Robert Sawyer - The Terminal Experiment

Peter’s voice was faint. “Maybe.”

Cathy’s eyes were wide with horror. “But — but why would duplicates of your mind do something you yourself would not?”

Peter had finished changing into his pajamas. “Because two of the simulations are not duplicates. Parts of what I am have been removed from them. It’s possible that we accidentally deleted whatever was responsible for human morality.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I tell you, I would never kill anyone. Not even Hans. But part of me very much wanted him dead.”

Cathy’s voice was bitter. “And my father? Did part of you want him dead, too?”

Peter shrugged.

“Well?”

“I, ah, have never really liked your father. But no, until recently, I had no reason to hate him. But … but then you told me about your counseling session. He hurt you when you were young. He shook your confidence.”

“And one of the duplicates killed him for that?”

A shrug in the darkness. “Turn the fucking things off,” said Cathy.

“We can’t,” said Peter. “We tried. They’ve escaped out into the net.”

“God,” said Cathy, putting all her terror and fury into that single syllable.

They were silent for a time. She had moved away from him slightly in the bed. Peter looked at her, trying to decipher the mixture of emotions on her face. At last, her voice trembling slightly, she said, “Is there anyone else you want dead?”

“Sarkar asked me the same thing,” he said, annoyed. “But I can’t think of anyone.”

“What about — what about me?” said Cathy.

“You? Of course not.”

“But I hurt you.”

“Yes. But I don’t want you dead.”

Peter’s words didn’t seem to calm her. “Christ, Peter, how could you do something so stupid?”

“I — I don’t know. We didn’t mean to.”

“What about the detective?”

“What about her?”

“What will happen when she gets too close to the truth?” asked Cathy. “Will you want her dead, too?”

Sarkar arrived at Peter and Cathy’s house at 10:15 the next morning. They sat there, the three of them, chewing on bagels that were past their prime.

“So what do we do now?” said Cathy, arms folded across her chest.

“Go to the police,” said Sarkar.

Peter was shocked. “What?”

“The police,” said Sarkar again. “This is completely out of control. We need their help.”

“But—”

“Call the police. Tell them the truth. This is a new phenomenon. We didn’t expect this result. Tell them that.”

“If you do that,” said Cathy slowly, “there will be repercussions.”

“Indeed,” said Peter. “Charges would be laid.”

“What charges?” said Sarkar. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Are you kidding?” said Peter. “They could charge me with manslaughter, maybe. Or as an accessory to murder. And they could charge you with criminal negligence.”

Sarkar’s eyes went wide. “Crim—”

“Not to mention getting you under hacker laws,” said Cathy. “If I understand all this correctly, you’ve created a piece of software that’s out there violating other people’s computer systems and stealing resources. That’s a felony.”

“But we intended nothing wrong,” said Sarkar.

“The crown attorney could run circles around us,” said Peter. “A man and his best friend create software that kills people the man hated. Easy enough to discredit any claim I didn’t have that in mind all along. And remember that case against Consolidated Edison? Frankenstein statutes. Those who seek to profit from technology must bear the costs of unforeseen consequences.”

“Those are American laws,” said Sarkar. “I suspect a Canadian court would adopt a similar principle,” said Cathy.

“Regardless,” said Sarkar, “the sims have to be stopped.”

“Yes,” said Cathy.

Sarkar looked at Peter. “Pick up the phone. Dial nine-one-one.”

“But what could the police do?” asked Peter, spreading his arms. “I’d be in favor of telling them, perhaps, if there was something they could do.”

“They could order a shutdown of the net,” said Sarkar.

“Are you kidding? Only CSIS or the RCMP could do that — and I bet they’d need to invoke the War Measures Act to suspend access to information on that large a scale. Meanwhile, what if the sims have moved down into the States? Or across the Atlantic?” Peter shook his head. “There’s no way we’d ever get the net scoured clean.”

Sarkar nodded slowly. “Perhaps you’re right.” They were silent for a time. Finally, Cathy said, “Isn’t there some way you can clean them off the net yourself?”

They looked at her expectantly.

“You know,” she said, “write a virus that would track them down and destroy them. I remember the Internet worm, from back when I was in university — it was all over the world in a matter of days.”

Sarkar looked excited. “Maybe,” he said.

“Maybe.”

Peter looked at him. He tried to keep his voice calm. “The sims are huge, after all. They can’t be that hard to find.”

Sarkar was nodding. “A virus that checked all files bigger than, say, ten gigabytes … It could look for two or three basic patterns from your neural nets. If it found them, it would erase the file. Yes — yes, I think I could write something like that.” He turned to Cathy. “Brilliant, Catherine!”

“How long would it take to write?” asked Peter.

“I am not sure,” replied Sarkar. “I’ve never written a virus before. Couple of days.”

Peter nodded. “Let’s pray that this works.”

Sarkar looked at him. “I face Mecca five times a day and pray. Perhaps we would have better luck if both of you really did pray, too.” He rose to his feet. “I better get going. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Peter had been trying to prepare himself for the inevitable encounter. Still, every time his intercom buzzed, he felt his heart begin to race. The first few times were false alarms. Then—

“Peter,” said his secretary’s voice, “there’s an Inspector Philo here to see you, from the Metro Police.”

Peter took a very deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it out in a long, whispery sigh. He touched a button on his intercom. “Send her in, please.”

A moment later the door to his office opened and in walked Alexandria Philo. Peter had expected her to be in a police uniform. Instead, she was wearing a trim, professional gray blazer, matching slacks, and a coffee-colored silk blouse. She had on two tiny green earrings. Her short hair was bright red, her eyes bright green. And she was tall. She was carrying a black attache case.

“Hello, Detective,” Peter said, rising to his feet and extending his hand.

“Hello,” Sandra said, giving his hand a firm shake. “I take it you were expecting me?”

“Um, why do you say that?”

“I couldn’t help overhear you talking to your secretary. You said ‘send her in.’ But she hadn’t told you my first name, or given you any other indication that I was a woman.”

Peter smiled. “You’re very good at your job. My wife had said a few things about you.”

“I see.” Sandra was quiet, staring expectantly at Peter.

Peter laughed. “On the other hand, I’m very good at my job, too. And a large part of it involves attending meetings with government officials, all of whom have taken courses in interpersonal communication. It’s going to take more than just a protracted silence to get me to spill my guts.”

Sandra laughed. She hadn’t looked pretty to Peter when she came in, but when she laughed she looked very nice indeed.

“Please have a seat, Ms. Philo.” She smiled and took a chair, smoothing out her pants as she sat as if she often wore skirts. Cathy had the same habit.