Transhuman (37 page)

A humanoid form for the electrosilicone biosynthetic vehicle supporting the holoptronic brain had been decided on for the better comfort of the first downloads and to minimize traumatic effects. Experiments with more ambitious body plans and architectures would come later, once the principle was proven and some familiarity gained with operational aspects. Its skin, however, shone with a golden iridescence. That had been at Howell's insistence. It would proclaim his creation and crowning achievement to the world, instead of having it camouflaged to blend in with the world of mundane, mortal humanity as the timorous and unimaginative among the Directorate and the Board of Governors had urged. One day its conceptual descendants would stand above and apart from humans as the heralds of the next phase in evolution. Better the difference was established and marked now, at the start.

Howell almost felt something akin to paternal affection as he stood staring at it through the window separating the office from the general laboratory area. With its yellow hair, flawless features, the firm athletic contours of shoulders and chest, and eyes closed in repose, it looked serene yet powerful. The contrast between the qualities that the figure evoked in his mind, and the person depicted in the psychiatric report that he was holding in his hand after running quickly through it again to refresh himself brought a scowl to his face.

Brom Naylor, it said the potential transferee would be. Convicted of three killings, and the suspect for a string more. An epitome of the surprising, but apparently not uncommon, combination of high intelligence and a confirmed psychopath. Such people could kill or manipulate others without compunction or remorse, yet be charismatic and cynically effective in commanding trust when it suited their ends. Naylor's specialty, apparently, was as a paid assassin brought in for revenge killings and the elimination of intolerable rivals among society's criminal elements. Howell got the impression that, while nobody said as much publicly, as long as such things were confined to the underworld, the authorities were inclined to regard them with, if not a totally blind eye, impaired vision, since it took care of what would otherwise have been more work for them. However, there were suspicions that Naylor had crossed the line by being responsible for the untimely demise of two political figures who had made enemies in the wrong quarters, and although nothing was proved, it seemed that the ensuing panic had resulted in sufficient money changing hands to get Naylor off the streets before he accepted any more such contracts. A tone sounded from the screen on his desk as Howell moved back to it and dropped the report. He touched a key to acknowledge. The face of the receptionist in the front lobby of the building appeared.

"They've arrived and are on their way now, Dr. Howell," she said.

"Thank you." Howell cut the call and went out of the office to join Katokawa. "They're bringing him up now," he said. Katokawa nodded and went through the ritual of checking settings and readings. It was a mechanical reaction to mask his nervousness, Howell could see. He turned his gaze to the dormant figure on the padded surgical table. Adonis was a good name. That had been another choice of Howell's. To have to commit to a course such as this after all the years of effort was a travesty. But there was no way around it. The directive on Ethics and Limits had been quite firm, and on that one the Board had been adamant.

The rat-faced man by the door produced a phone, evidently in response to a call, exchanged words with it for a few seconds, and said something to the uniformed policeman who was standing with him. The policeman opened the door and held it in readiness, while the other put the phone away. Moments later, the party filed in, led by Howell's principal assistant, Bruce Forcomb, who had met the arrivals in the lobby. Behind him were Ruth Cazaw, the Institute's simpering and ineffective deputy director—but well connected socially to fund-raisers and members of grant-dispensing foundations, and Reginald Oakes, from one of the senatorial staff offices. The inclusion of Oakes meant that if the project flew and people became famous, the senator would be able to claim involvement and a supporting role from the outset; otherwise it wouldn't get a mention. Following them were three figures surrounded by a half-dozen hefty uniforms in close formation. One was a slim, tallish woman with long red hair, wearing a light-green coat; and in a dark business suit, an official of some kind from the penitentiary that Howell had met before, called Jorgens. Between them, upright and defiant in a two-piece orange tunic, walking with as much of a swagger as the cuffs on his wrists and the tether hobbling his ankles would allow, was Naylor. Despite his reflexive abhorrence, Howell was unable to suppress a twinge of ghoulish fascination. Naylor was perhaps an inch or two short of six feet, with a lithe yet muscular build, broadening to shoulders that strained the fabric of his prison garb. His hair was black and cropped to less than a quarter inch, accentuating the roundness of the wide skull with its high brow, and giving prominence to the ears. The features beneath were firm and determined, darkened by a late-afternoon shadow, but not harsh and brutal in the way that Howell's mental stereotype had anticipated. His eyes, too, as black as his hair, had a deeper, more reflective quality behind their mildly mocking light. They moved rapidly as Naylor entered the room, causing Howard to experience an involuntary chill as they rested on him for a moment before moving on, and giving the impression of having absorbed everything worthy of note before the guards parted to let their charges move forward to the table where Adonis was lying. Forcomb performed the introductions, but without including Naylor—consigning him to the role of a nonqualifying object outside the company. Everyone knew who he was in any case. Naylor didn't seem to care and was already silently taking in the details of the form before them. The red-haired woman turned out to be his defense attorney. Her name was Piersen. Ruth Cazaw gave an unneeded introduction to remind them why they were there, and Oakes recited a few platitudes with political clichés thrown in that didn't mean anything. Then the faces turned expectantly toward Howell. Howell let his gaze travel from one end of the figure beneath the sheet to the other as if inviting them to contemplate it with him for a moment or two, and then looked up. "This is the person that has been developed as the subject." He avoided using the term
vehicle.
"We've christened him Adonis. His physical form is humanoid in every respect, as you can see. The technology he incorporates is the most advanced that you will find anywhere at the present time, and represents the result of many years of intensive effort." He gestured at it, finding for some reason that he was addressing himself primarily to Naylor and Piersen, with the others as spectators. "The body is built from what are called electrosilicone biosynthetic composites, which use artificial, electrically activated musculature modeled on natural tissue, with primary energy storage in the form of various distributed high-density chemical compounds transported by a system of fluids. The result is a body of much greater durability, wider temperature tolerance, and better resistance to damage and abrasion than anything you'll find in the natural world. This means it can be designed with higher strength and exert greater external forces without damaging itself. The earlier prototypes developed on the way to producing Adonis—based on the same principles—were able to bend half-inch iron bars and perform lifts comparable to Olympic records, but retaining an agility that in the case of Adonis we would expect to be in the class of a top gymnast." Howell made an empty-handed wave. "All virtually impervious to disease and infection. Our environment doesn't have any microbes evolved to attack and live off this kind of material." The hardness in Naylor's face had given way to a distant thoughtful look as he shifted his eyes from Howell and stared back at the table. Howell allowed a moment longer for effect before concluding. "And it comes with the potential to support wider ranges and greater acuity of sensory input. Since that involves subjective experience, the host will have to be activated before we'll know exactly what capabilities we're talking about, but I'd expect the improvement over everything you and I know to be substantial. One day we might even add completely new types of senses. Thermal radiation perceived as a new band of color, for example. Microscopic and telescopic enhancement of vision. Or visual representation of the emotional undertones carried in a voice. It's a wide open field."

"The Institute has kept fully in the forefront on the cutting edge," Cazaw informed the company. "We expect to see great things coming out of the next five years." Nobody took any notice.

"I have some questions about the holoptronic brain, which I understand Adonis is designed to support, and which forms the crux of the project," Piersen said, directing herself at Howell. "Now, this isn't fabricated from biosynthetics like the body, am I right? So how confident can we be that it's capable of mirroring and reproducing the kind of perceptual world that a human mind experiences? Ditto for the

'inner world'—if you will—of private reflections and feelings, which I would contend are essential attributes that go to making up what we call 'human'? If that's lost, then I would have to conclude that the project has been misrepresented. But then, going in the opposite direction, if those faculties are accurately preserved, does potential exist, would you say, for transcending them?" Howell dipped his head approvingly. The lawyer had obviously done her homework. "Again, a subjective assessment is indispensable," he replied. "These are precisely the kinds of questions that the project is intended to address. From animal experiments, we can find no functional differences between the derived patterns of neural activity impressed in the host and those recorded from the original by any measure that we can devise. But the only way we can know will be by actual implementation. Concerning your further question, I can point out that the technology we utilize exceeds the performance of the natural brain in such areas as speed, precision, and memory capacity by factors of several orders of magnitude. We have also integrated a faculty for direct electromagnetic interaction—online wireless communication—that biological cells are incapable of, and an associated processing area that finds no parallel in organic brains. What kind of interactions this might induce with the regular cortical correlate is open to speculation."

"Dynamite stuff!" Oakes exclaimed. "Is there some kind of handout on this that I could get for our office?" Forcomb returned a couple of quick, silent nods.

Naylor was looking at Howell quizzically. He seemed about to speak, then checked himself and looked at Jorgens, the suited official from the penitentiary. "This is my party. So I figure I ought to get to ask questions too. Is that okay?"

"Go ahead," Jorgens said.

Naylor looked back at Howell. There was still a guardedness in his eyes, but the irreverence that Howell seen there when he first entered the room had given way to something more serious. "The business about running on electricity and chemicals. Suppose I agree to go with it. What do I do for a steak and a beer—plug myself into a wall and drink battery acid?" Despite himself, Howell was unable to prevent a twitch at the corners of his mouth. Whatever else Naylor's defects, he couldn't be accused of ignoring practicalities.

"Electrical conversion is effected internally, and feeds immediate-access secondary storage buffers," Howell replied. "That means, no, you don't have to plug yourself into walls. Primary input would be in the form of a range of synthetic hydrocarbon-based liquid and solid fuels, combined with a number of trace substances to replenish coolant reservoirs."

"Gasoline and tar don't sound like a diet you could get crazy about," Naylor commented. This time Howell's smile surfaced openly. "That all depends on how your brain interprets the sensory inputs it receives," he answered. "By suitable programming, we could arrange for it to construct whatever subjective sensations are desired. With some judicious choices of coloring, texture, and additives to cue variations of flavor, the repertoire could be rendered quite appetizing." Naylor looked doubtful. "What are you saying? You could make me think I was tasting a T-bone and Bordeaux?"

"Or spaghetti and meatballs, and Chianti. Anything you like."

"You're making them sound like nutrients," Piersen said.

"To a degree, that's true as well," Howell agreed.

"How do you mean?"

"Normal wear and tear is made good internally by renewal materials and nanobot assembler-disassemblers circulated in the maintenance fluids. But beyond that, if a limb, major body part

, or organ is lost or malfunctions, it can be replaced." Howell shrugged. "You could say that barring some agency capable of bringing about total destruction, it's virtually immortal." Naylor was staring at the inert, peaceful-looking figure long and thoughtfully. He raised his eyes to look around at the laboratory, and brought them back to Howell. "I guess the reason we had to have all this circus in coming here was that you couldn't very well bring him to where I was," he said.

"That would have been somewhat impractical," Howell confirmed. "Moving the support and monitoring equipment would have been a chore. And besides . . ." He gestured toward Katokawa, seated at the panel . . . "having to take staff into such an environment would have, let us say, its problematical aspects."

"So if I went with this, it would be a case of Adonis staying here, is that right?" Naylor moved his head to indicate the general surroundings. "You wouldn't be talking about moving this act to the pen."

"Oh, that would be quite out of the question," Howell said. "I had assumed that much to be obvious." He looked inquiringly at Cazaw, then Jorgens, as if questioning whether there had been some misunderstanding.

Jorgens nodded in confirmation and seemed surprised. "Well, yes, naturally. We've never thought of it being any other way."

Piersen was looking at Naylor uneasily. "You do have time to think this over," she cautioned. "Nobody's trying to rush you into anything. Maybe if I arranged a follow-up meeting in, say a week . . ."