The Theseus Dilemma – A Short Story

Hello, dear readers. Last week, my writing group wrote and swapped short stories, and from that came this sci-fi nugget. I hope you like it.

The Theseus Dilemma

by Christian Horst

The doctors didn’t wear white.

That was Olander Brice’s first thought as his wheelchair drove him into the Turing Society’s operating room. Funny. Here he was, about to have his soul travel through a wire from his body into a virtual reality on a supercomputer, and what stuck out to him the most was the way the surgeons were dressed. Button-up shirts, a man in blue, a woman in brown. Not white, like the advertisements always showed.

“Hi, Mr. Brice,” the woman said. “I’m Dr. Sutter, and this is Dr. Lars.”

Olander made a series of eye movements, the only motion his body allowed him. From a speaker on his headband, his voice said, “It’s nice to meet you.”

The room was small and cozy, like most doctors’ offices he had been to. A padded operating table lay in the middle, and one side of the room had a counter where various tools and papers rested in a well-organized manner. On the other side stood a large machine with various knobs and bits protruding from it. The walls were lined with posters explaining the science of the brain and consciousness. One of them caught his eye. Substrate-Independence, it was titled.

Consciousness can exist anywhere that can store and evolve its patterns of information. Brains and computers can host consciousness, as can any other substrate that can store memories and process information via neural networks.

Beside the text were two diagrams. The first was a side view of the inside of a human head, and the second was a computer chip. Over top of both of them were two identical patterns of blue lightning, symbolizing the ability of a human soul to exist in either body.

“Okay, Mr. Brice,” Dr. Sutter said, “we’re going to lay you down. Is that all right?”

Olander blinked rapidly three times, and his speaker said, “Yes.”

Four hands lifted him out of his wheelchair and placed him onto the table. As his body settled and relaxed, a deep happiness came over him. After years of paralysis, his life was finally about to change.

“Take a look over there,” Dr. Lars said, his hand gently tilting Olander’s head. “See that camera? That’s where you’ll be viewing the room from in just a little while.” On the desk stood a camera on a short stand, its two adjustable lenses set apart by the same distance as Olander’s eyes, so that when he looked through it he would see in 3D.

Olander felt a dampness on the inside of his forearm as Dr. Sutter swabbed it with rubbing alcohol. “We’re going to give you a full-body pain blocker,” she said. “We can’t give you anesthetic, because that would prevent the procedure from working.”

Olander knew this. The company had made it very clear that the doctors had to connect the mind transfer cable directly to the frontal lobe of the brain, and had him sign several forms consenting to letting them drill a quarter-inch hole in his skull while he was conscious. Though it was a little discomforting, he was reassured by the testimonies of those who had undergone the procedure before him and ended up happily in the simulated world of the Turing Society. Besides, the alternative was to stay trapped in this useless body of his.

“We sometimes administer a paralyzing agent,” Dr. Sutter said, “to keep our patients from moving, but in cases like yours, it is unnecessary.”

Dr. Lars put his hands gently on Olander’s head, fingers resting on his headset. “We’re going to have to take this off. Is there anything you would like to say first?”

Olander thought for a few moments. Once they removed his headset, he would not be able to talk until the operation was finished. He moved his eyes. “I would like some water, please.” That was one of his saved speed-messages. The next sentence took a little time to construct. “To taste it one last time.”

“Certainly.” Dr. Lars walked out of Olander’s field of view, and the hiss of a sink faucet met his ears. The two doctors worked together to prop him up, and Dr. Lars’ hand tipped a small paper cup to Olander’s lips. He felt the cool liquid enter his mouth and slide down his throat, and he savored the sensation. After today, he could drink virtual water, but it would never be the same. Though it was scientifically proven to be an identical experience, many people reported that just the knowledge it was an illusion rather than material caused it to lose something.

“I’m ready to remove my headset.” Olander said.

The doctors laid him down again, and he felt the set’s pressure release, feeling its echo as the cool openness of the air took its place. He marveled at the strangeness of the feeling, as if the headset had been a part of his head, and removing it altered his body away from its natural state.

“Okay, let’s start with the shaving,” Dr. Lars said. There was a click, and a buzz, and Olander felt the tingling of a trimmer as the hair on the front of his scalp fell away.

“We’re going to administer the pain blocker now,” Dr. Sutter said.

Olander closed his eyes and tried to relax. He was excited and frightened. If everything went smoothly, he would be walking around and talking inside a computer within an hour. The sting of the IV needle made him wince, but then it was in and over. He assured himself that the rest of the procedure would go more or less the same.

“Okay, Mr. Brice,” Dr. Lars said, “Your pain sensations should be blocked now. I’m going to test it by pinching you. You should feel a tug, but no pain. If it hurts, blink rapidly.”

Olander felt the doctor’s fingers press on the skin of his other arm. It felt a little tight, but that was all.

“No pain?”

Olander slowly opened his eyes and looked at the doctor, then closed them again just as slowly.

“Okay, it looks like we’re ready to start drilling.”

The newly-shaved part of his head was dabbed with rubbing alcohol. Then, there was a shift in the air pressure, a few clicks and whirs, and the touch of something small and cool.

“Drill in place,” Dr Lars said. He shifted to a softer tone. “Remember, if you feel any pain, let us know. Are you ready?”

Olander opened and closed his eyes, feeling almost as if it were someone else’s body on the table saying yes, not him. He had no choice; there was no turning back. Yes, I am ready.

The sound of the drill began, echoing inside his head. His skull felt tight all over. Then, just like that, it was done.

“Inserting the cable,” Dr. Lars said.

Olander steeled himself for the feeling of something poking around inside his brain. He knew it was perfectly harmless, perfectly normal procedure, but the thought still made his skin crawl. However, when the connector was inserted, he found it wasn’t nearly as bad as he imagined, instead feeling as if the cable had attached itself to the outside of his head. Maybe it was because of the pain blocker, or maybe brains couldn’t feel things directly. Either way, he was relieved.

“Beginning transference.”

What happened next did not follow any pattern of order or cohesion. He experienced a jumble of fragments of the doctors’ speech, a view of the room from outside his body, the feeling of the cable on his forehead, the perception of his body extending to enormous size and complexity, and the redness of the insides of his eyelids.

The sound of Dr. Sutter asking if he could see her brought him back to full consciousness. The two doctors stood looking at him at eye-level. Behind them lay his own body, a green wire plugged into his head, held up by a protrusion from the operating machine. With a swell of elation, he let out a cry. “Yes! Yes, I can see you!”

“How do you feel?” Dr. Lars said.

He felt as if he were floating in a warm emptiness. No, that wasn’t quite right. Thousands of unfamiliar sensations tickled him in ways he couldn’t make sense of. Did he have a face, hands, and legs? It felt like it. That must be the ghost-body sensation he had been told about, his mind not letting go of his body’s shape after decades of learning its nervous system. “Great!” The sound of his own voice, issuing forth with naught but a mental command, filled him with joy. If he’d still had eyes, he was sure he would be crying.

“Can you switch between cameras within the office?” Dr. Sutter asked.

Olander thought about it, and noticed what could only be described as knobs at the edges of his awareness. When he tugged on one of them, his view changed to a view of the reception room, showing a worker on the phone behind the counter, and a few patients waiting in chairs for their appointments. He tugged on the operating room camera knob, which was conveniently easy to find. “Yes, I can. It’s wonderful.”

The doctors smiled. “It looks like the operation was a success,” Sutter said. “Congratulations. If you look behind you, you will find a doorway to the Turing Society virtual world.” An autonomous stretcher wheeled itself into the room. “As you requested in your documentation, we will donate your blood and organs to the National Health Reserve.”

Behind them, on the operating table, Olander’s eyes snapped open.

“W-what’s that,” Olander said.

“What’s what?”

“My body, it’s still alive!”

The doctors looked at Olander’s body, which was now moving its eyes erratically. “That’s nothing to worry about,” Sutter said. “Just a residual effect from the mind transfer. Technically speaking, the body isn’t dead, it just doesn’t have you inside it anymore.”

“He’s talking,” Olander said. “Can’t you see?”

“Olander,” Sutter said, “you’re overthinking things. You’re inside the computer, not your body.”

“But my body is still alive! There’s still a version of me in there! Look at my eyes. They’re saying the same thing over and over: Help me!”

“You’re in post-operational shock. If you go into the virtual reality and regain the experience of having a body—”

“I’m telling you, I’m still alive in my body! Put my headset back on and listen!”

Sutter leaned toward Lars and spoke quietly. Lars nodded, and pulled the cable out of Olander’s head and plugged the hole with what looked like some kind of adhesive. Then the two of them lifted his body onto the stretcher. Olander continued to cry out, but the doctors accompanied the robot platform out the door without giving him another glance.

Olander floated helplessly in the digital aether. They were going to kill his past self, or his duplicate, or—he didn’t have time to be pedantic about the situation. He had to do something. But what? He tried feeling out the hundreds of pathways of his strange new body. Somewhere, a coffee maker started pouring water onto an empty tray. Someone’s PC account was denied access due to an incorrect password. The lights went out in an empty hall. Then . . .

Aha! He gained control of the robot stretcher. With two swift motions, he slammed it forward, then backward, knocking both of the doctors to the ground. Before they could recover their wits, he wheeled the platform back down the hallway, around a corner, and into the reception room, making some of the people waiting jump to their feet. Olander identified his driver, and exclaimed, “Morgan, help!” through the reception room speaker. “It’s a fraud!”

The well-dressed man stood up from one of the waiting chairs. “What is going on here?” he demanded in a booming, authoritative voice.

Sutter emerged from the hallway, followed by Lars. “This man is trying to steal his former body, which he voluntarily signed over to the company when agreeing to the terms and conditions of the transference.”

“And why,” the man said, turning to face Olander—or rather, the room’s camera—“are you doing that?”

“Because he’s—I’m—still alive.”

“That’s just a precaution,” Sutter said. “We have to keep the body’s mental operations intact until we’ve confirmed that the transference is a success. But now that it is, it’s no longer important.”

“So you knew,” Olander said. “You knew all along.”

“It’s only standard procedure—”

“You murderers!” Olander cried.

“As we explained,” Sutter said, her voice patronizingly calm, “it’s just an echo. You, Olander Brice, have successfully been transfered into the computer network. This body is not you anymore.”

The man spoke again. “Are you saying, Mr. Brice, that you believe you were not transfered, but instead copied?”

Sutter lifted her chin. “Who are you to be sticking your nose in company affairs?”

The man looked contemptuously at her. “I am Morgan Stanton, Mr. Brice’s close friend, and a representative of League Neuroelectrics, a significant partner of the Turing Society.” Sutter’s mouth worked soundlessly, and Stanton took the advantage to turn to Olander’s body. “If you would, please blink.”

Olander’s body’s eyes blinked.

“Look to the left.”

He turned his eyes to the left.

“What is five plus two?”

He blinked seven times.

Sutter interjected. “I know what you’re trying to pull. Of course it is going to respond. It is still a living human body, after all.”

“So you admit it!” Olander cried.

“Not at all. It’s a p-zombie, a living body that acts and responds indistinguishably from a human, but has no consciousness.”

Stanton glowered at her. “That’s the kind of thing slave owners and animal abusers say to justify their cruelty.”

“That was hurtful and highly inappropriate,” Sutter said. “You can’t compare us to monsters. That’s immature slander.”

“If you don’t want to be compared to monsters,” Stanton said, “then don’t act like them.” Sutter snarled, ready to retort, but Stanton cut her off. “I have connections with lawyers. Good ones. We will conduct an investigation into this company’s practices, starting with the testimonies of these two instances of Mr. Brice.” He pulled out his phone.

An hour later, the two Olanders sat in Stanton’s car side-by-side, one in the flesh, the other in a robot body. The mood was glum, as if invisible water had filled up the streets around them. Neither of them spoke, but they thought. What would they do now? Who would be married to his wife? Who would own his house, his money? He felt, in his heart and soul, that he was the real Olander Brice. But he couldn’t help but think the man sitting next to him might feel the same way, ruminating about the same questions. What was the soul? Was it something that was unique, or could it be copied so that there really were two of the same person? And if he and his counterpart were two, yet one, what did that mean for the nature of consciousness itself?

Something seemed to nag at the back of his mind, but then it was lost. The questions were so confusing he hardly knew how to think about them, much less what their implications might be. One thing was for sure: from here on out, his life—their lives—were going to be difficult. All he could do was hang on and hope something made sense at the other end.


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