She had done everything in her power to get this section of the presentation exactly right. And yet, as with the earlier pieces, she could not escape the feeling that there was something missing. That this was not the whole story.
The Head Examiner nodded, giving nothing away. The second hologram began.
The change was notable. Adam was cleanly shaven, and no longer dressed in the prisoner’s uniform. He was uncuffed and free to move about the room. A bed had been introduced to the space, along with a comfortable chair. There was a monitor and, beside it, a pile of books. Adam looked well: healthy, more relaxed. He squatted, his back against the wall, his hands stretched above his head. Art, by contrast, had not changed at all. He was at rest in the middle of the room, going through a finger-dexterity drill.
Anax watched.
“If you were real, you’d be bored by now,” Adam said. There was no sign of the storm to come.
“If that statement held any meaning, I would respond to it,” Art replied, his tone equally relaxed.
“I mean, if you were a real person, you’d be bored by now.”
“I don’t doubt it. It is another thing I am glad of.”
“Another thing?”
“I am glad of many things,” Art said. “For instance, I am glad I am not afraid of the truth.”
It felt like a throwaway comment, yet landed with the weight of something more substantial. The signs were subtle, to be found only in the stiffening of a word, the lingering of a glance. After a long truce, they were turning again to their weapons; picking them up, polishing them, judging the distance between.
“What truth would that be?” Adam asked. He turned his head toward his companion, but held his arms stretched, feigning disinterest.
“The truth that being a person is beneath me.” Art chose the words carefully, not looking Adam in the eyes.
“And being a hunk of shit piece of metal with a monkey mask is beneath me. So we’re even.”
“If you were right, we would be even,” Art replied, no longer hiding his taste for the confrontation.
“And why am I not right? Is it the metal you seek to deny, or the ape mask?”
“Why are you stretching?”
“My back is sore.”
“How old are you, Adam?”
“I’m eighteen.”
“And already you’re beginning to wear out.”
“I’m not wearing out.”
“You are. What’s the longest a person has ever lived? Do you know?”
“You’re the expert.”
“One hundred and thirty-two years old, but for the last twenty she was barely mobile. She had her last original thought at one hundred and fifteen, enjoyed her last taste at one hundred and twenty, watched her last friend die a year after that. You flower young and slowly rot. And that is beneath me.”
Adam pulled out of his stretch. He stood straight and looked down on Art.
“You’re saying your cogs won’t wear out?”
“I don’t have cogs. You’re confusing me with a waste dispenser.”
“It’s an easy mistake to make.”
Art rolled his eyes. His lips curled as he spoke.
“The difference between me and you is that the parts of me which are prone to wear and tear can be replaced. When you kicked my head off, you’ll remember, I came back the next day without so much as a headache. Do you know what they’re experimenting with now? A full consciousness download. They’re thinking of copying my files into another machine, and then when I fire back up, I’ll wake up as two Arts, not one. You can’t even imagine what that’s like can you?”
“I can. Look.”
Adam walked to a table, where a loaf of bread sat upon a plate.
He picked it up and theatrically ripped it in two. “And see how the bread has woken up as two pieces of bread at exactly the same time,” he said. “I imagine it will be something like that.”
“I’m different from a piece of bread though, aren’t I?”
“You’re less appetizing.”
“I said it was a consciousness download. Bread isn’t conscious.”
“I thought we finished this argument three months ago. I thought we agreed upon a truce.”
“We did. But then you said I wasn’t real.”
“It was a joke.”
“Are you saying you would rather we put the argument back down?” Art said. “Are you saying you would rather apologize for the remark and move on?”
“I have nothing to apologize for,” Adam told him.
“Good.” Art smiled. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to you.”
“Do you mind if I don’t listen?”
“Not at all. It lessens the chance of interruption.”
“So now I get a sore back and a headache. I knew when I woke up this morning this would be a bad day.”
“So you don’t believe in Artificial Intelligence, but you believe in premonitions. Perhaps this explains the difficulties we are having communicating. Perhaps you’re just stupid.”
“I’d rather be a stupid human than a clever hunk of metal,” Adam told him.
“You say that a lot. As if metal is somehow inferior.”
“Depends what you’re using it for.”
“It’s fine for my purposes.”
“It is.”
Anax watched the shadow boxing, as always eagerly awaiting the first blow.
“So what do you have that I don’t then?” Art challenged. “Apart from the propensity to decay?”
“I’m alive,” Adam told him. “Which I think you’d enjoy if you knew what I was talking about.”
“Define being alive,” Art said, “before I decide you’re too stupid to talk to.”
“Now you’re tempting me,” Adam replied.
“You can’t do it can you?”
“The definition won’t help your understanding. Sounds can’t convey the feeling.”
“That’s a weak reply.”
“Life is the making of order out of disorder. It is the ability to draw in energy from the outside world, to create form. To grow. To reproduce. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I do all of that,” Art protested.
“Apart from understand. And reproduce. Unless you’re going to tell me you built yourself now.”
“I can build another me. I know how. It’s part of my program.”
Adam moved back to his chair and picked up a book as if to signal his interest in the conversation had finished. But he was fooling neither himself nor his companion. “You’re still just silicon,” he said, as he turned the page.
“And you’re just carbon,” Art persevered. “Since when has the periodic table been grounds for discrimination?”
“I think I can justify my prejudice.”
“I think I’d enjoy watching you try.”
Adam put his book back down on the table. “In my body, as I speak, hundreds of billions of tiny cells are going about the business of reproducing themselves. Each cell a tiny factory, more complex in its construction than your entire body. And while some of my cells are building up my bones, and some are controlling my circulation, others have done something even more remarkable. They’ve built my brain.
“In my brain, the number of potential connections between my neurons exceeds the number of particles in the universe. So, you’ll excuse me if I don’t fall down at the feet of your puny electrical circuits, or marvel at the
