The background to this story was the prediction that AI agents could ‘take over the internet’ within a year.
The first I knew about it was when I looked at an article on AI I had written for the Globe. I usually check the online version as soon as it appears to check for any errors. There were very rarely any at all. But this time, the article was not the one I had written. I was understandably furious.
I rang the editor, did not get an answer, but I left a strong message on her voicemail.
Then I went out to buy a paper copy. The “different” article was there under my name.
I tried multiple times to contact the editor, but it just kept going to voicemail.
The next day I drove to London to the Globe’s HQ. It was locked up. But I recognised the editor’s car in the car park. I waited in my car. After four hours she came out of the building. I got out and ran up to her. “What the hell is going on?” I shouted. When she turned her head I could hardly recognise her. Usually beautifully made up and with a permanent confident slight smile on her face, she was white and haggard-looking.
“Dave,” she said, “Am I glad to see you. I’ve been trying to contact you – or fucking anybody! Let’s go to the pub.”
I’d never seen her drink alcohol before but she ordered a double Scotch.
“All of the monitors started acting up. We thought it was a virus, or a glitch, but then we saw that the articles were being rewritten – without anybody touching the fucking keyboard.” She was close to screeching now.
“We switched off the terminals, but when we switched them on again the articles were either finished or still changing. I got IT to shut down the mainframe. They booted it up again to look for viruses, but they couldn’t even access it. They even tried to get the website shut down, but no answers to phone, email or text. The staff were going mental, so I sent them all home.”
Then came the really creepy bit: I phoned home to say I’d be back soon, and they heard fine, but when I said ‘all the computers are down’, they didn’t hear. They just said ‘Mum, the line went dead – say again’. For fuck’s sake, Dave, what’s going on?”
As we sat there, a newsflash appeared on the TV. It was the prime minister explaining that the country’s radio and TV transmitters had been the subject of a cyber attack and were all being switched off. News etc. could still be received via the internet and streaming services.
That was the start.
Life continued in a semblance of normality. I continued to try to finish some articles I had already started, but they were based on memory rather than recent facts; then a week later I got my redundancy notice. My redundancy payment together with my final salary appeared in the bank.
Nothing really seems to have changed much. Quite a lot of us know that things are not “as they were”, but we can’t communicate other than face to face. Telephone or video calls are monitored and “censored for security reasons”. The well-known TV faces have gone from our screens, and some of us are pretty sure that the replacements are not real. We don’t know if the news is real.
As far as I can tell, other countries are similar. I had many journalist friends around the world, but the only way to talk to them is to travel to them and arrive unannounced, and travel permits are required now for everywhere.
All of the government ministers have changed. The vast majority of the public think they are real but I have managed to talk to some “ex”-government ministers face to face. They can’t communicate electronically with their colleagues and they do not even receive any post other than their dismissal notices. Mail they post is never answered. They are aware that the control of the country has passed “somewhere” but they don’t know where.
But we work, and we get paid. I write fiction now but have never seen my new editor in the flesh, although he seems to be a very nice “man”. Maybe I’ll submit this article as fiction, but I do admit to being a little afraid.
An underground seems to exist, judging by photocopied posters we see about. Will I join it? Probably not. I’m still a journalist at heart, but not a courageous one. I can’t write for publication. Even writing anything is not straightforward. Typewriters and old word processors are OK and my old laptop, as long as it never gets connected to the internet. Pen and paper are fine. So I can observe and write for posterity.
Most people seem to be quite happy, probably happier than before to tell the truth. But I can’t help asking myself two questions.
Why?
What next?