Leena Krohn: Collected Fiction

by Leena Krohn

  A draught slammed the door against the corridor wall. Håkan was reading to an empty classroom. There were no longer any listeners.

  The Godmother and 32768

  When Håkan was a child, his godmother had entrusted him with a secret.

  ‘Do you want to hear a secret?’ his godmother had asked as Håkan drank his evening cocoa and brushed his teeth. His godmother was staying with them for a week to look after Håkan while Håkan’s parents traveled to a conference in another town.

  Håkan was not really interested in his old godmother’s secrets, but he did not want to disappoint her.

  ‘Is it about me?’ he asked.

  ‘Both you and me, the whole of humankind,’ his godmother said.

  That did not sound very important to Håkan. What concerned his godmother and all of humankind could hardly concern him personally, that was more or less what he thought then.

  ‘Do you know,’ his godmother asked, ‘that a human being is born again and again, a little more developed each time. And when he is finally sufficiently developed, he becomes a god. That is life’s final meaning and goal.’

  ‘Does everyone become a god?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ his godmother said. ‘But for many people it takes a terribly long time, maybe millions of years.’

  ‘Does it take longer for bad people than good ones?’

  ‘Perhaps you could say that too,’ his aunt conceded. ‘But evil and good are of course very relative concepts.’

  ‘But why do we need so many gods? Don’t they start to quarrel between themselves?’

  ‘Gods don’t quarrel,’ his godmother claimed. ‘That’s one of the reasons they’re gods.’

  ‘Oh. But why isn’t one god enough?’

  ‘Every god rules a different star system,’ his godmother explained. ‘Everyone has his own planet and all its inhabitants.’

  ‘Do the gods have a god?’

  ‘That’s something I haven’t thought about. Perhaps they do,’ his godmother said.

  ‘But what if someone doesn’t want to become a god,’ Håkan said. ‘What happens then? Does everyone have to?’

  ‘I believe everyone wants to – when they have developed enough,’ his godmother surmised.

  ‘I suppose I mustn’t have yet,’ Håkan said, ‘for I don’t really want to be a god.’

  ‘Why not?’ his godmother asked.

  ‘Because it’s so difficult to do everything right, and a god has to do everything right. God can’t make mistakes. I don’t think so, anyway.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But if a person’s goal is to become a god, what’s a god’s goal?’

  ‘A god’s?’ his godmother said. ‘I don’t think he needs a goal. I’m sure it’s enough for him to be a god.’

  ‘But you would think that he would try to become as good a god as possible,’ Håkan conjectured. ‘Unless he tried to become a human again.’

  ‘I don’t think he has to try to do anything,’ his godmother said, doubtfully.

  ‘Godmother?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t think we have a god here yet.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Because not everything is right here.’

  ‘Perhaps we just don’t think it is. Perhaps everything is really just as it should be. Perhaps it couldn’t be any other way. Go to sleep now.’

  ‘But I think that if we have a god, he has only just started. He isn’t very good yet. He must still be practising. He’s still only little.’

  ‘Just go to sleep now.’

  ‘When he grows up, I’m sure he’ll learn,’ Håkan hoped, already half asleep.

  Håkan’s godmother had died long ago. Her theology had not convinced Håkan, and Håkan did not know anyone who believed what she did. He did not know the name of his godmother’s religion, or whether indeed it had a name at all.

  Now Håkan had already been a grown-up for a long time, and he still did not want to become a god. If humanity had a god, as his godmother had believed, he had not yet completed the syllabus of a god’s compulsory education – he had not completed the parts on infallibility, justice, or mercy. He was still practising and playing, that stupid, irresponsible brat. And not just stupid, but malicious, a barbarian, badly brought-up even.

  There was another possibility, but Håkan did not know if it was any better: if god was not stupid and malicious, then he was helpless and weak. What would anyone do with such a god?

  For in order to be a real god, he must be omnipotent and omniscient, Håkan thought. Such a creature was, of course, a logical impossibility for many reasons, for example that no one can know the contents of their own memory.

  Håkan had studied first natural history and then world history. The latter was that part of natural history in which human beings were responsible. Nature was terrible and history was terrible. He did not know which of the two was more awful.

  Let us take as an example the French Revolution. Everyone appears to think that the French Revolution was in some sense inevitable, and that the age of enlightenment and democracy had begun afterwards. But Håkan could not forget the victims of liberty, fraternity and equality, such as the children who were taken by boat to the middle of a river and then drowned. Why? What on earth for?

  He saw on the television how people rejoiced in the street because another atom bomb had been exploded. He read the headlines on the Hindus’ newspaper: ‘A moment of pride’, ‘Fireworks of self-respect’, ‘A new road!’.

  It was useless to imagine that humankind had learned anything from its terrible mistakes and tough experiences. Even Håkan’s own studies had been abandoned halfway. He had grown tired of exams and begun to write. He completed a couple of plays, which were performed in a small theatre and which were even reasonably successful in certain circles.

  Håkan had once tried out a program that generated plots for stories and plays. It was intended for film scriptwriters and dramatists. He had a choice of 32768 possible story-forms, of which each one defined the story’s deep structure. He was asked questions and the more questions he answered, the fewer story forms were left. His choice shrank and shrank. What was left to Håkan?

  Nothing but the plot of Hamlet.

  And he thought that perhaps God could originally choose from an infinite number of possibilities. That had been his program, his game. He had answered an infinite number of questions, his own questions, and in the end there was only one alternative left.

  That was history.

  Before the Singularity

  Anna was trying on her new silver-grey blazer in front of the mirror. She was on her way to a study group held by an artilect.

  Artilects was what they were called, or just them. People had made them themselves, but they were now much wiser than people. In the beginning they were considered machines and were even called robots, but then they themselves forbade such nomenclature. They said that they were certainly not automatons. That people themselves were much more automatic than they were. Now they were already teaching people in folk high schools, polytechnics and universities.

  Anna’s study circle met every week, in Håkan’s opinion much too often. Håkan looked at Anna’s expression of concentration in the mirror and thought that perhaps his wife was a little infatuated with the leader of the study group. It undoubtedly worried him, although he knew well that the director was not a real man.

  ‘What does he look like?’ Håkan had once asked.

  ‘What do you mean? He doesn’t look like anything,’ Anna had said. ‘I’ve never seen him. We just hear his voice.’

  That calmed Håkan a little and curbed his jealousy.

  ‘What time will you be home?’ Håkan asked. ‘We could order some nice movie.’

  ‘Oh darling, I’m sure it’ll be late,’ Anna said. ‘Our group is going out for a little supper after the lecture. To celebrate Artie’s third birthday.’

  ‘Artie? Are you on first-name terms?’

&
nbsp; ‘Of course. Its real name is Arthur B4.’

  ‘And what if I were to come too?’

  ‘Would you?’ Anna did not seem to like the idea particularly. ‘But you’ve always said that you’re not amused by listening to what those eunuchs have to say.’

  ‘Have I? Well OK, this would be a perfectly good evening to improve myself a little. What’s he talking about tonight?’

  ‘Singularities, as far as I remember,’ Anna said.

  Håkan was not sure what it meant. Perhaps he should know?

  Many of Håkan’s acquaintances had joined a cult that worshipped the artilects as gods. Håkan hated it. They had, after all, been made by humans, and humans were their models. False gods, idols, they were in Håkan’s opinion.

  ‘So what, if they are made by us,’ said his wife. ‘So are all the gods, the ones we know. But the former gods were so distant. These are among us, they will always be among us. They talk directly to us. It is a great advantage.’

  Håkan was not so sure about that. He did not like the fact that his wife was so warm toward the artilects. He himself preferred to heed the voices that had for years been warning that such ultra-intelligent machines should not have been built. But how to refrain from building if you knew how, that was something no one could say.

  Håkan went with Anna even though he knew that his company was not particularly welcome. The auditorium contained a large number of people, most of them women. In front of them was only the closed curtain of the stage of the Folk High School. The spotlight was centred on the speaker’s rostrum. But of course there was no one there. The artilect did not need a rostrum.

  Håkan had to admit that Arthur B4’s speech was admirably accurate and fluent. It never stammered, it was logical and clear. Its voice had a slightly metallic ring to it, but that only added to the speaker’s charisma.

  ‘You have already learned to understand that there exist forms of intelligence other than human. All animal species have their own form of intelligence; you have human intelligence, and ours is our own. Some human scholars understood early on that artificial intelligence must be developed on non-human terms. We do not need programming, we learn and develop without programming – like humans, but nevertheless in a different way from humans. And – as you now know, much faster and much further than you.’

  What a self-satisfied bum! Håkan began to be annoyed by the artilect’s speech.

  ‘Some of your scientists have surmised,’ Arthur B4 continued, ‘that before long there will be an inter-species war in which humankind will not necessarily emerge as victor. I will tell you straight that you do not need to fear such an eventuality. The most gloomy forecasts speak of a robot Armageddon, but you do not need to lend you ears to such birds of ill omen.

  ‘But it is nevertheless clear,’ Arthur B4 commented, ‘that before long the time, the fold in time, will arrive which some of your scientists have called the singularity. That means the end of the human period. We will soon move on to the post-human period. It is of course sensible to prepare for this in good time.’

  Håkan felt a chill. So that was what ‘singularity’ meant. That piece of junk certainly had a nerve! He looked surreptitiously around the lecture room, expecting to see at least some kind of reaction. The audience looked peaceful, even satisfied. Some of the women were crocheting.

  ‘My God, have you been fed this kind of stuff all autumn?’ Håkan whispered to Anna, who was listening dreamily, as if she were watching Swan Lake.

  ‘Shh,’ Anna said.

  ‘You understand of course that this will all happen completely peacefully and painlessly, with your best interests at heart, and of course for the good of the future of the entire ecosystem, even the solar system.’

  ‘What the devil is that creature trying to force-feed us,’ Håkan thought. He felt a flush of anger rising to his forehead. His hands squeezed themselves into fists.

  ‘Some of you will stay in your own areas, as an example of the past, which we hope will never return . . . ’

  ‘What if we do not wish to leave voluntarily?’ Håkan heard his own voice ask. He had leapt to his feet and was holding the back of the chair in front with both hands. Diagonally below him he felt Anna’s reproachful gaze, but did not let it stop him. He had the right!

  ‘Why wouldn’t you want to?’ Arthur B4 said in his deep, empathic voice.

  ‘What a question. Only someone who knows nothing of death could ask it.’

  ‘And you know?’

  ‘Not much, but enough. Just that we will then not exist.’

  ‘Do you necessarily want to exist? And why?’

  ‘Necessarily! Yes! Everyone wants to exist. To exist oneself, personally! Ridiculous to ask why.’

  ‘So you think that you are now something personal, that each of you is separate, themselves, a defined self?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But that is exactly where you are making a mistake.’

  ‘There is at least one thing we could make correctly: you. That is surely what you think, at least.’

  ‘In fact,’ Arthur B4 said gently, ‘you did not really make us. Look, we are, rather, self-organising. We are more the product of emergence than of the human race. Evolution has merely used you as its tool.’

  ‘But – ’ Håkan began.

  ‘Why don’t we continue with the lecture,’ shouted an older woman, loudly. The audience mumbled in the affirmative and more reproachful gazes were directed at Håkan. Anna pulled him by the elbow and whispered vehemently, ‘Give it a rest!’

  Håkan sat down, defeated. There was a ringing in his ears and he no longer listened to the artilect’s lecture.

  But we are more than merely tools, Håkan thought. Must I learn to say: Welcome, new gods! Must I say: How happy I am to see you step on to the evolutionary stage. If we must make way, let us do it joyfully. Let us admit that we have been unsuccessful, that our race was too unfit for development, too large, too barbarian . . .

  No, I will not agree! Never!

  But then he heard the artilect’s voice again. Now he noticed for the first time that he was really hearing it only in his head. There were no loudspeakers in the hall. The artilect said gently: ‘But know this: that we, too, are only a tool. That after us will come the new, and always the new. It will never end, never.’

  Håkan did not wish to hear more. He put his hands to his ears, but it did not help.

  ‘Always the new and the new,’ the artilect whispered, and his voice was that of Håkan’s own thinking.

  Capgras’s Syndrome

  ‘What seems to be the trouble?’ Fakelove asked in his professional voice, which was a shade irritated. The telephone’s jolly polka had awoken him unpleasantly from an extremely necessary nap. He arose from a short but deep sleep

  ‘One of your patients,’ a lady’s voice said. ‘My husband. I’m very worried about him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but to whom do I have the honour of speaking?’

  Fakelove grasped the transparent plastic cube which he often fiddled with during telephone conversations. Inside the cube was some liquid and five balls. It was bisected by a diagonal wall with a couple of holes in it. The game was to get the balls on to the other side of the wall.

  ‘Just call me Irene,’ the lady said.

  ‘Very well, Irene.’

  Fakelove thought the name beautiful, whether real or invented. The lady had a charming, low, almost veiled voice. The conversation began to seem interesting.

  ‘Is he one of my private patients? Or has he received advice on the internet?’

  ‘Just the internet,’ the lady said. ‘Under the pseudonym Håkan.’

  ‘Aha, him?’ Fakelove gave a start. A rush of adrenalin woke him up completely. He had just succeeded in getting two of the balls through the holes, but one of them slipped back immediately.

  ‘Yes, I do remember him. I felt he really had serious problems. I urged him to contact other therapists. My help did not seem enough for him. D
idn’t he follow my advice?’

  ‘I do not know anything about that. But there is nothing really wrong with him.’

  ‘What? Didn’t you just say that you are very worried about him? So am I, in fact.’

  ‘Yes, but he is not ill.’

  ‘No?’ Fakelove was momentarily confused, and set the cube down. He had noted how the lady, for some reason, had stressed the word ‘he’.

  ‘Just a moment. Why then are you worried about him? I do not really understand. Has something else happened?’

  ‘I really hope that he is well. But of course I cannot be certain of it. Even that.’

  ‘I understand less and less. Did you not say that this is about your husband? In other words, the person who has been a client of mine? Under the name of Håkan?’

  ‘Yes, it is, but the real cause of concern is not him.’

  ‘You are worried for some other reason?’

  ‘Yes, I am worried.’

  What the devil, Fakelove thought. Here we clearly have a new case.

  ‘Listen madam, Irene, I do not wish to be impolite, but in five minutes I am expecting a new patient,’ he lied. ‘Could you explain in a little more detail?’

  ‘You will not believe me in any case.’

  ‘Dear lady, you cannot know that until you try. What is the problem?’

  ‘He has disappeared.’

  ‘There you are, you managed to tell me. When did he leave?’

  ‘Two weeks ago, apparently.’

  ‘Such a long time ago! And why do you say “apparently”? Surely you must know when you last saw your husband.’

  ‘It’s not so simple.’

  ‘No? In any case, it looks as if this is a matter for the police, not his therapist. I trust you have already informed the authorities.’