“Check out the view,” said Newald, doing bicep curls with the dumbbells.

  Ethan stepped to the window and immediately stepped back, overcome by vertigo. They seemed to float in midair, separate from the world. Far below, San Francisco was flat and small in the sun’s glare, traffic all but invisible. The Golden Gate Dam, where the bridge used to be, was like a discarded drinking straw they could have inadvertently stepped on. A long line of ships waited to make the nine-inch descent through the locks. Beyond it, the mirror-smooth sea from whose rise the bay was now protected stretched impassively to the horizon.

  “You know what’s best about working at Happinet?” asked Newald.

  Ethan shook his head.

  “You can see the world from here,” said Newald.

  “Ah,” said Ethan.

  “Look at the people down there,” said Newald.

  Ethan squinted. “I can’t make them out,” he said.

  “Exactly,” said Newald. “People are pixels. When you just go about your daily life, surrounded by them, you miss the picture for the pixels. But when you start to work at Happinet, you finally see the whole.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The neurosniffer. When I invented it, I thought it would be an unprecedented window into the individual’s emotional state. Think of it: one device, capable of reading—every moment—every molecule you release into the air, every pheromone, things you didn’t even know were there, everything. Back then it was a big clunky machine, so using it on one person at a time was all I could do.”

  He put down the dumbbells and started pedaling on a stationary bike.

  “But when we finally got it all down to a single chip and a single sensor you could pack into a cell phone, everything changed. One neurosniffer really is just one pixel, and what matters is the waves and troughs you can see moving through society, colliding, setting off bigger waves, without end. Bliss. Anger. Fear. Anger evoking fear. Husbands fighting with their wives when they get home from a football game their team lost. The impulse buying when the weather is nice. And then you can channel those currents. A push here, a nudge there, and a product that would be a failure turns into a runaway success. That’s the joy of Happinet.”

  He stopped pedaling.

  “Have you seen the control room? Here, let me show you.”

  He motioned them to the elevator, and they went down a floor, emerging into what looked like an indoor amphitheater with row after row of people intently focused on computer screens, and a continuous crackle of keystrokes and mouse clicks.

  “Welcome to the social traffic control tower of the world,” said Newald.

  Wow, thought Ethan. KumbAI will be this big one day.

  “Look,” said Newald, sitting down at a free workstation.

  Ethan and Arvind huddled around him.

  “Here’s the dashboard for some random dude in Indiana.”

  A name at the top: Nathan Cameron. A row of meters, rising and falling, each labeled with a different emotion. Under it, a row of buttons. Across the bottom, a variety of information on autoscroll.

  “Looks like he’s enjoying a nice beer at the Flathill Pub in the Bloomington Mall. He’s feeling pretty relaxed right now, but let’s push the fear button,” Newald said, clicking on it.

  After a few seconds the fear meter started rising.

  “Wow,” said Arvind. “How’d you do that?”

  “Neural Control—our system—chooses what to put in his feed to jack up the chosen emotion, moment by moment, from all the content available in the world.”

  But now the fear meter was falling and anger was rising, past the green bars and into the yellow, red, flashing— Suddenly all the bars dropped to zero.

  “What happened?”

  “Loss of signal,” said Newald a little sheepishly. “Looks like dude just smashed his phone. We probably, heh, overstimulated him a little bit there.”

  “How did that— How did fear turn into anger?”

  “Lots of ways that can happen. But here’s my point. Who gives a shit about this one dude? Let’s zoom out.”

  He pulled up another screen.

  “We can slice the population any way we want, and show a dashboard for the aggregate. Here, let’s do . . . everyone at this mall, male, 21 to 39.”

  He moved some sliders and clicked a few boxes.

  “And let’s say business at the Flathill Pub is kinda slow and they just sent us a winning bid for this demographic, so we want to make all those young men a little thirsty.”

  He scrolled left to reveal more meters and buttons and clicked one of them. Then he pulled up another screen, with the title “Flathill Pub, Bloomington, IN” at the top and several graphs.

  “And here’s the receipts from the Flathill, dollars by time. In thirty minutes or so we’ll see this sloping up, showing the early Christmas gift we just sent them. Neat, huh?”

  “But how many people will actually buy a beer or whatever because of what you did?” asked Arvind.

  “Only a fraction, but that’s plenty.”

  “What if it doesn’t work?”

  “Advertisers never lose money with us. If they share their revenue data and they didn’t make what they expected, we refund them the excess bid. They love it. That’s why we’ve grown so fast. Let’s go back upstairs.”

  They headed back to the elevators, noticing for the first time the wraparound screen above them showing a live satellite world map with time zones, clouds over the Pacific, America plunging into darkness.

  “Good evening, Happinerds,” said a voice from the PA. “Dinner is now served in the cafeteria.”

  Everyone in the control room continued to work.

  “And the Federal Technology Commission lets you do all this?” Ethan asked.

  “Why not?” Newald said. “It’s with the users’ full consent.”

  “Ah.”

  “You don’t believe me? There’s a sentence in paragraph 500 and something of the Terms of Service that specifically let us . . . emotionally interact with the user, I believe is the wording.”

  Ethan nodded dubiously.

  They emerged back in Newald’s office. Down below, a blanket of clouds was coming in from the ocean, gleaming in the evening light.

  Newald sighed. “It’s not easy, you know, being in charge of humanity. People depend on us for their happiness.”

  He started doing bench presses. “Did you know we’re the fastest-growing company in history?” he said in between pushes. “Nine years ago we didn’t even exist, and now we’re almost half the Nasdaq.” Push. “Once you have something like the neurosniffer, nothing can stand in your way.” Push. “Predicting and manipulating emotions is the linchpin of the world economy.”

  Newald got up, jumped on a treadmill, and jacked the incline up to 40 percent.

  “How many psychologists and, er, sociologists work at Happinet?” Arvind asked.

  “We have no use for those people,” Newald heaved. “Or their bullshit theories.” He paused for breath. “You can learn more from one day of Happinet data than from the entire history of social science.”

  “But how do you predict the effect of different interventions, then?”

  “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you, heh heh. But no, seriously, it’s nothing but a big Kalman filter. Like forecasting the weather inside your brain.”

  He stopped the treadmill.

  “Emotions are just numbers. They can be measured and tweaked like anything else.”

  The sun was fast approaching the horizon. The shadow of the Happinet Flower stretched across the bay to Oakland, the petals creeping up the hills like a giant alien spider, reaching for the darkness in the East until they merged with it.

  “But enough small talk,” said Newald. “Here’s why I wanted to meet.” He turned his hard eyes on Ethan. “Your campaign is on its last legs.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Your poll numbers are cratering. Any more and you’ll have to rename your AI CraterBot.”

  “Ha ha. And your point is?”

  “I want to save you.”

  “How?”

  “By putting Happinet to work for PresiBot.”

  “Go on.”

  “With our data and influence, and Neural Control on your side, PresiBot will be back in contention.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “There is no catch.”

  “Then why would you do this?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t think dissolving the United States is in Americans’ best interests. Or Happinet’s, for that matter. Also, it wouldn’t hurt to have a friend in the White House, for a change.”

  “Sounds great. Where do we start?”

  “By me acquiring you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Obviously, Happinet has to acquire KumbAI before we can do anything else.”

  “Why?”

  “Otherwise it’s an unacceptable risk for us. Would you do it if you were me?”

  “Why not? I’d say acquiring us is the bigger risk. People already think you have way too much power. When they find out you’ve bought PresiBot, not even Neural Control can save us from the tsunami that will follow.”

  “But I’m not buying PresiBot, I’m buying KumbAI, which as PresiBot well explained in yesterday’s debate, are two different things.”

  “Cut the crap.”

  “The acquisition would have to remain secret until after the election, of course.”

  “Ah. You think you can pull that off?”

  “You tell me. Can I trust you on this?”

  “Of course you can. But is all this even legal?”

  “It’ll be challenged, I’m sure. But Pierre de Mensonge, our general counsel, thinks we’ll prevail in the end, which is good enough for me. So let’s—”

  “But we haven’t agreed to be acquired.”

  “What choice do you have?”

  Ethan hesitated for a moment. “Just for kicks, how much would you pay?”

  “Three hundred and fifty million, half in stock.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Huh? You think you’re not worth that much?”

  “Of course not. We’re worth way more.”

  “Based on what?”

  “We have the most advanced AI technology in the world. Didn’t you hear? We’ve solved AI with the IntelliProp algorithm.”

  Newald burst out laughing. “Come on,” he said. “Save that for the media.”

  “Arvind, what do you say?”

  “Er . . . whether or not we’ve solved AI, we certainly have highly advanced algorithms that would be very useful to Happinet.”

  “So when did you make more progress in AI than my sixty thousand researchers?” said Newald. “In grad school? Or in the little over a year your startup has been around?”

  “IntelliProp is a major breakthrough, believe it or not,” said Arvind sniffily. “And we own it.”

  “OK, OK, I don’t deny you have some potentially valuable IP. But that’s already factored into the valuation.”

  “How come it’s so low, then?” said Ethan. “The acquihire value alone is more than you’re offering.”

  “How so?”

  “Every one of our guys is an AI genius. They deserve a lot more than thirty million per head.”

  Newald pulled up some info on his laptop. “I don’t think so. Anton Klubok’s PhD is in string theory. Wang Hunluan, Cody Kim and Mort Fuldork don’t even have PhDs. Apparently all they did was take an online data science class.”

  “Wow, you’re old school. Do you know how many GitHub stars Cody has? And Hunluan?”

  “Look, none of this really matters. Even if you have some great IP—big if—and a top-notch crew, your net value is still negative. I’m offering three fifty just to make you and your investors feel good.”

  Ethan could feel the anger rising within him, but he saw Arvind give him a worried look and managed to control himself.

  “Why is our net value negative?” he asked.

  Newald started practicing karate moves. “PresiBot is a huge liability,” he said. “You’re going to lose the election by a landslide, be a butt of ridicule, and probably go bust shortly after. See what I mean?”

  Ethan wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of anything.

  “On the other hand, with us you’ll win, PresiBot will be hailed as a stroke of genius, and every organization will want one like it. So you’re right—KumbAI is probably worth tens of billions, at least, but only if we buy you.”

  “So split those tens of billions with us! It’s only fair!”

  “That ain’t how it works, buddy.” Newald raised his foot as if for a karate kick. “You have two choices,” he said, heel pointed squarely at Ethan’s face. “I will acquihire you or I will destroy you. Which will it be?”

  “You’re wrong! You’re wrong! You need us to win, or the United States is kaput. And then what will you do? How would you like Raging Bull breathing down you neck?”

  “Oh, I have other ways of dealing with Raging Bull,” said Newald darkly, shadowboxing.

  “Meaning what?”

  “That’s above your pay grade, buddy.”

  “Fine. But there’s another problem. If you buy us for three fifty, we’re damaged goods. It’ll tell everyone that you don’t really believe in us, and then what?”

  “Oh, no problem there. We can set the nominal acquisition price in the billions, by making most of it contingent on performance targets you’ll never meet. No one reads the fine print. Besides, the media loves a good story of Happinet massively overpaying for some customer-free startup.”

  “I still think you should take a closer look at our technology before deciding on the offer,” said Arvind.

  “But we don’t have time.”

  “It needn’t take long.”

  Newald thought for a moment, absent-mindedly doing foot sweeps.

  “OK,” he said finally. “I’ll send Mike Granite over tomorrow morning.” Granite was Happinet’s CTO. “Does that work for you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. And now I have to scram. We can talk on the way to the roof.”

  He started walking to the elevator, and Ethan and Arvind followed him.

  “So, just out of curiosity, which division would we be in?” said Arvind while they waited for the elevator.

  “Politics is under Wrath, so that would seem to be the natural home for you,” said Newald.

  “But politics is just one application for us,” said Ethan. “A demo.”

  “OK, so what do you suggest?”

  “We should be our own division.”

  “Are you kidding me? All twelve of you?”

  “Thirteen,” said Arvind.

  “That’s just the start,” said Ethan. “We’ll be at least a few thousand by the time—”

  “I thought you had solved AI, making human labor unnecessary.”

  “Well, that’s not how it works. We need systems engineers, data wranglers, labelers—”

  “We’ve got ten million labelers in India alone. That enough for you?”

  “OK, fine. I still think AI is a crosscutting technology that—”

  “Now you’re telling me how to run Happinet?”

  “Fine. How about Pride, then?”

  “Why Pride?”

  “Well, since all the others flow from it. You know.”

  “Ah. I can certainly see how you personally would fit very well in there.”

  “Er . . . how about Sloth?” said Arvind. “It’s the most varied.”

  Newald thought for a moment.

  “Yeah,” he said finally. “It’s certainly where I throw all the odds and ends. Where is that elevator?”

  A few moments later, the elevator arrived and they got on.

  “Congressional posturings, I mean hearings, are so boring,” said Newald with a sigh.

  “What’s it like?” asked Arvind.

  “Talking to senators is easy, provided you remember two things. Number one, they know exactly zero about the tech industry, and have no interest in learning. The sole purpose of their questions is to preen for their constituents. Number two, they have the biggest fucking egos you’ve ever seen, because We the People, so you’d better be very humble.” He sighed. “The only real problem with hearings is that the whole fucking mediasphere is watching for something to pounce on.”

  They emerged onto the helipad, in between two of the Flower’s gigantic petals. Liam and an efficient-looking young woman were waiting by the helicopter.

  “Gentlemen, have a pleasant evening, and don’t expect me to raise the offer,” said Newald. “After Mike does his due diligence and we get back to you, we’ll need an answer in 24 hours.”

  Newald and Liam got into the helicopter and it took off into the night sky.

  “I’ll accompany you down,” said the woman.

  Ethan noticed a low roar behind them and turned around.

  “What is this?”

  “Oh, it’s the data center’s cooling system,” she said.

  “Way up here?”

  “Yeah, the Flower is like a giant chimney. A hundred-foot-wide fan at the bottom sucks the hot air from the data center, and it blows into the atmosphere up here, leaving the city below undisturbed.”

  “Wow,” said Arvind. “That fan must really be something.”

  “Yep. Happinet is a leader in green tech, and this building is our showcase.”

  LORDS OF THE VALLEY

  “So . . . what do you think?” said Arvind.

  They had stopped to grab something to eat at TechBurger, and were waiting for their meals to 3D-print.

  “What do I think of what?” said Ethan.

  “The offer.”

  “No way in hell we’re selling KumbAI for 350 million. It’s insulting. We’ve solved AI. Add a couple zeros, and it’s still short.”

  “We just need to persuade Newald of that.”

  “Or Granite, more to the point. You think you can do that?”

  “Ah . . . Well, to be honest . . . ”

  “What?”

  “You know. Maybe intelligence propagation does solve AI, but we don’t have the experimental proof yet.”

  “PresiBot is the proof.”

  Arvind shook his head. “Granite will see right through that.”

 

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