“Getting back to—”
“And if the original screams and fights when somebody tries to turn him off,” Wescott went on, “it’s just because he’s been programmed to think he can suffer. He puts a bit more effort into keeping his subroutines running. Maybe not much of a difference after all, hmmm?”
The program fell silent. Wescott started counting: One one thousand, two one thousand, three—
“That actually brings up another subject I wanted to ask you about,” the menu said.
Almost four seconds to respond, and even then it had had to change the subject. It had limits. Good program, though.
“You haven’t published anything on your work at VanGen,” Mosby’s proxy remarked. “I’m unable to access your NSERC proposal, of course, but judging from the public abstract, you’ve been working on dead people.”
“Not dead. Dying.”
“Near-death experiences? Levitation, tunnel of light, that sort of thing?”
“Symptoms of anoxia,” Wescott said. “Mostly meaningless. We go further.”
“Why?”
“A few basic patterns are easier to record after other brain functions have shut down.”
“What patterns? What do they tell you?”
They tell me there’s only one way to die, Mosby. It doesn’t matter what kills you, age or violence or disease, we all sing out the same damn song before we cash in. You don’t even have to be human; as long as you’ve got a neocortex you’re part of the club.
And you know what else, Mosby? We can almost read the lyric sheet. Come by in person, say a month from now, and I could preview your own last thoughts for you. I could give you the scoop of the decade.
“Dr. Wescott?”
He blinked. “Sorry?”
“What patterns? What do they tell you?”
“What do you think?” Wescott said, and started counting again.
“I think you watch people die,” the program answered, “and you take pictures. I don’t know why. But I think our subscribers would like to.”
Wescott was silent for a few moments.
“What’s your release number?” he asked at last.
“Six point five.”
“You’re just out, aren’t you?”
“April fifteenth,” the program told him.
“You’re better than six four.”
“We’re improving all the time.”
From behind, the sound of an opening door. “Stop,” Wescott said.
“Do you want to c-cancel the program or just suspend it?” Carol’s voice asked from the cube.
“Suspend.” Wescott stared at the computer, vaguely jarred by the change in voice. Do they ever feel crowded in there?
“Can you hear it?” Lynne said from behind him.
He turned in his chair. She was taking off her shoes by the front door.
“Hear what?” Wescott asked.
She came across the room. “The way her voice sort of—catches, sometimes?”
He frowned.
“Like she was in pain when she made the recording,” she went on. “Maybe it was before she was even diagnosed. But when she programmed that machine, it picked up on it. You’ve never heard it? In all these years?”
Wescott said nothing.
Lynne put her hands on his shoulders. “You sure it isn’t time to change the personality in that thing?” she asked gently.
“It’s not a personality, Lynne.”
“I know. Just a pattern-matching algorithm. You keep saying that.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re so worried about. It’s no threat to you.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Eleven years ago she talked to it for a while. It uses her speech patterns. It isn’t her. I know that. It’s just an old operating system that’s been obsolete for the better part of a decade.”
“Russ—”
“That lousy program Mosby sent me is ten times more sophisticated. And you can go out and buy a psyche simulator that will put that to shame. But this is all I have left, okay? The least you can do is grant me the freedom to remember her the way I choose.”
She pulled back. “Russ, I’m not trying to fight with you.”
“I’m glad.” He turned back to the workstation. “Resume.”
“Suspend,” Lynne said. The computer waited silently.
Wescott took a slow breath and turned back to face her.
“I’m not one of your patients, Lynne.” His words were measured, inflectionless. “If you can’t leave your work downtown, at least find someone else to practise on.”
“Russ…” Her voice trailed off.
He looked back at her, utterly neutral.
“Okay, Russ. See you later.” She turned and walked back to the door. Wescott noted the controlled tetanus in her movements, imagined the ratchet contraction of actomyosin as she reached for her shoes.
She’s running, he thought, fascinated. My words did that to her. I make waves in the air and a million nerves light up her brain like sheet lightning. How many ops/sec happening in there? How many switches opening, closing, rerouting, until some of that electricity runs down her arm and makes her hand turn the doorknob?
He watched her intricate machinery close the door behind itself.
She’s gone, he thought. I’ve won again.
Wescott watched Hamilton strap the chimp onto the table and attach the leads to its scalp. The chimp was used to the procedure; it had been subject to such indignities on previous occasions, and had always survived in good health and good spirits. There was no reason for it to expect anything different this time.
As Hamilton snugged the straps, the smaller primate stiffened and hissed.
Wescott studied a nearby monitor. “Damn, it’s nervous.” Cortical tracings, normally languorous, scrambled across the screen in epileptic spasms. “We can’t start until it calms down. Unless it calms down. Shit. This could scotch the whole recording.”
Hamilton pulled one of the restraints a notch tighter. The chimp, its back pulled flat against the table, flexed once and went suddenly limp.
Wescott looked back at the screen. “Okay, it’s relaxing. Showtime, Pete; you’re on in about thirty seconds.”
Hamilton held up the hypo. “Ready.”
“Okay, getting baseline—now. Fire when ready.”
Needle slid into flesh. Wescott reflected on the obvious unhumanity of the thing on the table; too small and hairy, all bow legs and elongate simian arms. A machine. That’s all it is. Potassium ions jumping around in a very compact telephone switchboard.
But the eyes, when he slipped and looked at them, looked back.
“Midbrain signature in fifty seconds,” Wescott read off. “Give or take ten.”
“Okay,” Hamilton said. “It’s going through the tunnel.”
Just a machine, running out of fuel. A few nerves sputter and the system thinks it sees lights, feels motion—
“There. Thalamus,” Hamilton reported. “Right on time. Now it’s in the ret.” A pause. “Neocortex, now. Same damn thing every time.”
Wescott didn’t look. He knew the pattern. He had seen its handwriting in the brains of half a dozen species, watched that same familiar cipher scurry through dying minds in hospital beds and operating theatres and the twisted wreckage of convenient automobiles. By now he didn’t even need the machines to see it. He only had to look at the eyes.
Once, in a moment of reckless undiscipline, he’d wondered if he were witnessing the flight of the soul, come crawling to the surface of the mind like an earthworm flushed by heavy rains. Another time he’d thought he might have captured the EEG of the Grim Reaper.