The Terminal Experiment

  He wielded the knife like a surgeon. Hans managed a gurgling scream as his penis was lopped off. Blood spurted onto the hardwood floor. He struggled again to get up, but the man kicked him in the face, shattering his nose. He touched Hans once more with the stunner. Hans’s body convulsed, and blood geysered from his wound. He collapsed to the floor. Tears rolled down his face.

  “You might bleed to death as is,” said the man, “but I can’t take any chances.” He leaned in and slid the knife’s long edge across Hans’s throat. Hans found enough strength and muscular control for a final scream, the timbre of which changed radically as his neck split open.

  In all the flailing around, Hans’s severed organ had gone rolling across the floor. The man nudged it closer to the body with his toe, then calmly walked into the living room. Canada A.M. had given way to Donahue. He opened the cabinet next to the TV, found the slave recorder hooked up to the security camera, took out the little disk, and put it in his hip pocket. Then he headed back to the entryway, picked up the box full of bricks and, taking care not to slip on the hardwood floor now slick with an expanding pool of blood, headed out into the bright morning sunshine.

  CHAPTER 24

  What’s this?” said Peter, pointing to a monitor in Mirror Image’s computer lab showing what appeared to be a school of small blue fish swimming through an orange ocean.

  Sarkar looked up from his keyboard. “Artificial life. I’m teaching a course about it at Ryerson this winter.”

  “How’s it work?”

  “Well, just as we’ve simulated your mind within a computer, so too is it possible to simulate other aspects of life, including reproduction and evolution. Indeed, when the simulations get sufficiently complex, some say it’s only a question of semantics as to whether the simulations are really alive. Those fish evolved from very simple mathematical simulations of living processes. And, like real fish, they exhibit a lot of emergent behaviors, such as schooling.”

  “How do you get from simple math to things that behave like real fish?”

  Sarkar saved his work and moved over to stand next to Peter. “Cumulative evolution is the key—it makes it possible to go from randomness to complexity very quickly.” He reached over and pushed some keys. “Here, let me give you a simple demonstration.”

  The screen cleared.

  “Now,” said Sarkar, “type a phrase. No punctuation, though—just letters.”

  Peter considered for a moment, then pecked out, “And where hell is there must we ever be.” The computer forced it all to lower case.

  Sarkar glanced over his shoulder. “Marlowe.”

  Peter was surprised. “You know it?”

  Sarkar nodded. “Of course. Private school, remember? From Doctor Faustus: ‘Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed in one self place, for where we are is hell, and where hell is there must we ever be.’”

  Peter said nothing.

  “Look at that phrase you typed—it consists of 39 characters.” Sarkar hadn’t counted; the computer had reported the number as soon as Peter had finished typing, as well as several other statistics. “Well, think of each of those characters as a gene. There are 27 possible values each of those genes could have: A through Z, plus a space. Since you typed a 39-character string, that means there are 2739 possible different strings of that length. Oodles, in other words.”

  Sarkar reached over and pressed a few keys. “This workstation,” he said, “can generate a hundred thousand random 39-character strings each second.” He pointed to a number on the screen. “But even at that rate, it would take 2x1043 years—trillions of times longer than the whole lifetime of the universe—to hit that entire, precise string of Marlowe you typed by pure random chance.”

  Peter nodded. “It’s like the monkeys.”

  Sarkar sang: “Here we come …”

  “Not The Monkees. The infinite number of monkeys banging away on keyboards. They’ll never produce an exact copy of Shakespeare, no matter how long they try.”

  Sarkar smiled. “That’s because they’re working at random. But evolution is not random. It is cumulative. Each generation improves on the one that preceded it, based on selection criteria imposed by the environment. With cumulative evolution, you can go from gibberish to poetry—or from equations to fish, or even from slime mold to human beings—amazingly fast.” He touched a key and pointed at the screen. “Here’s a purely random 37-character string. Consider it an ancestral organism.”

  The screen showed:

  000

  wtshxowlveamfhiqhgdiigjmh rpeqwursudnfe

  “Using cumulative evolution, the computer can get from that random starting point to the desired ending point in a matter of seconds.”

  “How?” asked Peter.

  “Say that every generation, one text string can produce thirty-nine offspring. But, just as in real life, the offspring are not exactly the same as the parent. Rather, in each offspring, one gene—one character— will be different, moving up or down the alphabet by one: a Y can become an X or a Z, for instance.”

  “Okay.”

  “For each of the thirty-nine offspring, the computer finds the one that is best suited to this environment— the one that is closest to Marlowe, our ideal of a perfectly adapted life form. That one—the fittest—is the only one that breeds in the next generation. See?”

  Peter nodded.

  “Okay. We’ll let evolution run its course for a generation.” Sarkar pushed another key. Thirty-nine virtually identical strings appeared on screen, and a moment later thirty-eight of them winked out. “Here’s the fittest offspring.” He pointed at the screen:

  000

  wtshxowlveamfhiqhgdiigjmh rpeqwursudnfe

  001

  wtshxowlvdamfhiqhgdiigjmh rpeqwursudnfe

  “It is not obvious,” said Sarkar, “but the lower string is marginally closer to your target than the original.”

  “I can’t see a difference,” said Peter.

  Sarkar peered at the screen. “The tenth character has changed from E to D. In the target, the tenth character is a space—the space between ‘where’ and ‘hell.’ We’re using a circular alphabet, with space as the character between Z and A. D is closer to a space than E is, so this string is a slight improvement—slightly fitter.” He pushed another key. “Now, we’ll let it run through to the end—there, it’s done.”

  Peter was impressed. “That was fast.”

  “Cumulative evolution,” said Sarkar, triumphantly. “It took only 277 generations to get from gibberish to Marlowe—from randomness to a complex structure.

  Here, I’ll just display every thirtieth generation, with genes that have evolved to their target values in upper case.”

  Keyclicks. The screen showed:

  000

  wtshxowlvdamfhiqhgdiigjmh rpeqwursudnfE

  030

  wttgWoxmvdakgiiphfdHghili STesxuovvapdE

  060

  xrtgWoymwccigihpiddHfihll STesxuovvapdE

  090

  xqugWm nzccfhihomcdHfihkM STcuyunvvzpdE

  120

  ypudWl p bcEijhmnbbHfihkMzSTbWyvmvwyrcE

  150

  zpvdWj R aeEjlhlqbzHfigkMyST WyvkvwvsBE

  180

  AozcWibR fEklhkrbyHEjgiMxST W wjvwtuBE

  210

  ANzaWHERd HELLhISawHEjEiMwST WbwgvxsuBE

  240

  AND WHERE HELLfIS THEnEiMUST WdwEVzszBE

  270

  AND WHERE HELLcIS THEREbMUST WE EVER BE

  He pressed a couple more keys. “And here are the last five generations.”

  273

  AND WHERE HELLcIS THEREaMUST WE EVER BE

  274

  AND WHERE HELLbIS THEREaMUST WE EVER BE

  275

  AND WHERE HELLaIS THEREaMUST WE EVER BE

  276

  AND WHERE HELLaIS THERE MUST WE EVER BE

  277

  AND WHERE HELL IS THERE MUST WE EVER BE

  “That’s neat,” said Peter.

  “It is more t
han just neat,” said Sarkar. “It is why you and I and the rest of the biological world are here.”

  Peter looked up. “You surprise me. I mean, well, you’re a Muslim—I assumed that meant you were a creationist.”

  “Please,” said Sarkar. “I am not fool enough to ignore the fossil record.” He paused. “You were raised a Christian, even if you don’t practice that faith in any meaningful way. Your religion says we were created in God’s image. Well, that’s ridiculous, of course—God would have no need for a belly button. What ‘created in His image’ means to me is simply that He provided the selection criteria—the target vision—and the form we evolved to take was one that was pleasing to Him.”

  CHAPTER 25

  And so, at last, Peter Hobson’s story and Sandra Philo’s story had converged, the death of Hans Larsen—and the other murder attempts that were to come—drawing their lives together. Sandra worked at integrating Peter’s memories with her own of that time—piecing the puzzle together, bit by bit …

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR ALEXANDRIA PHILO of the Toronto Police Service sat at her desk, staring out into space.

  The evening shift would come on in half an hour, but she wasn’t looking forward to going home. It had been four months since she and Walter had split up, and Walter had joint custody of their daughter. When Cayley was with him, as she was this week, the house seemed vast and deserted.

  Maybe getting a pet would help, Sandra thought. Perhaps a cat. Something alive, something that would move, something that would greet her when she came home.

  Sandra shook her head. She was allergic to cats, and could do without the runny nose and the red eyes. She smiled sadly; she’d broken up with Walter so she’d stop having those very same things.

  Sandra had lived with her parents through university, and had married Walter right after graduation. She was now thirty-six, and, with her daughter away, she was alone for the first time in her life.

  Maybe she’d go to the YWHA tonight. Work out a bit. She looked critically at her thighs. Better than watching TV, anyway.

  “Sandra?”

  She looked up. Gary Kinoshita was standing there, a file folder in his hands. He was almost sixty, with a middle-age spread and tightly cropped gray hair. “Yes?”

  “Got one for you—it was just called in. I know it’s almost shift change, but Rosenberg and Macavan are busy with that multiple on Sheppard. Do you mind?”

  Sandra held out her hand. Kinoshita handed the file to her. Even better than the Y, she thought. Something to do. Her thighs could wait. “Thanks,” she said.

  “It’s, ah, a bit gruesome,” said Kinoshita.

  Sandra opened the file, scanned the description—a computer-generated transcript of the radio message from the officer who first arrived on the scene. “Oh.”

  “A couple of uniforms are there now. They’re expecting you.”

  She nodded, got to her feet, adjusted her holster so that it sat comfortably, then slipped on a pale green blazer over her dark green blouse. The city’s two hundred and twelfth homicide of the year now belonged to her.

  The drive didn’t take long. Sandra worked out of 32 Division on Ellerslie just west of Yonge, and the crime scene was at 137 Tuck Friarway—Sandra hated the stupid street names in these new subdivisions. As always, she took stock of the neighborhood before going in. Typical middle-class—modern middle-class that is. Tiny cookie-cutter red-brick houses in rows, with gaps between them so narrow that you’d have to squeeze sideways to get through. Front yards that were mostly driveway, leading up to two-car garages. Communal mailboxes at the intersections. Trees that were little better than saplings growing in tiny plots of grass.

  Location, location, location, thought Sandra. Yeah.

  A white Toronto Police car sat in the driveway of 137, and the station wagon used by the medical examiner was parked illegally on the street. Sandra walked up to the front door. It was wide open. She stopped on the threshold and looked in. The body was right there, stretched out. Dead for about twelve hours, it looked like. Dried blood on the floor. And there it was, just as the transcript had said. A mutilation case.

  A uniformed officer appeared, a black man who towered head and shoulders above Sandra—no mean feat; they’d called her “Stretch” in high school.

  Sandra flashed her badge. “Detective Inspector Philo,” she said.

  The uniform nodded. “Step to the right as you come through, Inspector,” he said in a rich Jamaican accent. “Lab’s not been yet.”

  Sandra did so. “You are?”

  “King, ma’am. Darryl King.”

  “And the deceased is?”

  “Hans Larsen. Worked in advertising.”

  “Who found the body, Darryl?”

  “The wife,” he said, tilting his head toward the back of the house. Sandra could see a pretty woman in a red blouse and black leather skirt. “She’s with my partner.”

  “Does she have an alibi?”

  “Kinda,” said Darryl. “She’s an assistant manager at the Scotiabank at Finch and Yonge, but one of the tellers called in sick, so she worked the counter all day. Hundreds of people saw her.”

  “What’s ‘kinda’ about that?”

  “I think it’s a professional hit,” Darryl said. “No hesitation marks. Scancam shows no prints. Security camera disk is gone, too.”

  Sandra nodded, then glanced back at the woman in red and black. “Could be a jealous wife who arranged it, though,” she said.

  “Maybe,” said Darryl, looking sidelong at the corpse. “I’m just glad my wife likes me.”

  CONTROL, THE UNMODIFIED SIMULACRUM, dreamed.

  Nighttime. A blanket of clouds overhead, but with the stars somehow shining through. A giant tree, gnarled and old—maybe an oak, maybe a maple; it seemed to have both kinds of leaves. Its roots had been exposed on one side by erosion—as if it had weathered a massive storm or flash-flood. A ball of woody tendrils was visible, soil clinging to them. The whole tree seemed precarious, in danger of tipping over.

  Peter climbed the tree, hands grabbing branches, hoisting himself higher and higher. Beneath him, Cathy climbed as well, wind blowing her skirt up around her.

  And below, far below, a … beast of some sort. A lion, perhaps. It reared up on its hind legs, rampant, the forelegs leaning against the tree. Even though it was night, Peter could see the color of the lion’s coat. It wasn’t quite the tawny shade he’d expected. Instead, it was more of a blond.

  Suddenly, the tree was shaking. The lion was humping it.

  The branches shook wildly. Peter climbed higher. Below, Cathy was stretching toward another branch, but it was too far. Much too far. The tree shook again and she tumbled downward …

  NET NEWS DIGEST

  In the wake of a spate of disappearances of young women in south-eastern Minnesota, The Minneapolis Star today revealed that it had received an email message purportedly from the killer, claiming that all the victims had been buried alive in special lead-lined coffins that were completely opaque to electromagnetic radiation in order to prevent soulwaves from escaping.

  Researchers in The Hague, Netherlands, announced today the first successful tracking of a soulwave moving across a room after leaving a deceased person’s body. “The phenomenon, though very difficult to detect, seems to retain its cohesion and strength over a distance of at least three meters from the body,” said Maarten Lely, professor of Bioethics at the European Community University campus there.

  The Pandora’s Box Society, headquartered in Spokane, Washington, today called for a worldwide moratorium on soulwave research. “Once again,” said spokesperson Leona Wright, “science is rushing madly into areas best approached cautiously, if at all.”

  Wear a soul over your heart! Exciting new jewelry concept: purple wire pins that look just like soulwaves. Available now! One for $59.99, two for $79.99. Order today!

  Lawyer Katarina Koenig of Flushing, New York, today announced a class-action suit on behalf of the estates of termina
l patients who had died at Manhattan’s Bellevue Hospital, claiming that in light of the soulwave discovery the hospital’s procedures for determining when to cease heroic intervention were inadequate. Koenig previously won a class-action suit against Consolidated Edison on behalf of cancer patients who had lived near high-tension electrical lines.

  CHAPTER 26

  In theory, nine o’clock was official starting time at Doowap Advertising. In practice, that meant that a little after nine people began thinking about actually getting down to work.

  As usual, Cathy Hobson arrived around 8:50. But instead of the standard joking around as people sipped their coffee, today everything seemed somber. She moved through the open-plan office to her cubicle and saw that Shannon, the woman who worked next to her, had been crying. “What’s wrong?” said Cathy.

  Shannon looked up, her eyes red. She sniffled. “Did you hear about Hans?”

  Cathy shook her head.

  “He’s dead,” said Shannon, and began crying again.

  Jonas, the one Cathy’s husband called the pseudointellectual, was passing by. “What happened?” asked Cathy.

  Jonas ran a hand through his greasy hair. “Hans was murdered.”

  “Murdered!”

  “Uh-huh. An intruder, it seems.”

  Toby Bailey moved closer, apparently sensing that this cluster of workers was the interesting one to be with—someone hadn’t yet heard the story. “That’s right,” he said. “You know he didn’t show up for work yesterday? Well, Nancy Caulfield got a call late last night from his—I was going to say wife, but I guess the word is ‘widow,’ now. Anyway, it was in this morning’s Sun, as well. Service is on Thursday; everybody gets time off to go, if they want.”

  “Was it robbery?” asked Cathy.

  Jonas shook his head. “The newspaper said the cops had ruled out robbery as a motive. Nothing taken, apparently. And”—Jonas’s face showed an uncharacteristic degree of animation—“according to unnamed sources, the body was mutilated.”