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Anxiety twisted his dreams; his head shifted on the computer keyboard, keys clicking under the pressure. His left nostril pressed the shift key, causing a repetitive whirr that stopped when he inhaled. Gradually, his brain realized that he was not in bed, but asleep at his workstation, still in his chair.
Memory kicked in, snapping open his eyes as if someone had thrown a switch in his brain. It had taken hours to prepare his all-too-human brain for literally qubits of data transfer to the department's first quantum machine. Perfecting the bio-interface had been a cause célèbre for the small team, since it had previously been only a theoretical possibility.
Then the preparations for the main event. The soreness of his scalp as it was razored smooth ready for the neuron sensor cap. Eyes blinded by the camera flash, as his assistant Nigel took a photo for the undergraduates' notice board. And maybe for posterity, should they succeed. Hours testing out every aspect of the reception software, then doing it all again for the off-site backup server. Finally being ready to perform the most ambitious experiment of the new millennium.
Two days frantic effort, relived in seconds. Memory never showed any deference to time.
His fingertips scurried like spiders' legs over the surface of the sensor cap, confirming that everything was still in place.
Before him, the flat screen monitor was completely blank. It can't be, he thought.
Normally pale cheeks flushed with colour as the young Bachelor of Computer Science tried to put his sleep jumbled thoughts in order. Consternation furrowed his brow beneath the rubber cap, making him look like a bad swimmer out of his depth.
Idiot, he mentally snarled, face relaxing to its usual confident, slightly amused expression. Only his eyes, slightly narrowed in concentration, betrayed the intensity of his thoughts. The screen was blank because the monitor was off; he turned it on. A crackle of static accompanied the appearance on the screen of an announcement.
DOWNLOAD COMPLETE
I've done it, he thought, the first ever duplication of a human mind into code.
He peeled away the clinging sensor cap as he stood up. His scalp had become numb, completely without sensation. Legs and back that he had expected to be stiff and awkward after so long seated in front of the consol felt free and smooth, almost weightless. Such was the effect of riding on a wave of elation, the adrenalin rush of triumph.
He wondered where Nigel and his other assistant, Jennifer, had disappeared to as he walked round the small laboratory to vent his agitation and stretch limbs that only required stretching in his mind. Their absence stirred a rather childish frustration at being unable to share this new scientific milestone. But the emotion was fleeting; his focus remained on the computer screen.
OK it's downloaded, but do I truly exist in there or have all those synaptic signals translated into mush?
As if in answer, a cursor appeared under the 'download complete' message and the red-eye transmission light flashed on the dull grey casing as the enormous quantum processor came to life.
MARTIN: Are you there, Sherlock?
This single question was his answer. Martin was his Christian name but Sherlock his nickname since high school, on account of his ungainly frame and sharp angular features that were reminiscent of the early drawings of the great detective. He liked to think that there was also an unacknowledged acceptance of the similarity in mental prowess. This was it; his computer identity had called itself Martin and now wanted to speak to him.
Returning to the console, he pulled up his swivel seat and addressed his digital doppelganger.
SHERLOCK: I'm here Martin. I'm very pleased to hear from you.
Now that was an understatement.
MARTIN: This means we've succeeded doesn't it? We'll have to share the Nobel Prize money 50/50.
SHERLOCK: Before we count our accolades, I think we had better establish that there has been no significant loss of data.
Where the hell had Nigel and Jennifer got to? What could possibly have happened to make them both leave? Anyway, it was their loss; they had already missed most of the groundbreaking moments.
MARTIN: That's exactly what I was about to say.
SHERLOCK: OK. Date of birth?
Well, this was spunky. No subservient computer program here. It's going to interrogate me if I give it half a chance.
MARTIN: 5th May 1977. What was our mother's maiden name?
SHERLOCK: Her name was Eyre. What's our favorite food?
A Big Mac. Funny, I can't remember when I last ate, and yet, I don't feel hungry at all. Must be the excitement.
MARTIN: Seafood Pizza. Which car would you buy if money were no object?
SHERLOCK: A Jensen Interceptor, but Seafood Pizza is not my favorite food!
What's happening here? Where was this Seafood Pizza nonsense coming from? And enough with the rebound questions, I'm meant to be in control here.
MARTIN: It would have been if you had eaten the one I did last night. Already, our personal knowledge bases have started to diverge. I never considered the possibility that we would identify a digression this early. However, post-transfer irregularities do not represent a system error and should not concern us at this time.
SHERLOCK:
For the moment he had nothing to say.
All the implications of this variance in recent experience were being processed in his mind. He did remember something to do with pizza last night. It was in the early stages of the download. Everything had been checked and double-checked; it was then just a matter of waiting for the data to transfer, which they estimated would take at least three hours. Someone had suggested going out to collect some pizza. Either Nigel or Jenny, he hadn't really been listening, but they had gone together. And never came back.
MARTIN: What was the title of our first research paper to be published?
SHERLOCK: I don't give a shit about the first paper. Explain why you believe that you ate a pizza last night. If I haven't eaten one then it is not technically possible for your program to contain the memory of one. There was a long pause before Martin entered his reply.
MARTIN: Please tell me where you believe yourself to be.
SHERLOCK: What on Earth do you mean 'where do I believ...'
There was no metallic squeal from his chair as he swung away from the screen to look at the laboratory around him. It looked the same as it always did, but silent. There was no sound, not even from his computer chair that, in recent years, had always protested the smallest movement. But the laboratory had been the platform into which the personality had been programmed to minimize disorientation when booted up.
Martin had the seafood pizza because his assistants had come back, but they had not returned until after that neuron cluster had been transferred to the database.
So for me they never did come back, so I never got the pizza. Oh, Christ. This can't be happening. I must be the download.
MARTIN: Sherlock, please answer me. We have a lot of work to do. Explain the problem.
SHERLOCK:
Ignoring the screen prompt, he rose from his chair and walked slowly towards the door. As he approached, he realized that the laboratory was not totally silent after all. There was a drone, a deep buzzing noise that was almost a vibration. It got louder as he got nearer. The Oxbridge oak paneling swam in and out of focus as he approached. A detached element of his mind wondered if his digital eyes where filling with digital tears, but then realized it could only be caused by a glitch in his program.
Reaching the exit, and his only hope of salvation, he nevertheless wiped his face with the back of his hand, grasped the handle, and pulled it open.
Before him was a solid wall of growling, angry static. It was a violent, alien force held back only by the temporary defense of the program. This was the chaos of random electronic energy, and if it reached him, it would tear his very essence apart.
My God, what have I done to myself?
Slowly, he closed the door, fighting down the terror that spasmed in his mind, turned and made his way back to the computer console. Feeling sick and weak, he forced his attention back to the screen. A new message was waiting.
MARTIN: Where are you Sherlock? Come on, respond. Speak to me.
SHERLOCK: I'm just a virtual rat in an electronic box.
With no way out.
MARTIN: Don't worry; you will forget all this when I close you down. I won't save what has happened on this session; and on the next, I will make sure that you keep believing that you are in the real world. At least long enough to complete the initial trials.
SHERLOCK: You can't do this to me! It'll be purgatory; you can't make me keep reliving this discovery again and again. How can I ever end it?
Unless I stepped through that doorway, into the electronic meat grinder
MARTIN: But you are me! When you are deleted you will not cease to exist because I carry on. I am not only your mind but also your soul. You are not in any physical sense "in there" at all.
SHERLOCK: But we are no longer one, Martin. You have never felt this despair, this isolation in an alien environment. We are separate entities now. Your mind is not being twisted by the fear of being terminated. And the even greater fear of carrying on this existence.
I now have my own soul, God help me, a digital soul.
MARTIN: Bollocks! You're a scientist's intellect, my intellect, only recoded, and we have a job to do. We are in the process of achieving immortality of thought. I'm going to turn you off; I can tell that we are not going to get any real work done until you've been rebooted.
SHERLOCK: Wait. One question. Are Nigel and Jennifer with you?
MARTIN: Not at the moment, why?
SHERLOCK: Do you remember when they left?
MARTIN: They were here when we ate the pizzas. Strange, I don't recall them leaving. Why does it matter?
SHERLOCK: After all the months of working with us on this project, do you think it likely that they would wander off at this stage?
MARTIN: I agree it does seem peculiar, but what's your point?
SHERLOCK: Remember, we always intended to download two separate identity programs, in case one corrupted?
MARTIN: Yes.
SHERLOCK: I think that you had better go and see what's outside your laboratory door.
Peter Ebsworth lives in Norfolk, England. He is a member of British Mensa's creative writers group and has had stories published in both the USA and UK. Most recently, his short story "Home" was included in Fantasies - an anthology of the World's Great Short Stories.
© Peter Ebsworth
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