Greg Egan - Quarantine

'Happy?'

'Yes. The mod made me happy. Not buzzed, not wired — not euphoric. Just… as happy as Karen had made me, when she was alive.'

'You don't mean that.'

'Of course I do. It's true. It's not a matter of opinion; that's precisely what it did. It's a matter of neural anatomy.'

'So she was dead, and you felt just fine?'

'I know that sounds callous. And of course I wish she'd survived. But she didn't survive, and there was nothing I could do about that. So I made her death … irrelevant.'

She hesitates, then says, 'And you never think that, maybe…?'

'What? That it's all some kind of awful travesty? That I'd rather not be this way? That I should have gone through the natural process of grief, and emerged with all my natural emotional needs intact?' I shake my head. 'No. The mod is a complete package, a self-contained set of beliefs on every aspect of the matter — including its own appropriateness. The zombie boy scout was no fool; you don't leave any loose ends, or the whole thing unravels. I can't believe it's a travesty. I can't regret it. It's exactly what I want, and it always will be.'

'But don't you ever wonder what you'd think, what you'd feel … without the mod?'

'Why should I? Why should I care? How much time do you spend wondering what you'd be like with a totally different brain? This is who I am.'

'In an artificial state — '

I sigh. 'So what? Everyone's in an artificial state. Everyone's brain is self-modified. Everyone tries to shape who they are. Are neural mods so terrible, simply because they do it so well — because they actually let people get what they want? Do you honestly think that the brain-wiring that comes from natural selection, and an accidental life, and people's own — largely ineffectual — striving to change themselves "naturally", is some kind of touchstone of perfection? Okay: we spent thousands of years inventing ludicrous religious and pseudo-scientific reasons as to why all the things we couldn't control just happened to be the best of all possible alternatives. God must have done a perfect job — and if not God, then evolution; either way, tampering would be sacrilege. And it's going to take a long time for the whole culture to grow out of that bullshit. But face the truth: it's a heap of outdated excuses for not wanting the things we couldn't have.

'You think it's tragic that I'm happy with the way I am? Well, at least I know why I'm happy. And at least I don't have to kid myself that the end product of a few trillion random events constitutes the indisputable, unimprovable pinnacle of creation.'

I wait an hour after she's gone, and then collapse. The process (of course) is uneventful; the past (inevitably) is 'still' as I remember it. I'm fully aware that this proves nothing, that it couldn't seem to happen any other way — but the irrational lesson of the padlock is reinforced nonetheless: fearing that I won't be the one to survive, and then finding that I have survived (as if that were some kind of miracle, and not a tautology), drives home the conviction that there's always only one 'true' version of me. It may be a delusion — but it's the kind of delusion that I badly need.

I think back over my forced confession with a faint sense of humiliation, but it doesn't last long. So, Po-kwai knows about Karen. She disapproves. She pities me. I'll live.

One thing worries me, though.

What if the smeared Po-kwai takes control again? Out of nothing but curiosity, she changed me enough to make me disclose a secret that I — once — would never have shared with her in a million years.

Armed with knowledge, disapproval and pity, what would she change next?

Lui agrees that we have to accelerate our schedule, to forestall Po-kwai's growing influence. My relief is mixed with apprehension; the prospect of rushing ahead to the break-in, without the gradual progression of rehearsals I'd been expecting, leaves me feeling desperately ill-prepared. In theory, the burglary may be little more than a long sequence of the kind of tasks I've already performed — but I still can't fight down an image of each successive feat as one more storey piled on top of an impossibly precarious house of cards. The last time I broke into BDI, at least I understood the nature of the risks I faced — even if my knowledge of the details turned out to be incomplete. This time, I'll be relying entirely on my smeared self agreeing to collapse — a process akin to suicide, for him — in a suitably advantageous manner. And why should he? Because 'most' of his component selves (in a vote weighted by probability) want him to? It may look like it's worked that way, so far — but what do I really know about his motives? Nothing. I become him; he in turn becomes me; but his nature remains opaque to me. I want to believe that he's aware of my aspirations, moved by my concerns — but that may be nothing but wishful thinking. For all I know, he could have more in common with the Bubble Makers than with any human being on the planet, myself included.

I am, of course, free to change my mind. The Canon will do nothing to compel me. But I can't give up, I can't back out. I know I'm serving the true Ensemble in the only way I can — and although it may be absurd to hope that this 'blessing' guarantees my success, I have to believe that it makes the risk worth taking.

In KowloonPark, just thirty-six hours before the break-in is due, Lui hands me a device the size and shape of a matchbox; sealed, black and featureless, except for a single unlit LED.

'One last party trick,' he says. 'See if you can make the light come on.'

'What is it?' I hide my irritation; my immediate response is that anything not directly concerned with tomorrow night is a waste of time — but I have to admit that everything he's suggested in the past has turned out to be helpful.

He shakes his head. 'I don't want to say. For every task you've attempted so far, you've known exactly what you were up against. Succeed with this, and you'll have proved to yourself that even that knowledge isn't necessary. And you'll have proved that whatever BDI has in store — however difficult, however unexpected — you'll be able to defeat it.'

I think this over, but in all honesty, it doesn't ring true. 'I don't need to prove that; I'm already convinced. I never had circuit diagrams for the dice generator, the locks, the cameras. Believe me, I rid myself of the telekinesis myth long ago. I know I've been choosing outcomes, not manipulating processes. It's all been "black boxes" to me; I don't need a literal one to drive home the point.'

I try to hand the thing back, but he won't accept it. 'This is special, Nick. Longer odds than anything you've done so far. Roughly comparable to the entire BDI break-in. If you succeed, it'll mean you can be certain that such weak eigenstates are accessible.'

I flip the box over on my outstretched palm. He's lying, but I can't think why. I say flatly, 'Make up your mind. Which is it: the challenge of the unknown, or a test of sheer improbability?'

'Both.' He shrugs, then says-too affably by far-'But if you really want to know how it works — ' I give him a look of pure disbelief, and he goes silent.

Even with P5's help, it's hard to judge the weight of something so small — but there's certainly more in the box than, say, just a standard, pinhead-sized microchip and a battery. Lui tries to look nonchalant as I toss the thing into the air. The way it spins suggests a roughly uniform distribution of density: no lumps, no empty spaces. What kind of electronics fills an entire matchbox?

I say, 'What is it? Graphite you want turned into diamond? It's too light for lead into gold.' I frown. 'Maybe I'll just have to cut it open and see.'