Pandora's Brain

by Calum Chace

  ‘That is a fair suggestion, and most of us now think that our predecessors did begin too early. But it is hard to know when to begin. Your civilisation is already contemplating it, and you certainly do not have the tools or the understanding. In fact, if we cannot find a way to stop it without excessive direct intervention, we will have to terminate your simulation.’

  ‘Wow. So you would kill our entire world just because someone created a simulation within it?’

  ‘If we did, we would be preventing far more suffering than we would be causing, and by an enormous multiple. But no, we would not kill your world, in the sense you mean. We would preserve the minds from your world. They would live again in a different form.’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘It would take too long for us to explain that to you. We are reaching the limit of your time in between. Now we must ask you a question. Consider well before you answer. Are you ready?’

  ‘Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.’

  ‘What place and what point in the history of your world would you like to be integrated into? You can only go to the past, at least one hundred years before you were born.’

  ‘So I can’t ever meet my parents and my friends again?’

  ‘No. That cannot be.’

  For the first time, Matt’s sense of calm bliss was ruffled. He did not feel pain or sorrow, but he felt a ripple throughout his being. A sense that something was out of place.

  ‘Will they . . . will they miss me?’

  ‘Yes. They will mourn you.’

  There was nothing more to be said. Matt understood that protest would be futile. His old life was over, and the people who had bulked large in it would be moving on without him. Without feeling sad, he felt very alone. Everything seemed to pause, and the entity waited for him to re-gather his thoughts and continue. Eventually, he did so.

  ‘Can I choose who I will be within the time and place?’

  ‘You cannot choose a specific person, but you can choose a type of person.’

  Matt knew his answer immediately, but he hesitated, trying to work out whether there would be a better option. He realised there was no way to be absolutely sure.

  ‘Can I ask you for advice about the best choice?’

  ‘We cannot advise you. But we can tell you that the quality of your forthcoming life will depend largely on the nature of your mind. It is our belief that you will have a good next life, Matt.’

  Matt’s non-existent mouth grinned broadly.

  ‘I want to be an elite warrior in a Mayan city in the jungle highlands, in the Classic Period, say around 800 AD.’

  EPILOGUE

  ‘You know, I think your estimate of 18 months is looking pretty good. The readings from this morning’s decay rate test are exactly where they should be according to the critical path analysis.’

  Vic smiled, acknowledging David’s invitation to indulge in one of their favourite games: guessing the timeline to the completion of their project. They faced each other across a table in the minimalist but comfortable canteen at the Shanghai Institute of Technology, which hosted the Matt Metcalfe Foundation, colloquially known as Matt’s Lifeboat. The table was a simple pine affair from the enormous Shanghai branch of IKEA, but the chairs were Eames originals.

  Vic wore the combination of polo shirt and chinos which had become almost de rigeur in Chinese offices over the last couple of years. David still favoured a more English style: cornflour blue shirt, open at the neck, dark trousers and a plaid jacket. Vic had easily adopted many Chinese tastes and styles, perhaps because he was accustomed to working and living in different countries. David persisted in eating international foods more often than Shanghainese or other Chinese cuisine, and he still got his news from the BBC and other British-based websites. Vic guessed this had something to do with the difficulties in David’s marriage with Sophie, which meant that David had been alone in Shanghai for the first year of the project.

  ‘Yes, that was encouraging,’ Vic agreed, twisting noodles onto his chopsticks with a practised nonchalance which would impress a newcomer but would be recogniseable to a Shanghainese as the technique of a gweilo, a foreigner. ‘Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to collect on my bet with Norman after all.’

  David laughed drily. ‘You know, I think you may just be able to do that. As long as politics doesn’t interfere. I caught up with Gus this morning about his meetings in the US and Europe last week. He reckons that the Technology Relinquishment Initiative is going to pass both Houses of Congress and the European Commission’s Draft Renunciation Directive is almost a done deal. You made a great call when you suggested establishing the Foundation here instead of California or London. The Chinese are happy to agree a ban on AGI development but they are having no truck with the backlash against new technologies in general. But I do wonder sometimes, will they be able to hold out against the pressure to slow things down – including us?’

  ‘I think so,’ Vic replied. ‘The Chinese still love to tweak the tail of the West.’

  Even though their GDP had recently surpassed that of the United States, and even though they had always regarded the Middle Kingdom as the true centre of human civilisation, the Chinese still liked to view themselves as the challenger brand in global politics.

  It wasn’t just the Chinese who resisted aspects of the drive for relinquishment policies. Businesspeople in the West were acutely aware of the huge amounts of money the Japanese were making with their domestic robot industry. Lobbyists in Washington screaming for permission to be allowed to get back into that business, arguing that relinquishment was like America declining to get into the car manufacturing business in the early 20th-century because it liked horses too much.

  ‘Still, there’s a big head of steam behind those Bills,’ David said. ‘Gus thinks the Turing Police may finally become a reality.’

  Vic scowled. The European Commission was proposing an autonomous international agency with exceptional powers of inspection and restraint in order to stop rogue governments and individuals from doing any research that could lead to the creation of an AGI. This was a step too far for him, as it was for most Americans.

  ‘That game is far from over. And I wouldn’t be surprised if a coalition of the institutes which are researching human-friendly AI algorithms announced a breakthrough this spring. There’s been a lot of unusually cordial traffic between several of the bigger US-based ones during the winter. Anyway, fortunately, none of that affects what we’re doing here at the Foundation. We’ve managed to put clear blue water between brain preservation research and AI research in the public’s mind.’

  ‘True. It’s funny, though,’ David mused. ‘I’m sure a lot of people – perhaps the majority – still don’t really get what we’re doing here. It’s not a hard thing to understand, and hell knows, we had enough publicity on the back of Matt’s disappearance. But I think people just don’t really understand that – assuming our timeline is roughly right – we may be just two short years away from abolishing unwanted death. You’d think they would be queuing up and pressing their noses against that window there to book an early slot for themselves and their families.’ He jabbed a fork towards the massive plate glass window which separated the research building from a superbly landscaped park, with ornamental trees offering up the first buds of spring, and colourful birds dive-bombing the artificial lake, looking for fish to refuel themselves after their migration back from the south.

  Vic gave David a searching glance. ‘You still think about Matt all the time, don’t you? Of course you do – how could you not? It’s been a hard couple of years for you. It’s great that Sophie has decided to move out here after all, though. Do the two of you have any new ideas about what happened to him?’

  ‘No, not really. We go round and round the same old explanations. We realise that Matt may have quickly ceased to be recognisably human, but we just can’t believe that he would have gone off to some other world or dimension without ever contacting us again. You know,
when the initial flurry died down. We keep circling back to the conclusion that something must have gone wrong for him.’

  ‘Well, maybe we’ll find out one day. I hope so: I miss him too. But at least you have Sophie here now. How is she settling in?’

  ‘She’s doing great. Leo thinks he has wangled her a really interesting contract with a medical equipment firm he consults to which has some operations over here. We should know within a week.’

  ‘Good old Leo!’ Vic said.

  ‘Yup, good old Leo. I don’t know how I would have survived the last couple of years without him, to be honest.’

  *

  The warriors tied their war canoes to the trees at the edge of the Usumacinta River, and waited. The canoes were long, each carrying up to 50 men. They came from several different cities: the first to arrive were from Palenque, but over the next couple of hours they were followed by boats from Bonampak, Piedras Negras and Yaxchilan – cities linked by the river. As each group arrived they were greeted by those already waiting with grins and raised fists, but no-one said a word. This was the biggest fighting force deployed in the Maya rainforest for generations, and they wanted to retain the advantage of surprise for as long as possible

  The air was heavy and humid as they waited for the drums which would let them know that their other allies from the cities of Calakmul and Caracol had also arrived. Mighty Pakal, the ruler of Palenque, had spent months negotiating this alliance with the other chiefs, and today was the day when the alliance would be tested, and sealed in blood.

  His elite fighting group the Jaguars, led by Mat-B’alam, squatted, checking their equipment while they waited. Most of them wore short cotton protective jackets packed with rock salt, and tight bindings of leather or cloth on their forearms and legs. A few pulled on elbow, wrist and knee protectors made of copper alloys, worked to fit comfortably and to glance off sword and knife blows.

  Many had daubed patterns on their faces with azure blue paint. They ran calloused fingers along the sharp blades of their weapons to check they had not been nicked or blunted during the two-day river journey.

  The jungle heat increased. High above them, birds swooped and cawed, commencing their own daily battle for survival and supremacy, food and reproduction. Up and down the chain of life, birds, animals and men all fought the same battles, wrestled with the same imperative to kill or be killed. The larger animals of the jungle floor knew better than to reveal their presence to a group of humans like this, but smaller mammals could be seen, scurrying in and out of holes in trees and the mossy ground. And of course the insects were everywhere, endlessly noisy in the air, on the ground, and on the twisted, gnarly roots and branches of the enormous trees.

  The warriors were ready. They waited only for the sound of the drums.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The idea for this book arose in 1999, at the height of the dotcom bubble, as I drove to Yahoo’s office in Palo Alto for a meeting. I had recently finished reading Ray Kurzweil’s The Age of Spiritual Machines, which had made me consider the astounding possibility that conscious machines could be created within my lifetime.

  That book had been recommended by an old friend, Nick Hadlow, and when I returned to England I suggested that we write a novel together based on the premise. We did, and it was awful. Actually Nick’s chapters were rather good, but with hindsight I realised that as mere stripling of 40, I was too young to write a novel. I had recently co-authored a best-selling business book (The Internet Startup Bible, which featured prominently in Amazon’s first ever UK TV advert) but I didn’t realise how much harder it is to write a good novel.

  A decade or so later I retired from full-time work, and had both the time and (arguably) the more rounded life experience to do a better job. The story arc is the same, but the characters and much else are wholly different.

  The book wouldn’t exist without the help of my partner Julia. Somehow she manages to provide penetrating critical insight, substantial contributions to plot and character, and buoyant encouragement – all at the same time. I guess it’s because she is both an experienced teacher and a highly effective business manager. However she does it, I know that I am a very lucky fellow.

  I have also benefited enormously from the generous help of a number of talented first readers. I didn’t learn until too late that the first draft of a novel is an execrable thing which you should show to no-one, so some of these first readers had very questionable material to work with. Nevertheless they offered encouragement and invaluable comments with great tact. In particular I should mention (in mostly alphabetical order) Rob Carter, Lauren Chace, William Charlwood, Lesley and Peter Fenton O’Creevy, Leah Eatwell, Giles Harris, Mary Jagger, Adam Jolly, Peter Monk, Jeff Pinsker, Tess Read and Clare Smith (respectively co-author and publisher of the Startup Bible), David Roche and David Wood. Collectively they have weeded out many failures of plotting and characterisation, and even more solecisms and inconsistencies. Those which remain are of course entirely my fault.

  The cover image was Julia’s idea, and we had valuable help realising it from a talented artist named Neftali Carreira. The overall design of the cover and the interior is the handiwork of Rachel Lawston. Finding Rachel was a blessing: she is a very experienced professional designer who combines great skill with great tact. She is also one of life’s great enthusiasts, and has made what can sometimes be a difficult process into a real pleasure.

  I hope you enjoyed Pandora’s Brain. If you did, please leave a comment on Amazon. A sequel, Pandora’s Oracle, is in the works, with a target for publication in mid-2015. A couple of sample chapters follow . . .

  An extract from

  PANDORA’S ORACLE

  The sequel to Pandora’s Brain

  ONE

  ‘Don’t wait up for me, honey. You know how these meetings can drag on. I’ll call you if I’m not going to make it back tonight, but don’t wait up anyway.’

  The scientist paused at the door, breathing in and savouring the scent and colour of his domestic life. The scientist’s wife looked up from the picture she was creating with their four year-old daughter. They were sitting at the kitchen table, which was littered with paper, pencils, crayons, pencil sharpeners, child-safe scissors, sticky tape – all the equipment necessary for a budding young artist. The sun shone golden in the room; it was a scene from a movie.

  His daughter was angelic, her pink tongue sticking out as she concentrated on colouring in the pony that her mother had drawn in outline. Although brief, his wife’s glance up at him communicated her love and her delight in their life together which warmed him in a way that still had the power to thrill him, even after six years together. Many of his friends complained that they had nothing in common with their wives, but he had everything in common with his: he shared every thought and emotion with her.

  He smiled, and looked around the small interior one last time, taking in the tasteful decoration and furnishings, the childlike paintings displayed proudly on several walls, his wife and daughter engrossed in the process of creating another one. He smiled, and then frowned slightly as he thought he spied a grey hair in his wife’s glossy black hair.

  She looked again up as the door was closing behind him, and smiled to herself. She gave it no further thought for now, but later, the fact that they hadn’t spent more time saying goodbye would torture her.

  The scientist felt the heavy front door swing to behind him and shut with a satisfyingly solid but gentle clunk. The house was well-built, with the hallmarks of quality workmanship throughout. Thanks to his senior position, they lived in an expensive suburb of Seoul. He looked up at the clear blue sky and breathed deeply. He was a lucky man. He had a nice house, nice neighbours, and an important job that he found fascinating.

  His bodyguard was standing by the open door of the shiny black car. ‘Morning, Hiro,’ the scientist greeted him, climbing into the back seat. The bodyguard bowed slightly and said nothing as he closed the door and walked round to the
driver’s door.

  As they drove to the airport the scientist allowed his thoughts to drift, watching the roofscape slide past. Gradually, the focus of his attention segued from his family to his job. His work was highly confidential and it would have been very controversial – if anyone knew about it. But that didn’t bother him: he was following his passion.

  He had been fascinated by the human brain for as long as he could remember, and developing artificial intelligence seemed the best way to understand our own intelligence. His career had begun in the early 1990s, just as interest in the field was picking up – recovering from the ‘AI winter’ brought on by the failure of the Japanese Fifth Generation programme in the 1980s. He had benefited enormously from the influx of funding, which provided superb facilities and equipment, and rapid promotion opportunities for anyone who was ambitious and pliable. Which he was.

  Thanks to hard work and talent, his progress up the academic ladder had been swift, and he felt his efforts had been rewarded two years ago when he was recruited by the South Korean army for a senior role in a top-secret project – developing the country’s most advanced artificial intelligence software. He hesitated only slightly before accepting the position. The facilities and the equipment became even better, and the salary and perks were gratifying. He was flattered rather than worried by the arrival of bodyguards and round-the-clock surveillance.

  Best of all, the project was showing incredible promise. He and his new colleagues dared to hope that they would create a conscious machine in a matter of years, and that they would be the first team in the world to do so.

  And then the news broke about Matt Metcalfe. The scientist and his colleagues were scientists first and patriots second, so they were intensely excited to discover that the American firm von Neumann Industries had succeeded in uploading a human mind into a computer. The approach taken by VNI was very different to the Korean project. VNI had cut the brain of a recently deceased young man called Matt Metcalfe into very thin slices, and scanned the precise locations and connections of every neuron. They had modelled that structure inside a silicon computer, and found a way to run the model so that it performed the exact same ‘braining’ process as the original brain had done – generating a human mind.