The Complete Karma Trilogy (31 page)

When they told her they were done, she almost didn’t believe it.

Nami said to her, “We’ve put it in, but we’re not going to turn it on until later tonight, exactly at eight o'clock. Go to a public place, so that someone will call an ambulance if something goes horribly wrong. There shouldn’t be a problem, though. We’ve made a lot of improvements. They’re going to make us leave the building here soon, so we don’t think it would be wise to turn it on now.”

“Can I look in a mirror?” Reiko asked.

Saori led her to a mirror, where she could see the square infraction of her skin if she turned her head sideways. It made her feel sick, but it was done.

Toru walked in, while she was looking into the mirror. “How fast can you do it?” he asked the engineers.

“We’ve got it down to five minutes,” Ichiro said.

“I’m going to send Noboru in, and I’m going to go stall Mr. Laurel for time.” Without waiting for a response he went back into the hallway, and was replaced by Noboru Wataya. Even though his presence was a surprise for everyone, they took it in stride and put him directly under the drill. He seemed just as nervous as Reiko had been, which gave Reiko a small, masochistic pleasure.

Noboru was dripping wet, and still carried an umbrella in his hand. It must have started raining outside, Reiko thought. She decided to leave for the day, since she didn’t want to see firsthand what it looked like for the surgery to be done, even though she had experienced it herself. “Don’t kill me,” she told the engineers, before she left.

It was raining hard outside, large, meteoric drops of rain. Reiko didn’t carry an umbrella because she hadn’t thought to bring one, even though Japan was well into its rainy season. The large drops soaked her in seconds as she walked towards the subway, and a dull pain exuded from the hole in her head, every time it was struck. She tried to look straight up, even though it blinded her.

Mars 7

Twins Separated in Time

The time allotted
for Hardin to talk to New Karma finally came. The terminal was set up on one of Percy’s two computers, the only two computers of the commune. Hardin soon realized why his appointment was so short, and why he had to wait as long as he did—it wasn’t because New Karma was busy, since New Karma was after all just a computer program. It was because Percy himself supervised the appointment, although he did it at a distance. He sat at the desk that housed the other computer, attempting to give the impression that he was just incidentally working on something at the same time, although the constant glances over in Hardin’s direction gave him away. Percy’s presence didn’t bother Hardin—he would say the same things he would have, were he alone.

The interface was fairly primitive. There was a headset that contained headphones and a microphone, so that New Karma could both be heard and spoken to. At the same time, a transcript of the conversation was shown on the computer screen, ostensibly so that Hardin could just read anything that he missed. He had no doubt that all of the conversational transcripts were stored, so that Percy could review them later if he felt the need.

New Karma began speaking without prompt. He said, in a metallic, artificial voice, “Hello. I am New Karma.”

“New Karma, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Hardin said into the microphone.

“You are Salvor Hardin, a new member. What brings you to our wonderful society?”

“A promise of Mars.”

“No one ever promised you Mars,” the computer said, with an attempt at the tonal quality of a correction.

“How much of our minds are you allowed to see? Are you in any way restricted?” Hardin asked, dropping the topic of Mars for the time being. He wanted to know more about the computer.

“I am constricted in a manner directly corresponding to the old Karma, except that there are no Privacy Rooms anymore. But I am the only one that can access the recordings, so no severe violation of your privacy will be made, unless you resent my access in some way.” It was interesting to Hardin, to hear the struggling pronunciation of a program that obviously knew how to make appropriate and succinct statements with ease. The computer sounded like a competent foreigner, or a completely mindless robot programmed to say rote things. It seemed that Percy didn’t bother to code for the intricacies in pronunciation of the English language. Or whoever Percy stole that piece of code from, if that was how it happened.

Hardin responded, “That’s what I suspected. I ask because in a strict, technical sense, you are right. No one ever promised me Mars. But I would bet that you are searching in your memory for usages of the word
promise
, or some synonymous statement like ‘I swear’, or perhaps even just a direct affirmation, like ‘mars, we’ll get you there.’”

“What is your point? All of these possibilities encompass everything that could possibly be interpreted as a promise,” New Karma said, with a hint of primitive anger.

“I can see you’re still naïve. You don’t understand the possibility, or even the concept, of a promise not expressed in words. I came here because, from what I’ve seen of these people, I know that they will get me to Mars. That’s a promise of sorts.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion.”

Hardin maintained the offensive. “Obviously you aren’t very competent at subtle analysis of human behavior. How is it, then, that you are qualified to make the kind of moral evaluations that are at the center of this society?”

The computer took a few seconds to respond. “My judgments are occasionally assessed at random, and I take these assessments into consideration for future moral evaluations. The subjects of my evaluations can also make an appeal if they believe they were shorted in some way, and my rulings can be reversed retroactively.”

“Who decides whether their appeal is accepted? Is it you? You listen to their reasoning, and realize that you were wrong, or insist that you were right?”

Without any shame, the computer said, “Master Percy assists in all appeal processes. He allows me to make further argument, but in the end it is his decision that is final.”

“There it is,” Hardin said, more to himself than to New Karma. “Then you are not really the supreme moral arbiter that everyone would have me believe. You answer to someone higher than yourself, to the true moral God, and that person is Percy Edwards. You are no true successor of the old Karma—the old Karma answered to no one.”

The computer was indignant. “My moral authority must come from somewhere. Whether it is from rational argumentation or from a higher moral authority, it should not make any difference.”

Hardin had to wonder if Percy would ever relinquish his control to the computer, or if he enjoyed playing God too much to ever let it go. It seemed clear to Hardin that it would be the latter possibility, if it was anything at all. New Karma would never be a real moral authority, so long as Percy lived. After that, though, there was a possibility. It depended on if the society would die with Percy, if the man would be selfish enough to deactivate the program when he was on his deathbed. It didn’t even matter what the answer was—the society undoubtedly wouldn’t last that long. It was just another of the countless ephemeral artifacts of humanity. With a light touch of sympathy, Hardin said, “Yes, moral authority has to come from somewhere. Let it come from you.”

“That would make it arbitrary,” New Karma said.

“And that would make you the arbiter. I’ve seen enough, I’m going to go.” Hardin quickly turned his head around to see what Percy was doing, and was just fast enough to see him avert a fairly ominous glare. To Percy, he said, “I’m ending my appointment now. I want to thank you again for taking the time to let me get to know him.”

Percy said, “Don’t thank me, thank New Karma.”

To which Hardin replied, “No, I think I should thank you.”

Percy had plenty of reasons to be frustrated with Hardin. For one thing, Hardin’s plants were growing incredibly fast. It became the talking point of the entire commune. People came over from the other two buildings just to see his table. And because he was trying to build an image, he stayed at his table whenever he could and spoke to the people that came by.

“How is this even possible?” an older woman asked him. Her scalp unsettled him—of the billions of people he’d seen in his life, he’d never seen a bald fifty-year-old woman. Whenever a woman’s hair started thinning, they would always appeal to one of the countless hair supplements on the market. Before Karma died, at least. But like every other member of New Karma, she was completely hairless. It didn’t suit her.

Trying to ignore his irrational aversion to her, Hardin said, “This is how they used to grow food, under Karma. There’s an exact science to it. I happen to know that exact science.”

“Well I’ve been growing food for five years, and I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said, holding one of Hardin’s massive tomatoes.

“I’m not terribly surprised,” Hardin replied.

Then Percy appeared, and spared Hardin from offending the woman any more than he already had. Percy went to Hardin’s table, and slowly inspected the plants in silence. When other people noticed Percy they crowded in, and Hardin knew that he had won.

Finally he spoke to Hardin. “New Karma ran the numbers on your plants. Growth rates, size, fertilizer-to-product ratios.” Without asking for Hardin’s permission, he cut a large cucumber off of its stalk with a knife, and held it in his hands. “And it seems that you were right to boast, on all accounts. You know something about agriculture.”

“Agriculture is just a part of it,” Hardin replied. “I know something about everything. I know more than you could ever comprehend.”

By that time there were fifty people gathered around them, in perfect silence. Hardin enjoyed the silence, since it allowed his words to be easily heard, but it was obviously uncomfortable for Percy, who was bending under the pressure of so many spectators. Normally he would have been angry with Hardin, but he had to appear magnanimous in front of his followers. He said, “Don’t get too far ahead of yourself. You’ve had one success. That doesn’t make you all-knowing.”

Hardin made a quick social calculation, then said, “You’re right. Only one success. My apologies. But I have demonstrated myself to be good with plants, haven’t I? Would you allow me, Percy, to speak with the whole commune in our mess hall? I would like to share my ideas on agriculture with everyone. If you would really like to make improvements here, that would be the best way to start.”

“You could just tell me,” Percy replied, “and I would make sure that your suggestions were adopted. I see no need for a large gathering.”

“Let him speak,” Hardin’s roommate, Chris, said from the crowd.

Shouts of agreement followed. “Let him speak!”

“Let him speak!”

“Alright!” Percy yelled, his temper flaring for a moment. “Tomorrow. I’ll make the arrangements.”

To a gathering of hairless people, Hardin said, “Percy has generously allowed me to speak to all of you about certain suggestions I have for the improvement of your commune. I have many ideas, but I’ll only discuss the few that I believe are most relevant.

“First, I’d like to speak about your New Karma. It shows promise, I will give you that, but it falls a long way short from the glory of its father. Its judgments are still second-guessed, and for two reasons—for one, its judgments aren’t as good as they should be, I will grant you, but secondly you continue to neuter it of the authority that it by all rights should have. Even the Karma of old had to make questionable decisions about how a moral action was evaluated. But no one overturned its judgments, not for centuries. It was the supreme moral authority. If you want your New Karma to thrive, you have to trust it more.

“But I’m offering you a second alternative, one which I hope you will sincerely consider. Allow me to be your New Karma. There are a few caveats—I cannot handle as many people as a computer can, but I believe I can handle quite a few. Also, I will have to be allowed to see the entirety of your lives, through your eyes, which some of you may find to be an uncomfortable allowance. What I promise in return, though, is a system that performs better than your current New Karma. My judgments will be more accurate, and you will find less need to make appeals.

“In fact, I will state that as a challenge. Give me ten volunteers, and a period of a week. Allow both me and New Karma to evaluate these people. I will use the same grading criteria as New Karma, and I will submit my report in the same format. At the normal time your scores are updated in the mess hall, I will have a table set up where they can discuss with me my evaluation. That way you’ll be able to directly compare the two systems.”

Percy interrupted. He had placed himself to the side of Hardin, clearly suspicious of his intentions, so he had everyone’s attention as he disputed Hardin. “Be our New Karma? You make it sound like you’re a computer. What the hell are you even talking about?”

“I am human, but I can do the exact same thing New Karma can, in the exact same way.”

“Not possible,” Percy said. “Even if your mind could handle it, theoretically, you would need some sort of receiver in your head. The Karma Chip is only a transmitter. I know, I’ve worked with them for a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Hardin replied. “Didn’t you say that you were always open to challenges, Percy? And receptive of improvements? This is just like the plants I grew—I will show you that I don’t make empty promises. And when you all realize that I am better than New Karma, I will show you the way to improvement. I see it clearly, the path you must take—you just wouldn’t believe me yet. I will show you where you must go, and what you must do, to bring about the old world order that you are all trying to recreate. Because you
are
trying to recreate it, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.

“It isn’t enough for your small society to be doing this alone. Karma was meant to be the authority over everyone, or else other people—the people in the world that make so many decisions that influence you, often indirectly, but sometimes very directly indeed—aren’t held to the same standard. Yelling from a street corner at passersby, making vague promises because you’re too afraid to proclaim the true nature of your society, will not be enough. A thousand beliefs are too many, there must be shown to be only one—you will have to show everyone the undeniable truth, and the only way into the future.”

“We can’t afford to tell the truth,” a bald man said. “If Darcy found out, he would shut us down.”

“Darcy already knows about us,” Percy said, intervening once again. “I got a message from him a week ago. Or rather, one of his underling bureaucrats, since Darcy himself was too busy to bother. They told us to stop, but listed no consequences if we didn’t. We’re too small for them to bother. And we’re better off if we remain that way. Small, self-sufficient, on our own. What need do we have for everyone else?”

Percy could see the present fairly clear, Hardin allowed. The entire police system of Earth had fallen apart with Karma—there was no readily available force that Darcy could exert on the group to get them to stop. It seemed to Hardin like a foolish move on Darcy’s part., but he knew that Darcy’s leniency with the billions of people he left behind was due to the fact that so much space separated them—he was far enough away that he didn’t care. He had moved on.