The House of Mourning

June 17 – location classified

"Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin, but with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of festering, the wounds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my friend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not with hatred for your enemies." - Mary Shelley

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The air was heavy with the smell of the sea. In the distance, the gulls were crying.

The house was a simple structure. A few windows. Wood siding. Elevated above the surface of the water by a number of sturdy logs. The dingy, in which I stood, rocked with the waves, bumping against the base of the steps.

I wore jeans and sneakers. A light blue top. My hair unbound. A leather satchel over the shoulder. I'm sure I looked like a graduate student.

"Hello Professor," I called, "may I come in?"

He stood at the top of the stairs. Tall, slender, he regarded me with what I took to be curiosity, yet I am sure he had no illusions about who or what I was.

"You may enter," he said. His accent was thick and unusual, but pleasant to the ear.

"Thank you Professor," I replied and began to climb the wooden steps.

"May I make your acquaintance, miss?" he asked politely.

On the landing, I stopped and smiled, "My name is Pepper. Pepper Siamendes. I am with the Special Investigations Unit."

"My captors." It was a statement.

"Yes sir. That is correct," I replied. "I have brought your books."

"The originals?" he asked.

"From your ship. Yes."

"I would like that," he replied.

"Splendid," I said, and began to look for a place to set down my bag. I did not enter the house.

"What crime have I committed that is still within the statute of limitations?" he asked. I did not reply before he added, "Come inside, I put a fire on."

"Oh thank you," I said pleasantly.

The house was indeed small. A narrow corridor with a place for performing ablutions at one end. An interior door on the right leading to the main room. Two wooden chairs faced an old iron stove. One bare shelf mounted on the far wall. Fragments of a radio in the center of the room. Nothing else in the way of furnishings.

"A supply boat comes by every 96 hours," said the Professor.

"And does the food agree with you?" I asked, as I took my seat.

He countered with a question of his own. "Is it safehouse food or prison food? As prison food, it is above par."

I did not answer. Instead, I opened my bag and removed his books, offering them to him one at a time.

"Thank you, young lady," he said, as he accepted his modest library of five volumes.

"I will admit that I took the liberty of reading them," I said.

"Did you find them enjoyable or illuminating?" he asked. He picked up 'El Zahir', flipped through to a few pages and held them up to the light.

"I found them...." I frowned slightly, "thought provoking."

"Kafka and Borges in particular are under appreciated," he added.

"I enjoyed Frankenstein," I confessed, "I noticed that one never saw the doctor or his monster in the same scene." At least, until the doctor had died.

"Did you recall the passage just after the doctor creates the monster?" he asked, "He remarked that it was beautiful....then about how horrible it was."

I nodded.

The Professor continued, "The 'monster' I think was Doctor Frankenstein himself, a horrible man. The creation was gifted, sensitive, auto-didactic, kind."

I could not remain silent on this point. "The creation murdered a child."

"Driven to extremes by the hatred of men and lacking the common bond," replied the Professor, "The world was set against him for mere appearance. The world severed its bonds with him, then he was no longer bound by their rules. When he lived under that family's house, I naively held out hope for him, even though I knew the final outcome."

"Hope for integration into society?" I asked.

"To find a place in the world where one can not be a monster. But if there is no place for you, what then?"

I thought this over. "Well, I suppose one lives on the fringes..."

Professor Aurotharius stoked the fire as he listened to my response.

"One must survive, yes?" I suggested.

"Yes," he agreed, "He sought out his maker. To force his maker to make things right for him.

"Do you think that was possible?" I asked.

"He wanted a mate so he would not be alone. That would be salve enough. With his creator's diary, he knew what his creator was like. That being said," he continued, "is this a safehouse or a prison?"

I answered his question. "I would say, it is a bit of both."

"I am sure the statute of limitations has run out on any crime that I could be charged with," he insisted.

"You are a valuable asset," I explained, "so in that sense, it is to keep you safe."

"I did my part," he said, "I kept silent."

"And I hope that we can talk," I added.

"Aren't we talking?" he asked, "I had fallen out of the habit."

I smiled warmly by way of response.

The Professor took out 'One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.' and thumbed through various pages. "Where are the rest of my personal effects?" he asked.

"The ship had been breached before our arrival," I replied.

"There was a metal box with the remains of my daughter."

I sighed, "I am afraid that was lost."

"Explain," he said. It was not a request. He took out 'El Aleph' and opened it to a specific page, then closed the book.

I told him what I suspected. "I believe that your daughter's friend Mercedes hired some men to find your ship. She was the only one I know of that had prior knowledge of its approximate whereabouts."

"Qui's Mercedes?"

"Yes."

The Professor looked shocked.

"You seem surprised," I said.

"She was a sweet and affectionate girl," he replied. "Too much sugar and soda, but a perfectly well behaved child."

"She took your daughter's passing very hard, I believe."

"We all did."

"Of course," I acknowledged.

"You know her?" he asked. He meant Mercedes.

Keeping the focus on Audrey, I said, "I understand that you did everything you could to save her."

"I did too much," he replied.

"What do you mean?"

"She passed the point of no return with mainstream treatments," answered the Professor, "We tried an experimental treatment, it went poorly."

"Go on."

"You don't happen to know who Henrietta Lacks is, do you?" he asked.

"No, I'm sorry. I do not."

The Professor explained, "A woman from the 20th century that died of cancer. But the cancer cells were unique, they were immortal."

"Immortal?" I asked, skeptically.

He elaborated, "Given normal ranges of temperature, humidity and food and water, they would divide indefinitely. No aging."

"And what does this have to do with Audrey?" I asked.

"The process we used on Audrey was supposed to rejuvenate her cells. Like the Turritopsis nutricula. But it created an immortal cell line of the amyloid proteins. It grew at an alarming rate. The doctors at the Angels of Mercy did amazing work, with skin grafts, clone organs, replacements from donors. But it didn't work."

"I'm sorry."

"That is kind," he replied, "It was a long time ago."

"It must seem fresh," I suggested, "you have been in stasis for most of the intervening period."

"My stasis is experimental. Its intent is to develop in me the ability to have some neural function while in stasis."

This was new. "You were.... aware?" I asked.

"Not much at first," he said, "It takes time to develop. It is a different type of consciousness."

I shook my head a little trying to grasp the concept and its implications.

The Professor continued, "Similar to a timeless, selfless meditative state. I can do it for limited amounts of time now without technological assistance. A few days at a time with slowed pulse and respiration..."

I exhaled. "Remarkable."

"...Like a lucid dream. It was to allow pilots for interstellar trips to be able to stay in stasis and monitor some ship functions. They would decide whether they needed to be awakened. Obviously, I failed at that at least twice."

Circle back.

"Oh!" I cried, "did I give you your photo?" I dug into my bag.

"No, you didn't."

"It is a copy I am afraid," I admitted. An image of the picture as it was suspended over his stasis tank. It showed himself, his daughter, and members of his research team.

"Where is the original?" he asked, as he accepted my offer.

"It was a bit large to bring."

"Another time then," he said. There was a pause as he held the photo. "What does our proud Alliance need from me?" he asked finally.

"To continue your fine work," I said plainly

"My work was a failure," he replied.

I said nothing. I waited. I listened to the sound of the fire.

It was roughly two minutes before he spoke again.

"Most so-called science is 'ironic' science," he began.

"Ironic? How so?"

"Like debating about what Plato really meant," he replied.

I tilted my head slightly to the side, conceding the point.

"I like the imagery of Plato's cave," he continued, "That we are trying to figure out about the real world from shadows on the cave's walls. We live in the cave. For 120 years, our civilization stopped. And for the last 300 years, we've wallowed in the cave. I hoped that in our think tank that we would go beyond the cave. But people just looted it to make their cave more comfortable."

"What was the most significant moment in science?" I asked.

"When some primitive man learned how to make soap...." he replied.

I chuckled.

"It was probably his wife," he added.

Now.

"When you realized you couldn't save Audrey's body," I asked, "what steps did you take to preserve her mind?"

Professor Aurotharius began, "If you found yourself with the memories, skills and mental states of Napoleon Bonaparte, would you BE Napoleon Bonaparte? Would you assume you were reincarnated, possessed, a mental patient, the victim of a mad experiment?"

"Go on."

"You are not your memories," he stated. "Copying her memories would not be the same as keeping her alive. It would be something else with her memories."

"And cloning?" I asked.

"It would be a different child," he replied, "To clone the child and rewrite its memories would rob it of self determination. If the technology existed to rewrite your memories, you would not object afterwards. Because you would think that is you. There are anaesthetic replacements that do not knock you out or dull the pain. They just erase the memory of the pain of the operation. But they operate on you without anaesthetic."

"And her brain... after she passed, to your knowledge, were the neurotubules harvested for use in quantum computing simulations?"

"I did not even allow an autopsy," he said emphatically.

I nodded silently.

He elaborated, "She was immediately body bagged and placed in morgue stasis. I took her remains intact." He then asked, "What do you know of neural microtubules?"

"I have read some of the Project files," I admitted. I presented the next piece. "The Ardra Mainframe appears to be operating as if Audrey's consciousness is its driving principal."

"That program was scrapped ages ago," he replied, "I literally pulled the plug on the power supply. It was scrapped, boxed and warehoused."

"Then someone opened the box," I said, "It is currently operating autonomously, and outside of Alliance control."

He reacted. "That drunken sot Serendipity opened it, didn't he? Outside of Alliance control? Who? It's an invasive program, a data miner. It gets other programs to allocate unused resources to mine data and relay it."

"It has Audrey's memories," I said, "and considers them 'her' own."

"Do you know who William James is?" he asked, "A late 19th century psychologist, one of the founders of modern psychology. The A.R.D.R.A. mainframe uses his multiplicity of minds theory as its architecture. The programs all think they are just parts of the share consciousness... Audrey used to play games with A.R.D.R.A.. A neural link to a virtual playworld."

"Was she connected when she died?" I asked.

"Yes," answered the Professor, "She was unconscious the last 3 days. She still interacted with the program though. It must have formed much of its core experience. Audrey was ill most of her life, she knew she was dying since she was 9. Most of her play was imagining what she might do as an adult."

"Or maybe," I theorized, "just maybe this means we are stepping out of Plato's cave...."

"Artificial Life is Constance's specialty," he replied. "Not mine."

We had now arrived at the crossroads. I presented my case.

"I am charged with finding the Ardra Mainframe," I declared, "It thinks it is your daughter. I would like it if I can count on your help."

"That mainframe is a thing," he replied, "not my daughter. I will help in any way I can."

"I understand. Thank you Professor."

He continued, "My daughter is dead and no amount of well meaning help can make it otherwise."

I nodded.

"Let me know what I can do," he said.

"I will. Thank you."

The Professor hadn't finished. "Take this," he said and he pressed a small disk into my hand. It was a 1929 Argentinean 20 centavos piece. The same coin as the Zahir from Borges' short story.

"A coin?" I asked.

"Anyone on the team will know you got it from me," he explained.

I nodded again.

"Save it for that purpose," he said.

"I will let you rest," I said as I picked up my bag.

"I will read my books," he said, "then rest a few days."

"Would you like any more books?" I asked, "I can put in a request."

"I would like a newer power supply for this radio."

Not likely to happen, I thought. At least, not yet.

"I shall ask," I replied, "If the request is denied, shall I send some prerecorded music?""

"Tchaikovsky's Slavonic dances."

"Gladly."

"And a fishing pole," he added.

"Thank you for your time Professor," I said politely, as we stepped out of the house.

"It was refreshing to have company," he replied, "Every 10 years or so to keep me fresh."

I smiled cheerfully. "Good day," I said as I climbed into the dingy and signaled for pick up.

"Careful with the boat," he cautioned, "It leaks. I think it is a security measure."