Artificial Squared

By Loin Bowen

Mark Mattias is a brilliant software engineer with the veritable "steel trap" mind. He has developed a greatly advanced Artificial Intelligence. Suddenly he awakes in an unknown room, with a total lack of memory, and begins remembering things he didn't realize that he ever knew.

Christine Morrison is a relentless prime insurance investigator, assigned to find out, from Mark, who is embezzling million's from Mark's company. When they meet, Mark admits that he has forgotten everything, including who he is and the reason for the appointment. Christine has seen all types of insurance scams and won't let this one go. Instinct tells her she can find the culprit. Is Mark who he said he is? Is he that android? Is it his boss? She believes she can find the answer--she always does.

Little does she know how wrong she is.

Little does she know how wrong they BOTH are.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Loin Bowen
• Release date: Sep 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301697434

Loin Bowen

Retired, handicapped, and very happy. Married to my lovely Carol. Have three great daughters and six wonderful, but growing too fast, grandchildren. LOVE to write (create, develop, expound) for the fun of creation.

Book preview

Chapter 1

In the beginning – or not

His eyes open warily. Shaking his head, he grasps a sense of colors, hues resolving into images; familiar senses from slow wakening--but with an expanding ability to perceive, to feel, to be conscious of events, objects or patterns, yet not necessarily implying understanding them.

He mumbles, "In biological psychology, awareness comprises a human's or an animal's perception and cognitive reaction to a condition or event."

He shakes his head again. "What?"

Perhaps it is nothing more than the condition of slowly awakening --but no, greater, stronger impressions. He can feel the process of acquiring, interpreting, selecting, and organizing sensory information.

"It is a task far more complex than was imagined in past years, when it was proclaimed that building perceiving machines would take about a decade. But, needless to say, that is still very far from reality."

No, it isn't, he mumbles, smiling. He shakes his head again. "What?"

"The word perception comes from the Latin percepio --receiving, collecting, action of taking possession, apprehension with the mind or senses."

What the Hell? he mumbles.

"A declarative statement often meant to show confusion or dismay; a perceived location with both religious and secular connotations."

He sits up slowly, shaking his head harder, trying to clear these strange thoughts --like suddenly wakening from a deep troubled sleep, yet not. Rubbing away the crusts of closure, he stretches his eyes and the rest of his facial muscles. He swings his legs over the side of the, eh, soft platform, hesitates, as if waiting for permission, and stands. He doesn't feel dizzy or the effects of a hangover, however that feels, whatever that is. He feels as expected --good, awake, and cognizant.

Exception. Where am I? Something not expected.

He walks into a smaller room --yes, a bathroom-- and approaches the place where water is found, a sink, and gazes at the reflection in the shinny clear window, no, no, a mirror. Who is the person facing him? It is himself; a reflection of his persona created by. . ?

"Who am I?"

The reflection looks disturbed, puzzled, perplexed --but does not answer.

He shakes his head yet again, but no more cobwebs cloud his ability to see what is. He is youngish in age, probably thirty five or so. He is tall, of good physical development and appears to be of Caucasian ethnicity--a white male, yes, of solid build with dark hair. No distinguishing marks or obvious identifiers. Concise.

I know this person. I think. He certainly looks familiar; I suppose he should, it's me.

He walks out of the bathroom and looks carefully around the room. It is well appointed, something short of luxury, with a deep plush bed, flanked by double tiered end tables, each supporting tall lamps. He pushes on one, solid, but not bolted to the table top. Trusted clientele. A large framed seascape crowns the sleeping area.

Two large deeply padded captain's chairs surround a hexagonal, real-wood table. A triple dresser over which hangs another larger mirror and a, eh, device --yes, a television set, a TV-- hangs from a painted metal frame suspended from the opposite wall. A leather couch, also framed by flanking end tables, each with lamps, and a glass coffee table, finish the room's appointments.

A hotel room. And a fairly good one at that. But where? And why?

"Where am I" he mumbles.

Swinging back to the large table he notices the small Digipad computer. He walks over and opens the cover. The unit is on already, or perhaps it simply turns on when opened. It doesn't matter.

Who am I? he says, not quite sure why he says it out loud.

"Place hand fully on ID-Pad," said the computer.

He looks at the flat base on the back of the display monitor and sees a white hand outline etched into the dark material. He complies with the command. His hand fits perfectly and the outline glows around it.

"Confirmed, said the computer. You are Mark Mattias."

Tell me more, Mark says.

"You must be more specific in your inquiry," said the computer.

"Tell me more about Mark Mattias," he said.

"Mark Mattias is your identification. No other information regarding Mark Mattias is available, it answers immediately. And then, Do you want today's schedule for: Mark Mattias, June 19, 2021"

Mark. Mark Mattias, he says slowly. Nothing.

"How may I help you Mark?" said the computer.

Where am I? said Mark.

"You are in Chicago, Illinois, in the living area of your hotel room, located at the Embassy Suites Hotel, six hundred north State Street, suite 921 in the area known locally as The Loop. Do you require GPS coordinates?"

What? No. Why am I here? said Mark.

"In order of query--One: Unknown inquiry. Two: as displayed, you are at this location to fulfill an obligation to meet with Christine Morrison at the Field Museum, at twelve noon, today."

He scrunched his face. Who is Christine Morrison?

"No further information is available."

Why am I meeting her?

"You wish to report possible fraudulent activities concerning transactions initiated by Mr. Simon Cant, President of Cant Robotics Incorporated. This is the stated purpose of your appointment."

Where do I work?

"You are currently working in Chicago, Illinois."

Damn it! Where! At what company do I work?

"You are the Senior Vice President, Software Development, Sentient Topography, Cant Robotics Incorporated."

More.

"A sub-field lists your goal as Corrector."

Explain.

"No further information is available."

What? That makes no sense. Why isn't there more information? Isn't this my Digipad?

"In order of query--One: Unknown inquiry. Two: There is no additional information because no additional information is added. Three: Affirmative, this computer belongs to Mark Mattias. ATTENTION. ATTENTION. Mark, your appointment with Ms. Christine Morrison is in one hour. Are you prepared to meet this appointment?"

Mark stared at the computer. I will be. He shut the lid.

He'll try to find out more, later. Maybe this Christine Morrison can fill in some blanks. He returned to the bathroom, took a quick shower, shaved with hotel provided implements, and walked back to the closet. A single suit was hanging from the hooped rod, along with a light gray shirt and a dark maroon tie. Underclothes were sitting on the suitcase platform, on top of a small empty folding leather suitcase. Polished black shoes with a pair of dress socks were lying on the closet floor.

Apparently these are the only clothes I brought.

He put on the boxer shorts and pulled the shirt from the hanger. It was neatly pressed and showed no signs that it had been worn previously. The lightweight suit was in the same condition, as were the socks. Fully dressed, he went to the dresser where he found a gold Rolex Communicator watch, gold cufflinks, and a thin breast pocket billfold. He picked up the wallet and looked inside. It was completely empty except for one twenty and one ten dollar bill. No identification cards, business cards, drivers license, or credit cards. Zip.

He shook his head. Could I have been robbed? But why leave the very expensive watch, the links, and the billfold?

He slipped on the watch and put the useless billfold in his coat pocket. He looked in the dresser mirror noting that the clothes were a perfect fit. He looked professional and comfortable in the attire.

At least that part seems to work out, he mumbled. He put the Digipad in the brown leather case he found on a chair next to the table, and walked out of the room.

He found the doors, uh, the elevators, and pushed the down button. He entered as the doors opened, nodding and smiling at two young girls dressed for a warm day’s outing, tanks and shorts and sock-less shoes. They smiled back and tried to avoid staring at him. On reaching the lobby level, he smiled again and waved them ahead. He listened to their giggling and quick whispers as they peeked back at him as they headed for the side door. He crossed the large lobby, noticing the glances he received from other hotel guests, and some employees, until he exited the main lobby and stood at the hotel's entry way. He looked meaningfully at the red coated doorman.

Cab Mr. Mattias? said the doorman.

Mark thought for a moment. Yes, I would like a cab, he said, then turned quickly at the sudden commotion.

I got it! yelled a cabby, exiting his cab five cars back in the queue line.

Never mind you! He's mine! yelled the cabby in car two.

Hey dirt brains! Look at the line. He's mine! I'm on queue! yelled cab one.

Cabby three was slow to exit his vehicle. No you don't, I want that fare! He's mine!

Two cabs screeched to a halt in front of the cab line. The doorman ran out and shooed them away heatedly.

Other cab doors in the long line were opening, as the doorman raised his hands. "Gentlemen! Gentlemen! What are you doing? You know the rules! The queue line and destination are the only criteria. He turned toward Mark. I'm sorry Mr. Mattias; I don't know what's got into everyone. Where will you be going today, sir?"

Mark shook his head, looking at the crowd of cabbies, each looking at him, almost pleading that they might win. The Field Museum, he said.

Cab One! yelled the doorman, over the bickering. Local fare only. First in queue. He turned back to Mark. Again I apologize, Mr. Mattias. He opened the cab door.

Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out the ten dollar bill, handing it to the doorman, Thanks Farley, he said.

The other cabbies quieted down and mumbled to themselves as cabby number one waved the high cabbie salute, and edged into traffic.

Yes Sir, Mr. Mattias, The Field Museum it is. You just sit back and relax, and get comfortable. I'll have you there in no time, sir. Would you like some nice music on the radio, or maybe somethin' to drink? I got water or coffee here, and a clean paper cup, if you want.

Mark stared at the strangely acting cabby. What's going on? he said.

Sir? said the cabby.

Why are you and all the other cab drivers acting this way?

The cabby hesitated. What way sir?

Is business bad? You all were fighting for me like fares were rare this morning.

The cabby was quiet for a moment. Uh, I'm sorry sir. I ain't sure whatcha mean. It was my queue. That's how we do it here in Chicago. You are my fare cause I'm one in the queue. That's all. But, there weren't no fight, sir.

You don't remember the other cab drivers yelling, saying they wanted the fare?

Eh, no sir. The doorman just opened my door and let you in, sir. I'm not sure where you're goin' with this, sir.

Do you know the doorman's name?

Yeah, I think it's Farnsworth, or Charley. Something. I'm fraid I'm not sure sir. I don't queue there that much. What's going on sir?

Never mind, it's not important, said Mark. He looked out the clean rear windows but did not notice any of the passing scenery.

Suddenly, the cab stopped gently and the cabby said, Here you go, sir. That's fourteen fifty, sir.

Mark handed him the twenty. Keep it, he said, as he climbed out.

Yes sir. Thank you for letting me serve yous today. Another passenger entered the open door as Mark exited, and the cab sped off.

Mark looked up at the long stairway leading up to the Field Museum, shook his head, and started walking.

Christine

Christine Morrison sat in the main coffee shop at the Field Museum. She glanced at the clock on the monitor of her Digipad and then at the entry door of the shop. It appears that Mr. Mattias will either arrive fashionably on time or will be late. She flipped the monitor to Reflecto and checked her appearance in the mirror. Passing inspection, she closed the mirror program and pulled up her schedule.

Christine has been a lead investigator for Tarmac Insurance for five of the last seven years. Although not her career choice when earning her journalism degree at Northwestern University in Evanston Illinois, ten years back, she found the variety and outright fun of investigating fraud claims both intellectually challenging and immensely satisfying, both in clearing the innocent, and in catching the bad guys. The money and independence were a plus as well.

She approached each case as a mystery to be solved, often marveling at the ingenuity and sheer audacity of people in search of desperate, or sometimes just badly wanted easy money. She has seen about every trick in the book, she believes, yet each case usually offers some new insight, device, con job, or just simple strategy to find easy solutions to real or imagined problems. Of course, she only gets the tough ones to work on.

As the hour narrowed toward Twelve O'clock, she checked her appointment page again. Still there: Mark Mattias, Field Museum, 12:00, discovered potential insurance fraud, potential Millions--Major customer. As of this moment, that's all she knew of the appointment. It was the practice of Tarmac Insurance to assign cases, without preamble to an investigator, and to discourage any direct contact with the company personnel or files. All research had to be done outside of company facilities, with whatever resources the investigator could garner. The case would be resolved without prejudice. While the method was daunting at first, Christine's people skills and love of puzzles aided in her mastery of the challenge, and she quickly rose in rank. She loved her job.

A quick search of some local databases revealed nothing about her specific Mark Mattias. She sat back, sipped her coffee, and waited with strained patients.

The entry to the Field Museum was very spacious and very crowded. The top of the tourist season bode well for this particular museum, faring better than most, thanks to the innovative display's and subject selections. Mark smiled as he walked past The Real Pirates & Old One's Too exhibit, then past Chocolate is STILL King with its very crowded entry line, and headed down the first set of stairs. He walked automatically to the left, knowing his destination and direction. He just didn't know how he knew.

He entered the large coffee shop and looked over the sparse crowd until he saw her. She looked up and watched him as he started walking in her direction, standing up as he approached.

She looked stunning in a light blue belted sweater and skirt, wearing one of the most captivating smiles, both on her lips and in her deep green eyes, that Mark could recall seeing, although he couldn't actually recall ever seeing another one.

He stopped. Ms. Morrison? He extended his hand and they held grips for a fraction beyond protocol.

I would hope so, she said, in a pleasant voice, smiling at the attractive, well dressed tall man standing by her table, which already offered two cups of coffee and an empty chair. We seem to be the only people in Chicago not dressed for a ride on the Landing Ferris Wheel. Call me Chris.

Mark, Mark Mattias, he said taking the empty chair as they both sat down.

Interesting, she said. What kind of name is 'Mattias'?

Smiling boyishly, he said, Beats me.

She looked at him and cocked her head. You don't know your own heritage? she said.

He laughed, appreciating the easy tone of conversation. That's the least of it, Chris.

She studied him for a moment. He became comfortable quite easily. A positive sign. OK, I give. What does that mean?

He shook his head and smiled sheepishly. Pretty much like it sounds. I'm here to meet Christine Morrison, though I haven't the faintest idea who she is; I'm here to discuss my boss's improprieties, though I haven't the faintest what that means; and I am sitting here without knowing the least hint about who I am and what I'm doing here. Does that salve your consternation?

Her eyes widened in what appeared to be an unfamiliar showing of disbelief. She cocked her head slightly. Are you perhaps a bit of a tease, Mark?

I wish I was, actually, he said with a shrug. But, I'm completely serious, Chris. I woke up this morning in a daze, almost as if for the first time, without memory of any kind, no suitcase ID, no identifying documents, and with only a sparsely loaded laptop to guide me to this appointment. It took me some time before I even recognized the name for simple things, like a mirror, or a bed. But that part seems to be getting better now. Still, no clue on me or thou.

She shook her head, aghast. Why did you come to meet me when you obviously had more relevant concerns to deal with? Can't you just call your office or your home and get some answers?

Mark shook his head. It sounds rather obvious, put that way. But, the idea simply didn't occur to me. I could have checked at the desk also. Everyone seemed to know me, like I was a rock star at the least. Even the cabby's were fighting to see who got to haul me here.

She looked at him in a curious way. You don't look like a rock star. Nor do you look like any famous person I'm aware of. Unless you're a famous local, like a sports figure. I certainly don't know all of those. What about your ID's, credit cards and things?

No got, he said, apologetically. All I own is an empty billfold, a rather nice one though, a very expensive Rolex Comm-Watch, cufflinks, and what I'm wearing.

Nice suit, said Chris, feeling perplexed, something she definitely didn't like to feel.

He was pensive for a moment. All right, let's try something. He turned toward the counter. May I have some more coffee please? he said in a raised voice.

Table legs scraped and swinging doors banged as several people came quickly to the table.

How would you like that coffee? said an older gentleman who spilled his paper all over the floor getting to the front of the line.

I got it! yelled a table bunny wearing a pink apron. I'll get your coffee for you.

Mine! said the Cashier as she abandoned her open drawer to offer her help.

Others were crowding in to try to help him.

Never mind, he said loudly, to cover the din. I'll just get it myself. The disappointed group slumped back to where ever they had come from.

Christine could not prevent her mouth from staying open until the crowd finally disbursed; she closed it slowly, staring at Mark. What just happened? she said. "And, how did you know it would happen?"

To the first question, I don't know. To the second question, I don't know. I kind of knew it would go like that, but I don't know why. Notice they're ignoring me now, as if it never happened. It did though; you saw it, didn't you?

Christine nodded her head slowly, looking around at the people sitting at the tables and