Nobody Ever Dies

I said, "Basically, it lets the other device do things based on what it sees and learns, just like a person would. For instance your refrigerator would know to reorder milk before you ran out, or your TV set could turn on your favorite show without you having to use the remote."

He said, "That's a nice household gizmo, like Alexa or Siri, but I don't see how it would change the world."

I said, "How about if you put it on a network and it could reliably identify an intruder and deal with it in real time without human involvement, or put it into a manufacturing robot and the device could improve the work that it does, or in a missile that could get itself to the target like a human was driving it?"

He looked at me with wonder and said, "Your invention can do that?!!"

I laughed and said, "It learns things and does things like a person doing the task would. At the same time it does it at machine speeds, doesn't get tired, or ever make mistakes, or forget."

He looked at me shrewdly and said, "How are you planning to take it to market."

I laughed again and said, "I know everything that there is to know about artificial intelligence, but I don't know anything about marketing. How would you suggest I approach it?"

He said cryptically, "Why don't you talk to some of my people and maybe we can come up with a few ideas."

Becks' dad was true to his word. Bright and early the following Monday, a guy named Philip contacted me and by Tuesday I was on the Acela for the three-hour trip to Manhattan.

The meeting took place in one of those canyon buildings on Wall Street. Philip was an intimidating young dude about my age and clearly an up-and-comer in Becks' dad's company. He led me down to a room with a lot of window glass and a long table.

There were four other people whose names I didn't catch, just their roles. Most of them were marketing types and there was one fellow nerd. We were the only two who weren't in dark blue power-suits with the obligatory red tie.

I sat nervously at the back of the room. Philip strode to the front and said, "Erik here is Rebecca Spenser's former husband. He was talking to her father at her funeral, and he mentioned that he had a gadget that could make ordinary things learn. So, he asked him to come up here so we could explain it and we could evaluate it. Isn't that right Erik?"

I was gazing wonderingly out the window at a helicopter that was passing at approximately the same altitude that I was sitting at, and so I missed what he'd said. I only realized that is was time for me to talk when I noted the pregnant pause and everybody staring at me.

I said bemused, "What did you just say, Philip?"

He got a patient look, like he was talking to a second grader and said, "I was telling our Tiger Team that you had a device that mirrored human thinking."

I said, cautiously, "I was in charge of a Cyber Ops unit at Fort Meade, which is where I created an AI that heuristically monitors networks for intrusions. In my spare time, more like a hobby really, I expanded it to mirror general human cognition. It can be strapped onto most digital devices to give them rudimentary thinking and learning capabilities, which is essentially human-like.

The entire table looked at me like they thought that I was bullshitting them. I spent the rest of the afternoon proving that I wasn't. By the end of the meeting, the entire group, especially their pet nerd, was jumping-up-and-down with eagerness.

It was dark by that point. Philip said, "We want to talk about it among the Team members and we can finalize a proposal by tomorrow afternoon. Why don't we get a bite to eat, and we can put you up for the night."

That certainly beat going back to my lonely house. Besides, I had nothing better to do. So, I said, "Sure."

Philip and the nerd, whose name was Bobby cabbed me over to The Eurostar on the East River, and they checked me in. Then they took me to Harry's Steakhouse on Hanover Square for your basic five-hundred-dollar business dinner.

It was evident that the plan was to get me one-on-one with Bobby to find out if I really knew my shit. So, we drank a couple of excellent bottles of cabernet and talked. That conversation clearly answered all of Bobby's concerns because around 10 PM Philip, who was obviously on daddy's credit card, suggested that we finish the evening at Flashdancers over on Murray ... wink-wink.

I had no idea what that was, I don't think Bobby did either. Both of us were nerds and nerds don't know nothin' about no stinking titty clubs. But Philip certainly did. He strode confidently in while Bobby and I kinda lurked in behind him, looking around like we were afraid somebody might recognize us.

I had to admit that it was a classy joint. The decor was high-end, like an expensive gentleman's establishment. The gorgeous waitresses all wore masks, per New York regulations, and very little else. If you ignored the loud music and the two super fit young ladies doing extremely demanding exercises on the poles at the end of the room, you wouldn't know it was a strip club.

There were a couple of reasons why I didn't want to be there. First and foremost, nerds are too fucking shy and self-conscious to enjoy spending time around mostly naked women who are plying their trade around you like it was a Denny's. But more relevantly, I wasn't even close to getting over Becks' betrayal and death and the ambiance of the place raised a million unfortunate and unresolved issues.

Hence, I hadn't been sitting there for more than five minutes when the carnal feeding frenzy that was going on around me, and the implicitly sinful vibe just overwhelmed me, and I started to blubber. It was too much. It was also the singular most embarrassing and humiliating moment of my life.

Bobby, who suffered from the same social shortcomings as I did, reacted like I'd barfed on the table. Philip looked at me with a modicum of contempt. But it was mainly irritation since I was putting a damper on his progress with our waitress. He told Bobby to, "Take him back to the hotel?"

When we were in the cab, I told my new buddy my sad story. Bobby was like me. So, I was absolutely sure that the last thing he wanted to hear about was any aspect of my personal life. But I just had to explain myself.

He mumbled something like, "I understand." But I knew he didn't. You'd need to walk a mile in my shoes to get any sense of the utterly ruined terrain my current psychological landscape represented. In fact, I was very close to deciding that there wasn't any point in living any longer.

Then, the next day the roller-coaster took me on another swoop. The long-and-short of our afternoon was that whoever Becks' dad represented wanted my little invention and was willing to pay for it. The amount they were willing to pay made no sense. So, I had a final meeting with my former father-in-law before I hopped on the Acela at Penn Station.

He had a conversation nook that was full of expensive leather furniture in an office that was slightly more spacious than my little house. It was hard to relax. But I was a stranger in a strange land, and I had to rely on somebody. His daughter was a decent person. I was counting on him being one too.

I asked him -- no, more like pleaded with him - to help me. I told him that I was grieving so profoundly that I couldn't think straight. And furthermore, I was a nerd, not a business person. I had no concept of what the smart thing to do was.

He gave me a look that told me that I'd finally connected with him. He loved his daughter. I obviously loved her too. He said, "Don't worry Erik. You're still family. I'll handle all of this for you if you trust me enough to transfer power of attorney to me. You can just live your life and try to get straight with what happened."

That conversation marked the next radical turning point in my life. Becks' dad was like a father to me. He called a month later and told me that a major player had bought my little invention for a nine-digit sum and that, along with the licensing income, made me rich beyond my wildest dreams.

Tech is like that. Amazon, Facebook, Microsoft, even SpaceX, all started with a nerd and a good idea. Then, a decade later they're leading the pack of plutocrats in the sleazy competition to be the richest man in the world. In my case, my only question for Mr. Spenser was, "Will you handle it for me?" I mean seriously, what did I know about money?

So... after plunging into the depths of despair I went rocketing to the heights of vast wealth. That all happened from mid-December to early-March. In a mere three months I'd gone from the normal me, to a nerd of infinite wealth. It was a totally inconceivable twist, like hitting the lottery.

The change in circumstances was justifiably upsetting. You have to understand. I was working on my gadget out of simple intellectual curiosity. Nerds are like that. We don't think about, or really even need money. Now I was rich beyond reconning. It took a lot of midnight pondering to get my mind wrapped around THAT. The extreme change in psychic temperature almost shattered me.

The irony was that the money was a cruel joke now. Because what did I have it to spend it on? The only thing of real value was gone forever and like the wolf, the swan and the humble seahorse, nerds mate for life.

*****

Three years passed. During that time, the only significant change was that I sold our house and moved out of the U.S. I had to do that to preserve my sanity.

I knew that I was going to kill myself if I didn't get away from everything that reminded me of Becks. At least the money let me do THAT.

The aim was to put as much distance as I could between my old life and my new circumstances. Sort of like a factory reset. I wanted to wipe my mind of any reminders of my love.

I did a little research, under the heading of, "Where can I go that's the opposite of the Beltway" and ended up at Port Isaac on the Cornwall coast. It could have just as easily been some other remote place. But I semi-understood the native tongue there.

Port Isaac is a neat fishing village with plenty of rustic atmosphere, where I could sit, contemplate the ocean, and try to heal. When I arrived, I was initially just as depressed as I had been back home. But the wonderfully uncomplicated people, their pub life, and the friends that I made there all helped me come out of my funk.

Still, Port Isaac is on the Atlantic side of the Cornwall peninsula. So, the weather is like it is in Ireland, meaning there's a lot of rain. I really liked the social ambiance of the place. But after three years, the grey days were making my depression worse.

I knew that it would be the ultimate in hypocrisy to continue to play Hamlet when fortune had smiled on me in such a blatantly generous fashion. I had all the time in the world now, and an infinite amount of cash. So, I thought I might repot myself to the sun-drenched Mediterranean.

I think you can understand why I wanted to go there. First of all it was always sunny and hot. But more relevantly, my wife was lying full-fathom-five somewhere east of Majorca. That was the place that was calling to me.

I bought a Hylas-44 to do it. Mine had the royal blue hull instead of the traditional white because I like the solid look that color imparts. The upper decks and trim were all in white, or mahogany and the aluminum mast was gleaming in the sun.

The Hylas is a single masted, sloop-rigged cruiser. The fit and features are all super-high-end and it's a tour de force of wood and brass luxury below deck. There's a lounge-galley layout with exceptional living space and an actual stateroom.

It's a handful for a solo sailor. But I wasn't worried about being able to work it. The Hylas was only six feet longer than my old Packet and I was an expert in that class. The sails were controlled by rolling furlers, which did the heavy lifting, and I had the self-steerer. But it takes skill and a good eye to trim the boat right.

It cost over a million after I'd added all the navigation equipment, the generator, air conditioning and power furling features. But if it was just me I would need all of those for safety's sake. I picked the boat up on a hot sunny day at the Yacht Marine offices in Barcelona harbor at Marina Port Vell.

I finalized the paperwork on the quayside, with my new girlfriend. We'd met while I was in England. She was sleek and gorgeous, with huge green eyes and a haughty personality that reeked of grandeur. She had been standoffish at first. But I'd treated her with patience, and she was totally devoted to me now.

She stalked around our new home inspecting things with an air of disdain. Then she made a lightning move and reappeared with a mouse in her mouth, which was appropriate since Bastet is a cat.

Well actually... she's technically NOT a cat. She's from a much more ancient breed of feline called a Mau. Maus are descendants of African wildcats. Those are the creatures that appear in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. She's slightly bigger than a housecat and she has an odd spotted coat that belies her origins, which are closer to the cheetah.

I love dogs. They're always your buddy. But dogs on boats have a hygiene problem. Cats don't have the same issue and as a bonus cats also eliminate any unwelcome stowaways. I named her Bastet after the Egyptian goddess of war. That's an appropriate name since she's a savage little creature who seems to view our relationship as a hunting partnership, not owner and pet.

Bastet and I talk a lot. She's Egyptian, so she has an exotic accent. But when I get weepy, she's not afraid to speak the truth. She'd stare at me with those ancient eyes and hiss, "I cannot hunt with sssuch a weak companion. You musssst do better my brother." It was probably just me talking to myself. But Bastet made a lot of sense.

I cleared Barcelona harbor on a sunny day in July, running south-southeast on the sat-nav integrated self-steerer. I was aiming for the Balearics because that was the region where Becks plane went down. I was hoping to learn something more about that there.

Even more pathetic I suppose... I just wanted to just be near where she'd died. The thought of her last moments of terror as her plane plummeted haunted me. Plus, I needed a short initial destination to work out the kinks in my brand-new boat. Sailboats are like women. You have to get to know their quirks if you want a good marriage.

My target was Palma on the island of Majorca. It's the largest of the Balearic Islands, about 120 miles out of Barcelona Harbor as the crow flies. I was laid way-over on a port tack and running under a strong westerly with full mainsail and jib, making almost nine knots. That's the kind of a rush that you don't get with any other mode of transportation except maybe a motorcycle.

The northern side of the island has impressive mountains, and it began to appear out of the haze on the southeastern horizon by late afternoon. I rounded the island's western tip just before sunset and dropped anchor in the Marina Palma, 14 hours after I'd shoved off. The Hylas and I were in love.

It was a beautiful night with soft magical breezes and the sound of the little City of Palma in the background. Nine o'clock is part of the dinner hour in places like Spain and I could see herds of tourists milling around the town. the memories of the only person I'd ever cared about flooded in and for the millionth time I began to grieve.

Bastet was lying on the coaming of the companionway hatch, staring at me the way cats do. She's a fierce little beast and there is no quarter in her savage soul. She hissed disdainfully, "You musssst stop thinking about the past, Brother. That is weaknesss. Ssssstrong hunters only think about their next kill."

She was right of course. Everybody wants to see themselves as powerful and effective. It's a matter of personal pride and I had been a hot mess for a long time. I couldn't continue to act like that and retain even a shred of dignity and self-respect. So, I decided right-then-and-there to make a stand.

The fact is that you can't change the past. You can only do the best that you can in the present. I'd suffered a series of powerful blows over an incredibly short period of time... From the seduction of my wife, through her subsequent death, and then the ridiculous change in my personal situation. It had trashed my internal gyroscope ... I had no mental balance.

Now, I was determined to right the ship and enjoy my newfound status as a fabulously wealthy man. That would start the next morning. I sat on the deck with a Cuban cigar, a habit that I had picked up once I got used to having a limitless supply of cash and Googled five-star hotels.

I awoke to a bright and hot July day. I had made a reservation for a deluxe suite at the Palacio Can Marquez, which was about a ten-minute walk from where I was docked. That hotel was supposed to be the best in Majorca.

I'd had SIXT deliver a BMW 8 series convertible to the hotel. But I wanted to walk there from the boat. So I strolled through the honey-colored streets of Palma's old town enjoying the atmosphere. I was towing a roller-bag with a big spotted cat prowling next to me. Bastet insists on walking right beside me. She thinks we're looking for prey, which in some respects I guess we were.

People were trying not to stare. Bastet hissed, "What issss the matter with thessse people. Perhapsss I should kill one jussst to keep them from looking at ussss." She didn't actually say that out loud, but I could tell that was what she was thinking. Bastet really has no idea that she only weighs twenty-five pounds.

The desk clerk didn't bat an eye when Bastet strolled in with me. He might have said something if I was renting a room for less than $800 a night. But the staff at the Palacio is used to the quirks of its rich customers.

The interior of the suite was dark wood, creamy stucco and impeccable tile with a view that overlooked the busy Carrer dels Apuntadors below. Bastet inspected the place with her usual air of condescension and found it mildly pleasing. She then prowled out on the balcony and lay there with her tail twitching, looking for all the world like a jaguar in a tree.

I said to her, "No dropping down on any unsuspecting passers-by." I was joking. It was thirty feet to the street. But Bastet fixed me with her typical green-eyed stare and said, "It dependssss on how tasssty they look." I think that she really believed that.

I laughed, then I closed the door and went downstairs to brunch in the courtyard of the hotel. The smashed avocado and toast on eggs was just as tasty as one might imagine, and the cold San Miguel was refreshing.

I was idly pondering my life and future when I began to experience an odd sensation. It was an ominous buzz like the eerie rising of the wind in front of a fast-moving thunderstorm. I looked around for the cause and it hit me like a tornado hits a Topeka trailer park. My wife Rebecca had just stepped out onto the terrace!!

Of course she was dead. So, you can imagine the parade of emotions that marched through my brain. First there was mild awareness - I knew this woman. Then there was utter disbelief as I realized WHY I knew her. That was followed by a dumbfounded sense of sheer unreality.

Okay then... tell me how YOU would react? I had finally acknowledged that the love of my life was gone forever, and I'd dedicated myself to building my life without her. Then, just as I'd made up my mind to do that - God pulls the football away. I was getting mighty weary of all the ups and downs.

You might think I was coherent at any point in the next few minutes. If so, you would be entirely wrong. In actuality, I was convinced that I'd lost my mind. Think about it. Would you be cooley evaluating the situation, or would you be in mortal brain-lock because your eyes were telling you things that your cerebral cortex knew wasn't true.