Robert Sawyer - The Terminal Experiment

And one sim, in particular, became very intrigued by what he was discovering. It was soon apparent that one could get almost anything on the net. Stocks were traded. Almost any kind of merchandise could be bought in the electronic malls — just charge it and have it delivered anywhere in the world. Stamp collectors arranged to swap rare issues. People sought answers to all kinds of questions. Sometimes even love affairs blossomed through electronic mail.

One could get almost anything on the net.

Almost anything.

This sim thought about what had made him sad, about what would make him happy, and about what had made him different, why he would consider this, when the flesh-and-blood Peter had not.

The sim weighed the consequences.

And then he dismissed the idea. Madness. A terrible thing to do. He should be ashamed for even contemplating the notion.

And yet…

Exactly what were the consequences?

In a very real sense, he’d be making the world a better place. And not just this ephemeral world of data and simulations. The real world. The world of flesh. And blood.

Did he really want to do this? he wondered.

Yes, he decided. Yes, he did.

The sim waited a day, just to be sure. And when that day had passed, and he still felt the same way, he resolved to wait yet another day.

And still he felt the same, felt that this was not only what he wanted, but, in some very real simulated sense, that this was what was right.

He watched the commerce on the net for a time, refining his knowledge of the customs and procedures — of netiquette .

And then he made his move.

Adopting a handle, as he’d seen many others do, he put this notice on a public bulletin board devoted to the sale of unusual services:

Date: 10 Nov 2011, 03:42 EST

From: Avenger

To: all

Subject: elimination

I’m having a problem with a particular individual in Toronto, and would like the problem eliminated. Suggestions?

He got some stupid public replies, as one always did on the net. Silly puns ("You’d like the problem laminated, you say? Holy sheet!") and complete irrelevan-cies ("I was in Toronto in 1995. What a clean city!"). But he also got a private reply, visible to him alone. It was exactly what he’d been hoping for.

Date: 10 Nov 2011, 23:57 EST

From: Helper

To: Avenger [private]

Subject: re: elimination

Might be able to help you out. Can we meet?

The sim responded at once. He hadn’t felt this much excitement since … well, since never. It was almost as good as adrenaline.

Date: 11 Nov 2011, 00:05 EST

From: Avenger

To: Helper [private]

Subject: re: elimination

Prefer not to meet. Looking for total elimination. Do we understand each other?

Date: 11 Nov 2011, 09:17 EST

From: Helper

To: Avenger [private]

Subject: re: elimination

Understand. Fee: CDN$100K, in advance via EFT to account 892-3358-392-1, First Bank of Switzerland (EFT: EuroswisslOO).

Date: 11 Nov 2011, 09:44 EST

From: Avenger

To: Helper [private]

Subject: re: elimination

Funds transfer will be arranged.

However, I want something a bit special; tell me if it will cost more.

Here are the details…

The money involved wasn’t exactly pocket change, but the sim knew all the proper codes for accessing Hobson Monitoring’s corporate accounts. And, after all, it was, in a way, his company, and his money.

Yes, indeed, thought the sim. One could get almost anything on the net.

Cathy had gone again to see her therapist. Peter realized that he envied her: she had someone to talk to, someone who would listen. If only—

And then it hit him.

Of course.

The perfect answer.

It wouldn’t compromise the experiment — not really.

Sitting in the office in his home, Peter called into the computers at Mirror Image. When prompted to log on, he typed his account name, fobson . When he’d gotten his first computer account, back at U of T, he’d been assigned his first initial and last name as his login — phobson . But a classmate had pointed out that he could save a keystroke by changing the “ph” to an “f,” and Peter had adopted that as his standard login ever since.

He descended through layers of menus and finally came to the AI experimental system. Sarkar had set up a simple menu for bringing any one of the sims into the foreground:

[Fl] Spirit (Life After Death)

[F2] Ambrotos (Immortality)

[F3] Control (unmodified)

Peter tried to choose, and, in so doing, realized he was facing the very question he and Sarkar had set out to answer. Which one would lend the most sympathetic ear? The after-death version? Would a being with no physical body really understand marital difficulties? How much of marriage was emotional/intellectual? How much of emotion was hormonal?

What about the immortal version? Maybe. Immortality meant permanence. Perhaps an immortal would have a particular affinity for questions of fidelity. After all, marriage was supposed to be forever.

Forever.

Peter thought about Spenser. And Susan Silverman. And Hawk. He was enjoying the books about them. But when was the last time Robert B. Parker had found a new situation to put them in, a new facet of their personalities to explore?

A century with Cathy.

A millennium with Cathy.

Peter shook his head. No, the immortal version wouldn’t understand. Immortality surely didn’t confer a sense of permanence. Not at all. It would give one perspective. The long view.

Peter leaned forward and pressed F3, selecting the Control simulacrum. Just him, only him, unmodified him.

“Who’s there?” said the speech synthesizer.

Peter leaned back in the chair. “It’s me, Peter Hobson.”

“Oh,” said the sim. “You mean it’s me.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Something like that.”

The synthesized voice chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m getting used to being Peter Hobson simulacrum, Baseline edition. But do you know who you are? Maybe you’re just a simulacrum, too.” The speaker whistled the opening strains from the Twilight Zone theme — doing a better job of whistling than the flesh-and-blood Peter had ever managed.

Peter laughed. “I suppose I wouldn’t like it if our situations were reversed,” he said.

“Well, it’s not so bad,” said the sim. “I’m getting a lot of reading done. I’ve got about eighteen books going at once; when I get bored with one, I switch to another. Of course, the workstation’s processor is a lot faster than a chemical brain, so I’m going through material quite quickly — I’m finally making my way through Thomas Pynchon.”

It was a remarkable simulation, thought Peter. Remarkable. “I wish I had more time to read,” said Peter.

“I wish I could get laid,” said the sim. “We all have our crosses to bear.”

Peter laughed again.

“So, why did you summon me out of the bottle?” asked the sim.

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. To talk, I guess.” A pause. “We created you after I learned about Cathy.”

No need to be more specific. The manufactured voice was sad. “Yes.”

“I haven’t told anyone about it yet.”

“I didn’t think you would,” said the sim.

“Oh?”

“We’re a private man,” it said, “if you’ll forgive the mangled grammar. We’re not given to revealing our inner self.”

Peter nodded.

“A little louder for the court, please,” said the sim.

“Sorry. I forget you can’t see me. I was agreeing with you.”

“Naturally. Look, there’s not much advice I can give you. I mean, whatever I think of, you’ve probably already thought of yourself. But try this on for size. Just between you and you, so to speak: do you still love Cathy?”