Metamorphosis - Jean Lorrah [131]
What did it take to convince them?
Data did not project that thought, but even though he had stopped transmitting, his pain did not subside. The overloaded transmitter was generating excess heat now even when not in use. Is that the only proof of the soul?
Yes.
Can a soul be manufactured?
Inarticulate confusion: they could not comprehend such a question. Data grasped the transmitter and pulled it from his body, careful not to pull the connections loose as he removed it from the vicinity of the delicate components it had threatened. It burned his hand, but he ignored the warnings of the delicate sensors in his fingers. This, he said, is a thought transmitter. A friend and I built it, and installed it in me. This is what gives me the power to communicate with you. Is it a soul?
Horror ran through the crowd, followed by anger.
You mock us! 1 show you truth. You have the ability to transmit in a way any sentient being can receive.
Perhaps reception is proof of sentience, but the ability to transmit proves nothing more than a mutation particular to your species.
The mental atmosphere was rife with denial—comb no one could dispute the proof before their eyes.
Then the realization began: if a mechanical object could transmit soul to soul .
. . then it could not be the soul they touched in one another.
Anger surged toward fury. Data considered calling for beamup. But then they might claim his demonstration was a trick. He had to stay, let them test him.
The Elders closed on him. What you claim is not possible, one of them said. You cannot be a machine!
But I am, Data replied. The surge of power to the transmitter melted a patch of synthoskin in his hand, and sensors just beneath sent a screeching protest through both Data’s own diagnostics and the transmitter they touched.
The entire crowd gasped at the burst of agony.
You are in pain! exclaimed the Chief Elder. A machine cannot feel pain.
Then shut it out, as you shut out the pain of your fellows as you kill them! Data told them.
But we feel your pain, protested one of them, staring in bewilderment at Data’s exposed mechanisms. How can you be a machine, and have a soul?
How can you be a man, and believe your fellow men do not? Data countered.
If the Konor had held their belief for generations, it might have been impossible to shake it, even with Data as living-or mechanical-proof before them. But few people in the crowd were children of Konor parents; most of them had discovered the transmission ability in themselves, or had it discovered by other Konor.
Doubt spread-and flashes of memory. Being separated from brothers or sisters who could not communicate mentally. Killing people like themselves, in the firm belief that because they could not transmit their 366 fear and pain they were soulless beings no better than animals. Doubt. It was the best Data could hope for. What if you were wrong? he demanded, again damping out the pain it cost him so as not to obscure his words.
You cannot know who has a soul. I do not know if I have one, but I can tell you this much: a soul is not something that can be manufactured. This-he held up the transmitter as high as the trailing connectors would permit-is not a soul. Yet it is what allows me to communicate with you.
He looked into a sea of faces reflecting the turmoil he could feel in their. minds, and pressed on. I do not say you have no souls. All I know is that the soul is not what your test detects. If you will accept that those you call Ikonor are as probable as yourselves to be ensouled, and deal with them as equal in the eyes of Providence, the Samdians of Dacket are willing to negotiate with you. Will you stop your path of destruction and talk with them about making peace?
The advantage to dealing with a society of mental communicators was that the scene before the Council Building was transmitted instantaneously throughout the Konor population; their disillusionment came all at once, with no dispute as to what they had actually seen. But the agreement still took time, and while