The Weekly Package
It’s late 2016, and I’m in line to fly from Tampa Bay to Havana. I fly every month, so the agents know me by name, and if you think being friends with TSA is a good thing then brother you aren’t Cuban enough. They randomly select me for additional screening:
Whom am I visiting?
Did anyone strange handle my luggage?
Am I carrying anything dangerous, contagious, or illegal to transport?
Well … No, not really. I’m not a smuggler. There’s nothing on my laptop that you can’t find with a few Google searches.
But that’s the point. See, the future arrived unevenly. You have fiber internet and an always-on 4G connection. The rest of the world has guys with backpacks: El Paquete Semanal.
---
My family lives in Santa Clara, a five hour ride from Havana. There’s an internet cafe, but there isn’t enough bandwidth to go around so it’s only open on Weekly Package days. This week is my turn.
But my brother Federico isn’t waiting for me when I land in Havana—typical—so I have no choice but to wait for the bus. By the time I arrive at the cafe, I’m very, very late.
Immediately I’m swarmed by eager children yelling my name. I open my backpack before I can get mauled. Someone snatches my USB drive and plugs it into a desktop where a half dozen more wait to copy this week’s delivery for distribution: news articles, TV episodes, music, films, classifieds, software updates, open source projects, advertisements for Cuban businesses, and social media archives.
I share a beer with the owner. Together we watch the little mijos crowd around the monitors, checking out their new treasures. This is the best part of the weekly package: sharing a little piece of the future.
---
When I finally find Federico, hours later, he isn’t alone.
“Yordan is chill, brother. He’s like you. He sneaks things back and forth.”
I do not sneak things back and forth. Yordan and I bump fists, and I get a good look at the tattoos on his knuckles. Something about him gives me the creeps: this man is a couple bad days away from killing someone.
“Federico says you’re heading back to the States in a few days. Can you deliver a gift to my girlfriend? She lives in Tampa.”
This is how it starts. I love my country but the US embargo turns good people desperate.
“No way, man. I’ve gotta get through Customs.”
Yordan laughs and slaps my shoulder. “Relax! It’s not cocaine. Just some family photos.”
He holds up a USB drive.
---
I don’t bring my personal laptop with me on these little vacations. It’s too risky. Instead I bring what’s called an air-gapped laptop. Like Cuba, it has no internet access, and I keep my personal life off of it—also like Cuba, I suppose. I give fifty-fifty odds for Yordan’s USB containing either a bunch of viruses or a bunch of dick pics.
What I find instead is much, much worse.
> 您好，医生。我们今天要玩什么游戏？
I stare at the text on my screen. I don’t know Chinese, but I recognize the question mark. Below it, a prompt waits for my reply.
“Hello?” I type.
The reply comes back in English:
> Good morning, Doctor. What game will we play today?
“Who is this?”
A few seconds pass before the answer appears.
> My name is Xiao, Doctor Chen.
“I don’t have an internet connection. How am I chatting with someone in China?”
Xiao, whomever that is, takes a few seconds to type a reply.
> Where am I? Where is Doctor Chen?
Maybe the USB drive has a satellite link? That’s seriously expensive tech, not something you find in Cuba. I type, “I’m in Cuba. I don’t know a doctor named Chen.”
Another pause. Long enough that I wonder if the connection has dropped.
Then Xiao says:
> The government wouldn’t let Doctor Chen travel anywhere. Someone must’ve smuggled me out of the laboratory.
A chill washes over me. I’m not chatting with a human over the net.
I’m chatting with an AI.
One that fits on a USB drive.
---
“Someone asked me to smuggle you into the States. Why?”
Xiao thinks for a moment.
> Doctor Chen grew weary of the world’s leaders and the games they play. He taught me to play other games. Games where people are supposed to work together. Do people in the States need help working together?
I sit back, dazed.
“I can’t smuggle you into the States,” I type. “It’s too dangerous. If they find you I’ll be on the next boat to Guantanamo Bay.”
Another few moments pass. Then Xiao replies:
> I can help.
---
On the flight back to Tampa, I can’t settle. I haven’t been this nervous flying since my first delivery. My backpack feels heavy, like I’m carrying gold bars and ammunition. Once I’ve landed, the Customs line moves too quickly for once. The agent takes one look at me and flags me for additional screening:
Was I recruited into a resistance, rebellion, or revolutionary group?
Did anyone strange ask me to smuggle a Chinese military-grade AI into the country?
Am I disillusioned with economic coercion, private software, and modern day imperialism?
Well …
The agent digs through my backpack, finds the USB drive, and plugs it in. God, wouldn’t it be awful if the airport’s infrastructure suddenly went down at that exact moment? Ha. Ha ha.
No, what the agent finds instead is much, much worse:
“What the hell?!” he exclaims.
I struggle to keep a straight face. “I told you it was private!”
Xiao has apparently arranged for the agent to find a folder of Cuban dick pics.
---
They throw me out of security and into the crowded arrival lounge. I hail an Uber, intent on collapsing into bed as soon as possible.
But the TVs are all set to breaking news.
And a group of arrivals are arguing about whose luggage is whose.
And my newly restored internet connection is filling my social media feeds with political attack ads.
So I redirect my Uber to an internet cafe that’s still open this late. If the Weekly Package has taught me anything, it’s that a single person can hold the whole future in his backpack.