Transhuman

  Naylor brought his hands up to massage his brow with his fingertips. "I'm still not getting this. We are us. They are what they are. Totally different. How can you merge them? And what does any of it have to do with me?"

  Piersen looked at him and toyed for a few seconds with a pen that she had set down by the folder but not used. "Me," she repeated. "So exactly what is this 'me' that you're referring to? Have you ever thought about it?"

  "What kind of game are we playing now?" Naylor made a show of looking down at himself, checking first to one side then the other as if making sure he was still all there. "I see a body with arms and legs. I assume there's a head on top, talking, because I can hear it. What else do you expect me to say?"

  "You think that's you? Flesh and bones and blood? But that's all made up of particles like atoms and molecules that are being replaced all the time. There isn't one of them that was the same even a month ago."

  "So what? Don't I look the same to you as I did a month ago?" Naylor raised his hands and wiggled his fingers. "Mine. Not yours or anybody else's. The same as they've always been."

  "So what remains constant, then, is the pattern that the particles form," Piersen suggested.

  Naylor shrugged. "If you like."

  "So what about this person inside your head, who looks out at the world, who thinks, and who knows he's thinking? Ask a surgeon to show you a picture of it. All you'll get is goo. So where does this guy who calls himself Brom Naylor come from?"

  "I don't know about anything like that. Why ask me?"

  "It's another pattern," Piersen persisted. "One that's formed by the electrical and chemical activity taking place among the trillions of cells that make up your brain."

  "Okay, okay. If you say so. Look, don't you think it's about time you got to the point of all this?"

  In reply, Piersen picked a sheet of text from her folder and held it up. "This page was written by a printer in my office. Before that it was displayed as dots on a screen, generated from electrical charges stored in my computer. It got there via satellite as a pattern impressed on radio waves. But you see my point? It's the same page. The form of the medium that carries it is irrelevant. Think of ripples in a stream flowing over some rocks. The particles of water that make it up are changing all the time, but the pattern is permanent. Likewise with the pattern of activity in your head that does the thinking that you perceive as you. And like the pattern that forms the message on this page, it can be transferred to different media . . . At least, that's what a lot of people who have been working on this for years believe. And they think they've figured out how it can be done. But there's only one way to—"

  Naylor almost choked. "Are you telling me they want—"

  Piersen wasn't prepared to be interrupted now that she had gotten down to it, and cut him off with a wave. "The brain that you're occupying now is about to be dee-exed very shortly, anyway. But what they're offering is to reinstall the activity patterns that constitute you into a nonbiological research host that's thousands of times faster, equipped to connect directly to the net as an extension of itself, and won't get migrains. It could mean access to insights and perceptions unlike anything that anybody has experienced before. And it could conceivably be functioning long after a normal human life span."

  Even the thought was degrading. Naylor's indignation exploded. "What are we talking about—a bunch of chips in a box? You call that a life?"

  "Not at all. It would have a specially developed humanoid biosynthetic body that has enhanced sensory capacity, mobility, durability, and strength. A genuine super-hero."

  That altered the perspective somewhat. Naylor took a few seconds to calm down and compose himself. But he still wasn't clear on exactly what she was saying. "So what about the pattern that's me right now?" he asked. "Is it like making a photocopy? Then you've got two patterns saying they're me. What do I care about this other guy who's appeared inside some Frankenstein freak in a lab somewhere? I'm still in this body. What happens to it?"

  "That's not how I understand it to work," Piersen told him. "It's a one-way thing. The process disrupts and erases the original pattern."

  "Now wait a minute. You're telling me that this person that I think is me stops walking around and turns off, and another one wakes up doing a good imitation. You and everyone else out there might think one is as good as another and not be too concerned about it. But it happens to make a big difference to me."

  "That's the whole point. The new pattern in the synthetic is you now. Really, it's no different from the same pattern being passed on through different sets of atoms and molecules every month. All that's happened is that what happens naturally anyway has been speeded up a bit."

  "You really expect me to buy that?"

  "The people we've been talking to say it's so. They're supposed to have some of the best minds in the business."

  "They don't know," Naylor protested. "How can they? Not one of them has been through it. They don't even know if this crazy idea will work at all. That's what they want to find out. And you're telling me there's no way back?"

  Piersen closed her eyes for a moment and sighed tiredly. "That's the deal. And it's the only one you've got. Yes, I suppose there is a risk that you might get scrambled and not come out the other end. But a lot of money and talent has been expended over years to be as sure as is humanly possible that something like that won't happen. And if they're right, you'll not only have a life, but certainly a novel and interesting one. The other way means getting scrambled for sure, and with no life. It's up to you."

  Naylor didn't know what to think. But if nothing else, it was a chance to stall things for a while. From what he had seen of scientists and intellectuals, a few well-chosen questions and queries about ethical issues could keep them debating among themselves for months.

  "Did you say something earlier about me being able to talk to the people involved in this?" he asked Piersen.

  She nodded. "No one expects you to go into it without having a lot of questions answered. I told you, I'm no scientist."

  "So you could hardly expect an answer from me at this stage either," Naylor said.

  "That's right," Piersen agreed. "I just want to know if the proposal is still open, or rejected outright."

  Naylor needed to think about it for about a half second longer. "Rejected?" he echoed. "Who said anything about rejecting? I never reject anything out of hand until I understand it. Sure, I'll talk to them."

  In fact, Naylor thought to himself, when he compared the prospect with that of looking forward to nothing but more of the daily routine he was used to, he could quite enjoy it.

  * * *

  Dr. Robert Howell was a big man in his early fifties, with smooth silver hair; sharp, critical eyes that assessed the world through heavy, gold-rimmed glasses; and a tan that he refreshed regularly in officially sponsored visits to exotic places. He was not accustomed to other people giving orders in his laboratory, and it rankled him. Besides being a personall affront, it damaged the image of the firm, authoritative departmental head that he had cultivated at the Institute of Biorobotics, which was important to his plan for one day becoming director. And beyond that, having to deal with criminal justice departments and law enforcement people was distasteful in itself. Who knew what effect such associations might have on policy review committees and funding agencies? But there was no other way of getting past the early phases of the project.

  Four armed police were stationed around the walls, with another and a rat-faced officer in plain clothes by the door. Howell had been obliged to let his staff go early, which was enough of a disruption on its own and meant losing time that he could ill afford. Only one senior technician, Hiro Katokawa, had remained, sitting at the panel of screens and life-support-monitoring instruments by the table where Adonis lay, clad in shorts as a concession to delicacy for the occasion, and covered to just short of his chest by a sheet.

  A humanoid form for the electrosilicone biosynthetic vehicle supporting
the holoptronic brain had been decided on for the better comfort of the first downloads and to minimize traumatic effects. Experiments with more ambitious body plans and architectures would come later, once the principle was proven and some familiarity gained with operational aspects. Its skin, however, shone with a golden iridescence. That had been at Howell's insistence. It would proclaim his creation and crowning achievement to the world, instead of having it camouflaged to blend in with the world of mundane, mortal humanity as the timorous and unimaginative among the Directorate and the Board of Governors had urged. One day its conceptual descendants would stand above and apart from humans as the heralds of the next phase in evolution. Better the difference was established and marked now, at the start.

  Howell almost felt something akin to paternal affection as he stood staring at it through the window separating the office from the general laboratory area. With its yellow hair, flawless features, the firm athletic contours of shoulders and chest, and eyes closed in repose, it looked serene yet powerful. The contrast between the qualities that the figure evoked in his mind, and the person depicted in the psychiatric report that he was holding in his hand after running quickly through it again to refresh himself brought a scowl to his face.

  Brom Naylor, it said the potential transferee would be. Convicted of three killings, and the suspect for a string more. An epitome of the surprising, but apparently not uncommon, combination of high intelligence and a confirmed psychopath. Such people could kill or manipulate others without compunction or remorse, yet be charismatic and cynically effective in commanding trust when it suited their ends. Naylor's specialty, apparently, was as a paid assassin brought in for revenge killings and the elimination of intolerable rivals among society's criminal elements. Howell got the impression that, while nobody said as much publicly, as long as such things were confined to the underworld, the authorities were inclined to regard them with, if not a totally blind eye, impaired vision, since it took care of what would otherwise have been more work for them. However, there were suspicions that Naylor had crossed the line by being responsible for the untimely demise of two political figures who had made enemies in the wrong quarters, and although nothing was proved, it seemed that the ensuing panic had resulted in sufficient money changing hands to get Naylor off the streets before he accepted any more such contracts.

  A tone sounded from the screen on his desk as Howell moved back to it and dropped the report. He touched a key to acknowledge. The face of the receptionist in the front lobby of the building appeared. "They've arrived and are on their way now, Dr. Howell," she said.

  "Thank you." Howell cut the call and went out of the office to join Katokawa. "They're bringing him up now," he said. Katokawa nodded and went through the ritual of checking settings and readings. It was a mechanical reaction to mask his nervousness, Howell could see. He turned his gaze to the dormant figure on the padded surgical table. Adonis was a good name. That had been another choice of Howell's. To have to commit to a course such as this after all the years of effort was a travesty. But there was no way around it. The directive on Ethics and Limits had been quite firm, and on that one the Board had been adamant.

  The rat-faced man by the door produced a phone, evidently in response to a call, exchanged words with it for a few seconds, and said something to the uniformed policeman who was standing with him. The policeman opened the door and held it in readiness, while the other put the phone away. Moments later, the party filed in, led by Howell's principal assistant, Bruce Forcomb, who had met the arrivals in the lobby. Behind him were Ruth Cazaw, the Institute's simpering and ineffective deputy director—but well connected socially to fund-raisers and members of grant-dispensing foundations, and Reginald Oakes, from one of the senatorial staff offices. The inclusion of Oakes meant that if the project flew and people became famous, the senator would be able to claim involvement and a supporting role from the outset; otherwise it wouldn't get a mention. Following them were three figures surrounded by a half-dozen hefty uniforms in close formation. One was a slim, tallish woman with long red hair, wearing a light-green coat; and in a dark business suit, an official of some kind from the penitentiary that Howell had met before, called Jorgens. Between them, upright and defiant in a two-piece orange tunic, walking with as much of a swagger as the cuffs on his wrists and the tether hobbling his ankles would allow, was Naylor.

  Despite his reflexive abhorrence, Howell was unable to suppress a twinge of ghoulish fascination. Naylor was perhaps an inch or two short of six feet, with a lithe yet muscular build, broadening to shoulders that strained the fabric of his prison garb. His hair was black and cropped to less than a quarter inch, accentuating the roundness of the wide skull with its high brow, and giving prominence to the ears. The features beneath were firm and determined, darkened by a late-afternoon shadow, but not harsh and brutal in the way that Howell's mental stereotype had anticipated. His eyes, too, as black as his hair, had a deeper, more reflective quality behind their mildly mocking light. They moved rapidly as Naylor entered the room, causing Howard to experience an involuntary chill as they rested on him for a moment before moving on, and giving the impression of having absorbed everything worthy of note before the guards parted to let their charges move forward to the table where Adonis was lying.

  Forcomb performed the introductions, but without including Naylor—consigning him to the role of a nonqualifying object outside the company. Everyone knew who he was in any case. Naylor didn't seem to care and was already silently taking in the details of the form before them. The red-haired woman turned out to be his defense attorney. Her name was Piersen. Ruth Cazaw gave an unneeded introduction to remind them why they were there, and Oakes recited a few platitudes with political clichés thrown in that didn't mean anything. Then the faces turned expectantly toward Howell.

  Howell let his gaze travel from one end of the figure beneath the sheet to the other as if inviting them to contemplate it with him for a moment or two, and then looked up. "This is the person that has been developed as the subject." He avoided using the term vehicle. "We've christened him Adonis. His physical form is humanoid in every respect, as you can see. The technology he incorporates is the most advanced that you will find anywhere at the present time, and represents the result of many years of intensive effort." He gestured at it, finding for some reason that he was addressing himself primarily to Naylor and Piersen, with the others as spectators. "The body is built from what are called electrosilicone biosynthetic composites, which use artificial, electrically activated musculature modeled on natural tissue, with primary energy storage in the form of various distributed high-density chemical compounds transported by a system of fluids. The result is a body of much greater durability, wider temperature tolerance, and better resistance to damage and abrasion than anything you'll find in the natural world. This means it can be designed with higher strength and exert greater external forces without damaging itself. The earlier prototypes developed on the way to producing Adonis—based on the same principles—were able to bend half-inch iron bars and perform lifts comparable to Olympic records, but retaining an agility that in the case of Adonis we would expect to be in the class of a top gymnast." Howell made an empty-handed wave. "All virtually impervious to disease and infection. Our environment doesn't have any microbes evolved to attack and live off this kind of material." The hardness in Naylor's face had given way to a distant thoughtful look as he shifted his eyes from Howell and stared back at the table. Howell allowed a moment longer for effect before concluding. "And it comes with the potential to support wider ranges and greater acuity of sensory input. Since that involves subjective experience, the host will have to be activated before we'll know exactly what capabilities we're talking about, but I'd expect the improvement over everything you and I know to be substantial. One day we might even add completely new types of senses. Thermal radiation perceived as a new band of color, for example. Microscopic and telescopic enhancement of vision. Or visual representation of t
he emotional undertones carried in a voice. It's a wide open field."

  "The Institute has kept fully in the forefront on the cutting edge," Cazaw informed the company. "We expect to see great things coming out of the next five years." Nobody took any notice.

  "I have some questions about the holoptronic brain, which I understand Adonis is designed to support, and which forms the crux of the project," Piersen said, directing herself at Howell. "Now, this isn't fabricated from biosynthetics like the body, am I right? So how confident can we be that it's capable of mirroring and reproducing the kind of perceptual world that a human mind experiences? Ditto for the 'inner world'—if you will—of private reflections and feelings, which I would contend are essential attributes that go to making up what we call 'human'? If that's lost, then I would have to conclude that the project has been misrepresented. But then, going in the opposite direction, if those faculties are accurately preserved, does potential exist, would you say, for transcending them?"

  Howell dipped his head approvingly. The lawyer had obviously done her homework. "Again, a subjective assessment is indispensable," he replied. "These are precisely the kinds of questions that the project is intended to address. From animal experiments, we can find no functional differences between the derived patterns of neural activity impressed in the host and those recorded from the original by any measure that we can devise. But the only way we can know will be by actual implementation. Concerning your further question, I can point out that the technology we utilize exceeds the performance of the natural brain in such areas as speed, precision, and memory capacity by factors of several orders of magnitude. We have also integrated a faculty for direct electromagnetic interaction—online wireless communication—that biological cells are incapable of, and an associated processing area that finds no parallel in organic brains. What kind of interactions this might induce with the regular cortical correlate is open to speculation."