“Why are you interested in the Satori project?” Swift asked.
A fair question, if you didn’t take into consideration that I’ve funded Dr. Swift’s projects over the last five years. I took a leap of faith and gave him a chance when no one else would touch him.
“Given that I fund Satori, to the tune of, I believe $60 million last year…” I let the sentence hang in the air — Swift could fill in the blank. I knew he was being protective of his project and I appreciated his passion and brilliance at inventing solutions, but I also had to remind him that I had invested in him.
Swift nodded, conceding my point. “Okay then. You get to drive.”
“You’re a smart man, Dr. Swift.”
A look of faux suspicion crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I want to know how Satori fits in with your grand scheme. Your Koi vision.” The nature of his question was because we had never really spent time together and discussed Satori. I was too busy running SynOrganics, one of the largest companies in the world—I couldn’t spend the time with everyone of my researchers, developers and scientists to stay caught up on their projects. I provided funding and gave them tremendous latitude in their work in exchange for them providing timely updates. I realized this would serve as my Satori update.
I wondered if Swift was under the influence of some newly discovered, illicit substance, digital or otherwise. I couldn’t imagine the baggage and pressure of growing up in the Swift family, seven generations of inventors and scientists at the forefront of cutting-edge technologies. Swift seemed to keep it bottled in and compartmentalized, but he could be prickly.
"You know my only interest is in justice.” I watched him digest my words, words he’d heard before.
“I do know that,” Swift said. “I just don’t know how Satori fits in.”
I acknowledged Swift’s question—it was fair but irrelevant. How I planned to use technologies developed by my employees was my call, not theirs. I listened to their input, but the bottom line was I pay them.
“I want to understand the biological underpinnings of political and religious ideology,” I said, laying it out as simply and directly as I could. I sipped my beer before continuing.
“Walk me through how you developed Satori. I’m curious how your mind works.”
The expression of interest in his work animated Swift and he rubbed his hands together. “Everyone thinks I’m this brilliant inventor…,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “… which is true.” He allowed himself a smile, and gestured theatrically to himself. “But Satori? Not my idea…” Swift looked away, a dreamy look in his eyes, as if he had just transported away to another time, another place.
His admission that one of SynOrganics most promising technologies wasn’t his surprised me.
“Really?” I said, skeptical about his claim.
“Really,” Swift said. He finished his beer and waved his hand to order another round. “I learned about it during a two-week spiritual walk through a remote region of the Nagano mountains …”
“You lived in Japan?”
Swift nodded in the affirmative as a drone delivered another round of Innes Gunn. “I did.”
Swift looked up, counting backwards. “Must have been… I was … that was around 1982. Ish.”
“Who told you about the technology?”
Swift shook his head at the memory, as if it were too much to handle. “I don’t know who or even what it was,” he said. “But I can tell you the experience is one I’ll never forget.”
I processed his comment — What did that even mean? You don’t know who or what told you? And forty years ago? Was this technology even on anyone’s radar?
Swift continued. “It was a Yamako, or a hominid of some type that I am not familiar with. I encountered it on a path leading to a temple.”
I was aware of Swifts reputation as a storyteller of tales that had a casual relationship with the truth.
“What do your parents remember?”
“I was alone.”
“That was forty years ago, Swift. How old were you?”
“I was eight.”
He didn’t laugh or smile, and the conversation was headed to Swift World, a blend of fantasy and reality, and you never knew what to believe.
“An eight-year-old on a two week spiritual sabbatical, alone in the mountains? I said.
“You say that like it’s an odd thing,” Swift said.
“I find it odd that someone told you about a neural scanning drone idea forty years ago.”
“That is correct.”
“Did functional magnetic resonance technology exist then?”
“It was a thing in the Yamako’s mind,” Swift said.
“Were you doing bug?” I had to ask. Swift didn’t appear to be addicted to Bug, but was well known to dabble in it and other substances, physical or digital.
Swift laughed. “Bug didn’t exist then. At least not in its present form.” Swift gestured, and a drone made its way over to the table with a round of drinks. “I may have been under the subtle influence of a hallucinogenic bug one encounters in higher altitudes.” Swift sniffed. “Yes. Hyakki turned me on the rare and elusive Wakan worm.”
“Someone turned you on to a hallucinogenic when you were eight?” I asked and Swift grunted, which I took as a “yes.”
“Hyakki! Ha! Hyakki once told me…”
I cut Swift off before he could go on a rant. “Save the story for another time,” I said.
“As I was saying, I’m fascinated by behaviors attributed to factors other than biology.” Swift had refocused and his alert expression told me he was listening, engaged, and had no idea where I was going with this.
“When I see behaviors that are repeated not only around the world, but over centuries?” That tells me there is something more going on, way beyond people simply making bad choices.”
“I’m not following you,” Swift said.
“I’m looking for a biological basis for religious or political beliefs.”
“I’m not sure what that has to do with Satori…” Swift said. “Are you saying, for example…” Swift waved his hand in the air as he searched for a relevant example. “…being conservative or progressive is genetic?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Fear is deeply encoded, and it drives a lot of behavior.”
“Which brings us to…” Swift waved his hands in the air, gesturing for me to complete his thought. I didn’t, so he did. “You. Again, what do you want?”
“I’ve heard things about Satori,” I said.
“What sort of things?”
“Does it matter? I’m intrigued, I pay you, and I want a look.”
Swift downed his beer, sat back with his arms folded and stared at me for a long moment.
“Let’s talk in a couple of years and I might have something for you to look at.”
A fair question, if you didn’t take into consideration that I’ve funded Dr. Swift’s projects over the last five years. I took a leap of faith and gave him a chance when no one else would touch him.
“Given that I fund Satori, to the tune of, I believe $60 million last year…” I let the sentence hang in the air — Swift could fill in the blank. I knew he was being protective of his project and I appreciated his passion and brilliance at inventing solutions, but I also had to remind him that I had invested in him.
Swift nodded, conceding my point. “Okay then. You get to drive.”
“You’re a smart man, Dr. Swift.”
A look of faux suspicion crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I want to know how Satori fits in with your grand scheme. Your Koi vision.” The nature of his question was because we had never really spent time together and discussed Satori. I was too busy running SynOrganics, one of the largest companies in the world—I couldn’t spend the time with everyone of my researchers, developers and scientists to stay caught up on their projects. I provided funding and gave them tremendous latitude in their work in exchange for them providing timely updates. I realized this would serve as my Satori update.
I wondered if Swift was under the influence of some newly discovered, illicit substance, digital or otherwise. I couldn’t imagine the baggage and pressure of growing up in the Swift family, seven generations of inventors and scientists at the forefront of cutting-edge technologies. Swift seemed to keep it bottled in and compartmentalized, but he could be prickly.
"You know my only interest is in justice.” I watched him digest my words, words he’d heard before.
“I do know that,” Swift said. “I just don’t know how Satori fits in.”
I acknowledged Swift’s question—it was fair but irrelevant. How I planned to use technologies developed by my employees was my call, not theirs. I listened to their input, but the bottom line was I pay them.
“I want to understand the biological underpinnings of political and religious ideology,” I said, laying it out as simply and directly as I could. I sipped my beer before continuing.
“Walk me through how you developed Satori. I’m curious how your mind works.”
The expression of interest in his work animated Swift and he rubbed his hands together. “Everyone thinks I’m this brilliant inventor…,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “… which is true.” He allowed himself a smile, and gestured theatrically to himself. “But Satori? Not my idea…” Swift looked away, a dreamy look in his eyes, as if he had just transported away to another time, another place.
His admission that one of SynOrganics most promising technologies wasn’t his surprised me.
“Really?” I said, skeptical about his claim.
“Really,” Swift said. He finished his beer and waved his hand to order another round. “I learned about it during a two-week spiritual walk through a remote region of the Nagano mountains …”
“You lived in Japan?”
Swift nodded in the affirmative as a drone delivered another round of Innes Gunn. “I did.”
Swift looked up, counting backwards. “Must have been… I was … that was around 1982. Ish.”
“Who told you about the technology?”
Swift shook his head at the memory, as if it were too much to handle. “I don’t know who or even what it was,” he said. “But I can tell you the experience is one I’ll never forget.”
I processed his comment — What did that even mean? You don’t know who or what told you? And forty years ago? Was this technology even on anyone’s radar?
Swift continued. “It was a Yamako, or a hominid of some type that I am not familiar with. I encountered it on a path leading to a temple.”
I was aware of Swifts reputation as a storyteller of tales that had a casual relationship with the truth.
“What do your parents remember?”
“I was alone.”
“That was forty years ago, Swift. How old were you?”
“I was eight.”
He didn’t laugh or smile, and the conversation was headed to Swift World, a blend of fantasy and reality, and you never knew what to believe.
“An eight-year-old on a two week spiritual sabbatical, alone in the mountains? I said.
“You say that like it’s an odd thing,” Swift said.
“I find it odd that someone told you about a neural scanning drone idea forty years ago.”
“That is correct.”
“Did functional magnetic resonance technology exist then?”
“It was a thing in the Yamako’s mind,” Swift said.
“Were you doing bug?” I had to ask. Swift didn’t appear to be addicted to Bug, but was well known to dabble in it and other substances, physical or digital.
Swift laughed. “Bug didn’t exist then. At least not in its present form.” Swift gestured, and a drone made its way over to the table with a round of drinks. “I may have been under the subtle influence of a hallucinogenic bug one encounters in higher altitudes.” Swift sniffed. “Yes. Hyakki turned me on the rare and elusive Wakan worm.”
“Someone turned you on to a hallucinogenic when you were eight?” I asked and Swift grunted, which I took as a “yes.”
“Hyakki! Ha! Hyakki once told me…”
I cut Swift off before he could go on a rant. “Save the story for another time,” I said.
“As I was saying, I’m fascinated by behaviors attributed to factors other than biology.” Swift had refocused and his alert expression told me he was listening, engaged, and had no idea where I was going with this.
“When I see behaviors that are repeated not only around the world, but over centuries?” That tells me there is something more going on, way beyond people simply making bad choices.”
“I’m not following you,” Swift said.
“I’m looking for a biological basis for religious or political beliefs.”
“I’m not sure what that has to do with Satori…” Swift said. “Are you saying, for example…” Swift waved his hand in the air as he searched for a relevant example. “…being conservative or progressive is genetic?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Fear is deeply encoded, and it drives a lot of behavior.”
“Which brings us to…” Swift waved his hands in the air, gesturing for me to complete his thought. I didn’t, so he did. “You. Again, what do you want?”
“I’ve heard things about Satori,” I said.
“What sort of things?”
“Does it matter? I’m intrigued, I pay you, and I want a look.”
Swift downed his beer, sat back with his arms folded and stared at me for a long moment.
“Let’s talk in a couple of years and I might have something for you to look at.”
THREE YEARS LATER
I sat in a chair watching a live newscast streaming on a holo-screen. I didn’t catch his name or position, but a public official was speaking to a throng of reporters. Much to my surprise, he seemed to be genuinely upset, rather than performing for the press assembled before him. Seated next to me was Randi Lee Williams, a young woman and SynOrganics employee who had worked closely with Swift on Satori since its inception.
“Clearly that’s our concern,” the man said. “He’s taken three lives, and he’s loose. He’s a violent white supremacist, diagnosed with mental illness…” A mug shot of a blond-haired white male, late twenties, popped up on the screen. “We’re concerned that others may be at risk.”
The man hesitated as he studied the sea of faces in front of him. “We simply don’t know what he’s thinking.”
I switched off the monitor and leaned back. The official was right—they did not know what the criminal was thinking. But I did. I turned to a detached Randi, who seemed a bit bored.
“Are you excited?” I knew the answer, but felt compelled to ask.
Randi shrugged. Over two-hundred in-house tests proved the drones worked, and she did not see the need to belabor the point. “Beta tests can be anti-climatic,” she said. “I’m more interested in what Mr. Blunt Trauma is going to do. I’m surprised you sent him.”
“Sent him?” I said. “Swift demanded that he be the one.” I returned to the multiple holo- screens in front of us. The neural activity on the images of a human brain, captured live by drones, was captivating. The 3D images shifted, both from the neural activity, to their position to the drones recording the activity. Wraith-like clouds of color rolled across the images of the brains, wispy gradations of reds, yellows and greens that defined levels and types of brain activity.
“The MRI drones are his babies, so it was the right thing to do.”
I located the man whose brain activity was playing out before us on of the screens. He was sitting on a fountain wall in Washington Square park. It was the same man whose mug shot was on display during the press conference.
I heard a door open softly behind me and I didn’t need to turn to see who it was.
Dr. Latimeria, a tall man with dark skin and a shaved head, stepped inside. He looked up and saw that Randi and I were busy and he backed up. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were busy,” he said.
“When am I not busy, Lats,” I said. “You know better.” I gestured for Latimeria to have a seat. “You might be interested in this.”
Latimeria walked over, his eyes riveted on the monitors. “A beta test?”
I turned to Randi and nodded in Dr. Latimeria’s direction. “Randi, this is Dr. Latimeria. I don’t believe you two have met.”
They exchanged a curt greeting, and Dr. Latimeria sat between us, his focus bouncing from screen to screen as he attempted to apply some meaning to the activity.
“Randi is our resident magneto genetic expert, and she manages our medical engineering group,” I said.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Latimeria laughed.
“Brain print specialist,” Randi said for clarification.
Latimeria leaned forward. “I see a drone. Wait… three of them?”
“Clearly that’s our concern,” the man said. “He’s taken three lives, and he’s loose. He’s a violent white supremacist, diagnosed with mental illness…” A mug shot of a blond-haired white male, late twenties, popped up on the screen. “We’re concerned that others may be at risk.”
The man hesitated as he studied the sea of faces in front of him. “We simply don’t know what he’s thinking.”
I switched off the monitor and leaned back. The official was right—they did not know what the criminal was thinking. But I did. I turned to a detached Randi, who seemed a bit bored.
“Are you excited?” I knew the answer, but felt compelled to ask.
Randi shrugged. Over two-hundred in-house tests proved the drones worked, and she did not see the need to belabor the point. “Beta tests can be anti-climatic,” she said. “I’m more interested in what Mr. Blunt Trauma is going to do. I’m surprised you sent him.”
“Sent him?” I said. “Swift demanded that he be the one.” I returned to the multiple holo- screens in front of us. The neural activity on the images of a human brain, captured live by drones, was captivating. The 3D images shifted, both from the neural activity, to their position to the drones recording the activity. Wraith-like clouds of color rolled across the images of the brains, wispy gradations of reds, yellows and greens that defined levels and types of brain activity.
“The MRI drones are his babies, so it was the right thing to do.”
I located the man whose brain activity was playing out before us on of the screens. He was sitting on a fountain wall in Washington Square park. It was the same man whose mug shot was on display during the press conference.
I heard a door open softly behind me and I didn’t need to turn to see who it was.
Dr. Latimeria, a tall man with dark skin and a shaved head, stepped inside. He looked up and saw that Randi and I were busy and he backed up. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were busy,” he said.
“When am I not busy, Lats,” I said. “You know better.” I gestured for Latimeria to have a seat. “You might be interested in this.”
Latimeria walked over, his eyes riveted on the monitors. “A beta test?”
I turned to Randi and nodded in Dr. Latimeria’s direction. “Randi, this is Dr. Latimeria. I don’t believe you two have met.”
They exchanged a curt greeting, and Dr. Latimeria sat between us, his focus bouncing from screen to screen as he attempted to apply some meaning to the activity.
“Randi is our resident magneto genetic expert, and she manages our medical engineering group,” I said.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Latimeria laughed.
“Brain print specialist,” Randi said for clarification.
Latimeria leaned forward. “I see a drone. Wait… three of them?”
“These aren’t your fathers drones, Lats,” I said.
Randi laughed. “They’re functional magnetic resonance imaging drones.”
“And guess what, Lats?” I said and I could tell the tone of my voice had sent a shiver down his back. He bore the look of a ten year old that had come to the sudden realization that he may have done something wrong. “How many drones are you using, Randi?” I asked.
“Twenty-two.”
I turned to Latimeria who had grown quiet. “Twenty two, Lats,” I said. “Twenty two, not three hundred and sixty.”
His face shifted and sagged. He suddenly realized he had walked right into it.
“That was last years budget, Lats. Not this year. Can’t wait to see where we come in on that expense this year.” I was miffed about the cost overrun of one of our black operations, and Latimeria had kept me in the dark about it. Lats had been dodging this conversation about why our drone costs had skyrocketed by over 4000%. He was avoiding me, so any time I could publically shame him into actually talking to me about it, I took the opportunity. I admit I was being a bit of an asshole about it.
“That’s why I came here, Koi. We can talk after you finish this beta.” Latimeria smiled, and gestured to the screens. “Brain scanning, it is then?”
Randi and I exchanged a look, a secret shared between us. Yes, brain scanning, but that wasn’t what we were beta testing. Latimeria caught our look but was smart enough to let it go for the moment.
“Kind of, sort of,” I said. Lats and I had worked closely for almost a decade, and I knew him better than he knew himself. I could tell by his wary look that there was a growing suspicion that there was more to this beta test than imaging.
“We’re waiting for Swift to show up,” Randi offered.
“I have to profess my ignorance. I wasn’t involved in the project, so I know little about it,” Latimeria said. “And as far as Swift, I’d expect nothing less than for him to be late.” Latimeria sniffed, his disdain for Swift clear. “At the very least.”
Latimeria was dangling the option of discussing Swift and his short falls -- I never understood why Swift and Latimeria didn’t get along, but there was never anything productive about going down the road of Swift-bashing. I refocused the conversation back to the technology, where it belonged.
“I’m sure it would delight Randi to fill you in on the technology, or answer questions,” I said.
Latimeria looked down at a badge on Randi’s lab coat. He didn’t recognize the department. “TRBI?”
“Thought-related biometric identification,” Randi said. “We use Satori to track behaviors and to identify physical abnormalities in the brain that indicate spectrum disorders.”
I said, “It might intrigue you, Lats, that Randi and her team have gathered enough data with the drones to create a database of bio marker profiles that identify certain types of crimes.”
Latimeria looked surprised. “You can identify criminals by scanning their brain?”
Randi laughed. “They’re functional magnetic resonance imaging drones.”
“And guess what, Lats?” I said and I could tell the tone of my voice had sent a shiver down his back. He bore the look of a ten year old that had come to the sudden realization that he may have done something wrong. “How many drones are you using, Randi?” I asked.
“Twenty-two.”
I turned to Latimeria who had grown quiet. “Twenty two, Lats,” I said. “Twenty two, not three hundred and sixty.”
His face shifted and sagged. He suddenly realized he had walked right into it.
“That was last years budget, Lats. Not this year. Can’t wait to see where we come in on that expense this year.” I was miffed about the cost overrun of one of our black operations, and Latimeria had kept me in the dark about it. Lats had been dodging this conversation about why our drone costs had skyrocketed by over 4000%. He was avoiding me, so any time I could publically shame him into actually talking to me about it, I took the opportunity. I admit I was being a bit of an asshole about it.
“That’s why I came here, Koi. We can talk after you finish this beta.” Latimeria smiled, and gestured to the screens. “Brain scanning, it is then?”
Randi and I exchanged a look, a secret shared between us. Yes, brain scanning, but that wasn’t what we were beta testing. Latimeria caught our look but was smart enough to let it go for the moment.
“Kind of, sort of,” I said. Lats and I had worked closely for almost a decade, and I knew him better than he knew himself. I could tell by his wary look that there was a growing suspicion that there was more to this beta test than imaging.
“We’re waiting for Swift to show up,” Randi offered.
“I have to profess my ignorance. I wasn’t involved in the project, so I know little about it,” Latimeria said. “And as far as Swift, I’d expect nothing less than for him to be late.” Latimeria sniffed, his disdain for Swift clear. “At the very least.”
Latimeria was dangling the option of discussing Swift and his short falls -- I never understood why Swift and Latimeria didn’t get along, but there was never anything productive about going down the road of Swift-bashing. I refocused the conversation back to the technology, where it belonged.
“I’m sure it would delight Randi to fill you in on the technology, or answer questions,” I said.
Latimeria looked down at a badge on Randi’s lab coat. He didn’t recognize the department. “TRBI?”
“Thought-related biometric identification,” Randi said. “We use Satori to track behaviors and to identify physical abnormalities in the brain that indicate spectrum disorders.”
I said, “It might intrigue you, Lats, that Randi and her team have gathered enough data with the drones to create a database of bio marker profiles that identify certain types of crimes.”
Latimeria looked surprised. “You can identify criminals by scanning their brain?”
Randi nodded. “If someone is thinking of harming an animal or another human, or joining in some carnage during a riot, there’s a region of the brain that is engaged in that type of thinking or information processing,” Randi said.
Latimeria rubbed the three-day stubble shading his jaw as he watched the video feeds. He was mesmerized by the images, the shifting green, yellow and red gradations washing over regions of the brain.
“What am I looking at?” Latimeria pointed at a bright orangish-white flare on the 3D brain. “What’s going on here?”
“We are watching this individual processing and encoding sensory information.” Randi tapped the screen for emphasis. “Our algorithm understands how his brain is interpreting the stimuli.” Randi stopped as she spotted something on a lateral brain scan. She leaned closer to the image and pointed to the frontal lobe. “… I see a lesion…”
Randi pulled up a hologram screen filled with criminal and police reports on his assaults, rapes and other crimes against humanity that this man on the screen had committed. “The lesion could be a contributing factor to the violence.”
“So why him? Why is he being targeted?” Latimeria asked.
Randi leaned back in her chair. “It’s not a coincidence that his amygdala is larger than the average human, and at the moment he’s a bit agitated.”
“When you operate out of fear or ignorance, you make stupid decisions,” I said. “Hence stupid people and violent crimes.”
“That’s harsh,” Latimeria said.
“Just going by the data, my friend.” I said without looking at Latimeria. Latimeria tended to cut people more slack than I would. But life had taught me different lessons.
“That still doesn’t tell me why you’re after him? What good does this do us?” Latimeria asked.
Randi looked at him as if he hadn’t heard a word she said.
“Our algorithm will predict what his behavioral response will be, of course.”
Latimeria blinked as he tried to process Randi’s comment. Predicting behavior based on physical properties and activity…How accurate is this?”
Randi smiled. “A shade over 99%.”
Latimeria leaned forward and finger-traced over the image of one brain. “The detail is incredible.”
“You can see the activity down to the individual active neurons.” Randi toggled the view and snorted at something on screen. “Oh, the irony,” she said to no one in particular.
Latimeria rubbed the three-day stubble shading his jaw as he watched the video feeds. He was mesmerized by the images, the shifting green, yellow and red gradations washing over regions of the brain.
“What am I looking at?” Latimeria pointed at a bright orangish-white flare on the 3D brain. “What’s going on here?”
“We are watching this individual processing and encoding sensory information.” Randi tapped the screen for emphasis. “Our algorithm understands how his brain is interpreting the stimuli.” Randi stopped as she spotted something on a lateral brain scan. She leaned closer to the image and pointed to the frontal lobe. “… I see a lesion…”
Randi pulled up a hologram screen filled with criminal and police reports on his assaults, rapes and other crimes against humanity that this man on the screen had committed. “The lesion could be a contributing factor to the violence.”
“So why him? Why is he being targeted?” Latimeria asked.
Randi leaned back in her chair. “It’s not a coincidence that his amygdala is larger than the average human, and at the moment he’s a bit agitated.”
“When you operate out of fear or ignorance, you make stupid decisions,” I said. “Hence stupid people and violent crimes.”
“That’s harsh,” Latimeria said.
“Just going by the data, my friend.” I said without looking at Latimeria. Latimeria tended to cut people more slack than I would. But life had taught me different lessons.
“That still doesn’t tell me why you’re after him? What good does this do us?” Latimeria asked.
Randi looked at him as if he hadn’t heard a word she said.
“Our algorithm will predict what his behavioral response will be, of course.”
Latimeria blinked as he tried to process Randi’s comment. Predicting behavior based on physical properties and activity…How accurate is this?”
Randi smiled. “A shade over 99%.”
Latimeria leaned forward and finger-traced over the image of one brain. “The detail is incredible.”
“You can see the activity down to the individual active neurons.” Randi toggled the view and snorted at something on screen. “Oh, the irony,” she said to no one in particular.
I looked her a question and Randi pointed to a feed. “His tattoo reads “100% white patriot…” Randi flicked her wrist to pull up a detailed document on the holoscreen. “… and I just ran his DNA scan and the results coming in are anything but pure white boy.”
I leaned forward and read from the DNA profile report. “9% Italian, 6% Greek…”I laughed. “Ha! 5% Sudanese!”
“We could have some fun with this,” Randi said. “Send him the results…”
“Or his friends. I’m sure they would be intrigued,” I said.
Latimeria wanted no part in this conversation and placed his index fingers in each ear. “Na na na na…”
Latimeria was always uncomfortable when our work veered into morally gray areas. Not a bad thing since he acted as a counter balance, and forced me to check myself and think.
I reached out and nudged him with my elbow good-naturedly. I could tell he was disturbed, but intrigued.
Latimeria leaned in, engaged by the data and unfolding stories on the video feeds.
“Let me see if I understand this. The algorithm scans a brain, identifies not only the structure, but the type of activity going on in the brain, and matches that activity against a criminal data base…” Latimeria said, his voice trailing off as he tried to process the technology.
“It’s actually a behavioral data base, not criminal.” Randi said. “Most of the behavior templates are pretty benign.”
I watched Latimeria to gauge his reaction -- he was grappling with something that he couldn’t articulate. Or wouldn’t.
“What?” I prodded.
“Where did you get this data?” His forehead shifted into a mass of blurred lines, and the wrinkles underscored his confusion. “I can’t imagine how many studies you’d need to come up with accurate templates for behavior.”
I gestured to Randi. Take it away.
“We base the classifications on data from ten years of studies involving over 350,000 violent criminals. We mapped brain network connectivity for individuals in sixteen states, in various environments and activities,” Randi said.
“That’s…” Latimeria stopped as a thought hit him and he turned to Koi. “Ten years of studies, huh?”
I didn’t look at him, but I could see him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for me to either respond or look at him. After a moment, he continued. “Didn’t we just hit the ten-year anniversary for Lisbon?” I still wouldn’t return his stare.
Lisbon was our first SynOrganics-funded prison system and was among the largest food innovation research facilities in the world. The sprawling system was created to test and to collect dietary and health information on new food types before they were introduced to market. The food science data collected was invaluable and in fact, we developed our Smart Food line based on the data. The criminals, almost all of whom were the worst of the worst, rapists, murderers, fascists, were taken care of. For their participation, most of the prisoners would see their sentences reduced.
We took a beating in the press about the prisons and how we treated our subjects. What people failed to realize or piece together was the true value of the data we were gathering. The food science was secondary. We were after magnetic resonance data on brain activity and structures, relative to the crimes and violence committed. We were well on our way to establishing a baseline for the biological basis for crime and evil.
I was surprised at how quickly Latimeria had zeroed in on the data, which meant he wasn’t going to let this go. Sort of me like with his out of control drone budget.
“What a coincidence that we have sixteen prison locations too,” he said. “I assume you got their permission, Koi.”
I turned to him and tried my best to muster an expression of faux outrage. “I’m shocked by your implications, Lats.” I returned my attention to the screen in an effort to tamp down the smile I felt tugging at the right corner of my mouth. I heard Latimeria make a huffing sound.
“I’m glad I don’t work in legal,” he said.
He turned his attention back to a feed and spotted someone he recognized. “What is Swift doing there?”
“He wanted to be the provocateur,” I said. “Since he designed the units, I couldn’t say no.”
“What do you mean provoke?” Latimeria asked. “Why would you provoke a violent criminal?”
Latimeria watched as Swift stood in front of Tommy James Pritchard, smiling at him and bending down to get his face closer. Pritchard was irritated and looked at Swift, then scanned the surrounding area.
Latimeria said, “You’re pissing off a violent white supremacist so you can record how his brain functions?”
“Oh, god no,” Randi said. “We have tons of that data already.”
Latimeria wasn’t following. If they had the data, why the test? They knew it worked already. He looked over to me, a perplexed look on his face.
I held up a phone and pointed to the opened Satori app. “We’re wirelessly adjusting his behavior. ”
The smile slowly faded from Latimeria’s face and was replaced by a pained expression of disbelief.
“Oh please, Lats…” I said, dismissing his reaction as being overly sensitive and misinformed.
“It’s non invasive,” Randi added.
“You’re lobotomizing him?!” Latimeria said, his voice rising.
“TSA’s are not lobotimes,” Randi said and Latimeria looked her a question.
“Targeted synaptic adjustment,” Randi corrected. “We can even target specific types of cells, if you really want to crawl down into the weeds.”
Latimeria shook his head and glared at me. “Jesus, Koi.”
“We’re going to prevent future violence,” I said, spelling it out for him. I turned up the volume on a feed and Swift’s gravelly voice cut through the quiet of the lab. He was leaning down and reading Pritchards tee shirt.
“Sum Dum Fuk.” Swift smiled. “Cute.” The ravages of time and various addictions had whittled Swifts voice down to a ragged, painful sound that cut through white noise. “So you don’t like Asians or the president.” Swift was referring to a design on the tee shirt that was a caricature of the President of the United States, now sporting epicanthic folds and dressed in traditional Samurai armor.
“He’s bubbling!” Randi pointed to a brain scan showing the emotional center of the brain flaring out in yellow to orange gradations.
We heard Pritchard say, “Do I know you?” and Swift smiled. Pritchard was clearly irritated.
On screen, Swift looked up at the man and shook his head “no.” Swift squinted and read the logo on Prichards baseball cap. “Church of the SubQ, huh?” The man wore a red and blue cap with the embroidered Church of the SubQ logo on the front. “Do you see the irony, kind sir?” Swift was off and running.
“Not only do you not like Asians or the president, but you are a religious man who advocates the hateful message of (theatrically bends down to read the shirt again) “Sum Dum Fuk!” directed at someone you don’t even know!”
I smiled, marveling at Swifts ability to annoy people.
“You know Swift…” Randi said. “He knows how to dangle red meat in front of people.”
“At least he’s not doing Bug,” I said.
“Not at the moment, at least,” Latimeria said.
“He’s still using?” Randi asked. “I thought he stopped a while ago.”
I shrugged, knowing that Swift was no different from any of use. He just came with a different set of demons. “He’s a complicated man.”
On screen, Swift stared at Pritchard. “You know, I’ve been wondering…” Swift leaned in and whispered conspiratorially to Pritchard, “Why is it every time I try to talk to one of your tribe...the subQ folks…about politics, they always start screaming?”
Pritchard stubbed out his cigarette and glared at Swift. “It seems like you people can’t talk about this stuff without getting upset,” Swift continued.
“Lighting up like a frickin’ Christmas tree.” Randi turned to Latimeria and finger traced an area on one of the brain scans. “This is the emotional center… fear driven….”
“I can’t believe we’re lobotomizing people.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Latimeria was cradling his face in his hands. He hadn’t moved past the synaptic adjustments to see the real value of the technology.
“We’re helping this man make better decisions,” I said.
Latimeria was stunned. “Without his consent!”
I grew visibly angry and faced Latimeria. “He’s a frickin’ violent criminal who raped his girlfriend and beats his stepchildren.” I glared at Latimeria. It takes a lot to get me steaming mad, but the quickest way is to bring up a person who harms other life forms. Human or otherwise. “He gave up his right to live in a civilized society once he laid a hand on them.” I held his gaze until Latimeria returned his to the live feeds. He knew what lines to cross and when to step back.
I looked back to the screens and saw that Pritchard was now standing, pointing and yelling at a smiling Swift.
Randi, her eyes smiling, looked at me expectantly.
I nodded to her and said, “You do the honors.”
Randi, liked an excited eight year old grinned and typed in a sequence of numbers, then sat back, a look of anticipation on her face.
We watched Pritchard point his finger at Swift. He was yelling but we couldn’t quite make out what hate was issuing forth from his mouth. Pritchard reached into his jacket, then froze as he noticed a blur of movement just to his left and above him. But the sensation he felt just now, a warm embrace of his frontal lobe, caused him to look away from the tiny drone hovering near his face, and back to the man who he had been yelling at. Or talking to. That was it. He was talking to this man standing next to him, but he couldn’t remember what they had been discussing. “Do I know you?” Pritchard asked.
“No, sir. I don’t believe so,” Swift said.
“Well, it’s nice meeting you.” Pritchard extended his hand. “Friends call me Tommy.”
“Mine call me Doc…” Swift said as he sat beside Pritchard.
I leaned forward and read from the DNA profile report. “9% Italian, 6% Greek…”I laughed. “Ha! 5% Sudanese!”
“We could have some fun with this,” Randi said. “Send him the results…”
“Or his friends. I’m sure they would be intrigued,” I said.
Latimeria wanted no part in this conversation and placed his index fingers in each ear. “Na na na na…”
Latimeria was always uncomfortable when our work veered into morally gray areas. Not a bad thing since he acted as a counter balance, and forced me to check myself and think.
I reached out and nudged him with my elbow good-naturedly. I could tell he was disturbed, but intrigued.
Latimeria leaned in, engaged by the data and unfolding stories on the video feeds.
“Let me see if I understand this. The algorithm scans a brain, identifies not only the structure, but the type of activity going on in the brain, and matches that activity against a criminal data base…” Latimeria said, his voice trailing off as he tried to process the technology.
“It’s actually a behavioral data base, not criminal.” Randi said. “Most of the behavior templates are pretty benign.”
I watched Latimeria to gauge his reaction -- he was grappling with something that he couldn’t articulate. Or wouldn’t.
“What?” I prodded.
“Where did you get this data?” His forehead shifted into a mass of blurred lines, and the wrinkles underscored his confusion. “I can’t imagine how many studies you’d need to come up with accurate templates for behavior.”
I gestured to Randi. Take it away.
“We base the classifications on data from ten years of studies involving over 350,000 violent criminals. We mapped brain network connectivity for individuals in sixteen states, in various environments and activities,” Randi said.
“That’s…” Latimeria stopped as a thought hit him and he turned to Koi. “Ten years of studies, huh?”
I didn’t look at him, but I could see him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for me to either respond or look at him. After a moment, he continued. “Didn’t we just hit the ten-year anniversary for Lisbon?” I still wouldn’t return his stare.
Lisbon was our first SynOrganics-funded prison system and was among the largest food innovation research facilities in the world. The sprawling system was created to test and to collect dietary and health information on new food types before they were introduced to market. The food science data collected was invaluable and in fact, we developed our Smart Food line based on the data. The criminals, almost all of whom were the worst of the worst, rapists, murderers, fascists, were taken care of. For their participation, most of the prisoners would see their sentences reduced.
We took a beating in the press about the prisons and how we treated our subjects. What people failed to realize or piece together was the true value of the data we were gathering. The food science was secondary. We were after magnetic resonance data on brain activity and structures, relative to the crimes and violence committed. We were well on our way to establishing a baseline for the biological basis for crime and evil.
I was surprised at how quickly Latimeria had zeroed in on the data, which meant he wasn’t going to let this go. Sort of me like with his out of control drone budget.
“What a coincidence that we have sixteen prison locations too,” he said. “I assume you got their permission, Koi.”
I turned to him and tried my best to muster an expression of faux outrage. “I’m shocked by your implications, Lats.” I returned my attention to the screen in an effort to tamp down the smile I felt tugging at the right corner of my mouth. I heard Latimeria make a huffing sound.
“I’m glad I don’t work in legal,” he said.
He turned his attention back to a feed and spotted someone he recognized. “What is Swift doing there?”
“He wanted to be the provocateur,” I said. “Since he designed the units, I couldn’t say no.”
“What do you mean provoke?” Latimeria asked. “Why would you provoke a violent criminal?”
Latimeria watched as Swift stood in front of Tommy James Pritchard, smiling at him and bending down to get his face closer. Pritchard was irritated and looked at Swift, then scanned the surrounding area.
Latimeria said, “You’re pissing off a violent white supremacist so you can record how his brain functions?”
“Oh, god no,” Randi said. “We have tons of that data already.”
Latimeria wasn’t following. If they had the data, why the test? They knew it worked already. He looked over to me, a perplexed look on his face.
I held up a phone and pointed to the opened Satori app. “We’re wirelessly adjusting his behavior. ”
The smile slowly faded from Latimeria’s face and was replaced by a pained expression of disbelief.
“Oh please, Lats…” I said, dismissing his reaction as being overly sensitive and misinformed.
“It’s non invasive,” Randi added.
“You’re lobotomizing him?!” Latimeria said, his voice rising.
“TSA’s are not lobotimes,” Randi said and Latimeria looked her a question.
“Targeted synaptic adjustment,” Randi corrected. “We can even target specific types of cells, if you really want to crawl down into the weeds.”
Latimeria shook his head and glared at me. “Jesus, Koi.”
“We’re going to prevent future violence,” I said, spelling it out for him. I turned up the volume on a feed and Swift’s gravelly voice cut through the quiet of the lab. He was leaning down and reading Pritchards tee shirt.
“Sum Dum Fuk.” Swift smiled. “Cute.” The ravages of time and various addictions had whittled Swifts voice down to a ragged, painful sound that cut through white noise. “So you don’t like Asians or the president.” Swift was referring to a design on the tee shirt that was a caricature of the President of the United States, now sporting epicanthic folds and dressed in traditional Samurai armor.
“He’s bubbling!” Randi pointed to a brain scan showing the emotional center of the brain flaring out in yellow to orange gradations.
We heard Pritchard say, “Do I know you?” and Swift smiled. Pritchard was clearly irritated.
On screen, Swift looked up at the man and shook his head “no.” Swift squinted and read the logo on Prichards baseball cap. “Church of the SubQ, huh?” The man wore a red and blue cap with the embroidered Church of the SubQ logo on the front. “Do you see the irony, kind sir?” Swift was off and running.
“Not only do you not like Asians or the president, but you are a religious man who advocates the hateful message of (theatrically bends down to read the shirt again) “Sum Dum Fuk!” directed at someone you don’t even know!”
I smiled, marveling at Swifts ability to annoy people.
“You know Swift…” Randi said. “He knows how to dangle red meat in front of people.”
“At least he’s not doing Bug,” I said.
“Not at the moment, at least,” Latimeria said.
“He’s still using?” Randi asked. “I thought he stopped a while ago.”
I shrugged, knowing that Swift was no different from any of use. He just came with a different set of demons. “He’s a complicated man.”
On screen, Swift stared at Pritchard. “You know, I’ve been wondering…” Swift leaned in and whispered conspiratorially to Pritchard, “Why is it every time I try to talk to one of your tribe...the subQ folks…about politics, they always start screaming?”
Pritchard stubbed out his cigarette and glared at Swift. “It seems like you people can’t talk about this stuff without getting upset,” Swift continued.
“Lighting up like a frickin’ Christmas tree.” Randi turned to Latimeria and finger traced an area on one of the brain scans. “This is the emotional center… fear driven….”
“I can’t believe we’re lobotomizing people.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Latimeria was cradling his face in his hands. He hadn’t moved past the synaptic adjustments to see the real value of the technology.
“We’re helping this man make better decisions,” I said.
Latimeria was stunned. “Without his consent!”
I grew visibly angry and faced Latimeria. “He’s a frickin’ violent criminal who raped his girlfriend and beats his stepchildren.” I glared at Latimeria. It takes a lot to get me steaming mad, but the quickest way is to bring up a person who harms other life forms. Human or otherwise. “He gave up his right to live in a civilized society once he laid a hand on them.” I held his gaze until Latimeria returned his to the live feeds. He knew what lines to cross and when to step back.
I looked back to the screens and saw that Pritchard was now standing, pointing and yelling at a smiling Swift.
Randi, her eyes smiling, looked at me expectantly.
I nodded to her and said, “You do the honors.”
Randi, liked an excited eight year old grinned and typed in a sequence of numbers, then sat back, a look of anticipation on her face.
We watched Pritchard point his finger at Swift. He was yelling but we couldn’t quite make out what hate was issuing forth from his mouth. Pritchard reached into his jacket, then froze as he noticed a blur of movement just to his left and above him. But the sensation he felt just now, a warm embrace of his frontal lobe, caused him to look away from the tiny drone hovering near his face, and back to the man who he had been yelling at. Or talking to. That was it. He was talking to this man standing next to him, but he couldn’t remember what they had been discussing. “Do I know you?” Pritchard asked.
“No, sir. I don’t believe so,” Swift said.
“Well, it’s nice meeting you.” Pritchard extended his hand. “Friends call me Tommy.”
“Mine call me Doc…” Swift said as he sat beside Pritchard.
“Holy shit.” Latimeria said. “You know what this means, right?”
I nodded, not wanting to focus on the problems we were creating for ourselves.
“We’re going to make more enemies than we already have,” Latimeria said.
I lost myself in the ethereal images of the brain processing data, literally watching someone think. The drama playing out in front of me brought me unexpectedly back to one of the more humiliating experiences of my young life. I was in fourth grade and had submitted a short story for English class. The instructor had made a point of singling me out to read a passage I had written to the class. “…lost in her thoughts…” he said to the class before laughing and theatrically shaking his head. He smiled sadly as he looked at me. “Who else’s would those thoughts belong to, Koi?” he asked. I could still hear the laughter ringing in my ears.
“Just wait till we introduce our AI judges,” Randi said, followed by a gasp from Latimeria.
The sound of her voice brought me back from being lost in someone else’s thoughts.
I smiled.
I nodded, not wanting to focus on the problems we were creating for ourselves.
“We’re going to make more enemies than we already have,” Latimeria said.
I lost myself in the ethereal images of the brain processing data, literally watching someone think. The drama playing out in front of me brought me unexpectedly back to one of the more humiliating experiences of my young life. I was in fourth grade and had submitted a short story for English class. The instructor had made a point of singling me out to read a passage I had written to the class. “…lost in her thoughts…” he said to the class before laughing and theatrically shaking his head. He smiled sadly as he looked at me. “Who else’s would those thoughts belong to, Koi?” he asked. I could still hear the laughter ringing in my ears.
“Just wait till we introduce our AI judges,” Randi said, followed by a gasp from Latimeria.
The sound of her voice brought me back from being lost in someone else’s thoughts.
I smiled.