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.
If you believe thoughts and stories like this are valuable, why not consider supporting this blog on Patreon? Even the smallest gesture would mean a lot to me.
