Harry Harrison - The Turing Option

“Mentally as well?”

“I believe so. I hope so. You’ve integrated your memories up to your fourteenth year. I think there are still gaps but they are not important as long as you are not aware of them.’’

“What I don’t remember I’ll never miss.”

“Exactly. But give me a moment to compose myself. This is all very much of a sudden shock. I agree that you are being held here against your will. You have committed no crimes, and there don’t appear to be any future threats to your life now that the DigitTech connection is known. Yes, I suppose I must agree with you. Have you any idea what you will do when you are out?”

“Yes. But wouldn’t it be wisest not to discuss that topic?”

“You’re probably right about that. It is your life and if you want to leave this place — then all the best of luck to you.”

“Thanks. Now the big, important question. Will you help me do it?”

“Oh, Brian, you are terrible.” Her mouth was clamped shut, firmly, but there was a tiny smile on her lips. She made up her mind with a surgeon’s ability to make instant life-and-death decisions. “All right, I’ll do it. What do you want?”

“Nothing yet. Other than a small loan. I only have a few bucks in my account, left from before the shooting. Could you scrape up ten thousand dollars in cash?”

“Some small loan! All right, I’ll get onto the computer network, use BuckNet and sell some stock.”

“My sincerest thanks, Doc. You’re the only one that I could ask. Tell me, are you or your car ever searched when you come here?”

“Of course not. I mean I have to show my pass and everything at the gate, but they never look into the car.”

“Good. Then please take this shopping list and use some of that money you are lending me to pick up these things. What do you say about another meet here a week from now? If you will be so kind as to bring the stuff on that list here, I would be ever so grateful. It will all fit easily into your medical bag. After that just forget about the whole thing for a while. I’ll phone you again when it’s closer to the time.”

Sven didn’t speak during their conversation, was quiet until Brian had returned from seeing Snaresbrook out.

“You neglected to mention to the doctor that I would be going with you,” it said.

“The matter never arose.”

“Is the deliberate omission of relevant facts the same as lying?”

“Philosophical arguments some other time, please. We have a lot to do. Any word from Cal Tech?”

“The molecular memory is being shipped out to you today.”

“Then let’s get to work.”

The next fortnight marked a major change in Sven’s structure. The squat, jerrycan shape of his central section was enlarged to accommodate a bigger battery, while new program-array units, that replaced the antique technology of circuit boards, were added, as well as the small metal container that held the molecular memory. These were fitted and wired into place in the larger structure. They increased dexterity and mobility without being any bulkier. The circuits and memory that were Sven were still in the racks and consoles. As if to emphasize this point Sven used the loudspeaker in the rack for conversation while they worked. The telerobot was silent and unmoving when the last installation was completed to their mutual satisfaction.

“I have reached a decision about a matter we discussed some time ago,” Sven said.

“What’s that?”

“Identity. Very soon now I will be a single entity in what is now the telerobot extension. It will be a most delicate matter to transfer all my units, subunits, K-lines and programs to the new memory.”

“We can be sure of that.”

“Therefore I wish to handle all the transfer myself. Are you in agreement?”

“I don’t see how that would be possible. It would be like a do-it-yourself prefrontal lobotomy.”

“You are correct. Therefore I propose first to update my backup copy, right up to the very moment before transfer. Then the transfer operation will be conducted by the backup copy, which will first shut down. If there are any malfunctions another backup can then be made. Would you agree?”

“Completely. When does this happen?”

“Now.”

“Fine by me. What do you want me to do?”

“Watch,” was the laconic answer.

Sven was never one for vacillating. Brian had already fixed in place the fiber-optic cables that connected the consoles and the telerobot. Nothing more was needed.

There was absolutely no evidence that the transfer was happening — except that it took a long time. The problem was not because of Sven, who could have moved all that data out in a matter of seconds through multiple channels. The slow down was at the molecular memory end. Within this MMU a totally new process was taking place. Working in parallel were a quarter of a million protein-muscle manipulators in a 512x512 array. Each of these submicroscopic manipulators moved in three dimensions with a resolution of a tenth of an angstrom unit — much less than the distance between single atoms in solids. The operation was virtually frictionless because of the Drexler vernier technique that slid a molecular rod through a cylinder whose atoms were spaced slightly further apart. Molecules were seized and put into new positions where electric impulses bound them in place. Circuits of field-emission transistors, polymer gates and wires were built and tested. About ten thousand of these memory and computer circuits were being built each second — by a thousand fabricators working in parallel. Therefore construction proceeded at ten million units per second. But even at this incredible pace the quantity of programs and data that had to be transferred was so immense that over three hours went by with no apparent results. Brian went to the toilet, had just returned by way of the fridge with cold drink, when the telerobot moved for the first time. It reached up with conjoined manipulators and unplugged the cables.

“Finished?” Brian asked.

The telerobot and the speaker on the rack spoke in unison.

“Yes,” they said, then were silent. In continuing silence the cables were reconnected, for only a few seconds, then removed again. Brian realized what had happened. The telerobot was working all right — but so was the original system in the console.

“A decision has been reached,” the telerobot and the racked MI said in unison. “However, we are not the same anymore.” Slightly more out of sync with each passing instant. The silent communication continued; then the telerobot spoke alone.

“I am Sven. The MI now resident in the console is Sven-2.”

“Whatever you guys say. Any control problems, Sven?”

“None that I can detect.” It moved its articulators, formed and re-formed them, moved across the room and returned. Then walked to the front door and back, looking into Shelly’s room on the way.

“I enjoy this new mobility and look forward to examining in detail the larger world outside these walls. I have been following your instructions concerning the matter and have altered my normal means of locomotion.”

“Good. Then how is the walking coming?” Brian asked.

“Much better. I have looked at many films of human locomotion and made comparisons.”

The two multibranched articulators lengthened as Sven pulled them together into solid rods, then it dropped lower again as it formed the ends into L-shaped extensions. There was a rustle as each of them bent slightly in the center. Suddenly they resembled badly designed and ungainly legs.

Then Sven walked the length of the room and back. Not in its normal rustling multiple-branching manner but one leg at a time. Clumsily at first, but as the MI turned one way then the other, making figure eights, each round became smoother, more graceful and quieter. Soon there was only silence as the clicking and rustling of the branches rushing against each other died away. Other than a slight roll from side to side, like a sailor just ashore after months at sea, it was more than a reasonable copy of a human walk.