The colonel ponders the question for a moment, pursing his lips. The name tag on his uniform says PETERSON. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Well, isn’t this a serious…problem? This hacker?”
After another moment of thought, the colonel nods. “Unicorp has gone to great lengths to ensure the security of its networks, but any report of a breach should be taken seriously.” He points at the telephone on my dad’s desk. “Tom, why don’t you call your tech department and have them check your systems?”
Dad reluctantly backs away from my wheelchair. He goes to his desk and picks up the phone, but he keeps his eyes on me the whole time, as if he’s afraid I’ll stop breathing any second. “I’m sorry, Adam,” he says. “I shouldn’t have left you alone for so long.”
Shaking his head, he dials the tech department’s number. Then he slumps in his chair and starts explaining the problem to Unicorp’s technicians.
I’m still angry at Dad for not listening to me, but I also feel sorry for him. I understand why he’s so anxious about my condition. My mom is no help—she’s been clinically depressed ever since I was diagnosed with Duchenne muscular dystrophy—so the whole burden is on Dad’s shoulders. And he’s probably fighting off depression himself. The problem is, I’m their only child. When Mom and Dad see my illness getting worse, it’s like the end of the world for them. I’m sure they’d both be a lot saner if they had another kid to think about.
After a couple of minutes Dad hangs up the phone. “All right, the technicians are on the case. They’ll go through our logs to see if any hackers have broken into the network.”
My breathing is back to normal now, or at least as normal as it gets. “How long will that take?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes. Don’t worry. Everything’s under control.” He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, which is something he does whenever he’s stressed. “In the meantime, say hello to Colonel Jack Peterson. He supervises my lab’s work with the Department of Defense.”
The colonel strides toward my wheelchair and holds out his right hand. “Pleased to meet you, Adam. Your father has told me a lot about you.”
I tilt my head so I can get a good look at the guy. He has small, close-set eyes underneath a shiny, domelike forehead. He’s smiling, but it looks forced, which makes me wonder what he’s doing here. I know that Dad doesn’t get along so well with the Army officials. He told me once that he puts up with them only because the Defense Department pays for Unicorp’s AI research. The Army would love to have an artificial-intelligence program that could run all its tanks and helicopters and artillery pieces.
I extend my right hand and shake Peterson’s. That much I can still do. But I don’t say anything. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.
Peterson’s smile becomes a little more strained. “Your dad says you’re a whiz at math and science. He says you took calculus classes in ninth grade and college-level physics in tenth. And your test scores were off the charts.”
“Yeah, that’s why I had to leave school. I was doing too well for a kid with muscular dystrophy. It was messing up their predictions.”
Dad frowns. “Adam, please. Be civil.” He gives the colonel an apologetic look. “He also has off-the-charts scores in sarcasm.”
“That’s all right. The boy has spirit. That’s a plus, in my opinion.” Peterson rests one hand on the back of my wheelchair and leans over me. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, Adam. It won’t take long, just a few minutes. Would that be all right?”
I’m confused. I assumed the colonel came here to talk business with my dad. “You want to talk to me?”
“Yes, indeed. When I heard that Tom brought you into the office today, I thought this would be a good opportunity to get to know you.”
I’m accustomed to all the typical reactions to my condition—sympathy, queasiness, condescension—but this is unusual. I glance at Dad, hoping for some kind of explanation, but his face is blank. He’s not even looking at me. He’s staring at the wall.
Colonel Peterson leans over a bit more, getting closer. “You’re obviously quite intelligent, Adam. How much do you know about the research being done in your father’s lab?”
Alarm bells start ringing in my head. The research Dad does for the Army is classified TS/NOFORN—Top Secret, No Foreign Nationals. Dad’s always careful not to reveal details about his projects, no matter how much I pester him. But now it sounds like Peterson is trying to find out if Dad is giving away any secrets.
“He doesn’t tell me much,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I know he’s trying to develop advanced artificial-intelligence programs. Programs that can answer questions and make logical decisions in the same way people do. But that’s all I know. He’s very tight-lipped.”
I glance at Dad again to see if I said the right thing. His face is still unreadable.
Colonel Peterson keeps his eyes on me. “Your father’s too modest. His research group has made tremendous progress.” He points at Dad’s server computers, neatly stacked in a steel rack against the wall. Next to the rack is a tank of super-cold liquid nitrogen, which Dad sprays on the circuits of his ultra-fast computers to keep them from overheating. “Tom realized that if we wanted to develop better software for artificial intelligence, we needed to design better hardware first. So his group introduced a whole new class of microcircuits, what we call ‘neuromorphic electronics.’ Basically, they’re circuits that imitate the nerve cells in the human brain.”
I nod and say, “Very interesting,” but the truth is, I’m not surprised. Although Dad doesn’t say much about his work, I’ve figured out a few things during my visits to his office. While I was playing with my virtual-reality programs, he was usually studying circuit diagrams. What does surprise me is how willing Peterson is to discuss the classified research. I’d like to see how far he’ll go.
“But how is that possible?” I ask. “Brain cells are completely different from electronic circuits.”
Peterson smiles again, and this time it looks less forced. “You’re right. The biggest difference is that brain cells are constantly rewiring themselves. When you remember something, you’re strengthening the connections between cells. But Tom discovered that we can do the same thing with electronics. His group designed circuits that change their wiring based on the amount of electrical current flowing through them. When a neuromorphic chip performs a calculation, the results are recorded in the chip’s wiring. There’s no need to store the data in a separate memory chip. And we can run the calculations at very high speeds by cooling the electronics with liquid nitrogen.”
This is fascinating. I’m a computer geek, just like my dad, so I love to hear about the latest, fastest hardware. I don’t know why Peterson is telling me all this, and the uncertainty is making me a bit nervous, but at the same time I don’t want him to stop. “And these new circuits are better suited for AI programs?”
“Yes, exactly. We’re doing reverse engineering, Adam. We’re studying the brain to see all the processes of human intelligence. And we’re putting those same processes into our machines.” The colonel leans still closer to me. “Your father’s research group is only one part of the effort. The Department of Defense has contracts with labs all over the country. For instance, the Nanotechnology Institute is developing new techniques for scanning the brain. They’ve designed microscopic probes that can be injected right into the skull. The probes spread through the brain tissue so we can observe all the connections between the nerve cells.”