But the volume of intelligence became so vast, so quickly, that ninety-nine point nine percent of it will forever remain beyond the grasp of the human mind.

"More importantly, a similar figure is also presently beyond the comprehension of all but a handful of cognitive supercomputers. It’s called unstructured data. Text, the written and spoken word account for a full ninety percent of humanity’s collective knowledge.

"New books are being added to the virtual library faster than anyone could have imagined. Unfortunately, they might as well be written in a language that nobody understands. Sophia possesses the ability to interpret this undiscovered wealth of information. Text analytics and natural language processing allows her cognitive systems to mine terabytes, even petabytes of data. Imagine the world’s accumulated knowledge being filtered through wisdom itself. To put it plainly, with Sophia’s Halo Platform deployed on your behalf, the best of what the planet has to offer is only a key stroke away.

"Join the governing bodies who benefit from knowing which jurisdiction is successfully integrating autonomous driving systems, which district has optimized transit efficiency, the administration which is balancing the sharing economy with traditional modes of commerce. We will offer you several of the world’s most successful service delivery models. The choice of which to implement remains yours.

"We live in the age of data. Big data, in fact. Those organizations that place a high priority on gaining access to this resource will define the new era. It is a fact that analytically intelligent organizations are more than twice as likely to outperform analytical novices. We will deliver saving options to you and subsequently to the taxpayers of Illinois.

"We suggest targeting three areas: government services, education, and healthcare. In healthcare alone, our studies suggest 30% of spending is wasted pursuing unachievable outcomes. Folks, the traditional approach is unsustainable; partisan pursuits, unaffordable. We can help eliminate the line items associated with outsourced consulting. Most importantly, we will reduce the budget for reinventing the wheel … to zero.

"Everyone in this room realizes what is at stake. Democratic institutions around the world are on life support. Moreover, every American citizen knows in his or her heart that the greatest democracy the world has ever witnessed has become ambivalent to success. Sophia can help. PurIntel can help you turn this great state around. You know our track record at the municipal level. We can do the same thing for you.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you would let me conclude by quoting the same politician with whom I began. Abraham Lincoln once said, ‘My dream is a place and a time where America will once again be seen as the last best hope of the earth.’

Thank you all for coming today, Simon concluded. Samantha quickly rose from her seat and joined her boss at the front of the room. Derrick, Simon stated, Will you see to it that everyone’s needs are taken care of?

Simon gave the representatives of Illinois one last confident smile. Thank you, again, everyone. I look forward to a long and mutually beneficial relationship.

Derrick closed the boardroom door after Simon and Sam walked out. Simon did some rudimentary arithmetic in his head as he walked down the hall. He knew his 5 to 10 % fee based on a sliding scale of the savings realized didn’t amount to much now, but it would in the future. More municipalities were coming on board, and with more state-level clients following suit, it wouldn’t be long before the Feds were making formal inquiries. That would be an entirely different animal, though. The federal government would be the platform to go global.

But Simon was proud of the fact that his career was never just about the money. He made his first fortune some years ago. In a different realm, the field of genetics, Sophia had a proven track record. Through the use of her incredible computing power, she was able to unlock many sequences of human D.N.A., obscure strings of which, until she came into being, were too complex and costly to map. It was Sophia’s ability to interpret the interrelationship of variables in unending equations, which launched her into a world of iconic fame.

How’d we do? Simon asked, walking alongside Samantha. They came to a stop at the threshold of Simon’s office.

Samantha smiled. You had them eating out of your hand.

Mine or Sophia’s?

The complexion of modesty is much more attractive on you.

And what color would that be? Simon toyed.

Crimson, she said.

Crimson, Simon repeated, rubbing his hand over his cheek. That’s got to look better than green.

Samantha turned toward her own office. You know where to find me, she stated.

At the color wheel, no doubt, Simon joked, before walking into his office. New game, Sophia, he announced. You know which one I want.

Coming right up, Sophia replied.

Simon plopped himself into his desk chair and waited for the glass screen to come alive. You know what I want to hear, he said, doing his best Bogart imitation. You played it for her … you can play it for me.

In an instant, Simon’s favorite Jeopardy episode appeared in front of him. Sciences for $1000, he stated, in unison with the real contestant. The show, recorded several years ago, was one that Simon rarely replayed.

The new host announced, A learning computer, whose name represents eternal wisdom.

The left contestant’s buzzer went first.

What is the computer, Sophia, the contestant stated, again in unison with Simon.

That is correct, the show host agreed, with Simon whispering along. What is Sophia? The super computer that saved humankind.

CHAPTER TWO

The following Sunday, Toronto

SIMON LOOKED in his rear-view mirror. The unmistakable sound of tires rolling over gravel was soon replaced by an engine being turned off directly behind. Three car doors opened, two on Simon’s, one on the other. The dispatch of umbrellas followed. Richard Taylor, Simon’s father, stepped out of his car and was soon joined by sons Simon and Lionel. Sharing the protection of a single dome with his brother, Simon found the tap-tap of raindrops a solemn narrative to a familiar landmark; Toronto’s, St. James Cemetery.

Father, Simon offered, respectfully.

Richard nodded and then glanced to the skies as if wondering how long the rain would last. He looked at each son in turn. You’re having a pleasant visit?

We are, Simon stated. He looked at his younger brother with caring eyes, seeing an appearance still overshadowed by the effects of a previous life. Simon’s attire was always crisp and well fitting. Lionel’s grasped for a similar mark, though his shirt’s top buttons hung loose and unfastened.

Thank you both for coming, Richard said, before making his way toward the cemetery’s markers. While Simon’s stature was slender, like his mother’s, Lionel’s was more like his father’s. Richard appeared muscular and fit, but not as tall. His face was more rounded, his eyes a portal to something more serious behind.

Simon and Lionel respectfully navigated several rows of monuments before joining their father. The three men stood silently, each uniquely indebted to the one to whom they had come to pay their respects. All eyes rested on the marker. On one side of the stone it read: Richard Francis Taylor, 1952 - , and on the other, Catherine Judith Taylor, 1957 - 2003. Simon’s mother lay peacefully beneath.

When the two boys emigrated from Britain with their parents in 1996, Catherine continued her established career, accepting a nursing position at Toronto’s Scarborough Grace Hospital. Simon was nineteen when he arrived in Canada and with little time to adapt to his new surroundings, he gave his mother a heartfelt embrace, his father a handshake and nod, before leaving for school. His pursuit of knowledge would begin at the University of Waterloo, in southern Ontario. It took only three years for Simon to achieve his honours B. Math, his thesis advancing the value of using statistical models in gene sequencing.

Like most young men, Simon often looked to his father for more than the financial support required to achieve his goals. Richard, however, was better at living up to career expectations. To their credit, both of Simon’s parents emulated a strong work ethic. While his mother found solace in her need to care for others, his father found greater meaning in columns of the written word.

When Richard’s national newspaper chain launched its news and opinion television channel his presence was felt more by an emerging audience than his wife and sons at home. Simon remembered his father often saying, It’s all hands on deck, boys. Notwithstanding the fact that he doubted the nautical reference would ever be connected to a distant ancestral seafarer, he hoped his own path would better invest such an allocation of time and energy.

Simon did, however, benefit from his father’s hard work. California’s Stanford University took a bite out of Richard’s salary as a favoured political pundit/commentator. He achieved his Masters in Computer Science in the spring in 2003, however, in the summer of the same year, his mother tragically died. Her devotion to work was nothing, if not all consuming. It was during the Toronto SARS crisis that Simon felt the true power of loss and the sorrow it leaves in its wake.

Richard was the first to end the silence. Hard to imagine it’ll soon be 25 years. After a short pause, he added: Do either of you remember the words Justice Campbell used to conclude the inquiry?

Simon cleared his throat. Only the heroic efforts … he began, before his voiced cracked. Struggling to find the strength, he managed to continue. Only the heroic effort of front-line health workers prevented the virus from causing further damage.

At the time, Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome was a viral disease found to originate in southern China. It eventually afflicted thirty-seven countries. In Canada its flu-like symptoms were felt primarily in Toronto. The province of Ontario’s health care system was drawn into the crisis even before the World Health Organization issued an unprecedented global alert. Canada’s most populated province struggled to keep pace with the outbreak, only finding relief after the virus eventually ran its course.

So elusive was a cure, one doctor reflected that modern treatment methods were as ineffective as those used to control the Typhus Epidemic of 1847, when warm wine and cold compresses were used to ease the suffering of Irish immigrants who lay dying in the fever sheds of Toronto’s waterfront. Like the Typhus outbreak, patient isolation proved the most effective defense modern medicine could apply. It would remain so for years to come. Subsequent SARS outbreaks would kill half of those infected. The city, which the Taylors called home, saw forty-four lives cut short.

Your mother was a saint, but you should know she loved you both above all others, Richard stated.

Lionel had a tendency to say what was on his mind. I hope she felt loved enough in return.

Simon turned his head upward and rolled his eyes.

I’ll assume you’re speaking for yourself, Richard retorted. You know your mother never forgave me for endorsing your enlistment in the forces. The secrecy of your deployments, never knowing whether you were alive or dead. It kept her up at night.

Lionel said nothing.

Simon felt the desire to intervene and the compulsion to do so drew a modest smile. He couldn’t help reflecting on how subtly his mother could change the subject of a conversation, especially when she felt compelled to deflect attention from herself. As if nudged by her living spirit, Simon’s thoughts were redirected to something more positive. Did I tell you we’re heading to the cottage tomorrow?

Simon used the term cottage because he knew it would bring back fond memories of summer vacations spent on the eastern tip of Lake Ontario. Richard managed a meagre smile, knowing the word cottage didn’t truly encompass Simon’s summer retreat. His getaway could more aptly be described as a summer home or even estate. With his and Sophia’s efforts well rewarded, the family hideaway was now located in the beautiful Thousand Islands district of the St. Lawrence Seaway.

You should come for a couple of days, Simon said to his father.

Richard’s attire was always casual, yet impeccably assembled at the same time. His grey tweed coat covered an unbuttoned navy blue shirt, his dark slacks descending to polished black shoes. The three of them were now drifting back toward the two cars.

I would like that, Richard agreed. He paused just long enough for Simon to know what was coming next. Some other time perhaps, he added.

Simon and his father stopped several paces away from the gravel road. Realizing that Lionel might not want to engage in lingering small talk, Simon passed the umbrella to his brother. A simple nod confirmed his preference to seek shelter in the car.

Richard’s eyes followed his second son for a moment. Lionel could feel their weight. He knew his father longed for the man in the photo framed next to those of his late wife and his more successful son. They were displayed on the now silent piano back home. The respect for a soldier’s uniform seemed mutual to every smile; a father’s pride having been crowned by his son’s selection to Canada’s elite Joint Task Force. Lionel had been discharged from the military over a year ago, but the legacy of his rotations would not so easily be jettisoned.

Richard turned back to Simon. Have you heard from Jennifer lately?

Jennifer was Simon’s daughter, a precious gift from a relationship many years back. Jennifer Grace Taylor was born eighteen years ago. At the time, Simon was pursuing his Masters at Stanford.

Not from Jenny, herself, Simon replied, but I received an email from one of her professors the other day. Jennifer was in second year at the University of California at Berkeley. She lived in residence, while her mother remained the sole occupant of their Stanford home.

Is everything alright? Richard asked.

Everything’s fine. Her prof would like me to grant the university some time with Sophia. In his own words, he wants to ‘disprove the existence of God, once and for all.’

Richard and Simon exchanged smiles. A disciple of Hawking, no doubt.

Richard was referring to Stephen Hawking, the renowned theoretical physicist who claimed nothing existed before the big bang; that prior to that event, time itself did not exist. And if time could not escape the crushing gravity within the black hole that created our universe, neither could God.

Your computer is becoming more popular than the CERN particle accelerator, Richard stated. He then gave his son a familiar look, as if it were time to be on his way. Give my love to my granddaughter when you see her, will you? Arriving at his black Audi’s door, Richard took a moment to close up his umbrella.

When you have time, Father, there’s something I’d like you to see.

Yes? Richard replied, shaking the rain from his collapsed covering.

Simon’s tone became more reverent. Sophia has perfected Mother’s legacy essence.

His father looked puzzled. Her legacy …?

Her legacy essence, Simon repeated. Sophia has created a very realistic soft profile of her. She has compiled everything from emails to old home movies.

Richard listened, but appeared skeptical. Simon knew he would be.

I can have a conversation with her whenever I want, Simon added. It’s like … she’s not gone.

For a moment Richard appeared reflective. I’ll think about it, if you don’t mind. He opened the car door.

Of course, Simon replied. A familiar feeling enveloped him, as if another encounter would soon feel incomplete.

Simon slid into his driver’s seat then looked to his right. His father was pulling alongside. Richard’s driver’s side window descended. Simon did the same for his brother. The pair knew their father disliked physical embraces, a privileged English upbringing being the source of the involuntary symptom. Simon felt a familiar awkwardness during times such as these. His father and brother now appeared equally bereft of the skills a touching moment invited.

Goodbye, Son.

Lionel didn’t look at his father. His sunglasses offered a sign of thoughts sequestered. He tilted his head to the right. Goodbye, Father, he said, flatly.

Simon and his father exchanged one last glance before offering each other a departing nod.

CHAPTER THREE

One week later, NYC

SIMON BROUGHT his silent Tesla Roadster to a stop in front of New York’s Rockefeller Center. Its electric motor defied the perception of a high performance sports car, but a body immortalized through its sleek design did not. His feet had barely touched the ground when his valet, a woman young enough to be his daughter, replaced him in the driver’s seat. In an instant the attendant sped away, to where he wasn’t even sure. Suddenly, his worst fears conjured a place he’d rather not envision, Tolkien’s Mines of Moria. He imagined his car jockey jumping clean before his prized blacked-out coup plunged over an immense cliff. Simon shuddered while wrestling his thoughts free from the exulted Lord of the Rings series. Recovering, he wished he hadn’t given his driver the night off.

Venturing inside the impressive building, he was soon the lone occupant of an elevator destined for the sixty-fifth floor. He used the time wisely, adjusting the carnation in his lapel. His