Submitted for the October 2023 prompt: Machine in the Ghost

“I just want my life back. I want to live while I’m living, and die when I’m dead. Is that too much to ask?”

 

“Mmm, I suppose not,” the journalist mumbled while staring at her tablet. “Are you sure you want to do this interview?”

 

“I’m sure,” I said. “People need to have the option to be themselves. You’re one of the few writers I trust with my story, Barb.”

 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Steve. I’m only collecting source material for a podcast that I may or may not produce.

I see you’re on the docket for the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals on March 23, 2073. Steven Masterbone v. Second Chances, Inc.”

 

“Yep. If we lose the appeal, I’ll never be able to tell the truth about this atrocity I created.”

 

Barbara tapped her device a few times and said, “Okay, we are recording. Let’s start with some background. You and I have known each other since school, but I’d like to get it in your own words. Tell us about yourself, Steve.”

 

“My name is Steven Masterbone. I am the co-founder and CEO of a successful tech company called Second Chances. We train and lease personal personae for the rich and famous.”

 

“Was that always your plan for the company?”

 

“Not at all. I wrote the first business plan back in the mid ’20s after my wife and I lost our son. I wanted to do something to help people like us.”

 

“Help in what way?” she prompted.

 

“Help them deal with the loss. By training an ANN model to imitate lost loved ones, we were able to offer the opportunity for people to reach closure and have conversations they couldn’t otherwise have had.”

 

“ANN means?”

 

“Artificial Neural Network.”

 

“I see. And did it work?”

 

“The product worked. There was a robust demand for new online personae. Most people leased them for a month or two, sometimes longer. Almost nobody renewed them beyond twelve months, though. People lost interest after a while and allowed the personae to… lapse.

 

“Although the product was successful, the business model was not. We just couldn’t make the numbers work. High initial outlays to build a model, then ongoing bandwidth, compute services, and digital storage costs. Our profit margins were razor thin, so the VCs started making noise about shutting us down.”

 

In response to Barbara’s quizzical expression, I spelled out the acronym. “Venture Capitalists.”

 

“Anyway, we were trying to close our Series B round of financing and having trouble finding investors who were willing to write big enough checks. My co-founder had an idea to pivot the company by selling the same product to a different, more lucrative market.”

 

Barbara continued to move the story along by asking, “Is that when you came up with Perpetual Persona?”

 

“Catchy name, isn’t it? We pitched the idea to our lead investor, who was also a member of our board, so I knew him well. I can’t reveal who it was, but you can probably figure it out. He was in his mid-70s at the time and had confided in me that he’d really like to retire and enjoy his remaining years. The trouble was, he had built his investment fund around his own personal reputation; it bore his name, in fact. So his limited partners wouldn't allow him to step back. It would have destroyed the firm.

 

“Given our experience, it was easy enough to train a model to imitate him — to write like him, speak like him, attend board meetings, even look like him in vids. The model was so good, it wasn’t really an imitation anymore. It was him, for all practical purposes.”

 

“Let me guess,” said Barbara. “This unnamed VC wrote you a big check, and you replaced him with one of your Perps. He’s probably living a life of leisure on his own island?”

 

“Perp is an unfortunate nickname, Barb, and I’m contractually forbidden to confirm or deny your conjecture. But I can say, the new product took off like crazy. Suddenly, every figurehead CEO, trusted podcaster, famous entertainer, and aging politician wanted to lease a Perpetual Persona from us. And they were not short-term contracts; they were perpetual, auto-renew leases paid for by corporations, talent agencies, and political parties with deep pockets.”

 

“And that’s how you became rich and famous, as the CEO of one of the world's largest tech companies.”

 

“Yep. I began speaking at conferences, doing TED talks, and publishing a corporate podcast. I may not be as famous as, say, Steve Jobs, but pretty close.”

 

Barbara’s journalistic instincts saw an opportunity for a gotcha moment and she asked, “Are you a Perp now, Steve?”

 

“You’ll have to ask my company that question. They own my public image. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t publicly say anything they’d disagree with. Remember that press release I did last year, condemning the war?”

 

“Yes, but you retracted it yourself the next day.”

 

“Sure I did,” I replied sarcastically.

 

Genuinely perplexed, Barb said, “But why all the secrecy? Surely everyone understands people don’t live to be a hundred fifty years old. I think we can say out loud that President Biden is no longer with us in the flesh, right?”

 

“A contract’s a contract,” was my reply. “And people just don’t care anymore unless someone mentions it.”

 

“Steve, do you know two of the three appellate justices on your case are Perps?”

 

When I didn’t answer, Barbara switched off her tablet. “That’s enough for today. We’ll pick it up here tomorrow. I’ve got a date with my husband tonight.”

 

“Ah, good. Are you guys seeing a movie? I hear the new Meryl Streep flick is pretty good.”

 

“We’re going to a rock concert, believe it or not. I managed to pick up two tickets to see The Rolling Stones.”

 

“That’s wonderful! Those guys always put on a great show, don’t they?”

 

“They do,” Barbara said.

 

“Always.”