Becca Wilde, a terminally ill teenage autistic savant, senses a presence—an intelligence—in The STREAM, the virtual reality entertainment phenomenon created by her tech-billionaire father.
She believes the intelligence can create a cure, but her father intends to use radical technology. They are running out of time.
Then technology stops working.
All of it.
No Internet. No screens. Not even cars. But one thing is working—a Russian A.I. that mutated—and is now In the Wild.
Becca may hold the key to the future. Any future. If there is going to be one.
But…only if she can communicate with a super-intelligence—that hasn’t been invented yet.
Targeted Age Group:: 16+
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The advent of AI in the next 20 years that will change everything
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The conflict within a tech billionaire trying to win the race to a Super AI, while trying using an AI to save his terminally ill teenage daughter's life. She is an autistic savant.
I do not see you now but yet I feel
Becca Wilde was at twenty-eight-thousand feet above sea level along the China-Pakistan border. "I cannot see you but I know you're there!" she screamed through her balaclava.
She screamed and fought through her fear. Snowing sideways minutes after sunup, a daybreak gale-force whiteout on K2.
A unique ascent of the ancient mountain that experts said could not be done. Could not be done even with a full team of Sherpas.
Another step along the precipice with a heavy pack on her back–she pressed on. She slammed the crampon on her right boot into the ice. In the Death Zone–Becca pressed on.
"I see you now," she said.
Six feet in front of her, a shadow ghost image appeared against the white. Tensing, her lone Sherpa guide, tightened the rope that held them together, drove his ice ax into the incline, and waved her on.
Another burst of wind from the storm that had taken them by surprise an hour earlier shook them. The ice snow stinging unprotected flesh, punishing the openings between her goggles and hood, sharp like a hundred needles. Visibility fell to three feet and the blur of the man in front of her vanished. Becca stopped, tightened her grip on the rope, and her heart plummeting in her chest, pounding against her ribs.
They were exposed, battered by unrelenting reminders that death the result of any misstep. Nothing lived at this altitude. Every living organism froze up here. Died up here. Stayed up here. Forever. Eighty miles per hour winds, gusting higher. Driving the ice snow, swirling, pushing, forcing, reminding. Reminding Becca this place is hostile. Telling her to escape this elevation. Escape.
This place hostile.
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