Collective Intelligence

Collective Intelligence

  Harry Marku

  Copyright 2015 by Mohylla

  Discover other titles by Harry Marku:

  Rare Earth

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  Table of Contents

  Year 0

  Prologue

  Parent Teacher Interview

  Group Think

  Year 1

  Courage

  Potential

  Year 5

  Honorable Mention

  Year 8

  The Methuselah Project

  Year 10

  Hezekiah’s Folly

  Hostilities

  Turmoil

  Year 11

  Severance

  Blind Side

  Railroad

  Year 12

  Concessions

  Big Brother

  Proposal

  Year 15

  Tragedy

  All Hands...

  Year 18

  ...On Deck

  ...Abandon Ship

  Year 21

  ...Set Sail

  Pragmatic

  Year 25

  2nd Stage Clinical Trials

  Late Bloomer

  Year 30

  3rd Stage Clinical Trials

  Robb

  Threats

  Cafe

  Fatigue

  Origins

  Interference

  Hemorrhage

  Cryo-Stasis

  Power Play

  Night Ride

  Emergence

  Accident

  Kick Start

  Aftermath

  Year 0

  Prologue

  “Mom, I'm done my homework. I'm going to play on the computer now,” Ryan told his mother.

  Ryan's mom, Eva, was busy in the kitchen preparing his supper—her evening lunch—during her brief, one hour respite from her job. She worked the swing shift as a nurse at the Bradford County Hospital, a job and shift that she'd chosen over others that paid better because the compensation she desired was proximity—the hospital was but a few miles from home. It allowed her to see her son awake every evening.

  “What are you playing?” It was the voice of a Mother.

  “Same thing as yesterday,” Ryan assured her with the oblique response of a teenager who yearned for privacy and independence.

  “The building game?” Eva pushed him gently.

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn't it ever get old?”

  “No. I'm on a new level now.”

  Eva shrugged. Like all electronic games she'd ever played the succession of levels was endless. In her youth it was challenging and exciting; as an adult she found it tedious.

  She shrugged again with acceptance. It was better that her son played at home on a computer than be involved in something worse—like loitering with the street thugs or getting stoned with other latchkey kids. It had been only a few months since he had withdrawn from a crowd that had her full disapproval.

  “It's not too violent?” She hoped.

  Ryan did not look away from the screen to answer, “Not at all Mom. None of the levels are.”

  The corners of Eva's lips curled down. It was not surprising that Ryan's attention wasn't diverted from the screen but it was curious that he was absorbed by a game more intellectual than macho.

  Ryan was intelligent, she knew, but since her divorce three years earlier his interest for either school work or vocational training had flagged. Privately, she worried that his lack of motivation was partly her fault, and the neglect he must have felt during long hours she worked outside the home. Darkly, she blamed the vacuum of disinterest entirely on his Father's near-complete absence since she'd won custody.

  Across the board Ryan's school grades were poor. On his most recent report card two classes were in failing status and those that were passing were precariously positioned a decimal or two above the margin.

  Not surprisingly, her expectations were reduced. Ryan was certain that he no longer wanted to attend college. She merely hoped he'd graduate on time.

  “What is it then?” She massaged her voice into a non-confrontational tone as she casually approached the doorway to his bedroom. She wanted a direct observation. Too often her motherly questioning led to senseless arguments.

  The scene was benign.

  Ryan was hunched over a miniature computer desk punching the worn keyboard on his obsolete laptop. He had propped the display against a pile of textbooks to keep it open because the screen hinges were cracked. A rainbow-edged blotch disfigured the bottom of the display. He had to scroll his pages above the scar to properly read them. Fortunately for her, he didn't seem to care.

  Eva was not so cavalier.

  She winced in sight of the decrepit electronics he had to use. Yet in their dilapidation there was comfort—the processor was far too deficient for him to conjure games she thought intensive or dangerous. Neither could he effectively peruse any one of the myriad websites of dubious morality.

  “This one has a 3D puzzle to fit,” Ryan answered, cheerfully oblivious to the shortcomings of his platform. “See, I'm trying to find a way to make these five pieces fit together into the most stable arrangement.”

  “The what?” Eva relaxed. It was certainly not a violent game.

  “The pieces. They have energy fields and you just can't fit them together the way you think they should. They wiggle and twist and crawl around and you have to spin and rotate and stretch them to make them behave better.”

  Behave better? Eva wondered. It was an odd expression he'd never before used. She wanted to delve deeper on the origin of his strange terminology but instead she asked, “How do you know when you do it right?” preferring to know exactly why this game had piqued his interest.

  “There's a score.”

  “That computer is not that powerful,” she challenged airily.

  “No, not this old piece of junk,” he said with some disgust. “I connect through the cloud to the university. A computer there does all the intensive stuff. This one's just a slave.”

  “Oh.” Eva began to worry again.

  “When I'm done they test my design,” Ryan offered. His tongue had loosened.

  “They?” Eva uttered and immediately bit her own. She was prodding and he might clam up.

  Ryan ignored her slip.

  “The University. I submit my model and their computer sends me back my score.”

  “That must take awhile,” Eva commiserated.

  “No, not at all. It usually only takes a few minutes,” Ryan answered, “unless a lot of people are playing. Then it could be several hours.”

  “Is that all?” The impersonal interaction of electronic communication was new to her and she felt oddly out of touch.

  “No”—Ryan misunderstood her question—“the University sends me the test file. It shows the model being hit by all sorts of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like laser beams and gamma rays and other stuff. It's pretty cool.”

  “Oh,” again Ryan's interest surprised Eva, “that sounds serious. Doesn't a”—she felt too ignorant to talk about gamma rays—“laser destroy things?”

  “At first my designs were all demolished,” Ryan admitted, “but that doesn't happen very much anymore. I've figured out some basic shapes that shield my assembly against radiation damage.”

  It was too much information for Eva. “TMI.” She smiled in retreat. “Come on and eat
with me. I've got to get back to work soon.”

  “Okay Mom, just a minute.”

  “Sure, but I'm going to have to start without you.” She sighed ever so slightly, knowing he probably wouldn't make it out of his room before she was done eating. “Don't stay up too late tonight playing.”

  Parent-Teacher Interview

  “In the past month Ryan has become a serious student of Chemistry.” Ryan's 11th Grade Science teacher, Mr. Farrell, surprised Eva with the admission.

  Her face showed her disbelief.

  “He's totally engaged.” Farrell beamed. “I can't begin to tell you how refreshing it is to see. What is responsible for his sudden shift?”

  “I didn't know he was,” Eva replied brusquely. Although Farrell's news was a breath of fresh air, she expected that the usual negative discourse would follow—a “professionally” controlled critique denouncing her son's substandard performance and an admonition of 'how he was capable of so much more.'

  Mr. Farrell's eyebrows arched in question. “His grades don't reflect his recent progress.”

  Eva unbent a fraction and smiled wistfully.

  “Not yet, but in time they will,” Mr. Farrell assured. Then his face hardened slightly. “Frankly, Ryan's behind in his Chemistry.”

  Here it comes, thought Eva. She steeled herself to ignore the barrage of criticism that she feared would come next—criticisms about Ryan's bad habits and attitude and its unsubtle indictment on her parenting.

  Mr. Farrell had no such intention. Instead he stuck to the uncomfortable facts.

  “Recently, Ryan has turned in several outstanding assignments. As they were all late he lost points”—he looked across the desk at Eva—“that he would otherwise have earned. If he continues this quality of work and hands it in on time, he will move up a letter grade by the end of the month.”

  Eva wanted to ask for forbearance but stopped short.

  “Still, it's a vast improvement.” Farrell continued. “Earlier this year his work was both substandard and tardy. He dug himself a pretty deep hole.”

  Eva fidgeted on her seat. Farrell's criticism was going too far.

  Mr. Farrell's rhetoric softened