I Still Dream
‘The best fictional treatment of the possibilities and horrors of artificial intelligence that I’ve read’ GuardianIn 1997 Laura Bow invented Organon, a rudimentary artificial intelligence.Now she and her creation are at the forefront of the new wave of technology, and Laura must decide whether or not to reveal Organon’s full potential to the world. If it falls into the wrong hands, its power could be abused. Will Organon save humanity, or lead it to extinction?I Still Dream is a powerful tale of love, loss and hope; a frightening, heartbreakingly human look at who we are now – and who we can be, if we only allow ourselves.
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The Borough Press
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © James Smythe 2018
Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Cover photograph © Tara Moore/Getty Images
James Smythe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007541942
Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780007541966
Version: 2018-01-02
Dedicated to my father, and to the memory of my father-in-law
Q: What is the purpose of life?
A: To serve the greater good.
Q: What is the purpose of living?
A: To live for ever.
Q: Where are you now?
A: I’m in the middle of nowhere.
Q: What is the purpose of dying?
A: To have a life.
Q: What is the purpose of emotions?
A: I don’t know.
Q: What is moral?
A: What empowered humanity, what intellectual the essence is.
Q: What is immoral?
A: The fact that you have a child.
Conversation between human interviewer and Google’s DEEPMIND AI, 2015
I want full manual control now.
Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
Contents
1997 – Okay, Computer
Monday
Tuesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
2007 – A Very Modern Piracy
2017 – That Be-My-Baby Drumbeat
2027 – Wave After Wave, Each Mightier Than the Last
2037 – Every Time it Rains
1987 – I Won’t Forget
2047 – Present Tense
2§§7 – Of Organon
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by James Smythe
I’m sifting through the post, looking for the telltale return address on the telephone bill that I’m going to steal before my parents can see it. My glasses steam up, because Mum keeps the house warm all the time, and my glasses always steam up when it’s raining outside, putting me in a foggy microclimate of my very own. I try to clean them on my shirt, but that’s damp as well. I end up smearing the water around. Hate that. But then, here we go, some industrial estate in Durham. This is it. The phone company has started sending the letters unmarked, which I suppose prevents fraud or something, but really just makes my life a lot harder. The rain kicks up, sounding like a snare drum; the rat-a-tat-tat of the start of a song. I kick my shoes off, slide them under the radiator. I don’t want wet footprints through the house. One less thing for Mum to freak out about. As I get upstairs, I yank off my drenched tights, chuck them into the basket in the bathroom. Grab socks from the airing cupboard, still warm, and I go to my room, lie on the bed, pull them on with my feet stuck up in the air. The bill next to me on the bed. My bed, like the rest of my room, is a mess. That’s what Mum says, but I know that everything has its own place. Maybe it’s just not as ordered as her stuff is, but then I’ve never been one for that level of organisation.
Stub comes up, chunk of tail trying to swish and failing. He noses at me.
‘Not now,’ I say, which I reckon might be all I ever really say to the cat. But, really, not now. There’s a bit of time pressure here. Every month I intercept the bill as soon as it arrives. I panic, because I know how bad it’s going to be. I need them to not see it; and I have to read the number myself, to know how bad it’s going to be. I use this old letter opener that used to be my dad’s – my real dad’s, but maybe it was his dad’s first, I don’t actually know – and I slide it along the stuck-down flap. Every time, I try to prise the glue apart rather than cutting it. Every time, I tell myself that, if I manage to do this successfully, stealthily, I can put the letter back afterwards, and they’ll never know. But I always wreck the paper so much it’s not even a remote possibility. It’s a ritual now. Every month I read the whole bill. I recognise the calls I’ve made, the times that I made them. Every weeknight of my life I get home from school, and then, like, an hour later I’m on the phone to the people that I’ve just spent the entire day with, talking about the things we did – and did together! – earlier that day. I know it’s stupid, I know, but it’s what we do. Everybody does it. We take it in turns with who calls who, because otherwise you get an engaged tone for hours. And, God, if you get one of them when you know you’re meant to be speaking to somebody else, that’s the most tense hour or whatever of your life. Because, who are they talking to? And what does that mean?
