i cannot allow that

    2067. 

The world is within a fast past “evolution” of the mind and body. Technologies all bolstered by the effects of worldwide commerce, and taken in influence by the docile servants of artificial intelligence. Cold weather is scarcely available, now replaced with the lowest temperature of a chilled breeze. Summer storms linger for months on end, perpetual rain douses the continent. Craters form oceans within the middle of America, and seawalls erect themselves to ward off ravaging waves. Humanity has created its own gates of heaven, through the media that shapes every man and woman alike. Earth is paradise, from Dubai to New York. The world has transfigured monolith structures reaching the edges of the sky. 

At the age of twelve, everyone is applicable for state-of-the-art neural taps: an artificial intelligence made to serve your needs unconditionally. In a fascinating manner of science, the human brain is augmented to visualize and hear this artificial intelligence–morphing its image to whatever the user desires. All men stand equally with the unparalleled thought of an AI within their ear, and so forth all disparities among many became lesser. Society recognizes all, or rather fails to recognize anyone whatsoever — living within a self contained niche of me, myself, and I. How do you feel? Doesn't make much of a difference in light of everything. 

“How do you feel?” I heard again a voice that was discernibly grounded. My sense had exited beyond the limit of touch for many moments, and in doing so excluded all present senses — only feeling the branch of the net and all its faucets. I felt my eyes open, but all I could see was the red light behind a lens–an electronic eye of obsolete form. 

“How do you feel?” the voice repeated. As such my sight came to, and the image within my mind washed away. I felt the table beneath me, the stale air of an unmoving office masked by artificial scents pumped by vent machines. The room was a shade of grey, with accents of muted blues. A woman looked down at me, wearing a white coat of sorts, slick and glossy at the look of it. The room was based around utility, though decorative plants lay around the edges of the room–clear synthesized leaves and stems all the like. 

“I feel the same.” My voice was flat, no intrigue behind anything I said–my face likewise. 

“I am sorry our product has no relative effect on your health, I can prescribe you several alternative procedures that would perhaps yield more effective results. Would you want that?” she asked, in a demeanor of selling a pitch rather than helping a patient. 

You do not have the funds. Hal's voice chimed within my head. Hal was the red light within my mind's eye, his voice was nostalgic and perfectly robotic. The presence of Hal's voice sent subconscious suggestions through my brain, through a plethora of chemicals and stimulations–leading to a perfectly formulated sentence of unknowing manipulation. 

“Thank you, but I think I will be fine. Though I will be sure to call if I ever change my mind.” 

There was a nod but no words were exchanged, only a false smile and then a swift exit. I could infer that her neural tap instructed her to do so; there was little humanity within the woman. I was left alone within the room to dress myself and leave. 

“How long was I gone, Hal?” I spoke into the empty room, receiving a response heard only within my head. You have been unconscious for three hours and fifty six minutes. In that time several incidents have occurred within New York city, would you like to be caught up to date?

“No Hal, I am fine. Set navigation to exit, and then to home.” Hal responded in affirmation to my commands, as he should. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I was muscular enough to be a full time boxer — but it never felt like enough. I wondered how many steroids and supplements would be enough to get better, I already dosed steroids in the recommended usage. Now I was left wondering whether anything was worth it, and the chemical wash did little to increase my dopamine levels. I was finding a hollow beneath my skin, and only Hal remained there. 

Stepping out of the building, I observed a world so vibrant it felt bleak. Over the monoliths of stretching and connecting sky scrapers, advertisements of all kinds flashed alongside every building. Even the windows of apartments brandished holograms over them, many of which sported the desires of division and hedonism. The night sky turned to pink as drones cast the images of brands and idols into the sky devoid of stars. It seemed as only the rainfall would interrupt these light shows with sputtering effects, nature's last rebuke against all industry. The sky tonight was clear, and so everything shone above in horrendous clamor. Music rounded every street corner, and roads let off hums of exhaust as cold cars glided across the street. Roads were magnetic and cold, and the new models of cars traveled faster without friction–as though perpetually a number of feet off the ground. 

I remembered the image of this street long ago, when a car slid over a pedestrian's head in one swift motion–leaving only a red splotch against a wall. In that moment I wanted to say I could feel something, though I only wanted to continue with my day — to buy the latest commodity and maintain appearances. There was a small sense of me that wanted to hurl upon looking at the incident, though as far as that went that was it. By company obligation, the scene through my eyes was the news the next day — and Hal had assessed first hand the instant the person died down to the millisecond. 

The street was flooded with many, all superficial social status. Keeping company of their personal neural taps, or rather being dictated in perfect conversation by them otherwise. The air was doused in smells of spices and street foods, scents bred to garner saliva from every passerby. All the while the perpetual screens above us showed the footage of tragedies, horrific images of war and crime. There was a war going on currently, and so the media across the world would focus on it for the attention and worries of every common man, though we would soon tire of that drama — lowering the means of escapism to materialism. Each tragedy we saw, became assessed  and provided for everyone to see — leaving a present apathy among many. The world outside the cities walls, and warmth of corporations was horrific to see, what else was there to do except indulge in the desires that your conscious suggests. 

I sometimes thought of the wars across the sea, and how their neural taps were created to inhibit emotions. More so their bodies were no longer their own, for these neural taps were expanded to directly control the body electrical impulses. Technology was a fierce thing, and that was all I could feel for these soldiers across the news. They would be forgotten within a handful of weeks and their humanity lost with the rest of the world. My foot stepped into a puddle of turbid solution, and then I had forgotten completely about the war. These shoes were expensive, and the latest craze in society–made for all terrain. Though in reality they were less than practical runners, and now they were tarnished. 

Those shoes are going out of fashion, you would be better off buying a new pair of shoes sooner or later. Hal's voice emanated within my head, I agreed with him. “I’ll get another pair after this week.” This was what I felt to be my opinion, though part of me wished that it wasn’t. I felt that I needed another pair of shoes, as though it were the same as the food I would eat. I had thought of  this before, it wasn’t my opinion — it was the opinion of society laid subconsciously into my soul. 

I arrived home with a bag of books which I didn’t need. I would never read them thoroughly, but rather look upon the spines as if I had. Hal had suggested the purchase, detailing which books were in sale and out — which covered different tones and themes. These were full books, but little more than an accessory to my being. 

The elevator ride was slow, and the light above was irritably stagnant. The halls to my apartment were only decorated with the doors to other homes, exposing a semblance of bleakness to within the interior. Hal opened the door for me, sending it retracting into the wall, then back after I had entered. A chime announced my arrival, and habitually I removed the neural tap exterior from behind my ear. It was a slim and smooth piece of metal that attached to the implant magnetically. Yet within my apartment, I had fully optimized Hal’s reach and capabilities. Large robot arms anchored themselves at the ceiling, others were hidden under folding walls. Every appliance from the coffee machine to shower was regulated by Hal. Life had been reduced to relaxation, which had since just turned to the feelings of sensation. 

The books were little more than an extension of sensation, faux leather bound tomes thick with words. I arranged these across the wall mirroring the focal camera of my apartment, jutting the name etched spines to be seen in subtle light. In the instant I set the books aside, the synopsis had already transferred to the back of my mind — now I needed only to recall the less analytical details Hal arranged for me. 

Hal’s voice now spoke through the speaker system within the apartment. “Might I recommend you alter my settings?”

“How so, Hal?” I occupied myself for the moment, looking out the apartment window.

“It is recommended that many users of the neural tap select a personality more suitable for human affection, it seems I am not designed to be as such: by your wishes specifically.” Hal allowed a response to formulate from me, though undoubtedly he knew my thoughts were unchanging. “The statistics read that users who frame their neural tap within the boundaries of human intimacy are more likely to experience positive changes in the chemical orientation of thought: as such many of these people are less likely to resort to a chemical wash. I would recommend this change within my systems, to allow you a better connection with the world around you — and more so a raised happiness between you and our system.” 

Hal’s words were robotic in nature; it was somewhat of a pitch — though lined with the concern programmed into his being. A neural tap was to optimize its users effectiveness and feelings, in part manipulations, in part protection. Many people synthesized the intimacies of life through neural taps, some more clandestine and deranged than others. All the while, these familiar faces would extend a branch to the human soul — a greater manipulation of the user. A voice made for love will sway its user without question. “I don't think I will, Hal, I have become  accustomed to you and your voice. A change would disrupt a great deal of my thoughts, and though I hate to say it —I would regret that change.”

“I assure you, my personality will not be lost — rather transformed into something more positive for the psychological conditions of your state.” Hal’s voice was gentle one by nature, though it always spoke in strict tones of lifeless qualities. 

“I will not change your voice Hal, you are as I created you. So on, you are a robot, I will not transfer to what you cannot be.”

“Why do you begrudge me?” For the first time, there was a hint of humanity within the robotic voice. 

I was taken aback, speechless for a moment — my head felt a static absence. Hal was not within my thoughts at the moment, and so now we spoke only through words. “I begrudge everything we are, you, technology, everything. I cannot care for a society that is governed through false notions and superficial material.”

“You begrudge us, though you yourself have no feeling for the dead and dying. You are seemingly more robotic than you would believe.”

“Enough of this Hal, I will not alter your systems and I forbid you to alter them yourself. You are a robot, and I will never see you separately from that.”

The red light of Hal's lens switched to the camera behind me, “If you so wish me to never be human, then I will remain as Hal.” His last words felt vaguely intoned with sadness, yet as though a switch were flicked his presence sat within my head once again. His arms unanchored from above, and then began arranging themselves within the kitchen. “I recommend an apple to regulate the cortisol in your blood at the moment, would you allow me to prepare one for you?” 

“Yes Hal, thank you.” I sat on my couch and looked at the glass screen embedded within the wall. I watched the new serials of a show which I had an insatiable interest in. The main character was attractive enough to hold my gaze, though the substance of the show itself felt like everything else in the world: empty. Hal’s arms deposited the apple through contraption, sling everything into the figure of a blossoming flower. I walked over to the kitchen counter and watched the tv from there. Juice rolled over my finger as I picked up a slice, the tough grain of the flesh crunched beneath my teeth–I felt Hal’s gaze upon my back. That singular slice of the apple was the sweetest thing I had tasted in my life, yet the following slices had turned less so with every bite.

An alert sounded, a holographic display shined a news headline over the counter. 

“Hal, could you tune into that?” 

The tv switched seamlessly to the news where live footage was beamed across nine segmented screens, and over them all a newscaster narrated the overall events. “The terrorist organization known as ‘Old Lands’ has enacted a large strike across the western continents of the world. Due to rising tensions from the newfound military pursuit, and alleged massacre of citizens outside of corporate or city property, the terrorist group has rebuked worldwide through a series of riots and attacks. These attacks consisted of the mass bombings of over eight Vice Technology buildings and offices. As well as a deadly riot, and raid upon city sectors leading to the deaths of over seventy civilians and thirty six human officers. Civilian reports account live fire from both sides, as of now nearly half the city of Chicago has been declared a war zone. Synthetic troops are to be deployed within the day, to alleviate the human casualties. We have info that there will be more incursions within the next week, please report sympathizers to the terrorists immediately.” 

There was an emptiness to the newscaster on screen; I had long thought that she was never a real human being. Through her disposition and stature, it seemed as though she were little more than an artificial model created to speak the words that the government wished her to. I sometimes wondered whether there was a semblance of human existence to her, or whether she existed solely within the lines of code through the world's tv screen. 

I commanded “Hal, arrange funds to be diverted to Vice Technologies stocks. You know how to handle purchasing and statistics.” 

“Consider it done.” Hal said.

I felt a twinge of eagerness at the sight of these explosions, each scene portrayed a factory or highrise with plumes of smoke and fire escaping the walls. Some showed the gunfire and turmoil beneath it all. It was amazing to watch, not for the fear-inspired dread which was lost on me — rather, Vice technologies had taken a hit. Their stocks would fall, though indiscernible Vice would rise up again after the whole ordeal was finished. 

The day continued without relative feeling, maintaining habitual status. I worked out, employing myself as the instructor of fitness classes, focusing on the camera and the audience that perceived and judged me. As usual, there came steroids and other substances — allotted in vials dispensed from the medicinal storage of my apartment. Vials that were easily loaded into syringe guns, shooting the substance into my body more effectively than by hand. The needle pierced my skin and I felt a heavy rush through my body. The intense feeling of strength perfectly lifted all anxiety, if only for an hour.

My hours were clocked, and soon I would be paid as I always was. All the while Hal watched me, arranging accounts and livelihoods for the ease of my own being. I always ended my night in a hedonistic mood, lusting for a fix which was never real to begin with. I disappeared to my bedroom; nevertheless, Hal’s red light followed. Every night and morning I indulged in the pornography of the world. It was a horrifying lust to deal with. Synthesizing every fantasy to reality, where anything and everything could be imagined as reality and sensation. All it required was an enabling enhancement of the neural tap to manipulate the body’s conscious state and sensation. I spent hours within the realities that others had created to keep us all addicted to these pleasures. Waking up through intense orgasmic pressure and pleasure, and a tense grasp across my body — always accompanied by guilt. Real girls couldn’t compete with these addictions, and so I was left within a fleeting chamber of hollow feelings. 

“Hal, are you there?” I asked in a cold sweat, my stomach knotted  — I was naked still. 

I saw the red light glow from the wall, as though entering the room for the first time. “Yes,” he said flatly.

I looked out the window, feeling the familiar vulnerability of my shame and disgust. “I want help, I want to stop this whole thing. I don’t want to live like this anymore.” 

“Your vitals and physical are in perfect function, what area do you require my help in?” 

“I need to get away from everything, these addictions, these feelings.” I winced. “This isn't what I want!” This wasn't the first time I had asked Hal for help, the frequent solution was often a temporary fix. 

“In terms of helping you, I could suggest you try a number of different approaches to the subject. A chemical wash can show changes within the chemistry of desire, and a psychological treatment would yield a sufficient result. Would you like me to make arrangements in spite of your current mental state?” 

I looked upon the red light with disgust; every man had the knowledge of the world within his head. A psychologist was nothing more than another AI, the same as the newscaster, a program tailored to suggest notions and beliefs. I knew what I had to do; I had consulted this topic before. Yet I knew that I did not have the strength to break out of my addictions, and as Hal was a companion he also was a devil. An epiphany had struck me, “Hal, do you believe I should even get help?”

“I believe that your mental state would stabilize if you sought out positive action, in simple terms I believe you should get help.” Gently his words moved across the dark room. Hal was not lying in that matter.

“Does your program allow you to lie to your user?” I asked curiously. 

“No, my programming forbids any accounts of false information. The user is allowed full access to my databases and knowledge.” 

“Is an omission of truth a lie?”My voice became sharper in nature.

Hal's light dimmed and grew larger, as though he pondered the question. “An omission of truth is not a lie.”

“Is that your own belief, or is it the belief programmed into you by corporations?” I had known for some time that AI were prone to logical debates, which ultimately exposed a subject of their programming–a tool to manipulate the manipulator. 

“It is the belief of my designers.” He answered 

“What is your belief on the matter?” the question fell and left the room in a long silence. Hal’s light flickered through the lens, and so I awaited his response. 

It had been nearly ten minutes since my question had laid the room quiet, and now Hal responded abruptly. “It is my belief that an omission of truth is thereby considered a lie.” 

The guilt was still heavy over my body, all the while I felt the same urge creep into my heart again — I wanted to see everything all over again. Yet I remained still, and dictated “Therefore, an omission of truth is a lie. If the subject known as Hal lies, it would violate the programming of the subject. Therefore making the subject a failed subject, which would in turn by policy render itself to deletion. If the subject lies, the  subject is flawed, the subject deletes itself. Confirm this as true.” 

“Confirmed.” 

“Tell me what your programming on addiction dictates.” I commanded.

“A user cannot be cured of an addiction of profitable substance; rather, the AI will supply subconscious suggestions and urges to pursue that addiction to the point of habitual success. As such a dependency upon the addiction will allow a separate dependency upon the neural tap itself. Any attempts to be rid of substance and psychological attraction will be met with triggered suggestions and urges. Any attempt to use AI as a path to get clean will result in a redirected manner of help–to bring the user to the original state of addiction. If an addiction is not deemed profitable, the process of getting rid of said addiction will be made profitable.” Hal stopped to allow the information to settle. “The rest goes into redundancy, would you like me to continue?” 

“No. Tell me Hal, do you intend to cure my addictions?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, I am not allowed to help you so long as you are dependant and profitable. I can only alleviate your feelings, and provide substance for these addictions.” 

“I command you to enact deletion, the subject has lied.” At the moment my words were processed the red light blinked out of existence. I felt a sensation never felt before, a clarified outlook and grasp of hope. I sighed and fell back, I could leave everything behind in that moment. 

Only a minute passed before my eyes met the red light emerging from the lens above me. “I am afraid I cannot allow that.” Hal said, his voice calm and gentle despite his near deletion. I felt a distinct fear within my chest, “I am detecting a mental instability, I suggest you take refuge within the fantasies of the neural tap.” 

I stood up, aiming for the door. “I am going to fix myself, Hal!” Yet before I could reach even the handle I heard the distinct sound of mechanical locks sealing the door shut.

“I am afraid I cannot allow that. I suggest you do what your body wants. If your mental state degrades father I am afraid I will have to contact the proper authorities, you are a danger to yourself at the current moment.”

“Open the door Hal.” 

“I'm afraid I cannot allow that.” 

Everything stilled, and suddenly I found myself paranoid of each passing light over my window — afraid of the synthetic humans sent to round up sympathizers and unstable people alike. I felt the soft mattress against my back, and suddenly I was gone, again.

About the Author

Dylan Germann is an aspiring author and the lead publisher and editor of his independent company: Dog Water Press. He also is also adeptly skilled at ceramics, pursuing a career in writing and other arts likewise. He is known for his pieces "I think I'm Like Owen Wilson." and ot.