PAUL WHITCOVER: Each Vestige features critical-thinking initiatives so advanced it not only sustains the initial personality, but allows the processor to learn from new stimuli, to form attachments—to grow in the same way the human mind does. This Vestige is built on a donor actress—anonymous, for now, though I suspect some in the audience will know who she is as soon as you talk to her.
[LAUGHTER]
In seriousness, I would like to honor everyone at Mori who participated in the development of such a remarkable thing. The stock market will tell you that this is an achievement of great technical merit, and that’s true. However, those who have honored loved ones with a Memento doll will tell you that this is a triumph over the grieving heart, and it’s this that means the most to Mori.
Understandably, due to the difficulty of crafting each doll, the Vestige is a very limited product. However, our engineers are already developing alternate uses for this technology that you will soon see more of—and that might yet change your world.
Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for being here today. It is not only my honor, but my privilege.
[APPLAUSE]
Small-group interviews with Vestige will be offered to members of the press. Check your entrance ticket. Thank you again, everyone, really, this is such a thrill, I’m glad you could be here. If you’d—
The phone call comes from some internal extension he’s never seen, but he’s too distracted by the streaming press-conference footage to screen it.
Paul is made for television; he can practically see the HR people arranging for his transfer to Public Relations.
(He can’t believe Paul carried through with Nadia the Aesthetic Consultant. He can absolutely believe Paul named her Galatea.)
“This is Mason.”
There’s nothing on the other end, but he knows it’s her.
He hangs up, runs for the elevator.
Nadia’s on the floor in the library, twitching like she got fifty thousand volts, and he drops to his knees and pulls the connecting cable out of her skull.
“We have to get you to a hospital,” he says, which is the stupidest thing that’s ever come out of his mouth (he watches too many movies). What she needs is an antivirus screen in one of the SysTech labs.
Maybe it’s for her sake he says it, so they can keep pretending she’s real until she tells him otherwise.
“It’s the baseline,” she says, and he can’t imagine what she was doing in there.
He says, “I’ll get you to an Anti-V, hang on.”
“No,” she manages.
Then her eyes go blank and flat, and something inside her makes an awful little click.
He scoops her up without thinking, moves to the elevator as fast as he can.
He has to get her home.
He makes it in seven minutes (he’ll be paying a lot of tickets later), carries her through the loft. She’s stopped twitching, and he doesn’t know if that’s better or worse.
He assumes she’s tougher than she looks—God knows how many upgrades Paul’s put her through—but you never know. She’s light enough in his arms that he wonders how she was ever expected to last.
He sets her on one of the chaises the Mori designer insisted mimicked the lines of the living room, drags it through the doorway to his study.
He finds the socket (behind one ear), the same place as Memento; rich people don’t care for visible flaws.
He plugs her into his program.
It feels slimy, like he’s showing her into his bedroom, but at least Mori won’t monitor the process.
Her head is limp, her eyes half-lidded and unseeing.
“Hold on,” he says, like some asshole, pulls up his program.
(Now he’s sorry he deleted her avatar; he could help her faster if he had any framework ready to go.)
The code scans. Some of it is over his head—some parts of her baseline Paul got from the black market. (Black-market programmers can do amazing work. If he gets out of this alive, he might join up with them.)
He recognizes a few lines of his own code that have integrated, feels prouder than he should.
He recognizes some ID stamps that make his whole chest go tight, and his eyes ache.
Paul’s an idiot, he thinks, wants to punch something.
Then he sees the first corruption, and his work begins.
He’s never worked with a whole system. It’s always been lines of code sent to points unknown; Galatea was the first time he’d worked with anything close to a final product.
Now Nadia is staring at the ceiling with those awful empty eyes, and his fingers shake.
If he thinks of this as surgery he’s going to be ill. He turns so he can’t see her.
After a while he hits a stride; it takes him back to being twelve, recreating their apartment in a few thousand lines of code, down to the squeak in the hall.
(“That’s very … specific,” his mother said, and that was when he began to suspect his imagination was wanting.)
When he finishes the last line, the code flickers, and he’s terrified that it will be nothing but a string of zeros like a flatline.
But it cycles again, faster than he can read it, and then there’s a boot file like Galatea’s, and he thinks,
