Terminal Experiment (21 page)

Cathy was lying on her back in bed, staring at the ceiling, when Peter entered. He could see by the Hobson Monitor that she was wide awake, so he didn’t make any effort to be quiet. “Peter?” said Cathy. “Hmm?”

“What went on this evening?”

“I had to see Sarkar.”

Cathy’s voice was tightly controlled. “Do you know who killed my father? Who killed Hans?”

Peter started to say something, then fell silent.

“Trust,” she said, rolling slightly toward him, “has to be a two-way street.” She waited a moment. “Do you know who killed them?”

“No,” said Peter again, removing his socks. And then, a moment later, “not for sure.”

“But you have your suspicions?”

Peter didn’t trust his voice. He nodded in the darkness.

“Who?”

“It’s only a guess,” he said. “Besides, we’re not even sure that your father was murdered.”

Firmly: “Who?”

He let out a long sigh. “This is going to take some explaining.” He had his shirt off now. “Sarkar and I have been doing some … research into artificial intelligence.”

Her face, blue-gray in the dim room, was impassive.

“Sarkar created three duplicates of my mind inside a computer.”

Cathy’s voice was tinged with mild surprise. “You mean expert systems?”

“More than that. Much more. He’s copied every neuron, every neural net. They are, for all intents and purposes, complete duplicates of my personality.”

“I didn’t know that sort of thing was possible.”

“It’s still experimental, but, yes, it’s possible. Sarkar invented the technique.”

“God. And you think one of these — these duplicates was responsible for the murders?”

Peter’s voice was faint. “Maybe.”

Cathy’s eyes were wide with horror. “But — but why would duplicates of your mind do something you yourself would not?”

Peter had finished changing into his pajamas. “Because two of the simulations are not duplicates. Parts of what I am have been removed from them. It’s possible that we accidentally deleted whatever was responsible for human morality.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I tell you, I would never kill anyone. Not even Hans. But part of me very much wanted him dead.”

Cathy’s voice was bitter. “And my father? Did part of you want him dead, too?”

Peter shrugged.

“Well?”

“I, ah, have never really liked your father. But no, until recently, I had no reason to hate him. But … but then you told me about your counseling session. He hurt you when you were young. He shook your confidence.”

“And one of the duplicates killed him for that?”

A shrug in the darkness. “Turn the fucking things off,” said Cathy.

“We can’t,” said Peter. “We tried. They’ve escaped out into the net.”

“God,” said Cathy, putting all her terror and fury into that single syllable.

They were silent for a time. She had moved away from him slightly in the bed. Peter looked at her, trying to decipher the mixture of emotions on her face. At last, her voice trembling slightly, she said, “Is there anyone else you want dead?”

“Sarkar asked me the same thing,” he said, annoyed. “But I can’t think of anyone.”

“What about — what about me?” said Cathy.

“You? Of course not.”

“But I hurt you.”

“Yes. But I don’t want you dead.”

Peter’s words didn’t seem to calm her. “Christ, Peter, how could you do something so stupid?”

“I — I don’t know. We didn’t mean to.”

“What about the detective?”

“What about her?”

“What will happen when she gets too close to the truth?” asked Cathy. “Will you want her dead, too?”

Sarkar arrived at Peter and Cathy’s house at 10:15 the next morning. They sat there, the three of them, chewing on bagels that were past their prime.

“So what do we do now?” said Cathy, arms folded across her chest.

“Go to the police,” said Sarkar.

Peter was shocked. “What?”

“The police,” said Sarkar again. “This is completely out of control. We need their help.”

“But—”

“Call the police. Tell them the truth. This is a new phenomenon. We didn’t expect this result. Tell them that.”

“If you do that,” said Cathy slowly, “there will be repercussions.”

“Indeed,” said Peter. “Charges would be laid.”

“What charges?” said Sarkar. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Are you kidding?” said Peter. “They could charge me with manslaughter, maybe. Or as an accessory to murder. And they could charge you with criminal negligence.”

Sarkar’s eyes went wide. “Crim—”

“Not to mention getting you under hacker laws,” said Cathy. “If I understand all this correctly, you’ve created a piece of software that’s out there violating other people’s computer systems and stealing resources. That’s a felony.”

“But we intended nothing wrong,” said Sarkar.

“The crown attorney could run circles around us,” said Peter. “A man and his best friend create software that kills people the man hated. Easy enough to discredit any claim I didn’t have that in mind all along. And remember that case against Consolidated Edison? Frankenstein statutes. Those who seek to profit from technology must bear the costs of unforeseen consequences.”

“Those are American laws,” said Sarkar. “I suspect a Canadian court would adopt a similar principle,” said Cathy.

“Regardless,” said Sarkar, “the sims have to be stopped.”

“Yes,” said Cathy.

Sarkar looked at Peter. “Pick up the phone. Dial nine-one-one.”

“But what could the police do?” asked Peter, spreading his arms. “I’d be in favor of telling them, perhaps, if there was something they could do.”

“They could order a shutdown of the net,” said Sarkar.

“Are you kidding? Only CSIS or the RCMP could do that — and I bet they’d need to invoke the War Measures Act to suspend access to information on that large a scale. Meanwhile, what if the sims have moved down into the States? Or across the Atlantic?” Peter shook his head. “There’s no way we’d ever get the net scoured clean.”

Sarkar nodded slowly. “Perhaps you’re right.” They were silent for a time. Finally, Cathy said, “Isn’t there some way you can clean them off the net yourself?”

They looked at her expectantly.

“You know,” she said, “write a virus that would track them down and destroy them. I remember the Internet worm, from back when I was in university — it was all over the world in a matter of days.”

Sarkar looked excited. “Maybe,” he said.

“Maybe.”

Peter looked at him. He tried to keep his voice calm. “The sims are huge, after all. They can’t be that hard to find.”

Sarkar was nodding. “A virus that checked all files bigger than, say, ten gigabytes … It could look for two or three basic patterns from your neural nets. If it found them, it would erase the file. Yes — yes, I think I could write something like that.” He turned to Cathy. “Brilliant, Catherine!”

“How long would it take to write?” asked Peter.

“I am not sure,” replied Sarkar. “I’ve never written a virus before. Couple of days.”

Peter nodded. “Let’s pray that this works.”

Sarkar looked at him. “I face Mecca five times a day and pray. Perhaps we would have better luck if both of you really did pray, too.” He rose to his feet. “I better get going. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Peter had been trying to prepare himself for the inevitable encounter. Still, every time his intercom buzzed, he felt his heart begin to race. The first few times were false alarms. Then—

“Peter,” said his secretary’s voice, “there’s an Inspector Philo here to see you, from the Metro Police.”

Peter took a very deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it out in a long, whispery sigh. He touched a button on his intercom. “Send her in, please.”

A moment later the door to his office opened and in walked Alexandria Philo. Peter had expected her to be in a police uniform. Instead, she was wearing a trim, professional gray blazer, matching slacks, and a coffee-colored silk blouse. She had on two tiny green earrings. Her short hair was bright red, her eyes bright green. And she was tall. She was carrying a black attache case.

“Hello, Detective,” Peter said, rising to his feet and extending his hand.

“Hello,” Sandra said, giving his hand a firm shake. “I take it you were expecting me?”

“Um, why do you say that?”

“I couldn’t help overhear you talking to your secretary. You said ‘send her in.’ But she hadn’t told you my first name, or given you any other indication that I was a woman.”

Peter smiled. “You’re very good at your job. My wife had said a few things about you.”

“I see.” Sandra was quiet, staring expectantly at Peter.

Peter laughed. “On the other hand, I’m very good at my job, too. And a large part of it involves attending meetings with government officials, all of whom have taken courses in interpersonal communication. It’s going to take more than just a protracted silence to get me to spill my guts.”

Sandra laughed. She hadn’t looked pretty to Peter when she came in, but when she laughed she looked very nice indeed.

“Please have a seat, Ms. Philo.” She smiled and took a chair, smoothing out her pants as she sat as if she often wore skirts. Cathy had the same habit.

There was a short silence. “Would you like coffee?” asked Peter. “Tea?”

“Coffee, please. Double double.” She looked uncomfortable. “This is a part of my job that I don’t like, Dr. Hobson.”

Peter got up and crossed over to the coffeemaker. “Please — call me Peter.”

“Peter.” She smiled. “I don’t like the way involved parties get treated in a case such as this. We police often bully people with little regard for good manners or the principle of assumed innocence.” Peter handed her a cup of coffee. “So, Doctor — ” She stopped herself and smiled. “So, Peter, I’m going to have to ask you some questions, and I hope you’ll understand that I’m just doing my job.”

“Of course.”

“As you know, one of your wife’s coworkers was murdered.”

Peter nodded. “Yes. It came as quite a shock.” Sandra looked at him with her head titled to one side.

“I’m sorry,” said Peter, confused. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just that there was evidence that a stunner was used to subdue the victim. Your ‘quite a shock’ comment struck me as funny.” She raised a hand. “Forgive me; you develop a fairly thick skin in this line of work.” A pause. “Have you ever used a stunner?”

“No.”

“Do you own one?”

“They’re illegal in Ontario, except for police work.” Sandra smiled. “But you can buy them easily in New York or Quebec.”

“No,” said Peter, “I’ve never used one.”

“I’m sorry to have to ask,” said Sandra.

“That darned police training,” said Peter.

“Exactly.”

She smiled. “Did you know the deceased man?”

Peter tried to say the name nonchalantly. “Hans Larsen? Sure, I’d met him — I’ve met most of Cathy’s coworkers, either at informal gatherings or at her company’s Christmas parties.”

“What did you think of him?”

“Of Larsen?” Peter took a sip of coffee. “I thought he was a jerk.”

Sandra nodded. “A number of people seemed to have shared your opinion, although others spoke highly of him.”

“I suspect that’s the way it is for just about everyone,” said Peter.

“Just about.” Silence again, then: “Look, Peter, you seem like a nice guy. I don’t want to bring up painful memories. But I know your wife and Hans, well…”

Peter nodded. “Yes, they did. But that was over a long time ago.”

Sandra smiled. “True. But it was more recently that your wife told you about it.”

“And now Larsen is dead.”

Sandra nodded once. “And now Larsen is dead.”

“Ms. Philo—”

She raised a hand. “You can call me Sandra.”

Peter smiled. “Sandra.”
Play it cool
, he thought. Sarkar would have the virus ready today or tomorrow. It’ll all be over soon. “Let me tell you something, Sandra. I’m a peaceful person. I don’t like wrestling or boxing. I haven’t hit anyone since I was a boy. I’d never hit my wife. And if I had a child, I’d never spank him or her.” He took a sip of coffee. Had he said enough? Would more be better?
Cool, dammit. Be cool.
But all he wanted to do was tell her the truth about himself — not those machine duplicates, but the real him, the flesh-and-blood him.

“I — I think a lot of the problems in this world come from violence. By spanking our kids we teach them that there are times when it’s okay to hit someone you love — and then we’re shocked to discover that these same kids grow up thinking it’s okay to hit their spouses. I don’t even kill houseflies, Sandra — I capture them in drinking glasses and take them outside. You’re asking whether I killed Larsen. And I’ll tell you directly that I might indeed have been angry with him, I might indeed have hated him, but killing or physically hurting isn’t in my nature. It’s something I simply would not do.”

“Or even think about?” asked Sandra.

Peter spread his arms. “Well, we all think about things. But there’s a world of difference between an idle fantasy and reality.”
If there weren’t
, thought Peter,
I’d have had you and my secretary and a hundred other women right on this very desktop.

Sandra rearranged herself slightly in her chair. “I don’t normally talk about my personal life while on the job, but I went through something very similar to what you did, Peter. My husband — my ex-husband, as of a few months ago — cheated as well. I’m not a violent person, either. I know some would consider that an unlikely thing for a police officer to say, but it’s true. But when I found out what Walter had done — well, I wanted him dead, and I wanted her dead. I’m not given to throwing things, but when I found out I threw the remote control for our TV across the room. It smashed into the wall, and the case broke open; you can still see the spot on the wall where it hit. So I know, Peter, I know that people have violent reactions when this sort of thing happens.”

Peter nodded slowly. “But I did not kill Hans Larsen.”

“We believe it was a professional murder.”

“I didn’t arrange for his killing, either.”

“Let me tell you exactly what my problem is here,” said Sandra. “As I said, we’re looking at a professional hit. Frankly, that sort of thing costs a lot of money — especially with the, ah, extra work this one involved. You and Cathy are better off than most of her coworkers; if anyone could have afforded this sort of thing, it would have been you or her.”

“But we didn’t do it,” said Peter. “Look, I’d be glad to take a lie-detector test.”

Sandra smiled sweetly. “How thoughtful of you to volunteer. I have portable equipment with me.”

Peter felt his stomach muscles tighten. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, it’s a Veriscan Plus — that’s made by your company, isn’t it?”

His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“So I’m sure you have a lot of faith in its abilities. Would you really be willing to take such a test?”

He hesitated. “With my legal counsel present, of course.”

“Legal counsel?” Sandra smiled again. “You haven’t been charged with anything.”

Peter considered. “All right,” he said. “If it will put an end to all this, yes, I’ll agree to a test, here and now. But in the absence of counsel, you may ask three questions only — did I kill Hans Larsen? Did I kill Rod Churchill? Did I arrange their deaths?”

“I have to ask more than three questions — calibrating the machine requires it; you know that.”

“All right,” said Peter. “Presumably you have a script of calibration questions. I’ll agree to the test so long as you don’t deviate from that script.”

“Very well.” Sandra opened her attache case, revealing the polygraph equipment within.

Peter peered at the device. “Don’t you have to be a specialist to operate those machines?”

“You should read your own product brochures, Peter. There’s an expert-system AI chip inside. Anyone can operate one these days.”

Peter grunted. Sandra affixed small sensors to Peter’s forearm and wrist. A flat-panel screen popped up from the attache case, and Sandra angled it so that only she could see it. She touched a few controls, then began to ask questions. “What’s your name?”

“Peter Hobson.”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

“Where were you born?”

“North Battleford, Saskatchewan.”

“Now lie to me. Tell me again where you were born.”

“Scotland.”

“Tell the truth: What is your wife’s first name?”

“Catherine.”

“Now lie: what is your wife’s middle name?”

“Ah — T’Pring.”

“Did you kill Hans Larsen?”

Peter watched Sandra carefully. “No.”

“Did you kill Rod Churchill?”

“No.”

“Did you arrange the killing of either of them?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea who killed them?” Peter held up a hand. “We agreed only three questions, Inspector.”

’’I’m sorry. Surely you don’t mind answering one more, though?” She smiled. “I no more like having to be suspicious of you than you like being a suspect. It I would be nice to be able to scratch you off my list.”

Peter thought. Dammit. “All right,” he said slowly. “I don’t know any person who might have killed them.”

Sandra looked up. “I’m sorry — I guess I upset you I when I went beyond what we’d agreed. There was some very strange activity when you said ‘person.’ Would you please bear with me for just one moment I more and repeat your last answer?”

Peter yanked the sensor from his arm, and threw it n the desktop. “I’ve already put up with more than we agreed,” he said, an edge in his voice. He knew he was making matters worse, and he fought to keep panic from overwhelming him. He pulled the second sensor off his wrist. “I’m through answering questions.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sandra. “Forgive me.”

Peter made an effort to calm himself. “That’s all right,” he said. “I hope you got what you were looking for.”

“Oh, yes,” said Sandra, closing her case. “Yes, indeed.”

It didn’t take long for Spirit’s artificial life-forms to develop multicellularism: chains of distinct units, attached together into simple rows. Eventually, the lifeforms stumbled onto the trick of doubling up into two rows: twice as many cells, but each one still exposed on at least one side to the nutrient soup of Spirit’s simulated sea. And then the long rows of cells began to double back on themselves, forming U shapes. And, eventually, the U shapes closed over on the bottom, forming bags. Then, at last, the great breakthrough: the bottom and top of the bag opened up, resulting in a cylinder made of a double layer of cells, open at both ends: the basic body plan of all animal life on Earth, with an eating orifice at the front and an excretory one at the rear.

Generations were born. Generations died.

And Spirit kept selecting.