Writing

A wordsmith I am not, but if you can suffer the slop I write below and offer advice on how to improve. I thank you in advance.

Descartes Demon

Chapter one: The interview

First a hum, then a rasp, finally a loud chirping that snaps the mind from distant dreams and back to confusing reality. The cotton white T-shirt is like another layer of skin, and sopped with sweat. The air is cold and my body is chilled. Lifting my head from the pillow is more like removing myself from a wet puddle. Disgusted, off I go to the shower. Is it like purification? Almost everyday, nightmares. Coincidence, or is it my job. It has to be the job. Over the past ten years I have designed hundreds of weapons, robots, and computer programs for the government. Call me a genius? Perhaps, but every night I pay the price by visiting a different version of possible Armageddons.

Eat a quick microwave breakfast, put on my suit, scramble around my pig sty of an apartment for my briefcase, keys, and glasses. To the parking lot, and into a black sedan. The steering wheel has a palm recognition lock that disengages with a bleep as one hand turns the ignition. The leather interior makes the car smell new, fresh. You can’t even hear the engine until the car shoots past 300 mph. The holograph projection of the speedometer on the windshield flips rapidly beyond 350 once off the highway and towards work. While I am opening the briefcase and rifling threw pages of work, the car moves onward in auto-pilot with the assistance of satellite guidance.

Almost imperceptible the neural net computer system brings the car to a gradual stop. The door opens with a hiss as the cabin pressure is compromised. The auto warning activates, "secured air supply unavailable while door is ajar". Close the door and walk towards the concrete outhouse. That’s the joke, out in the middle of nowhere is a small concrete structure about 10’ in height and 5’ in width with one metal door. The whole scene is simple and terrifying - aside from that small structure is nothing, just deserted, undeveloped, barren land and horizon. There is no turning back at this point. Protecting the great outhouse on this dusty road is a guard and a small booth with a little gate. Yes that little toothpick of a gate can rise and lower, or a clever mind will just walk around the 4’ arm of wood that is called a gate. The gate that secures a perimeter of nothing for over 50 miles.

"Hello Jack" I flash my ID card and walk past. The guard just nods silently and pushes some hidden button that raises a gate I could easily walk around. The car silently departs within 2 minutes after I disembark. Up to the metal door. A door with no handles, or visible hinges, it seems to just hang there. Once I am within an inch or two it opens automatically, and it closes just as quickly once I am beyond the arch. A pleasant thought… if I was to hesitate it would crush me into a puddle of blood and splintered bones.

Next, I am in the concrete box. The overhead lights illuminate a palm sensor. I put my hand on, and then I am prompted by a voice to look into the light. An optical scan is performed (one of the considerably more difficult security measures to bypass). The floor seems to shake, and then it lowers me into the next room. Step off the circular platform and into the next room. The platform disappears back into the ceiling leaving no trace, or hint it ever existed.

Now I am in the main chamber. Up until this point I can turn back without a problem. If someone was trying to imitate me, or bypass security the worst that could happen is the alarms go off, a sleep gas is introduced, and a bunch of big guys with guns will be waiting outside to detain the offending individual once the room is ventilated and cleared by security to enter. This is different. Now I am going to "the chair". Some idiot thought this up, and it has always frightened me.

Close your eyes and imagine this… A perfect circle, a room about 40’ in diameter. The walls are like black obsidian, somewhere hidden behind the black sheen are hundreds of cameras. The room is illuminated by the floor and ceiling with soft red light. In the middle on a raised platform is a chair. The chair. This monster of a contraption seems alive. Like a dentist chair holds the entire body, this has support for the head, back, arms, and legs. The chair is black and seems to be from hell with the red light dancing off of its many intricate curves and surfaces. Other than looking like a dentist chair, it seems harmless. Once you sit down the ride begins.

Plop yourself down and get comfortable. The chair takes a few minutes to warm up. It’s probably busy calculating the dimensions of my body from the cameras in the room when I first walked in. It might even calculate my weight (I don’t know, I didn’t design the thing). Then I start to get nervous, the clicking sound begins, all of the hidden compartments pop open suddenly and with lightning speed clamp my body down to the chair. Arm braces that lock at the wrist, elbow and just below the shoulder. Leg locks beginning at the toe of the foot, then the ankle, above and below the knee. Chest belts loop around and tighten firmly. Here is the threatening part, a series of five rounded bars lock around my neck like a cold hand. A belt straps around the chin and two metal panels lock at the sides of the head.

Now the chair places your body in position. The legs are spread slightly apart. The arms slightly raised but still below the heart. The hands are pushed by metal plates until the palms face up. The chin is aligned until you face directly forward.

All of this leads to the last security clearance before I am allowed to go to work. A series of personality questions. If I get them wrong, the chair performs an examination. If I get too many wrong, the chair can probably do a little investigative surgery (some might call it an autopsy). The only safeguard, is someone monitoring the security cameras hidden in the room. If the guard wants, the chair can be disengaged, or so I am told. Like a scorpions tail from the base of the chair and over my head a probe begins to scan my face. On the tip of this tail are prongs, needles, clamps, robotic pincers, several cameras, a computer screen, a pair of speakers, and probably some more hidden compartments that hide some nasty surprises.

A soft feminine voice speaks. Now the questions begin. "How are you tonight Dr. Presage?" The answer is not as simple. This will set the tone for the remainder of the questions. If I am in a bad mood, or the wrong mental state, everything can get pretty ugly. I decide to cut to the chase "fine, are you going to ask me about my dreams again?" is my first move in the beginning of a chess game. Her voice is beautiful, but in that beauty it becomes annoying, abrasive, because of its motive "Yes, if you would like, please continue." I knew the question would be asked regardless of who prompted my interrogation. However, it is necessary to maintain control of the direction and tone of the questioning. Everything is being tracked – the time it takes for me to respond, facial expression, eye movement, and of course, all my vital signs. "It was about the end of the world again. Those are the only dreams I remember." I have to keep my heart from beating too fast. I need to take control by asking another question and stay ahead of this probing. What is so interesting about my dreams? Question is too defensive, and will cause the chair to counter with aggressive probing. I need to restructure that comment. Too many seconds… I can’t delay. The chair responds before I formulate my question, and I can feel my frustration leak out. I am struggling to keep myself in check. "Perhaps these dreams are the explanation for the delay in your projects?" Compared to what time table? A delay for something that has yet to be invented!!! I am angry. The delay. Stay calm. What a moronic comment. If there are delays in my project who the hell are they to say? Pulse has to stay consistent. I am the only person that can carry the damn thing out. I could build heaven for these ingrates and they still would ask for a reason as to why it wasn’t already there. My facial expression, I can’t allow my face to twitch. The chair’s only concern is confirming my personality and my performance. Sometimes it helps to just remind myself. The damn thing terrifies me and now I am against the ropes. It must have detected something when I was speaking. So polite it infuriates me. My response must include by implication that everything is in order. "Actually, I am right on target with the project mission goals and expected completion. In fact I have made some modifications that surpass the objectives stated and improve the threshold tolerance for error. If that is acceptable?" Interesting, the chair is taking an unusual amount of time to respond, maybe it worked. I have to predict it’s response will comment on a project flaw. "There is no need to rush. It was a concern that needed to be addressed. There are some problems with the project you are aware of. The subjects of a personality scan still expire after the procedure. How do you plan to resolve this difficulty?" There is something wrong. I must be doing really well. I remind myself not to stare too long into the camera lense of the tail. The chair never directs a line of questioning about work or any projects for security reasons. This one is designed to test my sense of morality and ethical obligations. It is not the technical question it appears to be. "I am sure the company will not use this on anyone until I fix the problem." There is no reply, the interview is over. My vision blurs. I can feel my heart slowing. It is difficult to think. My fingertips tingle. [Notation (to be erased, of course) - chess metaphor is apt, protaganist/narrator and computer each must plan and think several moves/questions-answers ahead in this exchange. The idea is to push Dr. Presage to his limit, and just a little bit past it; to put him through an emotional ringer, cause a minor breakdown, then sedate him, and wake him up later in comfort and bliss. This good cop-bad cop routine has the psychological affect of bonding him ever more inextricably with this mysterious organization he works for.]

Chapter 2: To die without death

The lab is clean and smells of antiseptic. Eveything is meticulously arranged and appears harsh under the perfect white lights that seem to scrutinize with its touch. The computers are still running computations that I assigned days ago. This is different than any other data analysis I have ever created. How do you make an algorithim to examine something so complex as a personality and inner being? The scan engine still causes some lethal response in the test subject immediately after data collection. Reduce the levels of radiation, tighten the range of the scan, provide immediate medical treatment. I have tried everything to prevent this reaction, but I am missing something. There is something the scan engine must affect that cannot be copied or preserved. By design the scan should take all of the aspects of a targets personality and store them in a computerized environment.

Ideally this scan engine could be applied in many different ways. The greatest minds of the world can be forever immortalized. If a great mind such as Einstien could have lived on. The advances that would have taken place. Rather than store the subjects memories, you can copy their personality so they live on. This would allow someone to tackle problems beyond their lifetime --unforeseen problems, or new questions that are not covered just by preserving someone’s memory. Maybe on a less noble scale, targets that are not receptive to interrogation could be questioned in an artificial environment. This world is computerized and can compress years of questioning into hours.

The project is almost perfected. The scan engine is fully functional, it can copy every aspect of a targets personality and recreate it in Amaranth. The computer environment that holds these scans is called Amaranth (a place where no one can die). Amaranth has the capacity to hold over 100,000 personalities. This only means something when you begin to appreaciate the storage requirements for even one personality. In any given human, their mind is the equivalent of a super computer. The mind is spontaneous, it can improvise, and Amaranth has to deal with all of this complexity on the fly in a seamless world without flaws or contradictions. It has taken my entire life to build this heaven, and still there are flaws. Only certain personalities have the capacity to even notice these flaws and as I continue with the project this threshold will become even stronger. The project has surpassed even my expectations and its potential is even greater. The scan engine copies completely all details. The subjects that have been scanned seem almost alive in Amaranth. They react and learn as they go. You can anticipate their actions to a limited degree based on data extrapolations, but it is not 100% reliable. When looking at the personality models in Amaranth it is like looking into someone’s soul. The depth of feeling, emotions, the shear intensity of the experience of watching almost makes me feel like a god. I will never forget the first time the scan engine successfully fired.