2
(Remit not paucity)
NOVEMBER 2050
"What I'm asking for is two million ecus. What I'm offering you is immortality."
Thomas Riemann's office was compact but uncluttered, smartly furnished without being ostentatious. The single large window offered a sweeping view of Frankfurt -- looking north across the river, as if from Sachsenhausen, toward the three jet-black towers of the Siemens/Deutsche Bank Center -- which Thomas believed was as honest as any conceivable alternative. Half the offices in Frankfurt itself looked out over recorded tropical rainforests, stunning desert gorges, Antarctic ice shelves -- or wholly synthetic landscapes: rural-idyllic, futuristic, interplanetary, or simply surreal. With the freedom to choose whatever he liked, he'd selected this familiar sight from his corporeal days; sentimental, perhaps, but at least it wasn't ludicrously inappropriate.
Thomas turned away from the window, and regarded his visitor with good-natured skepticism. He replied in English; the office software could have translated for him -- and would have chosen the very same words and syntax, having been cloned from his own language centers -- but Thomas still preferred to use the version "residing inside" his own "skull."
"Two million? What's the scheme? Let me guess. Under your skillful management, my capital will grow at the highest possible rate consistent with the need for total security. The price of computation is sure to fall again, sooner or later; the fact that it's risen for the last fifteen years only makes that more likely than ever. So: it may take a decade or two -- or three, or four -- but eventually, the income from my modest investment will be enough to keep me running on the latest hardware, indefinitely . . . while also providing you with a small commission, of course." Thomas laughed, without malice. "You don't seem to have researched your prospective client very thoroughly. You people usually have immaculate intelligence -- but I'm afraid you've really missed the target with me. I'm in no danger of being shut down. The hardware we're using, right now, isn't leased from anyone; it's wholly owned by a foundation I set up before my death. My estate is being managed to my complete satisfaction. I have no problems -- financial, legal, peace of mind -- for you to solve. And the last thing in the world I need is a cheap and nasty perpetuity fund. Your offer is useless to me."
Paul Durham chose to display no sign of disappointment. He said, "I'm not talking about a perpetuity fund. I'm not selling any kind of financial service. Will you give me a chance to explain?"
Thomas nodded affably. "Go ahead. I'm listening." Durham had flatly refused to state his business in advance, but Thomas had decided to see him anyway -- anticipating a perverse satisfaction in confirming that the man's mysterious coyness hid nothing out of the ordinary. Thomas almost always agreed to meet visitors from outside -- even though experience had shown that most were simply begging for money, one way or another. He believed that anyone willing to slow down their brain by a factor of seventeen, solely for the privilege of talking to him face to face, deserved a hearing -- and he wasn't immune to the intrinsic flattery of the process, the unequal sacrifice of time.
There was more to it, though, than flattery.
When other Copies called on him in his office, or sat beside him at a boardroom table, everyone was "present" in exactly the same sense. However bizarre the algorithmic underpinnings of the encounter, it was a meeting of equals. No boundaries were crossed.
A visitor, though, who could lift and empty a coffee cup, who could sign a document and shake your hand -- but who was, indisputably, lying motionless on a couch in another (higher?) metaphysical plane -- came charged with too many implicit reminders of the nature of things to be faced with the same equanimity. Thomas valued that. He didn't want to grow complacent -- or worse. Visitors helped him to retain a clear sense of what he'd become.
Durham said, "Of course I'm aware of your situation -- you have one of the most secure arrangements I've seen. I've read the incorporation documents of the Soliton Foundation, and they're close to watertight. Under present legislation."
Thomas laughed heartily. "But you think you can do better? Soliton pays its most senior lawyers almost a million a year; you should have got yourself some forged qualifications and asked me to employ you. Under present legislation! When the laws change, believe me, they'll change for the better. I expect you know that Soliton spends a small fortune lobbying for improvement -- and it's not alone. The trend is in one direction: there are more Copies every year, and most of them have de facto control over virtually all of the wealth they owned when they were alive. I'm afraid your timing's atrocious if you're planning on using scare tactics; I received a report last week predicting full human rights -- in Europe, at least -- by the early sixties. Ten years isn't long for me to wait. I've grown used to the current slowdown factor; even if processor speeds improve, I could easily choose to keep living at the rate I'm living now, for another six or seven subjective months, rather than pushing all the things I'm looking forward to -- like European citizenship -- further into the future."
Durham's puppet inclined its head in a gesture of polite assent; Thomas had a sudden vision of a second puppet -- one Durham truly felt himself to be inhabiting -- hunched over a control panel, hitting a button on an etiquette sub-menu. Was that paranoid? But any sensible mendicant visitor would do just that, conducting the meeting at a distance rather than exposing their true body language to scrutiny.
The visible puppet said, "Why spend a fortune upgrading, for the sake of effectively slowing down progress? And I agree with you about the outlook for reform -- in the short term. Of course people begrudge Copies their longevity, but the PR has been handled remarkably well. A few carefully chosen terminally ill children are scanned and resurrected every year: better than a trip to Disney World. There's discreet sponsorship of a sitcom about working-class Copies, which makes the whole idea less threatening. The legal status of Copies is being framed as a human rights issue, especially in Europe: Copies are disabled people, no more, no less -- really just a kind of radical amputee -- and anyone who talks about decadent rich immortals getting their hands on all the wealth is shouted down as a neo-Nazi.
"So you might well achieve citizenship in a decade. And if you're lucky, the situation could be stable for another twenty or thirty years after that. But . . . what's twenty or thirty years to you? Do you honestly think that the status quo will be tolerated for ever?'"
Thomas said, "Of course not -- but I'll tell you what would be "tolerated": scanning facilities, and computing power, so cheap that everyone on the planet could be resurrected. Everyone who wanted it. And when I say cheap, I mean at a cost comparable to a dose of vaccine at the turn of the century. Imagine that. Death could be eradicated -- like smallpox or malaria. And I'm not talking about some solipsistic nightmare; by then, telepresence robots will let Copies interact with the physical world as fully as if they were human. Civilization wouldn't have deserted reality -- just transcended biology."
"That's a long, long way in the future."
"Certainly. But don't accuse me of thinking in the short term."
"And in the meantime? The privileged class of Copies will grow larger, more powerful -- and more threatening to the vast majority of people, who still won't be able to join them. The costs will come down, but not drastically -- just enough to meet some of the explosion in demand from the executive class, once they throw off their qualms, en masse. Even in secular Europe, there's a deeply ingrained prejudice that says dying is the responsible, the moral thing to do. There's a Death Ethic -- and the first substantial segment of the population abandoning it will trigger a huge backlash. A small enough elite of giga-rich Copies is accepted as a freak show; tycoons can get away with anything, they're not expected to act like ordinary people. But just wait until the numbers go up by a factor of ten."
Thomas had heard it all before. "We may be unpopular for a while. I can live with that. But you know, even now we're vilified far less than people who strive for organic hyper-longevity -- transplants, cellular rejuvenation, whatever -- because at least we're no longer pushing up the cost of health care, competing for the use of overburdened medical facilities. Nor are we consuming natural resources at anything like the rate we did when we were alive. If the technology improves sufficiently, the environmental impact of the wealthiest Copy could end up being less than that of the most ascetic living human. Who'll have the high moral ground then? We'll be the most ecologically sound people on the planet."
Durham smiled. The puppet. "Sure -- and it could lead to some nice ironies if it ever came true. But even low environmental impact might not seem so saintly, when the same computing power could be used to save tens of thousands of lives through weather control."
"Operation Butterfly has inconvenienced some of my fellow Copies very slightly. And myself not at all."
"Operation Butterfly is only the beginning. Crisis management, for a tiny part of the planet. Imagine how much computing power it would take to render sub-Saharan Africa free from drought."
"Why should I imagine that, when the most modest schemes are still unproven? And even if weather control turns out to be viable, more supercomputers can always be built. It doesn't have to be a matter of Copies versus flood victims."
"There's a limited supply of computing power right now, isn't there? Of course it will grow -- but the demand, from Copies, and for weather control, is almost certain to grow faster. Long before we get to your deathless Utopia, we'll hit a bottle-neck -- and I believe that will bring on a time when Copies are declared illegal. Worldwide. If they've been granted human rights, those rights will be taken away. Trusts and foundations will have their assets confiscated. Supercomputers will be heavily policed. Scanners -- and scan files -- will be destroyed. It may be forty years before any of this happens -- or it may be sooner. Either way, you need to be prepared."
Thomas said mildly, "If you're fishing for a job as a futurology consultant, I'm afraid I already employ several -- highly qualified -- people who do nothing but investigate these trends. Right now, everything they tell me gives me reason to be optimistic -- and even if they're wrong, Soliton is ready for a very wide range of contingencies."
"If your whole foundation is eviscerated, do you honestly believe it will be able to ensure that a snapshot of you is hidden away safely -- and then resurrected after a hundred years or more of social upheaval? A vault full of ROM chips at the bottom of a mine shaft could end up taking a one-way trip into geological time."
Thomas laughed. "And a meteor could hit the planet tomorrow, wiping out this computer, all of my backups, your organic body . . . anything and everything. Yes, there could be a revolution which pulls the plug on my world. It's unlikely, but it's not impossible. Or there could be a plague, or an ecological disaster, which kills billions of organic humans but leaves all the Copies untouched. There are no certainties for anyone."
"But Copies have so much more to lose."
Thomas was emphatic; this was part of his personal litany. "I've never mistaken what I have -- a very good chance of a prolonged existence -- for a guarantee of immortality."
Durham said flatly, "Quite right. You have no such thing. Which is why I'm here offering it to you."
Thomas regarded him uneasily. Although he'd had all the ravages of surgery edited out of his final scan file, he'd kept a scar on his right forearm, a small memento of a youthful misadventure. He stroked it, not quite absentmindedly; conscious of the habit, conscious of the memories that the scar encoded -- but practiced at refusing to allow those memories to hold his gaze.
Finally, he said, "Offering it how? What can you possibly do -- for two million ecus -- that Soliton can't do a thousand times better?"
"I can run a second version of you, entirely out of harm's way. I can give you a kind of insurance -- against an anti-Copy backlash . . . or a meteor strike . . . or whatever else might go wrong."
Thomas was momentarily speechless. The subject wasn't entirely taboo, but he couldn't recall anyone raising it quite so bluntly before. He recovered swiftly. "I have no wish to run a second version, thank you. And . . . what do you mean, "out of harm's way"? Where's your invulnerable computer going to be? In orbit? Up where it would only take a pebble-sized meteor to destroy it, instead of a boulder?"
"No, not in orbit. And if you don't want a second version, that's fine. You could simply move."
"Move where? Underground? To the bottom of the ocean? You don't even know where this office is being implemented, do you? What makes you think you can offer a superior site -- for such a ridiculous price -- when you don't have the faintest idea how secure I am already?" Thomas was growing disappointed, and uncharacteristically irritable. "Stop making these inflated claims, and get to the point. What are you selling?"
Durham shook his head apologetically. "I can't tell you that. Not yet. If I tried to explain it, out of the blue, it would make no sense. You have to do something first. Something very simple."
"Yes? And what's that?"
"You have to conduct a small experiment."
Thomas scowled. "What kind of experiment? Why?"
And Durham -- the software puppet, the lifeless shell animated by a being from another plane -- looked him in the eye and said, "You have to let me show you exactly what you are."
3
(Rip, tie, cut toy man)
JUNE 2045
Paul -- or the flesh-and-blood man whose memories he'd inherited -- had traced the history of Copies back to the turn of the century, when researchers had begun to fine-tune the generic computer models used for surgical training and pharmacology, transforming them into customized versions able to predict the needs and problems of individual patients. Drug therapies were tried out in advance on models which incorporated specific genetic and biochemical traits, allowing doses to be optimized and any idiosyncratic side-effects anticipated and avoided. Elaborate operations were rehearsed and perfected in Virtual Reality, on software bodies with anatomical details -- down to the finest capillaries -- based on the flesh-and-blood patient's tomographic scans.
These early models included a crude approximation of the brain, perfectly adequate for heart surgery or immunotherapy -- and even useful to a degree when dealing with gross cerebral injuries and tumours -- but worthless for exploring more subtle neurological problems.