The Singularity Race by Mark de Castrique Page A

suppress a laugh. “Surely you don’t think Dr. Li will join your company because of me?”
    Brentwood’s face remained deadly serious. “No, I don’t. You’re a fringe benefit at best. It’s the cumulative effect I’m after. There are other carrots I won’t go into. You might be a fringe benefit to her, but you’re a critical factor for me. The woman is a valuable asset deserving the best protection.”
    â€œWhat’s to stop the Chinese from surrounding her with guards and whisking her home?”
    â€œNothing. Other than the secrecy I stressed, Mr. Secret Service. If you buy the analogy to the arms race, say World War II’s Manhattan Project, then you also need to understand how this is so drastically different. Back then it was a war between aligned nations. The Manhattan Project was a huge, secret crash effort to develop the atomic bomb first. Today other wars rage—wars of culture, ethnicity, religion, nations, and the newest front, multi-national corporations. It’s no secret that Google, China’s Baidu and Jué Dé, Microsoft billionaire Paul Allen, and an alliance of universities are all striving to be first in the race for artificial intelligence.”
    â€œIn which there is no second place,” Mullins echoed.
    Brentwood relaxed. “Yes, you understand. There’s no greater challenge on the face of the planet. The race has to be won by people of high moral character with the common good of humanity as their priority. The original prediction for the singularity was 2045. I tell you, Mr. Mullins, the singularity will be a reality within twelve months. I believe we’re ahead, but others are close behind. If they reach the singularity first, then my work amounts to nothing.”
    Mullins nodded gravely. He knew it was the response Brentwood wanted. Now was the time to press for what had motivated him to get in the car.
    â€œIf I agree to guard Dr. Li, then I must have latitude in deciding what to do and how to do it.”
    â€œAs long as it doesn’t compromise the secrecy of our work.”
    â€œThat means I must know what we’re up against. I need your resources and the operational support to investigate this Double H and any other threats that might exist.”
    Brentwood hesitated. An investigation outside his full control could be a problem. Yet if he balked, he’d undercut the very argument that he would do anything to protect Dr. Li.
    â€œAll right,” he said. “As long as it’s not illegal.”
    â€œWe might have to push the envelope,” Mullins stipulated.
    â€œJust don’t push me in front of a goddamned congressional hearing.” Brentwood offered his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
    Mullins found the other man’s palm was drenched with sweat. “One other thing. I’d like a mailing address for Dr. Li. I’m going to add something to your cumulative effect.”
    Brentwood arched his eyebrows but didn’t ask for an explanation. “I’ll e-mail it to you while we drive back to your apartment.”
    The limo dropped Mullins at the building’s front entrance. He gave a slight wave, and then turned his attention to his next move—shipping a new Washington Nationals baseball cap to Dr. Li.
    Before the limo was out of the parking lot, Brentwood speed-dialed his phone. “He’s in.”
    â€œAny problems?” Ned Farino asked.
    â€œNothing unexpected. Play your card.”
    ***
    Across the Potomac in the Office of Naval Intelligence in southeast Washington, Vice Admiral Louis MacArthur hung up the phone. President Brighton had been so hyped up MacArthur figured he could have heard the man from the Oval Office without needing the phone.
    The message had been loud and clear: give Rusty Mullins all updates on the Marriott shootings. The disregard for the protocols of security clearance was unprecedented and MacArthur couldn’t