by Paul Preuss
“You wish to ask me about ICEP, Inspector? Some questions not covered in the records?”
“Implied by the records, Doctor.”
Singh looked rueful. “I suppose the prose in those reports is rather dry. With a few minutes’ notice, I might have been able to save you a trip halfway round the world.”
“I don’t mind travel.”
“So I have heard.” The hint of a smile.
Sparta had prolonged her inspection an extra few seconds. At first glance—and sniff and listen—Holly Singh appeared to be no more than thirty years old, but her skin was so smooth and her visage so regular that it was evident that she had had most of her physiognomy reconstructed. Yet there was no record of trauma in her file. A disguise, then. And her body odor, too, was a disguise, a compound of oils and acids intended to reproduce just that very smell of a relaxed thirty-year-old female.
Sparta briefly flirted with the notion that Singh was not human at all, but that mythical creature, an android. But who would bother to build a machine that looked like a human, when what was wanted was humans with the capacities of machines?
No, Singh was human enough, someone who wanted to seem other than she was and who knew that nonverbal cues were as important as verbal ones. Her overtrained, impossibly relaxed voice revealed that just as surely as the faint but sharp odor of adrenaline that underlay her customized body-odor, announcing that her nerves were strung tight.
“Please sit down. Did my assistant offer you refreshments?”
“Yes, thanks. Nothing for me.” The white wafer was still a bittersweet memory on her tongue.
Sparta sat in one of the comfortable armchairs facing Singh’s desk and adjusted the line of her trouser creases over her knees. The doctor sat in the armchair opposite. The room was shadowed, its glass wall curtained; dappled warm light shone from lamps of brass filigree.
Singh gestured to a cluster of framed holographs on the table between them. “There they are—Peter, Paul, Soula, Steg, Alice, Rama, Li, Hieronymous—their graduation pictures.”
“How old were they when these were taken?”
“All young adults, fourteen to sixteen years old. Peter, Paul, and Alice were acquired as youngsters in Zaire—in accordance with local law and Council regulations regarding trade in endangered species, of course. The others were born here at our primate facility.” Singh’s gaze lingered on the holos. “Chimps have a limited range of expressions, but I like to think there is considerable pride to be seen in those young faces.”
“You were fond of them,” Sparta said.
“Very. They were not experimental animals to me. Although that’s how the program began.”
“How did it begin?” Sparta coaxed more warmth into her tone; she was surprised at the effort it cost her. “I don’t mean officially. I mean, what inspired you, Dr. Singh?”
Singh found the question flattering, as Sparta had hoped, and returned the compliment by favoring Sparta with the steady gaze of her dark eyes—as she no doubt favored everyone on whom she decided to expend valuable time. “I conceived of the program at a time when nanoware technology had finally begun to show the promise that we had dreamt of since the 20th century. It was the middle ’70s … has it really been almost fifteen years ago now?”
Perhaps a little more than fifteen, Sparta thought—you must have thought up the chimp experiments before someone decided to try them on a human subject as well…
Singh continued. “You may be too young to remember the excitement of the ’70s, Inspector, but they were glorious days for neurology, here and at research centers everywhere. With the new artificial enzymes and programmed, self-replicating cells we learned to repair and enhance damaged areas of the brain and nervous system throughout the body … to arrest Alzheimer’s disease, Parkinson’s disease, ALS, and a host of other diseases. To restore sight and hearing to virtually all patients whose deficits were due to localized neurophysical damage. And for those in high-risk jobs”—Singh’s glance flickered to Sparta’s dress blue uniform, with its thin line of ribbons—“the benefits were even more immediate: a cure for paralysis due to spinal cord injury, for example. The list is long.”
“You made progress on all those fronts simultaneously?”
“The potential benefits were great and, by comparison, the risks were small. Once we were armed with the informed consent of our patients—or their guardians—nothing stood in the way of our research. Other areas were more problematic.”
“Such as?”
“We also saw opportunities—and we have yet to achieve our goals here—of making subtler improvements. Restoring memory loss in some cases, correcting certain speech defects, certain disorders of perception. Dyslexia, for example.”
Sparta leaned forward, encouraging Singh to expand.
“But you can see the ethical problems,” Singh said, confiding in Sparta as if she were a fellow researcher. “A dyslexic can learn to function within the normal range through traditional therapies. Some of the older literature even suggested that dyslexias might be associated with higher functions—what used to be called creativity, the writing of fiction and so on. We were in a position where we really didn’t understand the hierarchical relationships. We were possessed of very powerful neurological tools but inadequate knowledge of the organization of the brain itself.”
“And of course you couldn’t experiment with humans.”
“Some of our own researchers were reluctant even to experiment with higher primates.”
“Not you.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard many stories about India, Inspector. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Jains, who sweep the ground before them so as not to step on a flea? Well, I have been known to crush mosquitos—even on purpose.” For a moment Singh’s wide red lips stretched into a smile, and her white teeth gleamed.
Sparta was reminded more of the Hindu Kali than of the peaceful deities of the Jains.
“But I have a healthy respect for life, and especially for its most evolved forms,” Singh went on. “First we exhausted the possibilities of computer modeling—it was from this research, incidentally, that many features of the modern organic micro-supercomputers arose. Meanwhile we pursued neuroanalytical work on species other than primates—rats, cats, dogs, and so on. But when finally it came to the subtler questions I’ve mentioned, questions of language, questions of reading and writing and remembered speech, no other species could stand in for humanity.”
Singh rose with quick grace and went to her desk. She took another, smaller silver-framed holo from the desk and handed it to Sparta. “Our first subject was an infant chimp—her name was Molly—with a motor disorder. The poor thing couldn’t even cling to her mother. In the wild she would have died within a few hours of birth, and in captivity she would have developed severe emotional problems and probably would not have reached maturity. I had no qualms about injecting her with a mix of organic nanochips designed to restore her primary deficit … and at the same time, quite conservatively, to test some other parameters.”
“Language parameters?”
Sparta handed the holo back to Singh, who replaced it on the desk. “Questions concerning the evolution of language, rather.” Singh sat down again, attending Sparta as closely as she had before. “A chimp’s brain is half the size of a human’s but shows many of the same major anatomical structures. Fossil skull casts of the earliest hominids, now extinct but rather more closely related to chimps than we are, show development in the traditional language centers of the brain. And there are no inherent neurophysiological barriers to language, however stringently you might wish to define that term, in the organization of a chimp’s brain.”
“The anatomical obstacles to speech were corrected surgically, weren’t they?”
“We did no surgery on Molly. That came later, with the others. And certainly there were anatomical problems—but the corrections were minimal, and we made sure they were painless.” Singh had tensed almost imperceptibly, but now rela
xed again as she got back to reciting the good news. “That initial and quite unofficial neurochip experiment on Molly showed astonishing results. Her motor control improved rapidly, until she was indistinguishable from the average infant chimp. And as I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, the average infant chimp is an Olympic athlete compared to the average infant human. This one, even with her primitive natural vocal equipment, started making interesting sounds. ‘Mama’ and so forth.”
Sparta smiled. “A good Sanskrit word.”
“A good word in most languages.” Singh bared her teeth again. “We knew we’d done something extraordinary. We had bridged the gap between our species, something the first animal-language researchers in the 20th century had tried so hard to do but without clear results. We had done it decisively and without much effort at all. I will never forget that morning, when I went to Molly’s cage and ‘interacted’ with her—orthodox behaviorist terms are rather dry, I fear—when I simply held out my hand and gave her the food pellet. And she said ‘Mama’ to me.”
Singh’s eyes were shining in the textured lamplight. Sparta did not break the silence.
“Looking back, I believe it was in that moment I conceived ICEP, the Interspecies Communication Enhancement Program.” Singh suddenly frowned. “Incidentally, I hate the term ‘superchimp’ only a little less than I despise the word ‘simp.’” The frown dissolved, although her expression remained brusque. “Our first enhanced subjects, these eight, were ready for training a year later. The details of the program, our evaluation of the results, are of course on record.”
“The record says nothing about your decision to abandon the program,” Sparta said. “Yet no continuing proposal was filed.”
“I’m afraid you can put that down to the media-hounds—or perhaps I should say, to the will of the people, who become hysterical when expertly manipulated. It was plain there would be no more funding for ICEP after all of our subjects were lost in the crash of the Queen Elizabeth IV.”
“All? I found no record of the death of the chimpanzee named Steg.”
“Steg?” Singh looked at Sparta carefully. “I see you have read the files carefully.” She seemed to come to some unspoken decision. “Inspector, I’m scheduled to fly to Darjeeling as soon as our interview is completed here. I run a sanatorium near there, for my private patients. It’s on the grounds of the family estate. Would you care to be my guest this evening?”
“That’s gracious of you, Dr. Singh, but I won’t keep you long. I think we can complete our business here shortly.”
“You misunderstand me. I’m not concerned with the time. I thought you might like to meet Steg. The last of the so-called superchimps.”
12
“Everything you remember about that night is true,” the commander said, “except it wasn’t her in the chopper.”
“A stand-in? An actress?” Blake asked.
“Nobody.”
“How about the guy who tied me up?”
“He was real.”
They were walking side by side through the woods, with the distant cliffs on the far side of the Hudson barely visible through the trees. Their breath made clouds in front of them. All around, autumn blazed.
They came to the edge of the woods. The mansion was to their left, across a wide back lawn already turning brown with approaching winter. Ellen’s window and the pantry window Blake had broken in his escape attempt were visible in the near tower; the one still had fresh putty around it, and around the other the new leading of the stained glass was as bright as pewter.
“We were going to catch you in her room—that’s about as far ahead as we were thinking. You almost got away. Came through that window, charged the chopper. Complete surprise. If the guy in the Snark hadn’t been getting the injection ready, you could have made a mess of us.”
“Ellen reached for me, pulled me in. You say that memory’s a fake? You can do that?”
“With the right subject.”
They resumed walking toward the lodge. After a moment Blake said, “Can you erase my … chip? Give me back the truth?”
“Afraid not.” The commander laughed, a single sharp expulsion of breath. “If you want, we could give you our version of what you might remember if we hadn’t messed with you. It would be just as fake.”
“Never mind.”
“Raises interesting questions, doesn’t it?”
“Like, how will I know tomorrow we really had this little chat?” said Blake.
“Others too.”
“Like, why—if this is true—are you bothering to explain? When before, you just wanted to get me out of the way.”
“You’re dangerous, you know.” The commander nodded toward the house. Thick plastic covered the charred porch: more scaffolding stood against the ruins of the carriage house, farther on. “And that was before you knew about Salamander.”
Blake’s laugh was sour. “What difference does it make? You can rewrite the last week of my life … wipe all that mayhem away.”
“Before you knew about us, we justified the deception. A temporary lie, we said … and Ellen could tell you the truth later.”
“She’s in on it?”
“She wouldn’t have agreed, Redfield, you know her better than that. We didn’t ask her. After, when she heard our reasons, she went along.”
Blake shook his head angrily. “I don’t know how you guys decide where to draw the line. Playing God.”
“We’re not God. We couldn’t rewrite the last week of your life if we wanted to. An hour or two, if that. Try more, and bad things happen.”
“How do you know bad things happen?”
“We didn’t invent the technique, Redfield,” he said sharply. “They did.”
“You use it. The results of their experiments.”
“What you asked before”—the commander let the accusation pass, nolo contendere—“Human memory’s not on a chip. It’s distributed in lots of parts of the brain. You’d have to talk to the neuro people about that, it’s too complicated for me.”
“Sure,” Blake said.
“I understand the practical side. That it’s easier to blank out something somebody heard or read than something they saw happen. Harder still to blank out something involving the body.” The commander eyed him. “You seem to get your body into most of the stuff you learn, Redfield.” It sounded almost like a compliment.
“That doesn’t exhaust your options, Commander.”
“I don’t blame you for thinking it, Redfield, but we like to believe we’re the good guys. So we don’t kill other good guys. We don’t hold their friends and relatives hostage. Only two options for us.”
“Which are?”
“Well, we could take your word of honor you won’t betray us.”
Blake was caught by surprise. After a moment he shook his head. “I couldn’t give it. If they caught me, tortured me … or used those drugs on me again. Or if they took Ellen, or my parents…”
“Good. You know yourself.” The commander nodded. “We’d take your word anyway.”
Some resistance broke inside Blake and he looked at the older man with new respect. “What’s your other option?”
“Recruit you.”
“I already turned you down.”
“Not the Space Board—Salamander.”
“I can’t be one of you.”
They had reached what was left of the porch. The commander paused on the first step. “Why not?”
“You really were one of the prophetae once, weren’t you?”
The commander stared at him. He nodded once, slowly.
“All of you were, all these scrubbed kids,” said Blake.
“That’s right.”
“I never was. I never believed in that crap, that alien savior business. I only pretended.”
“We’ll make an exception in your case,” the commander said hoarsely.
“You’ve got it backwards,” Blake said.
The commander, watching him with ba
silisk eyes, did not move, hardly seemed to breathe. Then he relaxed. “Okay. Before I fly you back to the city,” he said, “there’s somebody I want you to meet.”
J. Q. R. Forster, professor of xenopaleontology and xenoarchaeology at King’s College, London, was engrossed in a leather-bound volume from a shelf of 19th-century classics when Blake and the commander entered the library. Forster was a tiny bright-eyed fellow whose expression immediately put Blake in mind of an excited terrier. When the commander made the introductions, Forster stepped forward and gave Blake’s hand a jerk.
“My dear Redfield, let me congratulate you on the first rate job you and Inspector Troy did in recovering the Martian plaque. Splendid to have it safely back where it belongs.”
“Thank you, sir. Ellen spoke of you often.” Blake hesitated. “Uh, excuse me for saying so, but you’re a lot younger than I expected.”
Indeed Forster looked no more than thirty-five, instead of his true fifty-plus years. “If I continue to have frequent scrapes with death requiring visits to the plastic surgeon, I shall soon be a boy like yourself,” he said. “They said they replaced seventy percent of the skin.”
“Sorry,” said Blake, embarrassed. He’d forgotten about the Free Spirit bomb, the explosion and fire that had been intended to kill Forster and destroy his life’s work.
Forster coughed. “Not really necessary of course…”
“Sir?”
“After all, I’ve studied the thing for so many years I could sit down at a terminal and recreate it from memory.”
“The Martian plaque, you mean?”