The Preemptive AI Custodial System

09 Jun, 2024

The CCTV feed displayed a grim scene within one of the cells; a body hung motionless from the ceiling, its lifeless form casting a haunting shadow across the cold white walls.

Private Pudgy, his face etched with the day's wear, took a deep draw from his cigar. Beside him, Cameral Jhon, a man both fair and imposing in stature, laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You get used to it, soldier," he said, his voice a mix of empathy and resignation.

Pudgy exhaled a cloud of smoke, crushing the cigar's ember into the ashtray. "I am no stranger to death, Cameral," he replied, turning to face his companion. "But this... this is murder."

"Don't you ever say that word," Cameral's expression darkened, his warning sharp and immediate. "He is not innocent, Pudgy. Our systems have flagged him as a threat with ninety-nine percent accuracy. To us, he's nothing more than a dire criminal, a threat to society!"

A heavy silence fell between them as Pudgy's gaze drifted to the ashtray. "I know, Cameral..."

Cameral sighed, the weight of the day pressing down on him. He clasped his forehead between thumb and forefinger. "Look, kid, you're new here, and it's been a long day... Just trust the system, all right?" His look softened. "We're doing our best to keep our country at peace, and so far, we've been on the right track."

With a pat on Pudgy's back, Cameral added, "Remember, kid, we're doing the good work. Never forget it." He then exited the room, leaving Pudgy in solitude. The glow of the monitor flickered in his eyes as he lit another cigar, staring into the screen.

Earlier that day, Pudgy had delivered a sealed document to an inmate, the only piece of communication they were permitted before their sentence was carried out. It was a protocol designed to maintain a semblance of fairness; the contents of the envelope were known only to the inmate, a rule meant to safeguard against prejudice by jailers and other inmates alike.

Pudgy's apartment, a small, cluttered space, welcomed him with it's familiar scent: unwashed dishes, stale cigar smoke, and sweat. Pudgy carelessly shed his shirt, and tossed it onto the already cluttered sofa.

He walked into the kitchen and reached for the whiskey bottle left open from the night before, taking a generous swig. Then he staggered back to the living room, collapsing onto the sofa, to gaze at the ceiling- his thoughts swirled.

"The good fight," he mused bitterly, the phrase echoing mockingly within the confines of his dimly lit room.

G-1842, or "Robert Manuel," was not merely a number or a faceless inmate to Pudgy. Pudgy had known the man for a few years, and had come to regard Robert as a figure of respect, a beacon of faith and morality. Never had Pudgy imagined Robert capable of true deviance; perhaps his transgression was minor—a traffic violation, or maybe driving after a single sip of beer.

That fateful day, the the camera in Robert's cell was obscured, a blanket was tossed over the lens. Given Pudgy's known association with Robert, it fell upon him to investigate. The higher-ups reasoned that a familiar face might quell any turmoil brewing within the inmate.

It was an early Friday morning, the kind that seemed to drag the weight of the week behind it like chains. Pudgy walked the long corridor of the facility, the bags under his eyes a testament to his thoughts.

"Looking lovely today, luv" remarked Private Ramos with a snicker, quickening his pace to catch up to Pudgy.

"Thank you, dear. Got all dolled-up to fuck you in the ass, just how you like it" Pudgy retorted.

Ramos laughed off the comeback. "You motherfucker. Seriously, you look like shit, man. You should take a day off, you know we got a free day whenever an NN off's himself."

"I'm well aware," Pudgy replied, "I'm off today, but I need to speak to the colonel."

The sight that greeted him shattered any semblance of composure. Robert Manuel, the man Pudgy had known not just as an inmate but as a pillar of decency, now hung lifeless from the ceiling. Below Robert's dangling feet lay the document that had sealed his fate:

Subject ID: G-1842 Former Identity: Robert Manuel Case Code: #7592-A

Official Notification: This document constitutes the official communication regarding the final determination and sentencing of the individual previously recognized as Robert Manuel, now designated as inmate G-1842. This communication is directed exclusively to the inmate and is not to be disclosed to any third parties, in accordance with Directive 67-P on Inmate Privacy and Communication. Breach of any provision within this document or unauthorized disclosure of its contents shall be subject to additional penalties.

Determination of Sentencing: After a comprehensive review of predictive data and behavioral analyses conducted by the Integrated Predictive System (IPS), a forecast has been made concerning your future actions. It has been determined with a high degree of certainty that you are predisposed to commit an act classified as a severe criminal offense under current statutes, specifically, the rape and murder of a minor within a projected two-year timeframe.

Based on the evidence presented by the IPS and in accordance with the statutes governing pre-emptive justice, it has been deemed necessary to sentence you to indefinite detainment. This measure has been adopted as a preventive action aimed at ensuring public safety and preventing the occurrence of the forecasted criminal act.

This communication serves as your official notification regarding the findings and the resultant sentencing. Your cooperation and compliance with all directives and procedures during this process are expected and appreciated. Should you have any questions or require clarification regarding your rights or the details of your detainment, please direct your inquiries to the appointed inmate support representative.

The colonel, a commanding presence even amidst the starkness of his office, appeared to be a sculpted figure of authority. His head was as smooth and polished as a billiard ball, his piercing blue eyes scanning the room with an intensity that seemed to cut through the air. His muscular build was apparent even under the uniform, and a thick moustache adorned his upper lip, the only feature breaking the expanse of his otherwise clean-shaven face.

"Pudgy," he began, his voice carrying a blend of formality and a hint of warmth, as he reclined in his chair and casually interlocked his fingers. "I want you to know that I am truly sorry for the unfortunate events of yesterday. Didn't the corporal inform you of your leave entitlement?"

"He did, Sir. I am here on personal business."

The colonel's gaze lingered on Pudgy, then briefly flitted to the window, as if considering the world outside before returning his sharp focus to the man before him. Leaning forward, elbows on the desk. "We all had doubts in the begining, private."

In response, Pudgy placed a sealed envelope on the desk. The weight of his decision was palpable in the air. "I'm sorry, sir. I have to leave."

Without hesitation, the colonel slid the envelope back across the desk and rose to his feet, an implicit understanding in his gesture. "Take your annual leave, Pudgy. Use the time to reflect, to think this through."

Underneath the printed text, a single line had been written in blue-pen: "I'm sorry".

Two weeks had passed, and Pudgy woke up to the sunlight kissing his face. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, shoving aside empty beer cans with his feet. "The good fight," he muttered to himself, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. Standing, he grabbed his standard-issue 8-shot gun, military ID, some decent clothes, and his car keys.

'The Command,' as everyone called it, stood as a heavily fortified military base that doubled as a judicial center. Within its fortified walls, a relentless machine determined the destinies of millions, tweaking the scales where necessary.

For someone in the military, getting into the command was easy. But to penetrate its core, required a few broken cameras, and suspicious stares.

Navigating through the facility asking few questions and seen by few, Pudgy arrived at the AI lab's entrance. Inside, the walls were plastered with raunchy posters, alongside diagrams, scattered documents, wires, and a mix of individuals either engrossed in their monitors or lounging in their chairs, displaying a mixture of intense focus and utter boredom.

"Attention!" Pudgy shouted, his voice echoing through the room, and instantly, everyone snapped to attention, their eyes locked onto him. "We've got an emergency on our hands! The president is stopping by in less than 24 hours."

At the mention of the president's visit, a wave of shock passed through the room, though no one spoke until Pudgy gave them the signal to relax. As soon as the room was at ease, a flurry of questions came flying at him, ranging from simple whys and hows to demands for a thorough explanation. Despite the flood of inquiries, all the scientists mindlessly followed Pudgy to the meeting room.

Seated at the head of the round table, with four scientists flanking each side, Pudgy started the briefing. "Here's the situation," he said, "I've been tasked with overseeing the preparations for the president's visit."

"Why weren't we told about this sooner?" one of the scientists challenged.

"I'm just the messenger," Pudgy responded with a hint of frustration. "I'm in the dark as much as you are. I'd suggest saving your questions for the General or the Colonel after this meeting. They're likely tied up with other preparations as we speak. Any other questions?" Silence filled the room, there were no further questions.

"Okay, from now on I am going to ask you questions about the system, and you will pretend I am the president." Pudgy stared for a few seconds, then continued, "Now break it down for me: how does the system decide on its target?"

One of the scientists began, "Well, Sir, we start by gathering a comprehensive set of data on an individual from a data pool, then categorize this data to send it to the appropriate subsystems..." Pudgy interrupted by raising his hand.

"Remember, remember, the President is no technician, keep it simple."

The scientist paused, clearly a bit displeased. "Okay, in simpler terms, we collect extensive data on a person, pulling from camera feeds, internet activity, text messages, phone calls, and so forth. We then compare this person's data with that of others, both past and present. This allows us to predict their future actions based on real, historical data..."

"That's just the first system," a scientist interjected, eager to explain further. "Our second system is trained to act as a criminal psychologist. It sifts through all that collected data, applying our most advanced understanding of psychology to generate a profile of the individual along with their potential for criminal behavior."

Another scientist chimed in, adding depth to the explanation. "Beyond that, our model creates a sort of miniature simulation of the individual based on the data we've gathered. It's like conducting experiments on a digital version of the person."

"Like a clone?" Pudgy asks

"Yes, akin to a virtual clone. We expose this 'clone' to various scenarios that the person might encounter in their life. This helps us evaluate the likelihood of them engaging in criminal activity."

Pudgy's skepticism was palpable. "And how can you predict a person's experiences with any accuracy?"

The final scientist joined the explanation. "Our last model takes on the challenge of simulating the person's environment. It factors in data on weather, traffic, interactions with other people, and all sorts of random elements at any given moment..."

Pudgy's eyes went wide, his hand covering his mouth in awe. "So, you're saying this machine... is perfect!? It can predict even that which a man does not know about himself!?"

The scientists exchanged uneasy glances. "In theory," one began cautiously, capturing Pudgy's fixed gaze, "we've managed to achieve a success rate of around ninety percent over a week...and twenty-five percent annually."

Silence enveloped the room, the weight of their admission hanging heavily in the air.

"Twenty-five percent?" Pudgy echoed in disbelief.

"Yes, over the course of a year," the scientist confirmed.

Again, the room sank into silence. With each passing minute, a palpable tension built, like the lingering stench of a corpse.

One scientist cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "I understand the percentages might seem disappointing, but this represents a groundbreaking advance in crime prevention, sir."

"He was innocent" Pudgy muttered under his breath.

"Please, consider the broader implications! Yes, a few innocent people might be incarcerated, but it's a sacrifice for the greater good, for law and order," another scientist tried to persuade.

Leaning forward, a colleague added, "Our system is designed to ensure fair treatment for all inmates. It's akin to an educational institution for adults. Even if an innocent person ends up behind bars, they won't really suffer..."

"Exactly!" another jumped in. "Moreover, we've noticed a significant drop in crime rates since we started detaining individuals for crimes they haven't yet committed. As long as the public trusts in our system, they adhere more strictly to moral and legal standards, striving to lead exemplary lives to avoid the possibility of commiting a crime in the future."

Riding the wave of heightened emotions, the last scientist spoke up, "Not only have we seen an improvement in crime rates, but people are generally kinder, happier, and healthier. To dodge the criminal label, many have turned to lifestyle coaches, seeking to better themselves. Our initiative has ushered in an era of unparalleled wellbeing— humanity has never been happier, thanks to our efforts!"

Pudgy sat in silence, his grip tightening on his 8-shot beneath the table.