The Turing Option

“No, not necessarily. Although Brian cannot actually think, he is definitely not brain-dead as the lawyers put it. A few years ago nothing more could have been done. This is no longer true. I am sure that you know that Brian has helped me in a practical application of his AI theories, the development of an experimental technique to rebuild severed brain connections. I have had a measure of success, but only on animals so far.”

“If there is a chance, any chance at all, you must take it. Can you do it, can you save Brian?”

“It is too early to say anything with any degree of certainty. The damage is extensive and I don’t know how much I can repair. The trouble is that in addition to the general trauma the bullet has severed millions of nerve fibers. It will be impossible for me to match up all of them. But I hope to identify a few hundred thousand and join them.’’

Benicoff shook his head. “You just lost me, doctor. You are going into his open skull and identify something like a million different and severed nerve fibers? That will take years.”

“It would if I had to do them one by one. However, computer-controlled microsurgical technology can now operate on many sites at one time. Our parallel computer can identify several connections every second — and there are 86,400 seconds in each day. If everything goes as planned the memory-probe process should only take a few days to identify and label the nerve fibers we must reconnect.”

“Can this be done?”

“Not easily. When a nerve fiber is cut off from its mother cell it dies. It is fortunate that the empty tube of the dead cell remains in place and this makes regrowth of the nerve possible. I will be using implants of my own design that will control that regrowth.” Snaresbrook sighed. “And after that, well, I fear that the nerve repair will just be the beginning. It is not simply a matter of connecting up all the severed nerves we can see.”

“Why is that not enough?”

“Because we must restore the original connections. And the problem is that all nerve fibers look, and are, almost the same. Indistinguishable. But we have to match them up correctly to get the right connections inside the mind. Memory, you see, is neither in the brain cells nor in the nerve fibers. It is mostly in the layout of the connections between them. To get things right, we shall need a third stage — after we’ve finished the second stage today. After that, we shall have to find a way to access and examine his levels of memory — and rearrange the new connections accordingly. This has never been done before and I am not sure that I can do it now. Ah, here we are.”

The technician hurried in with the multiscan cassette of the V.I. and inserted it into the projector; the three-dimensional hologram sprang into existence. Snaresbrook examined it closely, nodded grimly. “Now that I can see the extent of the damage, I can finish the debridement and prepare for the second and vital stage of this operation — the reconnection.”

“Just what is it you plan to do?”

“I’m going to use some new techniques. I hope to be able to identify the role that each of his nerve fibers once played in his various mental activities — by finding out where each of them fit into his semantic neural networks. These are the webs of brain connections that make up our knowledge and mental processes. I must also take the radical step of severing the remaining portions of his corpus callosum. This will provide the unique opportunity of making connections to virtually every part of his cerebral cortex. This will be dangerous — but will provide the best chance to reconnect the two halves completely.”

“I must know more about this,” Benicoff said. “Is there any chance you will let me observe the operation?”

“Every chance in the world — I have had up to five residents in the O.R. breathing down my neck at one time. It’s fine with me as long as you stay out of my way. What’s this sudden interest?”

“More than morbid curiosity, I assure you. You’ve described the machines you use and what they do. I want to see them in operation. I need to know more about them if I am going to ever know anything about AI.”

“Understood. Come along, then.”

3 February 10, 202

Benicoff, gowned and masked, stretchable boots pulled over his shoes, pressed his back to the green tiles of the wall of the operating room and tried to make himself invisible. There were two large lights on ceiling tracks that one of the nurses moved about and focused until the resident surgeon approved their positioning. On the table sterile blue sheets had been draped tentlike over Brian’s still figure. Only his head was exposed, projecting beyond the end of the table and held immovably by the pointed steel spokes of the head holder. There were three of them, screwed through the skin of his scalp and anchored firmly in the bone below. The bandages that covered the two bullet wounds were stark white in contrast to his orange skull, shaved smooth and painted with disinfectant.