Echoes of Another

by Chandra Clarke

  After a few days of regular feeding and play in his enclosure, she let him go without food for a day. When she was sure he was good and hungry, she made a new recording of his hungry states and fed him another substantial meal. Ten minutes after he’d finished gorging, she put the ‘hungry’ recording on a playback loop into his implant and watched him fall upon an another serving of food like he hadn’t eaten in days. No sooner had he done, then he searched for more to eat. She turned it off then, not wanting him to get agitated or eat himself sick. She’d run the numbers from the data log, to double check that what she’d seen in person were actually changes in behaviour. They were.

  Kel did another little jig. It wasn’t a proper study, of course. For that, she’d need to use more macaques, divide them into a control and a test group, and use a double-blind protocol. The study would have to be approved by the ethics committee. And there wasn’t any evidence she’d be able to reproduce the effect with more complex states. Hunger was primal stuff.

  But it was a start. A glorious start.

  Her mind whirled as a long, branching to-do list unfolded in her imagination. How would she do this work alongside her other project and do both well? What other experiments could she design to test other body/brain state recordings? Kel wondered if it would work in a group environment or only on isolated animals. How would she set up the safety protocols so that the animals wouldn’t be injured or unduly stressed? Would she need more money or could this be done within the confines of the current budget?

  A new idea stilled her happy fidgeting. What if this had plausible commercial applications that could stave off budget cuts? Kel frowned. With the advent of custom nutrition profiles and home fabbers, the diet-product industry had died years ago, as few people had non-medical weight management issues anymore. She couldn’t see any immediate benefit to tricking the body into feeling well fed. But other states of being? It wasn’t what she had set out to study, but if it kept her main line of research alive…

  “Come to think of it…!” she said aloud, making the macaque startle. “Computer, what are the university’s regulations on intellectual property and patents? What is our policy on commercialisation?”

  She sat down at her desk to listen.

  SETH

  It was bright and sunny outside, but Seth barely registered this as he came out onto the front step of his house, boyishly excited. A well-used delivery crate was waiting for him.

  He heaved the crate inside and let the embedded scanner read his wrist. It popped open to reveal a stack of books. There were ten books each from the fiction and nonfiction bestseller lists. Seth had thought about ordering virtual copies but wanted to get a feel for how they were assembled and packaged. Plus, he fancied he’d use them for décor later: an inspiration bookshelf. The local megafab station had printed them up just minutes after he’d ordered them earlier this morning. He could smell the fresh ink.

  Seth unpacked the crate, cleared the wreckage of his nephews’ most recent visit away from his favourite chair, stacked the books there, and tossed the crate back outside for pickup and reuse. Then he made tea, and settled in.

  He spent the day reading them, growing increasingly confused as the hours went by. At the top of the list was a novel about a divorcee who killed her ex-husband. There was no motivation ever given for the murder. Her character was flat and unlikeable, and the story didn’t tie anything up at the end, leaving the reader hanging.

  And how was this other book about a virtual reality star getting any good reviews? The writing was terrible, and the book was so poorly organised he thought it was a satire.

  At least two that ranked well on three different lists were by someone named Mat Jameson. Seth looked at his publishing history and was sure he must be an AI. How could anyone produce so much in such a short time? Granted, not everyone had as many family demands as Seth did, but that kind of output seemed impossible. And why were all of them selling so well?

  He made dozens of notes, looking at plots, characters, covers, even bindings and paper types.

  Seth finished the day feeling bewildered. He had been expecting to find works that were simply much better than his own. And since Seth was no snob, so he’d expected a variety of things on the lists, from literary fiction to thrillers. He liked escapist fare just like the next person although he probably felt guiltier about consuming it than most.

  But there were no common elements here that he could see, and while some were superb, others were objectively awful. Some books had great covers, some of them had terrible covers. There were new names and well-known authors on the list.

  He went to bed, and tossed and turned for half of Sunday night, trying, but unable to find a pattern in the books he’d purchased. By 3:00 a.m., he gave up attempting to sleep and grudgingly activated his DPA.

  ”Tasha, I hate to ask you this, but… recall the books I bought earlier today. Review the industry trade publications and rumour sites. Are there any common factors in this list of books? Besides their list status? Or better yet, common factors that would contribute to their bestseller status?”

  It took Tasha less than three minutes to come up with an answer. “All of them have marketing budgets at least one standard deviation above the norm. Would you like to discuss?”

  Seth puffed air out of his cheeks in frustration. “No. Yes. I suppose.”

  “Discussion mode, on. Opening question: why did you wish to know this information?”

  “Because I’m trying to find out why these books are outselling mine. I don’t need a bestseller, I’m not naïve enough to think they’d hit those sort of lists given their subject matter. But my books are all but disappearing soon after launch, and I’d like at least mid-level sales, you know? Or steady low long term sales.”

  “Follow up question: why didn’t you ask me to retrieve this information when you first purchased the books?”

  “I wanted to review them myself, to see if I could figure it out.”

  “Follow up question: why did you want to do that yourself?”

  Seth rubbed a hand across his chest. This is why he rarely engaged in discussions with Tasha: it always felt like a therapy session.

  “I guess because it felt like cheating to use a tool… to use you to find the answer.”

  Tasha went silent. Seth walked into the kitchen to get some water.

  “I cannot parse your last statement. You said it would be cheating, yet you are surrounded by tools you use every day.”

  Seth opened, and then closed his mouth. That was true, of course, and obviously so if he thought about it. “It’s… it’s different with art. Art is one of those things that separate us from the animals.” He didn’t add he also thought it was supposed to separate humanity from the bots. Then he felt slightly foolish for worrying about offending Tasha.

  “So you think it is cheating to use tools for art?”

  “Well, no,” Seth said, thinking of the hammer and chisel his sculptor character was using, but also his own decrepit workstation. “But…” But what? He sipped his water. Were newer tools cheating while older tools were okay? Being called out on his irrational divisions — by his DPA no less — made him slightly grumpy. “You sound like my sister now,” he grumbled.

  “How do I sound like your sister?” Tasha asked.

  “She’s a philosophy major,” Seth replied, taking another drink, reminded of a conversation he’d had with her months ago. “And she might say the greatest difference between humans and animals is that we can choose to optimise almost any aspect of our existence. We can have extended minds by offloading our cognitive burdens into tools like you, Tasha, and extended bodies with all our sensors, and augmentations, and mods, and such like.” He yawned and considered his carefully programmed fabber. “She’d probably also call me a bloody fool for optimising my diet but not my career.”

  “I am sorry, I do not understand your—”

  “It’s all about the numbers, Tasha,” he said, thinking aloud now. �
��Apparently, I need a job to make money to market my books whether I can keep my publisher or whether I go out on my own.” He tapped his wristband and examined his calendar. An appointment to take his cousin to hospital for surgery. Another to accompany a niece on some university campus tours to help her choose where she wanted to go. And yet another with an uncle that wanted his advice on some investments because of the research Seth had done for a book. He grimaced. On some days, it was hard not to wonder whether he was so popular with his family just because he was unmarried and had no kids of his own. The fact that none of them seemed clear on what he did for a living didn’t help. “And I now need to figure out how to boost my writing time because I’ll have even less of it.”

  “I recommend getting some sleep.”

  “Thanks, Tasha. I didn’t need you to tell me that.”

  MAURA

  “Champagne?”

  Maura turned her attention away from the two women who had cornered her and smiled politely at the young man. “Lovely, thank you.”

  While he served her companions, she scanned the well-dressed crowd, looking for a familiar face so she could make her excuses and escape. It was standing room only in the conservatory at Casa Loma, a brilliant white room with large arched windows dotted with frozen raindrops from the ice storm earlier in the day. The pink- and purple-hued rays of the setting sun made them sparkle almost as colourfully as the stained-glass dome above them.

  “Such a beautiful venue,” the woman who had introduced herself as Eve was saying. “I had no idea there was a castle right in the middle of Toronto.”

  “You must go on the walking tour,” said her friend, Vania. “Especially down to the stables and carriage house. They have cars there that must be two hundred years old.”

  “Not quite,” Maura said, wondering how the woman had missed the dates on the display. “Early 1900s, just like the castle.”

  “Just think,” said Eve, who sounded to Maura like she used this line a lot at parties, “there was a time when actual humans drove those things all over the place at high speed. Crashes were so common it was the custom to set up little temporary memorials where people died.”

  Vania shuddered delicately. “I cannot imagine. How could you possibly do that safely if you were tired? Or had some of these?” She held up her glass.

  Maura cursed her bad luck. Small talk with strangers was the reason she avoided these charity events, and these two had glommed onto her almost as soon as she’d walked into the reception. “Indeed. That’s why the bar and restaurant industry has boomed. No one has to worry about drunk driving these days.” They gave her a blank look. “Look up the term. So, what brings you out this evening?” she said, hoping to steer the conversation to something more interesting.

  Eve smiled. “Ah, Vania and I have recently moved here from New York, and we want to get involved in the community. You know, to give back to a city that has been so welcoming already.”

  Maura nodded. “The Toronto Symphony Orchestra is a good place to start, although, as you can see today, it already has a lot of support. If you’re looking to help, there are quite a few others causes that aren’t as well subscribed.”

  “Actually,” Vania said archly, “we’re here tonight because we want to start something new.”

  Eve took her cue from Vania. “Yes, we are going to set up,” she paused dramatically, “a Toronto foundation for virtual reality addiction.” They glanced at each other smugly and then at her, expecting an angry reaction.

  Maura sighed and made a note to herself to chat with the organisers about the evening’s guest list and their vetting process. Small talk was one thing; amateur hour was quite another. She drained her champagne and signalled for another. “As an immigrant once myself, I can appreciate being somewhere unfamiliar and not knowing the lay of the land,” she said, as a waiter came up. She put her empty glass on the tray and took a filled one, holding their gazes the whole time. “But do you know who I am?”

  “Of course,” Vania said. “Yes, you’re Maura Torres of—”

  “So the plan was what, ambush me with your ideas, capture my disbelieving and angry reaction, and put it out on the thingweb feeds? Maybe encourage people to caption it?” Maura indicated a broach on Eve’s dress. “I’ve seen that model in the self-defence catalogue. The red stone covers and disguises the camera lens, but the software filters the image so it looks normal and not all red. Pretty clever, modestly priced. Holds lots of video in memory. Or do you have it on a live broadcast now?”

  Eve blushed. Vania looked embarrassed but defiant.

  “I know that catalogue well because I shop it myself. It has excellent anti-kidnap technology for when I’m travelling, for example. I have a similar device, so I have my own records when dealing with journos or people like yourselves. You’re not the first, you realise.” Maura took another healthy sip of her drink, thinking that Yorkshire champagne had been one of the very few positives of the climate chaos of the last few decades. “Rule number one in activism,” she said, “is to know your target. Did you really think you were going to shock me? Dear me. I started the national foundation for alternate-realities addiction. And I deliberately open-sourced the gamification methods the industry uses to keep players hooked so consumers can make informed choices. I was the one who pushed for industry standards on VR timeouts after four hours of continuous use. Thirty seconds spent consulting with your DPA and you’d be aware of this. So either you’re incompetent or you’re not really concerned about your cause and are only in it for the giggles and attention.”

  “Fine,” Vania said, after a moment or two of guilty silence. “But I bet you hate the new VR tax!”

  Maura didn’t bother to disguise her scorn. “I was the one who proposed it to the minister! I’m not blind to the side effects of VR. Every new tech like this has unintended consequences, and we should work to mitigate them. Even if it wasn’t the right thing to do, it makes good business sense not to harm your customers.” She took another long pull of her champagne. “Rule number two of activism, by the way? Just making something for the feeds for people to point and laugh at isn’t really activism. ‘Raising awareness’ sounds great, but should only amount to about five per cent of your budget, unless it’s intended to be a fundraising campaign.”

  Just then, her wristband pinged, and she shooed the women off attend to it, grateful for the chance to get away.

  It was a message from Pauline. She read it twice. It wasn’t good news.

  In fact, it could ruin everything.

  RAY

  Spring. Not so long ago.

  Strolling along Philosopher’s Walk, still in awe of the university buildings around him, wondering if he would ever get a chance to attend.

  He’d made a deal: an apartment, no questions asked about his lack of ID, if he did all building maintenance for free. Ray had no idea if he could even do that kind of work, but he’d put up a convincing front. He could learn, somehow.

  He had a plan: he’d get a proper job, once he was no longer someone of ‘no fixed address.’ To show he deserved integration. An application and the pain of a tattoo. The tattoo. That was the pain he yearned for.

  His Digital Identity. To belong at last.

  And then: school. Real school. Fabber pattern design. That looked interesting, creative, and a good way to earn a living.

  And her.

  That sweet-fierce woman he had seen with the long hair pulled up in a coil, who hurried through campus, not seeing, but thinking, planning, absorbing. He knew about that.

  To be good enough for her.

  HAROON

  Haroon paced up and down the grimy, dimly lit kitchen, tearing off hunks of naan, shoving them into his mouth and swallowing them without tasting them. He checked the clock for the fourth time in the past ten minutes. Subhan should be home soon.

  He had spent days with the career counsellor at school, taking tests, talking, poring over the options, trying to find a job he thought he could do.
A way to earn a living, so he wouldn’t have to dig out the landfill or depend on the basic income. Something that might make Subhan look at him a little differently. Like a man. Not a boy. Not a mouth to feed.

  Today was the day to tell his father what he’d picked.

  Haroon heard erratic thumping down the hall and hastily tidied up the breadcrumbs on his shirt. Soon after, Subhan slammed open the door. He stood there, weaving and blinking in the light of their tiny living room. His clothes were filthy from work.

  The smell of alcohol reached Haroon’s nose. A standard Tuesday night. He hoped it wasn’t rye, as that always gave Subhan a vicious headache.

  “Hello,” he said, pleased his voice didn’t shake. “Did you eat?”

  Subhan blinked again and grunted at him. He came into the kitchen and sat with a thump at the kitchen table to be served. Haroon ladled out a heap of korma into a bowl and laid the bread on top. He gave it to his father and then got himself a portion, careful not to make it bigger than the one he’d just handed over. He sat at the table, and they ate in silence.

  When at last Subhan pushed back his bowl, Haroon couldn’t wait any longer.

  “So, ah…” Haroon cleared his throat, and then the words came gushing out. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what I should do. You know. To earn. I wanted to pick something I figured I could be great at. And I thought about how it would have to be something I really cared about. Just so I could be good at it. And then I remembered how this neighbourhood really bothers me and how no one ever comes in here to clean it up, and so that’s perfect, and I registered for a police academy today. It’s risky work, but I think I’d be good at it. And it pays well. So it would be good. Yeah. To earn.”

  Haroon stopped, suddenly aware that was the longest thing he’d ever said to his father; and he was looking down at his bowl instead of at Subhan as he’d intended. He glanced up, hoping for a nod, and maybe a grunt of acknowledgement, if not approval.