It wouldn’t compromise the experiment—not really.
Sitting in the office in his home, Peter called into the computers at Mirror Image. When prompted to log on, he typed his account name, fobson. When he’d gotten his first computer account, back at U of T, he’d been assigned his first initial and last name as his login— phobson. But a classmate had pointed out that he could save a keystroke by changing the “ph” to an “f,” and Peter had adopted that as his standard login ever since.
He descended through layers of menus and finally came to the AI experimental system. Sarkar had set up a simple menu for bringing any one of the sims into the foreground:
[F1]
Spirit (Life After Death)
[F2]
Ambrotos (Immortality)
[F3]
Control (unmodified)
Peter tried to choose, and, in so doing, realized he was facing the very question he and Sarkar had set out to answer. Which one would lend the most sympathetic ear? The after-death version? Would a being with no physical body really understand marital difficulties? How much of marriage was emotional/intellectual? How much of emotion was hormonal?
What about the immortal version? Maybe. Immortality meant permanence. Perhaps an immortal would have a particular affinity for questions of fidelity. After all, marriage was supposed to be forever.
Forever.
Peter thought about Spenser. And Susan Silverman. And Hawk. He was enjoying the books about them. But when was the last time Robert B. Parker had found a new situation to put them in, a new facet of their personalities to explore?
A century with Cathy.
A millennium with Cathy.
Peter shook his head. No, the immortal version wouldn’t understand. Immortality surely didn’t confer a sense of permanence. Not at all. It would give one perspective. The long view.
Peter leaned forward and pressed F3, selecting the Control simulacrum. Just him, only him, unmodified him.
“Who’s there?” said the speech synthesizer.
Peter leaned back in the chair. “It’s me, Peter Hobson.”
“Oh,” said the sim. “You mean it’s me.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “Something like that.”
The synthesized voice chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m getting used to being Peter Hobson simulacrum, Baseline edition. But do you know who you are? Maybe you’re just a simulacrum, too.” The speaker whistled the opening strains from the Twilight Zone theme— doing a better job of whistling than the flesh-and-blood Peter had ever managed.
Peter laughed. “I suppose I wouldn’t like it if our situations were reversed,” he said.
“Well, it’s not so bad,” said the sim. “I’m getting a lot of reading done. I’ve got about eighteen books going at once; when I get bored with one, I switch to another. Of course, the workstation’s processor is a lot faster than a chemical brain, so I’m going through material quite quickly—I’m finally making my way through Thomas Pynchon.”
It was a remarkable simulation, thought Peter. Remarkable. “I wish I had more time to read,” said Peter.
“I wish I could get laid,” said the sim. “We all have our crosses to bear.”
Peter laughed again.
“So, why did you summon me out of the bottle?” asked the sim.
Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. To talk, I guess.” A pause. “We created you after I learned about Cathy.”
No need to be more specific. The manufactured voice was sad. “Yes.”
“I haven’t told anyone about it yet.”
“I didn’t think you would,” said the sim.
“Oh?”
“We’re a private man,” it said, “if you’ll forgive the mangled grammar. We’re not given to revealing our inner self.”
Peter nodded.
“A little louder for the court, please,” said the sim.
“Sorry. I forget you can’t see me. I was agreeing with you.”
“Naturally. Look, there’s not much advice I can give you. I mean, whatever I think of, you’ve probably already thought of yourself. But try this on for size. Just between you and you, so to speak: do you still love Cathy?”
Peter was quiet for several seconds. “I don’t know. The Cathy I know—the one I thought I knew, anyway—wouldn’t have done anything like that.”
“How well do we really know anyone, though?”
Peter nodded again. “Exactly. Forgive me for using you as an example, but—”
“People hate it when you do that, you know.”
“What?”
“Use them as an example. You’ve got this tendency to use whoever is at hand as a case in point. ‘Forgive me for using you as an example, Bertha, but when someone is really fat—”
“Oh, come on. I never say stuff like that. You know that.”
“I’m exaggerating for comedic effect; another trait of ours not everyone finds endearing. But you know what I mean: you’ll take a hypothetical conversation, and draw people into it as examples: ‘Take your own case, Jeff. Remember when your son was arrested for shoplifting? I wonder how tough you’d want to be on young offenders in that situation?’”
“I do that to make a point.”
“I know. People hate that.”
“I guess I knew that,” said Peter. “Anyway”—he said the word forcefully, taking back control of the conversation—“to use what Sarkar and I are doing as an example: we’ve created models of my mind. Models, that’s all. Simulacra that seem to operate the same way as the original. But when a real person builds a relationship with somebody else—”
“Are they in fact really having a relationship with that person, or just with a model—an image, an ideal— that they’ve built up in their own mind?”
“Uh, yeah. That’s what I was going to say.”
“Of course. Sorry, Pete, but it’s going to be hard for you to dazzle yourself with your own brilliance.” The voice chip laughed.
Peter was a bit irritated. “Well, it’s a valid question,” he said. “Did I ever really know her?”
“In a broad sense, you’re right: we probably don’t ever really know anyone. But, still, Cathy is the person we know best in the entire world. We know her better than Sarkar, better than Mom or Dad.”
“But, then, how could she do this?”
“Well, she’s never been as strong-willed as we are. That asshole Hans obviously pressured her.”
“But she should have resisted that pressure.”
“Granted. But she didn’t. Now, what do we do about that? Do we give up on the most-important relationship in our lives because of it? Even setting that aside, on a more pragmatic level, do you really want to go back to looking for a mate? Dating? Christ, what a pain in the ass that would be.”
“It sounds like you’re advocating a marriage of convenience.”
“Maybe all marriages are that to some degree. Certainly you’ve speculated that Mom and Dad stayed together simply because it was the path of least resistance.”
“But they never had what Cathy and I had.”
“Perhaps. Anyway, you still haven’t answered my question. We binary guys like simple yes-or-no answers.”
Peter was quiet for a moment. “You mean whether I still love her?” He sighed. “I don’t know.”
“You won’t be able to decide on a course of action until you resolve that question.”
“It’s not that simple. Even if I still love her, I couldn’t take this happening again. I haven’t slept properly since she told me. I think about it constantly. Anything will remind me of it. I see her car in the garage; that reminds me that she gave Hans a lift. I see the couch in our living room; that’s where she told me about it. I hear the word ‘adultery’ or ‘affair’ on TV— Christ, I never realized how often people use those words—and that reminds me of it.” Peter leaned way back in the chair. “I can’t put this behind me until I know that it will always be behind us. She didn’t just do it once, after all. She did it th
ree times—three times over a period of months. Maybe she thought each time was the last.”
“Perhaps,” said the sim. “Remember when we had our tonsils out?”
“What you mean ‘we,’ white man? I’m the one with the scars.”
“Whatever. The point is, we had them out when we were twenty-two. Very late in life for something like that. But we kept getting sore throats and tonsillitis. Finally ole Doc DiMaio said enough already with treating the symptoms. Let’s do something about the cause.”
Peter’s voice was strained. “But what if—what if— what if I’m the cause of Cathy’s infidelity? Remember that lunch with Colin Godoyo? He said his cheating on his wife was a cry for help.”
“Please, Peter. You and I both know that’s bullshit.”
“I’m not sure we each get a vote.”
“Regardless, I’m sure Cathy knows it’s bullshit.”
“I hope so.”
“Cathy and you had a good marriage—you know that. It didn’t rot away from within; it was attacked from outside.”
“I suppose,” said Peter, “but I’ve been mulling it over a lot—looking for any clue that we’d blown it somehow.”
“And did you find any?” asked the sim.
“No.”
“Of course not. You always tried to be a good husband—and Cathy was a good wife, too. Both of you worked at making the marriage a success. You take an interest in each other’s work. You’re supportive of each other’s dreams. And you talk freely and openly about everything.”
“Still,” said Peter, “I wish I could be sure.” He paused. “You remember Perry Mason? Not the original TV series with Raymond Burr, but the short-lived remake they made in the 1970s. Remember it? They repeated it on A&E in the late Nineties. Harry Guardino played Hamilton Burger. Remember that version?”
The sim paused for a moment. “Yes. It wasn’t very good.”
“In point of fact, it stank,” said Peter. “But you remember it?”
“Yes.”
“Remember the guy who played Perry Mason?”
“Sure. It was Robert Culp.”
“Can you recall him? Picture him in the courtroom? Do you remember him in that series?”
“Yes.”
Peter spread his arms. “Robert Culp never played Perry Mason. Monte Markham did.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’d thought it was Culp, too, until I saw a story about Markham in yesterday’s Star; he’s in town doing Twelve Angry Men at the Royal Alex. But you know the difference between those two actors, Culp and Markham?”
“Sure,” said the sim. “Culp was in I Spy and Greatest American Hero. And, let’s see, in Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice. Great actor.”
“And Markham?”
“A solid character actor; always liked him. Never had a successful series, but wasn’t he in Dallas for a year or so? And, round ’bout 2000, he was in that awful sitcom with Jim Carey.”
“Right,” said Peter. “Don’t you see? We both had a memory—a good, solid memory—of Robert Culp playing a role that had really been played by Monte Markham. Right now, of course, you’re rewriting those memories, and now I’m sure you can see Markham in the role of Mason. That’s the way all memory works: we save only enough information to reconstruct events later. We save the deltas—we remember base pieces of information, and note changes. Then when we need to summon up a memory, we reconstruct it—and often do so inaccurately.”
“So what’s your point?” said the sim.
“My point, dear brother, is this: how accurate are our memories? We recall all the events leading up to Cathy’s affair, and find ourselves free from blame. Everything hangs together; everything is consistent. But is it accurate? In some way we’ve chosen not to remember, in some moment that we’ve edited out, by some actions that died in the neural cutting room, did we push her into the arms of another man?”
“I think,” said the sim, “that if you have the depth of introspection to ask such a question, you know the answer is probably no. You’re a thoughtful man, Peter—if I do say so myself.”
There was silence for a long time. “I haven’t been much help, have I?” asked the sim.
Peter considered that. “No, on the contrary. I feel a bit better now. Talking about this has helped.”
“Even if it was essentially talking to yourself?” asked the sim.
“Even if,” said Peter.
CHAPTER 23
Arare sunny morning in the middle of November, with light streaming around the edges of the living-room blinds.
Hans Larsen was sitting at the table in his breakfast nook nibbling on white toast with orange marmalade. His wife, Donna-Lee, over by the front door, was slipping on her ten-centimeter black heels. Hans watched her bend over to do that, her breasts—perfect handfuls—straining against her red silk blouse, the curve of her bottom tight against her black leather skirt, the leather too thick to show any panty lines.
She was a beautiful woman, Hans thought, and she knew how to dress to show it off. And that, of course, had been why he’d married her. A fitting wife, the kind that turned heads. The kind a real man should have.
He nibbled some more toast, and chased it with some coffee. He’d give it to her good when he got home tonight. She’d like that. Of course, he wouldn’t be home until late; he was seeing Melanie after work. No, wait—Melanie was tomorrow night; this was only Wednesday. Nancy, then. Even better; Nancy had tits to die for.
Donna-Lee checked herself in the mirror on the front-hall closet door. She leaned in close to examine her make-up, then called out to Hans, “See you later.”
Hans waved a slice of toast at her. “Remember, I’ll be late tonight. I’ve got that meeting after work.”
She nodded, smiled radiantly at him, and left.
She was a good wife, Hans thought. Easy on the eyes, and not too demanding on his time. Of course, one woman was hardly enough for a real man …
Hans had on a dark blue nylon sports jacket and light blue polyester shirt. A silver-gray tie, also synthetic, hung unknotted around his neck. He was wearing white Hanes underwear and black socks, but hadn’t yet put on his pants. There were still twenty minutes before he had to leave for work himself. From the breakfast nook, he could see the TV in the living room, the picture somewhat washed out by sunlight. Canada A.M. was on, with Joel Gotlib interviewing some balding actor Hans didn’t recognize.
Hans finished the last of his toast just as the doorbell rang. The TV automatically reduced Canada A.M. to a small image in the upper-left corner. The rest of the screen filled with the view from the outside security camera. A man in a brown United Parcel Service uniform was standing on the stoop. He was carrying a large package wrapped in paper.
Hans grunted. He wasn’t expecting anything. Touching a button on the kitchen phone, he said, “Just a sec,” and went to find his pants. Once he had them on, he crossed through the living room to the entryway, with its bare hardwood floor, then unlocked the door and swung it open. His house faced east, and the figure on the stoop was lit harshly from behind. He was maybe forty years old, quite tall—a full two meters—and skinny. He looked like he could have been a basketball player a decade earlier. His features were sharp and he had a dark tan, as if he’d been south recently. Hans thought they must pay these UPS guys pretty well.
“Are you Hans Larsen?” asked the man. His voice had a British accent, or maybe Australian—Hans could never tell them apart.
Hans nodded. “That’s me.”
The delivery man handed him the box. It was a cube about a half-meter on each side, and it was surprisingly heavy—as if someone had shipped him a collection of rocks. Once his hands were free, the man reached down to his waist. A small electronic receipt pad was attached to his belt by a metal chain. Hans turned around to set the box down.
Suddenly he felt a painful jolt at the back of his neck, and his legs seemed to turn to jelly. He collapsed forward, the weight of the box pulling him in
that direction. He felt the flat of a hand in the center of his back pushing him down. Hans tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t work. He felt himself being rolled onto his back by the delivery man’s boot, and he heard the outside door clicking shut. Hans realized that he’d been touched with a stunner, a device he’d only ever seen on TV cop shows, robbing him of muscular control. Even as this sank in, he became aware that he was peeing his pants.
He tried to yell, but couldn’t. The best he could manage was a faint grunt.
The tall man had moved well into the house now, and was standing in front of Hans. With great effort, Hans managed to lift his head. The man was doing something to his own belt now. The black leather along the left side flopped open, revealing a long, thick blade that glinted in the light seeping in around the living-room blinds.
Hans found his strength returning. He struggled to get to his feet. The tall man pressed his stunner into the side of Hans’s neck and held down the trigger. A massive electric shock coursed through Hans’s system, and he could feel his blond hair standing on end. He collapsed onto his back again.
Hans tried to speak. “Wh—wh—”
“Why?” said the tall man, in that accented voice. He shrugged, as if it all was of no importance to him. “You made someone mad,” he said. “Real mad.”
Hans tried to get up again, but couldn’t. The big man slammed a boot into his chest, and then in one fluid motion brought the knife up. He grabbed the front of Hans’s trousers and cut them open, the sharp blade easily slicing through the navy-blue polyester. The man winced at the ammonia stench. “You really should learn to control yourself, mate,” he said. Another couple of quick cuts and Hans’s underwear was in tatters. “Guy’s paying an extra twenty-five thousand for this, I hope you realize.”
Hans tried again to scream, but he was still dazed by the stunner. His heart was pounding erratically.
“N—no,” he said. “Not …”
“What’s that, mate?” said the tall fellow. “You think without your johnson you won’t be a man anymore?” He pursed his lips, considering. “Y’know, maybe you’re right. I’d never given it much thought.” But then he grinned, an evil rictus showing yellow teeth. “Then again, I’m not paid to think.”