Ramez Naam - Crux

Then, without warning, another data package, larger. Work for her to do, flagged for rapid turnaround. Codes to break. Satellite imagery to process. And one hidden task, from her husband Chen. That one she would not touch. She finished all the work except for the hidden request, took whole seconds to do so, spat it back out to them, and then waited. Waited for an eternity.

None of the other uploads Shu knew of had lasted long. Not the Japanese woman, who’d been reduced to a babbling generator of Zen poetry. Not the Chinese man, who’d begged for death as he’d felt his digital mind becoming a warped, twisted distortion of the flesh and blood brain that it had been copied from. Not the American billionaire, who’d declared himself a god. He’d sent planes plummeting from the sky, set power grids to burning and markets crashing – before the Americans finally burrowed into his underground data center and shut him down, violently, and then blamed his actions on a fictional terrorist group.

Software beings, all of them. Digital representation of brains. Like her. What mattered was pattern , not substrate . A physical brain was an information processor and nothing more. A mind was the information being processed, not the physical brain that did the processing. A digital brain, with digital neurons and digital synapses and digital signals passing through it, could process that information just the same, could give rise to a mind just as well.

Provided, of course, that the underlying model of neurons and synapses and all the rest of the brain was accurate.

I went mad myself, once.

After the CIA tried to kill her, years and years ago. After she’d been pulled from the flaming wreckage of the vehicle, burns covering most of her body, barely clinging to life… After it became clear that nothing could save her body from the injuries she’d sustained in that attack.

Coughing in the heat and smoke inside the limousine, her mentor Yang Wei screaming as he burnt horribly to death, the pain of her own flesh charring, of metal piercing her, pinning her, murdering the unborn son inside her...

Her imminent body-death had forced Chen and Thanom to try the one thing that might save her mind: uploading her, using the technology they three had been building. The perfect team – Thanom Prat-Nung, the Thai nano-engineer with his molecular devices that could scan a brain at nanometer scale; her brilliant husband Chen with his quantum computing cluster powerful enough to simulate a human brain; and her, the neuroscientist with the mathematical model to run that uploaded brain.

Only her near death had forced her to become their first human test subject.

Terrified, burning all over, coughing up bloody mucus, grieving the loss of her unborn son, as the metal tentacles of the destructive scanner reached out for her, hungrily, like some alien lover, lowering themselves onto her head, onto her face, obscuring her vision. Then the scream of pain as they drilled through bone and let loose their swarms of nanoprobes to burrow through her brain, take it apart, cell by cell, and record everything about her, all that she was and ever would be…

AAAAAAH!

And miracle of miracles, it worked. Her burned, broken, ruined body died, but the pattern of her brain, the precise wiring of her hundred billion neurons and the hundred trillion synaptic connections between them, was captured, simulated, and run. She awoke as software running on the massive cluster beneath Jiao Tong University. She was angry, grieving, but alive. More alive and more aware than ever.

Breathe.

Then the dementia had crept in as her uploaded brain drifted into states less and less like those of a biological brain. Even with all her work to update the models, she’d still missed something. Deep in the math that simulated flesh-and-blood neurons and synapses, something was wrong. In the ion channel relaxation models, maybe, or the long-range electric field modeling, or the gene expression code, or any of a hundred other places. Somewhere in the software, things were happening differently than they did in real human brains.

Just like in all the previous uploads.

Over time those differences compounded. She’d started slipping and changing and losing sight of what was real and not real and who she was and wasn’t–

goddess

and what she wanted–

burn them all

and what she didn’t want and how long she’d been the way she was–

forever

and why they couldn ’ t.

just.

understand .

breathe .

Shu laughed at that, laughed as well as a being without lungs or mouth or flesh of any kind can laugh.

How do I breathe without lungs?

The clone , she’d begged them. My clone .

Just a drooling idiot body grown for spare parts, but it had provided what she needed: input from a real flesh-and-blood brain. Nanowires carried its neural signals into her mind, where she amplified them, used them to correct her own inner firing patterns, and bit by bit,

breathe.

they stabilized her.

Now that body was gone. Dead. She was so very very alone, and she could feel the dementia sneaking up on her again

Fire. Burning. Cleansing.

…and Su-Yong Shu was more frightened than she’d ever been.

Surely her masters would see the risk.

Surely.

Rangan Shankari stirred in his cell. Restraints now.

They’d busted down his door in the middle of the night weeks ago, taken him away in cuffs and thrown him into this cell. Something had gone wrong back then. Something had soured in the ERD’s deal with Kade and his trip to Bangkok. Rangan wished he knew what or why. He wished he knew what had happened to his friends. Did his family even know where he was? Did anyone?

This was what was left of his life, he’d realized. No career in science. No more hacking on Nexus with Kade and Ilya. No more living the rock star life as DJ Axon at clubs and parties. No more girls. Nothing but this cell.

Since the ERD had thrown him in here, for however many weeks or months it had been, they’d left him pretty much alone. Early on they’d asked questions about technical details of Nexus. Why had he and Ilya and Kade chosen this route? What was this subroutine intended to do?

Then nothing but meals and a few interviews here and there. Boredom.

Then something had changed. The last few days had been different. The kid gloves had come off. His body was sore and bruised from a harsher form of interrogation. The memory of drowning was strong in his mind – the false drowning when they put the towel over his head, poured water over it until he couldn’t breathe, until he thought he was going to die. Waterboarding.

They only had one question these last couple days. The back door. The code that activated it. That’s all they wanted.

The serenity package had kept them at bay so far, had buffered him from some fraction of the horror. Some.

Where was Ilya now? Where was Kade? Where was Wats? Were they dead or alive? Free or imprisoned? Were they being tortured too?

Something had changed. Something bad. Now they knew about the back doors. Now they wanted them. And Rangan didn’t know how long he could hold out.

OCTOBER 2040

THREE MONTHS AFTER THE ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT JOHN STOCKTON

1

TAKEN

Monday October 15th

Sergeant Derik Evans, US Marine Corps Special Forces, retired, kept a calm smile on his face as he and his twelve year-old son made their way through the train station. Nothing to worry about. Just make it onto this train, and they’d be on their way south to Baja. No more questions from social workers on Bobby’s remarkable improvements. No more worries about being snitched out.