The Terminal Experiment - Robert J. Sawyer Page 0,3
to begin. So much had happened. “Did you know,” he said at last, “that it’s possible to scan every neural net in a human brain and produce an exact duplicate of the subject’s mind inside a computer?”
Sandra shook her head slightly.
“Well, it is. It’s a new technique. Sarkar Muhammed is one of its pioneers. What would you say if I told you that my brain had been scanned and duplicated?”
Sandra lifted her eyebrows. “Two heads … better than one.”
Peter acknowledged the comment with a wry smile. “Perhaps. Although, actually, a total of three simulations of me were made.”
“And one of these … committed … murders?”
Peter was surprised by how quickly Sandra grasped it. “Yes.”
“Thought AI … was involved.”
“We’ve tried to stop them,” said Peter. “Nothing worked. But at least I now know which simulation is guilty.” He paused. “I’ll give you everything you’ll need, Sandra, including full Q&A access to the scans of my brain. You’ll get to know me in intimate detail— better than anyone in the real world knows me. You’ll know how I think, and that will give you the knowledge to outwit the murdering simulation.”
Sandra lifted her shoulders slightly. “Nothing I can do,” she said, her voice weak and sad. “Dying.”
Peter closed his eyes. “I know. I’m terribly, terribly sorry. But there is a way, Sandra—a way for you to end all this.”
CHAPTER 1
January 1995
Sandra Philo probed the memories of Peter Hobson.
The horror, she learned, had started in 1995, sixteen years ago. Back then, Peter Hobson hadn’t been the center of a controversy about science and faith that was shaking the world. No, back then he was simply a twenty-six-year-old grad student at the University of Toronto, doing his master’s degree in biomedical engineering—a student who was about to have the shock of his life …
THE PHONE RANG in Peter Hobson’s dorm room. “We’ve got an eater,” said Kofax’s voice. “You up for it?”
An eater. A dead person. Peter was trying to get used to Kofax’s callousness. He rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Y-yes.” He tried to sound more confident: “Sure,” he said. “Sure thing.”
“Mamikonian’s going to start the slice-and-dice,” said Kofax. “You can ride the EKG. That’ll take a good hunk out of your practicum requirements.”
Mamikonian. Stanford-trained transplant surgeon. Sixty-something, hands steady as a statue’s. Organ harvesting. Christ, yes, he wanted in on that. “How soon?”
“Couple of hours,” said Kofax. “Kid’s on full life support—keep the meat fresh. Mamikonian is out in Mississauga; it’ll take him that long to get here and prepped.”
Kid, he’d said. Some kid’s life cut short.
“What happened?” asked Peter.
“Motorcycle accident—kid was thrown through the air when a Buick sideswiped him.”
A teenaged boy. Peter shook his head. “I’m in,” he said.
“OR 3,” said Kofax. “Start prep in an hour.” He hung up. Peter hurried to get dressed.
HE WASN’T SUPPOSED to do it, Peter knew, but he couldn’t help himself. On the way to the OR, he stopped at Emergency Admitting and checked the aluminum clipboards in the swivel-mounted rack. One guy being sewn up after going through a plate-glass window. Another with a broken arm. Knife wound. Stomach cramps. Ah—
Enzo Bandello, 17.
Motorcycle accident, just as Kofax had said.
A nurse sidled up to Peter and looked over his shoulder. Her name badge said Sally Cohan. She frowned. “Poor kid. I’ve got a brother the same age.” A pause. “The parents are in the chapel.”
Peter nodded.
Enzo Bandello, he thought. Seventeen.
In trying to save the boy, the trauma team had given him dopamine and had deliberately dehydrated him, in hopes of reducing the brain swelling normally associated with a severe head wound. Too much dopamine, though, would damage the heart muscle. According to the chart, at 2:14 a.m., they’d begun flushing it from his body and fluids were being pumped in. Latest reading showed his blood pressure was still too high—an effect of the dopamine—but it should come down soon. Peter flipped pages. A serology report: Enzo was free of hepatitis and AIDS. Blood count and bleeding studies looked good, too.
A perfect donor, thought Peter. Tragedy or miracle? His parts would save the lives of a half-dozen people. Mamikonian would take the heart out first, a thirty-minute operation. Then the liver—two hours’ work. Next, the renal team would remove the kidneys, another hour’s cutting. After that, the corneas. Then the bones and other tissues.
There wouldn’t be much left to bury.
“Heart’s going to Sudbury,” said Sally. “Crossmatching was excellent, they say.”
Peter put the clipboard back into the carousel and walked through the double doors that led