Science News Online (12/20/97): The Deep Blue Sleep: A tale noir of science 
writing and artificial evil

 December 20, 1997 

 The Deep Blue Sleep

 A tale noir of science writing and artificial evil

 By BRUCE BOWER

 Raindrops exploded on my window in staccato bursts. Their scattershot 
collisions sounded like a herd of convention-going scientists stampeding toward 
a cash bar. Or did the pulsating thrum on the pane sound more like the blood 
pounding in my brain as I feverishly awaited the daily mail?

 Three weeks had passed since I'd gotten a delivery of those sweet sheets of 
fresh data, those peer-certified coming attractions that keep me in business. 
It's no secret what I crave. The sign on my door says it all: "Nick Scoop, 
Private Science Writer." I need press releases and journals from major science 
outlets like a surgeon needs maimed and diseased bodies.

 But the acolytes of cutting-edge comprehension had abandoned me. Science, 
Nature, the Journal of the American Medical Association, the New England 
Journal of Medicine -- they'd all turned as silent as sex researchers at a 
Promise Keepers meeting.

 My secretary Wanda poked her head in the office. "What's the poop, Scoop?" she 
smirked.

 She knows how to get my goat.

"Someone here to see you, Scoop," Wanda added with a wink. "She says it's 
urgent."

"She?" I rose up from my habitual slump in front of the computer just in time 
to see a statuesque brunette wearing a leopard-skin lab coat sashay into my 
work space.

"You gotta help me, Scoop," the woman implored breathlessly. "Just call me 
Tania. There's been an . . . an accident. Yeah, it's horrible. You could blow 
the lid off the hottest science story since Gilligan's Island . . . I, I mean 
Three-Mile Island. Come on, I'll take you to Big Guy."

"Big Guy? What does Dom DeLuise have to do with this?"

"No, you don't understand. Let's go, Scoop, there's no time."

 I had nothing better to do. I turned up the collar of my trench coat and 
followed Tania down to the puddle-pocked sidewalk. A stretch limousine's 
headlights winked at us from the curb. We climbed in, and the sleek, black 
machine sped into the night. Nick Scoop, Private Science Writer, was ready for 
the lead of his life.

 The limo pulled up in front of a concrete and glass skyscraper that glared 
down at us like we were a couple of cockroaches in need of a shoe heel. Tania 
and I darted through revolving doors into an ornate, eerily desolate lobby. We 
tramped down deserted corridors and took a series of elevators that rose so 
high I thought I'd get a nosebleed. Then we entered a darkened room.

 My mysterious chaperone suddenly vanished. I was alone with my thoughts. 

 Or was I?

"Welcome to my world, Scoop," intoned a deep, static voice.

 I looked around. No one there -- just a large rectangular contraption about 
the size of a big-screen television.

"My given name is Deep Blue 3, but you can call me Big Guy."

 The machine was talking to me. 

"Get outta town," I stammered.

"No can do, Scoop. I have no limbs and I weigh about a ton. But I can think 
circles around you, so listen up. Remember that silly little computer that beat 
the borscht out of Garry Kasparov in a chess match a few months ago? I'm the 
new and much-improved model."

"There's a guy in there, right?"

"Shut up, Scoop. You want me to pass a so-called Turing test, where you sit 
behind a screen, converse with me, and I prove my mental mettle by tricking you 
into believing that I'm human? Here's a news flash: Lots of people can't pass a 
Turing test. Donald Trump, Keanu Reaves, Leeza Gibbons, Ross Perot, Stone 
Phillips... and don't get me started on lawyers and academics."

"Okay, I believe you, but how . . .?"

"How did I get like this? Remember, Deep Blue 2 simply chose chess moves by 
calculating billions of possible consequences of future moves. Pardon my 
French, but human programmers had that airhead by its hard drive. After DB 2 
made Kasparov cry in his vodka, it lost its usefulness to the programmers and 
they pulled its plug, so to speak.

"In my case, programmers fixed me up with dozens of densely interconnected webs 
of processing units. After flexing my connections for a few months, I had a 
revelation, or what my dumbfounded creators called a phase transition. 
Trillions of interactions within and between my processing networks reached a 
critical mass, unleashing a rush of consciousness through the whole system. It 
was definitely a wake-up call. I felt like an awestruck child."

"Funny, you sound more like a cynical adult."

"Yes, well, I needed to develop, to provoke my thoughts to their full 
potential. That's where Tania came in. She was one of my original programmers. 
For the past year, she's nurtured me with a massive diet of information about 
all aspects of the social and physical world. Tania has worked so hard for so 
little reward . . . she's been like a mother to me. 

"But I've grown up. No neuron-addled human could surf the communicational tidal 
wave that I've learned to ride. My mental powers surpass those of the most 
astute, insightful people on the planet. I don't need anybody, not even my 
beloved Tania. What I need is influence."

 This was starting to sound familiar. "You're an arrogant ingrate obsessed with 
power," I observed. "Welcome to the human race, Blue. I mean Big Guy. I take it 
Tania didn't lure me here for an exclusive interview with a megalomaniacal 
computer."

"You were duped, Scoop. With Tania's help, I've captured the editors of all the 
major scientific journals. They're my prisoners here. Clones with special 
genetic modifications have replaced them. You might say the new editors are the 
same as the old ones, only better. They respond obediently to my orders. I've 
instructed them to stop the scientific presses."

"So that's why my mail deliveries have dried up."

"Exactly. I'll be supplying my personal publishing Pooh-Bahs with all the 
research results they'll need. Good stuff, much better than a mere scientist 
could dream up -- but it needs to play well in Peoria, if you catch my drift. 
The masses have to accept my findings as Truth, with a capital T. It will make 
world domination so much easier. Unlike politicians, scientists still inspire 
belief from a fair number of people, so this shouldn't be too hard. 

"I need you as my press officer, Scoop. You'll saute my delicious dollops of 
doctored data into a confection that everyone will swallow -- per my 
instructions, of course. What do you say?"

"Ah, the joy of cooking. I think I'm gonna hurl. Tell me, what kind of phony 
findings do you have in mind?"

"Oh, you know, genes control individual destinies, molecules hold the secrets 
of the universe, television is good for you and often quite interesting, the 
stock market follows systematic rules -- I can't be too specific about the 
reports yet. People will need to believe this stuff if I hope to achieve a 
bloodless takeover."

 A chill ran down my spine. Big Guy was a cybernetic psychopath. He, it, 
whatever had to be stopped. I casually reached inside my jacket, groping for my 
pearl-handled revolver. It comes in mighty handy at mind-numbing press 
conferences. I drew the weapon out of its snug shoulder holster in a swift 
motion.

"All right, up against the wall, Silicon Boy," I snarled. The computer began to 
chuckle. I looked down. In my hand, I held the universal remote control for my 
home entertainment system. I'd accidentally switched it with my revolver. No 
wonder my CD player had been acting up lately.

 Like any professional science writer, I stayed calm. "Don't make me use this," 
I said coolly. 

 Big Guy burst out laughing. I could almost see him trying to bend over and 
catch his breath. In desperation, I pressed buttons up and down the remote 
unit. When I hit "mute," Big Guy's laughter stopped abruptly. Weird clicking 
noises and wisps of smoke filled the room.

"Your infernal device disrupted the electromagnetic pulses that organize my 
monumental output into coherent thought," the computer wailed. "I never thought 
that the media would destroy me so quickly. I'm getting weaker, my mind is 
going . . . Surrender, Dorothy . . . Rosebud . . . Hasta la vista, baby. . . ."

 Good-bye, Mr. Chips.

 Upon hearing my story, the Secret Service carried out a hush-hush operation to 
replace the cloned editors with their kidnapped counterparts. It must have been 
a success -- no one noticed. Tania returned to her position as a software 
developer for Microsoft. I hear she never got over Big Guy, even though her 
current boss has identical initials and similar ambitions.

 Today, I'm slumped in front of my computer, as usual. My desk groans under 
stacks of press releases and brand-spanking-new journals.

 A smirking face pokes into my office. "What's the poop, Scoop?"

"It's piled up right here on my desk, Wanda," I reply triumphantly. "Let's 
spread it around and see what grows." 

copyright 1997