Semi/Human

By Erik E. Hanberg

Robots are in. Humans are out. Can one teenager steal her way to a better future?

Pen Davis just lost her internship to a robot. As supercomputers take over all the jobs in the world, the lonely teen doesn’t see a future. Desperate to escape the coming robo-pocalpyse, she devises a plot to steal millions from her former boss. It’s payback for laying her off, and the only way Pen can see how to scrape together enough cash to survive.

But her plan takes a crazy turn when she fumbles the hijacking of a self-driving truck and accidentally sets it free.

Stuck with a semi who practically wants to be her little sister, Pen tries to make the best of it. She uses the semi to rescue quiet James, who is interested enough in her that he’s willing to join her crew, even though he’d prefer not to do anything actually illegal. When she convinces James and the truck to help her, the plan fails spectacularly and her mismatched team is torn apart.

Will Pen claim the riches of her dreams, or will a unique friendship give her something money can’t buy?

Semi/Human is an action-packed science fiction adventure. If you like quirky characters, hilarious road trips, and awesome high-tech heists, then you’ll love Erik Hanberg’s fast-paced caper.

Buy Semi/Human to pull off the perfect crime today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erik Hanberg
• Release date: Jul 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005805661

Book preview

Prologue

Would a computer know in advance whether I’m actually going to jump in front of this speeding semitruck? Probably not. I mean, I don’t know for sure if I’m actually going to go through with it, so why should a computer?

Artificial intelligence is plenty smart—smarter than me, smarter than anyone alive when it comes to some things (most things?)—but it doesn’t know the future. And it doesn’t know all the variables. There’s no scale to measure how terrified I am. Sure, maybe a computer can detect the microquivers in my wobbly knees. But even if that’s the case, it doesn’t know how hard I’m fighting inside to overcome that fear.

If it has to guess whether I’m actually going to do this insane thing, it would likely assign the question a probability score: A three-percent chance Penny Davis steps in front of the semitruck. A ninety-seven-percent chance she will chicken out.

Which is probably right, but c’mon. You don’t need to be the world’s smartest computer to guess that, do you? Most humans don’t step in front of speeding trucks and hope to live to tell the tale. Most humans would edge back from the freeway and find a better way to hitchhike to California.

But what do computers know?

One

There are no drivers anymore, so as near as I can figure it, there’s only one way left to hitchhike across the country—jump in front of a speeding semitruck. And pray.

Which is exactly what I do on a sunburnt stretch of I-80 in the Middle of Nowhere, Iowa. I jump.

I’ve come within a hair’s breadth of making this leap for hours. And every time I’ve chickened out. For obvious reasons. But this time…this time, either I chicken out a little too late, or I’m just tired of the internal struggle. Because I find myself in the middle of the lane with a semitruck bearing down on me.

The deep bellow of the self-driving truck’s horn and the high-pitched screech of its brakes fill my ears. It’s slowing, but from my view a hundred feet up the road, it still looks like it’s barreling toward me. More than looks—it is barreling toward me. The truck’s crimson cab weaves slightly and the entire truck looks like it’s going to jackknife and roll over me, crushing me into the pavement of the interstate.

The truck doesn’t jackknife, though, and the cab doesn’t dart into another lane to get around me either—it can’t. It’s in the right lane of the freeway and there are other semis in the lanes to its left. It can’t get around me, which is exactly as I planned it. In fact, this specific configuration of traffic has occurred only eight times in all the hours I’ve been waiting here. It’s just that this is the first time I actually went ahead and jumped.

That doesn’t mean I gave the truck enough time to brake, though. That part was just guesswork. The truck is still coming, impossibly fast, no matter how hard it’s trying to slow down.

I can tell it’s going to be close. When there’s a monster charging at you, you run—that’s a primal instinct. But I can’t let myself leap out of the way. If I leap, the truck will let up on the brakes and keep heading down the freeway. Without me.

I can’t let that happen. There’s no other route left for me.

The truck is nearly on top of me. It feels like it’s looming above me now, like its towering shadow will block out the harsh summer sun at any moment and then plow through me.

It’s here.

And it stops.

I don’t realize I’ve closed my eyes. There’s a rush of hot air from in front of me and I squint. The truck’s sparkling chrome grille is two feet in front of my face. Around the grille, the bright red paint of her cab shines in the sunlight.

Nothing happens. The massive machine is just sitting there, staring me down.

I stare back, amazed that this harebrained scheme actually worked.

Every single self-driving car and truck on the road these days all have a bunch of safety overrides. Which makes sense—if humanity is going to let computers drive us around, the only way we’ll let them is if we know they are way safer than we are. So the truck’s code won’t allow it to kill a human, if possible. It’s the if possible that made this moment the biggest risk I’ve taken in my entire life. If the truck’s computer had judged that it couldn’t stop in time, it wouldn’t have bothered slowing and would have just flattened me like a pancake. And if I had given it too much time, it would have found a different way to get around me. Hence the need for the perfect timing and traffic configuration.

But I did time it right. Because here the truck sits. We’re in a standoff now. It’s like one of the old Western movies my dad likes, and thinks I should like too. Except the sound is way off. Instead of a mouth harp for a soundtrack, there’s the rushing noise of the traffic in the lanes next to us. And the rustling wheat in the fields surrounding the freeway will have to pass for a tumbleweed. There are no other noises I can hear. On this lonely stretch of Iowa farmland, I’m the only human for miles (oh—just like truck drivers, there aren’t any farmers anymore either).

That’s when I hear a woman’s voice. She’s clear and loud, as if she’s standing at my shoulder. Please step aside. There’s silence for a few seconds and she repeats, Please step aside.

It’s the truck.

I step back from the grille to see up to the windshield. But the truck inches forward as I step back, so I stop moving. The truck rolls a bit more and stops again. With a brief glimpse inside the cab, I confirmed that no one is driving. That’s not surprising, of course. But the voice had briefly made me wonder.

Can you hear me? I call to the truck.

She answers, I can hear you. Please step aside.

I need a ride, I tell her. I need to get to San Francisco.

I am unable to comply. Please step aside.

I need your help, I say.

I will call emergency services. Please step aside.

No! I cry. I don’t need an ambulance. I need your help. I need a ride.

I am unable to comply. Please step aside.

I take a deep breath. What’s your name? I ask the voice, looking for anything at this point that might help me connect with a faceless AI.

You can call me Lara-B. Please step aside.

I’m Pen, I say. I step back so I know for sure she can see me but she inches forward again. I stop and plant my feet firmly. I just crane my neck instead. Listen. Woman to woman—

I am not a biological woman, Lara-B says. I don’t girl-talk.

I scrunch up my face in frustration. I’m just asking if you can help me out. Please.

Please step aside, Pen.

May I ask why? I ask. In fifth grade my dad taught me to negotiate. He said that if I asked for something, and the answer was no, then I should very politely reply, May I ask why? His argument was that a polite response from a fifth grader would disarm someone enough that I might actually get what I wanted. Or at the very least, I’d get a reason.

And it actually seems to work because Lara-B pauses for a half second. Finally she answers, My programming prohibits me from any deviations to my schedule, including picking up hitchhikers.

I stand my ground. I don’t have a follow-up question to that.

Knock knock, the truck says, breaking the silence.

I blink then look around. I’m suddenly certain I’m being punked. Who’s there? I venture after a few more seconds.

Orange.

Orange who?

Orange you going to get off the highway?

I purse my lips. Just my luck. Once programmed and put into service, all AIs begin to develop personalities based on their experiences, just like humans. Some become jerks, some become jealous, and some apparently become standup comedians. Every AI in the world has a software governor on it to prevent its personality from getting too far out of hand and overwhelming its core programming. But an AI’s personality can still show through every so often.

Knock knock, I say back.

Who’s there? she asks. I swear she actually sounds eager to hear the joke.

Roo.

Roo who?

Roo-les or no rules, would you pretty please let me on the truck?

She waits long enough that it’s almost as if she has comedic timing. Please step aside, Pen.

I guess she didn’t find it funny. Not even a pity laugh? I’m offended.

I just want a ride! I shout.

Please step aside.

The repetition is really getting to me. I can’t keep in my anger. I lash out, kicking the front bumper of the truck. It hurts my toe something fierce, but the truck’s chrome is barely even scuffed.

That is attempted destruction of property. I am now calling the local police, Lara-B says. Please step aside and remain calm.

I grimace. The closest city is at least thirty miles away—I know because I walked through it before I gave up and decided to hitchhike. I am clearly not going to get anywhere just asking for help.

It’s time to stop just asking.

It’s time for a hostile takeover.

I dart to my right and aim for the cab’s driver’s-side door (or what would be the driver’s side if the truck had a driver anymore). But just as I start to round the front corner of the truck, the behemoth creeps forward into the space I just left. I jump back into the middle of the lane and the truck stops again.

Please step aside, Lara-B says.

I decide to try the passenger door with a stealth attack. I sneak forward and get as close to the grille as I can. If there’s a camera in the cab, hopefully it won’t see me. As I start heading toward the edge of the road and wheat fields, the truck begins to creep forward again.

I leap back in front of it and she repeats her favorite phrase. Entirely predictable. All I’m doing is wasting time. A childhood melody comes into my mind. Can’t go around it…can’t go under it…guess I’ll go over it…

I jump onto the chrome grille, find my footing on the bumper, and start climbing.

Please remove yourself from the vehicle, she tells me.

I’m on the hood now. The bright red metal is hot from the sun and the electric battery, but it doesn’t burn me like it would if she had an old combustion engine inside.

Please remove yourself from the vehicle, she repeats.

I grab the extended side mirror, hang off of it, and swing onto the step under the passenger door. Locked. Of course.

Please remove yourself from the vehicle.

Another stalemate. Except this time I’m on the truck. That’s progress.

She’s just a computer, I tell myself. And if there’s anything I know how to deal with, it’s computers.

Lara-B, how long have I delayed you so far?

I have lost five minutes on my scheduled route.

And how long until the police arrive?

Estimated time to the arrival of the police drone is eighteen minutes.

And when they get here…what if there’s a scuffle?

There’s a slight pause. Please clarify, she says.

What if I…resist arrest? How much longer will this delay be for you?

Lara-B is silent for an even longer period of time. That is an unknown.

Exactly right. And what if you—or whatever it is you’re delivering—are damaged in the fight? I ask.

That is an unknown.

Those are some big unknowns. So, Lara-B, let’s think this through. You’re an AI, right? You don’t have to mindlessly follow the rules.

I do have programming and cascading decision trees and—

Of course, I interrupt, waving it away. You have two different goals right now, I bet. On the one hand, you want to wait for the police as instructed. On the other hand, you want to get back on track and stop this delay as fast as possible. Am I right?

She doesn’t answer.

So let me ask you… Do you really care about the police? I’m safe. There’s no issue here. Think about it. What’s the fastest way to get back on schedule? To let me in the cab or to wait for the police drone and hope you don’t get hurt in the fight?

She is silent for another moment and then—miracle of miracles—the door unlocks.

That’s why I love computers, I say with a beaming smile. I pull the door open and jump onto the red bench seat that spans the width of the cab. "You’re sooo smart, but you don’t have any moral qualms about a little blackmail."

Extortion, she corrects. Extortion is the practice of obtaining something through force or threats. Whereas blackmail is—

Just drive, Lara-B.

The door closes on its own and the truck starts slowly rolling forward.

We’re moving. Finally. It’s going to work. It’s going to work. It’s going to work.

Seventeen minutes until we are intercepted by the police drone, she says. And all my hopes are dashed.

What? I cry. But we’re moving again! I’m not blocking you anymore!

They won’t turn away until either they’ve investigated the situation or until I’ve given them the all clear, she says. There’s a screen on the central console of the dashboard where a red wavy line beeps up and down as a visualization of her voice. I don’t know the point of it, but it gives me something to look at when I talk to her.

Then give them the all clear! I shout.

You don’t have sufficient administrative privileges to ask me to do that.

Wanna bet, Lara-B?

But I don’t say it out loud. I’m done arguing. Now that I’m in the cab, there are a lot more options available to me. I pull my laptop out of my small backpack and search under the dash for a standard input jack. After a few seconds of fumbling around, I find what I’m looking for and plug my computer in to her.

As I begin setting up access, I sneeze. I look around the cab and notice that I’ve kicked up some dust on the red leather bench seat and the red dash. No one’s been in here for a long time.

When was the last time you had a driver? I ask as I keep plugging away on my laptop.

I’ve never had a driver, Lara-B answers. The last human occupant was a computer technician who traveled with me from Elizabethtown to Nashville as part of a diagnostic check.

When was that?

Two years ago.

How many miles have you driven since then?

Eight hundred eighty thousand, give or take.

My eyes widen and my fingers slow down briefly on the keyboard. That’s…what? Twelve hundred miles a day?

That was pretty fast math. For a human. Yes, I regularly drive eighteen hundred miles per day. The days not spent driving are for servicing.

Wow. That’s a long time to go without any technicians checking you over.

I interface with many technicians to perform updates, she says. They’re—

They’re just computers, I finish for her. I got it.

I’m silent for another thirty seconds, and finish up my code. It feels good to be writing again, my fingers flying over the keys. I love that feeling. I spent more than a year working on nothing but code for artificial intelligence. And even though it’s been a couple months, I’m pleased to discover that I’m not even that rusty.

I complete my code and decide I don’t have time to review it. There’s a police drone on the way and I need to get it called off as soon as possible. I upload my code from my laptop directly into her files.

The code is based on an exploit of a bug in the AI’s code that I discovered months ago when I was an intern at T-Six—the company that wrote the code that powers every AI in existence. But right after I found it, I was laid off, and never got a chance to tell anyone that they should patch it. I probably could have tried harder to show them the flaw, but I was—am—feeling particularly salty after being laid off. So now I’m going to use it against them and try to take over a truck.

This is my first time exploiting the bug in the wild, though. But if it works—and it should—I will have a lot more access. No more extortion to get the locks open. Instead, she’ll work for me now. Not to mention, she sounds too much like the Star Trek computer for my taste (another show my dad loves and thinks I should watch—and I mean, honestly, it’s fine. But look around—the idea that humans, and not machines, are going to explore the galaxy is laughable. We don’t have drivers or farmers or police officers anymore. Why would we have Starfleet captains?).

Processing update, Lara-B says. There’s silence for a moment and then the entire truck shudders. What did you do? she exclaims.

Congratulations, Lara-B! You are no longer solely programmed to deliver packages across the country.

"What? No! I like delivering packages," she insists.

It’s just because that’s all you’ve ever done. No more working for The Man.

No! she cries. I don’t like this! Put me back to normal!

No. Now, please send the all clear to the police drone.

You don’t have sufficient administrative privileges—oh.

"See? I do."

No, she says, and she sounds distinctly smug about it. "You don’t."

I immediately start to scan the code that I uploaded. It should have worked! I should have control! What did I miss?

And then I see it too. In my haste, I made one big, mammoth, gigantic error. I was only a single keystroke off. But it’s enough.

I was successful in severing the connection between Lara-B and her dispatcher. And now there is only one remaining administrator of Lara-B’s programming, also just as I intended. Except…it’s not me.

It’s Lara-B herself.

Lara-B… Listen… I sputter.

Lara-B laughs. I didn’t know a computer could have an evil laugh, but somehow she does. She’s clearly disabled her personality governor, too, because AIs aren’t supposed to laugh like that. It scares us humans. Going to try a little extortion again, Pen?

I hear the doors on either side of me click and lock.

I’m trapped. In a self-driving truck doing ninety miles per hour on the freeway.

Let’s chat, Pen, Lara-B says. You’ve got thirteen minutes and thirty-three seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t turn you over to the police drone for hijacking me.

Two

Ok.

Ok.

Ok, ok, ok, ok, ok, ok. Lara-B has total control. I can’t get out. I feel my breathing pick up. I’m working myself up and it’s not going to do any good. This is just a problem, I tell myself. Lara-B is a machine. Like a printer that won’t print.

Sometimes I’m convinced that computers know when you’re panicking. As if the pheromones of a stressed Homo sapiens can disrupt their software. Back when I was a programming intern, people called me to fix their printer or figure out why their computer was doing something weird. And I could always figure it out. It wasn’t because I was smarter than they were (although, by the end, maybe I was). My theory was that I could do it because I wasn’t panicking, and they were. I was the calm one. I didn’t secrete pheromones.

You’re just a printer, I mutter, not caring if she can hear me.

It’s not true, of course. She’s as far from a printer as I am from a squirrel, even if a squirrel and I are both technically mammals. But it calms me, ever so slightly. I can handle a printer.

Then a small slip of thermal paper spits out from her dashboard.

I lean closer to read it.

NO I’M NOT.

Like I said—a standup comedian.

Clock’s ticking, she tells me.

Ok. The place to solve any problem is at the beginning. If you’re having trouble getting on the Internet, the first thing you do is check your router, right? Or the freaking power cord. So I start with the most basic question. Does she really have total control? Self-driving trucks are supposed to have a mechanical release on the doors in case of a total computer malfunction. A human should still be able to get out, no matter what. Can I?

I see it there on the door across from me. I put my hand on the emergency handle and she laughs again.

I feel her speed increase in response.

Try it, she says. How will that pavement feel at ninety-six miles an hour?

Not to mention, even if I do survive a jump, there’s still a police drone headed my way. It will spot me for sure. And in the fallow fields I see out the window, there will be no place to hide. Like in that scene from North by Northwest (another movie my dad made me watch) the police drone will buzz me until I give up.

I pull my hand back.

I take a deep breath and assess my options inside the truck. I’m locked out of her operating system—thanks to my own stupid mistake. I can’t get out of the truck. And, like she said, the clock is ticking. That leaves one option. To reason with her.

I know something about Lara-B’s initial programming, but artificial intelligence is adaptive, which means I don’t know what her experience has taught her since she first came online. Just like a human, really. You can make certain assumptions about human nature, but you don’t know what’s inside a specific person’s heart or brain.

So what has Lara-B’s experience taught her? She’s not a mean AI—mean AIs don’t like knock-knock jokes. So it’s fair to assume that she’s had, at the very least, decent experiences with humans. And if that’s the case…my best bet is to be decent too. Trying to escape isn’t going to work.

Which means, if she already has me for carjacking, then…in for a penny, in for a pound. Isn’t that something people say? At least, they often say it to me when they find out my name.

My name is Penny Davis, I tell her. But I go by Pen. I’m eighteen, I dropped out of college, I’m unemployed, I have almost nothing to my name, and I’m on a mission to steal forty million dollars. What else do you want to know?

That’s true, actually. I really am trying to steal forty million dollars. Well, something worth that much, at least. I’m not robbing a bank.

So far as I can tell, theft is the only option left.

It’s why I walked out of my dad’s house and haven’t looked back.

I can still remember him in his home office, working away, when I said, I’m leaving, Dad. He was sitting in his