Mindscan Read online

  “Thank you,” said the same man who’d spoken before. He was standing at the dark wooden podium. There was no light directly on him; just a little illumination spilling up from a reading lamp attached to the lectern. A gangling Asian of perhaps thirty-five, his black hair was combed straight back above a forehead that would have done Professor Moriarty proud. A surprisingly large, old-fashioned microphone covered his mouth. “My name is John Sugiyama,” he said, “and I’m a vice-president at Immortex. Thank you all for coming tonight. I hope you’ve enjoyed the hospitality so far.”

  He looked out at the crowd. Karen, I noticed, was one of those who murmured appreciatively, which seemed to be what Sugiyama wanted. “Good, good,” he said. “In everything we do, we strive for absolute customer satisfaction. After all, as we like to say, ‘Once an Immortex client, always an Immortex client.’”

  He smiled broadly, and again waited for appreciative chuckles before going on. “Now, I’m sure you’ve all got questions, so let’s get started. I know what we’re selling costs a lot of money—”

  Somebody near me muttered, “Damn right,” but if Sugiyama heard, he gave no sign. He continued: “But we won’t ask you for a cent until you’re satisfied that what we’re offering is right for you.” He let his gaze wander over the crowd, smiling reassuringly and making lots of eye contact. He looked directly at Karen but skipped over me; presumably he felt I couldn’t possibly be a potential customer, and so wasn’t worth wasting his charm on.

  “Most of you,” Sugiyama said, “have had MRIs. Our patented and exclusive Mindscan process is nothing more daunting than that, although our resolution is much finer. It gives us a complete, perfect map of the structure of your brain: every neuron, every dendrite, every synaptic cleft, every interconnection. It also notes neurotransmitter levels at each synapse. There is no part of what makes you you that we fail to record.”

  That much was certainly true. Back in 1990, a philanthropist named Hugh Loebner promised to award a solid gold medal—not just gold-plated like those cheap Olympic ones—plus $100,000 in cash to the first team to build a machine that passed the Turing Test, that old chestnut that said a computer should be declared truly intelligent if its responses to questions were indistinguishable from those of a human being. Loebner had expected it would be only a few years before he’d have to cough up—but that’s not how things turned out. It wasn’t until three years ago that the prize had been awarded.

  I’d watched the whole thing on TV: a panel of five inquisitors—a priest, a philosopher, a cognitive scientist, a woman who ran a small business, and a stand-up comic—were presented with two entities behind black curtains. The questioners were allowed to ask both entities anything at all: moral posers, general-knowledge trivia, even things about romance and child-rearing; in addition, the comic did his best to crack the entities up, and to quiz them about why certain jokes were or weren’t funny. Not only that, but the two entities engaged in a dialogue between themselves, asking each other questions while the little jury looked on. At the end, the jurors voted, and they unanimously agreed they could not tell which curtain hid the real human being and which hid the machine.

  After the commercial break, the curtains were raised. On the left was a fiftyish, balding, bearded black man named Sampson Wainwright. And on the right was a very simple, boxy robot. The group collected their hundred grand—paltry from a monetary point of view now, but still hugely symbolic—and their gold medal. Their winning entity, they revealed, had been an exact scan of Sampson Wainwright’s mind, and it had indeed, as the whole world could plainly see, thought thoughts indistinguishable in every way from those produced by the original. Three weeks later, the same group made an IPO for their little company called Immortex; overnight, they were billionaires.

  Sugiyama continued his sales pitch. “Of course,” he said, “we can’t put the digital copy back into the original biological brain—but we can transfer it into an artificial brain, which is precisely what our process does. Our artificial brains congeal out of quantum fog, forming a nanogel that precisely duplicates the structure of the biological original. The new version is you—your mind instantiated in an artificial brain made out of durable synthetics. It won’t wear out. It won’t suffer strokes or aneurysms. It won’t develop dementia or senility. And …” He paused, making sure he had everyone’s attention. “It won’t die. The new you will live potentially forever.”

  Even though everyone knew that’s what was for sale here, there were still sounds of astonishment—“forever” had such weight when spoken aloud. For my part, I didn’t care about immortality—I rather suspected I’d get bored by the time I reached, well, Karen’s age. But I’d been walking on eggshells for twenty-seven years, afraid that the blood vessels in my brain would rupture. Dying wouldn’t be that bad, but the notion of ending up a vegetable like my father was terrifying to me. Fortunately, Immortex’s artificial brains were electrically powered; they didn’t require chemical nutrients, and weren’t serviced by blood vessels. I rather doubted this was the cure Dr. Thanh had had in mind, but it would do in a pinch.

  “Of course,” continued Sugiyama, “the artificial brain needs to be housed inside a body.”

  I glanced at Karen, wondering if she’d read up on that aspect before coming here. Apparently, the scientists who had first made these artificial brains hadn’t bothered to have them pre-installed in robotic bodies—which, for the personality represented by the recreated mind, turned out to be a hideous experience: deaf, blind, unable to communicate, unable to move, existing in a sensory void beyond even darkness and silence, lacking even the proprioceptive sense of how one’s limbs are currently deployed and the touch of air or clothes against skin. Those transcribed neural nets reconfigured rapidly, according to the journal articles I’d managed to find, in patterns indicative of terror and insanity.

  “And so,” said Sugiyama, “we’ll provide you with an artificial body—one that’s infinitely maintainable, infinitely repairable, and infinitely upgradeable.” He held up a long-fingered hand. “I won’t lie to you, now or ever: as yet, these replacements aren’t perfect. But they are awfully good.”

  Sugiyama smiled at the crowd again, and a small spotlight fell on him, slowly increasing in brightness. Beyond him, just like at a rock concert, floated a giant holographic version of his gaunt face.

  “You see,” Sugiyama said, “I’m an upload myself, and this is an artificial body.”

  Karen nodded. “I knew it,” she declared. I was impressed by her acumen: I’d certainly been fooled. Of course, all that was visible of Sugiyama were his head and hands; the rest of him was covered by the podium or a fashionable business suit.

  “I was born in 1958,” said Sugiyama. “I am eighty-seven years old. I transferred six months ago—one of the very first civilians ever to upload into an artificial body. At the break, I’ll walk around and let you examine me closely. You’ll find that I don’t look exactly right—I freely admit that—and there are certain movements that I just can’t do. But I’m not the least bit concerned, because, as I said, these bodies are infinitely upgradeable as technology advances. Indeed, I just got new wrists yesterday, and they are much more nimble than my previous set. I have no doubt that within a few decades, artificial bodies indistinguishable from biological ones will be available.” He smiled again. “And, of course, I—and all of you who undergo our procedure—will be around a few decades from now.”

  He was a master salesperson. Talking about centuries or millennia of additional life would have been too abstract—how does one even conceive of such a thing? But a few decades was something the potential customers, most with seven or more of them already under their belts, could appreciate. And every one of these people had been resigned to being in the last decade—if not the last year—of their lives. Until, that is, Immortex had announced this incredible process. I looked at Karen again; she was mesmerized.

  Sugiyama held up his hand once more. “Of course, there are many advanta
ges to artificial bodies, even at the current state of technology. Just like our artificial brains, they are virtually indestructible. The braincase, for instance, is titanium, reinforced with carbon-nanotube fibers. If you decide you want to go skydiving, and your parachute fails to open, your new brain still won’t get damaged on impact. If—God forbid!—someone shoots you with a gun, or stabs you with a knife—well, you’d almost certainly still be fine.”

  New holographic images appeared floating behind him, replacing his face. “But our artificial bodies aren’t just durable. They’re strong—as strong as you’d like them to be.” I’d expected to see video of fantastic stunts: I’d heard Immortex had developed super-powered limbs for the military, and that that technology was now available to civilian endusers, as well. But instead the display simply showed presumably artificial hands effortlessly opening a mason jar. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be unable to do something so simple … but it was clear that many of the others in the room were blown away by this demonstration.

  And Sugiyama had more to offer. “Naturally,” he said, “you’ll never need a walker, a cane, or an exoskeleton again. And stairs will no longer present a problem. You’ll have perfect vision and hearing, and perfect reflexes; you’ll be able to drive a car again, if you’re not able to now.”

  Even I missed the reflexes and coordination I’d had back when I’d been younger. Sugiyama continued: “You can kiss good-bye the pain of arthritis, and just about every other ailment associated with old age. And if you haven’t yet contracted Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s, you never will.” I heard murmurs around me—including one from Karen. “And forget about cancer or broken hips. Say sayonara to arthritic joints and macular degeneration. With our process, you’ll have a virtually unlimited lifespan, with perfect eyesight and hearing, vitality and strength, self-sufficiency and dignity.” He beamed out at his audience, and I could see people nodding to themselves, or talking in positive tones with their neighbors. It did sound good, even for someone like me, whose day-to-day troubles were nothing more irritating than acid-reflux disease and the odd migraine.

  Sugiyama let the crowd chatter for a while before raising his hand again. “Of course,” he said, as if it were a mere trifle, “there is one catch …”

  CHAPTER 2

  I knew what the “one catch” Sugiyama was referring to was. Despite all his salesperson’s talk about transferring consciousness, Immortex couldn’t really do that. At best, they were copying consciousness into a machine body. And that meant the original still existed.

  “Yes,” said Sugiyama to the audience of which the old woman—Karen, that was her name—and I were part, “from the moment the synthetic body is activated, there will be two of you—two entities who each feel they are you. But which one is the real you? Your first impulse might be to respond that the flesh-and-blood one is the real McCoy.” Sugiyama tilted his head to one side. “An interesting philosophical point. I fully concede that that version did exist first—but does such primacy make it really you? In your own mental picture of yourself, which one do you consider the real you: the one that suffers aches and pains, the one that has trouble sleeping through the night, the one that is frail and old? Or the vigorous you, the you in full possession of all your mental and physical faculties? The you who faces each day with joy, instead of fear, with decades or centuries of life ahead, instead of—please do forgive me—scant months or years.”

  I could see that Sugiyama was winning people over. Of course, these individuals had self-selected to come to this sales seminar, so they presumably were already predisposed to at least open-mindedness about these issues. Perhaps the average Joe in the street wouldn’t share their opinions—but, then, the average Joe in the street couldn’t possibly afford the Immortex process.

  “You know,” said Sugiyama, “there used to be a lot of debate about this, but it’s all evaporated in the last few years. The simplest interpretation turned out to be the correct one: the human mind is nothing but software running on the hardware we call the brain. Well, when your old computer hardware wears out, you don’t think twice about junking it, buying a new machine, and reloading all your old software. What we at Immortex do is the same: the software that is you starts running on a new, better hardware platform.”

  “It’s still not the real you,” grumbled someone in front of me.

  If he heard the comment, Sugiyama was undaunted. “Here’s an old poser from philosophy class. Your father gives you an ax. After a few years of good service, the wooden handle breaks, and so you replace it. Is it still the ax your father gave you? Sure, why not? But then a few years after that, the metal head breaks, and you replace that. Now, nothing of the original is left—it wasn’t replaced all at once, but rather piece-by-piece. Is it still your father’s ax? Before you answer too quickly, consider the fact that the atoms that make up your own body are completely replaced every seven years: there’s not one bit of the you who was once a baby that still exists; it’s all been replaced. Are you still you? Of course you are: the body doesn’t matter, the physical instantiation doesn’t matter. What matters is the continuity of being: the ax traces its existence back to being a gift from your father; it is still that gift. And—” he underscored his next words with a pointing finger “—anyone who can remember having been you before is you now.”

  I wasn’t sure I bought this, but I continued to listen.

  “I don’t mean to sound harsh,” said Sugiyama, “but I know you are all realists—you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. You each know that your natural lives are almost over. If you elect to undergo our procedure, it’s the new you that will get to live on, in your house, your community, with your family. But that version of you will remember this moment right now when we discussed this, just as it will remember everything else you ever did; it will be you.”

  He stopped. I thought it must be awkward to be a synthetic lecturer; a real person could choreograph his pauses with sips of water. But after a moment, Sugiyama went on. “But what happens to the original you?” he asked.

  Karen leaned close to me, and whispered in a mockmenacing tone, “Soylent Green is people!” I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “The answer, of course, is something wonderful,” said Sugiyama. “The old you will be provided for, in unsurpassed luxury, at High Eden, our retirement village on the far side of the moon.” Pictures of what looked like a five-star resort community began floating behind Sugiyama. “Yes, ours is the first-ever civilian residence on the moon, but we’ve spared no expense, and we’ll take care of the original you there in the highest possible style, until that sad but inevitable day when the flesh gives up.” I’d read that Immortex cremated the dead up there, and, of course, there were no funerals or grave markers—after all, they contended the person still lived on …

  “It’s a cruel irony,” said Sugiyama. “The moon is the perfect place for the elderly. With a surface gravity only one-sixth of Earth’s, falls that would break a hip or leg here are trivial there. And, again, in that gentle gravity, even weakened muscles have plenty of strength. Hoisting oneself in and out of bed or the bath, or walking up stairs, is no longer a struggle—not that there are many stairs on the moon; people are so light on their feet there that ramps are better.

  “Yes, being on the moon is wonderful, if you’re elderly; the original version of me is, right this very instant, having a grand time at High Eden, believe you me. But getting to the moon—that used to be quite another story. The high acceleration experienced during rocket liftoff from Earth is brutal, although after that, admittedly the rest of the journey, spent in effectively zero g, is a piece of cake. Well, of course, we don’t use rockets. That is, we don’t go straight up. Rather, we use spaceplanes that take off horizontally and gradually climb to Low Earth Orbit. At no time during the flight do you experience more than 1.4 g, and with our ergo-padded chairs and so forth, we can get even the frailest person to the moon safe and sound. And once there—” h
e paused dramatically—“paradise.”

  Sugiyama looked around the room, meeting eyes. “What scares you? Getting sick? Not likely on the moon; everything is decontaminated as it enters one of the lunar habitats, and germs would have to travel through vacuum and endure harsh radiation to move from one habitat to another. Being mugged? There’s never been a mugging—or any other violent crime—on the moon. Those cold Canadian winters?” He chuckled. “We maintain a constant temperature of twenty-three degrees Celsius. Water, of course, is precious on the moon, so the humidity is kept low—no more hot muggy summers. You’ll feel like you’re enjoying a beautiful spring morning in the American Southwest all year round. Trust me: High Eden is the best possible retirement home, a wonderful resort with gravity so gentle that it makes you feel young again. It’s a win-win scenario, for the new you down here on Earth and the old one up there on the moon.” He smiled broadly. “So, any takers?”

  CHAPTER 3

  My mother was now sixty-six. In the almost three decades since Dad had been institutionalized, she had never remarried. Of course, it wasn’t as though Dad was dead.

  Or maybe it was.

  I saw my mother once a week, on Monday afternoons. Occasionally, I’d see her more often: Mother’s Day, her birthday, Christmas. But our regular get-togethers were Mondays at 2:00 p.m.

  They were not joyous occasions.

  My fingerprint let me into the house I’d grown up in, right on the lake. It had been worth a lot when I was a teenager; now, it was worth a fortune. Toronto was like a black hole, gobbling up everything that fell into its event horizon. It had grown hugely three years before I was born, when five surrounding municipalities had become part of it. Now it had grown even more, swallowing all the other adjoining cities and towns, becoming a behemoth of eight million people. My parents’ house wasn’t in a suburb anymore; it was in the heart of the continuous downtown that started with the CN Tower and continued along the lakeshore for fifty kilometers in either direction.