Quantum Night (21 page)

T
HERE
was a strip mall behind my condo building, running perpendicular to the river. It contained an equal mixture of stores that interested me (Best Buy, Staples) and didn’t (Toys“R”Us, Petland). But there was also a Subway, where I could get a decent vegan sandwich or salad, which is why I walked over there this morning, and a Dollarama, which sold the
Winnipeg Free Press;
if the line was short there, I often popped in to pick up a copy. Today it was, and I headed home with the paper tucked under one arm and carrying my salad with the other.

Once I was back up in my apartment and had poured myself a Coke Zero, I sat at my little breakfast nook and read as I ate.

The page-one headline, above the fold:
150 Killed in Nairobi Shooting Rampage.
Flipping the paper over:
Manitoba Chiefs Decry Ottawa Funding Cuts.
Next to that:
McCharles Calls Dem Opponents “Unpatriotic.”

Inside:
18 Dead in Texas “Cleansing.” Brandon Priest Charged in Sex-Abuse Case. Canada, US, Fall Far Short of Carbon Targets: Report.

The editorial:
Despite a Muslim PM, PQ Continues to Push Islamophobic “Charter of Values.”
And an op-ed:
Canada Needs to Open its Doors to Jews Fleeing Europe.

The business page was no better:
Michigan Decertifies All Public-Sector Unions. Euro Plummets as Spanish Debt Crisis Worsens. Apple, Amazon Defend Chinese Work Conditions. Canadian Income Disparity at All-Time High.

I found myself wondering, as I had so many times over the years,
What’s wrong with these people?
But, unlike those previous occasions, this time I supposed I had an answer. I’d known about the vast numbers of psychopaths for a couple of years now, but even so, there weren’t enough of them to account for all the craziness in the world. But evil needs followers, and, given the 4:2:1 ratio between the cohorts, there were four billion p-zeds out there just waiting to be led.

Of course, those people were entitled to the same moral consideration as any other comparably sophisticated being; I wouldn’t abuse or kill an animal—and I wouldn’t countenance anyone doing that to a p-zed. And yet, Q2s, and, I feared, even many Q3s, if they knew of the prevalence of Q1s, would mistreat them. The most chilling line from the remake of
Battlestar Galactica
was the edict, “You can’t rape a machine,” uttered when humans were sexually assaulting Cylons, who were physically indistinguishable from humans. Sure, Cylons
acted
like they were upset at being attacked—but it’s only rape, the humans felt, when done to one of our own.

And the second most chilling line? The show’s oft-repeated mantra of “So say we all!”—fit in or fuck off. Y’know, Admiral Adama, if you wanted to make the case that humans are morally superior to machines, browbeating everyone until they’re all mindlessly chanting “So say we all!” along with you was probably not the best way to do it.

No, I wasn’t going to tell anyone else about the existence of huge quantities of p-zeds. As far as we knew, the three quantum states were uniformly distributed across the general population; there was nothing in Menno’s work or that of Kayla and Vic to suggest anything to the contrary. But if the quantum taxonomy became general knowledge, it wouldn’t be long, I knew, before the accusation that all fill-in-the-blanks were p-zeds would be used to justify not just the horror of rape, but slavery and murder, too. Menno Warkentin had been right to keep secret
the existence of people without inner voices, and I intended to do the same.

—

And then the call I’d been waiting for came.

Dr. Bhavesh Namboothiri, over at the University of Winnipeg, had finally finished mapping out my visual memory index, based on the recent MRI scan I’d had at St. Boniface. In other words, he finally had the key; it was time to open the lock. It was a warm summer day as I drove to his lab—but not warm enough to account for how much I was sweating.

I’d sort of expected to be laid out on a gurney, looking up at the ceiling, but it was much easier for Dr. Namboothiri to probe the top of my head with me sitting in a simple low-to-the-ground bucket seat on a rotating stand. Nor was he wearing the surgical garb I associated with Wilder Penfield. Rather, he had on blue jeans and a loose-fitting dark-red shirt. After all, as he said, he wasn’t going to open my skull—just my mind.

Namboothiri stood next to me, and next to him, on a wheeled tray, was a device about the size of a shoebox. Attached to it were two long cables, each ending in a metal tip, a bit like the probes on an ohmmeter. He placed one of the probes over my left temporal lobe, and the other near the anterior cingulate cortex. There was clearly some sort of readout on the box that he could see but I couldn’t; he kept glancing over at it.

“Okay,” he said. “Do you feel anything?”

“No. Nothing.”

“And what about now?”

“Nothing.”

“And now?”

“My God . . .” I said. I recognized her at once, of course—and yet had no other recollection of her when she was this young, or of her with 1980s-style big hair.

“What is it?”

“My . . . my mother. She looks so young, and . . .”

“Yes?”

“Well, I mean, they told me my nursery had puke-green walls, but I’d had no recollection of that. But . . . but this must be it.”

He slightly repositioned one of the probes; I felt a twinge of sadness as the vivid image disappeared.

“Okay, and now?”

“A teddy bear, but not one I ever recall seeing before.”

“And here?” Namboothiri moved the probe again, and I tasted something cloyingly sweet.

“Perhaps children’s cough syrup?”

“And here?”

“My dad—with hair!—reading to me.”

“And here?”

I sucked in air.

“What?” said Namboothiri.

“That’s it. That must be it!”

“What are you seeing?”

“Kayla—my girlfriend, as she must have been during my dark period—but . . .”

“Yes?”

“Younger. And . . .”

“Yes?”

“Naked.”

Maybe Namboothiri smiled; maybe he didn’t. “All right,” he said. “Definitely the right time period. And—”

I almost stopped him from moving the probe, not because the memory was so pleasant, although it was, but because this was the first bit of that time I’d recalled at all, and I was afraid we’d never get it or any other part of it, back, but—

“A classroom,” I said. “And . . . perfume. God, yes, I’d completely forgotten: that crazy Eastern European chick who sat in front of me in that science-fiction course; always came to class drenched in perfume. What’s her name . . .”

“You tell me.”

I scrunched my eyes shut, and it came to me. “Bozena.”

But suddenly her face—and the smell—were gone. Still: “But I don’t understand. I’m remembering smells and sounds, not just visuals.”

“Sure, and you remember those with the verbal indexing system, too, even though they’re not words; elicited memories will be of your full sensorium, no matter how they’re indexed.”

“Ah, okay.”

The next three memories he invoked were clearly of my toddler years, including what I rather suspect, as a Valentine’s baby, was my first time seeing the ground without snow on it. And then it was back to 2001, or, at least, I assumed so; I’d lived in that campus residence for two years, but only memories from my dark period should be indexed here.

“And this?”

At first I thought I wasn’t recalling anything. Then I became conscious of a sense of pressure all over my body. It was what I imagined being bound in a straitjacket felt like. Except I wasn’t immobilized; I was moving headfirst, like I was being pulled up an incredibly narrow elevator shaft. No, not up—not a vertical movement.
Horizontal.
And I wasn’t being pulled. I was being pushed. The pressure on me kept increasing, so much so that—

God.

—my head!

I could feel my head being crushed.

Another memory, from another time, another part of my brain, another indexing system, briefly came to me: my fear on that day I’d jumped up and almost smashed in Ronny Handler’s head.

But my skull wasn’t being crushed from one side; it was being compressed from all sides, and I felt the bones—

I felt the bones
sliding,
like tectonic plates, some of them even subducting . . .

And then, cold on the crown of my head; the pressure releasing on the top, then farther down, then—

Eyes stinging, because of . . .

Because of
light.

“My God . . . My God . . .”

“What?”

“It’s my birth!”

Namboothiri didn’t sound surprised. “Yeah, there have been numerous reports of autistics remembering their births—because they continue to access the visual-indexing system their whole lives.”

“It’s—wow. Incredible.”

“It’s proof of concept, is what it is. Everything’s stored in there, all right, right back to the beginning. Don’t worry; my equipment records the coordinates of each contact. We should be able to elicit any of these memories again at will now. So, we’re all set to find out exactly what went down all those years ago—call it ‘2001: A Memory Odyssey.’ We’ll pick up again in our next session.”

“But—my God, please. Can’t we continue?”

“I’m sorry, Jim. I really am. But you’re not the only one with summer classes to teach.”

I nodded, grateful for these few glimpses—but desperate for more.

I
N
high-school physics—my last exposure to that discipline prior to reconnecting with Kayla—everyone gets to see the famous 1940 film of the collapse of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, a suspension bridge more than a mile long over Puget Sound. In the film, the bridge starts swaying left and right in the wind, and the pavement undulates from side to side, rising and falling to breathtaking degrees, before the bridge finally breaks apart, its midsection crashing into the water far below. Every student watching that film is stunned—it looks so unreal, so impossible, you think it can’t possibly be true, that nothing like that could ever happen in real life.

There’s a similarly shocking film I sometimes show my students. Like the one of Galloping Gertie—the nickname given to that bridge—this one is old. It shows a man—a business executive, as the news stories later revealed, standing on a ledge high up the side of an office building. He’s clearly despondent, clearly distressed, but someone—a tourist with a movie camera below—has caught sight of him. Soon, others note the man as well, and, as we can see when the tourist briefly tilts his lens down, quite a sizable crowd develops, all gawking up at the man.

And then a male voice rings out—the camera, aimed back up at the poor soul high above, doesn’t show whose—cutting loose a single affricative syllable:
“Jump!”

The man on the ledge is startled, and, briefly, there’s a ripple of disapproving
tut-tuts
on the soundtrack, but then another male voice is heard:
“Jump!”
And a woman joins the chorus:
“Jump!”
And soon, the cry is going up throughout the crowd.
“Jump!” “Jump!” “Jump!”

At last the poor fellow does indeed do what the crowd is bidding, more or less. He doesn’t jump, but he does use the flats of his hands to push himself against the window behind him, and falls in a manner so similar to Don Draper’s plunge on the opening credits of
Mad Men
that I’ve often wondered if the animators used this film as a source. The tourist dutifully records its all, including the impact on the pavement far below, the man hitting so hard that he actually bounces back up and then crashes down again, dead.

When I run the film in class, I usually stop with the man pushing off—no need to show the horror of a person actually dying, and, besides, I want the students to concentrate on the
other
horror: the reality that a group of strangers, come together purely by the happenstance of their individual wanderings, can suddenly exhibit conscienceless behavior that few if any of its members would display in isolation.

These days, office windows don’t open, there are no ledges to step out on, and even the replacement Tacoma Narrows Bridge has suicide netting, and so there aren’t as many smartphone videos of crowds urging someone to leap to their death as you might image. But similar things—one asshole starting something and it propagating like a contagion through a population—still happen. They happen all the time.

When I’d been in high school, they’d taught us that the Tacoma Narrows Bridge had collapsed due to resonance between high winds that matched the bridge’s natural structural frequency. But that was wrong—a dated interpretation, even then. It turns out, as I learned years later, that the real cause was a completely different phenomenon, something called aeroelastic flutter. The old explanation, which seemed to make a kind of sense, was factually inaccurate.

And when I’d first seen that film of the suicidal jumper, all those
years ago, my prof had said it was an example of
deindividuation,
the loss of self into a crowd.

But that, too, was wrong; that, too, was a dated interpretation, proceeding from the false assumption that there
was
a self to lose.

—

I’d known for months that Heather would be in town tonight. Gustav would never let her take a pleasure trip on her own, but even he understood that her business—the business that kept him in sports cars and fine liqueurs—required her to travel now and then; she was staying at my place.

There was a play I’d been dying to see at the Royal Manitoba Theatre Centre called
Shocking,
a fictionalized account of the life of Stanley Milgram; it was having a trial run here before moving to Broadway next year for the sixtieth anniversary of Milgram’s infamous obedience-to-authority experiments.

I’d bought the tickets long before any Winnipeggers seriously thought the Jets might make it to the Stanley Cup—but, astonishingly, they had, and, as luck would have it, the night Heather and I were going to the play was also the night of the final game between them and the New Jersey Devils at the MTS Centre, just a kilometer west of the John Hirsch Mainstage. Parking downtown was out of the question: thousands who weren’t inside the arena had come out to watch the game in bars and restaurants nearby; we took a bus to the Exchange District and walked through the warm June evening to the theater. Out front were bronze statues of the theater’s founders—made, I suppose, in a founder foundry. The one of Hirsch was wearing glasses; I always thought that looked odd on a statue.

The program booklet had a reproduction of the “Public Announcement” Milgram had used to recruit test subjects from the New Haven community, offering “$4.00 for one hour of your time” for what he’d presented as a “study of memory.” Milgram had been just twenty-seven when he’d started his experiments; the dapper fellow with the salt-and-pepper hair and full beard shown in psychology textbooks was Milgram-as-elder-statesman, not the haunted young man trying to
make sense of the Eichmann trial and what Hannah Arendt would soon dub “the banality of evil”—the seeming ease with which average people could be made to slide into doing cruel things.

The actor who portrayed Milgram was a little old for the portions of the story set in 1961 but was quite compelling, and the reconstructions of Milgram’s shock machine and lab were spot-on. The psychologist in me wanted to quibble with a couple of things—the playwright had relied too heavily on Gina Perry’s 2013 book about Milgram’s work, which I’d found unconvincing—but the theatergoer was thoroughly entertained, and Heather had sat rapt, absolutely motionless, throughout the entire performance.

As my sister and I headed out of the theater, I would have loved to have been able to tell her about the reality of p-zeds. The ability of Milgram and his assistants, as authority figures, to get subjects to administer what they thought were increasingly severe—and even life-threatening—electric shocks despite the protests and eventual screams of the recipients had confounded social-science researchers for six decades. Most of Milgram’s subjects, although paying lip service to having qualms, kept ramping up the voltage again and again; his success rate was exactly what you’d expect if sixty percent of the human race were mindless zombies with a large dose of heartless psychopaths on top.

I didn’t say any of that to Heather, though. Still, as we passed the statues again, I asked, “What did you think of the play?” It was getting on to 11:00
P.M.
, and the air had grown chilly.

“It was good,” Heather replied.

“That all? Just good?”

She paused as if thinking, then: “Yeah.”

We headed south, the Red River a long block to our left. Rounding a corner, I heard a great commotion up ahead: people shouting and yelling, and, within seconds, multiple car alarms, and the jangle of shattering glass.

“What the hell?” said Heather.

I pulled out my phone, clicked on the CBC app. The first headline said it all: “Jets Crash 5 to 4 in Sudden-Death Overtime.”

“Christ,” I said as what I assumed were store alarms started
wailing—followed shortly thereafter by two white police cars barreling past us from behind, their roof lights on.

“We better turn back,” I said, but within seconds, I could hear rioters behind us, as well. “Come on!” I shouted, pointing down a side street that looked empty. We started to run, but Heather, now in stocking feet after removing her high heels, couldn’t keep up with me. I slowed down but quickly realized the mistake I’d made. The buildings on either side of us were mostly dark, but up ahead, where this street crossed another, I could see a mob running east, and, in rapid succession, I heard three more windows shatter and a trio of new alarms joining the cacophony.

To our left, smoke was billowing up above the dark silhouette of a four-story office building. There was a narrow, litter-strewn alleyway between two of the buildings here, and we headed down it. We’d probably be safe simply hiding, and I was all for that, but, incredibly, Heather urged me to keep going. “Come on!” she said. “Let’s see!”

The
whoomp-whoomp-whoomp
of a helicopter caused me to look briefly up—and in that moment, Heather took off down the alley, heading
toward
the roaring crowd.

I followed, soon catching up with her. We emerged from the alleyway less than twenty meters from five muscular guys, all in Winnipeg Jets hoodies, flipping a red Hyundai Elantra onto its roof; its alarm was wailing. Heather stopped dead, and I have to confess I did, too; you hear about things like that on TV, but to actually see it was something else. The windshield shattered as the car’s canopy collapsed under the vehicle’s weight. The guys looked at their handiwork, and one of them shouted, “Fuck the Devils!” The others soon took up the cry, raising clenched fists to the black sky, and, to my astonishment, my own sister followed suit, hollering, “Fuck the Devils!”

It wasn’t
“Jump! Jump! Jump!”
—but it
was
spreading.

“Heather!” I shouted. “For God’s sake!”

The band moved on, and instead of going in the opposite direction, Heather started following them.

The alignment rule: pick a heading for yourself that’s an average of everyone else’s trajectories.

“Heather! Are you nuts?” I set off after her. The five hoods came to a halt, and so did my sister, giving them space.

The separation rule: avoid crowding your neighbors.

She turned and faced me. “Come on, Jim. You only live once.”

The punks were trying to roll another car, but either they were running out of alcohol-fueled steam, or it was heavier than a Hyundai, because they weren’t managing to get it elevated past the tipping point.

Beyond them, a fire was burning brightly: another person’s car had been set ablaze. And someone else was throwing things at a storefront, trying to get the glass to shatter—

—which, at last, it did, the sound a sharp counterpoint to all the other noises rising up about us.

Heather tipped her head down, and I thought she was averting her gaze from the carnage, but then I realized she was looking around for something she herself could hurl through a window.

I surged in, took her by the elbow, swung her around, and pulled her along with me back into the relative safety of the alleyway.

“For God’s sake,” I said, “there are security cameras everywhere, and you’re a fucking officer of the court.”

She looked pissed for a moment, then nodded and lifted her shoulders. “Yeah, I guess.”

The rioting was likely to last all night. Winnipeg had never had something like this before, but Vancouver had—twice—and other cities all over the globe had seen this sort of hooliganism in the past, although more often, in fact, in the winning team’s hometown than in the loser’s.

I could smell smoke now, and the background of shouts and sirens, of alarms and things shattering, continued.

I stared at my sister. Christ, could it be? The whole point of philosopher’s zombies is that, at least most of the time, there’s no way to tell one from someone who is thinking on a conscious level. And, damn it all, the revelation of their existence had been so easy to accept in the abstract—six out of every ten humans lacking an inner life. But my own sister?

I continued to look at her, and she looked back at me, and I tried
to fathom what, if anything, was going on behind those brown eyes of hers, as the mob surged and roared through the city I called home. I pulled Heather close, hugging her in a way I hadn’t for decades, keeping her warm and safe against the flickering flames. My eyes stung—but surely it was from the smoke. Sirens blared from all directions, and we waited, my sister and I, together and yet oh-so-apart.