The Terminal Experiment

CHAPTER 19

Sarkar had called Peter early Sunday morning to tell him the training and pruning of the simulacra were complete. Cathy was off looking at garage sales — a hobby whose appeal Peter had never understood — so Peter left a message for her with the household computer. He then hopped into his Mercedes and drove to Mirror Image’s offices in Concord.

Once he and Sarkar were together in the computer lab, Sarkar said, “We’ll try activating the Control simulacrum first.” Peter nodded. Sarkar pushed a few keys then spoke into the microphone stalk rising from the console. “Hello.”

A synthesized voice came from the speaker. “H-hello?”

“Hello,” Sarkar said again. “It’s me, Sarkar.”

“Sarkar!” The voice was full of relief. “What the hell is going on? I can’t see anything.”

Peter felt his jaw drop. The simulation was much more real than he’d expected.

“That’s right, Peter,” said Sarkar into the mike. “Don’t worry.”

“Have I — have I been in an accident?” said the voice from the speaker.

“No,” said Sarkar. “No, you’re fine.”

“Is it a power failure, then? What time is it?”

“About eleven forty.”

“Morning or night?”

“Morning.”

“Why is it so dark, then? And what’s wrong with your voice?”

Sarkar turned to Peter. “You tell him.”

Peter cleared his throat. “Hello,” he said.

“Who’s that? Is that still Sarkar?”

“No, it’s me. Peter Hobson.”

“I’m Peter Hobson.”

“No, you’re not. I am.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re a simulation. A computer simulacrum. Of me.”

There was a long silence, then: “Oh.”

“You believe me?” asked Peter.

“I guess,” said the voice from the speaker. “I mean, I remember discussing this experiment with Sarkar. I remember — I remember everything up to the brain scan.” Silence, then: “Shit, you really did it, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Sarkar.

“Who was that?” asked the voice from the speaker.

“Sarkar.”

“I can’t tell the two of you apart,” said the sim. “You sound exactly the same.”

Sarkar nodded. “Good point. I’ll adjust the software to pass on a distinction between my accent and Peter’s. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” said the sim. “Thank you.” And then: “Christ, you did a good job. I feel — I feel just like myself. Except … except I’m not hungry. Or tired. And I don’t itch anywhere.” A beat. “Say, which simulacrum am I?”

“You are Control,” said Sarkar, “the experimental baseline. You’re the first one we’ve activated. I do have routines set up to simulate a variety of neural inputs, including hunger and being tired. I am afraid I didn’t even think about simulating normal body itching and little aches and pains. Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay,” said the simulacrum. “I didn’t realize just how much I used to itch all the time until now, with the sensation completely gone. So — so what happens now?”

“Now,” said Sarkar, “you get to do whatever you want. There are many input programs available to you both here and out on the net.”

“Thanks. Christ, this is strange.”

“I’m going to put you in the background now so I can deal with the other simulations,” said Sarkar.

“Okay, but, ah, Peter — ?”

Peter looked up, surprised. “Yes?”

“You’re a lucky bastard, you know that? I wish I were you.”

Peter grunted.

Sarkar hit some keys.

“So what will they be doing when running in the background?” asked Peter.

“Well, I’ve given them limited net access. They can download any books or newsgroups they might want to read, of course, but the main thing I’ve given them access to is the net’s virtual-reality special-interest-group libraries. They can plug into simulations of just about anything imaginable: scuba diving, mountain climbing, dancing — whatever. I’ve also given them access to the European equivalent of the VR sig; that one’s full of sex simulations. So, there’ll be plenty to keep them busy. The activities each of them chooses will tell us a lot about how their psychology has changed.”

“How so?”

“Well, the real you would never go skydiving, for instance — but an immortal version, who knew he couldn’t be killed, might indeed take that up as a hobby.” Sarkar typed some commands. “And speaking of the immortal, let’s introduce ourselves to Ambrotos.” A few more keyclicks, then he spoke into the microphone. “Hello,” he said, “it’s me, Sarkar.”

No reply.

“Something must have gone wrong,” said Peter.

“I don’t think so,” said Sarkar. “All the indicators look fine.”

“Try again,” said Peter.

“Hello,” said Sarkar into the mike.

Silence.

“Maybe you erased whatever part controlled speech,” said Peter.

“I was very careful,” said Sarkar. “I suppose there could be some interaction I have overlooked, but—”

“Hello,” said a voice from the speaker at last.

“Ah,” said Sarkar. “There he is. I wonder what took so long?”

“Patience is a virtue,” said the voice. “I wanted to assess what was going on before I replied. I’m a simulacrum, aren’t I? Of Peter G. Hobson. But I’ve been modified to simulate an immortal being.”

“That’s exactly right,” said Sarkar. “How could you tell which sim you are?”

“Well, I knew you were going to create three. I wasn’t quite feeling myself, so I suspected I wasn’t the experimental control. After that, I simply asked myself if I felt horny. You know what they say — men think about sex once every five minutes. I figured if I was the after-death sim, sex would be the farthest thing from my mind. And it isn’t. I do want to get laid.” A pause. “But when I realized that it didn’t matter to me if it was this decade or next, that cinched it. This need for instantaneous gratification — it’s unseemly. You’re a perfect example, Sarkar: having a fit because I didn’t respond to your ‘hello’ right away. That kind of thinking seems so alien to me now. After all, I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Sarkar grinned. “Very good,” he said. “By the way, we’re referring to you as the Ambrotos simulacrum.”

“Ambrotos?” said the voice from the speaker.

Sarkar turned to Peter. “The first proof that our simulations are accurate,” he said, smiling. “We have successfully duplicated your ignorance.” He spoke into the mike. “Ambrotos is Greek for immortal.”

“Ah.”

“I’m going to let you continue to run in the background now,” Sarkar said. “I’ll talk to you again soon.”

“Sooner or later, it doesn’t matter,” said Ambrotos. “I’ll be here.”

Sarkar touched some keys. “Well, that one seems to work fine, too. Now for the trickiest one — Spirit, the life-after-death entity.” He touched more keys, calling up the final simulacrum. “Hello,” he said again. “It is me, Sarkar Muhammed.”

“Hello, Sarkar,” said a synthesized voice.

“Do you — do you know who you are?” asked Sarkar.

“I’m the late, lamented Peter Hobson.”

Sarkar grinned. “Exactly.”

“R.I.P. in RAM,” said the synthesized voice.

“You don’t seem too choked up about being dead,” said Sarkar. “What’s it like?”

“Give me a while to get used to it, and I’ll let you know.”

Peter nodded. That seemed fair enough.