All the screens suddenly beamed to life in unison, displaying deep blue backgrounds with several open computer windows on each.  Some had scrolling lines of text, some with bouncing graphs, and the entire center screen displayed various pictures in a rapid process of comparing them side by side, with tiny square blocks simultaneously appearing around various sections of both images.

Saad didn’t understand precisely how artificial intelligence worked, but he was familiar with the underlying approach—computers programmed to examine and measure based on mathematical algorithms of complex patterning.  Logical patterning which emulated human thought on a set of predefined criteria and values.

In other words, looking for items of relational similarities at speeds and levels of granularity that humans could not.  Relational connections was the term one of the engineers had used.

He remained motionless in his chair, watching the continuous activity across his screens.  The tiny squares moved from pixel to pixel, searching for unseen connections, from one hand-drawn picture to another.

He didn’t know exactly what they were looking for or what a computer would ultimately decide was connected, but at this point, he had nothing to lose.  He needed to use every tool available to him if he would have any chance of succeeding.

The original of each picture was still safely preserved in his concrete-lined thinking room located sixty feet below the massive villa.  All of them had long since been digitized in ultrahigh definition imagery—millions of pixels per page, down to the tiniest speck of hand-drawn color, scrutinized pixel by pixel.  Some of these pictures had been drawn nearly fifty years before.

***

As the Nextant 400’s powerful twin engines spun up, Dr. Layla Abo’s eyes moved from face to face, searching for signs of anxiety or anything else she may have missed.  But she found nothing.  Each child sat quietly and obediently in their seat, looking straight ahead or down at the dark carpeted flooring.

Only one was looking back at her—a small girl from a village in western Zambia with short hair and dark brown eyes.  She curiously watched the psychiatrist, as the woman moved back down the aisle.

She was bright and intelligent, as were the others.  She had no family and was already conditioned to being alone, which was ideal.  Quiet, introverted and thoughtful, she spoke only when spoken to and was surprisingly articulate when she did.

The small group had been carefully chosen after undergoing numerous tests and psychological evaluations, ensuring both she and Mido Saad were getting the cream of the crop.  At least as much as one could be certain, given their options.

Eight-year-old Eshe glanced down when the woman neared her seat, only looking up again when she had passed.  Her eyes then moved to the man standing at the front of the airplane wearing no expression and dressed in dark clothing, patiently waiting for the woman to finish examining the children.