Dr Geistner asked the dead man on the table if everything had been satisfactory, and was pleased by his response. Pleased, and relieved. This latest success was just what Project Denouement needed.
She leaned back in the plastic chair, which flexed to accommodate her movement, and removed the bulky VR headset. A ring of sweat surrounded her eyes, where it had sealed to her face. The fluorescent lighting in this room was far too bright at the best of times, but especially after taking off the headset. Unadorned white walls stared back at her; requests for some sort of decor had been made, but money was tight and, of course, their patients had no need for art.
In spite of the exhaustion, it had been a satisfying day.
“Tired?” asked Dr Singh from an identical chair, on the opposite side of the antiseptic steel table and its burden.
“Yeah. I mean, five patients in one day…it doesn’t get easier, you know?”
“You don’t have to watch them all. Breaks are allowed,” he said, blank-faced as always. “I’ll call someone to get rid of this.” He gestured casually at the dead man.
Dr Geistner stood and stretched, then gently disconnected the mask and neural bridge from the elderly man’s head.
“I have a responsibility. The last few minutes are so stressful…”
“Maybe this isn’t the time to bring this up again. But we could merge the neurons into the AI, keep the personality viable for a few more minutes. Gather more data.” He raised his hands. “I know, there’d be some legalities to work through, consent, all that. But consider: is it enough that we only have time to ask if they liked their death, and then they fade away? What does it even mean, for someone to say they liked their death?”
###
It wasn’t a new argument. The problem with scientific minds like Dr Singh was their fixation on data, to the exclusion of practical and ethical concerns. The UN Declaration of Human-AI Merging was clear: it was illegal to map a human mind into digital format.
Dr Geistner saw their patients as people, not mere sources of data. How could it be otherwise? She saw their final moments — their true final moments — which revealed a lot about humanity in general. Maybe she needed to speak with Dr Singh as a friend, not just a coworker, so they could do more than repeat the same tired arguments.
But it was best to push these discussions out of her mind at night. Despite the early hour, she had already scrubbed her face as part of her bedtime ritual. She stared into the mirror, expression unforced. Away from the Institute, she didn’t need to appear effortlessly competent at all times. The dark circles under her eyes had grown. She sighed and went to bed, hoping the night would be kind to her. Restful sleep was hard to come by. She had never been a particularly imaginative dreamer, but these days the dreams didn’t entirely belong to her.
###
Another demonic creature fell to his sword as the onslaught continued. Laughing, he stepped towards another monstrosity. His fencing lessons had been a few decades ago, but the skills had lain dormant within. He was a natural, born to fight this battle.
The next opponent fell to a riposte, and then he was beside his love, who was tied to the lone tree in this empty field. Slicing her bonds, there was just time for a kiss before he had to defend her from something that was all claws and teeth. “Sabina, I love you! Go that way, to safety. I’ll protect you.” Her blonde hair tumbled as she swept it back.
“You’re so brave, my love! Thank you.” She stepped away and ran down a path lit golden by the setting sun.
It was brief, but his final glance back at Sabina’s retreating figure left an opening that even his skills couldn’t recover from.
###
Dr Geistner awoke in a cold sweat. She had felt those claws ripping into her for a moment, but it had seemed peaceful, as though she had accomplished something so meaningful that pain meant nothing. She tried to recall which patient this had been. The last one of the day? Yes, that was it. He had always wanted to protect her, his wife had said. Naturally, heroic death had been the protocol she selected, speaking for him since he was comatose. It was better if a patient joined of their own accord, but as long as all the paperwork was completed, the next of kin could register someone for the Project.
Funny though, what had his wife’s name been? Mandy? Maria? It had certainly not been Sabina.
###
The cup of coffee sat untouched on the lectern, its aroma wafting towards Dr Geistner as she stood facing the small audience and the cameras. She was far more comfortable working in a small room with corpses than speaking in public. The strong black coffee would cool, losing its vitality, before being dumped down a sink. How many cups had she wasted during this project? And how many more were to come?
“Thank you for the question,” she replied to a reporter. “We take the laws seriously and abide by them at all times. We do not ever permanently store our patients’ memories or personalities. But a brief period of communication is important.”
“Can you elaborate on that?” asked another reporter.
“Of course. This Institute’s purpose and goal has always been to improve people’s quality of life. And we believe it’s equally important to improve the quality of death. To that end, we need to know if our technology is actually helping people. Are they indeed better off choosing their deaths and experiencing simulations based on their desires? Or do they feel a moment of remorse? We can only know by interrogating them in the moments after death.”
She reached for the cup, but was interrupted by another question.
“Isn’t this determination subjective, on your part?”
She shook her head. “Not on my part. However, it is possibly subjective on theirs. We ask a direct question, and suppose the temporarily prolonged personalities have no reason to lie.”
“Do you record the results?”
“We permanently record the mind’s experiences from the moment of death to the end of our questioning. The simulacrum typically persists for around five seconds.”
Dr Geistner scanned the silent faces in front of her, then made her announcement.
“We are pleased to say that as of today, a majority of patients have indicated satisfactory results. In particular, those suffering from dementia seem most pleased to rediscover pieces of themselves before death.”
The crowd murmured and gave a scattered applause.
“Any more questions?” she asked.
“Just one, please,” said the first reporter. “It’s encouraging that a majority are pleased. But what about the individuals who were not?”
Dr Geistner’s phone buzzed, summoning her to another patient. “I’m afraid we’re out of time, thank you.”
The coffee was cold when she finally took a sip.
###
She usually sat alone at lunch, at a table near the window in the Institute’s bustling cafeteria. She had never been overly social, and interview days killed any desire to sit with a group. Watching a table of six, she idly wondered what sort of death each would select, if they had to choose. They were all young, so most likely some sexual fantasy or another. Well, one could do worse.
She saw Dr Singh seated at another table on his own, hesitated, then stood and walked over.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked Dr Singh, setting her tray down on his table.
Looking surprised, he waved a hand. “Sure. What’s the occasion?”
Hopefully not another argument.
She sat, and jabbed her entree with a fork. “I was hoping you could tell me what this is supposed to be.”
He laughed. “The menu claims it’s ratatouille. But I assume someone is running an experiment on cognitive dissonance.”
She smiled and chewed her first bite. “Free meals are supposed to be a perk of working here. I don’t know why I keep coming back.”
Dr Geistner looked out the window as she swallowed. The view was meant to be pleasant, but the dry, dusty prairie grasses and clumps of dwarf trees had never struck her as very beautiful.
“What would you choose?” Dr Singh asked, suddenly.
“If I could do it all over again, I’d go with the soup and salad.”
He laughed. “You know what I mean.”
“You won’t believe this, but I don’t think about it.”
“You’re right, I don’t believe you. You invented the damned machine.”
“Not consciously. I think… you sure you want to have this conversation with me? I’m not sure how you see me, but…I’m a goddamned mess.”
“You’re not alone. Look what I’m doing to myself.” Dr Singh took a bite of his own lunch.
She shrugged. “Fine! I used to, but I stopped.”
Dr Singh raised an eyebrow. “Still don’t believe you.”
“I don’t think about it now, because the only thing keeping me sane is the thought that death is for everyone else, not me. Pure self-delusion, right?” she finished in a rush.
He shrugged. “I suppose. It fits, though. You put the experience of others above yourself. As though you don’t matter. This isn’t easy for me to say, but I’m starting to worry about you. As a colleague, and…a friend.”
She stared at him for a moment. His demeanour had never indicated any sort of friendship. “I appreciate your concern. But I’m fine. Your turn to tell me your self-delusion, now.”
“Okay. The only thing keeping me sane is pretending that nothing I see here bothers me. Because it’s work, and data we’re gathering, and that’s all. I’m pretty good at pushing things down. Probably not a good thing, but for this work, maybe it’s best.”
“I had no idea it truly affected you.”
“Because I behave like a robot, right?”
“I wish you had told me earlier. I could have helped somehow.”
“Two self-delusions don’t make a right.” They looked at each other for a moment and burst out laughing.
“So what would you choose, then, Dr Singh?” she asked.
“Sex thing.” It wasn’t entirely clear to her if he was joking. Maybe he was, and maybe all along there had been other jokes she hadn’t noticed.
Dr Geistner shook her head. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe I should just go with that, too.”
“No, I can probably guess. If you think about it, there are only two categories of patients. Those who want pleasure or comfort, and those who desire to protect or give comfort to someone else. If you can think of a third, I’m all ears.”
“Not sure I can. And you’re saying you’re the selfish type?”
“I am. Most people are, really. But you’re not most people. Who do you want to protect?”
Dr Geistner rose quickly. “Finish your lunch. I’ll do the next patient solo.”
She walked briskly away from the table, carefully settling her expression as she went.
###
The patient had been brought from the hospital wing on the upper floors, once all signs pointed to imminent death. Female, aged 87, with limited mental acuity. Enrolled in Project Denouement by her two children. Dr Geistner began the prep work, attaching the neural bridge and mask to the patient.
The conversation with Dr Singh still echoed in her mind. He had never spoken like that in the year he’d worked here; he was all business and logic. If he was beginning to crack, she had little hope for herself. But that was a worry for another time.
The machine quickly fell into cadence with the woman’s brain waves. Dr Geistner pulled up her file on the screen beside the bed. Suggested protocol: gentle meditation. Source: next of kin. Children didn’t always know what their parents would want, of course. This was the worst situation, from the point of view of Project data. And of patients.
The machine sent mild, suggestive stimuli to the patients’ brains. It was the individual mind that would fill in the details; nothing so simple as programming a specific image or scene, as Dr Geistner had tired of explaining to others.
She accepted the protocol on the touchscreen, then donned the VR headset. She would experience what the patient did, until clinical death occurred, and the final question could be asked. It had to be a human; they had found it through experimentation. Fading minds recoiled from machines at that stage of life, or death. How they could distinguish between a human injected into their senses and a computer was a mystery yet to be solved.
###
The ocean waves crashed hypnotically onto the beach. She naturally found herself breathing in measure with the waves, in harmony with the world. Strangely, it was comfortable sitting cross-legged, although it seemed she hadn’t done so in a long time. In (crash)…out. In (crash)…out. In (crash…crash)…out. Heartbeat slowed as breath did. Soon they would slow too much to maintain a pulse, too slow to remain, and this was known, yet didn’t matter.
A final breath, a feeling of joy and peace…breath leaves lungs for the final time.
“I’m a doctor. A friend. You have died, and I’m sorry. Please answer one thing: was this a good way to die?”
“Already? No! Where is my family? I didn’t want to be alone —”
Display darkening.
###
Dr Geistner’s hands shook as she removed the headset. They had failed this woman on the table, and each failure added uncertainty to the Project. They were successful more often than not, but the margin was slender. More importantly, could they really claim to be comforting people in their final moments?
The door opened quietly as Dr Singh stepped in. “Another bad one?” he said in an equally quiet voice. She nodded, massaging her temples where the beginnings of a headache had taken root.
“We need a way…” she began. “How can we know what people really want, rather than relying on self-reporting or next of kin? This woman’s children didn’t know what the fuck she wanted. And it was just them.”
“It’s impossible thus far to get that information from a dementia patient. But,” he continued, “maybe we should shift our focus to solving that problem. Put these trials on hold.”
Dr Geistner raised her eyebrows. “You’re saying that? Why now?”
He sighed. “This is doing things to us. To you. How many deaths have we viewed?”
She studied him for a time, then nodded. “Okay. Let’s call the Committee to a meeting and figure out the next steps.”
Dr Singh smiled. “Thank you. I think it’s best.”
“You asked me who I want to protect. Earlier. It was my son.”
“I didn’t know you had —”
“I don’t. Not anymore. He wanted one thing, in the end. And I couldn’t give it to him. So I made all this.” She waved an arm at the electronics that covered the far wall. “I say I like it was just me. But I led the project.”
“I’m sorry. What was it your son wanted?”
She rubbed her temples. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
###
Dr Geistner dabbed her forehead gently with the washcloth. Her headache had grown steadily worse that day, so bad that her usual nightly scrubbing was too painful. Doubt haunted her thoughts. The Project was successful, yet there were still improvements to be made. Was it scientifically responsible to pause now, as she and Dr Singh had discussed? Or had it ever been scientifically responsible to begin with?
Either way, it was clear that she needed a break. Perhaps a vacation was in order. A visit to the grave site, maybe followed by some relaxation. Surely it was earned.
The face in the bathroom mirror appeared hollow and empty. It looked old. Sighing, she swallowed a couple of painkillers. The throbbing was getting worse. She carefully stepped to her bed through a wave of nausea. Tomorrow, she’d get a consultation with a neurologist at the Institute. Before closing her eyes, she sent a message to Dr Singh: Taking a sick day. You’re on your own tomorrow.
She fell into a restless sleep. Her dreams were especially vivid that night.
###
The room was clean, but even here, dust motes glittered in the warm light shining through the window. Afternoon sun landed on a king-sized bed, its duvet tossed back, pillows arranged neatly.
A door on the far wall swung open, and the three of them stepped inside, hair dishevelled and sweaty. She smiled, gazing happily at her little family. Michael tossed the soccer ball across the room. “Put that away!” she said, but reconsidered. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Just don’t trip over it.”
Michael laughed. “I’m so tired. That was the best game ever.”
Stan’s laugh was a deeper version of Michael’s. “Family nap time! I’m wiped.”
It had been wonderful to see Michael running and playing. He had been sick for a time, but they were all together now, and everything was perfect.
The three of them lay down together. “Mom? Thanks for playing with me. I know you hate soccer.”
She hugged him. “It made me happy to see you run again. Dad’s right, though. Nap time.” Her eyes closed.
“I’m a doctor and a…friend.” The voice intruding into her mind was familiar, but hoarse, as though fighting back tears. “Please, did I choose the right protocol? Was this a good death?”
Mere seconds left. “Yes, you are my friend. It was perfect. Thank you.”
###
Dr Singh removed the headset with shaking hands and recorded the results on the touchscreen: Positive experience.
Details remained on the display.
Patient: Elaine Geistner, female, aged 54. No prior enrolment in the Project. Medical state: aneurysm; comatose. Probability of recovery: 0.01%. Next of kin: none. Suggested protocol: unknown. Anomalous patient. Recommendation: allow unassisted decease.
Protocol: manual override: gift to loved one.
As usual, Dr Singh sent a message to the porters for body disposal. He paused, seized by an almost overwhelming desire to destroy the machine with his bare hands. But it was Elaine’s legacy; who was he to decide its fate? He snapped his ID card in half.
