The Terminal Experiment (v5)

  Sarkar paused, remembering. “Say a man’s wife is terminally ill, but she could be saved by a drug that cost $20,000.”

  “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 $10,000, 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 non-criminals 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.”

  NET NEWS DIGEST

  A group of protesters announced late yesterday that Florida’s SeaWorld, the last U.S. entertainment institution to still keep dolphins in captivity, was refusing their requests to try to determine if dolphins also exhibited the soulwave.

  George Hendricks, 27, a born-again Christian, today filed suit in Dayton, Ohio, charging that his parents, Daniel and Kim Hendricks, both 53, in failing to have baptized George’s brother Paul, who died last year in an automobile accident at age 24, were guilty of neglect and abuse by preventing Paul’s soul from being able to enter heaven.

  Further research from The Hague, Netherlands, indicates that departing soulwaves seem to be moving in a very specific direction. “At first we thought each wave was going separately, but that’s before we took into account the time of day of each individual’s death,” said bioethics professor Maarten Lely. “It now seems that all soulwaves are traveling in the same direction. For want of a better reference, that direction is approximately toward the constellation of Orion.”

  Germany became the first country today to make it explicitly illegal to interfere in any way with the departure of soulwaves from dying bodies. France, Great Britain, Japan, and Mexico are currently debating similar legislation.

  The suicide rates on Native reservations in the United States and Canada, and in the three largest ghettos in the U.S., were at a five-year high this past month. One suicide note, from Los Angeles, typified a recurrent theme: “Something beyond this life exists. It can’t be worse than being here.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Cathy was lying on her back in bed, staring at the ceiling, when Peter entered. He could see by the Hobson Monitor that she was wide awake, so he didn’t make any effort to be quiet.

  “Peter?” said Cathy.

  “Hmm?”

  “What went on this evening?”

  “I had to see Sarkar.”

  Cathy’s voice was tightly controlled. “Do you know who killed my father? Who killed Hans?”

  Peter started to say something, then fell silent.

  “Trust,” she said, rolling slightly toward him, “has to be a two-way street.” She waited a moment. “Do you know who killed them?”

  “No,” said Peter again, removing his socks. And then, a moment later, “not for sure.”

  “But you have your suspicions?”

  Peter didn’t trust his voice. He nodded in the darkness.

  “Who?”

  “It’s only a guess,” he said. “Besides, we’re not even sure that your father was murdered.”

  Firmly: “Who?”

  He let out a long sigh. “This is going to take some explaining.” He had his shirt off now. “Sarkar and I have been doing some … research into artificial intelligence.”

  Her face, blue-gray in the dim room, was impassive.

  “Sarkar created three duplicates of my mind inside a computer.”

  Cathy’s voice was tinged with mild surprise. “You mean expert systems?”

  “More than that. Much more. He’s copied every neuron, every neural net. They are, for all intents and purposes, complete duplicates of my personality.”

  “I didn’t know that sort of thing was possible.”

  “It’s still experimental, but, yes, it’s possible. Sarkar invented the technique.”

  “God. And you think one of these—these duplicates was responsible for the murders?”

  Peter’s voice was faint. “Maybe.”

  Cathy’s eyes were wide with horror. “But—but why would duplicates of your mind do something you yourself would not?”

  Peter had finished changing into his pajamas. “Because two of the simulations are not duplicates. Parts of what I am have been
removed from them. It’s possible that we accidentally deleted whatever was responsible for human morality.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I tell you, I would never kill anyone. Not even Hans. But part of me very much wanted him dead.”

  Cathy’s voice was bitter. “And my father? Did part of you want him dead, too?”

  Peter shrugged.

  “Well?”

  “I, ah, have never really liked your father. But no, until recently, I had no reason to hate him. But … but then you told me about your counseling session. He hurt you when you were young. He shook your confidence.”

  “And one of the duplicates killed him for that?”

  A shrug in the darkness.

  “Turn the fucking things off,” said Cathy.

  “We can’t,” said Peter. “We tried. They’ve escaped out into the net.”

  “God,” said Cathy, putting all her terror and fury into that single syllable.

  They were silent for a time. She had moved away from him slightly in the bed. Peter looked at her, trying to decipher the mixture of emotions on her face. At last, her voice trembling slightly, she said, “Is there anyone else you want dead?”

  “Sarkar asked me the same thing,” he said, annoyed. “But I can’t think of anyone.”

  “What about—what about me?” said Cathy.

  “You? Of course not.”

  “But I hurt you.”

  “Yes. But I don’t want you dead.”

  Peter’s words didn’t seem to calm her. “Christ, Peter, how could you do something so stupid?”

  “I—I don’t know. We didn’t mean to.”

  “What about the detective?”

  “What about her?”

  “What will happen when she gets too close to the truth?” asked Cathy. “Will you want her dead, too?”

  SARKAR ARRIVED at Peter and Cathy’s house at 10:15 the next morning. They sat there, the three of them, chewing on bagels that were past their prime.

  “So what do we do now?” said Cathy, arms folded across her chest.

  “Go to the police,” said Sarkar.

  Peter was shocked. “What?”

  “The police,” said Sarkar again. “This is completely out of control. We need their help.”

  “But—”

  “Call the police. Tell them the truth. This is a new phenomenon. We didn’t expect this result. Tell them that.”

  “If you do that,” said Cathy slowly, “there will be repercussions.”

  “Indeed,” said Peter. “Charges would be laid.”

  “What charges?” said Sarkar. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Peter. “They could charge me with manslaughter, maybe. Or as an accessory to murder. And they could charge you with criminal negligence.”

  Sarkar’s eyes went wide. “Crim—”

  “Not to mention getting you under hacker laws,” said Cathy. “If I understand all this correctly, you’ve created a piece of software that’s out there violating other people’s computer systems and stealing resources. That’s a felony.”

  “But we intended nothing wrong,” said Sarkar.

  “The crown attorney could run circles around us,” said Peter. “A man and his best friend create software that kills people the man hated. Easy enough to discredit any claim I didn’t have that in mind all along. And remember that case against Consolidated Edison? Frankenstein statutes. Those who seek to profit from technology must bear the costs of unforeseen consequences.”

  “Those are American laws,” said Sarkar.

  “I suspect a Canadian court would adopt a similar principle,” said Cathy.

  “Regardless,” said Sarkar, “the sims have to be stopped.”

  “Yes,” said Cathy.

  Sarkar looked at Peter. “Pick up the phone. Dial 9-1-1.”

  “But what could the police do?” asked Peter, spreading his arms. “I’d be in favor of telling them, perhaps, if there was something they could do.”

  “They could order a shutdown of the net,” said Sarkar.

  “Are you kidding? Only CSIS or the RCMP could do that—and I bet they’d need to invoke the War Measures Act to suspend access to information on that large a scale. Meanwhile, what if the sims have moved down into the States? Or across the Atlantic?” Peter shook his head. “There’s no way we’d ever get the net scoured clean.”

  Sarkar nodded slowly. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  They were silent for a time. Finally, Cathy said, “Isn’t there some way you can clean them off the net yourself?”

  They looked at her expectantly.

  “You know,” she said, “write a virus that would track them down and destroy them. I remember the Internet worm, from back when I was in university—it was all over the world in a matter of days.”

  Sarkar looked excited. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe.”

  Peter looked at him. He tried to keep his voice calm. “The sims are huge, after all. They can’t be that hard to find.”

  Sarkar was nodding. “A virus that checked all files bigger than, say, ten terabytes … It could look for two or three basic patterns from your neural nets. If it found them, it would erase the file. Yes—yes, I think I could write something like that.” He turned to Cathy. “Brilliant, Catherine!”

  “How long would it take to write?” asked Peter.

  “I am not sure,” replied Sarkar. “I’ve never written a virus before. Couple of days.”

  Peter nodded. “Let’s pray that this works.”

  Sarkar looked at him. “I face Mecca five times a day and pray. Perhaps we would have better luck if both of you really did pray, too.” He rose to his feet. “I better get going. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Peter had been trying to prepare himself for the inevitable encounter. Still, every time his intercom buzzed, he felt his heart begin to race. The first few times were false alarms. Then—

  “Peter,” said his secretary’s voice, “there’s an Inspector Philo here to see you, from the Toronto Police.”

  Peter took a very deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it out in a long, whispery sigh. He touched a button on his intercom. “Send her in, please.”

  A moment later the door to his office opened and in walked Alexandria Philo. Peter had expected her to be in a police uniform. Instead, she was wearing a trim, professional gray blazer, matching slacks, and a coffee-colored silk blouse. She had on two tiny green earrings. Her short hair was bright red, her eyes bright green. And she was tall. She was carrying a black attaché case.

  “Hello, Detective,” Peter said, rising to his feet and extending his hand.

  “Hello,” Sandra said, giving his hand a firm shake. “I take it you were expecting me?”

  “Um, why do you say that?”

  “I couldn’t help overhear you talking to your secretary. You said ‘send her in.’ But she hadn’t told you my first name, or given you any other indication that I was a woman.”

  Peter smiled. “You’re very good at your job. My wife had said a few things about you.”

  “I see.” Sandra was quiet, staring expectantly at Peter.

  Peter laughed. “On the other hand, I’m very good at my job, too. And a large part of it involves attending meetings with government officials, all of whom have taken courses in interpersonal communication. It’s going to take more than just a protracted silence to get me to spill my guts.”

  Sandra laughed. She hadn’t looked pretty to Peter when she came in, but when she laughed she looked very nice indeed.

  “Please have a seat, Ms. Philo.”

  She smiled and took a chair, smoothing out her pants as she sat as if she often wore skirts. Cathy had the same habit.

  There was a short silence. “Would you like coffee?” asked Peter. “Tea?”

  “Coffee, please. Double double.” She looked uncomfortable. “This is a part of my job that I don’t like, Dr. Hobson.”

  Peter got up and crosse
d over to the coffee maker. “Please—call me Peter.”

  “Peter.” She smiled. “I don’t like the way involved parties get treated in a case such as this. We police often bully people with little regard for good manners or the principle of assumed innocence.”

  Peter handed her a cup of coffee.

  “So, Doctor—” She stopped herself and smiled. “So, Peter, I’m going to have to ask you some questions, and I hope you’ll understand that I’m just doing my job.”

  “Of course.”

  “As you know, one of your wife’s coworkers was murdered.”

  Peter nodded. “Yes. It came as quite a shock.”

  Sandra looked at him with her head titled to one side.

  “I’m sorry,” said Peter, confused. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Just that there was evidence that a stunner was used to subdue the victim. Your ‘quite a shock’ comment struck me as funny.” She raised a hand. “Forgive me; you develop a fairly thick skin in this line of work.” A pause. “Have you ever used a stunner?”

  “No.”

  “Do you own one?”

  “They’re illegal in Ontario, except for police work.”

  Sandra smiled. “But you can buy them easily in New York or Quebec.”

  “No,” said Peter, “I’ve never used one.”

  “I’m sorry to have to ask,” said Sandra.

  “That darned police training,” said Peter.

  “Exactly.” She smiled. “Did you know the deceased man?”

  Peter tried to say the name nonchalantly. “Hans Larsen? Sure, I’d met him—I’ve met most of Cathy’s coworkers, either at informal gatherings or at her company’s Christmas parties.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “Of Larsen?” Peter took a sip of coffee. “I thought he was a jerk.”

  Sandra nodded. “A number of people seemed to have shared your opinion, although others spoke highly of him.”

  “I suspect that’s the way it is for just about everyone,” said Peter.

  “Just about.” Silence again, then: “Look, Peter, you seem like a nice guy. I don’t want to bring up painful memories. But I know your wife and Hans, well …”