The Reunion: a new science fiction story about surveillance in China

My classmate from ten years earlier, Dr. Ng Lok Tin of the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology, is waiting for me at the station exit. As if he wants to emphasize the discombobulation of modern China, he greets me in Cantonese although he is a resident of Shanghai; I, however, born in Hong Kong, addresses him in Modern Standard Mandarin.

“Leung Wah Kiu, what is this really about?” He asks me.

“A few days ago two civilian officers approached me to ask if Professor Lau had been in contact and the contact details of his relatives and friends in Hong Kong.”

“I thought he was put in compulsory treatment some time ago?”

“Exactly, in a special care center in Shenzhen. But he broke out and escaped to Hong Kong, and they lost his track. We have to find him before the police do that. “

“Why?” Ng Lok Tin examines my face carefully, as if evaluating my common sense. Then the realization penetrates. “You don’t believe he went crazy at all, do you?”

“I only know when I see him personally.” I cannot keep the uncertainty out of my voice. “Help me please.”

Professor Lau Gim Wai, a leading neurobehavioral imaging expert, had guided both of us at school. For me, however, he is much more than just a teacher.

More than ten years ago, when I broke under the stress of my dissertation and despondent of alienation with my family, Professor Lau sent me daily emails with quotes from his favorite films in his signature. Although he has never said that so explicitly, I knew that those lines – warm, encouraging and uplifting – were meant for me.

I’ve never seen a number of those movies, but I remember every quote he sent.

“If you wake up at a different time, in a different place, can you wake up as a different person?” —Fight Club (1999)

When I became a different person on that rainy night, he was the one who saved me.

I need to know what went wrong with Professor Lau and his DISCO algorithm.

Lau developed DISCO (‘distributed inter-subject correlation observer’) based on the inter-subject correlation (ISC) model based on neuroimaging.

In traditional fMRI, the researcher must strictly limit the variables to study the correspondence between cognitive processes and brain regions. But the results of such artificial laboratory settings are difficult to generalize to the complexity of real-life scenarios. Attending a concert, listening to a bedtime story, watching a movie . the brain is subjected to the influence of a large number of uncontrolled factors such as the environment, mood changes and spontaneous social interactions.

The ISC method is based on the following assumption: in the same natural environment, assuming that everyone’s brain has the same biological processes, identical encephal areas must be activated when different individuals encounter the same stimulus. For example, if two people watching the same horror movie together show the same increased amygdala activity, we can conclude that the amygdala is involved in the experience of fear. If the responses of countless individuals in the same natural environment are measured and compared simultaneously, one can safely ignore interference from most uncontrollable factors.

Lau’s DISCO takes the ISC method to another level.

After the Spring City Railway Station attack more than ten years ago, similar random mass murder incidents spread as a contagious disease with no clear transmission route. Completely ordinary individuals, their lives inconspicuous up to that moment, would suddenly turn into whirlpools of violence, contraction in crowds with butcher’s knives, poisoned needles, even broken bottles, and do as much damage as possible before the police could intervene.

As in the epidemic of suicides among migrant workers years earlier, there was initially no consensus on the underlying cause. Was it the pressure of technology-dominated, “ultra-unreal” life in modern China, where centuries of progress had been compressed elsewhere in a handful of decades? Was it the manifestation of a conflicting society that had lost its old, failed ideals with nothing new to take their place? Or was it slightly darker?

In the end, the authorities announced that the perpetrators were determined in each individual case to suffer from a form of mental illness like no other, leading to outbreaks of extreme violence. Although there was an official Latin name for the diagnosis, most people called it “ATGism” for “against the ground.” There was pressure among the public to preventively limit people who were thought to suffer from this condition.

However, traditional methods of psychiatric diagnosis left too much room for subjective interpretation, and the legal process for involuntary involvement was bulky and prone to abuse. The government became embroiled in controversy after controversy.

As the attacks continued, many began to wonder whether the involuntary commitment of the government was sufficient to prevent violence. At the same time, many patients diagnosed using unreliable traditional methods – some of which had no tendency to violence – were unjustly deprived of personal freedom, resulting in a great deal of public anger. Yet the government could not simply abolish the old involuntary commitment system without replacing anything new, as many psychiatric patients would be sent back to their families. Persistent prejudices against mental illness meant that many families, terrified, would throw these patients into the street, leading to even more social chaos.

Just when the Ministry of Mental Health was desperate, DISCO came on the scene like a deus ex machina.

Based on the vast and extensive database of surveillance camera recordings from mainland China and patient data from Huilongguan Mental Hospital, the largest psychiatric institution in Asia, Lau was able to train and repeat the DISCO algorithm hundreds of billions of times. Unlike traditional neuroimaging methods such as MRI, PET, and DTI, which rely on specialized hardware, DISCO can diagnose, investigate, and warn of imminent violent outbursts of ATGism, only through voice impressions, non-verbal expressions, and behavioral pattern changes.

Lau only wanted DISCO to be a reliable tool for diagnosis so that the sick could be helped and the well could live in safety. But the government had bigger ideas in mind.

DISCO was found to be easy to adjust for the T2000 Deep Gaze smart surveillance cameras, which run like a distributed computer network. The algorithm was trained to recognize the new disease, but what other forms of deviation could catch his eye?

I don’t know if the complexity of a person can be reduced to a series of numbers, numbers that would infallibly predict the tendency to violence. I do know that Professor Lau was identified by his own algorithm as a dangerous individual and required for mandatory treatment.

Do I think he is angry? I have to find him first.

We start with the most rudimentary form of research: talking one by one with Professor Lau’s family and friends. As a fugitive, Professor Lau would not dare to expose his biometric data to the system, so it makes no sense to search hotel lists.

We roam through people’s homes that are packed as closely as ant nests; underground eating places smell of mold; long, dark, rotating corridors. We are examined by suspicious eyes peering from behind rusty gates. Economic decline and stagnation are even more visible than when I left, due to the loss of status as a special tariff area in the West during the trade wars in Hong Kong.

We find nothing.

“What should we do now?” Ng Lok Tin asks as we sit down in Café de Coral.

“Let me think,” I mused. “He took great risks coming to Hong Kong after he escaped from the treatment center. Why? What does he hope to achieve here? “

He shrugs. Then his eyes become clearer. “Oh, I invited him a few months ago to come to our film festival – I suspect he was already determined at the time – but I only got an automated email response.”

“Which film festival?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m the neuroscience consultant for the Mind Wanderer Film Festival.” Ng Lok Tin points to the window on an electronic billboard above the streets of East Tsim Sha Tsui, flashing through various movie posters. “Tomorrow is our last day.”

“Why would a film festival need a neuroscience consultant? I also don’t remember that you are a big film fan. “

“Hey, that was years ago,” he says sheepishly. “Anyway, now we also use ISC technology when making films. I thought Professor Lau would like to see this alternative application of technology. “

“Is that why he came back?” I mutter to myself. “Movies .”

As a young man, Professor Lau once dreamed of becoming a director, but his parents forced him to study medicine instead. Every time he got a break in his busy schedule, he rushed to the cinema to catch a new show. In our laboratory he often conducted ISC investigations with films as a stimulus. I suppose that was the best way to combine work and hobby.

“Do you really think Professor Lau has escaped from the hospital and the police just to see movies in Hong Kong?” The eyes of Ng Lok Tin grew wide with disbelief.

“Nothing so absurd.” My thoughts turn, thinking about this new angle. “But if you tell me that ISC is used in films, it is possible that he may want to use his favorite research material to prove something. Like . his common sense. Do you still have that automated email reply from him? “

Ng Lok Tin gets the email from Professor Lau on his phone. My eyes are drawn by the quote in the signature:

“The mentally defective competition, in formation.” – One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975)

I concentrate on the date of the e-mail: the day he was involuntarily committed.

When he realized that his algorithm was starting to turn him on, was Professor Lau trying to send a message through his email signature in the same way he ever tried to comfort me?

We limit the possibilities to nine impressions, the only ones that use ISC projection. Six of them are scheduled between tonight and tomorrow morning and the last three will take place simultaneously tomorrow afternoon.

From sunset to sunrise – from Yuen Long in the northeast to Sai Kung in the far west – we hurry to attend six ISC shows in six different theaters, such as a few fanatic cinephiles.

Along the way, Ng Lok Tin explains to me how the neuro-imaging technique that led to DISCO found application in interactive entertainment.

In short, in ISC projection, miniaturized fMRI equipment is used to measure the neuroactivity of each member of the audience during key scenes. Next, an ISC profile is generated that represents the overall neural response of the audience. But if the measured response of a person is two or more standard deviations from the mean profile – essentially, if the person’s neurological response is sufficiently different from that of most people – the person will see a specially designed hidden subplot. ISC-enhanced films have become very popular in Hong Kong because everyone wants to see if their brains are so unique, so above the vulgar crowd as an elegant crane towering over a herd of chickens to get the price of the special hidden subplot.

Perhaps Professor Lau wants to use an ISC-enhanced film, powered by the same technology as the surveillance cameras, to prove that his neurological response does not deviate from the average profile.

“But how do you show a different plot to just a few people in the same theater?” I ask surprised.

“You will see it soon.” Ng Lok Tin grins mysteriously.

The special advisor status of Ng Lok Tin gives us access even after the start of a show. As we walk through every dark theater, we try to identify the man we are looking for among the hundreds of faces that are half hidden under helmets and eyepieces. We do not dare to show Lau’s name, identity or photo to staff or any other public, otherwise we will betray our intentions to special government agents after the same prey and lose our chance to find Professor Lau forever.

Everyone in the audience has their neck and shoulders locked in place with rubber equipment over the back to ensure clear neuroimaging scans. The silver helmets they all wear are attached to cables and processors behind the seats.

These helmets are not suitable for immersion in VR; instead, the eyepieces active shutter lenses are synchronized with the stroboflash of the projection screen and the transmission level of the liquid crystal lens can be changed many times per second. By carefully modulating the shutter of eyepieces on two helmets, it is possible to show two viewers different frames from the same series. The refresh rate of the eyepieces must exceed 60Hz to prevent the brain from detecting jitters. Therefore, to have the same screen display two different dynamic images simultaneously during the ISC-enhanced segments – one for the main movie, the other for the hidden subplot – the screen refresh rate must therefore exceed 120Hz.

A very clever design – it preserves the common experience of watching a movie in a theater while leaving room for the select few to experience hidden subplots.

Before the most important scenes, a green light flashes off the film screen to indicate that the audience must remain seated. When the light turns red, the scan starts, each lasting 6 to 15 seconds while the movie is playing. The real-time scan data is transmitted to the processors behind the seats, corrected for linear drift and standardized. The scan result of each person is then uploaded to calculate the group correlation coefficient for the same time series. Finally, the result of each individual is compared with other results to determine the version of the film that the person will then see.

As we explore theater after theater, we experience the demise of a newspaper magnate, a beautiful dance in the rain, a monster coming out of its cocoon, a roaring blood flowing out of a gate. In the dark it is easy to see which eyepieces are not synchronized with the others via a phone camera app – such as the different glow of sea glass and seashell in moonlight.

We never find Professor Lau in the audience.

At dawn we fall on the couch in front of the last theater. Even the golden sun cannot throw away our clouds of frustration and fatigue. The last three ISC impressions are all in the afternoon and take the same time period. Even if we separate and take one theater, we miss the third show, which means a third chance that we will miss Professor Lau.

Moreover, our entire plan is based on the unproven assumption that the signature in that automatic answer was a useful hint, not our own wishful thinking.

“ISC projection is just a gimmick to get more people to the theaters, right?” I turn my head to Ng Lok Tin.
Instead of answering directly, he asks his own question. “Do you remember the argument we had just before graduation?”

“Certainly. Professor Lau invited us both to join his development team. Not only did you immediately reject the offer, but quite frankly it was also rude.”

“I was too immature then .” He bows his head and smiles uncomfortably.

I remember how Ng Lok Tin contradicted Professor Lau. There could never be an objective, unchanging definition of mental illness, he said; the diagnostic and statistical handbook evolved constantly and was updated as science and ethics evolved. The use of neuro-imaging technology in the diagnosis of mental illness had to be carefully considered. Society defined madness as the result of a combination of medicine and politics. Ultimately, an extensive and compassionate diagnosis required accountability for neuroimaging, behavioral data, social mores, and a multitude of other factors. Certain factors giving too much weight because they are easily measurable would lead to much larger problems.

Professor Lau seemed annoyed, but instead of refuting Ng Lok Tin, he had swept him away.

“Has your position changed on this issue?” I ask.

Ng Lok Tin seems to avoid my question. “Although ISC films are now a big rage in Hong Kong, did you know that technology was first invented in Dongguan, the Chinese city that strives to become the world’s leader in entertainment technology?” They have tested the technology in a few major theater chains with beta testing, but the first result was a failure. “

“What happened? Because of censorship?” On the Chinese mainland, cultural creativity is much less acceptable than technological creativity.

“Because no one has ever seen the hidden subplots during beta testing!” Ng Lok Tin bursts out laughing. “Don’t you think that is hilarious?”

I roll my eyes in this attempt at cynicism; he becomes gloomy.

“You think if you let a so-called impartial algorithm determine who is crazy or deviant, this will help people to live with more dignity and safety,” says Ng Lok Tin. “But I believe that the only thing the algorithm is good for is entertainment.”

When Professor Lau invited his two favorite students to participate in his project, Ng Lok Tin and I made opposite choices. I followed my mentor north to the mainland to develop his embryonic technology with government support. I saw no future for myself in Hong Kong, where homesick for a past that never scared people to embrace the new. An algorithm that could locate sources of violence could not be perfected without evolution in the real world, with real data, with real patients, with real consequences.

Ng Lok Tin, on the other hand, remained in the ivory tower and intended to build a delicate palace of theory, woven from jargon and figures, and to find a perfect solution that would take all factors into account somehow.

Now, ten years later, the plots of our lives seem to have taken unexpected turns.

Two years ago, on the brink of massive deployment of DISCO surveillance, Professor Lau transferred me from the core research group with the official excuse that I would be “assigned to other duties.” I was set up with a sinecure in a mental health management office in Shenzhen. Professor Lau never gave me a clear explanation of the abrupt change, but deep down I knew it was because of what happened that rainy night.

Had he already lost faith in his algorithm? Did he send me away from the evolving algorithm, hungry for all observation, to protect me? I will never know unless I find him.

Meanwhile, back in Hong Kong, where residents took to the streets to protest and blocked the installation of DISCO-enhanced surveillance cameras, Ng Lok Tin applied the same technique to peer into the deep recesses of every cinema visitor’s consciousness and manipulate them to indulge in the fantasy that they were somehow special enough to see another story.

Time makes us all traitors to the ideals of our youth. People are just too complicated to be traced to computable paths.

“Were we wrong to assume that we knew Professor Lau well enough to predict what he would do?” I let out a frustrated sigh.

Ng Lok Tin is trying to comfort me. “As long as he’s not really angry, he still has to follow reasonable behavioral patterns.”

“But even if we are right that he wants to come to the ISC shows, there is no question of being together in three different theaters at the same time.”

All three screenings are from the same film: Wong Kar-Wai’s In the Mood for Love. Ng Lok Tin is worried and stares at the qipao-clad woman on the poster. Lights flash around the poster, such as robot stars.

He shouts and jumps up.

“I’m going to take you where you can see three film screenings at the same time.”

We arrive in the central control room of the Broadway Cinematheque in Yau Ma Tei. Here we can see the real-time data from all three ISC displays, visualized in arrays of light. The other two screenings take place at the Grand Windsor Cinema in Causeway Bay and the Movie Town at Sha Tin New Town Plaza.

The staff double-checks and controls all equipment. The countdown starts on the large command screen as if the spot were about to launch a rocket instead of showing an old film about an extramarital affair. The director, known for his protection, does not allow theaters to change frames from the original film by adding flashy ISC signals for important scenes. That is why the theater has placed electronic call signs next to the screen to remind viewers when they need to be prepared for scanning.

This gives us a chance.

I never liked this movie, not because of the story itself, but because the artistic shots – streets full of buildings that imitate a past that never existed, Tong Lau homes and drenching storms that you never learn to expect – evoke memories that collapse me down like heavy rain, until I feel that I am drowning.

Ng Lok Tin notices my inconvenience. He puts an arm around my shoulder and assures me that we will find Professor Lau no matter what.

He now knows nothing about the tumult in my brain.

The film finally arrives at that famous scene in the Goldfinch Restaurant. The faint glow of the light, the green tablecloth and the wallpaper reinforce the romantic tension. Maggie Cheung stirs her coffee in a qipao with a small spoon. Tony Leung, sitting opposite her, frowns and looks melancholic. In the next scene, these neighbors will face the ugly truth: their husbands are having an affair with each other.

The ISC countdown begins and reminds the public to sit still and prepare for scanning.

A line of text appears on the telephone board.

Professor Lau, thank you for finding me. -Kiu

For most in the audience, this non-sequitur, a bit juicy, totally incompatible with the tense, oppressive mood of the scene on the screen, seems a bit random irrelevance to ignore. It is not meant for them.

But for Professor Lau, when he is among the public, his brain must automatically grab the stimulus, retrieve a certain memory from the hippocampus a long time ago and encourage the amygdala to produce an intense emotional response.

A rainy night 10 years ago.

I don’t remember anything from the beginning of the episode. After it was all over, my classmates told me that after a sudden disruption I had left my room and disappeared in the unexpected storm, through the faux-antique streets, past the buildings blurred by rain. My friends searched for me everywhere without success.

When I regained consciousness, I realized that I was standing outside the library’s 24-hour study with a sharp piece of broken glass in my hand. The students inside, their heads still buried in books, had no idea how close they were to death. They were not even aware of my presence.

Professor Lau squatted in front of me, a pale smile on his face. Blood flowed from the deep wound into his palm, dripping past his fingertips, joined in a deep crimson plaster at his feet.

“Everything is fine now, Ah-Kiu. I found you.”

He and I are the only ones who know what happened that night.

I could have been devoted. I had lost everything. But he found me and kept my secret. Why did he trust that there would be no further episodes from me? Why did he believe I had distanced myself from the edge of madness?

For some questions there are no answers. People are too complicated.

The arrays of glowing dots representing the ISC coefficients of the audience in all three theaters light up simultaneously; like hundreds of sparkling blue stars, they brighten and dim synchronously, as if breathing. Abruptly one dot blinks orange instead of blue, but after a fraction of a second it goes back to the anonymity of the arrays.

“Causeway Bay!” I run to the door.

It takes only 13 minutes to get to Causeway Bay via the Cross Harbor Tunnel, as long as the traffic is not in the way, but the drive feels like an eternity. Along the way, Ng Lok Tin and I make plans for every unforeseen event. But the most difficult factor to control is how Professor Lau will respond when we see us.

“See? It is impossible to predict individual behavior because even the slightest disturbance can lead to major deviations.” I have no idea how Ng Lok Tin can still be in the mood for a lecture. “But if we change the scale and examining humanity as a collective, we can easily distinguish predictable patterns. “

“I hope that you and Professor Lau can continue your debate 10 years ago. You have new arguments and undoubtedly too. “

Ng Lok Tin shrugs, as if he wants to say he will definitely win.

By the time we enter the theater, the credits are already rising. Slowly Ng Lok Tin and I search through the darkness and squint at the faces in each row. They all look the same half hidden under helmets and bathed in a silver lamp. I move as slowly and gently as possible; I don’t want to miss or scare the man.

Ng Lok Tin and I stop in the same row.

Professor Lau has already removed his helmet; the silver glow of the huge screen shimmers on his bare face. He looks at me and points to the screen.

I turn. A quote from Tête-Bêche, the novel on which In The Mood for Love is based, floats on the screen. In French, tête-bêche refers to a pair of adjacent stamps that are pressed upside down relative to each other.

“He remembers those years gone. As if he is looking through a dusty window, the past is something he could see but could not touch. And everything he sees is blurred and unclear. If he could break through that dusty window, he would return to those vanished years. “

My eyes shoot back to the man, afraid that he will disappear into the crowd at any moment.

He comes to us instead. Ng Lok Tin stumbles for our reunion.

“Professor Lau, we have found you,” I blurt out.

In the dark everyone waits for the end of the film.

Professor Lau Gim Wai smiles, as if he wants to say: it is not you who found me, but I who found you.

Some things, such as that orange glow that differs from a sea of ​​blue, can be measured and determined. But what cannot be measured is the significance behind that glow, the rainy night, the broken glass, the belief that madness and common sense, deviation, and conformity cannot be fixed so easily.

“I need your help,” he whispers. “DISCO is deadly flawed. Nuances of life neglected by the algorithm are crucial in determining the fate of an individual – or rather, the fate of crowds. “

Ng Lok Tin and I look at each other with a smile. This is not the end, but the beginning of a new subplot.

Chen Qiufan (also known as Stanley Chan) is a science fiction writer who lives in Beijing; his novel Waste Tide will be published by Tor Books in English in 2019. Emily Jin and Ken Liu have translated many works from Chinese science fiction and Liu’s own story ‘Byzantine Empathy’ is the latest anthology from Twit Technology Review in Twenty Technology Review.