The Late Peter Stone

[draft]

While Dr. Peter Stone was released a free man, Dr. Stone was not free from the consequences of his defense strategy. Judge Curtis Martinez recognized the immediate legal ramifications of the Q-Corp transporter and immediately issued a restraining order on its further use. The danger was under the ambiguous legal cloud where Dr. Stone had a mistrial; criminals could use the transporter to attempt to escape prosecution – with possible success.

The central issue was whether someone died when they were transported. Dr. Stone made it clear in popular articles that when a person walked into a transporter, a copy of that person was made in the receiver and moments later the original person was destroyed in a flash. From all of us who attended the murder trial, it appeared that Peter Stone was trying to force the issue for the state and society to accept his definition of life, at least where it came with the use of his transporter. In the trial, Dr. Stone tried to show that the life of the person was determined by the physical composition and state of an individual. Produce a reasonable operational facsimile of a person, then that facsimile was the real person especially if that was the only operating edition of that person.

Immediately after the trial, I was able to briefly interview Dr. Stone for the Atlanta Casual Observer. While CNN and the New York Times wanted to get Dr. Stone’s feelings about being set free, I was curious about what made Peter Stone tick. In the jostle and commotion immediately after the trial in the courthouse, I asked Dr. Stone one question, “What is life?”

Dr. Stone stopped dead in his tracks, turned, and looked at me. I could see him read my press badge. “You work for the Casual Observer? I’ve never heard of that paper.”

“Neither has anyone else.” I said with a wry smile.

“Well, of all the crowd here today, you’re the only one who gets it.” Peter answered. “That was the issue of the trial, not the circus trick I pulled at the last moment that everyone is going to talk about. What’s your name?”

“Earl Flask. An easy way to remember, you being a scientist, is that my full name is Erlenmeyer Flask, but I prefer being called Earl.”

Peter smiled, “You must have endured a lot of teasing for that name.”

“Yes.” I answered.

“Well, to answer your question, the essential feature of human life is brain activity, and more specifically, the neural interaction in the brain. I call it brain software. Life is running the brain software on the proper “hardware” that supports it – the brain. But brain software does not have to only run in a real human brain, it could run on anything that would support all the important software processes the brain.”

People were pressing in from all around. He pulled out his wallet, reached into it and pulled out a business card. “Call me in the next day or two. I’ll give you an exclusive interview.”

“Thanks!” I said.

…

The next day I called Dr. Stone’s office, got in touch with his secretary, and arranged an afternoon appointment. I arrived at the gleaming white and glass Q-Corp tower, with its cobalt blue fuzzy ball logo that overlooked I-75 on the northwest edge of Atlanta, near the Chattahoochee River. I walked into the lobby that covered the entire bottom floor. In the center stood a white marble pedestal that caught my eye. I walked over to the golden rail that circled the marble pedestal, which was waist tall. A glass sphere, which was a meter in diameter, rested on the pedestal. It was pitch black inside the sphere, except for a glowing cobalt blue fuzzy ball that was about the size of a golf-ball, floated in the very center.

“That’s a Bose-Einstein Condensate,” a voice said behind me said.

I turned and saw it was Dr. Peter Stone. “But while a Bose-Einstein Condensate is in there, you’re seeing a digital representation of what is inside the sphere.”

I looked at the sphere again. “What use are these things?”

“We’re finding all sorts of applications, from sensitive gravity wave detectors to observe cosmic events in distant regions of the universe, extremely sensitive seismic detectors which can detect a person walking on the other side of the earth, to capturing and stopping light. We’re producing micro chips with miniature condensates on them.”

Peter continued, “I’ve got pizzas being delivered up at my office. It’s sausage, mushroom, and green pepper with a fried egg on top.”

I was surprised, “How did you know that’s my favorite?”

“We do background checks on people we let in that might see sensitive information.” Peter replied. “I learned a few things about you and your paper. There is one mystery about you. Did you bribe your English professor to finally pass English composition?”

“No,” I answered, “No bribery necessary, she just felt sorry for me, seeing this class was holding up my graduation and I failed it several times before.”

Peter laughed. We rode the elevator to the top floor and walked to Peter’s corner spacious office. Looking out the windows I say the slowly moving Chattahooche was in view below in the midst of the pine and orange foliage. To the south, downtown Atlanta was crystal clear this autumn afternoon. The pizza was sitting on the credenza next to Peter’s desk.

“Help yourself.” Peter motioned.

I sat down into a soft leather chair with a slice; Peter also got a slice and slid into another leather chair.

I got my notepad out. “So, you must have carefully planned this first transport. What other things did you do?”

Peter responded, “Well, we knew whoever pulled the transporter switch could face murder charges. So I volunteered to do the dirty deed, and planned to do a self-transport as soon as possible. Our transporter is a prototype, we can only transport one person at a time, then we have to turn it around and get it ready to transport again. It would normally take a week. I figured I didn’t have that long. We cut corners but got it ready in two days.”

I reached for another slice of pizza, “You must be in legal limbo right now. Legally, are you now Peter Stone? What did you do to get ready for your situation today?”

“You’re right, there were a lot of potential legal ramifications. Since transporting involved destroying the original copy of me, and the courts could rule that I had died and the me coming out of the transporter wasn’t me, I had to do a lot of legal maneuvering. I signed over the power of attorney of Q-Corp to my chief legal counsel, who then signed it back to me. On personal things, my wife inherited all what I owned or held in joint ownership. We’re going to get married again this afternoon so that I will be officially her husband again, and get legal ownership of our property.”

I saw the picture on Peter’s desk of a pretty lady. “Is that your wife?” I asked, nodding at the picture. “She’s a very beautiful woman.”

“Yes, Judy is beautiful, and thanks. We met at MIT. I was finishing up my doctorate in physics, she was completing her PhD in business at Sloan.” Peter replied.

I scribbled more notes in my notebook. Peter got another pizza slice.

“Did you worry about the morality or ethics of transporting someone, considering that you were making a copy of the person and destroying the original?” I asked.

“Morality is mumbo jumbo of irrational religious bimbos.” Peter flashed. He looked up. “Sorry, I’ve tangled with religious fundamentalists who’ve been pushing their agenda on me. I didn’t mean to be offensive.”

“No offense taken.” I said. “I guess with what you’ve said about life the other day, there is no objective grounds for morality.”

“Precisely. Morality is tied up with the myths of our culture. These myths and the associated taboos and expected behavior provide a structure for all of us to operate within. We’re growing in our understanding about the universe and life, and so some of our taboos and expected behavior need to change accordingly. Life is tied to our brain software. Copy and preserve that, with some common sense, and you’ve got the potential to really advance in some cool ways. With the transporter technology, we can augment life.” Peter was excited.

“So, the qualities of trust, love, …” I paused.

“The most objective point of morality is enlightened self interest. Love is both a software state of the brain that produces a sense of euphoria, but also in the long term helps you advance your self-interests, such as your state of happiness, sense of accomplishment, and other important states in your brain software. It means taking a long view on things, forgoing some immediate pleasure now for greater long-term gains in the future. It’s a mutual agreement to accomplish things that individually neither of you can accomplish on your own.”

“Wow, that’s a romantic Hallmark sentiment.” I chuckled.

Peter laughed, “Yeah, I didn’t impress too many young ladies with this kind of talk. Judy was different. She saw this too. We view life clear eyed. Not many couples do.” Peter looked at his watch. “Oh, we’ve got to wrap this up, I’ve got to go to my wedding in a few minutes. Hey, you want to be a witness?”

“Sure,” I said, “I can’t pass up this historic romantic moment. But I don’t have a wedding present.”

Peter laughed again. “Just write a good story for the Observer.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched a number. Peter spoke into the phone, “Hi John, is Judy there?”

Peter listened to his phone, his smile vanished, and his color drained from his face. “I don’t understand.” Peter said. Peter listened more, he face turned red. “Damn you John, you were supposed to take care of everything, not screw it up like this. What kind of jerky friend are you?” Peter jumped up from his chair and heaved his cell phone with all his strength across the office. It shattered against the wall.

“What happened?” I asked.

“John, our personally attorney, has run off with my wife. Judy refuses to marry me and is kicking me out of my own house!” Peter was steaming. “Damn it, Judy was encouraging me to go on the transporter so I would escape the legal difficulties. She said she and John would take care of everything. They sure did. All my stock, my homes, my cars, everything – they cleaned me out, all because I’m legally dead. I thought she loved me. I trusted her!”

I tried to comfort Peter, but he was fuming, throwing stuff all over his office, screaming and yelling. I decided it was time to leave. I drove home, typed my story and submitted it online to the Casual Observer. It was midnight by the time I was done. I dropped into bed exhausted.

…

I awoke from the sound of my cell phone next to my bed. 3 am! I answered it; it was Joe, my editor at the Casual Observer.

“Earl, get on the Internet now! Go to the Drudge Report. Your article is linked there. You’ve made it! You finally made it!” Joe hung up.

I jumped out of bed, opened the clamshell of the laptop, clicked to http://www.drudgereport.com/. It took 20 seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. There it was, my article, the banner headline on Drudge, “Peter Stone’s Wife Refuses Remarriage.” I stared at it in disbelief. Now I will be noticed. The webpage refreshed, still showing the headline. I emailed my friends. I looked again at Drudge and my headline. It refreshed again – and it was gone! I clicked on my favorites and brought Drudge back up. My headline was gone! Replaced by the headline “Hurricane Zelda Zeroing in on Galveston”. My story was linked to Drudge for only 15 minutes, early in the morning. That’s it.

I went back to bed.

The Next Story.

About Charlie

[This is a draft]

Five years ago today, I got a knock at the front door. I thought it was one of my friends coming by to try to cheer me up, but tonight I didn’t want to bother. I was in a real funk. The love of my life, my wife, had died just two weeks ago. Pancreatic cancer. Real quick, three weeks after her diagnoses she was dead.

I walked over to the door, flipped on the front light. I didn’t recognize the man at first. I hesitated, and then I placed the face. He was the guy at the abortion clinic demonstration that I wrote about for Atlanta Casual Observer. Charles Speerman. He was not your usual fanatical anti-abortion activist. He was an equally vocal member of the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA). He knew how to make lots of people mad at him. This was a guy without friends. I must have been staring out the window near the door for 30 seconds when I finally came to myself. Charles was looking right at me with a quizzical look. I opened the door and invited him in. He stepped in, holding a tiny kitten, cradled in his arm, asleep. In his other hand carried a duffle.

“Earl, I am very sorry about your wife.” Charles said quietly.

“Thanks,” I said, looking at the kitten.

Charles took a big breath, “I have a big favor to ask you …”

“Oh no, not one of your rescued animals from the pound. No, please, I’m dead tired, I can’t care for an animal.”

“Earl, please listen. You need a distraction from your life right now as much as this kitten needs someone to care for him and love him.”

I shook my head.

Charles continued without noticing, “You will not believe the cruelty this kitten has gone through. It makes me sick and boiling mad. He needs a home. You need something to fill that empty void you have right now.”

Now I started to get angry, “What – a cat to replace my wife?”

“No, no – I’m desperate. I can’t keep him. But I know you’re a gentle person. You’re kind and gentle. This cat’s life is in danger. People are looking for him to do inhumane things to him.”

“What kind of things?”

“I can’t get into now. It will make you sick. Please, would you take care of him?”

I sighed, “Okay, I suppose so. But I know nothing about cats.”

“All the better,” Charles replied, “Because of what they did to this kitten, he will not have a normal life of a cat.”

“Oh great” I muttered.

“You don’t need to know anything about cats, just treat this kitten like it was your own child. Care for him, feed him, talk to him, love him.” Charles paused, then, “Look, here is a bag of stuff. Some blankets, several bottles and formula, hypoallergenic baby bath.” Charles put the duffle down.

There was an awkward silence. Then Charles said, “Earl, I can’t see you again. I’m in big trouble, if they knew you knew me, your life would be very difficult.”

“Who? Who is after you.” I asked.

“The less you know, the better. Don’t see me, don’t write me, don’t phone me, don’t email me, nothing.” Charles handed the kitten to me. It was warm and soft. I could feel it breath. It stirred slightly, and then snuggled into my arm.

“But I wrote about you in the Observer.”

“Yeah, but nobody reads it. No one will make the connection if you stay away from me.”

Charles turned and left, “Remember, you don’t know me. No matter what happens, don’t see me, don’t come looking for me.” Charles walked out to the street and disappeared into the night.

Great. A cat. I never had a pet before. I looked at the tiny kitten, snuggled in my arm. I walked over to the sofa and sat down. I rested the arm on my leg that held the kitten. I looked closely at the kitten to see if there was evidence of how it was harmed. The kitten was grey, its head seemed big, but I guess all baby animals have big heads in proportion to the bodies. The fur was even. I began to wonder where Charles got the cat. A science or medical lab? PETA always seemed to be rescuing animals from those kinds of places. Suddenly the movie Jurassic Park popped in my head. Could this be a prehistoric cat? A saber tooth? Would it some night, when it was hungry, come attack me in my bedroom and eat me? I looked at how tiny it was. Nah, that is ridiculous, I told myself.

Is it infected with some rare disease? My nose began to itch, my eyes watered. A tiny knot of fear edged into the back of my head. No, I told myself. Charles wouldn’t do that to me. I felt uneasy. No, I told myself again. Then it happened. Suddenly I felt something warm on my arm under the kitten. The warmth moved and grew. I panicked. I jumped up from the sofa with a yell and dropped the kitten on the cushion. In just a moment I realized what happened, the kitten peed on me – it wasn’t house broken. I felt foolish.

The kitten awoke with a start. It gave a long plaintive squeak that just kept going. I tried to comfort it; it just continued its plaintive squeak. I rubbed its head. It still squeaked. I talked to it, “there, there, I’m sorry.” Still it squeaked. Then, in the confusion, it somehow found my index finger and started sucking. Ah ha, hungry. I walked over to the duffel; dug around, found a small bottle and a pouch of formula. I fumbled to fill the bottle, finally put the top back on, and put it to the kitten’s mouth. It stopped squeaking and it started sucking. As it was sucking, I thought about what to name the kitten. Charlie came to mind. So I named the kitten after its rescuer.

My life revolved around Charlie for the next few months. His eyes finally opened during the week. I wondered if there were shut because of some disease. Phil White, a veterinarian friend, assured me this was normal, that this was a very young kitten. But after two months, I was getting worried about Charlie because he did not walk. He looked like a normal kitten. But he still nursed on a bottle, showed no signs of becoming house broken, didn’t meow (he’d make long wavering squeaks and wails), did not purr. I feared that Charlie was a retarded cat. But when I talked to Charlie, he’d open his eyes and look at me, which would make my heart melt. I would spend hours talking to Charlie.

After three months, Charlie still was not walking, he was still nursing, and still wasn’t house broken. He was moving his limbs and paws, but as much as I encouraged him to walk, he could not do it. He was beginning to crawl. One evening, I decided to call Phil, my veterinarian friend. He came over that evening.

“Where did you get Charlie?” Phil asked when he came in.

I told him the whole story and asked if he would keep it quiet.

“Of course.” Phil said. “Let me look at Charlie.”

I led him to Charlie’s bed in the living room. Phil gently picked Charlie up. Charlie started squawking. I spoke soothingly to Charlie, “It’s okay, this is Phil, You’re fine.”

Charlie looked into the eyes of Phil. Phil gently stroked Charlie.

“Does Charlie ever purr?”

“No,” I answered.

Phil gently put Charlie on the carpet, upside down. Charlie laid there, limbs dangling upward. Charlie gradually rolled over to the side. Phil picked Charlie up, dangled him about a foot above his soft bed, and then dropped him. Charlie landed on his back, startled. He began a plaintive squawk.

“Hmm,” Phil said softly, picking Charlie up, “Charlie doesn’t have many of the reflexes he should have by now. He doesn’t right himself.”

Charlie continued his squawk, looking over to me. I took him, cuddled him, spoke softly to him, “It’s okay, Phil wasn’t hurting you, it’s okay, shhh.” I gently rocked Charlie, gently talking to him; his squawk subsided, and then stopped.

Phil asked, “Where did Charles find this kitten?”

“He refused to tell me.”

“Let’s call Charles – I’d like to ask a few questions,” said Phil.

“We can’t. Charles told me not to contact him. I tried, but he’s moved out of Atlanta and has left no forwarding address.”

Phil sat thoughtful for a few minutes, then ask, “Earl, have you ever thought about putting this cat out of his misery?”

I was horrified, “You mean, kill Charlie? Never, no way!”

“Good, I was just checking on your attachment and commitment to Charlie.”

“Charlie’s a pain. I don’t know how to put it, but we’ve bonded, I’ll do anything for Charlie.” I said.

Phil paused, then, “How about you bring Charlie to my office tomorrow. I’d like to do a few tests and do a more thorough exam. And Earl, there is no cost, this is on me.”

I protested, but Phil was firm.

The next morning, I took Charlie to Phil’s clinic. Phil conducted a full exam. Took X-Rays on Charlie, took blood samples. Phil asked if it was okay to do a spinal tap on Charlie. I gave the okay.

The X-Rays were normal and the physical appearance was fine. But the reflexes and behavior were all weird, so unlike a cat. Charlie wouldn’t groom himself, didn’t show the playfulness of a normal kitten of his age, and wasn’t walking.

Phil said he’d call me as soon as he got some results. He had a few friends at some labs that owed him some favors.

Three days later, Phil telephoned me. I answered and he said, “Hi Earl, I’ve got some results, you better come in here.”

“What did you find out?” I asked.

“You better come here, I’ve got something, but I want to tell you in person,” said Phil.

I packed Charlie in his carrier and hurried to Phil’s clinic.

Phil greeted me and showed me into his office, showed me the chair at his desk. I sat down and took Charlie out of the carrier and put him on my lap.

Phil sat into his chair and leaned across his desk. “Let me tell you what I’ve found. Blood samples came back normal. No antibodies of any of the normal cat diseases. Charlie’s physical appearance is normal. Muscle tone seems to be a bit off, but nothing out of the ordinary. Whenever Charlie starts exercising, he should get the normal muscle tone. The spinal tap showed no signs of disease. No spinal meningitis. But, the lab tech found some neurons; it’s normal to find them. She decided to check for any abnormalities. This is where she found something.”

Phil paused and he took a big breath. “The lab tech found that the chromosome count was all wrong on the neuron cells. Cats have 19 chromosome pairs. These neuron cells have 23 pairs. She did other checks on the neurons. These aren’t cat neurons.”

Phil took a big breath, “These are human neurons. The lab tech checked the blood cells. These have 19 chromosome pairs; it’s cat blood cells. The brain and the nervous system are made up of human neurons.”

I sat and took this in. “Did someone implant a human brain in Charlie? He has a human brain?”

Phil answered, “I don’t think anyone surgically implanted a human brain like you’re thinking of it. There’re no surgical scars.” Phil paused again, then, “Have you heard of stem cells?”

I shook my head.

“Stem cells are undifferentiated cells often gathered from early embryos. They have the ability to change into specialized cells. My theory is that someone inseminated a cat egg, developed a cat embryo, and as the cells started to differentiate, they took out the proto-neuron cells of the cat embryo and replaced it with human embryo stem cells. Those stem cells blended into the embryo and became specialized neuron cells. The hybrid cat embryo, with human proto neurons, was implanted into a female cat that carried the fetus to full term. This was a sophisticated production. Someone was well trained, had good equipment. But this was illegal, unethical, and immoral. We haven’t heard about this missing cat in the news because the lab didn’t report it. What does a drug dealer do when his drugs are stolen? He doesn’t go to the police. I don’t think this lab has either.”

I was stunned, sickened all at once. “Why did they do it?”

“I don’t know,” Phil answered. “I don’t know of anything practical. If they wanted to test drugs on human brain cells in living creatures, mice would be a better choice. Maybe a scientist or a lab technician just wanted to see if he or she could do it. It would be pioneering research, but in the same vein that Nazis did pioneering research.”

“So Charlie has a human brain.” I said.

“I don’t know.” Phil said. “Charlie has human neurons, but I don’t know how these neurons will develop inside a cat fetus. This is a whole new game. But the fact the Charlie doesn’t behave like a cat at this point suggests that it could have some human like brain qualities. But I don’t know. The cranial capacity is not the same as a human. I just don’t know what to expect.”

I was sick. I was furious. I began to understand Charles’ anger that night.

“What do you want to do?” asked Phil.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to turn Charlie into a freak show. I want him to live as normal of a life, whatever that is, as is possible.” I said. “I don’t think I want to take this to the police or the authorities. At least not yet.”

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ve asked the lab tech to keep this quiet. She has agreed.”

…

That was five years ago. Charlie grew, learned to walk, learned to play his own way, and was house broken, learning to use the toilet. But Charlie does not preen or lick his fur to clean it, so I need to bathe him regularly. Charlie loves it. I’d read to him, play with him. One of Charlie’s favorite pastimes now is to look at the newspaper. He’ll paw through it, staying on various pages. He likes to watch TV. Charlie would unnerve guests with his uncat-like behavior. I taught Charlie how to meow and not to watch people as they talked – to be more cat-like with other people.

Because of Charlie’s peculiarities, I’ve been able to get some interesting news stories. So, besides my special trade secret of writing story of a court clerk’s son in a middle school football team to get preferential seats, I had another card or two up my sleeve with Charlie.

The Next Story.

I discuss some background to this story in my MataSchema blog, along with some musings on the subject.

The Transporter Trial

[This is a draft. Details will change over the next few days. – the author]

Call me Earl. My birth certificate bears the name Erlenmeyer, Erlenmeyer Flask. I was born on April 1. My Dad, a chemical engineer with a warped sense of humor, suggested Erlenmeyer to my mother. She thought it sounded nice and so I got stuck with the name. During the early school years there was no problem, but as I got older, I was teased not infrequently.

I consult on various odd jobs in the computer industry to support Charlie and me. But my first joy is writing for the Casual Observer, a struggling Atlanta newspaper that should have closed its doors years ago, but somehow hangs on. If you haven’t heard of the Casual Observer, you’re not alone, neither has anyone else. They were the first paper to publish on the web, beating the San Jose Mercury News by a month. Once, the Drudge Report linked one of my articles, but only for 15 minutes. Poor Drudge was the victim of a hacker, and Drudge’s techies quickly fixed the problem. I get paid a percentage of the profits for each paper I have published articles – but since the Observer rarely has a profit, I’m rarely paid. When I’m paid, it’s peanuts. The owner/editor is constantly complains of my work. So why don’t I find another newspaper to work at? Three reasons. The first is that my editor is right – I am a lousy writer. I don’t know an adverb from an adjective, my verbs have declared all out war with my nouns, and I write in boring passive voice. Secondly, no other newspaper will hire me, even as an intern, even in the mailroom, even to clean toilets. Finally, I get press credentials with the Observer, which, with a little bit of moxie, a little bit of planning, is my ticket to all sorts of interesting places and events.

Oh yes, Charlie. Charlie is my cat. Well, that’s not accurate. No one owns a cat. Charlie is a different sort of cat, but then everyone views his or her cat as being unique. But Charlie is different. But this account isn’t about Charlie. It’s about Dr. Peter Stone, the CEO of Q-Corp, and the outcome of his murder trial.

Remember StarTrek? Remember the transporter in StarTrek? Peter and his talented scientists and engineers at Q-Corp built a transporter. A real, operating transporter. With great fanfare, Peter Stone personally flicked the switch and transported an employee through it, successfully. Peter hyped Q-Corp’s transporter in Popular Science the month before, which included details that troubled the District Attorney. In the Popular Science article, Peter wrote that transporting actually involved transporting the state of all the atoms of a person to another location – essentially recreating the person, and then quickly destroying the original person. The original had to be destroyed or else you’d have two identical people. Within a week of transporting the first human, the grand jury returned an indictment of first-degree murder against Peter Stone.

The trial was held in Cobb County, northwest of Atlanta. It was the biggest news in the county, ever. Q-Corp’s headquarters is located in Cobb County in the Galleria area near the crossing of Interstates 75 and 285. Its gleaming white tower stood overlooking I-75; with its cobalt blue fuzzy circle logo atop the building surveying the surrounding pine covered rolling hills. The logo, an image of a Bose-Einstein Condensate, symbolized Q-Corp’s business, applying quantum physics to practical business and consumer products. What is a Bose-Einstein Condensate? It is a small collection of atoms, trapped and chilled so cold and so close to absolute zero (the theoretical limit of how cold things can get) that they merge into one super atom. If you could see it, you would see a fuzz-ball the size of a golf-ball, or even colder, the size of a baseball. Q-Corp patented a way to put these condensates into relatively cheap instruments (cheap, if you’re a Fortune 100 company, or a well endowed university, or the Federal Government). Why put these into instruments? Well, that’s another story.

Dr. Peter Stone got his first PhD in physics at MIT. Peter is the epitome of charisma and one of the premiere evangelists of science. Where his peers would sneer at Popular Science, Peter wrote a regular column explaining the esoteric features of science to the unwashed masses, with a not so hidden agenda of promoting Q-Corp and himself. Peter was often seen on PBS science programs and specials, the talking head for any TV news event that needed a scientist, and a frequent witness at congressional hearings on anything technical. He was a smooth P.T. Barnum who promoted the Q-Corp big top.

I always sat in a front row seat in the spectator section of the trial courtroom, thanks to my Observer press credentials and a timely article I wrote the previous month. It was on the middle school football team that the court clerk’s son played on, and the vital leadership role he played on the team. I estimated the Observer’s circulation rose 10% on that one issue as the proud parents sent copies of the paper to all their friends and relatives. I actually got paid $3.47 for that article, the first payment that year, and the second highest payment for any of my articles. The Atlanta Journal, CNN and the New York Times reporters could not figure out why I got such preferential treatment over them. I wasn’t about to give away my few and precious little trade secrets I had. Throughout the trial I sat next to Detective Dennis Granger of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, one of the principle investigators in the case. During the jury selection, Agent Dennis and I talked about the case and life in general during the breaks.

“I don’t get why Dr. Stone transported his employee the way he did.” I said to Dennis after the first day of jury selection. “It looks like Peter Stone begged to be prosecuted. With his public statements, his articles on the transporter, he painted a big bull’s eye on himself.”

“I know.” Dennis responded. “Peter is not stupid. I don’t know what his angle is.”

The defense and prosecution agreed prior to the trial to all sorts of facts. Peter flipped the switch that transported Roger Smith, an employee of Q-Corp, from the transporter transmitting station to the receiving station some 50 feet away. In doing this, a copy of Roger Smith was quantumly created at the receiving station in 250 milliseconds, followed by the rapid destruction of the original Roger Smith 20 milliseconds later. It all happened in an instant, in a twinkling of an eye. Peter premeditated this, knew better than anyone else what was happening. The real question the jury would have to settle, was Roger Smith actually killed in the process. Indirectly, they had to decide whether the person who identified himself to be Roger Smith was really Roger Smith, or just a copy of Roger Smith.

The prosecution brought several expert witnesses to the trial. The first was Dr. Frederick Martin, a medical professor and practicing physician from Emory University in Atlanta. He testified that since the original Roger Smith was destroyed, that constituted killing a human being. The defense tried to have Dr. Martin admit that the current Roger Smith had as much claim of being Roger Smith as the person did who entered the transmitter prior to being teleported.

“Dr. Martin,” the defense attorney asked, “Have you examined Roger Smith?”

“I examined the person who calls himself Roger Smith.”

“Did you notice the gunshot scar on his left arm?”

“Yes I did.” Dr. Martin answered.

“Did you ask him how he got that scar?”

“Yes I did. He said he got it ten years ago when hunting deer near Rome, Georgia.” Replied Martin.

“Did you check-out his story?” asked the attorney.

“Yes I did. Roger’s wife told me about the hunting accident ten years ago.”

“Dr. Martin, in your learned opinion, is this a genuine memory on the part of this man?” asked Peter’s defense attorney.

“Yes, it is.” Answered Dr. Martin.

“Dr. Martin, in your learned opinion, is this man’s scar a genuine scar?”

“Yes, it is.” Answered Dr. Martin.

“So, Dr. Martin, this man has a genuine scar with genuine memories associated with how he got that scar. He did not make this stuff up. He did not play act on this.”

“Yes.” Answered the doctor.

“So, this man has all the memories of Roger Smith, all the physical features of Roger Smith, including the scars of Roger Smith. So, he must be for all practical purposes, Roger Smith, wouldn’t you say?”

The prosecutor shouted, “Objection, your honor, the attorney is leading the witness.”

The defense attorney didn’t even wait for the judge to reply, but said, “I withdraw my question, your honor. I am through cross examining the witness.”

“A follow-up question, your honor.” The prosecutor said. “In your opinion, this man’s memory and scar would be the result of the transporter copying process?”

“Yes it would.” Answered Dr. Martin.

When the prosecution rested its case, the defense brought in four witnesses: Roger’s pastor, his primary care physician at Kaiser, his dentist, and Roger Smith’s wife. Each testified how the man who came out of the transporter receiver looked and acted identically to the man who had entered the transporter transmitter. The dentist even reported how the man had the same active cavities as Roger Smith had. Roger’s wife reported that the man who came out of the transmitter was physically the same, and behaved the same in every way as the Roger Smith did who originally entered the transporter.

Finally, the defense brought Roger Smith, or rather the copy of Roger Smith to the stand. He was asked how it felt to be transported (a slight disorientation because he noticed some features changed in the chamber he ended up in), and did he feel any differently from before (no, he felt the same).

The case went to the jury two days ago, and this morning we got word they had reached a verdict. I sat down in my usual front row seat, next to Detective Dennis Granger.

“What do you think the verdict is?” I whispered.

“I honestly can’t tell.” Answered Agent Granger.

“Peter Stone is sure taking a big chance with this trial.” I said. “If he wins, he can market the transporter. If he looses, he faces serious prison time.”

“We’ll see. I think he’s got an ace up his sleeve.” Dennis said.

We waited a few minutes, then the bailiff announced, “All rise, the honorable Judge Curtis Martinez is now entering the court.”

Judge Martinez slammed the gavel and announced the court is in session. The jury came in; all had serious faces and did look at Peter Stone.

“I think they have a guilty verdict.” I whispered to Dennis. Dennis grunted.

The judge turned to the jury and asked, “Have you reached a verdict?”

The foreman rose and answered, “Yes we have, your honor.”

“Hand the verdict to the bailiff.” The judge instructed.

The bailiff took the verdict sheet from the foreman and delivered it to the judge.

The judge unfolded it, read it silently, and then asked Peter Stone to stand.

The judge read: “Concerning the charge of first degree murder of Roger Smith, we the jury find the defendant, Peter Stone, guilty.”

There was an audible gasp from the audience in the courtroom.

“Do you have anything to say?” asked the judge turning to the defense.

Peter Stone’s defense attorney rose and said, “Your honor, in light of the verdict rendered on Peter Stone, I ask for a mistrial.”

Dennis muttered right beside me, “I knew it.”

“On what grounds?” Asked the judge.

“Your honor, two days after Roger Smith was transported, Dr. Peter Stone transported himself. I have witness and video that I can present to show this is the case. Since the jury has ruled that Peter Stone killed Roger Smith, thereby implying that anyone who comes out of the transporter is not the same person that went in. Peter Stone, by implication, died in the transporter transmitter and this person standing next to me is not Peter Stone. Therefore, this person cannot be prosecuted and convicted of the murder of Roger Smith.”

Pandemonium broke out in the courtroom. Reporters rushed out to send in their breaking news.

The judge slammed the gavel and shouted, “Order.”

“I will have to review the evidence you have before I can rule.” The judge bellowed.

It took a couple of hours, but Judge Martinez did declare a mistrial, and Dr. Peter Stone, or rather, the facsimile of Dr. Peter Stone, walked out a free man.

The next story.
Some of my thoughts about this are in my other blog, MetaSchema.

Purpose

This blog will contain a series of short stories involving the fictional character Erlenmeyer Flask. Erlenmeyer, who goes by Earl, is a sometimes reporter for the Casual Observer, a struggling fifth-rate newspaper. The stories will usually explore some topic (often philosophical) and touch on some bizarre implications.

These stories are an impressionistic sketchbook. Details have been left out, such as what the people look like. While my stories will inevitably reflect a word view, I'm afraid many will read into them things I have no intention to put in the stories. For instance, some might conclude I have a thing against large corporations, or executives. I don't have anything against them or for them per se. Nor do I think that the "common people" are superior or inferior to anyone. I have bigger issues to explore than these kind of things. I am fascinated with life, what it is, and what is going on in, around, and behind the universe.