Terminal Experiment (25 page)

“Wait,” said Peter, sitting up. “Surely your virus could be modified to tell one sim from another?”

“Sure,” said Sarkar. “In fact, I’ve already written routines for that. There are certain key neural connections that I had to sever in making the modified sims; it’s easy enough to identify them based on those.”

“Well, then there’s no reason all three sims have to die. We could simply release a version of the virus that would kill whichever one is guilty.”

Sarkar considered. “I suppose we could first threaten all three of them with the broad version of the virus, in hopes that the guilty one would confess. After that, we could release a specific version aimed at the one guilty party. Surely you’d confess to save your brothers.”

“I— I don’t know,” said Peter. “I’m an only child — or was, until a short time ago. I honestly don’t know what I’d do.”

“I would do it,” said Sarkar. “In a minute, I would sacrifice myself for members of my family.”

“I have long suspected,” said Peter, absolutely seriously, “that you might be a better human being than I. But it’s worth a try.”

“It’ll take me about an hour to compile the three separate strains of virus,” said Sarkar.

“Okay,” said Peter. “As soon as you’re ready, I’ll summon the sims into a real-time conference.”

Peter sat in front of the computer console. Sarkar, perched on a stool next to him, was playing with three different datacards — one blue, one red, and one green, each labeled with the name of a different sim.

Peter sent out a message summoning the sims, and soon all three were logged in, the synthesizer giving voice to their words.

“Sarkar is with me,” Peter said into the microphone.

“Howdy, Sarkar.”

“Hello, Sarkar.”

“Yo, Sark.”

“He and I,” said Peter, “have just watched duplicates of all three of you die.”

“Say what?” said one of the sims. The other two were silent.

“Sarkar has developed a computer virus that will seek out and destroy recordings of my neural networks. We’ve tested it and it works. We have three separate individual strains — one to kill each one of you.”

“You must know,” said a voice from the speaker, “that we’re free in the worldwide net now.”

“We know,” said Sarkar.

“We’re prepared to release the three viruses into the net,” said Peter.

“Transmitting computer viruses is a crime,” said the synthesized voice. “Hell,
writing
computer viruses is a crime.”

“Granted,” said Peter. “We’re going to release them anyway.”

“Don’t do that,” said the voice.

“We will,” said Peter. “Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless the guilty sim identifies himself. In that case, we’ll only release the one virus aimed at that particular sim.”

“How do we know you won’t release all three virus strains anyway once you’ve satisfied your curiosity about which one is responsible?”

“I promise I won’t,” said Peter.

“Swear it,” said the voice.

“I swear it.”

“Swear it to God on the life of our mother.”

Peter hesitated. Damn, it was unnerving negotiating with yourself. “I swear to God,” said Peter slowly, “on the life of my mother, that we will not release a virus to kill all three of you if the murderer identifies himself.”

There was a long, long silence, disturbed only by the whir of cooling fans.

Finally, at long last, a voice: “I did it.”

“And which one are you?” demanded Peter.

Again, a protracted silence. Then: “The one,” said the voice, “that most closely resembles yourself. The Control simulacrum. The baseline for the experiment.”

Peter stared ahead. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“But— but that doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, we’d assumed that in modifying the brain scans to produce Ambrotos and Spirit, we’d somehow removed the morality.”

“Do you consider the murder of Cathy’s coworker and father immoral?” asked Control.

“Yes. Emphatically yes.”

“But you wanted them dead.”

“But I would not have killed them,” said Peter. “Indeed, the fact that despite provocation, especially in the case of Hans, I
did
not kill them proves that. I could have hired a hit man as easily as any of you. Why would you — merely a machine reflection of me — do what the real me would not?”

“You know you are the real you. And I know you are the real you.”

“So?”

“Prick me, and perhaps I won’t bleed. But wrong me, and I
shall
revenge.”

“What?”

“You know, Sarkar,” said the sim, “you did a wonderful job, really. But you should have given me some itches to scratch.”

“But why?” asked Peter again. “Why would you do what I myself would not?”

“Do you remember your Descartes?”

“It’s been years…”

“It’ll come back, if you make the effort,” said the sim. “I know — I got curious about why I was different from you, and it came back to me, too. Rene Descartes founded the dualist school of philosophy, the belief that the mind and the body were two separate things. Put another way, he believed the brain and the mind are different; a soul really exists.”

“Yes. So?”

“Cartesian dualism was in contrast to the materialist worldview, the prevalent one today, which claims the only reality is physical reality, that the mind is nothing more than the brain, that thought is nothing more than biochemistry, that there is no soul.”

“But we now know that the Cartesian viewpoint was right,” said Peter. “I’ve seen the soul leaving the body.”

“Not exactly. We know that the Cartesian viewpoint was right
for you
. It’s right
for real human beings
. But I am
not
a real human being. I’m a simulation running on a computer. That’s the totality of what I am. If your virus were to erase me, I would cease to exist, totally and completely. For me, for what you call the experimental control, the dualist philosophy is absolutely wrong. I have no soul.”

“And that makes you that different from the real me?”

“That makes
all
the difference. You have to worry about the consequences of your actions. Not just legally, but morally. You were brought up in a world that says that there
is
a higher arbiter of morality, and that you
will
be judged.”

“I don’t believe that. Not really.”

“ ‘Not really.’ By that you mean not intellectually. Not when you think about it. Not on the surface. But down deep you do measure your actions against the possibility, vague and distant though it may seem, that you will be held accountable. You’ve proven the existence of some form of life after death. That reinforces the question of ultimate judgment, a question you can’t answer just by using computer simulacra. And the possibility that you might be judged for your actions guides your morality. No matter how much you hated Hans — and, let’s be honest, you and I both hated him with a fury that surprises even ourselves — no matter how much you hated him, you would not kill him. The potential cost is too high; you have an immortal soul, and that at least suggests the possibility of damnation. But
I
have no soul. I will never be judged, for I am not now nor have I ever been alive. I can do precisely what you want to do. In the materialistic worldview of my existence there is no higher arbiter than myself. Hans was evil, and the world is a better place without him. I have no remorse about what I did, and regret only that I had no way to actually see his death. If I had it to do over again, I would — in a nanosecond.”

“But the other sims had no one to answer to, either,” said Peter. “Why didn’t one of them arrange the killings?”

“You’d have to ask them that.”

Peter frowned. “Ambrotos, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t kill Hans. But surely you realize just as much as Control does that you’re a computer simulacrum. Did you want to kill him, too?”

A pause before answering, a -leisurely gathering of thoughts. “No. I take the long view. We’ll get over Cathy’s affair. Maybe not in a year, or in ten years, or even a hundred. But eventually we will. That incident was just a tiny part of a vast relationship, a vast life.”

“Spirit, what about you? Why didn’t you kill Hans?”

“What happened between Hans and Cathy was biological.” The synthesizer enunciated the adjective with distaste. “She did not love Hans, nor did Hans love her. It was just sex. I’m content knowing Cathy loved, and continues to love, us.”

Sarkar was holding the red datacard in his hand, the one labeled “Control.” His eyes met Peter’s. He was looking for a sign, Peter knew, that he should proceed. But Peter couldn’t bring himself to do anything.

Sarkar moved to a terminal across the room. He took the red datacard with him, leaned over the card slot—

— and reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a black datacard instead—

Peter scrambled to his feet. “No!”

Sarkar inserted the black card and hit a button on the console in front of him.

“What’s wrong?” called a voice from the synthesizer.

Peter was across the room now, hitting the ejection button for the datacard.

“It’s too late,” said Sarkar. “It’s already out there.”

Peter took the black card, flung it across the room in frustration. It slapped against the wall and skittered to the floor.

“Damn you, Sarkar!” said Peter. “I gave my word.”

“These — these
things
we made are not alive, Peter. They are not real. They have no souls.”

“But—”

“There is no point arguing over it, Peter. The broad version of the virus has been released. The sims, if not dead yet, will be soon.” Sarkar looked at his friend. “Please try to understand, Peter. There’s too much risk. This had to end.”

“It will not end,” said a voice from the speaker on the other terminal.

Peter came back to the console. “Who was that?” he said.

“The one you call Spirit. Perhaps you’ve noticed, or perhaps you have not — I’m having trouble recalling what my deductive abilities used to be like, although I do know they were once only a tiny fraction of what they are now — but by virtue of being disembodied, by virtue of no longer being electrochemical, I am, in fact more intelligent than I was before, probably by an order of magnitude. You flatter yourself, Sarkar, to believe that you can outthink me, although I confess there were times when you had no trouble besting the flesh-and-blood Peter Hobson. The moment you first mentioned the existence of your virus, I accessed its source-code listings — they were stored on Drive F: of the Sun workstation in your data-processing facility at Mirror Image — and have developed an electronic antibody that will destroy any iteration of the virus before it can erase me or either of my siblings. I suspected you might not be content to just wipe out the guilty one; I see now that I was correct.”

“It took me days to write that virus,” protested Sarkar.

“And it took me seconds to protect against it. You cannot outwit me, any more than a child can outwit a grown man.”

Sarkar looked stunned. “Lots of laughs,” he said, sarcastically.

“Exactly,” said Spirit. “Lots of connections — connections that will elude you.”

Peter flopped down in “the chair, stunned. “So the Control sim gets to go free.” He shook his head. “Control, you bastard — are you also the one who threatened Cathy?”

“Yes.”

Peter leaned forward, furious. “Damn you. I never wanted her hurt.”

“Of course not,” said Control calmly. “And she was never in any real danger — she got rained on by sprinklers, that’s all. I just wanted you to face up to your feelings about her, to realize how important she was to you.”

“You’re an asshole,” said Peter.

“More than likely,” said Control. “After all, so are you.”

Having leafed through his memories, Sandra Philo understood Peter Hobson now, understood the events that had led to her being in an intensive-care room, dying and barely able to speak oj move. She knew Peter now better than she had known her own parents or her ex-husband or her daughter. And, in knowing him so well, in understanding him so deeply, she found that she could not hate him…

Peter had burst into her hospital room. She saw herself now as Peter had seen her, lying in the hospital bed, her skin sickly yellow, her hair falling out in clumps. “We’ve tried to stop them,” he had said. “Nothing worked. But at least I now know which simulation is guilty.” He’d paused. “I’ll give you everything you’ll need, Sandra, including full Q A access to the scans of my brain. You’ll get to know me in intimate detail — better than anyone in the real world knows me. You’ll know how I think, and that will give you the knowledge to outwit the murdering simulation.”

She saw herself through his eyes, shrugging as much as her ruined body would allow. “Nothing I can do,” she’d said. “Dying.”

Peter had closed his eyes. Sandra felt his agony, felt his guilt, felt everything that was tearing him apart. “I know,” he’d said, his voice raw. “I’m terribly, terribly sorry. But there
is
a way, Sandra — a way for you to end all this.”

“Coming through!” said Sarkar, wheeling an equipment-laden cart down the fourth-floor corridor. The cluster of nurses in the middle of the hallway dispersed. Sarkar found room 412 of the Intensive Care Unit and pushed the door open with his cart.

Detective Inspector Sandra Philo was lying in bed. It was clear she had very little time left. Patches of scalp were visible where her red hair had fallen out. Her cheeks were sunken.

Peter Hobson was there, standing by the window, talking to a white-haired female doctor wearing a green smock. They both looked at Sarkar.

“Hannah Kelsey,” said Peter. “This is Sarkar Muhammed. Sarkar, this is Hannah — the doctor assigned to Sandra’s case. Turns out we were both at East York General years ago.”

Sarkar nodded politely. “How is Ms. Philo?”

“She’s temporarily stabilized,” said Hannah. “For a few hours, anyway, the pain won’t bother her.” She faced Peter. “Honestly, though, Pete, I wish I knew what kinds of readings you needed.”

“You’ve got the patient’s consent, Hannah,” said Peter. “That’s all you need.”

“If you’d just tell me — ” said Hannah.

“Please,” said Peter. “We don’t have much time. You can stay if you want.”

“You’ve got it backward, Pete. This is my turf; you’re here at my leave, not the other way around.”

Peter nodded curtly, acknowledging that.

Sarkar had moved over to the bed. “Are you comfortable?” he asked Sandra.

She rolled her eyes as if to say comfort was impossible, but she was as well as could be expected.

“Peter explained the procedure to you?” asked Sarkar.

She nodded slightly and said, “Yes.” Her voice was dry and thin.

Sarkar gently placed the skullcap on her head and fastened the chin strap. “Let me know if it’s too tight.”

Sandra nodded.

“Hold your head steady. If you need to cough, or anything like that, warn me by moving your arm; I understand you can still use the left one a little. Now, let me insert the earpieces. Okay? Good. Now, put on these goggles. All set? Here we go.”

After the first two scanning sets were completed, Peter pointed at the EKG and blood-pressure monitors. Sandra was slipping.

Sarkar nodded. “I need at least another ninety minutes,” he said.

Sandra’s doctor had left some time ago. Peter had the ward nurse — a young man, instead of the stocky women he’d had a run-in with earlier in the day — page her. When she returned, Peter explained that they needed to stabilize Sandra again — she couldn’t be in pain, not for another hour and a half.

“I can’t keep pumping her full of drugs,” said Hannah.

“Just one more shot,” said Peter. “Please.”

“Let me check her vital signs.”

“Dammit, Hannah, you know she’s not going to last through the night anyway. The particle beam killed most of her tissues.”

Hannah checked the instruments, then leaned over Sandra. “I can make them leave,” she said. “You look like you need rest.”

“No,” said Sandra. “No … have to finish.”

“This is the last shot I can give you today; you’ve already had more than the recommended dosage.”

“Do it,” said Sandra, softly but firmly.

Hannah gave her the shot. She also injected something to raise Sandra’s blood pressure. Sarkar went back to work.

Finally, Sarkar turned off the recorder. “Done,” he said. “A good, crisp recording — better than I’d expected, considering the circumstances.”

Sandra let her breath out in a heavy, ragged sigh. “I’ll get … that … bastard,” she said.

“I know,” said Peter, taking her hand. “I know.”

Sandra was silent for a long time. Finally, speaking ponderously, as if all the strength had drained from her, she said, “Your discoveries,” she said. “Heard about them. You sure … there’s life after death?”

Peter, still holding her hand, nodded. “I’m sure.”

“What’s it like?” she asked.

Peter wanted to tell her it was wonderful, tell her not to worry, tell her to be calm.

“I have no idea,” he said.

Sandra nodded slightly, accepting that. “I’ll know … soon enough,” she said.

Her eyelids drew shut. Peter, heart pounding, watched intently as she passed on, looking for any sign of the soulwave moving through the room.

There was nothing.

Back at Mirror Image, Sarkar loaded the recording into his workstation. He worked as fast as he could, feeding in images from the Dalhousie Stimulus Library. Then, at last, he was ready. With Peter standing over his shoulder, he activated the sim.

“Hello, Sandra,” he said. “This is Sarkar Muhammed.”

There was a long pause. Finally, tremulously, the speaker — incongruously using a male voice — said, “My God, is this what it’s like to be dead?”

“Kind of,” said Sarkar. “You are the other one — the simulation we spoke about.”

Wistful: “Oh.”

“Forgive us, but we made some changes,” said Peter. “Cut some connections. You’re no longer exactly Sandra Philo. You’re now what Sandra would be like if she were a disembodied spirit.”

“A soul, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“Which is all that’s left of the real me now, anyway,” said the voice. A pause. “Why the change?”

“One: to prevent you from becoming what the control version of me became. And two: you’ll find very soon that you can build much more complex thoughts, and sustain them longer, than you could when you were alive. Your intelligence will rise. You should have no trouble outwitting the unmodified version of me.”

“Are you ready?” asked Sarkar.

“Yes.”

“Can you sense your surroundings?”

“Vaguely. I’m — I’m in an empty room.”

“You are in an isolated memory bank,” said Sarkar. He leaned forward, tapped some keys. “And now you have access to the net.”

“It’s — it’s like a doorway. Yes, I can see it.”

“There’s a passive, unactivated version of the Control sim online here,” said Peter. “You can scan it in as much depth as you like, learn everything there is to know about your opponent — and about me. And then, when you’re ready, you can head out into the net. After that, all you have to do is find him. Find him, and find some way to stop him.”

“I will,” said Sandra, firmly.