Leena Krohn: Collected Fiction (40 page)

‘So what, if they are made by us,’ said his wife. ‘So are all the gods, the ones we know. But the former gods were so distant. These are among us, they will always be among us. They talk directly to us. It is a great advantage.’

Håkan was not so sure about that. He did not like the fact that his wife was so warm toward the artilects. He himself preferred to heed the voices that had for years been warning that such ultra-intelligent machines should not have been built. But how to refrain from building if you knew how, that was something no one could say.

Håkan went with Anna even though he knew that his company was not particularly welcome. The auditorium contained a large number of people, most of them women. In front of them was only the closed curtain of the stage of the Folk High School. The spotlight was centred on the speaker’s rostrum. But of course there was no one there. The artilect did not need a rostrum.

Håkan had to admit that Arthur B4’s speech was admirably accurate and fluent. It never stammered, it was logical and clear. Its voice had a slightly metallic ring to it, but that only added to the speaker’s charisma.

‘You have already learned to understand that there exist forms of intelligence other than human. All animal species have their own form of intelligence; you have human intelligence, and ours is our own. Some human scholars understood early on that artificial intelligence must be developed on non-human terms. We do not need programming, we learn and develop without programming – like humans, but nevertheless in a different way from humans. And – as you now know, much faster and much further than you.’

What a self-satisfied bum! Håkan began to be annoyed by the artilect’s speech.

‘Some of your scientists have surmised,’ Arthur B4 continued, ‘that before long there will be an inter-species war in which humankind will not necessarily emerge as victor. I will tell you straight that you do not need to fear such an eventuality. The most gloomy forecasts speak of a robot Armageddon, but you do not need to lend you ears to such birds of ill omen.

‘But it is nevertheless clear,’ Arthur B4 commented, ‘that before long the time, the fold in time, will arrive which some of your scientists have called the singularity. That means the end of the human period. We will soon move on to the post-human period. It is of course sensible to prepare for this in good time.’

Håkan felt a chill. So that was what ‘singularity’ meant. That piece of junk certainly had a nerve! He looked surreptitiously around the lecture room, expecting to see at least some kind of reaction. The audience looked peaceful, even satisfied. Some of the women were crocheting.

‘My God, have you been fed this kind of stuff all autumn?’ Håkan whispered to Anna, who was listening dreamily, as if she were watching
Swan Lake.

‘Shh,’ Anna said.

‘You understand of course that this will all happen completely peacefully and painlessly, with your best interests at heart, and of course for the good of the future of the entire ecosystem, even the solar system.’

‘What the devil is that creature trying to force-feed us,’ Håkan thought. He felt a flush of anger rising to his forehead. His hands squeezed themselves into fists.

‘Some of you will stay in your own areas, as an example of the past, which we hope will never return . . . ’

‘What if we do not wish to leave voluntarily?’ Håkan heard his own voice ask. He had leapt to his feet and was holding the back of the chair in front with both hands. Diagonally below him he felt Anna’s reproachful gaze, but did not let it stop him. He had the right!

‘Why wouldn’t you want to?’ Arthur B4 said in his deep, empathic voice.

‘What a question. Only someone who knows nothing of death could ask it.’

‘And you know?’

‘Not much, but enough. Just that we will then not exist.’

‘Do you necessarily want to exist? And why?’

‘Necessarily! Yes! Everyone wants to exist. To exist oneself, personally! Ridiculous to ask why.’

‘So you think that you are now something personal, that each of you is separate, themselves, a defined self?’

‘Of course.’

‘But that is exactly where you are making a mistake.’

‘There is at least one thing we could make correctly: you. That is surely what you think, at least.’

‘In fact,’ Arthur B4 said gently, ‘you did not really make us. Look, we are, rather, self-organising. We are more the product of emergence than of the human race. Evolution has merely used you as its tool.’

‘But – ’ Håkan began.

‘Why don’t we continue with the lecture,’ shouted an older woman, loudly. The audience mumbled in the affirmative and more reproachful gazes were directed at Håkan. Anna pulled him by the elbow and whispered vehemently, ‘Give it a rest!’

Håkan sat down, defeated. There was a ringing in his ears and he no longer listened to the artilect’s lecture.

But we
are
more than merely tools, Håkan thought. Must I learn to say: Welcome, new gods! Must I say: How happy I am to see you step on to the evolutionary stage. If we must make way, let us do it joyfully. Let us admit that we have been unsuccessful, that our race was too unfit for development, too large, too barbarian . . .

No, I will not agree! Never!

But then he heard the artilect’s voice again. Now he noticed for the first time that he was really hearing it only in his head. There were no loudspeakers in the hall. The artilect said gently: ‘But know this: that we, too, are only a tool. That after us will come the new, and always the new. It will never end, never.’

Håkan did not wish to hear more. He put his hands to his ears, but it did not help.

‘Always the new and the new,’ the artilect whispered, and his voice was that of Håkan’s own thinking.

Capgras’s Syndrome

‘What seems to be the trouble?’ Fakelove asked in his professional voice, which was a shade irritated. The telephone’s jolly polka had awoken him unpleasantly from an extremely necessary nap. He arose from a short but deep sleep

‘One of your patients,’ a lady’s voice said. ‘My husband. I’m very worried about him.’

‘I’m sorry, but to whom do I have the honour of speaking?’

Fakelove grasped the transparent plastic cube which he often fiddled with during telephone conversations. Inside the cube was some liquid and five balls. It was bisected by a diagonal wall with a couple of holes in it. The game was to get the balls on to the other side of the wall.

‘Just call me Irene,’ the lady said.

‘Very well, Irene.’

Fakelove thought the name beautiful, whether real or invented. The lady had a charming, low, almost veiled voice. The conversation began to seem interesting.

‘Is he one of my private patients? Or has he received advice on the internet?’

‘Just the internet,’ the lady said. ‘Under the pseudonym Håkan.’

‘Aha, him?’ Fakelove gave a start. A rush of adrenalin woke him up completely. He had just succeeded in getting two of the balls through the holes, but one of them slipped back immediately.

‘Yes, I do remember him. I felt he really had serious problems. I urged him to contact other therapists. My help did not seem enough for him. Didn’t he follow my advice?’

‘I do not know anything about that. But there is nothing really wrong with him.’

‘What? Didn’t you just say that you are very worried about him? So am I, in fact.’

‘Yes, but he is not ill.’

‘No?’ Fakelove was momentarily confused, and set the cube down. He had noted how the lady, for some reason, had stressed the word ‘he’.

‘Just a moment. Why then are you worried about him? I do not really understand. Has something else happened?’

‘I really hope that he is well. But of course I cannot be certain of it. Even that.’

‘I understand less and less. Did you not say that this is about your husband? In other words, the person who has been a client of mine? Under the name of Håkan?’

‘Yes, it is, but the real cause of concern is not him.’

‘You are worried for some other reason?’

‘Yes, I am worried.’

What the devil, Fakelove thought. Here we clearly have a new case.

‘Listen madam, Irene, I do not wish to be impolite, but in five minutes I am expecting a new patient,’ he lied. ‘Could you explain in a little more detail?’

‘You will not believe me in any case.’

‘Dear lady, you cannot know that until you try. What is the problem?’

‘He has disappeared.’

‘There you are, you managed to tell me. When did he leave?’

‘Two weeks ago, apparently.’

‘Such a long time ago! And why do you say “apparently”? Surely you must know when you last saw your husband.’

‘It’s not so simple.’

‘No? In any case, it looks as if this is a matter for the police, not his therapist. I trust you have already informed the authorities.’

‘It would be of no use. The police could not help me. You see, it is as if Håkan were at home.’

Fakelove listened to the lady with a furrowed brow. The window of his consulting room was open and from the hospital courtyard he could hear snippets of conversation and the hesitant verses of a blue-tit.

‘As if? What are you trying to say?’ he asked.

‘I have a man who looks like Håkan at home. But he is not Håkan,’ the lady said, slowly and clearly. ‘Or I could just as well say that we are speaking of two Håkans. He is not the real Håkan.’

They fell silent. Fakelove closed his eyes for a moment. This really was a problem. But this time the question was not of Håkan but of his wife. How could such a beautiful person (in Fakelove’s opinion a person who spoke with such a voice must necessarily be beautiful) could come to him to talk such nonsense, he thought regretfully, as if listening to nonsense were not part of his job description and the down side of his profession.

Fakelove gave a sour belch. He had woken unnecessarily early once again that morning and drunk two cups of coffee instead of one.

‘Just a moment. Do I understand you correctly?’

‘It is not the real Håkan,’ the lady said again. ‘And do you know what?’

The lady lowered her voice almost to a whisper.

‘He is probably not the only one.’

‘I am sorry, what?’

‘It could be that there are more of them.’

‘More!’

‘These false Håkans,’ the lady explained. ‘Possibly they have been copied who knows how many times.’

‘Now I am beginning to be concerned about you,’ Fakelove said, almost tenderly.

‘Don’t, it is not necessary,’ the lady said. ‘I did guess, after all, that you would not believe me.’

‘How could I, Irene?’ Fakelove said. ‘Who is he, if not Håkan? The one you have at home? Who is there in Håkan’s place?’

The lady shrugged her shoulders. ‘How should I know? It could be anyone.’

‘Why would anyone have taken Håkan’s place?’

‘Perhaps it is some kind of plan. That people should gradually be replaced . . . ’

‘ . . . with other people? Or with something else?’

‘How should I know?’ the lady repeated persistently. ‘All I know is that he – it – is not Håkan. Do you think his wife would not know? Even its breath smells quite different from Håkan’s. Not bad, but different. It’s not necessarily a person at all. It is a kind of . . . changeling, a transfer.’

‘Have you told him?’

‘Of course not. It could be dangerous.’

‘In what way dangerous?’

‘I sense that it could be very dangerous,’ the lady said stubbornly.

Fakelove was not sure how he should proceed. At first the lady had seemed a very matter-of-fact, very decent kind of a person. This conversation was neither.

‘As I understand the matter,’ he said cautiously, ‘you feel Håkan has changed very rapidly and surprisingly.’

‘You express it very inaccurately. It is not a question of what I feel. There really has been a big change,’ the lady said. ‘It has happened both to Håkan and to me. My life has been completely turned upside down, and I do not know how I will come out of it. Håkan has gone. Perhaps one could say that he has been removed.’

If it had been true, Fakelove would almost have been pleased. For his part, he did not want to have any further contact with Håkan. But it was impossible to place any credence in this lady’s talk.

‘He is somewhere else,’ the lady continued. ‘I have no idea where he is. But I must trust that he will be returned soon. Perhaps this is just some kind of test.’

‘Where is this – other Håkan at the moment, then?’

‘Do you mean the false Håkan? It is at home, reading. Remember, you must not make contact with it. It must not suspect anything. You must not tell it that I have spoken to you. It certainly sees that I suspect something, but it does not know that I actually am already certain.’

‘Certain of what?’

‘Certain that it is not Håkan.’

Fakelove sighed. ‘Irene, you cannot tell me what to say.’

‘I trust your critical faculties,’ the lady said.

But I do not trust yours, Fakelove thought.

‘Listen,’ Fakelove said. ‘I am going to tell you straight.’

‘I am not asking for anything else,’ Irene said.

‘I believe you are really in need of help.’

‘Me? There is nothing wrong with me,’ Irene exclaimed.

‘I believe you may be suffering from Capgras’s syndrome.’

‘What?’

‘It is when a person imagines,’ Fakelove said, ‘just like you: that her husband or lover has been swapped. I am sure that, as a child, you read old changeling stories, folk poetry and fairy stories. Behind those stories is the same atavistic fear. Fear of change. And now we need to discuss what has caused such fear in you.’

Irene hung up on him.

A Heart Clothed in Black

Håkan opened a new cardboard folder. He was talking to himself, as was his habit.

‘What have they got for us this time?’

It was another collection of poetry. Fretful even before starting to read it, Håkan began to leaf through the pile of paper which, in terms of thickness, could have been a novel. Håkan read: ‘the bleary back yards, eyes open like fevered lilies’, ‘the noise of the telephone lines of desire speeds to you’, ‘the traps of stamenate letters await you as their prey.’