Part I

Chapter 1 – Marcus 

A man in the front row of the bookstore atrium stands up right away and asks, “Mr. Maxwell, is it true the climax for Intellectual Property was indeed written by DeepSeek?” 

I freeze, my eyes growing two sizes too big, my mouth hanging open. No words will come out. I stare blankly at the audience from behind the table on this little elevated stage. The dark, wooden walls on either side of the bookstore cafe begin to squeeze inward. They no longer feel warm and inviting, and the aroma of smells slightly acidic. 

The standing man continues staring at me while murmurs spread through the audience. I can feel the blood running into my face, sweat breaking out on my upper lip. 

“No. Well, no. That’s not entirely true,” I say. 

The problem with becoming almost famous is the amount of people who turn up in an Omaha bookstore just to stare at you. I woke up this morning and walked directly into the wall on the right side of the bed, or the on wrong side of the bed, as it were. I wasn’t at home in Kansas anymore, but instead, in the seventh hotel room in the seventh different town on the eighth day of a three week book tour. 

“But Alan Horst of the Times reported otherwise just this morning,” the standing man says. “He’s proven that DeepSeek openly replies with the truth. Yesterday, DeepSeek suggested that it wrote your climatic scene for Intellectual Property.” 

I feel my eyes narrow to razor-thin slits and my incisors showing. “What are you suggesting?” I ask.

It is the standing man’s turn to look ill. 

“My answer remains ‘no,’ and Alan Horst can address me directly any time he’s ready,” I say. 

“Okay, folks, no more time for the open question and answer period,” Jess says. “Marcus has a packed schedule, but he’ll be available to answer individual questions while he signs your copy of Intellectual Property. Please begin queuing up against the wall over there, and thank you so much for coming out for today’s reading.” 

Jess is excellent with crowd control, the best agent I’d ever had. The only agent I’d ever had. But still. Maybe it’s her British accent? 

The audience begins to move, shuffling the standing man into their mix as some begin to form a proper line. 

Jess turns sideways and draws close to my neck. “Well, that’s news,” she says. “Looks like this is the first you’re hearing of it as well?” 

I assume she can tell from the coloring in my cheeks and sweat now rolling down my temples. 

“I need a break,” I say. 

“No time for that, love,” she says. 

“But,” I say. 

“You know how this works,” she says. “Same as all the others. No time for a break after the reading. You’ll be off again when the signing is done.” Jess glances quickly toward the line. “Looks like it’ll only take a jif.”

I glance up and see what she means. I’d been drawing fifty or more people in big box bookstores across the Midwest all week. But the allegation in standing man’s question, or perhaps my snarky response to him, seems to have turned this crowd away. 

“Okay, I’m going to call Sal and see what in the world has happened,” Jess says. “Big smile and be nice to your fans. There is no ‘Bestselling Author Marcus Maxwell’ without these lovely people.” She dashes toward the front door, head down, fingers furiously typing on her phone. 

I grab for the coffee carafe by my feet and bring it up to the table, wishing there was something a little Irish mixed in this morning. How long has it been? After pouring a short burst of steamy black courage into my cup, I look up at the line. Standing man has been pushed to the front, apparently encouraged to go first by his fellow patrons. 

I put on my camera-worthy smile and motion for standing man to come on up to the table. No harm done, mate.  While he begins slowly walking toward me, I uncap my pen and steal a short glance toward the front window. That’s when I saw Jess, bent at the waist, hands on knees, letting out a big puff of air from her cheeks. Not much of a poker face this time. Sal Cicero must have delivered bad news. 

***

Chapter 2 – Alan 

I stare up at the ceiling, reclining as far back as my desk chair will go, and realize again how small my office is. Four water-stained ceiling tiles deep by five ceiling tiles wide. But I’ve earned this space, and I’m not inclined to move back out to the bullpen. 

I bring my attention back to the call when I hear a break in the ranting. “Look, Mr. Cicero, as I’ve explained twice already to you, DeepSeek has been collecting IP addresses and personal contact information since it’s inception,” I say.  

“Just to be clear, Mr. Horst, this ‘AI’ will openly relay personal information to anyone who asks?” Sal Cicero asks. 

“Yes,” I say. 

There is a long pause on the line. I suspect the gravity of this new development is rolling over Mr. Cicero harder than he expected. For years, publishers like him could bury the facts of ghostwriting and whole editorial rewrites from the media. “Of course it’s the authors original work,” they would say. “The normal relationship between writer and editor,” they would boast. But this new era of large language models and unedited truth behind AI is different. 

“Marcus denies using any large language model while writing Intellectual Property, and I stand behind my writer,” Sal says. 

“Mr. Cicero, I respect your stance and understand this puts you in an uncomfortable situation,” I say. 

“Do not patronize me, young man,” Sal says. “I’m twice your age and have forgotten more about journalism than you’ve yet to learn. We’ll be in touch.” 

Three digital tones tell me the line has gone dead. 

I’ve been threatened by far worse than a publisher. My rise in the Times was much attributed to work disclosing the corruption in the last Presidential Cabinet. My car was melted to the pavement on a visit to D.C. I was warned that next time I’d be strapped in the driver’s seat. Sal Cicero’s veiled threats were a far cry from murder. 

I rub the weariness from my eyes and stare through the interior window out to the bullpen. Forty years ago, this cavernous brick-walled room was filled with desks pushed together in twos, electric typewriters cracking out stories, runners ready to deliver words to the editors, and then to the press operators. 

When I showed up twenty years ago, thin cubicle walls had been erected to create semi-private space for the reporters, salespeople, and advertisers alike. The last wisps of smoke began to disappear shortly thereafter, banishing those with bad habits onto the balconies overlooking Farragut Square. They stared down on dozens of citizens stuffing their faces at the multitude of food vendors lining the park. Which bad habit is worse? 

Reporters and journalists were still revered for relaying facts just a few years back. Cold, hard, indisputable facts that we’d worked hard to pull from savvy interviews or confidential sources. The internet, with its social media platforms, soon opened up opinions and rhetorical comments for the whole world, making everyone a reporter and blurring the factual lines. Forever? 

Could we ever get back to the facts? My heart tells me yes, and that’s why I stay in this business through the tumultuous times. My faith was shaken when I learned just how disruptive a President and his den of cabinet thieves could become. 

That’s when AI started to become an ally, not an adversary. As dangerous as disclosing IP addresses and personal information can be, it made it nearly impossible to hide the facts of a typed email or search history. 

“It was my executive assistant, or it was my chief of staff,” became the cries of the most senior leaders in America. Shameful. And as I assumed, untruthful. 

So when I began to do some digging on an arrogant up-and-coming writer about his take on Intellectual Property, it was surprising and enlightening to learn his truth. Marcus wasn’t only tied to Sal Cicero. His agent was the fiery Jessica Stone. 

*** 

Chapter 3 – Marcus 

The backseat of our big black sedan feels sterile, the thin leather seats, plastic doors dressed up by fake chrome accents, and rubber floor mats. I stare out the window as we’re whisked away from the big box bookstore. 

“Sal spoke to Alan Horst,” Jess says. She uncharacteristically stops talking, breaking me out of my daze. She’s waiting for me to tell my side of the story. 

“Alan Horst is a liar,” I say. That’s all I want to offer right now, but I feel Jess’s gaze burning a hole into the side of my head. 

“So that’s it then,” she says. “We just explain to everyone that Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Alan Horst decided to pick a fight with author Marcus Maxwell for no good reason… and tell a lie?” 

“Best-selling author,” I say. Jess lets out a sigh. 

I turn in my seat to hold her eyes. “Look Jess, I didn’t do what he’s accusing me of,” I say. “My stories are from my head. From my heart.” 

“What if we ask DeepSeek, just the two of us, right now in this back seat?” she asks. “Can we do that, just to see what it says?” 

I can feel my eyes glaze over again. I’ve only known Jess for a year. She agreed to take me on as a client after reading the first chapter of Intellectual Property, a risk for such an accomplished agent. But she knew as well as I did how good this story could be. She trusted that I would listen to an editor and work with a publishing house to make this great novel into something truly special. And so we did. 

Now, Jessica Stone is trying to clear her conscience and restore her faith in me. “Let’s do it,” I say. She looks instantly relieved, and I’m just as curious in my own way to see what the AI has to offer. 

“Do you have the DeepSeek app?” she asks. 

My stone-cold stare is all she needs in reply, quickly opening the app store on her phone. 

It takes several minutes to download and set up a new account on cell service alone, so we’re just arriving at the airport when it’s all finally ready to launch. 

“Should we wait until we’re at the gate?” I ask, as we climb from the rear seats and back out into the breezy Omaha afternoon. 

“Let’s get on with it,” she says. And so we do. Jess types the proverbial question. “Did Marcus Maxwell write any portion of his novel Intellectual Property using AI?” Enter. 

DeepSeek begins it’s response faster than I expect. AI must have answered this question a thousand times already today. I read the indicting evidence at the same pace as Jess. 

“An IP address registered to an apartment leased by author Marcus Maxwell was used to develop the courtroom litigation and climatic admission from a scene nearly identical to said author’s only novel, Intellectual Property. There is a 99.9996% probability that Marcus Maxwell used AI to write portions of this novel.” 

I look away too quickly, and take several steps toward the terminal entrance. What else am I supposed to do? Where else am I supposed to go? That’s when I catch the tears running down Jess’s cheeks. 

Before I can make another move, she holds her open palm up toward me as a warning. Do not come any closer. Her head shakes side to side, and she begins rolling her bag in the opposite direction. 

*** 

Chapter 4 – Alan  

My disclosure piece on Marcus Maxwell is trending on all media platforms before mid-day. The “Books” section of our company is rather upset that I would call out one of their bestsellers. I try not to laugh at the department head who sends me and the Editor-in-Chief a scathing message. He calls me a twit and a traitor amongst other racier words. 

Just then, an email pops in from [email protected]. What a twit. The title simply reads, “we need to talk asap.” There is only a phone number in the body, and I assume it’s his. At least I hope I don’t go through a publisher and an agent for this discussion. Marcus and I need to have a straight talk, not some management-filtered buffoonery. 

I presumed this conversation was coming but wasn’t expecting it so soon. As any good journalist would, I had prepared my questions and follow-ons while writing the story, ensuring that I could account for my accusations. But I’ve got a wild card up my sleeve for this talk. 

The news room is already winding down for the day, only those quietly perfecting their final submissions still stuck in their cubicles. I decide to call Marcus from work. Hard conversations are rarely made easier for me by waiting. I like the advantage of catching my opponents while they’re still emotional. 

“This is Marcus,” he says, picking up on the first ring. I hear significant crowd noise in the background. 

“Good afternoon, Marcus,” I say. “This is Alan Horst with the Times.” 

“You dirty rat,” he says. “Since when did AI become a qualified source for factual information? Shortly after you started quoting Wikipedia?” 

“I stand by the reputation of DeepSeek, ChatGPT, and most other large language models,” I say. “Apparently, so do you with the juiciest parts of your new book?” 

I don’t particularly feel that my story needs defending, but I also shouldn’t be so antagonizing. I’ve already proved to my readers that AI is reliable enough to discredit the Cabinet. It’s certainly reliable enough to discredit an unknown author. 

I hear a boarding announcement for a flight to Dallas and understand Marcus is sitting in an airport. No wonder he has time for a conversation. 

“Are we off the record?” Marcus asks. 

“That’s up to you,” I say. 

“Go ahead and publish the part about being a dirty rat,” he says. “But this is off the record.” 

“Sure, why not?” I ask. “Go ahead then.” 

“I don’t deny using AI to help frame the story arc for Intellectual Property,” he says. 

My silence, partially from the unexpected admission with so little prodding, encourages him to continue. I can’t help the grin spreading across my face. 

“Help me understand how it works,” he says. “This AI believes it wrote my story. Just because I searched terms and story arc ideas on DeepSeek, the application now believes it ‘wrote’ my story?” 

“The short answer, yes,” I say. “If you ask AI to compose any portion of your book, and then use its language in your book, then yes.” 

“And AI somehow records my connection to it and publicly relays this information?” he asks. 

“Yes, it will,” I reply. “In my experience, once AI is able to reliably connect an IP address to a person, it considers this information to be factual. Now, so does the Federal Government.” 

“A great service you’ve done for America,” he says. “Why did you target me?”

The million dollar question from all of my subjects. I usually find an odd quote or unexplainable action by an individual or company that makes me want to dig a little more. But sometimes there is more. Something personal. 

“I was curious about your sudden success,” I say. “Your quick rise from obscurity.” 

“I’m hardly the first breakout author,” he says. “That term has been around for decades. So how about the truth?” 

“Are we still off the record?” I ask. 

“It’s your story,” he replies. 

“How well do you know Jessica Stone?” I ask. “About her personal relationships with writers? And how would you describe your relationship with her?” 

There is a significant delay, and I’m not sure that we’re still connected. 

“I didn’t use AI to write my novel,” he says. “You can put that on the record, along with being a dirty rat.” 

Three digital tones tell me the line has gone dead. 

I’m no longer offended when people hang up on me. At least they’re not slamming a receiver into the cradle. These cold conversation-enders let me know that I’m on the right track. Besides, now Marcus Maxwell will seek out the whole truth about his femme fatale agent, Jessica Stone. 

***