Destination: Void: Prequel to the Pandora Sequence (17 page)

Chapter 23

I feel the duties of a creator toward this Artificial Consciousness. It seems to me that my primary goal must be to render this creature happy, to provide it whatever joy I can. Else this entire project seems pointless. There already are enough unhappy creatures in this universe.

—Raja Lon Flattery, Private Communion with the Ox

It took several minutes for the incoming message to search its way through the AAT and the Ox-accretions which Bickel had added to the system. They were tense minutes in Com-central. Flattery’s gaze swept back and forth across the telltales of his board. There were big unknowns about the system now and any input might elicit strange behavior from dangerous quarters.

Behavior!
Flattery thought, catching the word in his own mind.

There were anthropomorphic assumptions in that word.

Why should it play by our rules?

In the shop, Bickel felt his own waiting tensions. Was the incoming message going to be more garbage?

Prudence, standing near him, sensed the unwashed musks of his body, all the evidences of his concentration on their mutual problem.

Why not? He wants to live as much as I do.

Bickel swept his gaze across the repeater telltales in the shop, watched the needles kick over and come to rest in the normal range. There came the characteristic sharp AAT hum, felt now in the shop because the Ox was part of the circuitry. The sound raised a tingling sensation along Bickel’s sides and arms.

The gauges registered the usual AAT pause. The multiple bursts of the message were being sorted, compared, translated, and fed into the output net.

Bickel glanced at the screen, saw that Flattery had the system on audio.

Morgan Hempstead’s voice began rolling from the vocoders:

“This is Project calling UMB ship
Earthling.
This is Project calling. We are unable to give an exact determination of the force that damaged the ship. We suggest an error in transmission or insufficient data. The possibility of an encounter with a neutrino field of theoretical type A-G is suggested by one analysis. Why have you failed to acknowledge our directive on return procedure?”

Bickel watched his gauges. The message was coming in with remarkable clarity, no garbling at all apparent now that it was routed through the Ox circuits.

There came the distinct sound of Hempstead clearing his throat.

It gave Prudence a peculiar feeling to hear this ordinary sound—a man clearing his throat. The inconsequential thing had been transmitted millions of miles to no effect other than to inform them Hempstead had been troubled by a bit of phlegm.

Again, Hempstead’s voice rolled from the vocoders: “UMB is being subjected to heavy, repeat heavy political pressures as regards the abort order. You will acknowledge this transmission immediately. The ship is to be returned to orbit around UMB while disposition is made of yourselves and cargo.”

“That’s an awful word—disposition,” Prudence said. She glanced at Bickel. He seemed to be taking it calmly.

Flattery could feel the heavy beating of his heart. He wondered if the next few words would bring that deadly “kill ship” code signal from Hempstead.

Bickel stared at the vocoder with a puzzled frown. How clear Hempstead’s voice sounded—even to the throat clearing which the AAT should have filtered from the message. He shifted his attention to the Ox’s surrealistic growth on the computer wall.

Again, Hempstead’s voice intruded: “We expect from this transmission a more complete analysis of your damage. The nature and extent of the damage of paramount importance. Acknowledge at once. Project over and out.”

Bickel kept his voice low, casual. “Prue, how’d old Big Daddy sound to you?”

“Worried,” Prudence said. And she wondered why Bickel, with his inhibitions against return, could take this so calmly.

“If you wanted to convey the emotions in someone’s message, how would you do it, Prue?” Bickel asked.

She looked at him, puzzled. “I’d label the emotion or imitate the tone of the original. Why?”

“The AAT isn’t supposed to be able to do that,” Bickel said. He looked up, meeting Flattery’s eyes in the screen. “Don’t acknowledge that transmission, Raj.”

“The AAT’s working better than ever?” Prudence asked.

“No,” Bickel said. “It’s working in a way it shouldn’t be able to. The laser-burst message is stripped to bare essentials. The original voice modulations are there, theoretically, and often strong enough to recognize certain mannerisms, but subtleties are supposed to be beyond it. That last message was high fidelity.”

“The Ox circuits make the system more sensitive,” she said.

“Maybe,” Bickel said.

“Was there nerve-net activity accompanying that?’ Flattery asked.

“A fish has nerve-net activity,” Bickel said. “Nerve-net activity doesn’t mean the thing’s conscious.”

“But sensitized the way consciousness is,” Flattery said.

Bickel nodded.

“Selective raising and lowering of thresholds,” Flattery said. “Threshold control.”

Again Bickel nodded.

“What’s this?” Prudence asked.

“This thing”—Bickel pointed to the Ox—“has just demonstrated threshold control … the way we do when we recognize something.” He looked at her. “When you lower your reception threshold you spread the spatio-temporal message and project it across an internal ‘recognition aura’ for mental comparison. The message is a spatio-temporal configuration which you superimpose on a recognition region. That recognition region can discriminate quite broadly between ‘just right,’ which is maximum similarity, and a kind of blurring off you could call ‘somewhat alike.’ Threshold control does the tuning for this kind of comparison.”

With precisely controlled motions, Bickel returned to the circuitry he had been working on when the UMB message interrupted him. He picked up a sheaf of fibers, noting the neuron tag on them and slid the sheaf into a micro-manipulator where he finished the connection to a multijack.

In Com-central, Flattery stretched out his left hand, gripped the stanchion beside his action couch until his knuckles went white.

They were disobeying Hempstead in an outright, flagrant way. The chaplain-psychiatrist had precise instructions about such a contingency.
Obey! If others try to stop you, blow the ship.
But he could feel how Bickel was closing in on the solution to the Project’s overriding problem. They were near success. That certainly allowed a bit of latitude.

Who can tell me what to to do, O my soul? Who can tell me, where my soul might be?

The words of the 139th Psalm slithered through his mind: “
I
will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”

Do we betray God by making something fearful and wonderful?
he wondered.

“Our Father which art in Heaven,” he whispered.

But I am in the heavens,
he thought.
And the heavens expose me still to spiritual risk!

The sound of Bickel and Prudence working in the shop was almost a carrier wave for his thoughts.

Faith and knowledge,
he thought. And he sensed the eternal clash that now had taken his body as its arena—knowledge thrusting at the boundaries of faith. And he felt the constructive emotions his faith was engineered to contain.

I
could end this nonsense,
he thought.
But we’re all in the same bind and violence betrays us.

“Religion and psychiatry are but two branches of the healing art.” He remembered the words clearly. The lecturer in “Uses of Faith,” the second-year course preparing him for this role. “Religion and psychiatry share the same stem.”

Heal thyself,
he thought. Tears started from his eyes. Where were the faith, the hope and the laughter—the love and creativeness he had been enjoined to employ?

Flattery looked up through his tears, saw in the screen both Bickel and Prudence ignoring him, so intent were they on the project.

See how their hands touch,
Flattery thought.

He felt guilt at the sight and remembered Brooks’ admonition: “Keep clear of concealment; keep clear of the need of concealment.”

“What an awful hour when we first meet the necessity of hiding something,” he whispered. “Please God, have I forgotten how to pray?”

Flattery ignored the vital console in front of him, closed his eyes, and gripped the stanchion fiercely. “The Lord is my shepherd,” he whispered. “I shall not want.”

But the words had lost their power over him.

There are no still waters here … or green pastures,
he thought.

There never had been these things for him—or for any of them out of the axlotl tanks and the UMB’s sterile crèches. There had only been the valley of the shadow of death.

“Do Not Broach This Hatch Without Reading Air Pressure In The Next Passage.”

Every morning on his way to classes—eleven years—he had passed through the hatch with that warning.

“No Travel Beyond This Point Without Full Spacesuit.”

That omnipresent sign had set the boundaries on their untrammeled activity. It still did.

The suit was like another social inhibition setting its own limits of behavior. It restricted your contact with other humans, reduced you to code tappings and depersonalized vuphones where every person became like a dancing doll on an oscilloscope screen.

The omnipresent enemy was the
outside
—that total absence of the things to support life that emptiness called space. It was evil and they feared it—constantly. A rod and staff might comfort in the presence of space, but what you dreamed about was washed air and a womblike enclosed cell where you could divest yourself of the damnable suit. This was the true source of comfort no matter if it came from the Devil himself.

The only table you could count on in the presence of this enemy was a squeeze bottle slid from its rack. Oil on the head could only fog a faceplate. You had to crop your hair short and keep down the natural oils with detergent.

Goodness and mercy?
That was anything which preserved the hope that you could one day walk unsuited beneath an open sky.

I’ve lost my faith,
Flattery thought.
God, why have You taken my faith from me?

“Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God,” he whispered.

You were a fool, Matthew,
he thought.
A harlot can’t regain her virginity.

“The whole universe is a matter of chemistry and mechanics, of matter and energy,” he whispered.

But only God was supposed to have complete control of manipulating the matter and energy.

We aren’t gods,
Flattery thought.
We’re blaspheming by trying to make a machine that thinks of itself by itself. That is why I was set to watch over this mission. We blaspheme by trying to put a soul into a machine. I should go down there now and smash the whole thing!

“Raj!”

It was Bickel’s voice booming from the intercom.

Flattery looked up at the screen, his mouth suddenly dry.

“I’m getting independent action on the photosensory loops of the computer’s record-and-store circuits,” Bickel said. ‘Prue, check the current drain.”

“Normal,” she said. “It’s no short circuit.”

“It … isn’t conscious,” Flattery said, his voice wooden.

“Agreed,” Bickel said. “But what the hell is it? The computer’s programming itself in every …” There came a charged moment of silence then: “Damn!”

“What happened?” Prue demanded.

“It stopped,” Bickel said.

“What … set it off?” Flattery asked.

“I tied an inhibitor block into one arm of a single nerve-net simulator and sent a test pattern through it. The test evidently set up a resonant pattern that searched right through the Ox and into the computer net via the monitor connections. That’s when I started getting the self-programming reaction.”

Prudence sighted along her finger, moving it to trace a thick color-coded connection that looped down from the Ox. “The monitor linkage goes only one way into record-and-store. It’s buffered right there.”

Bickel pulled the connection she indicated.

“What’re you doing?” she asked.

“Disconnecting. I’m going to get the pattern of the experiment out of the memory banks and analyze it before proceeding.”

Silence.

Flattery stared up at the screen with a deep sense of repugnance which he knew was grounded in his religious training.

It had been drummed into him: “You are not precisely someone. You are a clone.”

There had always been too much emphasis on that statement for him to accept it completely. He understood the reasons for this conditioning, though, and accepted them.

But what about this thing that Bickel’s making?

UMB had a complete bank of clones sufficient to recreate the
Earthling’s
crew precisely as it had been at the moment of launching. Minor variables might intrude and the Organic Mental Cores could be different. He had never pinned that one down but he knew it was cheaper to take OMCs from damaged humans than to clone them and prepare them for the ship.

In a strange way the OMCs might be more genetically human than the crew.

Flattery knew he was not supposed to feel guilt at the thought of killing the ship—himself included. The message had been clear: “We can recreate all of you here on the Moon. You are infinite. You cannot completely die because your cells will live on and on.”

My exact cells?
he wondered.
My exact consciousness?

But wasn’t that the central problem of this whole project?

What is consciousness?

Again, he looked at the screen.
If I kill the ship/ computer/brain now
…
will I be killing someone?

Chapter 24

Over a long period of time, clones offer us an extremely valuable tool for determining genetic drift. It is clear that our cloning techniques at UMB permit us to clone a clone indefinitely. Ten thousand years from now we could possess genetic material which is contemporary with this very moment … now! Perhaps this will be of greater service to humankind than the understanding of consciousness.

—Morgan Hempstead,
Lectures at Moonbase

Routine sensor firings sent telltale lights flickering across the computer wall. The passage of the lights produced a weird shift in the shop’s illumination. The curved bulkhead opposite the computer face reflected yellow, then green, now mauve … red.

The color shift passed across a chart in Timberlake’s hand as he read it and compared the chart’s predictions with the readings in front of him,

The overhead screen showed Prudence on Com-central about midway through her watch and Flattery dozing in his action couch.

Strange he wouldn’t take off for quarters,
Timberlake thought.

Bickel emerged from between the Ox’s two branchings just as a wash of green splashed down on him from the wall.… “That last reading’s off only .008,” Timberlake said.

“Insignificant,” Bickel said. “Waveforms?’

Timberlake nodded at the oscilloscope in front of him, feeling a sharp pain shoot through his neck. He felt tired and stiff. Bickel had driven them, working through three shifts. Timberlake rubbed his neck.

Bickel turned from studying the scope. “Remember I told you to remind me about all the oscillations involved in life? Rhythms, vibrations—just one great big series of drumbeats.”

“Yeah,” Timberlake said. “You about ready for the fullscale run-through?”

Bickel stared at the flickering lights reluctant to move now that the moment of test had come. He knew the source of his reluctance—the secret thing he had done, and fear of its consequences.

One more test … and then … what?

Black box
—
white box.

“You think it’s not going to work?” Timberlake asked. He felt impatient with Bickel but sensed this couldn’t be pushed.

“The human nervous system—including the region of the brain we assume influences consciousness—has come through one hell of a lot of tests,” Bickel said.

“And this thing …” Timberlake nodded toward the Ox, “is a logically simple analogue of the human brain.”

“Logical simplicity has damn little bearing on our problem. We’re engineering something, all right, but not by the old bridge-building rules.”

He’s stalling,
Timberlake thought.
Why?
“Then what’re we doing?”

“It doesn’t take much, just a word sometimes to upset the logical applecart,” Bickel said. “The brain’s had to meet a lot of requirements that had nothing whatsoever to do with design simplicity. For one thing, it had to survive while it developed. Its size and shape had a bearing on that. It had to adapt existing structure to new functions.”

Bickel met Timberlake’s eyes. “The human brain’s an obvious hybrid mating of function and structure. There are strengths in that, but weaknesses, too.”

“So?” Timberlake said, and shrugged. “What’s upsetting the applecart now?”

“Raj’s talking about psychospace and psychorelationships. That damn causal track of neuron impulses spreading out to form new kinds of space. It’s quite possible for our
normal
universe to be twisted through an infinite number of psychospaces.”

“Yeah?” Timberlake stared at him, wondering at the fear in Bickel’s voice.

Bickel went on: “There can be an infinite number of types of consciousness. Every time I come near turning this thing loose, I start wondering what space it’ll inhabit.”

“Raj and his damn horror stories,” Timberlake said.

Bickel continued to stare at the Ox structure, wondering if he had done the right thing to act secretly.

Was this damn electronic maze going to create its own guilt?

To reach a level where it could accept a black-box imprint the Ox-cum-computer had to surmount barriers, Bickel knew. It had to flex its mental muscles. And guilt
was
a barrier.

By blank-space programming, supplying data with obvious holes in it, he had inserted an information series on the subject of death. The on-line operative command was for the computer to fill in the gaps. Now, by parallel insertion of the address data for the life-maintenance program on a cow embryo in the farm-stock hyb tanks, Bickel had provided the computer with a simple way to fill the gaps in its information.

It could kill the embryo.

I had to act secretly,
Bickel told himself.
I couldn’t ring in Timberlake
—
not with his inhibitions. And any of the others might’ve told Tim.

“You think we’re missing some fault in the system?” Timberlake asked. “What’s bugging you? The fact that the random search stopped of its own accord?’

“No.” Bickel shook his head. “That search pattern ran into an irregularity, a threshold it couldn’t cross.”

“Then what’s holding you back, for Christ’s sake?”

Bickel swallowed. He found it required increasing effort to hold his attention on an unbroken thread of reasoning where it concerned bringing the Ox to consciousness. There was a sensation of swimming against a stiff current.

With what kind of a mirror can consciousness look at itself?
he wondered.
How can the Ox say: “This is myself?” What will it see?

“Human nervous systems have the same kinds of irregularities and imperfections,” Timberlake said. “Their properties vary statistically.”

Bickel nodded agreement. Timberlake was right. That was the reason they had introduced random error into the Ox—statistical imperfection.

“You worrying about pulse regulation?” Timberlake asked.

Bickel shook his head. “No.” He put his palm against a plastic-encased neuron block protruding from the Ox. “We’ve got a homeostat whose main function is dealing with errors—with negative reality. Consciousness is always looking at the back side of whatever confronts us, always staring back at us.”

“You’ve left the gaps in it so it’ll need us,” Timberlake said. “You’re fussed about threshold regulation.”

Bickel looked at Timberlake, thinking:
Threshold? Yes, that was part of it.
The brain cells and peripheral neurons in a human tied together so that their differences averaged out. You got the effect of smooth gradation. The effect. Illusion.

“We’re missing something,” Bickel muttered.

Timberlake wondered at the fear in Bickel’s voice, the way the man’s head turned from side to side like a caged animal.

“If this thing takes off on its own, we have no control over it,” Bickel said. “Raj is right.”

“Raj’s Golem stories!” Timberlake sneered.

“No,” Bickel was fearfully serious. “This thing has new
kinds
of memories. They have only the vaguest relationship to human memories. But memories Tim—the nerve gets stacked in psychospaces—they’re the patterns that create behavior. What’s this thing going to do when we turn it on … if we don’t give it experiences of the kind the human race has survived?”

“You don’t
know
what the racial traumas are and that’s where you’re hung up.”

The voice was Flattery’s, and they looked up to the overhead screen to see him sitting still half-cocooned in his action couch and rubbing sleep from his eyes. Beyond him, Prudence maintained her vigil at the big board as though that were the only thing concerning her.

Bickel suppressed a feeling of irritation with Flattery. “You’re the psychiatrist. Isn’t knowledge of trauma supposed to be one of your tools?”

“You’re asking about racial trauma,” Flattery said. “We can only guess at racial trauma.”

Flattery stared out of the screen at Bickel, thinking:
John’s panicky. Why? Because the Ox suddenly started acting on its own?

“We have to bring this thing into being,” Bickel said, looking at the Ox. “But we can’t be sure what it is. This is the ultimate stranger. It can’t be like one of us. And if it’s different … yet alive and aware of its aliveness …”

“So you start casting around in your mind for ways to make it more like us,” Flattery said.

Bickel nodded.

“And you think we’re the products of our racial and personal trauma?” Flattery asked. “You don’t think consciousness is the apparent effect of a receptor?”

“Dammit, Raj!” Bickel snapped. “We’re within a short leap of solving this thing! Can’t you feel that?”

“But you wonder,” Flattery said, “are we making a creature that’ll be invulnerable … at least invulnerable to us?”

Bickel swallowed.

“You think,” Flattery went steadily on, “this beast we’re creating has no sexual function; it can’t possibly be like us. It has no flesh; it can’t possibly know what flesh fears and loves. So now you’re asking: How do we simulate flesh and sex and the racial sufferings through which humans have blundered? The answer’s obvious: We can’t do this. We don’t know all our own instincts. We can’t sort the shadows and reflections out of our history.”

“We can sort out some of them,” Bickel insisted. “We have an instinct to … win … to survive for …” He wet his lips with his tongue, looked around at the computer wall.

“Perhaps that’s only hubris,” Flattery said. “Maybe this is just monkey curiosity and we won’t be satisfied until we’ve been creators the way God’s a creator. But then it may be too late to turn back.”

As though he hadn’t heard, Bickel said. “And there’s the killer instinct. That one goes right down into the slime where it was kill or be killed. You can see the other side of it all the time in our instinct to play it safe … to be practical’.”

He has done something secret,
Flattery thought.
What has Bickel done? He has done something he’s afraid of.

“And guilt feelings are grafted right onto that killer instinct,” Bickel said. “That’s the buffer … the way we keep human behavior within limits. If we implant …”

“Guilt involves sin,” Flattery said. “Where do you find in either religion or psychiatry a
need
for sin?’

“Instinct’s just a word,” Bickel said. “And we’re a long way from the word’s source. What is it? We can raise fifty generations of chickens from embryo to chick in test tubes. They never see a shell. But the fifty-first generation, raised normally under a hen, still knows to peck its way out.”

“Genetic imprint,” Flattery said.

“Imprint.” Bickel nodded. “Something stamped on us. Stamped hard. Oh, we know. We know these instincts without ever bringing them to consciousness. They’re what lower our awareness, make us angry, violent, passionate …” Again, he nodded.

What has he done?
Flattery asked himself.
He’s panicky because of it. I have to find out!

“The Cain-and-Abel syndrome,” Bickel said. “Murder and guilt. It’s back there someplace … stamped inside us. The cells remember.”

“You haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re saying,” Flattery accused. “You’re separating positive and negative pairs, confusing moral judgments with reasoning, reversing the normal course of—”

“Reversing!” Bickel pounded. “That’s what I was trying to think of—reversing. The ability to turn pleasure into pain or pain into pleasure … that’s a part of consciousness we haven’t—”

“That’s sickness,” Flattery said.

“The power to be sane is also the power to go mad,” Bickel said. “Your own words!”

Flattery stared out of the screen at him, caught up short by this turn of the argument … and a sudden suspicion about what Bickel could have done.

“You know,” Timberlake said, speaking in a low, reasonable tone, “if an instinct is something to which the whole system must refer in a moment of stress, that’s something like a computer’s trapping function mated to a supervisory program.”

“We’re beyond the point of engineering and have been for some time,” Flattery said.

“Right back where we started from,” Bickel agreed. “We can duplicate synapses with unijunction transistors; juggle conduction rate and absolute refractory periods by choice of pseudoneuron fibers, fit our neural networks with multiplying and inhibitory endbulbs at will … but, in the end, we always come up against that inescapable question …”

“How do you control what must remain beyond control? I’ve already told you.
Love.”

“You don’t control it,” Bickel declared. “You merely
aim
it … and the aiming device has to be instincts. As you say, Raj, it must love us, be loyal to us. But does that mean it will worship us? Are we to be its gods? And if it’s to be loyal, does that mean it has to have a conscience? Can there be loyalty without a conscience? And can it have a conscience without experiencing guilt?”

“Guilt’s a prison!” Flattery protested. “You can’t imprison a free—”

“Who says it has to be free?” Bickel demanded. “You’re arguing against yourself! That’s the whole damned idea: How do we control it? When you come right down to it: Am I free? Are you?”

Flattery glared at him.

“We’re instinct-ridden, conscience-ridden bits of protoplasm,” Bickel said.

“What instincts?” Flattery asked.

“You sound like a damn broken record!” Bickel snapped. “What instincts? You can’t trace the instincts! Well, for one thing, we’ve an instinct to kill—to kill and eat. We don’t really give one particle of a damn where we get our energy—not down there in the psychic basement we don’t.”

“If it were only that simple,” Flattery said.

“When you get below stairs it is,” Bickel said. “I don’t need a doctorate in psychiatry to tell me what I’d do if the veneer were stripped off.”

“You’d revert to the savage, eh? To the animal!”

“To find out what’s engineered into the system, you’re damn right I would! What the hell have you head doctors been studying all these years with your dreams and your complexes and your Christ? You’ve trapped yourselves into an endless formal dance with fixed postures and … Christ! You remind me of a pack of fops doing the minuet!”

“We’ve employed reverence and caution to approach God in Man,” Flattery said. “You don’t gouge into the human psyche with an egg beater and stir up all the—”