But I couldn’t stand those books. Whenever I found one lying on the coffee table, I’d pick it up and hide it somewhere. It wasn’t that I hated the content of the books; I never read any of them, so I have no idea what they said. I hated them because they seemed to be taking my mother away from me.
With some effort, I force myself to speak calmly. “Okay, maybe it’s unholy. But there’s a reason for it. Did Dad tell you about Sigma?”
She nods again. “Your father’s a brilliant man, but he doesn’t know when to stop. He should’ve never built that computer in the first place.”
“He wanted to delete the program, but the Defense Department wouldn’t—”
“He was playing God, that’s what he was doing. I warned him about it many times.” She tilts her head back and casts a rueful look toward the bedroom on the second floor where Dad is sleeping. “But the Pioneer Project is worse. Sacrificing children? I can’t believe he’d even consider it.”
“It’s a desperate situation, Mom. Sigma is out of control. It’s threatening to kill millions of people.”
“I’m sorry, but nothing can justify this. The Army needs to figure out another way to fight this computer. Maybe the soldiers can cut off its power. Or infect it with a computer virus.”
What she’s saying sounds perfectly reasonable, but I’m sure the Army has already considered these options. The Russian missile base probably has its own power plant, and Sigma is intelligent enough to protect itself from viruses. Because the AI is constantly rewriting its code and making itself smarter, the soldiers will never be able to outwit it. At least the Pioneer Project has a chance.
“I don’t have much faith in the Army,” I admit. “But I have faith in Dad. If he says this is the only way, I believe him.”
Mom comes closer, sitting down on the edge of my bed. She picks up the half-eaten croissant from my lap and puts it back on the breakfast tray. Then she stretches her arm toward me and cups my chin in her palm. Her hand is warm.
“Adam, your father loves you very much. For the past few years he’s done all the work of caring for you, because I didn’t have the strength to do it. And now I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there for you.” She slides her hand up to my cheek. “In one way, though, I’m stronger than him. I’ve accepted the fact that I’m going to lose you. Even though it destroys me every time I think of it, I accept God’s will. But your father won’t stop fighting. He has another reason for working on this Pioneer idea, and it has nothing to do with saving the world. He thinks the procedure can save you.”
I shiver. These are almost the exact words Dad used when we were in the SUV, heading for Pioneer Base. I saw a way to save you. “What are you saying?” I ask. “You think he instigated this whole crisis just to make a copy of my brain?”
She shakes her head. “No, of course not. But this idea has been on his mind for years. He’s obsessed with all that Singularity nonsense. He really believes it’s possible to live forever by putting your memories into a computer.”
“Well, maybe he’s right.” I feel an urge to defend him. “Maybe if I undergo the procedure, I’ll wake up inside the machine. My body would die, but my mind would go on working.”
Mom caresses my cheek, then shakes her head again. “You said it yourself, Adam. The thing inside the machine would be a copy. It might sound like you when it talks and even think of itself as Adam Armstrong. But it wouldn’t be you.”
“Why not?”
She gives me an exasperated look, as if the answer should be obvious. “Because you have a soul. And after your body dies, your soul goes to God.”
“But your soul is tied to your memories, right? When your soul is up in heaven with God, you’d still remember your life on earth, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, certainly. The soul and the mind are connected.”
“So if they can travel together all the way to heaven, why couldn’t they make a short hop into a computer? If you can believe in the afterlife, why not believe in this too?”
She pulls away from me. I feel a pang of regret when her hand comes off my cheek, and for a moment I wish I could take back what I said. But it’s too late. Mom’s chin is quivering. “You’re seriously considering it? Going back to Colorado?”
If she asked me that question a minute ago, my answer would’ve been no. Now, though, I’m not so sure. Talking about the procedure has made it seem less impossible. It’s still frightening, but at least I can imagine choosing it.
“If I don’t do it, I’m going to die soon anyway. Probably much sooner than six months. My chest hurts all the time now.”
Mom gets up from the bed and takes a step backward. “Every minute of life is precious, Adam. Don’t leave us before you have to.”
Her face is reddening, her eyes welling up. She thinks I’m considering suicide. I want to tell her she’s wrong, but I don’t know how to convince her. “What if it works, Mom? What if I wake up in the machine and it’s really me inside? Then you won’t lose me. We can still be together.”
She turns her head aside, as if she’s afraid to look at me. The tears come down her cheeks as she gazes at my Super Bowl posters. She turns her head again and stares at my shelf of comics. Then she turns a third time and stares at the floor. She looks desperate, like a cornered animal.
Now I’m worried she’s going to have another screaming fit, maybe as bad as the one she had in the hospital. “It’s all right, Mom,” I say in a softer voice. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
She suddenly reaches for something on my desk. She grasps my Pinpressions toy, curling her fingers around the two squares of transparent plastic and the hundreds of silver pins sliding between them. At first I think she’s going to hurl the toy at the wall, or maybe even at me. But instead she raises it to eye level and presses her face against the back of the thing. It looks like she’s trying to hurt herself.
“Mom! Stop!”
For a couple of seconds she just stands there with the toy pressed to her face like a mask. Then she pulls her head back and carefully sets the toy on my desk. Through the clear plastic I see the heads of the silver pins arranged in the shape of her face. Some of the pins jut forward, forming impressions of her chin and nose and cheekbones. Above them are two shadowed craters that look like her eyes.
She points at the thing. “That’s what you’re talking about. A copy made of metal.” Her voice is loud, agonized, heartbreaking. “I won’t have anything to do with it, Adam. I won’t go with you to Colorado! I won’t even look at it!”
With an angry swat, she knocks over the toy, erasing the impression of her face. Then she runs out of the bedroom.
Fifteen minutes later Dad comes into my room and performs the usual chores of washing and dressing me. He doesn’t say much and neither do I. I think he overheard the argument between me and Mom—she was really yelling at the end—but he doesn’t mention it. He just whistles a random tune as he bends over my bed and tugs a pair of jeans up my useless legs. It’s a little weird that he’s so calm and quiet now. If he wants to save my life, why isn’t he trying to convince me to say yes to the procedure?
But Dad just keeps whistling as he zips up my jeans and slips a T-shirt over my head. I guess he realizes it’s my decision to make. Do I want to live inside a huge bullet-shaped robot? With no muscles or bones or lungs or heart, with circuits instead of a brain, and steel armor instead of skin, and cameras instead of eyes? It sounds so horrible, but what’s the alternative? Mom believes you go to heaven after you die, but what if she’s wrong? What if there’s nothing? Wouldn’t any kind of life be better than that?