2040: A Silicon Valley Satire, page 11
He was on the street, running down Chavez. Roused by the alarm, people were coming out of their houses, pointing at him. Someone was running close behind him.
“Hey! Hey!” said the man.
Ethan ran faster, but the man kept up.
“Aren’t you the KumbAI guy? Ethan Burnswagger?” yelled the man.
“What do you want?” said Ethan without looking back.
“I saw you at the checkpoint. I just want to interview you.”
“What?”
“I’m from the New York Times.”
“What’s the New York Times?”
“A newspaper.”
“Oh wow, they still make those?”
They were at the intersection with Van Ness. Ethan swerved right, and the reporter slammed into a lamppost. Up ahead, Ethan saw a truck speeding away. With a last rush of energy, he caught up with it and jumped onto the step bumper. Clinging to the roll-up door’s handle, he tried to turn it. Miracle! It opened. Ethan pushed the door up, slid inside and crumpled onto the floor.
“Whew!” he said out loud.
“Hey!” said a sleepy voice. “What’s going on?”
Ethan jumped to his feet and almost fell out of the truck. A small light came on, and he could make out a disheveled old man, leaning on his elbow, blinking awake.
“Er . . . I’m sorry—really sorry,” said Ethan. “Just hitching a quick ride, if that’s OK.”
“No, not OK. Get the hell out of my truck.”
“I will, I will, as soon as it stops.”
The man fumbled around and sat up with a gun in his hand. “Out. Now!”
“All right, all right.” Ethan glanced dubiously out of the semi-open door. “You know, if I hurt myself, you’re liable. Even if I’m trespassing.”
The man considered this.
“Screw it,” he said finally. “Stay right where you are, then. And close that damn door.”
“Can I sit?”
“OK. Don’t try anything funny, or I’ll shoot.”
Ethan carefully closed the door and sat down. He’s gonna kick me out at the first red light, he thought. No. Keep him talking.
“So you’re the owner of this truck?” he said.
“No, I’m the driver.”
“But you’re, er, not driving.”
“Of course not. The truck does that. I’m just the backup.”
“Shouldn’t you be in the cab?”
“Hah, why bother? If it’s gonna crash, it’s gonna crash.”
“Why are you here, then?”
“In case anything goes wrong, smartass.”
“What do you mean?”
“Say the truck runs someone over. It’s my fault for not intervening.”
“Aha.”
“This way the self-driving system is never at fault.”
“But now they have to pay you. Defeats the point, no?”
“Oh, they pay me far less than if I was actually driving the rig. And it’s worth it. If the AI gets blamed, they’d have to recall it, ground the fleet, what have you. If I get blamed— well, it’s just me,” he said, with an edge of bitterness.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Since they— since—”
Suddenly the man burst into tears. “It’s not right!” he sobbed. “It’s not fucking right! This used to be my truck!”
“I know how you feel,” Ethan said.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” growled the man, shoving the gun in Ethan’s face.
“Wait, wait,” said Ethan. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“I’m listening.”
“The Guards are trying to confiscate my . . . er . . . phone.”
“Why?”
“Something I said.”
“Fucking Guards. Can’t fucking stand them.”
“Me neither,” said Ethan cautiously.
“All they do is make normal people’s life hell.”
“Right, right.”
“They harass me every day of the week, and all the while let criminals run free. Hell, criminals run this country.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
“Pretty soon there’ll be no country.”
“Yeah, we have to stop that Raging Bull guy.”
“Goddamn redskin. Thinks he owns the place. Did you see the AK-47? How the fuck did they allow that in a presidential debate?”
“He demanded it.”
“What?”
“He said PresiBot is a prop, so he’s entitled to one as well. Besides, Wolf News liked it—good for the ratings.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It has no bullets, of course.”
“Yeah right. How do you know?”
“Oh, I, er, read it somewhere. Seriously, it’s public knowledge.”
“Not that that fucking robot is much better.”
“Well, at least it’s—”
“Fucking tool of the fat cats. And fucking dumb, too. Better at least have a backup driver.”
“Heuh . . . erm . . . that’s not a bad idea.”
“Elect that tin can, and anyone who still has a job can kiss it goodbye.”
“Well, not necessarily.”
“Huh?”
“There’s much harder jobs than president, actually. Like plumber, for example. Presidents can delegate everything. A plumber needs real—”
The trucker burst out laughing. “You’re a funny guy,” he said.
“PresiBot’s not that bad, you know,” insisted Ethan. “It’s just trying to maximize the expected utility of all Americans.”
“Come again?”
“You know, make everyone happy.”
“Ha ha. That’s what they all say.”
“But between the two, you’ll vote for PresiBot, right?”
“I guess,” said the trucker grudgingly. “Save the ol’ US of A, and all that. We made this country. Can’t let it fall back into the hands of the sav—”
Suddenly the truck screeched to a halt, sending them tumbling.
“What the fuck?!” yelled the trucker, jumping up.
“Get out of the truck,” said a voice through a bullhorn. “Hands in the air.”
“Shit,” said the trucker. “Roadblock. We’re screwed.”
He opened the tailgate and stepped out gingerly, hands high up.
“All right, all right,” he said. “No need to—ow!”
Ethan’s thoughts raced. Hide the panic button in the truck? He’d never see it again. Run away through the streets? They seemed to be surrounded. With a sinking feeling, he realized there was only one option left. He took a deep breath. Jumping out of the truck, he ducked, slid around the side, clambered into the cab, hit the override button and gunned the engine as the mob converged on him. The truck crashed through the barrier and roared down the street.
Ethan glanced at the rearview mirror, trying to see how far behind him the mob was.
“Whoa!”
Another mob had just emerged from a side street ahead, heading toward him. He swerved violently to avoid them. The truck flipped and slid to a halt, and he banged his head on the windshield and fell onto the driver-side window. Climbing to the passenger side, he clambered out of the cab and ran across the street and several blocks down a side street. He turned randomly into another street, then another. Without stopping, he glanced over his shoulder to see if the mob was still chasing him, and—Ouch! He tripped on something and fell flat on his face. What the—? A steel grating—he was face down on it, looking through it, at what seemed like a concrete ramp descending into darkness. A draft blew past his cheeks and into the opening. Oh, it’s another one of those vents. Clambering to his knees, he could see why he had tripped: the grating wasn’t properly closed, and one end protruded above the pavement. The roar of the mob was getting closer. Suddenly he had an idea. He pulled at the grating—it was heavy, but he could just about lift it—and he slid his body into the vent—hold, hold—an incongruous vision of Newald bench pressing flitted through his mind—and once he was all in he let go of the grating, which thumped back into place an inch from his nose. A succession of feet pounded on the grating—a white rubber sole landed right above is face and he stifled a cry—and—aargh! He was sliding down the vent—nothing to hold on to—his hands clutching in vain—falling faster—until he came to a stop on a level surface.
Lifting his head, he looked around. In front of him to each side, a row of servers stretched away to infinity, lights blinking, fans purring. Pale blue light shone down from above, a traffic jam of cables running along the ceiling. I’m dead, he thought for a moment. This is the afterlife—I’ve awoken from the simulation. Then the pain in the back of his skull brought him back to reality. I need to get out of here. He got back on his feet, put a foot on the ramp—
A sound in his ear. Faint, distant. Music? He turned around and tried to place it. It seemed to be coming from the right. He started walking in that direction, tentatively at first, then faster. On one side, a concrete wall with no end in sight—he seemed to be on the edge of the data center. On the other, more and more rows of servers. The music was louder now—someone singing. He recognized the melody: “Under the Boardwalk”. Several more rows of servers and he could make out the words:
Under the Flo-o-wer
Down by the servers, yeah
On a blanket tryin’a sleep some
Is where I’ll be
A faint smell now—cooking? Tortillas? The song continued:
Under the Flower
Out of the street
Under the Flower
Find me somethin’ to eat
Under the Flower
People working above
Under the Flower
We’re just tryin’a survive
Under the Flower, Flower
This must be the row it’s coming from, Ethan thought. He started to peek around the corner, but suddenly something sharp poked into his ribs from behind. “Don’t move,” said a voice.
“I’m not moving,” said Ethan. Christ, he thought. What now?
“Hands on your head.” Ethan obeyed, palms clammy. “Now walk.” Ethan started forward. “No, not that way. Left, between the servers.”
Ethan walked a few dozen yards down the server corridor, knife digging between his ribs. The singing was now loud and clear, and finally it ended in a burst of clapping. Up ahead, he could see a group of people squatting on the ground, talking and laughing, but there was something odd about them. Their bodies seemed to shimmer in and out of existence in the dim light, like a wavy mirage of distorted server racks. When he got closer he could see they wore some sort of reflective clothing. Suddenly they stopped talking and looked at him, and he could see the “R”s on their foreheads.
“Hey guys,” said the voice behind him. “Look what I found spying on us.”
“No way, José,” said one of the squatters, a muscular man with long black hair.
“Yes, way,” said José. “He was at the end of our row, peeking around a network cabinet.”
The other squatter, a bull-necked man with a shaved head and tank top, looked at him doubtfully.
“I swear, Leon.”
“I wasn’t spying on anyone,” Ethan said.
“What were you doing, then?” Leon said. “Do you live here?”
“Live here?” Ethan said. “What are you talking about?”
“Are you a Guard?”
“Do I look like a Guard?”
“Anyone can look like a Guard.”
“Nah, he’s too young,” said another squatter.
“Shut up, Mikey.”
Suddenly a burning smell, and smoke coming from the open door of a server cabinet.
“Mikey, you idiot,” said Leon. “Did you burn the tortillas?”
“No,” said Mikey, hurriedly collecting the sizzling tortillas from the tops of the servers, “but this rack does seem hotter than usual.”
Mikey passed the tortillas around, and they started to eat.
“So you’re not robots,” Ethan said.
The squatters burst into laughter.
“No,” said Leon, “but painting the ‘R’s on our foreheads confuses the surveillance system. Between that and the tin foil, we can pretty much do anything we want without getting caught.”
“Seriously? You think you can fool the system that easily?”
“What would you know, genius?”
“I work on state-of-the-art—”
“You think the surveillance tech down here is state-of-the-art?”
Ethan bit his lip, then said, “But the maintenance crews will get you.”
“They’re all robots, dummy. Also not state-of-the-art. Besides, we know how to hide from them.”
“On that subject, where is your tin foil, bozo?” said José, poking him with the knife. “You’re going to get us all caught, and then where will we live? Back on the street?”
“Sorry, I just—”
“Mikey, wrap this guy in tin foil before I whack him,” said Leon. “And paint an R on his forehead while you’re at it.”
Mikey went off to get the tin foil and paint. Ethan didn’t feel the knife on his back any more, but José was still behind him.
“Keep very, very still until you’re wrapped,” said Leon.
Ethan started to nod but then caught himself.
“Now,” said Leon. “How did you get in here?”
“I fell into a vent,” said Ethan.
“Really. How did that happen?”
“The grating was sticking up.”
Leon looked past Ethan at José. “José? Did you not lock the vent on your way down?”
“I— I—” stammered José.
“What a fucking idiot,” said Leon, getting up and drawing a machete from his back. “I’ve had it with you.”
“No! Wait! We need to deal with this guy first!”
Leon paused, twirling the machete. “OK, first things first.” He squatted down again, but continued playing with the machete. “So, mister, what shall we do with you?”
“Just let me go.”
“How do we know you won’t rat on us?”
“I won’t. I swear.”
“Easy to say. I think we’ll just have to keep you down here.”
“Bad idea. I’ll wind up giving you away.”
“Maybe we should just bump you off, then.”
“You wouldn’t do that, would you? You’re such nice people.”
“You gotta do what you gotta do.”
“Squatting is one thing. Premeditated murder is another.”
“Not murder, just an accident. You bit one of the cables and swallowed too much data.”
The others laughed. “Information overdose,” said one.
“Listen,” said Ethan, “it’s very important that I get out of here. I have some urgent things to do.”
“I remember when my life used to be like that. But now I’m free.”
“Just tie him up,” said another squatter.
“And let him enjoy his newfound freedom,” said José, and the others started laughing.
Mikey returned with the tin foil and paint, and proceeded to wrap Ethan and paint an “R” on his forehead.
“Anyone have some rope?” asked Leon.
The others shook their heads.
“Come on, someone must have some rope.”
“Here, use this Ethernet cable.”
Leon tied Ethan’s hands tight behind his back.
“Come on guys, there’s no need for this,” said Ethan.
“I need another one for his legs,” said Leon. “Anyone have another spare cable?”
No one volunteered any.
“Why don’t you use the same cable to tie him to a server rack?” said José. “Then he can’t get away.”
“Good idea,” said Leon, kicking Ethan’s legs out from under him and then dragging him on the floor until he had his back to a server rack. He tied one end of the cable to a rail and pulled tight. “Alrighty,” he said. “Let’s finish eating.”
They continued munching on their tortillas.
“So you just have your tortillas . . . plain?” asked Ethan.
“You think we’re rich, or something?” Leon said.
“If only we could eat electricity, we’d be all set,” said another squatter, a gaunt, youngish-looking woman. “Right, Gibbon?” she said to the ponytailed young man squatting next to her with his arm around her, one eye covered by a cheap plastic display.
“Huh?” he said, removing one of his earbuds.
“Too bad we can’t eat electricity.”
“I’d settle for ramen, like in my grad student days,” he said.
“You used to be a grad student?” said Ethan, astonished.
“Yeah. Psychology.”
“And?”
“I wrote a paper on VDD.”
“What’s that?”
“Victimhood delusion disorder. People who empathize so much with a minority they hallucinate they’re members of it.”
“That’s a real thing? They’re not just faking it to get ahead?”
“Oh, it’s very real. In fact, there’s an epidemic of it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish. Problem is, these days there are many people in positions of power with a serious case of VDD, and the whole concept is threatening to them.”
“You must be a real fan of Raging Bull.”
“Don’t get me started.”
“So what happened?”
“When I tried to publish the paper, all hell broke loose. I was kicked out of Berkeley and sentenced offline by the Guards. And then I was on the black list—I couldn’t rent an apartment, get a job, or even a train ticket. I was sleeping rough and . . . That was when I met Alice, who brought me down here. Thanks, Alice.”
“I love you, honey,” she said. “Maybe we can get some ramen on our next expedition to the surface.”
“I don’t like going to the surface anymore,” Gibbon said. “It’s too risky. Besides, it’s nice and cool down here.”
“Unless you catch a cold from the draft,” said a raspy female voice behind them.
