Terminal Experiment (20 page)

Spirit, the simulation of Peter Hobson’s immortal soul, continued to watch Sarkar’s artificial life evolve. The process was fascinating.

Not a game.

Life.

But poor Sarkar — he lacked vision. His programs were trivial. Some simply produced cellular automata, others merely evolved shapes that resembled insects. Oh, the blue fish were impressive, but Sarkar’s were nowhere near as complex as real fish, and, besides, fish hadn’t been the dominant form of life on Earth for over three hundred million years.

Spirit wanted more. Much more. After all, he could now handle situations infinitely more complex than what Sarkar could deal with, and he had all the time in the universe.

Before he began, though, he thought for a long time — thought about exactly what he wanted.

And then, his selection criteria defined, he set out to create it.

Peter had decided to give up on Spenser novels, at least temporarily. He’d been somewhat shamed by the fact that the Control version of himself was reading Thomas Pynchon. Scanning the living-room bookshelves, he found an old copy of
A Tale of Two Cities
his father had given him when he’d been a teenager. He’d never gotten around to reading it, but, to his embarrassment, it was the only classic he could find in the house — his days of Marlowe and Shakespeare, Descartes and Spinoza were long past. Of course he could have downloaded just about anything from the net — one nice thing about the classics: they’re all public domain. But he’d been spending too much time interfacing with technology lately. An old, musty book was just the thing he needed.

Cathy was sitting on the couch, a reader in hand. Peter sat down next to her, opened his book’s stiff cover, and began to read:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.

Peter smiled to himself: a sentence worthy of the Spirit sim. Maybe being paid by the word was as good as being dead for letting one stretch out a thought.

He didn’t get much farther than that before he became aware, in his peripheral vision, that Cathy had put down her reader and was staring at him. Peter looked at her expectantly.

“That detective, Philo, came to see me at work again,” she said, pushing her black hair back over her ear.

Peter closed the book and put it on the end table. “I wish she’d leave you alone.”

Cathy nodded. “So do I — I can’t say she’s a bad sort; she seems courteous enough. But she thinks there’s some connection between my father’s death and Hans’s death.”

Peter shook his head in wonder. “Your father’s death was just an aneurysm or something like that.”

“That’s what I thought. But that detective says he may have been killed deliberately. He was on an antidepressant drug called phenelzine, and—”

“Rod? On an antidepressant?”

Cathy nodded. “I was surprised, too. The detective says he ate some food he shouldn’t have and that caused his blood pressure to shoot way up. With his medical history, that was enough to kill him.”

“Surely that was an accident,” said Peter. “He failed to pay attention to, or maybe just misunderstood, his doctor’s orders.”

“My father was very meticulous, you know that. Detective Philo thinks his food order was tampered with.”

Peter was incredulous. “Really?”

“That’s what she says.” A beat. “Do you remember Jean-Louis Desalle?”

“Jean-Louis … you mean Stroke?”

“Stroke?”

“That was his nickname at university. He had these veins that bulged out of his forehead. We always thought he was about to have a stroke.” Peter looked out the living-room window. “Stroke Desalle. God, I haven’t thought about him for years. I wonder what became of him?”

“He’s a doctor, apparently. His account may have been used to access my father’s medical records.”

“What could Stroke possibly have against your father? I mean, heck, presumably they’d never even met.”

“The detective thinks someone else was using Desalle’s account.”

“Oh.”

“And,” said Cathy, “that detective knows about me and Hans.”

“You told her?”

“No, of course not. It’s none of her business. But somebody did.”

Peter exhaled noisily. “I knew everyone at your company must have known about it.” He slapped his palm against the couch’s armrest. “Damn!”

“Believe me,” said Cathy, “I’m as embarrassed as you are.”

Peter nodded. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Cathy’s voice was cautious, as if testing the waters. “I keep trying to think about who might have had it in for both Hans and dad.”

“Any ideas?”

She looked at him for a long moment. Finally, simply, she said, “Did you do it, Peter?”

“What?”

Cathy swallowed hard. “Did you arrange for Hans and my father to be killed?”

“I don’t fucking believe this,” said Peter.

Cathy looked at him, saying nothing.

“How can you ask me something like that?”

She shook her head slightly. Emotions played across her face — trepidation at having to ask the question, more fear about what the answer might be, a touch of shame over even contemplating the issue, anger simmering. “I don’t know,” she said, her tone not quite under control. “It’s just that — well, you do have a motive, sort of.”

“Maybe for Hans, but for your father?” Peter spread his arms. “If I killed everyone I thought was an idiot, we’d have bodies stacked up to the rafters.”

Cathy said nothing.

“Besides,” said Peter, feeling a need to fill the silence, “there were probably lots of angry husbands who would have liked to have seen Hans killed.”

Cathy looked directly at him. “But even if what you say about other angry husbands is true, none of them would also want my father dead.”

“That stupid detective is making you paranoid. I swear to you, I didn’t kill your father or” — he spoke the name through clenched jaws — “Hans.”

“But, if the detective is right, these were arranged deaths…”

“I didn’t arrange for them, either. Jesus Christ, what do you think I am?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t do anything like that. It’s just that, well, it seems like something that someone in your position might have done … if that someone hadn’t been you, that is.”

“And I tell you — oh, Christ!”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, something’s wrong. Tell me.”

Peter was already on his feet. “Later. I’ve got to talk to Sarkar.”

“Sarkar? You don’t think he’s responsible?”

“Christ, no. It’s not like Hans wrote
The Satanic Verses
.”

“But—”

“I’ve got to go. I’ll be back late.” Peter grabbed his coat and headed out the front door.

Peter was driving along Post Road toward Bayview. He activated the car phone and hit the speed-dial key for Sarkar’s house. His wife answered. “Hello?”

“Hi, Raheema. It’s Peter.”

“Peter! How good to hear from you!”

“Thanks. Is Sarkar home?”

“He’s downstairs watching the hockey game.”

“Can I talk to him, please? It’s very important.”

“Gee,” said Raheema, wistfully, “
I
never get to speak to him during a game. Just a sec.”

At last, Sarkar’s voice came on the line. “It’s six-all, in sudden-death overtime, Peter. This better be very important."’

“I’m sorry,” said Peter. “But, look, did you read about that murder victim in the paper whose body was mutilated? Several weeks ago?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“That was one of Cathy’s coworkers.”

“Oh.”

“And — ” said Peter, then he stopped.

“Yes?”

He’s your best friend
, Peter thought.
Your best friend.
He felt slightly nauseous. All those dinners together, face-to-face, and now he was going to have to spill it over the phone? “Cathy had an affair with him.”

Sarkar sounded shocked. “Really?”

Peter forced out the word. “Yes.”

“Wow,” said Sarkar. “Wow.”

“And you know that Cathy’s father died recently.”

“Of course. I was very sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not sure I can say the same thing,” said Peter, pausing briefly at a red light.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re suggesting now that his death was murder.”

“Murder!”

“Yes. Both him and Cathy’s coworker.”

“
A’udhu billah
.”

“I didn’t do it,” said Peter.

“Of course not.”

“But I did want them dead, in a way. And—”

“You’re a suspect?”

“I suppose.”

“But you didn’t do it?”

“No, at least not this version of me.”

“This ver — oh, my goodness.”

“Exactly.”

“Meet me at Mirror Image,” said Sarkar. He clicked off.

Peter moved into the passing lane.

Peter lived closer to Mirror Image than Sarkar himself did. Add to that Peter’s head start and he ended up waiting a good thirty minutes for Sarkar, parked in a lot with only one other car in it.

Sarkar’s Toyota pulled up next to Peter’s Mercedes. Peter was outside his car, leaning against the passenger door.

“The Leafs won,” said Sarkar. “I heard it on the way over.”

An irrelevancy. Sarkar was looking for some stability in the madness. Peter nodded, accepting the comment.

“So you think … you think one of the sims… ?” Sarkar was afraid to speak the thought out loud.

Peter nodded. “Maybe.” They began walking toward the glassed-in entrance to the Mirror Image offices. Sarkar pressed his thumb against the FILE scanner. “There’s proof, apparently, that my father-in-law’s medical records were examined, using an account that belonged to a man I knew at university.”

“Oh.” They were heading down a long corridor. “Still, you would need his password and such.”

“At U of T, they assign account names by adding your first initial to your last name. And for passwords, the default on the first day of classes is always your own last name spelled backward. They tell you to change it, but there’s always some idiot who never does. If a simulation of me was looking for a way into the medical database, it might have tried names at random of med students I’d known back then and seen if any of them still used their old account names and passwords.”

They’d come to Sarkar’s computer lab. He touched his thumb against another FILE scanner. Bolts popped aside and the heavy door slid noisily open. “So now we must turn off the sims,” said Sarkar.

Peter frowned.

“What’s wrong?” said Sarkar.

“I — guess I’m just a bit reluctant to do that,” Peter said. “First, of course, likely only one sim is guilty; the others don’t have to suffer.”

“We don’t have time to play detective. We have to stop this before the guilty sim kills again.”

“But will he kill again? I know why Hans was murdered, and, although I wouldn’t have done the same thing, I can’t honestly say I’m sorry he’s dead. And I even understand why my father-in-law was killed. But there’s no one else I want to see dead. Oh, there are others who have wronged me or ripped me off or made parts of my life miserable, but I honestly don’t wish that any of them were dead.”

Sarkar pantomimed slapping Peter’s face. “Wake up, Peter. It’d be criminal not to shut them off.”

Peter nodded slowly. “You’re right, of course. It’s time to pull the plug.”

Sarkar cracked his knuckles nervously, shifted his barstool in front of the master computer console, and spoke into the microphone: “Login.”

“Login name?” asked the computer.

“Sarkar.”

“Hello, Sarkar. Command?”

“Multiple delete, no prompts: all files in subdirectories Control, Spirit, and Ambrotos.”

“Confirm delete?”

“Yes.”

“Delete failure. Files are read-only.”

Sarkar nodded. “Attributes, all files and subdirectories specified previously, read-only off.”

“Attributes are password locked.”

“Password: Abu Yusuf.”

“Incorrect password.”

Sarkar turned to Peter. “That’s the only password I use these days.”

Peter shrugged. “Try again.”

“Password: Abu Yusuf.” He spelled it.

“Incorrect password.”

“Who locked the files?” asked Sarkar.

“Hobson, Peter G.,” replied the computer.

Peter’s heart began to pound. “Oh, shit.”

“Display user log, Hobson, Peter G.,” said Sarkar.

A list of dates and times appeared on the screen. Sarkar slapped his hand against the tabletop. “See that? Node nine-nine-nine? Diagnostic mode. Your account was used, but accessed internally — from inside the system.”

“Damn!”
Peter leaned into the mike. “Login.”

“Login name?” said the computer.

“Fobson.”

“Hello, Peter. Should I terminate your other session?”

“What other session?”

“You are logged on here at node oh-oh-one and also at node nine-nine-nine.”

Sarkar leaned forward. “Yes,” said Peter. “Absolutely. Terminate session at node nine-nine-nine.”

“Logoff failure.”

“Damn,” said Peter. He turned to Sarkar. “Can that other session override this one?”

“No. The most-recent login takes precedence.”

“Okay,” said Peter, rubbing his hands together. “Reference directories and files previously specified by Sarkar. Unlock attributes.”

“Password?”

“Password: Mugato.”

“Incorrect password.”

“Password: Sybok.”

“Incorrect password.”

“Dammit,” said Peter. He looked to Sarkar. “Those are the only two passwords I ever use.”

Sarkar exhaled noisily. “They’re not going to let us erase them.”

“Can we take this system offline?”

Sarkar nodded and spoke into the microphone. “Initiate shutdown.”

“Jobs are currently running. Confirm command?”

“Yes. Initiate shutdown.”

“Password?”

“Password: Abu—”

The red light on the microphone winked off. Sarkar slammed his palm against the console again. “They’ve shut off voice input.”

“Christ,” said Peter.

“This is silly,” said Sarkar, angrily. “We can still pull the physical plug.” He reached for the phone, dialed a three-digit extension.

“Maintenance,” said a woman’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello,” said Sarkar. “I know it is late, but this is Dr. Muhammed speaking. We are, ah, having a little difficulty up here. I need you to cut all power to our computing facility.”

“Cut it, sir?”

“That’s correct.”

“Okay,” she said. “It’ll take a few minutes. You’re aware, though, that your data-processing department is on a UPS — you know, an uninterruptible power supply. It’ll run on batteries for a while.”

“How long?”

“If everything’s turned on, only six or seven minutes — just enough to weather any short blackout.”

“Can you disconnect the UPS?”

“Sure, if you like. It’ll have to be physically unplugged; I can’t turn it off from down here. I’m the only one on duty right now. Can I get someone to do it for you tomorrow?”

“This is an emergency,” said Sarkar. “Can you come up and show us how to do it? I’ve someone here with me if it’s warm bodies you need.”

“Okay. You want me to cut the mains before I come up?”

“No — we’ll cut them after the UPS is disconnected.” He covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Peter. “That means everything will go off at once, without giving the sims any warning.”

Peter nodded.

“Whatever you say, sir,” said the maintenance person. “Give me a few minutes, then I’ll be up.” Sarkar put down the phone.

“What will you do once the power is off?” asked Peter.

Sarkar was already on the floor, trying to remove an access panel from underneath the computer console. “Take out the optical drives and hook them up to a test bench. I can zap data on a bit-by-bit basis, if need be, using a Norton laser, so—”

The phone rang.

“Can you get that?” Sarkar said, struggling with a stubborn wing nut.

The videophone’s screen displayed a notice that the incoming call was audio-only. Peter picked up the handset. “Hello?”

There was staticky silence for about two seconds, then an obviously synthesized voice came on. “Hello,” it said.

Peter felt himself flush with anger. He hated computerized telephone solicitations. He was in the process of slamming down the receiver when he heard the next word, “Pe-ter.”

In the split second before the handset hit the cradle, he realized that even if the soliciting computer was working from an online phone directory, there’s no way a stranger would expect to find him at this number. He stopped short and pulled the receiver back to his face.

“Who is this?” he said. He glanced down at the lights on the phone deskset. This wasn’t a call being transferred internally; it was coming over an outside line.

“It’s,” said the voice, dull and mechanical, “you.”

Peter held the handset in front of his face, looking at it as if it were a serpent.

More words came from the earpiece, each one separated from the next by a small, static-filled space.

“Surely you didn’t expect us to stay cooped up on that small workstation?”

The maintenance person arrived a few minutes later, carrying a toolbox. Sarkar looked up at her, turmoil plain, at least to Peter’s eyes, on Sarkar’s face.

“All set?” she said.

“Ah, no,” said Sarkar. “Sorry to have dragged you up here. We, ah, don’t need to disconnect the UPS anymore, or to cut the mains.”

The woman looked surprised. “Whatever you say.”

“My apologies,” said Sarkar.

She nodded and left.

Peter and Sarkar sat staring at each other, dumbfounded.

“We really fucked up, didn’t we?” said Peter at last.

Sarkar nodded.

“Damn,” said Peter. “God damn it.” A long pause. “There’s no way to shut them off now that they’re out in the net, is there?”

Sarkar shook his head.

“Now what?” said Peter.

“I don’t know,” said Sarkar. “I don’t know.”

“If we knew which sim was responsible, maybe we could find a way to isolate that particular one. But, damn, how do we figure that out?”

“Morality,” said Sarkar.

“What?”

“Do you know Lawrence Kohlberg?”

Peter shook his head.

“He was a psychologist who did research on moral reasoning back in the 1960s. I studied him while preparing an expert system for the Clarke Institute of Psychiatry.”

“So?”

“So this whole mess is a question of morality — why one version of you would behave differently from the others. Surely the key to which sim is guilty is tied into the nature of human morality.”

Peter wasn’t really listening. “Is there anything else we can do to erase the sims?”

“Not now that they’re out in the net. Look, you’re probably right: it will be useful to identify which sim is guilty. Let me ask you a question.”

“What?”

Sarkar paused, remembering. “Say a man’s wife is terminally ill, but she could be saved by a drug that cost twenty thousand dollars.”

“What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Just listen — it’s one of Kohlberg’s test scenarios. Suppose that the man had only been able to come up with ten thousand dollars, but the pharmacist refused to let him have the drug, even though he promised to pay the rest of the cost later. The man then steals the drug to save his wife’s life. Is the man’s act morally right or wrong?”

Peter frowned. “It’s right, of course.”

“But
why
! That’s the key.”

“I — I don’t know. It just is.”

Sarkar nodded. “I suspect each sim would give a different reason. Kohlberg defined six levels of moral reasoning. At the lowest, one believes moral behavior is simply that which avoids punishment. At the highest, which Kohlberg considered the province of moral giants like Gandhi and Martin Luther King, moral behavior is based on abstract ethical principles. At that stage, external laws against theft are irrelevant; your own internalized moral code would dictate that you must value another’s life more greatly than any repercussions you might suffer yourself because of the crime.”

“Well, that’s what I believe.”

“Mahatma Hobson,” said Sarkar. “Presumably the control sim would share that same point of view. But Kohlberg found that criminals were likely to be at a lower stage of moral reasoning than noncriminals of the same age who had the same IQ. Ambrotos might be fixated at the lowest level, level one — the avoidance of punishment.”

“Why?”

“An immortal will live forever, but he can also spend forever in jail. A life sentence would be a terrifying thought to him.”

“But how often does a true life sentence get handed down? You know the old saying, ‘Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.’ Well, Ambrotos might very well think he could do any crime because, after all, he can do the time.”

“Good point,” said Sarkar. “But I still think he’s the guilty one. They say time heals all wounds, but perhaps if you knew you were going to live forever, you’d want to deal with anything that was going to fester in your mind for century after century,”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t think so. Look, if murder is a terrible crime to me, wouldn’t it be unthinkable — the ultimate atrocity — to an immortal version of me, who knew life could go on forever?”

Sarkar sighed. “Perhaps. I guess it could go either way. But what about Spirit? His moral reasoning, too, could be fixated at a low level. Even though Spirit is dead, we have simulated neither heaven nor hell for him. So perhaps he considers himself to be in Purgatory. If he behaves well, maybe he believes he will be allowed entrance to heaven. Kohlberg’s second stage defines moral acts as those which gain rewards.”

Peter shook his head again. “I don’t really believe in heaven or hell.”

Sarkar tried another tack. “Well, then, consider this: murder is a crime of passion, and passion is a failing of flesh and blood. Remove sex from the human psyche and you would have no reason to kill a philanderer. That would argue for Spirit’s innocence, and, by process of elimination, for Ambrotos’s guilt.”

“Maybe,” said Peter. “On the other hand, Spirit
knows
there is life after death — knows it by virtue of his existence. So, to him, murder would be a less heinous crime than it would be for Ambrotos, since it’s not a complete ending for the victim. Spirit would thus be much more likely to feel comfortable committing murders.”

Sarkar sighed, frustrated. “So you could argue that one either way, too.” He glanced at his watch. “Look — there’s nothing more we can do here.” He paused. “In fact there may be nothing more we can do
anywhere
.” He sat quietly for a moment, thinking. “Go home. Tomorrow is Saturday; I’ll come by your place around ten in the morning and we can try to figure out what to do next.”

Peter nodded wearily.

“But first — ” Sarkar pulled out his wallet, fished out a pair of fifties, and handed them to Peter.

“What’s this?”

“The hundred dollars I borrowed from you last week. I want to be sure the sims have no cause to resent me. Before we go, send a message into the net telling them that I paid you back.”