—have at least been there this morning.
He caught himself. I’m angry, he realised. Isn’t that strange. I haven’t used this feeling for years.
It seemed odd that anything so old could have such sharp edges.
“Sorry,” he said evenly. “I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just — I heard enough platitudes at the vet, you know? I’m sick of people saying he wants to die when they mean It would cost too much. And I’m especially sick of people saying love when they mean economics. ”
Lynne put her arms around him. “There was nothing they could have done.”
He stood there, swaying slightly, almost oblivious to her embrace.
Carol, how much did I pay to keep you breathing? And when did I decide you weren’t worth the running tab?
“It’s always economics,” he said. And brought his arms up to hold her.
“You want to read minds.”
Not Carol’s voice, this time. This time it belonged to that guy from Southam . . . Mosby, that was it. Mosby’s program sat in memory, directing a chorus of electrons that came out sounding like he did, a cheap auditory clone. Wescott preferred it to the original.
“Read minds?” He considered. “Actually, right now I’m just trying to build a working model of one.”
“Like me?”
“No. You’re just a fancy menu. You ask questions; depending on how I answer them you branch to certain others. You’re linear. Minds are more . . . distributed.”
“Thoughts are not signals, but the intersections of signals.”
“You’ve read Penthorne.”
“I’m reading him now. I’ve got Biomedical Abstracts online.”
“Mmmm.”
“I’m also reading Gödel,” the program said. “If he’s right, you’ll never get an accurate model of the human brain, because no box is big enough to hold itself.”
“So simplify it. Throw away the details, but preserve the essence. You don’t want to make your model too big anyway; if it’s as complicated as the real thing, it’s just as hard to understand.”
“So you just cut away at the brain until you end up with something simple enough to deal with?”
Wescott winced. “If you’ve got to keep it to vidbits, I guess that’s as good as any.”
“And what’s left is still complex enough to teach you anything about human behaviour?”
“Look at you.”
“Just a fancy menu.”
“Exactly. But you know more than the real Jason Mosby.
You’re a better conversationalist, too; I met him once. I bet you’d even score higher on a Turing test. Am I right?”
A barely perceptible pause. “I don’t know. Possibly.”
“As far as I can tell you’re better than the original, and with only a few percent of the processing power.”
“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.