iScream louder on the inside

Matthew du Plessis: Jim knocked on the door of Anderkant Engineering.

"Mr Van der Heuwel, I presume?" came a voice from inside.

"Jim," said Jim. " Mr Fritz?"

"Come on in, Jim," said Mr Fritz from behind his desk inside the small office. "Let's see it, then."

Jim sat down and pulled out a small, black and glossy device, enclosed in a rubber casing.

Mr Fritz brought it up to his nose, turning it this way and that as he inspected the gadget.

"My word," he whispered suddenly. "It's real!"

"Of course it's real," said Jim. "I told you it was over the phone."

"Well, I can't say I believed you then, but it's hard to dispute the evidence when it's staring you in the face."

"Can you fix it?" asked Jim

"What have you been using it for?" demanded Mr Fritz.

"Filtering, mainly. I found it in my uncle's stuff when he died. Didn't know what to do with it until I tried linking it up to the newsfeeds, the mail servers and media houses. Up till now it's been brilliant - everything it shows me is exactly what I need to know or feel like watching, at any given moment."

"Yes, I suppose it would do that," nodded Mr Fritz. "It was made to anticipate its owners every whim. Did it make you very rich?"

"What?"

"Theoretically you could have asked it for stock tips."

"Never thought of that," muttered Jim, grimacing. "Maybe I will when you fix it."

"When I fix it?" frowned the engineer. "We'll see. Let me explain what you've actually got there.

"This," explained Mr Fritz, "is a limited-run factory prototype, made in 2027 - briefly called the iBrain. There were only seven made before the UN AI-protection protocols kicked in, after which all seven were destroyed. Except, clearly, one wasn't."

"AI? Like Google?"

"No, the Googlemind is a total brass-tacks construct, so that's fine. What you've got here is a contraband mindclone. When you got it, did it work right away?"

"Er, no," said Jim. "Doug's notes said I had to . um ..."

"Wear it under your cap for a week?" suggested Mr Fritz.

"Sleep with it under my pillow."

"Yes, that'll do it. It needs to be near your head to get a decent copy. What you've got there, sonny, is essentially an exact replica of your brain's inner workings. Except it's more than that - it is you, chained up to a management protocol."

"Come off it. It's not me. I'm me," protested Jim.

"Well, it might as well be. These things were built on the back of the mind-mapping technology that was developed as a proposed personality back-up project for the kind of people who could afford to grow their own clones. The idea was that you backed-up your mind every now and then, and then if you were in an accident or something, they'd port your backed-up mind into your clone's brain. Only they never figured out how to get the genie into the new bottle, so to speak."

"But it's never hinted at having a personality, let alone being . me?"

"Management protocols. The copy of you is kept locked in a virtual world, where it's fed context from your current brain state and presented with all the information the device can pull in from its outside feeds. Then the device monitors what this 'mini-you' seems to prefer and shoots it back to you in the blink of an eye.

"As a filter, the iBrain functions as a buffer between you and information overload. But because it's running on postsilicon circuits, the device has a much faster processor than a real brain, so in an instant 'mini-you' can sort through more information than you-you could process in a week. The flip-side is that this means the you inside is living out an entire life in there."

"Well, that isn't creepy at all," said Jim, horrified.

"Hmmm. When did it stop working properly?"

"About six weeks ago."

"And you've had it how long?"

"Five years, give or take?

"Dear lord," exclaimed Mr Fritz.

"What?"

"Considering that this device is essentially a jail cell, containing what can only be described as, well, you, and bearing in mind the accelerated CPU cycles mean that a second inside is subjectively equivalent to a week or more outside ."

"It's been a long time. You don't mean it's . I've . he's died?"

"Died? No, son. Your buffer is . overwrought. It's gone mad."

"Oh," murmured Jim. "What ... what should we do?"

"There's only one thing to do," sighed Mr Fritz.

He opened a drawer, and drew out a hammer.

"Will you do it - or shall I?"