Reiterated: the complete short fiction, page 19
It had been just over nine weeks since Cathy had told Peter about her affair. Things had remained strained between them throughout that period. But now it was necessary that they have a serious talk—a talk about a different crisis, a crisis from their past.
Today was Monday, October 10—Canadian Thanksgiving. Both of them had the day off. Peter came into the living room. Cathy was sitting on the love seat, doing The New York Times crossword. Peter came over and sat next to her.
“Cathy,” he said, “there’s something I have to say.”
Cathy’s enormous eyes met his, and suddenly Peter realized what she was thinking. He’d made his decision, she thought. He was leaving her. He saw in her face all the fear, all the sadness, all the courage. She was struggling for composure.
“It’s about our baby,” said Peter. Cathy’s face changed abruptly. She was confused now. “What baby?” Peter swallowed hard. “The baby we, ah, aborted twelve years ago.” Cathy’s eyes were moving back and forth. She clearly didn’t understand.
“Next week, my company will be making a public announcement about the soulwave,” he said. “At that time, some additional research will be revealed. But . . . but I wanted you to hear about it first.”
Cathy was silent.
“I know now when the soulwave arrives in a child.”
She read his manner, read his hesitancy. She knew his every gesture, his whole body-language vocabulary. “Oh, God,” Cathy said, her eyes wide in horror. “It arrives early, doesn’t it? Prior to when we—when we—” Peter said nothing.
“Oh, God,” she said again, shaking her head. “It was the Nineties,” she said, as if that summed it all up.
The Nineties. Back then, the abortion issue, like most others, had been simplified to a ridiculous sloganeering level: “Pro-choice”—as if there were another faction that was antichoice; “Pro-life”—as if there had been a group that was against life. No grays were allowed. In the circle the Hobsons had moved in—educated, well-off, liberal Eastern Canada—pro-choice had been the only stance to take.
The Nineties.
The politically correct Nineties.
Peter shook his head. “It’s not clear,” he said. “We did it right around the time the soulwave would have first appeared.” He paused, not knowing what to say. “It might have been OK.”
“Or it might have been . . . might have been . . . .”
Peter nodded. “I’m so sorry, Cathy.”
She chewed her lower lip, confused and sad. Peter reached out and touched her hand.
Chapter 15
Hobson Monitoring had a standard database of medical journalists worldwide to whom electronic press kits were routinely sent. A few members of Peter’s senior staff argued that this particular release should also go to religion editors, but Peter vetoed that. He was still uncomfortable with the moral aspects of the discovery. Besides, everyone from The National Enquirer on down would be clamoring for interviews soon enough. An invitation to the press conference went out by mail and courier three days in advance of the actual event. Peter was uneasy about the wording of the invitation, but Joginder Singh, his PR person, was adamant that this was the correct approach:
Hobson Monitoring Ltd invites you to attend a press conference on Thursday, October 20, at 10:00 a m in room 104 of the Metro Toronto Convention Center. We will be unveiling a fundamental breakthrough in science. Sorry, folks—no hints until you get here. But we promise that this story will be front-page news around the globe. Video linkups are available for those unable to attend in person; contact Joginder at Hobson Monitoring for details.
Several reporters did call, trying to sniff out whether the story would really be worth pursuing, or if this was just going to be the release of a new piece of hospital gadgetry. But no advance information was given out. Everyone had to wait until Thursday morning. And then . . . .
About forty reporters showed up for the press conference—Hobson Monitoring had only once before gotten more, back when it had announced its first public share offering. Peter knew half the reporters by name: Buck Piekarz, medical correspondent for The Toronto Star; Cory Tick, his counterpart from The Globe and Mail; Lianne Delany from “CBC Newsworld”; a fat guy who covered Canadian stories for The Buffalo News; a stringer for USA Today;
many more. The reporters helped themselves to fresh fruit and coffee while they chatted amongst themselves. They were surprised they didn’t receive press kits up front, although Peter and Joginder assured them that full kits, including data disks and transcripts of Peter’s remarks, would be distributed as they exited. Several of the journalists present would videotape the conference, anyway.
Cathy had taken a vacation day to be there with Peter. At a quarter after ten, he made his way up to the front of the room. Cathy beamed at him, and, despite the butterflies in his stomach, he drew strength from her presence. “Hello, everyone,” he said, smiling at them all in turn, but holding a special, lingering smile on Cathy. “Thank you for coming out. Please forgive all the secrecy, I know it seems a tad melodramatic. But what we’re going to announce here today is something very special, and we wanted to be sure that responsible journalists heard about it first.” He smiled. “Joginder. if you’ll dim the lights please? Thanks. Now, everyone, please watch the wall monitor. You’ll all be getting copies of the recording I’m about to play when you leave. All set? Run the demo, please, Joginder.”
The journalists watched intently as Peter narrated a slowed-down playback of the brain scans of Peggy Fennell’s death. Peter went into a fair bit of technical detail—these were, after all, medical correspondents. When the soulwave actually departed from Mrs. Fennell’s head a murmur moved through the audience.
“Play that last bit back again,” called out Piekarz from The Star. Peter signaled Joginder to do so.
“Exactly what is that?” asked another reporter.
Peter looked at Cathy, sitting in the front row. Her eyes were twinkling. He affected a shrug. “It’s a cohesive electrical field that leaves the body through the temple at the moment of death.”
“At the exact moment of death?” asked Delaney, the woman from Newsworld.
“Yes. It’s the final bit of electrical activity in the brain.”
“So—so it’s what?” said the woman. “Some kind of a soul?” She said the word offhandedly, as if a joke, giving her room to retreat in case she was making a fool of herself.
But in the weeks since Sarkar had first uttered that term, Peter had grown more comfortable with it. “Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly what we think it is.” He raised his voice, speaking generally to the room. “There it is, ladies and gentlemen: the first ever direct scientific recording of what may be a human soul leaving a body.”
A buzz erupted, everyone talking at once. Peter spent the next two hours answering questions, although some of the print reporters with early deadlines grabbed the press kits and exited almost at once. He made clear that his studies had yet to reveal exactly what happened to the soulwave after departure—it seemed to remain coherent, but there was still no proof that it didn’t dissipate shortly after leaving the body. He also stressed that very little data was available yet about the content or structure of the soulwave, and, in particular, about what, if any, meaningful information it contained.
But it made no difference. The idea of a soul was an archetype, universally grasped. People already were sure, in their hearts, of what the soulwave represented.
That night, Cathy and Peter saw that the CBC TV story was picked up by CNN in the States and the BBC World Service. The announcement was all over the net within hours and made front-page news in the evening editions of The Toronto Star and several American papers, and was plastered across page one of newspapers around the world the next day. Within twenty-four hours, the entire developed world knew about the discovery.
Suddenly Peter Hobson was a celebrity.
“Is the caller still there?” asked Donahue, back on daytime TV after his failed presidential bid.
“I’m here, Phil.”
Donahue made his tortured face; precious seconds were being wasted. “Go ahead—I have very little time.”
“What I’d like to know,” said the caller’s voice, “is what life after death is really like. I mean, we know now that it exists, but what’s it really like?”
Donahue turned to Peter. “That’s a very good question, caller. Dr. Hobson, what is the afterlife like?”
Peter shifted in his chair. “Well, that’s more a subject for philosophers, I’m afraid, and—”
Donahue turned toward the studio audience. “Audience, are we prepared for these questions? Do we really want to know the answers? And what will America do if the afterlife turns out to be unpleasant?” He spoke into the air. “Show ’em, Bryan—number fourteen.”
A chart appeared on the screen. “Sixty-seven percent of the people of this good country,” said Donahue, “believe that the soulwave proves the Judeo-Christian model of a heaven and a hell. Only eleven percent believes that your discovery, Dr. Hobson, disproves that model.”
The chart disappeared. Donahue spied a raised hand in the back of the studio. Still spry at seventy-five, he bolted for the back row and shoved a microphone under a woman’s chin.
“Yes, ma’am. You had a brief comment.”
“That’s right, Phil. I’m from Memphis—we love your show down there.”
First the little-boy face, patted on the head. “Thank you, ma’am.” Then the pained face, as if something was caught going down his gullet. “I have very little time.”
“My question is for the doctor. Do you think your discovery is going to get you into heaven, or are you going to hell for interfering in God’s mysteries?”
Close up on Peter. “I—I have no idea.”
Donahue did his standard theatrical arm gesture that ended with his finger pointing directly into the camera. “And we’ll be right back . . . .”
The silver-haired Latin fox turned to face the audience. According to the tabloids, he’d recently undergone the Life Unlimited process, so viewers had centuries of his particular brand of television to look forward to.
“Life after life,” he said, portentously. “That’s our focus on this edition of ‘Geraldo.’ Our guests today include Peter Hobson, the Ottawa scientist who claims to have captured the immortal soul on film, and Monsignor Carlos Latina of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles.” Geraldo turned to the man wearing a black cassock. “Monsignor—where do you think the souls are today of those clergy members who molested boys in church-run orphanages?”
(Roll computer graphic of Capitol Building dome. Cue music.) Announcer: “From ABC News: ‘This Week with Peter Jennings.’ Now from our Washington headquarters, here’s Peter Jennings.”
Jennings, gray-haired, dour, facing into the camera: “The soulwave—fact or fantasy? Religious revelation or scientific truth? We’ll ask our guests: Peter Hobson, the engineer who first detected the soulwave; Carl Sagan, author of the best-selling Eyes of Creation; and Helen Johannes, Presidential Advisor on Religion in America. Some background on all this from our man Kyle Adair. And joining me in our Washington studio will be—
(Medium shot of Donaldson, his features sharp despite his wrinkles; his shoe-polish brown toupee looking obviously fake.)
“Sam Donaldson—”
(Medium shot of silver-haired Will, wall-eyed and bow-tied, looking like a retired plantation owner.)
“—and George Will. Later, we’ll be joined by commentator Sally Fernandez of The Washington Post . . . All here on our Sunday program.”
(Run commercials: Archer Daniel Midland’s new all-vegetable automobile. General Dynamics—“our work may be classified, but we’re a good corporate citizen.” Merrill Lynch—“Because someday the economy will turn around.”)
(Roll pre-recorded backgrounder.) (Fade up in studio.)
Jennings: “Kyle, thank you.” (Recap guests and panelists.) (Insert Peter Hobson on wall monitor, with dateline display at top showing “Toronto.”)
Sam Donaldson, leaning forward: “Professor Hobson, your discovery of the soulwave could be seen as a great liberator of oppressed people, final proof that all men and women are created equal. What effect do you think your discovery will have on totalitarian regimes?”
Hobson, politely: “Excuse me, but I’m not a professor.”
Donaldson: “I stand corrected. But don’t duck my question, sir! What effect will your discoveries have on the human-rights violations going on in the eastern Ukraine?”
Hobson, after a moment’s reflection: “Well, I’d love to think that I’ve struck a blow for human equality, of course. But it seems that our ability to be inhuman has survived every challenge to it in the past.”
George Will, over steepled fingers: “Dr. Hobson, the average American, struggling under the burden of an excessive government with a ravenous appetite for tax dollars, cares not one whit about the geopolitical ramifications of your research. The average church-going American wants to know, in precise and plain language, sir, exactly what characteristics the afterlife actually has.”
Hobson, blinking: “Is that a question?”
Will: “It is the question, Dr. Hobson.”
Hobson, shaking head slowly: “I have no idea.”
Chapter 16
Peter was not about to let his newfound celebrity interfere with his Tuesday evening dinners with Sarkar at Sonny Gotlieb’s. But he did have something very specific that he wanted to explore with Sarkar, and he began without preamble. “How do you create an artificial intelligence? You work in that field—how do you do it?”
Sarkar looked surprised. “Well, there are many ways. The oldest is the interview method. If we wanted a system to do financial planning, we would ask questions of several financial planners. Then we reduce the answers as a series of rules that can be expressed in computer code: ‘if A and B are true, do C.’ ”
“But what about that scanner my company built for you? Aren’t you doing full brain dumps of specific people now?”
“We’re making good progress toward that. We’ve got a prototype called RICKGREEN, but we’re not ready to go public with it. You know that comedian, Rick Green?”
“Sure.”
“We did a full scan on him. The resulting system can now tell jokes that are just as funny as the ones the real Rick tells. And by giving it access to the Canadian Press and UPI news feeds, it can even generate new topical humor.”
“OK, so you can essentially clone in silicon a specific human mind—”
“Get with the twenty-first century, Peter. We use gallium arsenide, not silicon.”
“Whatever.”
“But you have hit upon what makes the problem crisp: we are just at the point where we can clone one specific human mind—a shame that such a technique did not exist in time to scan Stephen Hawking. But there are very few applications in which you want the knowledge of just one person. For most expert systems, you really want the combined knowledge of many practitioners. So far, there is no way to combine, say, Rick Green and Jeremy Seinfeld, or to build a combined Stephen Hawking/Mordecai Almi neural net. Although I had high hopes for this technology, I suspect most of the contracts we’ll get will be for duplicating the brains of autocratic company presidents who think their heirs are going to be interested in what they have to say after they’re dead.”
Peter nodded.
“Besides,” said Sarkar, “total brain dumps are turning out to be a tremendous waste of resources. When we created RICKGREEN, all we were really interested in was his sense of humor. But the system also gives us everything else Rick knows, including his approaches to raising his children, an endless amount of expertise about model trains, which are his hobby, and even his cooking technique, something no one in his right mind would want to emulate.”
“Can’t you pare it down to isolate just the sense of humor?”
“That’s difficult. We’re getting good at decoding what each neural net does, but there are many interconnections. When we tried deleting the part about child-rearing, we found the system no longer made jokes about family life.”
“But you can make an accurate duplicate of a specific human mind on a computer?”
“It’s a brand-new technique, Peter. But, so far, yes, the duplication seems accurate.”
“And you can, at least to some extent, decode the functions of the various neural interconnections?”
“Yes,” said Sarkar. “Again, we’ve only tried it on the RICKGREEN prototype—and that was a limited model.”
“And once you’ve identified a function you can delete it from the overall brain simulacrum?”
“Bearing in mind that deleting one thing may change the way something that seems unrelated will respond, yes, I’d say we’re at the point at which we can do that.”
“All right,” said Peter. “Let me propose an experiment. Say we make two copies of a specific person’s mind. In one of them you excise everything related to the physical body: hormonal responses, sexual urges, things like that. And in the second one, you remove everything related to bodily degeneration, to fear of old age and dying, and so on.”
Sarkar ate a matzo ball. “And what would the point be?”
“The first one would be to answer that question everyone keeps asking me: what is life after death really like? What parts of the human psyche could persist separate from the body? And, while we’re at it, I figure we’d do the second one—a simulation of a being who knew he was physically immortal, like someone who has undergone that Life Unlimited process.” Sarkar stopped chewing. His mouth hung open, giving an undignified view of a masticated dumpling. “That’s—that’s incredible,” he said at last, around his food. “Subhanallah, what an idea.”
“Could you do it?”
Sarkar swallowed. “Maybe,” he said. “Electronic eschatology. What a concept.”
“You’d need to make the two brain dumps.”
“We’d do the dump once, of course. Then we’d just copy it twice.”
