Pandora's Brain

by Calum Chace

  ‘I think you have raised a very important question, Malcolm, and I suspect it is one that technology enthusiasts often do not stop to consider. Personally I don’t think that what has been discussed today is blasphemous, because I believe that only God can create a soul, so I think that ultimately these endeavours will fail. But there will be others, who think that even trying to create intelligent life is an attempt to usurp the role of God. They may indeed be angry.’

  For a last word, Ross turned to Christensen. ‘Professor?’

  ‘I’m not sure there is much that one can say to such people. Religious fundamentalists are notoriously hard to debate with. Personally I cannot accept that someone should be able to stop a scientific endeavour because of a belief they have for which there is simply no evidence. Of course I am in favour of freedom of religion, and against religious persecution. But I cannot accept that one person’s freedom of thought should interfere with other people’s freedom, unless there is evidence of harm or potential harm.

  ‘Yes, there are potential dangers in AI, so we need to find ways around them, and I think we can do that.’ He nodded in Montaubon’s direction, acknowledging their disagreement. ‘That is a serious matter, but the only alternative is relinquishment, and that does not seem to me to be a viable option. The question of who gets access to the benefits of the new technologies is also a valid and important one. Here again I think there is a solution. If a new technology becomes a source of inequity – not just a modest increase in inequality, but actual injustice – then I have a suggestion which comes naturally to anyone with a Scandinavian heritage: tax it, and use the proceeds to make a version of the technology cheap enough for everyone to enjoy.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘That was a very fine discussion: thank you all. Very stimulating indeed. I hope you all feel you a had a chance to say what you wanted to say?’

  Ross had wound up the discussion and closed the programme smoothly and professionally. The audience’s applause had been prolonged, and the production team all appeared to be delighted. The big lights shut down with a sound like cupboard doors slamming closed, the hothouse stage atmosphere dissolved, and everyone relaxed. Matt felt a sense of euphoria in the midst of all the mutual back-slapping.

  Ross made a special point of thanking and congratulating Matt.

  ‘You did very well today. The studio can be an intimidating environment when you’re not used to it.’

  He gave Matt a sly grin.

  ‘But perhaps you will get used to it. You have quite a fan base, you know. I know you don’t tweet and your Facebook account is set to maximum privacy, but perhaps you should open up a bit on the social media front. It could help your career significantly – whatever you decide to do when you finish your degree.’

  Matt gave his usual modest and non-committal reply.

  ‘Yeah, maybe. I just don’t know that I’ve got that much worth saying. I got caught up in some extraordinary events, but I don’t know that I’ve actually done anything.’

  Ross smiled and frowned at the same time. ‘I thought your generation had an intuitive grasp on this? It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. It doesn’t even matter who you know any more. What matters is how much people are talking about you. Most celebrities these days haven’t done anything. They are famous for simply being famous. Yes, yes, I know, we’re all supposed to be very cynical about celebrity.’

  He leaned a little closer towards Matt, and lowered his voice, confidentially.

  ‘But the dirty little secret is that it helps enormously. Whatever you are trying to do.’

  ‘Well, thanks anyway,’ said Matt. He thought of a way to deflect the focus of the conversation away from himself. ‘If it isn’t a ridiculously sycophantic thing to say, it was great to watch a master at work.’

  Ross, no stranger to flattery, was nevertheless visibly pleased by the compliment. He shook Matt’s hand again and moved on to console the reverend.

  Seeing his father was in animated conversation with Professor Montaubon and in no hurry to leave, Matt headed for the toilet. As he passed a fat man in an expensive suit, he felt his arm seized.

  ‘Matt, my boy, that was a bravura performance. I think we’ll be seeing you on our television screens more often. At least, I certainly hope so.’

  His captor was a jolly-faced, swarthy man in his fifties; well-fed and comfortable-looking. He was accompanied by a birdlike woman who looked well preserved rather than comfortable, and if anything, even more expensively dressed. She reached out a bony hand and stroked the arm which the fat man, now that Matt had stopped walking, had released. Matt had the sense that these two often hunted together.

  ‘Brilliant, Matt; quite brilliant. My daughter is soooo jealous that I am here tonight. She is completely in love with you, you know.’ A tinkling laugh. ‘But I suppose you are used to that by now: from what I can gather, half the young women in the country are in love with you. You do seem to be taking your sudden fame very much in your stride.’

  Matt laughed. He hadn’t expected his fifteen minutes of fame to be quite so all-embracing.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ he murmured, and started to move off again.

  ‘Not so fast, Matt. Here: take this. You never know when you may have need of it.’

  The jolly man was still smiling as he handed his card to Matt, but there was an urgency in his voice.

  ‘Matt, you have a rare opportunity right now. It is not given to many. Don’t blow it. Who knows how long this circus will last? Right at this moment you have some clout. You can use it to launch a career – any career you like, really. Or you can use it to get a message across. Or to support a good cause. Just don’t let it go to waste.’

  The urgency in his voice intensified as he realised Matt was not buying. ‘Please, Matt, please don’t fool yourself that you can be the ringmaster of this circus all by yourself. You’re a bright kid, but this wonderful, silly, clever world of show business was created long before you were born, and it will survive long after all of us are dead. It has its own rules and it levies its own price. It won’t change its rules to suit you, no matter how smart and how telegenic you are. I can help you. Trust me!’

  The fat man stood back and spread his arms wide in the manner of second-hand car dealers everywhere: men who know they have a good deal to offer, but who know they will always get the best of every deal.

  Matt looked down at the card, not reading it but using the time to think of a polite but witty answer. Nothing came.

  ‘Thank you. I will. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m just on my way to the toilet. I’m pleased you enjoyed the programme.’

  The fat man and the bony woman looked longingly after Matt as he walked away, and then shrugged and fell back easily into their earlier conversation.

  When Matt returned to where his father was still talking to Montaubon and Christensen, his mother and Leo had joined them too. Sophie hugged Matt tight.

  ‘Well done, Matt, darling, well done! I’m so proud of you I could . . . well, I could cause a scene!’

  ‘Mu-um. . .!’ protested Matt.

  Leo pumped his hand in an emotional handshake.

  ‘Great show, Matt!’ was all he needed to say with words.

  ‘Apparently there’s a bit of a mob at the front entrance,’ said David. ‘So our babysitters are suggesting we go out the tradesmen’s entrance, if that’s OK.’

  ‘Professor Christensen and I can go out the front if you like. Draw their fire, so to speak,’ offered Montaubon, with a wink.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Leo. ‘Thanks.’

  Farewells were said, promises to keep in touch were made. David and his family headed for the exit.

  The plan was successful, except for a small knot of placard-waving protestors waiting at the rear exit. The placards looked professionally-printed, with slogans like ‘Save the Human,’ ‘Campaign for Real Humans’, ‘Transhumans are Anti-Human’, ‘Don’t Say Aye to AI’.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said David an
d Leo in unison, as the protesters caught sight of them emerging, and started chanting ‘Transhumans are anti-human!’

  ‘Too late to go back inside, I suppose?’ said Sophie, doubtfully.

  ‘No need, mum,’ Matt reassured her. ‘They’re just a bunch of loonies. They’re harmless.’

  One of the protesters pushed forwards to address David. He was in his fifties, and smartly dressed in a pale brown light leather jacket and a cornflower blue shirt. He had a pudgy, fleshy face and weak blue eyes beneath a thick, badly-cut crop of hair, which was obviously dyed black.

  A policeman stepped into his path and blocked his advance, and the protesters shouted angrily.

  ‘Who do you think you are, Dr Metcalfe?’ yelled the leather jacket. ‘Who do you think you are to decide our future?’

  David snorted in disbelief, and against his better judgement, stopped to reply.

  ‘I’m not deciding anything. I’ve just escaped from being held hostage for three months, for god’s sake!’

  ‘Rubbish! Liar!’ screamed several of the protesters.

  ‘Come off it, Metcalfe,’ shouted the leather jacket, addressing his fellow protesters as much as David. ‘It’s obvious you’re going to work with the Yanks. You’re going to try and upload and create a race of supermen. I ask you again, who do you think you are?’

  David was getting angry, and was about to reply when Leo grabbed his elbow and steered him on.

  ‘Come on, David. You know there is no arguing with these people. Let it go, and let’s get you and Sophie and Matt safely home.’

  David looked at Leo and then back at the leather jacket, who was looking pleased with himself, as if he had just won a school debate. David’s head fell slightly in resignation and one corner of his mouth turned upwards.

  ‘You’re right. It’s as useful as talking to a washing machine.’

  As he walked on, followed by his family, another man – shorter, scruffy, with dirty brown hair and a pinched face – pushed forwards and ducked under the policeman’s raised arm.

  ‘Go on, Metcalfe, run! Run! Try running from this!’

  A gunshot.

  The world seemed to judder slightly. A page turned; a history altered.

  Matt had walked between his father and the pinched-faced man.

  Matt felt as if someone had hit his lower back with a hammer. The hammer hadn’t stopped at his ribs, but had gone right through him. The pain was astonishing. His entire consciousness rushed into the region of impact to marvel at it and howl. It was more pain than he had ever experienced; more pain than he would have imagined possible. But even worse than the pain was the fear. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. The thing that was wrong was never going to be right again and in fact, nothing was ever going to be right again. He couldn’t breathe, and he was also drowning. The pain and the fear filled his mind even as it slipped away. As he fell, he saw the sky spinning and the ground rising up to crush him, but the visual image hardly registered alongside the intense pain and fear.

  ‘It’s not . . . It’s not . . .’

  His mother grabbed at him as he fell, and thought that his last words were addressed to her. That misapprehension was no comfort at all as she felt her son become completely limp in her arms, and she shared his terrible knowledge that nothing would ever be right again. His weight dragged her down and she found herself lying on the floor next to him, cradling him, crying.

  The world awoke from its moment of shocked stillness, and the air filled up with screams, shouts, whistles. Ambulances were called, the man with the gun was wrestled to the ground, shock was expressed. Matt’s experience of it all was increasingly distant and abstract. His mind was shutting down.

  The next half hour passed in a daze for David, Sophie and Leo. An ambulance arrived. The van was white, the paramedics wore green and had no faces. The three of them hardly noticed the rapid turns and the jerky stops and starts as the ambulance raced towards the hospital. They held onto Matt, staring at the face of their beloved son and friend as it morphed from pain and fear into blankness. They pleaded with him to fight, and they wept as the face which had borne the imprint of Matt’s personality for over twenty years – even when sleeping – became a blank slate.

  After a stretch of time that seemed both eternal and fleeting, the ambulance reached the hospital. David, Sophie and Leo followed the gurney out of the vehicle and through the grubby, cream-coloured corridors to the operating room. They moved in a trance, as if tied to Matt by invisible strings. They were stopped at the door to the operating room by a doctor wearing a sad frown. They stood at the door, lost, until a kindly nurse shepherded them into a meeting room, then led them individually to chairs and sat them down.

  They sat in silence. After a period which could have been ten minutes or could have been hours, the same doctor entered the room and walked towards them. He waited until their faces raised towards him. His own face was drawn and pale.

  ‘I’m so sorry. There was nothing we could do.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  David, Sophie and Leo hardly heard the rest of what the doctor told them. He spoke softly and slowly, well aware that they were lost in a haze of shock and grief.

  ‘He passed very quickly; he will hardly have felt anything. The bullet caused sufficient trauma to stop his heart almost immediately. You will want to ask questions later, but for now you will probably just want to stay here quietly for a while. You can stay in this room as long as you like. My name is Doctor Parfit, and you can contact me on this number any time.’

  He passed a card to Sophie, knowing that she was a doctor.

  ‘I will leave you now, but if you need anything just ask the nurse at the station outside. I am so very sorry. Matt was a wonderful young man.’ Doctor Parfit’s arms hung awkwardly by his side, and he looked down, hesitating slightly before turning and walking slowly towards and out of the door.

  The three of them sat in silence for several minutes when the doctor had left. Then David looked at Sophie.

  ‘Could they have made a mistake? Should we go and check?’

  Sophie looked at him blankly, but said nothing and let her face turn back down towards the floor. She was slumped forward, her elbows on her knees. Leo placed a hand on hers. She began to shake with little sobs.

  ‘I don’t believe it. It can’t be true,’ she whimpered. ‘Not Matt. He can’t be . . .’

  The small word was too big, too terrible. She couldn’t get anywhere near saying it.

  ‘What was he saying to me? It’s not . . . It’s not what? It’s not fair! Not my Matt. Not my Matt!’

  Her sobs became fuller. Leo looked at David, hoping that he would find the energy to hold his wife. David’s head was made of lead, but he sensed Sophie’s need and somehow managed to respond. He moved next to her and put one arm around her shoulders, and with the other took hold of one of her hands. He leaned his forehead onto her temple. They sat that way for several more minutes, with Sophie still sobbing quietly.

  Leo stood up and paced the room. Tears welled in his eyes and his throat felt constricted and metallic. He was moving beyond shock and denial into anger. He started to have fantasies about tracking down Matt’s killer and gouging his eyes out with his bare fingers. He wanted to punch, to kick, to hurt. His brain was spinning, its wheels out of gear: he started thinking about whether he had any contacts within the police who could enable him to get close to the killer. No doubt he was in custody, being questioned in some anonymous windowless room. Were they being polite to him? Were they giving him cups of tea? Was he laughing at them? Was he gloating?

  He looked down and noticed that he was trying to drill a hole through his palm with the fist of his other hand. He put his hands up to his face and pressed it into them. He knew he would not see the killer again before they all went to court. He knew these thoughts of revenge were irrational and unhelpful. And he also knew they would not go away.

  When he saw Vic open the door his anger flared anew. He could n
ot protect Matt, he could not get revenge for David and Sophie. But by god he could protect them from . . . from outsiders. He strode over to Vic and between clenched teeth he whispered urgently, menacingly,

  ‘It’s not a good time, Vic!’

  Vic looked at Leo sympathetically, and nodded.

  ‘I know. I know, Leo. But I have something to say that David and Sophie are going to want to hear.’

  As Leo started to say something else, Vic put his hand up.

  ‘And it can’t wait.’

  David looked up from where he was still cradling his stricken wife. His voice was lifeless.

  ‘What is it, Vic?’

  ‘I want to tell you how sorry I am for your loss, and how much I came to respect and admire Matt in the short time I knew him. And I will do that, but not now. I know that most of all you need to be left alone right now. But I can’t, because I have to offer you something. If you don’t want it I will go away immediately. But I have to give you this opportunity.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, Vic?’ Leo interrupted, incredulous. Could Vic really be crass enough to be negotiating a job offer at a time like this?

  ‘David. Sophie. I need you to know that we think we could upload Matt.’

  He left his statement hanging in the air. Sophie frowned, and her head tilted slightly, still looking down. David looked up at Vic. At first his face was blank, but then a touch of life leaked back into it.

  ‘You mean you found something in Ivan’s work. . . ?’

  ‘Exactly!’ Vic said, relieved that he had penetrated David’s grief. ‘Ivan was absolutely right to think that his team and ours have each made breakthroughs which would push the other forwards. There’s no need to go into the details right now, but if we move quickly, we think we have a chance of uploading Matt successfully. I admit it’s a long shot, because we are still at the exploratory stage. But it is a real possibility.’