"I feel," he said in measured tones, "that we are closer to human upload than we realize. The ethics of chimp upload are not so far from the ethics of human upload. Therefore, we should deal with them seriously. And, to my mind, the only way to do that is to consider Bento's situation empathetically."
The energy of elation surged through him; his response was good. It fit. It was right. He felt as if he defied her grip on his shoulder, her attempt at controlling contact turned on its nose, yet he remained positively motionless. Some part of him was aware that her grip might not be intended as controlling—that his perception of the gesture might be distorted—but this awareness was remote. The wait for her answer was a sea of boundless and confident satisfaction.
Anya leaned into him and kissed his neck, her lips tugging gently at his skin. It was as if she were feeding on his mental rush, yet simultaneously contributing to it. His state of clarity and glee was amplified. His body felt powerful. He imagined himself slipping from the couch and delivering an astoundingly powerful roundhouse kick to some indeterminate foe.
"You're so right," said Anya at last. "Do you think you could implement that sort of backup? Do we have sufficient resources?"
An arrogant, self-satisfied ease arose in Raymond's mind.
"Oh, sure. No problem."
Anya stood up and went to the table, leaving Raymond where he sat, in his mental hot-mud bath. Again he found himself watching her butt, this time feeling as if she were entirely his.
"More wine?" she asked.
"Sure."
She brought the canister over and poured out two more glasses, draining the canister in the process. Raymond looked at his glass, considering the fact that he had drunk very little alcohol in his life. His concept of its effects were limited to the stumbling and slurring of virtual reality. He wondered now whether the Cava and the two glasses of wine he had already drunk might be affecting his mental state. While posing the question to himself, he picked up his refilled glass and drank from it, wanting to be sure he had experienced proper drunkenness before uploading. Anya sat down beside him again. She sat down such that her hip was placed firmly against his. She pulled his shirt out of his pants and slid her hand across his taut, muscular belly, her fingertips dipping just under his elastic waistline. He felt alarms go off in his mind; his penis filled with blood. He felt its taut skin shift within his pants, rubbing in small steps up the inside of his thigh.
"What about the dopamine?" he asked. "Isn't it possible to track the creation of dopamine and other neurotransmitters prior to the scan, to establish some sort of history?"
"Absolutely." She moved her hand up his stomach somewhat and slowly rubbed beneath his rib cage. The sexuality of the moment fizzled, converted to affection. "That's actually a big part of Bob's other project, on the computer-controlled sustenance of a human brain. But that project is only so far along. Some of its findings have been useful to neurological surgeons, but the full-fledged support of a human brain by a computer is still a ways off."
"And the two projects should complement each other, right?"
"Well, the sustenance project should certainly complement the upload project. And, ideally, it should go both ways."
"So, if a human were going to be uploaded, they could undergo sustenance evaluation first. Establish a history for sustaining the brain via simulation, then upload the brain and apply the history."
"That's the ultimate idea," said Anya. Her hand came to rest comfortably just above his navel.
"And how far away do you think he is?"
"Oh, it's hard to say. The brain sustenance is only partial. It's integrated as much as possible with a real body. As much as is left of a real person. The difference in granularity between a sustained body and the simulated physiology necessary for an uploaded brain is hard to guess at. Statistically speaking, we're almost there. But statistics often leave out key details of reality; we could be overlooking some essential mental component, or we could have a simulated body that would leave an uploaded brain gasping for oxygen, bleating for proteins."
Raymond felt small and far from his destination again. Then, out of the blue, Anya asked him a question. "What do you believe to be your center?"
"My center?"
"Yeah, your center. The source of your person. The basis of your self-placement, your beliefs?"
The basis of my beliefs?
"I don't know," he said. "I'm not sure that's something I've ever really thought about."
His center had something to do with control, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Where others accepted their fate or the circumstances of their physical condition, merely reacting to the events of their lives, he made decisions in an attempt to control his life. But desire for control couldn't be the right answer.
"I guess..." He paused. "I don't know, I guess I would have to think about it. Right now, I think it's several inches below your hand."
Anya grinned.
"Okay," she said. "New question. This one's easier. Have you ever had a girlfriend?"
Raymond's head turned, and he met Anya's gaze. Her face looked open, innocent, inviting. He smiled. The primitive components of his mind started dumping hormones into his system, priming him.
"You know," he said, "I read once that the human face is capable of making over seven thousand facial expressions. But, for all the research that went into that number, I bet they missed the one that's on your face right now."
He wanted to kiss her, but he couldn't break through the inertia fast enough.
"Well, have you?" she asked again, her expression now mischievous, insistent, and elated.
Holding his ground and still looking into her eyes, Raymond shook his head 'no'. "I've been with women, mostly in v-space, but never what I would call a girlfriend."
Anya moved her hand up his chest, lifting his shirt as she went. She stopped just below his throat and gently pushed him back. He resisted for a moment, then yielded, sitting back into the cushion. His skin felt hot. She swung a knee over his legs, straddling him. Her breasts, beneath stretched soft fabric, loomed inches from his eyes. He looked up into her eyes, struggling against the feeling of powerlessness that washed over him.
Anya took his head in her hands, turned it to the side, and pulled it in against her. Raymond felt at once trapped and protected. She breathed deeply. He closed his eyes, inhaling the warm, unfamiliar scent of her cashmere top. She rested her cheek on the top of his head and spoke, her voice close to his right ear. "You're a very secretive man, aren't you. You've kept your hurt-filled past to yourself for... twenty-some years—is there no one with whom you're open? You're a good looking man, but you've never had a girlfriend?"
Alarms were going off in Raymond's mind, but somehow he felt safe—as if the intrusion couldn't touch him. A minute smirk pulled his lips to the side and lowered his brow. He inhaled slowly and deeply, savoring the faintly perfumed aroma of her neck, at the same time harboring a kernel of self-aware caution.
She leaned closer to his ear and whispered. "Raymond, I think you should be close to me tonight. I don't want to be alone, and I don't want you to be alone." She pulled back and looked him in the eye. "You don't have to say anything now, but I want you to think about it. When I go to bed tonight, you can join me or you can go—you don't have to say a thing."
She got up from the couch and took their glasses and remaining dishes into the kitchen. Raymond didn't move an inch. He was in shock. Such a flood of emotions. He recalled pictures of the flow of information up from the limbic system, the source of human emotions—pictures that showed how signals from the limbic system up to the conscious mind far outnumbered those sent down in the opposite direction. He imagined getting in bed with her and finding that she was naked. If he went to bed with her, he would definitely leave his boxers on. But what if she started to take them off—would he be able to resist her?
There was such abundance and promise in her offer, but he didn't want a relationship. Detachment seemed so much safer. If h
e stayed the night, he would end up in a position of implicit indebtedness. She would want him to spend more time with her, and she would want to know more about him. If she became a part of his life, it would muddy the waters, make everything more confusing. He couldn't afford to go soft. All his fantasies from before seemed tainted with danger now.
But was spending the night really going to cast him into the vortex of a relationship that he wouldn't be able to control? What if she wanted to have sex? If they had sex, there was no doubt about it—he would be in a relationship. Sex with a bot in a v-world was just a dirty thrill. Sex with Anya would expose him, make him a part of her. But he felt more alive when she was close, and there was no closer than making love. What if the upload failed, and he had missed this opportunity?
How could I pass this up? I just have to remain in control.
Anya was busy in the kitchen for some time, putting dishes in the dishwasher and cleaning up. Raymond eventually managed to get up from the love seat. He occupied himself with looking about the place, looking for eyes and sensors and computer components. He was intrigued by just how few security devices there were. The front door had a deadbolt and a brass peephole. There were no sensors on the windows and no interior eyes. Someone could break a window and enter her apartment with hardly a worry.
Raymond found himself starting to feel anxious without Anya in the room. He went to the kitchen and stood in the doorway, where he could watch her.
"You know," he said, "I really don't know that much about you, either."
"Then you should ask me questions. What do you want to know about me?"
"I don't know. The facts, I guess. You know—where you were born, the names of your parents. Do you have any sisters, or brothers?"
"I was born in Lisbon, Portugal. My father's name is Sean Flynn and my mother's is Maria Ornelas. My mother was a diplomat, so we traveled a lot. My parents moved from Portugal when I was seven, but we visited family friends there and in Seville many times, so I know—and love—Portugal and Andalucia. I had a younger sister, Amy, but she died five years ago. She was killed by her husband, just one year after they were married."
"Wow... her husband killed her?" Raymond squirmed a little, painfully aware of how wooden his reaction was. He hated situations where he knew he should express sympathy—he was never sure how to do it.
"He was in a bad car accident and experienced brain damage, but no one realized it at the time. She mentioned after the accident that he would sometimes act coldly towards her. As it turned out, he was afflicted with Capgras' delusion. I'd never heard of Capgras at the time. If I had, I might have recommended a brain scan when she mentioned his distant spells. It results from a combination of cognitive and emotional-recognition brain damage. Recognition paths involving the limbic system are damaged such that when you see a loved one, you recognize who they are but experience no emotional response. It feels odd to be with people you know, like it's not really them. The bonds of intimacy aren't triggered. You can recall the old bonds, you remember shared experiences, but the emotional memory isn't triggered. In classic cases, the Capgras victim—because of the combination of emotional-recognition damage with cognitive dysfunction—believes that their loved ones have been abducted and replaced with androids or holographic projections. Rob—her husband—killed her with a knife. In the middle of the night, in their bed, he slit her throat. He probably expected to find her neck filled with cables and motors. And when he didn't, he kept cutting and cutting."
"Oh my god, that's so awfully, tragically sad. What happened to him?"
"Fortunately, the crime was committed here, in the U.S. He was tried and convicted of second degree murder, but his sentence was left undetermined until a brain scan could be performed. The scans showed that he had, in fact, suffered brain damage typical of Capgras' delusion. He was given the option of life imprisonment or neurosurgery, and he chose neurosurgery. They were unable to repair the damage, but he was outfitted with chips that have allowed him to build new emotional memories. After a few months of additional therapy, he was let out on probation."
"Huh. It's great that that could be done, but it doesn't bring back your sister."
"No, but it doesn't bring back his wife, either. He's been on and off of antidepressants ever since."
Raymond shook his head in disbelief. "I'm so sorry." Anya stood drying her hands, the kitchen cleanup complete.
"So," asked Raymond, "was that what got you into brain research?"
"More or less. I was already headed that way. But I was headed several other ways, too, if you know what I mean, and Amy's death made all those other ways seem pretty silly."
"The same thing could happen to an uploaded mind, couldn't it."
"Sure. It's enough the same that I expect you could get an identical phenomenon. Assuming the uploaded mind is conscious and functional in the first place. But it's an extremely rare condition in humans, and we run around with our big soft brains encased in bone. Bone that doesn't even fit the way it ought to, because the evolution of our brains outpaced the development of our skulls. A photonic computer brain, safely mounted within an alloy case, is a lot less likely to suffer physical damage."
"And if Rob's brain had been a computer brain, your sister would still be alive. Is that how you ended up on the upload project?"
"Oh, no. I mean, that sort of thing has crossed my mind, but I'm more about the immediate research benefits. Research on an uploaded mind is much easier than on an organic brain. Every neuristor, before long, will be able to report its own activity. You can obtain a one hundred percent correct image of brain activity. Upload a schizophrenic mind, observe it, experiment with it, and you may finally be able to cure schizophrenia. Cure it, for real, without half a dozen side effects. Thousands of abnormal psychological conditions remain, only partially understood. An uploaded mind provides the perfect platform for understanding and, eventually, correction. Sure, I fantasize about a future in which uploaded humans evolve into something new, but my real motivation lies closer at hand."
"Have you ever thought about uploading yourself?"
Raymond immediately wished he could retract the question. He feared that he was treading too close to his plans for safety. But a thrill arose within him as he imagined cutting closer and closer to what lay within him, leaving a paper-thin shield that remained opaque to Anya's mind. The thinner the shield, the better.
"Sure, every time I'm on my period," replied Anya.
Raymond chuckled, relieved by her sense of humor.
"I mean," continued Anya, "I expect everybody on the team has fantasized about uploading, at one time or another. You watch a dog go into the scanner, and the next thing you know you're playing fetch and scruffing her neck in a v-chamber. Why couldn't that be you, you wonder. All your bullshit physical problems gone. Knee problems, colds, obesity, migraines, cancer, whatever, all gone. Immortality—what more could you ask for?" She leaned closer. "But what if something goes wrong? Then you've given up on your perfectly good life... because you were greedy for something better? Or what if it's only a partial failure? What if... your memories get wiped?" She shook her head and threw up her hands. "Can you imagine that? Have you ever kept a journal—like, media recordings?"
"Sort of. There was a time when I tried to create a computer persona that could serve as my duplicate in a v-world when the real me had to sleep."
"You mean a bot double that would continue your v-life for you?"
"Exactly. You know, so my double could carry on some mundane work for me. So I recorded myself telling all sorts of stories of my past in that v-world, so the computer persona would have a storehouse of information from which to draw, in case it had to interact with others."
"Did it take you a long time to make?"
"Oh, yeah. Months."
"Well, did you ever imagine it being destroyed? Total media failure—like if the building where it was kept burned down?"
"Sure, but I think that about every computer tha
t means something to me. I'm always creating replication servers and remote backups and such."
"Okay, well imagine if you lost your whole recorded persona. Imagine your replication and your backups all failed, and everything was lost."
"Okay."
"Can you imagine how terrible that would be? It would be awful, right? Now imagine if your entire life memory were lost."
"Yeah, that would be awful."
"And that makes uploading a pretty big risk to take, right?"
"Sure."
"Well," said Anya, "that's a pretty good reason not to upload, as far as I'm concerned. I mean, you're risking your memory. Everything could be lost. Everything that makes you 'you'. I can see uploading if you have some terminal disease, or a mental condition that you think might be reparable after uploading. But if you're a healthy person, why take that kind of risk?"
"Uh, you did mention immortality?"
"Well, sort of. There's always the chance of hardware failure. But even if you were immortal, we're so conditioned for a mortal life span—don't you think we might not be able to deal with immortality?"
Raymond was still thinking of all the lovely reasons to upload, primarily that of avoiding the traceability of one's physical existence. Immortality and near-total control over one's environment seemed like nice side-benefits, at the moment. As for having a hard time with immortality, well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.
"I don't know" said Anya. "The idea of uploading certainly holds some appeal for me, but I'm not in this for myself. Of course, before long, I may not be in this at all, from the looks of things."
"Yes," said Raymond, suddenly checking his wrist relay. It was after 10:00. He was surprised to find that so much time had passed.
"It's getting on toward bedtime, isn't it," said Anya.
"It is. And, I don't know. I feel like I should probably go home." Raymond surprised himself—he was genuinely reluctant to stay, but he felt like he was using his reluctance as a weapon in a power game that he didn't understand.
"Home?" questioned Anya, sliding past him into the living room. "Home to your computers, no doubt?" She straightened a small framed photograph on the wall. "Surely your wrist relay can tell you whatever it is you need to know."
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