by Phoenix Ward
the bustle of the more mechanized parts of the world."
"He's not a bad teacher, by any means," the I.I. continued. "I just disagree that he was the best."
Chris turned to look at the other warm bodies in the room. They looked back to him with sheer shock on their faces. The man managing the influx of viewer comments was sweating.
"Can we take a break?" Chris asked.
“The social media sphere has been ignited,” Mr. Chandra said. He met with Chris at an outside cafe after numerous attempts by the Man With Two Bodies to make contact. Chris had become bombarded by phone calls, emails, and even visitors in person ever since his disagreement with the I.I.
“That much is clear to me,” Chris replied. “The reason why, however, is not. I can never get much out of these people. They keep saying, ‘Chris, you’ve been duped.’ What are they talking about?”
“Look, there’s a lot of speculation circulating about our little broadcast,” the reporter started. “Journalists, pundits -- even other scientists are starting to think that your I.I. is not a real installed intelligence at all.”
Chris was surprised. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Not real in what sense?”
“In the sense that it’s nothing more than an elaborate artificial intelligence designed to mimic you,” Mr. Chandra continued. “There’s a rumor going around that your I.I. cannot be an exact copy of your mind if there is anything you two disagree upon. These things are designed to carry on the life of the person they are installed from. The theory is, if a person had never died, they would have the exact same process of thought that the I.I. that actually does live on has. Since you survived, the I.I. should be identical to you in every way. In memory, in function, and in opinion.”
“But since we disagreed -- ” Chris had begun to say.
“Since you disagreed, a lot of people are taking that as evidence that the installed intelligence is not you at all,” the journalist interrupted. “Some critics say that they gave your mother the wrong I.I., either on accident or deliberately. That possibility is incredibly slim with how much you two had in common. Most are saying that it’s an A.I. though. Some from among those say that this poses the possibility that there is no such thing as an installed intelligence.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Chris sputtered. He had ignored his coffee for several minutes and the steam had stopped drifting off from it. “If that program isn't really my mind, how could he know what I had written to Lacy?”
“Well,” Mr. Chandra shrugged as he began, “the data of all your memories was recorded by the doctors when they thought you were going to die. It could be that the morticians at your installation center used that information as a basis of behavioral code for an A.I. Transcribed as if your neuroscopic data were the Rosetta Stone.”
Chris was shaken. Not so much for himself or even his mother, but for all of mankind. Installation was the missing link between mortality and eternity. Ever since its invention all those years ago, humanity had been convinced that it had just unlocked the secret of immortality. The ability to preserve the species through more efficient means than reproduction. To have the time to gain such knowledge that it would dwarf that of any living man. To be able to replace computers with the power of the human brain. To give creativity to the nonorganic.
“Do you believe it’s true, then?” Chris asked the reporter. “Do you think installation has been a hoax this whole time?”
“I am a journalist, Mr. Santson,” Mr. Chandra answered. “My job is to report opinions, not to have them. I don’t believe anything. What I know is based on fact and that which is not is not known.”
Today was the first time that Chris had spoken with his I.I. since the infamous broadcast. It was brief and it was mediated, but it was still unnerving. He was done now, waiting for the live stream to begin.
An expert in technical psychology had gotten a hold of Chris and asked him for an interview with himself and his I.I. He came from Stockholm the next day after making the arrangement and told Chris that he didn’t believe the rumors.
“I think I have a theory of my own,” he had said. “A rather simple one, too. If I am correct, then I shall be terribly surprised that it has been overlooked.”
He said no more than that, even when pressed. The scientist said that all would be revealed in a live press conference that he would schedule after a conclusion had been reached.
His name was Dr. Charles Amdahl, and he was a world renown pioneer in psychological treatment for installed intelligences. He was one of the few experts in his field who believed founded psychological practices could apply to the I.I.s without any mistranslation. He was bald as a snake and had eyebrow ridges that also resembled one. His enormous teeth were stark white and sat below his sterile-looking grey mustache. He had a thick Swedish accent and spoke with a cheer and enthusiasm that Chris found unprecedented.
Dr. Amdahl stepped out into the frame of the broadcast. He was on a stage that looked as though it was built to house a podium, yet it didn’t. He moved into the lighting and gazed into the camera lens.
“I have just concluded my analysis of Chris Santson and his installed intelligence,” he started. “After studying neuroscopic data and speaking with Chris and the I.I., I have determined that the program is in fact an installed intelligence. The rumors that he or any I.I. are actually complex A.I.s are not based on evidence and are inherently false.”
He paused for a moment to let the verdict settle on his audience. Chris himself sat forward to get a better view of his screen.
“This I.I. does not simply mimic emotion,” Dr. Amdahl continued. “He feels. He does not merely pretend to adapt. He learns. The I.I. that was created from Chris’s mind is as much human as he, as you, or as myself. He dreams. He hopes. He lives.”
The scientist adjusted his lapel and then carried on with his conclusion.
“The rumors that Chris and his I.I. are not the same person, however, are true,” he explained. “You see, though they are spawned of the same brain, they both have separate minds. At the point of installation, the life that was ceases to be and the I.I. takes over for it in turn. When Chris was mistaken for dead and his I.I. was created, one being became two, just as identical twins split in the womb. The moment before that, they were but one entity. Once split, they cease to share anything that was not there to begin with.
“In the famous broadcasted disagreement Chris has with his I.I., each based their opinion on information they learned after their split. The idea that any I.I. is just an A.I. is unfounded and absurd, but the theory that they are not exactly the individuals they are installed from seems to prove accurate. For all intents and purposes, Chris’s I.I. is a separate human being. Thank you for your time.”
And like that, Dr. Amdahl stepped off the screen.
The I.I.’s attorney pointed his finger at the dotted line that he wanted Chris to sign. It was the same kind of form that immigrant parents would fill out to begin the process of citizenship for their children.
“You sign here, where it says ‘legal guardian,’” the lawyer said in a deep voice. “Since your I.I. was created from your mind, he is legally your offspring. In the end, you have the final say in whether this petition goes any further. We have to show the government that this is not a joke.”
“Do you really think they’ll grant him citizenship?” Chris said, signing his name where he was directed.
“It’s hard to say, but with the amount of support we’ve received from the public, I don’t think it’s a far-off possibility,” the attorney replied. He scooped up the papers into his folder, then stuffed that back into his briefcase. He stood up from the couch to indicate that he was about to take his leave. “Is there anything else I can help answer?”
“No,” Chris said. “I think you’ve got a solid case. I’m glad to do my part for Chris. He is still going by that name, right?”
“That he is,” was the answer. “He said the name is as much his as it is yours and he
feels a sentimental connection to it. It’s his family name, too, you know.”
“I know,” Chris started. “It’s just weird is all.”
“Don’t worry,” the attorney smiled. “He’s come up with a rather creative compromise. He is going by Christopher Santson II. He turned the acronym for ‘installed intelligence’ into a Roman numeral. I think it’s just brilliant.”
“Yeah, well,” Chris replied, his words trailing. “Thanks for coming by.”
“My pleasure,” the lawyer said. He open the front door and started his exit. “Within a week, Chris II may well become the first legal citizen in any nation to have never been born.”
The door creaked closed behind him.
ALSO BY PHOENIX WILLIAMS
Novels
A Guardian Angel
Oneironaut
Short Stories
This is the Fun Bus
Anger
New Breed
A Fool's Lesson of Love
Coming Back
The Ridiculous Adventurous of Three Friends and the Deity that Controls Them
Courage of a Coward
