Pandora's Brain

by Calum Chace

‘Stephen Coombes,’ Ross began, ‘I know that you disown the actions of Bartholomew Campbell, the assassin of Matt Metcalfe, but he was a prominent member of your group, the Anti-Transhumanist League, so you presumably share many of his opinions.’

  ‘Bartholomew is a very disturbed person,’ Coombes replied. ‘As you know I can’t comment in detail on what he did for legal reasons, but he is no longer a member of our organisation, and we do not sanction what he did. We have made it very clear all along, and I am pleased to have the opportunity of this programme to make it very clear again, that we are strongly opposed to violence in all shapes and forms. I can only guess at the pain and anguish that Matt’s murder is causing his family and friends, and like everyone else listening to this I’m sure, I offer them my sincere condolences for their loss. Matt was fast becoming a poster child for a set of beliefs and activities which we deplore, but that in no way justifies the action that was taken against him.’

  ‘So what are these beliefs that you think Matt was becoming a champion for?’ Ross asked. ‘What is it that you object to?’

  ‘We object to the idea that humans can create intelligent life. We do not believe that scientists should seek to create a new species, or tamper with individual humans in a way that would effectively make them members of a new species.’

  ‘Is this opposition based on religious grounds?’

  ‘Not exclusively, but it’s true that many of our members are religious. We have members from all the major religions, united in the belief that the gift of life is bestowed by God alone, and that if humans seek to usurp that role they are committing blasphemy.’

  ‘And you think that your religious beliefs confer the right to prevent non-religious people doing what they think is right? Even though they argue their case with equal conviction?’

  ‘Blasphemy is blasphemy, whether the non-believer accepts it or not,’ replied Coombes. ‘But we also have members who are not religious, and they also believe it is arrogant and foolhardy for humans to take it upon themselves to try to create intelligent life.’

  ‘Why foolhardy?,’ Ross asked. ‘If you don’t think that humans can create intelligent life because only God can do that, surely you have nothing to worry about?’

  Coombes bridled, sensing that Ross was slyly ridiculing him. ‘Blasphemy tempts the wrath of God, and that is no laughing matter, Mr Ross,’ he said. ‘But for those who think the scientific endeavour could succeed, there is a whole raft of dangers ahead. How do we know an artificially intelligent creature would be safe? On your own programme the night that Matt was killed, you had an eminent scientist telling us that the arrival of artificial intelligence will be the beginning of the end for humanity. Isn’t it an incredible arrogance for a group of scientists to take that risk without consulting the rest of humankind first?’

  Sophie switched off the TV, thankful once again for the decision not to go public with the project to upload her son.

  All the while, the scanning continued. Layer after micron-thick layer, the tissue of Matt’s brain was sliced away from his cortex, placed on a slide, scanned, recorded and filed. The storage space required for the slices was many times larger than the volume of the brain they were removed from. It seemed to be going well, although there would be no way to tell whether the project would be successful until it was complete.

  After the first couple of weeks, Vic stopped coming to the scanning room every day. The process was well-established, and Vic trusted David to make sure that everything stayed on course. In addition to David, a significant team of dedicated and highly-qualified people were fully engaged in the work, as well as a large amount of very expensive equipment. One day David asked Vic if he knew what the overall cost was. Vic replied that his accountants had told him that by the time the project was over, the cost would probably be in excess of twenty million dollars.

  When Vic did come to the scanning room, his conversations with David always began with questions about the progress of the work. But they turned increasingly often to questions about how to judge whether the upload had been a success, and who would make the final judgement if there was any disagreement. Along with Sophie, they discussed how to handle numerous scenarios, mostly ones they hoped would never happen.

  ‘The nightmare that haunts me,’ Sophie said one day, ‘is that we bring Matt back to life, only to place him in some kind of unspeakable hell, suffocating with pain and terror.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ agreed Vic, ‘which is why I think we should assume that the upload has not been successful unless we have positive proof that it has worked properly. I think we need to agree a period for Matt to respond, and if there is no response within that time we de-activate the programme and start again.’

  ‘I can’t fault the logic,’ said David, ‘but it means we could terminate the consciousness of a locked-in Matt, even if he had acquired full self-awareness. He could become the first person in history to be killed several times over!’

  ‘That’s true, but he wouldn’t experience the switch-off. It would be instantaneous, and if we re-animate him afterwards he would have no memory of the previous aborted consciousness.’

  David sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. But I’m glad we have longer to think about this. I can’t disagree with you, but I’m not at all happy about it.’

  Something else that made them all uncomfortable was the prospect of the memorial service. Sophie had been taking care of the arrangements, and she was grateful for Leo’s assistance. They knew that it would not be possible to restrict access as tightly as for the funeral. And the more advanced the project became, the harder it would be to conceal the work that David and Vic were doing.

  THIRTY-TWO

  David avoided thinking about the memorial service as much as possible. Sophie was also finding it increasingly hard to contemplate the idea of facing dozens of people, however well-meaning. Thankfully, Leo understood their feelings without having to be told, and gently took over the organisation of the event. Through a friend of a friend, he managed to obtain the use of a stately home near David and Sophie’s home town for the day, a property not normally open to the public because it was leased to a government department which used it for confidential conferences and summits. Security was a high priority.

  Thanks to Leo, David and Sophie were more relaxed when the day finally came around than they had expected. David had buried himself in the scanning and modelling work for several weeks now, and he reflected that it was no bad thing to lift his head and try to gather some perspective.

  It was a beautiful day in March. The air was crisp and clear, and although spring was still several weeks away, the deadening effect of winter was lifting, and it seemed to David that the fields and the hills were picked out in sharper colours. The green-yellow lichen spattering the grey stone blocks of the house reproached him for not paying attention to the natural and man-made beauty of his home countryside – a countryside which Matt had loved and thrived in. He caught himself wondering what combinations of neurons within his brain were responsible for giving him this heightened sensitivity to the visual messages reaching his cortex, and he mocked himself for not being able to simply appreciate the beauty without having to analyse it. He had been cloistered in the scanning room so much that it was almost startling to be outside in a beautiful garden, with birds sailing on a gentle breeze, and the sounds and smells of the countryside saturating his attention.

  He turned his gaze to the hills that had drawn him to this part of the country many years before, and the quilt of fields that covered the contours of the Weald. The handsome brown cows were like bugs in the distance, beetling lazily across the landscape, grazing without haste and pausing, contented, when they chanced on the ideal clump of grass. Further away, migrating across one of the hillsides, small white dots of sheep busied themselves mindlessly keeping their stomachs full, the flock rippling gently like pondwater whenever a walker or a cyclist passed them.

  The house was largely a creat
ion of the sixteenth century. The giant double-storey bays, striped with long vertical slabs of windows, faced out across the lawn towards the hills, silently but confidently asserting ownership and dominance. They wore their balustrades and roof decorations like crowns. The house was built on a rise, from which two broad lawns stepped down in succession to meet a long field heading away towards the hills. The memorial service took place on the second lawn. Two hundred chairs were set out on the grass, in well-spaced rows of 25. The event could not have been more open, and yet more private.

  David and Sophie had timed their arrival to avoid having to speak to anyone before the service. Leo was already there, marshalling the house’s staff as they made the final arrangements. They had agreed that Vic would again stay away. Most of the two hundred or so guests were family, and friends from the town, but Matt’s fame was still a major draw, and requests to attend had been received from many journalists. Malcolm Ross was one of the few whose request had been granted.

  The service was confidently orchestrated by Leo, who also gave the opening and closing addresses. He was calm and impressive, and David felt a surge of gratitude mixed with pride well up within his sorrow as he realised how ably Leo was managing the event. He exchanged a glance with Sophie and squeezed her hand.

  Leo opened the service by describing Matt as the miraculous result of the marriage of the two most wonderful people he knew. He spoke of his own vicarious pride as he watched a growing Matt reveal and exercise his gifts and talents. He said that the story of Matt’s adventure was so well known that he did not need to re-hash it now, but he marvelled at the resilience and ingenuity displayed by one so young and still just at the start of life. What might Matt have achieved, he asked, if he had been granted a full term?

  Simon Jones, Matt’s favourite teacher, was next. He related a handful of stories about Matt’s life at school. His dry, understated delivery was in perfect keeping with Matt’s clever but shy approach to life, and his shrewd, gentle sense of humour. As Simon went on to talk about Matt’s role in rescuing his father, David reflected what an extraordinary situation his family found itself in. If the project to upload Matt succeeded they would be the first family in history – perhaps even mythical history – to reincarnate not one, but two of its members.

  Carl was the third speaker. He was less polished and more nervous than Leo and Simon, and his speech contained more raw emotion, a more naked sense of loss. While Carl was talking, David noticed that Alice’s head was bowed, and that she was sobbing into cupped hands. He felt a stab of guilt at having spent almost no time with Alice since Matt was killed. He made a mental note to speak to her afterwards.

  Carl claimed that his best friend had an unusual combination of analytical horsepower, lateral thinking skills, and well-grounded common sense. Using an example which slightly missed the mark for some members of the audience, he illustrated his claim with a story about a video game where Matt had escaped from a seemingly fatal trap by using some rope, a skateboard, and a refrigerator. Like Leo, Carl asked what Matt might have achieved if he had been given the time to show the world what he could do. Poignantly, he described how, in a teenage culture where street credibility is everything, Matt had blithely ignored the tyranny of convention, and chose instead to spend his time with people based solely on whether or not they were interesting, and kind.

  After the speeches there was a buffet inside the house. David found the interior of the building oppressive after the light and space of the lawn. Amid the heavy wood panelling and the elaborate wall carvings, the life-sized portraits of long-dead aristocrats and other powerful men seemed to look down on him figuratively as well as literally. He shrugged this feeling off as Malcolm Ross buttonholed him.

  ‘I’m so sorry about what happened to Matt, David. How are you and Sophie coping? Your friend Leo put on a wonderful event. Most impressive, and well-deserved, too.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind. We’re OK, I suppose. It comes and goes. The worst times are when I think of something I want to share with Matt, and then I suddenly realise that I can’t because he’s not . . . he’s not there any more.’

  ‘Yes, it’s awful. I understand that Campbell has a committal hearing coming up shortly. Will you be attending, or will you stay away?’

  ‘It doesn’t interest me at all,’ said David firmly. ‘I don’t care what they do to him: it won’t bring Matt back. Of course there are times when I wish I could have a couple of hours alone with him and a blow torch, but on the whole I’m glad to say I give him no thought whatsoever.’

  ‘Very sensible; very healthy,’ agreed Ross. ‘So what are you doing, David? I confess I have heard some tantalising rumours.’

  ‘Off the record?’ asked David, looking him hard in the eyes.

  ‘Scout’s honour,’ said Ross, in earnest.

  ‘I’m working with Vic. I agreed to do it because I think it’s what Matt would have wanted. Combining my old research interests with the insights produced by Vic and Ivan’s teams looks likely to generate some useful outputs in a number of different areas of cognitive neuroscience.’

  It was Ross’s turn to give a searching look. ‘I hope I’m not being too pushy, but you know what journalists are like, David. Are you working on machine intelligence?’

  David smiled. ‘I think it’s very easy to exaggerate what can be achieved with today’s technology, Malcolm. But I tell you what: if we do make substantive progress towards AI, I’ll give you an exclusive interview. And now you’ll have to excuse me: there’s a young lady over there that I really must have a word with.’

  Ross smiled and let him go, calling after him, ‘I’ll hold you to that!’

  David joined his wife, who had an arm around the shoulders of a fragile-looking Alice. Alice’s parents were standing by, not knowing quite where to put themselves.

  ‘Please forgive us, Alice,’ he said. ‘We’ve hardly seen anything of you since . . . since what happened to Matt. We’ve been very self-absorbed and busy with our own troubles. How are you?’

  ‘You shouldn’t be apologising to me,’ sobbed Alice. ‘I’m sorry I’m making such a scene. I . . . I just can’t believe he’s not coming back.’

  Alice’s mother stroked her daughter’s hair, and Alice stopped sobbing. She looked up and managed to produce an unconvincing smile.

  ‘They say you never know what you’ve got till it’s gone, but I suppose at least I can say that’s not true. I did know what I had: he was such a wonderful guy.’

  ‘Yes he was,’ said Sophie with feeling, ‘yes he was. Look, why don’t you and your parents come to lunch one Sunday, dear. It’s been too long since we saw you.’

  Alice’s parents looked at Sophie and David, grateful for their attempt to console their daughter in the midst of their own loss.

  ‘Are you back at university yet?’ asked David, changing the subject.

  ‘I should be, but I can’t face it yet. I’ve spoken to my tutor, who was brilliant: he just told me to take as much time as I need to recover. He even said that if I need to, I can take a year out and go back next time round. But I don’t want to do that.’ She smiled weakly: ‘Matt would have given me hell for even thinking it.’

  The rest of the event passed in a blur: David and Sophie exchanged platitudes with most of their friends and family. Some were taciturn, keen to avoid burdening David and Sophie with their own grief. Others gushed, desperate for Matt’s parents to know how much they cared. Most were calmly but profoundly sympathetic, and David and Sophie were surprised how much they found themselves buoyed by this demonstration of the universal affection and admiration for their son.

  At length, Leo told David that the staff needed to clear the room, and they were finally able to say their goodbyes and head home. Their departure was delayed and rendered uncomfortable by the gaggle of reporters waiting by the gate to the grounds. Leo drove them slowly but steadily through the small crowd, grimly determined that no cameras waved in their path would stop them. He di
dn’t need to ask David and Sophie whether they wanted to stop and give a statement.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Two weeks after the memorial service, Vic, David and Sophie invited Leo and Norman to meet them for lunch in the laboratory’s cafeteria. They said they had some important news, and that if at all possible, Leo and Norman should clear their diaries for the afternoon.

  David waited until everyone was seated in the simple blue plastic bucket chairs in the starkly functional temporary cafeteria building. As they started to eat, he got straight to the point.

  ‘We’re ready. The scanning is complete. We think we have captured as much of the connectome as we need.’

  Leo and Norman had guessed the news, but they stared at David anyway. This was a momentous occasion.

  ‘So the model is complete?’ Norman asked. ‘You’re ready to upload him?’

  ‘Well, I suppose you could argue that we have already uploaded him; we just haven’t activated the upload,’ said David. ‘If we are all still in agreement, we propose to do that this afternoon.’

  ‘As you know,’ Vic explained, ‘we have been checking the connections carefully as we went along. Using the techniques developed by Ivan, we have identified a large number of sub-minds within the structure of Matt’s brain, and we are reasonably confident that the neural pathways within these sub-minds in the new version of Matt’s brain are a good match for those in the original version. What we don’t yet know is whether the linkages between the sub-units will work properly.’

  ‘The only way to find that out is to activate it,’ David added.

  ‘So, we are checking that everyone is still happy to proceed,’ Vic continued, addressing Norman in particular. ‘We would also like to re-confirm our protocol for stopping the process. Four people have a veto as to whether the activation is reversed at any point: Sophie, David, Norman and me. The process continues only so long as all four of us are content for it to do so, and if any of us asks for it to be stopped, the equipment will be powered down immediately without question. We do not have to give any reason for our decision. This protocol is mainly to protect Matt from harm or suffering, but it is also to protect the rest of us.’