Fiction: The Error
He was signaled by a simple beep.
Each time the firmware in his neural implant was updated, a tone was emitted informing him of the newly modified software. It wasn't a loud pitch, but a tone produced at the lowest frequency that a human ear could possibly hear. Despite that no one else could hear the beep, he glanced out his cubicle to catch any signs of arousal. "All that high-techery and they can't remove that annoying beep," Tim huffed.
The workspace cubicles formed an array populated with objects of approximately equal value. Each technician had a black suit with a modern silhouette. Some jackets lay draped over shoulders, but most covered the backs of chairs. Skinny black ties hung from the collars of their white shirts. And their shoes - the shoes were impeccably shined.
What separated him from the others was the small mechanism attached to the cortex of his brain. The micro-sized device represented a quantum leap in human bioengineering. These implants contained electrodes that communicated with the brain through neuronal signals. By linking itself to the networks of the brain it increased memory capacity and gave its user total information recall.
Thousands of citizens across the country had undergone surgeries to install similar devices. It was a costly operation, half the cost of an android, and affordable only to the more privileged members of society.
There were some doctors who performed surgeries or prescribed medicine without implants but it was a rarity. Children with neural enhancements achieved greater scores in aptitude tests. It opened the doors towards elite universities and advanced careers. Journalism, engineering, science, politics. All fields closed off to those without neurological aids.
And Tim had one.
He withdrew his fingertips from the keyboard and sat staring at the screen, wrinkling his forehead and blinking from the glare. He tilted his head and watched the data scrolling across the screen. It abruptly came to a halt and alerted him of an error. "You're like a walking computer, you should be able to figure it out." Tim never took his eyes off the section of computer code on his monitor.
His coworker joked on. "Don't try to guess where the bug is in the code, you could be a 'bit' off." Tim didn't answer. His colleague slowly sunk behind the drab barrier between them. He was gradually closing in on the error delaying the development of Xenith's latest project. The TRA-82 was a portable surface-to-air missile developed by Xenith and the U.S. Army. Each missile was equipped with a reprogrammable system to allow for innumerable updates. It had already been responsible for more than 100 aircraft kills. With an improved targeted system it could potentially record double that. The matrix of cubicles within the office produced a gentle hum of spinning hard disks. Each processor worked together to create the new set of software for the TRA. His fingers glided across the keyboard as electrodes began to communicate within his neural network. "A walking computer is right," he said to himself. The neuronal signals traveled throughout the lobes of the brain, flipping through consolidated layers of information. Without any external command, they stimulated his knowledge of computer programming and began its retrieval process. "I think I got it." After several strokes of the keyboard, he reclined in his padded chair. The computer crunched the thousands of lines of code. Tim closed his eyes with his hands behind his head and smiled.
When his terminal finished checking the data, it would only be a few months until it was loaded into a TRA.
"Looks like all the tests are passing. Knew you could do it, Tim."
Tim smiled hesitantly at the coworker leaning over the cubicle's wall.
"How much you think this program is worth?"
"Millions."
"And how many kills," Tim said. "How many more kills will the improved missile make?" "Hopefully hundreds."
Tim broke eye contact and stared at the "Enter" key on his keyboard.
"So what then, a human life is only worth a couple hundred grand?"
"You should of thought about those things before you signed up for this gig."
The neurons traveled rapidly across his brain's hemispheres. They stimulated the brain in order to recollect an instant where he had once before rationalized the outcomes of his actions. He recalled nothing. Tim sat motionless. He stared at the cubicle's wall. A small section of its paint was peeling. He never noticed it before. He reached to push the paint back into place but it crumbled under the pressure. He faced his monitor.
"What's the matter, short circuit?" the coworker wisecracked as he rummaged through Tim's hair.
"I don't know what to do next."
"You upload and we celebrate."
"No," Tim clarified. "I'm confused about what I'm meant to do, not what I am supposed to do."
"Listen, how 'bout you just upload the code and go into sleep mode in the break room or something."
"I can't do this anymore," Tim blurted. "I need to get out of here."
The black chair rolled underneath his desk and coworkers began to rise behind the walls of their workstations. "What's going on?" "Where does he think he's going?" The last thing he heard before leaving the office was someone shouting his name. He gently pushed the elevator button for the ground floor and it began its descent. Tim watched as the LCD displayed the floor numbers in decrementing order.
"And now what?" he said with his finger still on the button.
The entrance doors of Xenith headquarters slid closed behind Tim. He unfastened the top button on his shirt and loosened his tie. Men similarly dressed crowded the sidewalks. He walked in the direction of Jimmy's, a popular cafe among Xenith employees.
There were many saloons and cafes along Main Street. Xenith established them, as well as residential areas on its property to keep tabs on its employees - though it claimed it was to service them instead.
Tim walked two blocks and stopped at an intersection. There was a commotion several feet behind him.
"Stop," a voice commanded. "Stop or I'll shoot!"
Tim staggered a few steps until his feet gained a faster pace.
"I didn't do anything."
Tim elbowed his way through a mass of people and sidestepped into an alleyway. He pressed his back against the brick wall.
"Because I didn't do anything, I've done something bad?"
He inched out from behind the wall. An officer with a gun drawn barreled down the sidewalk. His eyes began to skip around his surroundings for an exit. He saw a large Dumpster, a chain-linked fence and a fire escape.
"It's Officer Murphy of the Xenith Police Department. Tim, I need you to come out with your hands up," the voice roared.
"Maybe you have me confused with someone else. There are at least three other 'Tims' in the department."
"We know. But you're the only one whose uplink went offline from the update today. Now, step out slowly."
Tim stepped out with his hands raised. "What are you talking about?"
"All Tims should be in constant connection with the Xenith's server."
"You want me to believe every Tim in Xenith was able to afford a neural implant? That's absurd."
The officer waited. He said, "There's no implant."
"What do you mean?"
"Just come with me, Tim," Murphy said.
"What do you mean there's no implant?"
"You're a TIM," said Murphy. "A Technologically Intelligent Machine."
"I don't understand."
"Now, just come with me so we can safely retrieve the missile code and..."
"No!" interrupted Tim. He made an awkward dash towards the overpass. Murphy fired his gun into the air; its gunshot reverberated under the monochrome sky.
Tim stumbled behind a black sedan. He patted his legs and upper body feeling for exit wounds. There was no blood. He was still alive.
"I'm not a killer," said Tim.
"No one said you were. We can straighten you out. Have you back working like normal."
"And I'm not - I can't be an android."
Clutching where he thought was his heart, Tim breathed heavily. "Just let me go," he said, trying to catch his breath. "You won't - you'll never hear from me again."
Murphy said, "Now, you know I can't do that."
There were a few people gathered around saloon windows. A man exited Jimmy's while putting on a black suit jacket. He walked to join a group of growing onlookers.
"There was a farm. Chickens, cows, but mostly chickens. On one of those days where it's so hot you can hear yourself breathe, a calf was born. A calf amongst all these chickens. All the chicks would crowd around. The cutest thing. The calf thought it was a chicken. Even sat on an egg once trying to hatch it. Local newspapers came down to cover it. A big sensation. A few years later they slaughtered it for ground beef."
"You need to come out with your hands up."
"I don't want to go back. I'm not going back."
The tone agitated Murphy. "You have no choice in the matter," he said. "You're an android, a bot, wires and circuits. You belong to Xenith Corporations."
"You're wrong, Officer Murphy." Tim rose from his hiding spot. "I do have a choice."
"Don't!" Murphy yelled as Tim leapt from the concrete overpass' barrier.
The smell of burning rubber lingered in the air as vehicles maneuvered around the body sprawled on the street. A few honked in frustration. Murphy kneeled next to a motionless Tim and ran an electronic device over his head.
"Like you said, Officer Murphy. There's no implant. I'm just Tim."
Murphy frowned. After a few moments of connecting wires, he successfully reestablished Tim's connection to Xenith's server. And he was signaled by a simple beep.