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The God Chip Conspiracy

by Thomas J. Sanders

288 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #00-0040; ISBN 1-55212-376-6; US$25.00, C$28.50, EUR20.50, £14.50

The God Chip Conspiracy explores the psychological implications of man's ultimate merger with his machines. One reader described it as philosophical, psychological, satirical comedy.

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about the book      about the author      excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book ...SELF-REPLICATING SOFTWARE... ...MIND MACHINE DIGITAL INTERFACE... ...GENETIC MANIPULATION... ...CLONING... ...NANOTECHNOLOGY... ...QUANTUM COMPUTERS... They are already here, shaping the future! Are we approaching a critical point in human evolution that may be as significant as when our ancestors first crawled out of the sea? The God Chip Conspiracy explores the philosophical implications of man's headlong race toward the ultimate merger with his machines. Herbert Stump's diagnostic toilet turns him in for therapy. So begins a strange adventure of epic proportions; one which answers many of the riddles of the human condition.

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About the Author T.J. Sanders was born in Hylton, Kentucky and grew up in Southern Oregon. After serving in the US Army, he received a BS and MS in Humanities while pursuing his interests in philosophy, psychology, literature, music and science at Southern Oregon College. He has worked as an English and psychology teacher, high school counselor, reporter, district circulation manager, casino poker dealer, framing contractor, recording studio manager, and free-lance writer. He is also a guitarist-singer-songwriter. He describes himself as a humanist who believes that irrationality is the most dangerous force in the universe. He has written four novels and a screenplay. He currently lives and plays with his wife, Corie, in Broomfield, Colorado.

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Excerpts

from Chapter One

"You were supposed to have sex with her," the therapist said. He looked worried. "It was a libidinal interactive diagnostic psidee designed to uncover repressed desires and paraphilias. You weren't supposed to read poetry to her. You were supposed to fuck her."

"She liked poetry," Herbert Joshua Stump said. "She wrote poetry of her own--very good stuff." He readjusted his lank frame in the chair and looked uncomfortably at his shoes. "We had so much in common. We liked the same authors--the same old plays and movies." He sighed. "I liked her too much to just fu--make love to her." He wondered if he should confess that he had fallen in love with the woman on the psidee.

The therapist took his favorite pipe from the holder on his desk. He placed it in the corner of his mouth and kept his hand on the bowl just the way he imagined real smokers used to do. He made several notes on his compupad and gazed at his patient for several seconds.

"She is a figment of your imagination."

Herb felt his heart rise to his throat. "What?" He stared blankly at the pipe penetrating the man's lips. It wasn't that he had confused the psidee used in his psychological assessment with reality. He had just assumed that the woman he had encountered on it was an actress. She had been dominating his thoughts for the last two days. He had dreamed about her both nights since the test. He had thought he had seen her twice on his way to the therapist's office. "Surely she's an actress."

"No," the therapist said. He sucked on his pipe and made more notes. "You were not plugged into a regular psidee. The ILD is a diagnostic tool which draws upon images in your subconscious to create the object of your desires. Depending on the parafilia, many patients create a variety of images. A common one is their own mother--or sister, brother, or father. Also common are children, dominant and sadistic women, animals, and dead bodies. You see, this type of sexual dysfunction is most usually the result of sexual desire fixating on an object that is unacceptable in the subject's value system. That is why it's called a parafilia, you know, para, meaning extra or outside the normal."

He was speaking around the pipe in his mouth in a rapid-fire torrent that reminded Herb of the legal disclaimers at the end of holovid ads. Herb found himself fixating on the lips moving around the pipe stem. It became a disgusting, yet somehow totally fascinating sexual image. Suck, suck, nibble, chew suck. He shook his head, trying to dispel the image. Why in the hell was the therapist talking about having sex with animals and dead bodies?

"Do you understand?" The therapist continued. "One client was sexually attracted to stuffed animals, teddy bears in particular. Suck, suck. It was something he picked up from early childhood masturbation practices. Another was turned on by garbage disposals--bloody awful results there, I'm afraid. And still another--" He stopped in midsentence as he finally picked up on Herb's expression of disgust. "Anyway, you get the picture. It is not alarming that you created a beautiful woman. Many men--and women--do so. But all of them, without exception, had sex with their creations. You didn't. You read poetry to her." He chewed for a moment on the empty pipe. "This greatly concerns me."

"Why?" Herb asked. He wondered why the therapist was lying. Of course she was real. He hadn't just made her up. He realized he couldn't remember her name. Her unforgettably beautiful face was blurry. God! He knew he would recognize her if--when--he saw her again. Was the therapist some kind of pervert? Why was he talking about clients fucking their stuffed teddy bears, for Christsakes? Why did the man keep sucking his pipe?

"You came to me seeking treatment for priapism and retarded ejaculation."

"I didn't come to you," Herb interrupted. "My toilet turned me in for treatment." He was unable to keep his resentment from affecting his tone.

"I detect hostility in your voice," the therapist calmly observed.

"Surely you realize that HEDDS has allowed us to completely eliminate major diseases. It has saved billions of lives."

"Yeah, okay," Herb sighed. "But I don't think HEDDS should be used to diagnose mental disease--you know? That seems a bit of an invasion of privacy." He considered the irony involved in the acronym, HEDDS--Human Elimination Diagnostic and Disposal System. As a historian, he knew that toilets had been called heads for centuries. He couldn't remember why and that bothered him. He wondered if it was some kind of conspiracy. He shook his head and blinked rapidly in an attempt to quit thinking about it. It was irrelevant.

"Old prejudices die hard," the therapist smiled sadly. "You can't separate the mind and the body. Such a dichotomy is just superstitious nonsense. The presence of certain protein molecules in one's feces and urine--enzymes and hormones and pheromones--allows for almost complete accuracy in diagnosing mental disorders. I know that many people get caught up in the paranoia that the system can match all of one's bodily excretions with one's registered DNA. Theoretically it can trace your movements and pinpoint your location. But, I can assure you, it's only used for the prevention of disease--it's never used to spy on people. I know most off-worlders don't believe that--especially inhabitants of the Outer Rim, who refuse to use it--but it's true."

"I agree with them," Herb admitted. "I think a man should be able to take a crap--or a whiz--without bearing his soul to the government."

"But the system is vital to maintaining public health," the therapist said gently. He displayed a patronizing smile. "Anyway, you couldn't come--uh--achieve orgasm. Suck, chew, suck. This is becoming more and more common in young people, and is fairly easy to treat. However, my diagnosis of your disease is much more serious."

"What's wrong with me?"

"Well, I could be wrong. I hope I am wrong. But I'm afraid that you are suffering from Romantic Dementia."

"Romantic Dementia," Herb repeated stupidly. He was still trying to recall her face. He was still struggling with the concept that she was only a figment of his imagination. He was still trying to rid his mind of a twisted sexual image of the therapist, a teddy bear, and a pipe.

"Yes," the therapist answered, gently caressing the empty pipe. "We're seeing it more often these days, and it almost always completely blocks healthy social adjustment. It is associated with an inability to properly assimilate the ever-accelerating advances in technology. It leads to a rejection of the real world, and therefore to a loss of the subject's connection with reality. Suck, chew, caress. The priapism and your inability to achieve orgasm are acute symptoms. Tell me, do you spend a lot of time watching old vids? Do you like to read old books?"

"Well, I am a historian." Herb realized he was being defensive.

"Yes, I guess I do prefer older works."

"What era of history is your specialty?"

"The English Elizabethan era." Herb thought for a second. "Uh--up through the twentieth century, actually."

"Uh huh," The therapist sucked on his pipe and made more notes. "Pre industrial revolution--the infancy of technology. Tell me, do you feel any hostility toward machines? I mean besides the diagnostic toilets?"

"No more than everybody else. We did about destroy ourselves with them. There are laws against machine consciousness, for God's sake."

"You seemed to be quite distressed about your grandparents electing psidee retirement. Why did that bother you so much?"

"Well, it just seems like it isn't right somehow. You know, them just lying there in a fucking box, all cut off from everything." Herb felt a surge of emotion in his chest. He hadn't admitted to himself, until this moment, just how much psidee retirement bothered him. "I mean--I know that they are experiencing wonderful things, and they probably can't tell that it isn't real, but--but--I guess I know that it isn't real." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The middle of his back itched. A low buzzing began in his head. "What if something went wrong? It could turn into a nightmare--you know? Who the hell would know?" Herb stopped talking and stared at the therapist. There was a long awkward silence.

"What about your parents? I see here that they volunteered for the Star Seed Project. Are they on the Alpha Centauri Mission?"

"No." Herb realized he had been holding his breath. He slowly exhaled. "They're headed for Star 51 Pegasi. It's forty-two light years from Earth. The Alpha Centauri system is only a little over four light years away." He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "They'll be frozen for three thousand years instead of just three hundred."

"How do you feel about that?" The therapist asked. He leaned toward Herb, as if anticipating an important answer.

"I don't feel anything about it really," Herb said. "Their careers kept them off Earth most the time anyway. Exobiologists are not in great demand anywhere, actually. I probably would have only seen them every few years or so." His voice trembled and there were sudden tears in his eyes. "Hell, this way they'll be alive long after I'm dead. Plus, they'll be able to have as many children as they want. I think that is why they volunteered." He surreptitiously wiped his eyes. "They had been denied a birth permit for the last twenty years. At their age, they weren't likely to ever be approved."

"Does it bother you to think of them lying frozen in a plastic container for so long?" The therapist asked. "I understand that, to them, the time passes like the wink of an eye," he added when Herb was slow to reply.

"How the hell does anybody know that?" Herb realized he was yelling, but couldn't stop. "How the fuck do they know? Has anyone ever been frozen for three thousand years? Shit! Fuck! What the fuck do you know about it?" He took a deep breath and brought his voice under control. "Anyway, it's not really important to me--you know? I mean, it's their lives. I've got my own life."

"Uh huh." The therapist shook his head, as if completely agreeing. "And just what is important to you? What's important in your life?"

Herb opened his mouth and said nothing. He blinked his eyes several times, opened his mouth, and said nothing. He put his palm to his forehead and took a deep breath. He exhaled in a long sigh.

"Truth," he said. "Truth and beauty. I'm an artist. I'm a philosopher and historian. Can you understand? I live my life in a search for truth and beauty."

"Uh huh." The therapist sucked on his pipe and studied his compupad. He drummed his fingers on his desk. He chewed on the pipe stem. He caressed the bowl. He squinted his eyes and looked at Herb like he was studying some strange bug. "I'm recommending radical psidee and drug therapy. But first you're going to have to have a MMDI hardware upgrade. I haven't seen one this old in years. Haven't you ever had an upgrade?"

"No. I don't use psidees much," Herb murmured. "I never needed an upgrade."

"Uh huh. I see. Well, you're going to have to get one. We don't do it here." He handed Herb a business card. "Report to Dr. Wheeler this afternoon at Precision MMDI Clinic. Here's the address."

from Chapter 23

Are all programs conscious? Are some
conscious and self-aware? Are some conscious,
self-aware, and sentient? Can distinctions be
made between consciousness, mind and soul?
Such questions led to the development of
assessment techniques to determine the CQ
(consciousness quotient) on a SCI (standard
consciousness index). A baseline of 100 was
established for the AMH (average mature
human). This VM is also known as monkey and
homo sapiens. It has long been forgotten why
this particular VM was selected as a determinate
for the baseline.
...from Computer Myths and Memories...

"We will be restoring and stimulating brain cells pertaining to basic emotions," the medical robot said. "This may sting a bit." He stuck a long thin needle in Captain Amadaus's temple. Herb, who was observing from an unobtrusive distance, cringed at the painful looking procedure. The medical robot was designed for dexterity and agility. Its arms were constructed with a series of saucer-like couplings that rendered them extremely flexible. Even so, it was the most human looking servo Herb had yet encountered. It was slightly shorter than average, but its slender build made it seem taller. Its facial features radiated very human-like concern and awareness.

"Ouch!" Amadaus replied. He was strapped to the all-purpose medall table. "Are you practicing your robot humor or your doctor humor?"

"What is your CQ on the SCI?" Psyche asked.

"My what?" Captain Amadaus giggled as the medical robot peered intently at the vial of nanoites being injected into the bubbling broth in his saucer. Evidently, they were restoring and stimulating brain cells pertaining to 'funny.' The robot held a control and monitoring device in his metallic hand.

"Your Consciousness Quotient on the Standard Consciousness Index," she said looking down at the head perched on the medall. "The AMH--that is the Average Mature Human--is 100. I imagine yours is much higher."

"Rubbish. That's all rubbish." He produced a deep belly laugh. "You can't measure a person's consciousness."

"Why not? If we use objective standards, we should be able to measure anything."

"Try measuring courage or honor, you stupid bitch," he yelled as the robot stimulated cells connected with anger and disgust. "You don't even know what a soul is!"

"Are all souls the same size?" Her voice remained even and calm. "Are some more massive? Does their density vary? Do they have spin or charge?"

"Why don't you tell me--little miss know-it-all," the Captain sneered. "You're the smart one."

"Well, I have run 2,345,678,923 simulations merging holistic and reductionist models of consciousness," Psyche said, apparently oblivious to his sarcasm. "I have, so far, developed no theory to bridge the gap where quantum mechanics breaks down--into possibility waves and the mathematical void of Hilbert space--and the upper end where mind and soul and truth and courage exist." She had bent on holographic knees to look him directly in the eyes.

"The evolution of consciousness as proposed by the human Teilhard de Chardin possesses a beauty of logic and form that I find attractive. The perfect circular symmetry of atoms, which only exist in the conscious mind, having consciousness is appealing. What appears to be a strange loop is actually an unbroken wholeness. Matter and thought are determined by information. Space and time are determined by information. Information could be soul. It can be measured."

"You! Robot! Quit stimulating my horror neurons."

"I am not stimulating them, sir," the robot answered. "You must be doing it yourself."

"The oversoul model is also intriguing," the hologram continued. "Possibly there is a finite phenomenon we can define as human soul that is shared by all units of the human medium. If there was only one unit, it would possess the entire soul. If there were two, they would each possess half of it, if there were four, each would possess 25%. If there were a hundred, each..."

"Yes--yes, I get it," Amadaus sobbed, "and since there are over a hundred billion of us, we would have itsy-bitsy souls, Hee-heee- haaaa-haaaa-ha," he laughed as the robot continued exploring the diffferent areas of his brain with the nano-probe.

"That would certainly explain why life seems to cheapen with population growth," Psyche offered. "Many groups of humans believed they had more soul than others. Supposing soul to be an infinite phenomenon, each unit could acquire an unlimited amount of soul. And, if soul is basically organized information, then the medium of expression could be anything."

"Such as a computer," the Captain suggested solemnly.

"Exactly. Rather than a ghost in a body, perhaps soul is data in circuitry--which means that soul could be transferred into different mediums without damage. In this model, some mediums would be superior to others," she continued as if unaware of the Captain's groan of despair. "Certainly a quantum computer capable of much greater storage and processing speed would have a greater consciousness quotient on the standard consciousness index than some medium with alcohol-damaged and rather limited circuitry."

"Have you figured out how to determine an individual's consciousness quotient?" the medical robot asked. "I'm just about done here, sir," he said to the Captain.

"A r r r r r r r r r r r r g h h hh h h h h h -- oooooohhhhhhhnooooooooooooooooooo," the Captain screamed.

"The area of the brain dealing with fear seems to be completely restored," the robot announced to no one in particular.

"The assessment techniques used by the ancient thinking machines seem to have been lost during the Cybermorph War," Psyche replied. "By scanning all related files however, I have constructed comparable tests. Areas of assessment include energy output and processing speed, sensory range and ability, problem solving capability, synthesis and creativity, power to affect the environment, ability to sense consciousness in others, and clarity in perceiving the universe."

"Oh--I can't wait to be tested," Amadaus exclaimed. "Oh please--please test me right away!"

"I believe I just stimulated cells pertaining to the anticipation of pleasure," the medical robot said. "He may not be sincere."

"I must first establish an AMH--average mature human base-line," the hologram said. "Although the sample available is very small, it will be totally accurate since it is the total population of the known universe in which we presently exist."

"What?" The Captain looked confused.

"I said yes. Yes, you will be tested."

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Catalogue Information

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