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Authors: Elizabeth Bear
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is clean,” Richard said, and rubbed his nose with a knuckle. “We've been over it fifteen times. There's not a scrap of program on this system we both haven't investigated until we know what purpose every comma serves.” But his lips were pursed, and a long shallow line hovered between his brows.
“I know. I know. No logic bomb anywhere. Still, it's got to be a little creepy for you, in a psychological sense.”
“If I can be precisely said to have a psychology.”
“All the same. Essentially, you
are
the
Montreal
. And your own more-or-less-subconscious tried to kill us all several times.” The chair swiveled, but it wouldn't scoot back against the wall comfortably. Gabe compromised by putting his feet up on the interface, avoiding the holoprojectors so he wouldn't make Richard's image flicker. The metal desk dug into his calves.
Richard's restless fingers were tapping now. “The analogy doesn't work. It was more like . . . well, a virus is aptly named. A foreign disease that turns the host body's cells against it.”
“So what if the Chinese had another agent aboard? One with a more . . . physical agenda. Explosives, or a real disease?”
Richard shrugged. “We're taking every precaution available. We've got two existing bottlenecks—the beanstalks in Malaysia, Brazil, and the Galapagos, leading up to Forward, Clarke, and Piper orbital platforms—and then the shuttles to the
Montreal
. The platforms themselves are already pretty well defended, security protocols recently upgraded, and it's not like it's a steady stream of traffic from there to here—”
Gabe nodded. He looked down, picking at the seam on his jumpsuit with his thumbnail, and then he looked back up and met Richard's holographic gaze. “We'll just have to be careful, then, and bet our balls.” It earned him half a grin from the AI, as the two entities regarded each other across a space of no more than a meter. “Dick—”
“Yes, Gabriel?”
Honest curiosity, too long repressed in the name of politeness. It wasn't staying down any longer. “What's it like?” And then he laughed at himself, shaking his head ruefully, not breaking the eye contact, quite.
Comme un gosse qui demande à son père d'expliquer le sexe.
“Being me?” Dick's grin was full-fledged now. He ran one hand across his hair; Gabe could have sworn he heard the rasp of wavy strands through knotty fingers. “You know, I remember being human, Gabe.”
Gabe shook his head, unwilling to speak and disturb the odd intimacy of the moment.
“I remember being human, and yet I never was. Elspeth gave me that. The complete history of Richard P. Feynman—his letters, his memoirs, his lectures, his interviews, his recorded conversations and music, his drawings, his art—it's all me. I remember it, probably more clearly than a human would. Conflation, and constructed memories, and the data has become a person, because that is the way I was programmed. I think I'm him. I remember being him. But in point of fact, I can't know if I'm really a thing like him. Or if my memories bear any resemblance to what he recalled. And there are things about him I don't know, can't know, if they were never committed to paper.”
“Spooky.”
A holographic shrug. “If you're easily spooked, I suppose. If I were a religious man, I'd wonder at the morality of it—reconstructing a person, even an electronic person, in the shadow of a dead one. It's got tremendous potential for misuse.”
“Indeed,” Gabe said. He swung his feet down, his ship shoes scuffing on the deck. “Mais ce n'est pas que j'ai voulu dire.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I was wondering what it was like to be . . . multithreaded. To be more than one person at once.”
Richard laughed. “I'm not, you know. I'm all one person. I'm just capable of being more than one place at the same time. For example, right now I'm talking to Dr. Perry about climactic change, to the Prime Minister about the court case, I'm
“I know. I know. No logic bomb anywhere. Still, it's got to be a little creepy for you, in a psychological sense.”
“If I can be precisely said to have a psychology.”
“All the same. Essentially, you
are
the
Montreal
. And your own more-or-less-subconscious tried to kill us all several times.” The chair swiveled, but it wouldn't scoot back against the wall comfortably. Gabe compromised by putting his feet up on the interface, avoiding the holoprojectors so he wouldn't make Richard's image flicker. The metal desk dug into his calves.
Richard's restless fingers were tapping now. “The analogy doesn't work. It was more like . . . well, a virus is aptly named. A foreign disease that turns the host body's cells against it.”
“So what if the Chinese had another agent aboard? One with a more . . . physical agenda. Explosives, or a real disease?”
Richard shrugged. “We're taking every precaution available. We've got two existing bottlenecks—the beanstalks in Malaysia, Brazil, and the Galapagos, leading up to Forward, Clarke, and Piper orbital platforms—and then the shuttles to the
Montreal
. The platforms themselves are already pretty well defended, security protocols recently upgraded, and it's not like it's a steady stream of traffic from there to here—”
Gabe nodded. He looked down, picking at the seam on his jumpsuit with his thumbnail, and then he looked back up and met Richard's holographic gaze. “We'll just have to be careful, then, and bet our balls.” It earned him half a grin from the AI, as the two entities regarded each other across a space of no more than a meter. “Dick—”
“Yes, Gabriel?”
Honest curiosity, too long repressed in the name of politeness. It wasn't staying down any longer. “What's it like?” And then he laughed at himself, shaking his head ruefully, not breaking the eye contact, quite.
Comme un gosse qui demande à son père d'expliquer le sexe.
“Being me?” Dick's grin was full-fledged now. He ran one hand across his hair; Gabe could have sworn he heard the rasp of wavy strands through knotty fingers. “You know, I remember being human, Gabe.”
Gabe shook his head, unwilling to speak and disturb the odd intimacy of the moment.
“I remember being human, and yet I never was. Elspeth gave me that. The complete history of Richard P. Feynman—his letters, his memoirs, his lectures, his interviews, his recorded conversations and music, his drawings, his art—it's all me. I remember it, probably more clearly than a human would. Conflation, and constructed memories, and the data has become a person, because that is the way I was programmed. I think I'm him. I remember being him. But in point of fact, I can't know if I'm really a thing like him. Or if my memories bear any resemblance to what he recalled. And there are things about him I don't know, can't know, if they were never committed to paper.”
“Spooky.”
A holographic shrug. “If you're easily spooked, I suppose. If I were a religious man, I'd wonder at the morality of it—reconstructing a person, even an electronic person, in the shadow of a dead one. It's got tremendous potential for misuse.”
“Indeed,” Gabe said. He swung his feet down, his ship shoes scuffing on the deck. “Mais ce n'est pas que j'ai voulu dire.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I was wondering what it was like to be . . . multithreaded. To be more than one person at once.”
Richard laughed. “I'm not, you know. I'm all one person. I'm just capable of being more than one place at the same time. For example, right now I'm talking to Dr. Perry about climactic change, to the Prime Minister about the court case, I'm
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