by David Mack
That’s about to change. She’s still out there somewhere, living her life, oblivious of what she really is. But now that I’m about to follow her across the threshold into a synthetic existence, I can tell her the truth—about what she is, and why I made her the way I did, and how I really feel about her. I’ll be able to roll back the clock on her aging, give her back her youth. We’ll have eternity to learn how to be happy together.
Not that I plan on giving up my research. After all, what’s the point of making myself functionally immortal if I don’t continue my work? There are far too many people who need me to continue, whether they know it or not: Juliana, Data, the Federation, and who knows how many artificially intelligent synthetic beings yet to be discovered. I owe it to them to preserve myself, my knowledge, my unique talents, for as long as possible. There’s so much left to do.
I sit down on the empty side of the synaptic scanner and ease myself onto it. Deep aches and pinched nerves throb inside my joints, and my spine feels as if it’s ready to snap as I fight to lie flat on my back so that the cortical nodes will be at the correct points around my head. The machine pulses and hums; it’s holding in standby mode until it senses I am in position. Unable to resist the impulse to anthropomorphize, I chuckle at the fantasy that the machine is impatient with me and is silently urging me to hurry up and get comfortable.
“Hold your horses,” I grumble under my breath.
Then I’m settled, and I feel the soothing effects of delta waves being projected into my brain—not enough to render me unconscious, just enough to relax me and keep me calm during the transfer process, which is about to begin. The rest of the lab goes dark as all available power is funneled into the synaptic scanner. I’ve crossed the Rubicon now. No turning back.
If I had more time—say, another lifetime (or two, or ten)—to work out all the pesky details, this isn’t the method I’d choose for transitioning to synthetic consciousness. The truth is, I’m worried even now that I’ve made a huge mistake, but I see no other way forward. Part of me wonders, What if this isn’t a transfer of consciousness but just a duplication? What if the true me dies on this table and the me that gets up inside that android body is just a clever copy? Will I really have cheated death—or merely created a new being that thinks it’s me?
Thoughts like these have kept me awake more nights than I can count. In a perfect universe, I would create nanomachines that would replace my organic brain cells one by one, duplicating their function and memory content. I’d notice no change in my consciousness during the process of the change. And then, one day, the last of the organic cells would be replaced, and all that would remain would be the synthetic brain, a positronic matrix built in the image of my original brain. Then all that would remain would be to gradually replace my limbs and organs and other tissues with cybernetic components, until I achieve completely artificial status.
But I have neither the technology to make that dream a reality nor the time to invent it from the vapors of my imagination, so this cobbled-together masterpiece of ancient artifacts and cutting-edge technology will have to suffice. I take a deep breath and fix my eyes on a photo of Juliana that I’ve tacked to the ceiling directly above my side of the machine. If this turns out to be a fatal error, I want her face to be the last thing I see.
I feel a rush of something like vertigo as the synaptic scanner starts the transfer. My eyes lose focus for a moment, and my proprioception becomes confused. When I blink I feel two sets of eyelids moving; I swallow to choke back my fear, and it’s as if I have two mouths. Paralysis sets in, and I remember that I programmed a variant of the annular confinement beam used in transporters to keep myself steady on the platform, to prevent myself from sitting up in fear mid-transfer and erasing my biological mind with a feedback pulse before my new positronic brain is finished receiving my consciousness. I fight to clench my right hand into a fist, and I’m rewarded by the uncanny sensation that I have two right hands, one old, one new, acting in synchronicity.
My sight grows dim, and I fear I’ll lose the image of Juliana. I refuse to let myself blink. Then I’m seeing two places at once: the patch of ceiling graced with her photo, and a blank gray slab of concrete directly above me. Next comes the most disconcerting but strangely intriguing sensation: I am in two places at once, occupying two bodies with one mind, conscious in both. It’s wondrous, but how do I explain it to you? You’re basking in the sun while running through the rain; you’re listening to jazz inside a crowded, smoke-filled nightclub while squinting at the sun from atop a mountain’s snow-capped peak. It’s like that.
My bivalence is brief, a fleeting moment of duality that slips from my fingers. Perception and sensation coalesce into a singular point of view once more, and as I inhale, I feel whole again. One body, one pair of hands, one pair of feet. The machine’s eerie droning cycles down into silence, and I sit up. Looking down, I see I’m now living inside the android body.
I roll off the slab and land on my feet. The difference is incredible: I’ve never felt this strong, this sure-footed, not even in the prime of my youth. Even more impressive, all my sensations seem the same: my lab looks and sounds as I remember it; its odors of chlorine and ammonia are as astringent as they are familiar. The sultry heat radiating from the machine warms my skin as I circle it to check its activity log on the master console.
Every nanosecond of the transfer has been recorded; I can see exactly which neurons, engrams, and synaptic pathways were copied at each moment, note when each was successfully duplicated into my new positronic matrix, and when its corresponding biological original was erased from my old brain. Only after I’ve reviewed all the data do I realize I’ve done it in a matter of seconds—as a mere human, it would have taken me weeks to read all this. What’s more, I have perfect recall of every iota of what I’ve read.
A quick scan of my old body confirms it’s dead, and its brain appears to be completely erased of memories and synaptic connections. I want to shout, “It worked!” I want to dance around my lab and rejoice, but some part of me still doubts this is real. Despite the fact that I was conscious throughout the process, regardless of the fact that I existed in both minds at once before settling into my new body, I can’t free myself of this seed of skepticism—or is it guilt? Indulging my penchant for melodrama, I wonder for 0.0003 of a second whether I’m a murderer. Then I realize that if I am, I’m actually a suicide, and this perfect replica I’ve become is merely a witness, a blameless bystander to a mad old man’s misguided self-destruction.
Satisfied that the transfer is complete and successful, I run a self-diagnostic. All my systems are in working order; all my circuits are functioning perfectly. I key in the self-destruct sequence for this house and head for the lift. Half a minute later I’m striding through my house, memorizing its eclectic conglomeration of ancient books and atlases, miniature replicas of dinosaur fossils and animal skeletons, my bronze bust of Shiva, and all my tapestries and antique clocks and high-tech-looking knickknacks of dubious purpose. This has been my sanctum for more than three decades, my refuge from a society that spurned me and a galaxy that seemed hell-bent on killing me. I have done some of the finest work of my life in this place. I pause in my doorway and look back at the spot where, only hours earlier, I said good-bye to my son.
“Good-bye,” I say, this time to my life as it was. It’s over now, and I need to go.
I run through the jungle to the concealed vessel I’ve prepared for this journey. As I clear the brush and camouflage from my sleek, well-equipped, and warp-capable starship, I recall what I told Data earlier today, before Lore’s arrival, when I explained how I survived the Crystalline Entity’s attack on Omicron Theta when all the other scientists there didn’t: all my life I’ve made certain, no matter where I was or what I was doing, to leave open a route of escape.
Obstacles cleared, I open the port-side hatch and walk up the gangway, inside the ship. The ramp retracts and the hatch slides shut behind me, and my state-o
f-the-art craft powers up with the press of one button on its main console.
Then a distant explosion shakes the ground, and a bloodred mushroom cloud of fire rises into the night sky, blotting out the stars. I permit myself a few seconds of nostalgia and watch my past literally go up in smoke. In a few days, a recycling company I’ve hired will arrive to collect my fusion generator. Next month, an ecological preservation team I’ve kept on retainer for the past several years will mop up the scorched mess my exit has left behind.
By then, of course, I will be long gone and far from here.
I initiate the liftoff sequence . . . and leave Terlina III a new man.
8
It’s been months since my “death,” yet I’ve never felt so alive. A breeze delights me with the briny perfume of the ocean and the aromas of alien delicacies wafting from beachfront restaurants. Sunlight warms my face. The crash of surf on sand underlies the music of laughing children. I’m immortal, incognito, and dwelling in paradise.
As I stroll the boardwalk of a seaside resort on Pacifica, none of the passersby know me. Today my name is Nomis Sutay, and thanks to a few simple cosmetic tweaks—some epidermal spots and a subtle darkening of my hair—and a few changes to my biofeedback circuit, I’m a young Trill business executive on a vacation. I have dozens of these identities ready for use, each complete with its own retinal patterns, fingerprints, and official documentation. It’s amazing what one can do when one knows how to manipulate the systems and records of the civil government. Of course it also helps that I had decades in which to prepare and establish these alter egos—decades in which I worked under other aliases as an off-site contractor, writing security software to prevent exactly this kind of subterfuge.
Waves collide and collapse into foam, smoothing the white-sand beach into a tabula rasa as they recede. The ocean calls to me like a siren, and I can’t resist its lure. I kick off my sandals, pick them up, and carry them as I leave the boardwalk and pad toward the water. The sand is hot and soft under my feet, almost like regolith. It seems unnaturally fine. Perhaps the resort uses a processed, artificial sand as a top layer for its beach. They wouldn’t be the first. Not that I’m complaining—I have no standing to criticize others for seeking perfection in the synthetic.
Sea foam surges over my feet, and bits of seaweed tickle my ankles.
For a moment I consider staying on Pacifica. It’s so beautiful that I can almost imagine spending aeons savoring its natural wonders—a brilliant azure sky painted each evening with a sunset so exquisite that it breaks my heart; endless expanses of open sea, all of it so clear and blue that I almost can’t find the horizon, because sea and sky become one in the distance.
Alas, I know I can’t stay. It’s dangerous for me to remain in any one place for too long. As it is, I need to avoid most of the Federation’s core worlds. Too many automated facial-recognition sensors in public spaces. Most of the time they’re just passive collectors of intelligence, but the last thing I need is to be recognized by some computer as one of my sons.
That might be the worst part of my ongoing charade: I desperately want to contact Data to tell him I’m alive and share the news of my transformation, but the risks are too great. He would probably feel duty-bound to reveal my secret to Starfleet, and then there’d be no end to my troubles. Despite his success at persuading Starfleet to recognize his legal rights, Data’s status under Federation law is still unclear—which means that my status is now likewise hard to define. As a human being I had significant protections for my person and effects. Do I still? Or did I surrender those rights when I gave up my organic existence? These might be fascinating legal quandaries for someone to debate and resolve in a court of law, but not when my life and freedom are on the line. I refuse to put up my existence as the stakes in that gamble.
No, the smart thing to do is to stick to my plan. I have many personas to establish on dozens of worlds, so that I can ensure my very long future will be secure—from both financial concerns and inquisitive minds. Once I’ve ensconced myself somewhere safe, I’ll trigger Juliana’s homing beacon and bring her home to me. Then I can rejuvenate her body, deactivate her planned senescence, and revive her. Of course, then comes the hard part: explaining to her what she really is, and why I had no choice but to preserve her life that way. Ever since she left, I’ve been afraid that she won’t forgive me when I reveal the truth to her. I keep hoping she will, and that we can be together from then on, both of us forever young . . . but what if she can’t accept a synthetic existence? What if she hates me for what I’ve done to her? Such questions haunt me. On those rare occasions when I still dare to shut myself down for a few minutes to let myself dream, my subconscious conjures anxiety plays, almost always on this theme.
The surf is up to my knees when I finally tear my gaze from the sunset and start back to the boardwalk. I’m still suffering an alarming number of odd moments as I learn to control my new sense of time. Knowing that I have eternity ahead of me, I’m often content to let hours bleed away while I do nothing; it feels sometimes like time is rushing past me in a blur. I imagine I must look like a statue when that happens.
At other times, when I need to take in a lot of information and react quickly, I’m able to perceive the passage of picoseconds. I can think far faster than my android body can act, and that’s no small boast, because I can be faster in my actions and reactions than just about any organic humanoid known to science. Data is almost fast enough to catch an old-fashioned chemically propelled projectile known as a bullet; I’m more than fast enough to do it. Not that I would have to, as most ordinary projectiles won’t pierce the armor mesh that protects my core systems, or the armor plating that shields my positronic brain. And nothing less than a heavy stun setting from a phaser would even get my attention.
Dusk is settling on the resort as I step up from the now-cool sands onto the vintage-style boardwalk. I put my sandals back on and whistle a chipper tune to occupy my thoughts—and keep myself rooted in real time—during the walk back to the Crown Star hotel.
The Bolian doorman smiles as I pass him at the entrance. “Welcome back to the Crown Star, Mister Sutay.”
I throw him a jaunty salute. “Good to be back.”
On my way past the front desk, the night manager, a comely female Bajoran, waves at me. “Good evening, Mister Sutay.”
“And a lovely one it is, Syrinna.” I wink at her, and she blushes.
Yes, I’ve styled this cover persona as a shameless flirt. A man has to have some fun if living forever is going to be anything other than a dreadful bore.
I return to my room, shower, and change into fresh clothes for the evening. To my chagrin, I’m running a few minutes late; I have dinner reservations at one of the town’s more acclaimed purveyors of nouvelle cuisine. I don’t need to eat for sustenance, but it’s imperative I maintain appearances. If someone should ever make a detailed inquiry into the background of this character I’ve invented, it will seem more than a trifle suspicious if he never took a single meal during a two-week sojourn. Or never dallied with any of the many available young women also staying at the resort. What can I say? I’m just demonstrating a keen attention to detail.
Tonight’s details include an appetizer of Pacifican lump crab meat served over crunchy sea greens dressed in Argelian sesame oil; an entrée of sautéed deep-sea scallops over a savory puree of white beans and garlic, garnished with local edible flower petals and accompanied by a side of peppery greens lightly dressed with a balsamic reduction; and two glasses of a crisp white wine with a pleasantly mineral quality, a Vermentino imported all the way from Sardinia, on Earth. Not wanting to play the part of a glutton, I skip dessert. I leave a generous tip and resist the impulse to make a pass at my Deltan waitress on my way out of the restaurant.
Not much feels different since my change, but two things I miss are the sensation of being pleasantly stuffed after a big meal, and basking in the warm glow of alcohol after a couple of drinks. Wine still tast
es the same, maybe even better. The chemical receptors in my new mouth are far more numerous and precise in their sensory capacities than what I had before. I can taste the alcohol in my drink, I simply can’t feel it in my body. It saddens me to know that my consumption of spirits has been reduced to an aesthetic exercise. I can play the parlor game of vivisecting the bouquet, flavors, and “mouthfeel” of a wine better than ever before, but it feels like a hollow pursuit now that I’m immune to the consequences of my appetites.
It’s a short walk back to the hotel. Actually, it seems like a short walk to everything around here. The resort was obviously designed as a bit of a tourist trap; its few square kilometers are packed with points of interest and distraction, all dispersed or camouflaged just enough that one never loses the illusion of being in a tropical retreat, but all close enough that one never sees any need to use mechanized transportation—which, of course, might tempt a person into leaving the resort and visiting the rest of this gorgeous planet.
Faint echoes of footsteps trip down the alleyways behind me, and I stop to listen. The soft reports of footfalls cease. I spend several seconds listening to a zephyr disturb the fronds of the transplanted date palms that line the resort’s main street like sentinels. I discern the voices of other people in my vicinity, the nocturnal chittering of insects in the beach grass, laughter from the terrace of a house ahead of me, a harp’s ethereal music from a farther room. Not sure of what I expect to find, I look back along my path from the restaurant. I see nothing amiss.