The Terminal Experiment

CHAPTER 45

Having leafed through his memories, Sandra Philo understood Peter Hobson now, understood the events that had led to her being in an intensive-care room, dying and barely able to speak oj move. She knew Peter now better than she had known her own parents or her ex-husband or her daughter. And, in knowing him so well, in understanding him so deeply, she found that she could not hate him…

Peter had burst into her hospital room. She saw herself now as Peter had seen her, lying in the hospital bed, her skin sickly yellow, her hair falling out in clumps. “We’ve tried to stop them,” he had said. “Nothing worked. But at least I now know which simulation is guilty.” He’d paused. “I’ll give you everything you’ll need, Sandra, including full Q A access to the scans of my brain. You’ll get to know me in intimate detail — better than anyone in the real world knows me. You’ll know how I think, and that will give you the knowledge to outwit the murdering simulation.”

She saw herself through his eyes, shrugging as much as her ruined body would allow. “Nothing I can do,” she’d said. “Dying.”

Peter had closed his eyes. Sandra felt his agony, felt his guilt, felt everything that was tearing him apart. “I know,” he’d said, his voice raw. “I’m terribly, terribly sorry. But there is a way, Sandra — a way for you to end all this.”

“Coming through!” said Sarkar, wheeling an equipment-laden cart down the fourth-floor corridor. The cluster of nurses in the middle of the hallway dispersed. Sarkar found room 412 of the Intensive Care Unit and pushed the door open with his cart.

Detective Inspector Sandra Philo was lying in bed. It was clear she had very little time left. Patches of scalp were visible where her red hair had fallen out. Her cheeks were sunken.

Peter Hobson was there, standing by the window, talking to a white-haired female doctor wearing a green smock. They both looked at Sarkar.

“Hannah Kelsey,” said Peter. “This is Sarkar Muhammed. Sarkar, this is Hannah — the doctor assigned to Sandra’s case. Turns out we were both at East York General years ago.”

Sarkar nodded politely. “How is Ms. Philo?”

“She’s temporarily stabilized,” said Hannah. “For a few hours, anyway, the pain won’t bother her.” She faced Peter. “Honestly, though, Pete, I wish I knew what kinds of readings you needed.”

“You’ve got the patient’s consent, Hannah,” said Peter. “That’s all you need.”

“If you’d just tell me — ” said Hannah.

“Please,” said Peter. “We don’t have much time. You can stay if you want.”

“You’ve got it backward, Pete. This is my turf; you’re here at my leave, not the other way around.”

Peter nodded curtly, acknowledging that.

Sarkar had moved over to the bed. “Are you comfortable?” he asked Sandra.

She rolled her eyes as if to say comfort was impossible, but she was as well as could be expected.

“Peter explained the procedure to you?” asked Sarkar.

She nodded slightly and said, “Yes.” Her voice was dry and thin.

Sarkar gently placed the skullcap on her head and fastened the chin strap. “Let me know if it’s too tight.”

Sandra nodded.

“Hold your head steady. If you need to cough, or anything like that, warn me by moving your arm; I understand you can still use the left one a little. Now, let me insert the earpieces. Okay? Good. Now, put on these goggles. All set? Here we go.”

After the first two scanning sets were completed, Peter pointed at the EKG and blood-pressure monitors. Sandra was slipping.

Sarkar nodded. “I need at least another ninety minutes,” he said.

Sandra’s doctor had left some time ago. Peter had the ward nurse — a young man, instead of the stocky women he’d had a run-in with earlier in the day — page her. When she returned, Peter explained that they needed to stabilize Sandra again — she couldn’t be in pain, not for another hour and a half.

“I can’t keep pumping her full of drugs,” said Hannah.

“Just one more shot,” said Peter. “Please.”

“Let me check her vital signs.”

“Dammit, Hannah, you know she’s not going to last through the night anyway. The particle beam killed most of her tissues.”

Hannah checked the instruments, then leaned over Sandra. “I can make them leave,” she said. “You look like you need rest.”

“No,” said Sandra. “No … have to finish.”

“This is the last shot I can give you today; you’ve already had more than the recommended dosage.”

“Do it,” said Sandra, softly but firmly.

Hannah gave her the shot. She also injected something to raise Sandra’s blood pressure. Sarkar went back to work.

Finally, Sarkar turned off the recorder. “Done,” he said. “A good, crisp recording — better than I’d expected, considering the circumstances.”

Sandra let her breath out in a heavy, ragged sigh. “I’ll get … that … bastard,” she said.

“I know,” said Peter, taking her hand. “I know.”

Sandra was silent for a long time. Finally, speaking ponderously, as if all the strength had drained from her, she said, “Your discoveries,” she said. “Heard about them. You sure … there’s life after death?”

Peter, still holding her hand, nodded. “I’m sure.”

“What’s it like?” she asked.

Peter wanted to tell her it was wonderful, tell her not to worry, tell her to be calm.

“I have no idea,” he said.

Sandra nodded slightly, accepting that. “I’ll know … soon enough,” she said.

Her eyelids drew shut. Peter, heart pounding, watched intently as she passed on, looking for any sign of the soulwave moving through the room.

There was nothing.

Back at Mirror Image, Sarkar loaded the recording into his workstation. He worked as fast as he could, feeding in images from the Dalhousie Stimulus Library. Then, at last, he was ready. With Peter standing over his shoulder, he activated the sim.

“Hello, Sandra,” he said. “This is Sarkar Muhammed.”

There was a long pause. Finally, tremulously, the speaker — incongruously using a male voice — said, “My God, is this what it’s like to be dead?”

“Kind of,” said Sarkar. “You are the other one — the simulation we spoke about.”

Wistful: “Oh.”

“Forgive us, but we made some changes,” said Peter. “Cut some connections. You’re no longer exactly Sandra Philo. You’re now what Sandra would be like if she were a disembodied spirit.”

“A soul, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“Which is all that’s left of the real me now, anyway,” said the voice. A pause. “Why the change?”

“One: to prevent you from becoming what the control version of me became. And two: you’ll find very soon that you can build much more complex thoughts, and sustain them longer, than you could when you were alive. Your intelligence will rise. You should have no trouble outwitting the unmodified version of me.”

“Are you ready?” asked Sarkar.

“Yes.”

“Can you sense your surroundings?”

“Vaguely. I’m — I’m in an empty room.”

“You are in an isolated memory bank,” said Sarkar. He leaned forward, tapped some keys. “And now you have access to the net.”

“It’s — it’s like a doorway. Yes, I can see it.”

“There’s a passive, unactivated version of the Control sim online here,” said Peter. “You can scan it in as much depth as you like, learn everything there is to know about your opponent — and about me. And then, when you’re ready, you can head out into the net. After that, all you have to do is find him. Find him, and find some way to stop him.”

“I will,” said Sandra, firmly.