Biblical

by Christopher Galt

  I know the truth, he thought again. The Earth still screamed in its death–birth pangs and Theia still closed in on him. I know the truth and it is not enough to destroy the computer.

  First removing the automatic, Macbeth placed the rucksack at his feet.

  The hallucination continued, Theia now filling the whole sky.

  I know the truth. No one can know the truth.

  He was aware he had no idea how to set the detonators, but realized now that that didn’t matter. Everything, for everyone else, would be restored. Reset. Not for him: he knew the truth. He was a paradox that needed resolving.

  The knowledge lives in my consciousness and can only be erased if my consciousness is erased.

  There were tears on his face. He grieved for Casey, for the others who had died, he grieved for the lives he would save yet were not real. He grieved for his consciousness.

  I don’t know how to set the detonators, he told himself once more.

  John Macbeth, who had never had much of a belief in himself, in his identity or existence, aimed the automatic at the glassy ghost of an explosives-filled rucksack at his feet.

  He pulled the trigger.

  EPILOGUE

  There was a moment’s silence. John Astor let his statement hang in the artificially constant air of the Mainframe Hall.

  “Macbeth committed suicide?” said Project Director Yates. “That’s what you’re saying?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Astor.

  “How can that be? How could Macbeth commit suicide?”

  “Immediately before self-shutdown there was a massive spike in neural activity. It would suggest a highly agitated state of mind.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Yates, “but listen to yourself: ‘state of mind’ … ‘suicide’ …” She looked at the four small, dark-gray boxes, each enclosed in a glass case.

  “But those are exactly the concepts we’re dealing with,” said Astor.

  “If you’re saying that Macbeth destroyed itself, then it must have had a concept of self. It must have become fully self-aware.”

  “I believe that’s exactly what happened. I have to say that I expressed concern when I took over running of the project,” said Astor. “Each of the four synthetic brains was running a different disorder program, but only on specific neural clusters. Only Macbeth began to display global activity. A full working brain. My guess is that, in the absence of real sensory input, it began to simulate its own reality.”

  “That’s against everything we set out at the start of the project – why did it happen?”

  “Until Dr Hoberman was let go from the project a year into its running, I suspect he’d been privately testing his controversial Dissociative Identity Disorder theories on Macbeth, investing the program with multiple personalities. Alters. Somehow the Macbeth program coalesced these into a single identity.”

  “And you didn’t know this when you programmed in the paranoid schizophrenia?”

  “Of course I didn’t,” said Astor. “If I’d thought there was anything approaching a complete mind or self-awareness it would have gone against the project protocols. I rather fear that we have created genuine suffering.”

  “In a machine?” Yates shook her head.

  “In a mind. There’s evidence that Macbeth started to access a broad range of data from the mainframe and beyond. General knowledge, if you like: history, geography, the sciences – including neuroscience – philosophy and literature. Lots of literature. It also connected to other simulations – geophysical and astrophysical programs run elsewhere. I think it was trying to make sense of its own reality.”

  “And now?”

  “Now it has shut down completely. No neural activity. Macbeth ended its own neurological life, somehow. Like I said, suicide. It’s a pity. It may have had some interesting answers to offer about our own reality.”

  “And the other programs?”

  “No problems,” said Astor. “Like I said, they’re still only partial simulations. Hamlet, Lear and Othello are still fully operational.”

  “Will we get Macbeth up and running again? It’s a billion-dollar piece of equipment.”

  “The program has basically self-wiped, but the neural architecture is intact, so yes. I’ll reconnect it to the mainframe and only reactivate the elements relevant to whatever disorder we decide to program in.”

  “Good.”

  They both looked up at the holographic displays above the three functioning program units: virtual representations of the synaptic activities of each synthetic brain. Connections sparkled and flashed and glowed; patterns formed out of nothing before disappearing, only to be replaced by other even more complex patterns. Only the air above the Macbeth program remained empty.

  “Okay, John,” said Yates. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got a meeting to go to. Have you heard these reports about mass hallucinations?”

  “No …”

  “Mmm … there’s been quite a few incidents recently, different locations around the world. My opinion is desired, apparently. See you later.”

  After Elizabeth Yates left the Mainframe Hall, John Astor stood gazing at the virtual displays above Hamlet, Lear and Othello, the three functioning programs. After a while, he keyed in the codes to reconnect to the mainframe the small, glass-cased unit that held the Macbeth program. A single streak of light arced in the air above it, followed by another.

  “Welcome to the afterlife, my friend,” said Astor, before leaving the Hall.