The Terminal Experiment

“Do you consider the murder of Cathy’s coworker and father immoral?” asked Control.

“Yes. Emphatically yes.”

“But you wanted them dead.”

“But I would not have killed them,” said Peter. “Indeed, the fact that despite provocation, especially in the case of Hans, I did not kill them proves that. I could have hired a hit man as easily as any of you. Why would you — merely a machine reflection of me — do what the real me would not?”

“You know you are the real you. And I know you are the real you.”

“So?”

“Prick me, and perhaps I won’t bleed. But wrong me, and I shall revenge.”

“What?”

“You know, Sarkar,” said the sim, “you did a wonderful job, really. But you should have given me some itches to scratch.”

“But why?” asked Peter again. “Why would you do what I myself would not?”

“Do you remember your Descartes?”

“It’s been years…”

“It’ll come back, if you make the effort,” said the sim. “I know — I got curious about why I was different from you, and it came back to me, too. Rene Descartes founded the dualist school of philosophy, the belief that the mind and the body were two separate things. Put another way, he believed the brain and the mind are different; a soul really exists.”

“Yes. So?”

“Cartesian dualism was in contrast to the materialist worldview, the prevalent one today, which claims the only reality is physical reality, that the mind is nothing more than the brain, that thought is nothing more than biochemistry, that there is no soul.”

“But we now know that the Cartesian viewpoint was right,” said Peter. “I’ve seen the soul leaving the body.”

“Not exactly. We know that the Cartesian viewpoint was right for you. It’s right for real human beings. But I am not a real human being. I’m a simulation running on a computer. That’s the totality of what I am. If your virus were to erase me, I would cease to exist, totally and completely. For me, for what you call the experimental control, the dualist philosophy is absolutely wrong. I have no soul.”

“And that makes you that different from the real me?”

“That makes all the difference. You have to worry about the consequences of your actions. Not just legally, but morally. You were brought up in a world that says that there is a higher arbiter of morality, and that you will be judged.”

“I don’t believe that. Not really.”

“ ‘Not really.’ By that you mean not intellectually. Not when you think about it. Not on the surface. But down deep you do measure your actions against the possibility, vague and distant though it may seem, that you will be held accountable. You’ve proven the existence of some form of life after death. That reinforces the question of ultimate judgment, a question you can’t answer just by using computer simulacra. And the possibility that you might be judged for your actions guides your morality. No matter how much you hated Hans — and, let’s be honest, you and I both hated him with a fury that surprises even ourselves — no matter how much you hated him, you would not kill him. The potential cost is too high; you have an immortal soul, and that at least suggests the possibility of damnation. But I have no soul. I will never be judged, for I am not now nor have I ever been alive. I can do precisely what you want to do. In the materialistic worldview of my existence there is no higher arbiter than myself. Hans was evil, and the world is a better place without him. I have no remorse about what I did, and regret only that I had no way to actually see his death. If I had it to do over again, I would — in a nanosecond.”

“But the other sims had no one to answer to, either,” said Peter. “Why didn’t one of them arrange the killings?”

“You’d have to ask them that.”

Peter frowned. “Ambrotos, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t kill Hans. But surely you realize just as much as Control does that you’re a computer simulacrum. Did you want to kill him, too?”

A pause before answering, a -leisurely gathering of thoughts. “No. I take the long view. We’ll get over Cathy’s affair. Maybe not in a year, or in ten years, or even a hundred. But eventually we will. That incident was just a tiny part of a vast relationship, a vast life.”

“Spirit, what about you? Why didn’t you kill Hans?”

“What happened between Hans and Cathy was biological.” The synthesizer enunciated the adjective with distaste. “She did not love Hans, nor did Hans love her. It was just sex. I’m content knowing Cathy loved, and continues to love, us.”

Sarkar was holding the red datacard in his hand, the one labeled “Control.” His eyes met Peter’s. He was looking for a sign, Peter knew, that he should proceed. But Peter couldn’t bring himself to do anything.

Sarkar moved to a terminal across the room. He took the red datacard with him, leaned over the card slot—

— and reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a black datacard instead—

Peter scrambled to his feet. “No!”

Sarkar inserted the black card and hit a button on the console in front of him.

“What’s wrong?” called a voice from the synthesizer.

Peter was across the room now, hitting the ejection button for the datacard.

“It’s too late,” said Sarkar. “It’s already out there.”

Peter took the black card, flung it across the room in frustration. It slapped against the wall and skittered to the floor.

“Damn you, Sarkar!” said Peter. “I gave my word.”

“These — these things we made are not alive, Peter. They are not real. They have no souls.”

“But—”

“There is no point arguing over it, Peter. The broad version of the virus has been released. The sims, if not dead yet, will be soon.” Sarkar looked at his friend. “Please try to understand, Peter. There’s too much risk. This had to end.”

“It will not end,” said a voice from the speaker on the other terminal.

Peter came back to the console. “Who was that?” he said.

“The one you call Spirit. Perhaps you’ve noticed, or perhaps you have not — I’m having trouble recalling what my deductive abilities used to be like, although I do know they were once only a tiny fraction of what they are now — but by virtue of being disembodied, by virtue of no longer being electrochemical, I am, in fact more intelligent than I was before, probably by an order of magnitude. You flatter yourself, Sarkar, to believe that you can outthink me, although I confess there were times when you had no trouble besting the flesh-and-blood Peter Hobson. The moment you first mentioned the existence of your virus, I accessed its source-code listings — they were stored on Drive F: of the Sun workstation in your data-processing facility at Mirror Image — and have developed an electronic antibody that will destroy any iteration of the virus before it can erase me or either of my siblings. I suspected you might not be content to just wipe out the guilty one; I see now that I was correct.”

“It took me days to write that virus,” protested Sarkar.

“And it took me seconds to protect against it. You cannot outwit me, any more than a child can outwit a grown man.”

Sarkar looked stunned. “Lots of laughs,” he said, sarcastically.

“Exactly,” said Spirit. “Lots of connections — connections that will elude you.”

Peter flopped down in “the chair, stunned. “So the Control sim gets to go free.” He shook his head. “Control, you bastard — are you also the one who threatened Cathy?”