I read the file to the end, but understand less than a third of it. The gist of it, however, is all too clear.

"Let me get this straight: cutting through the technical mumbo jumbo, this means you can make a biological quantum computer from ingredients that are available everywhere in the tropics? You can build computers without the technological infrastructure?"

"Yes, and it's quite easy, too."

"Jesus; that's just too good to be true."

"It's happening. You're seeing it with your own eyes."

This is absurd: totally and absolutely crazy. But I can't deny what's happening with her cla.s.s. She smiles benignly at my puzzled expression and gently strokes my chest hair. I have problems grasping these events, and more.

"But why? In Holland you were the tunnel-visioned researcher, and here you suddenly become a crossover between Florence Nightingale and Albert Schweitzer."

"You're exaggerating. I did care about broader issues, but in smaller ways. Imagine this: you try to do the right thing. You donate to Medicins Sans Frontieres, Greenpeace and Amnesty International, you vote for the green party, you buy Fair Trade products, you even work weekends in an Oxfam store, and you hope it's enough. And then you meet a guy, fall in love and find out he's actually going to work as a volunteer in Africa, and you feel...how do I say...lacking."

"But I came here because I must, not to spite you."

"I know, darling. But I was torn: I love my work, especially the purely scientific part, but I love you as well. And I do share your concerns. Please don't get me wrong: if something bothers you, you're always itching to do something immediately. Me, well, I'm trying to look for deeper causes and long term solutions."

"Me too, Liona. But long term solutions need great changes like breaking down the trade barriers, sharing wealth and knowledge with the Third World. Most westerners are not willing to do that."

"I agree. And it had me stumped. Until, one night, I suddenly saw a different way."

III: Morning, somewhere in Zambia.

Meanwhilst, Liona's cla.s.s is getting weirder and weirder. The kids have mounted small mirrors in the cla.s.sroom in such a way that all the BIKOs have contact with each other through their infrared gates. So much is happening at the same time that in the ensuing pandemonium it is unclear who is teaching whom. But one thing's for sure: there's a whole lotta interaction goin' on.

The worn out blackboard is left in a corner, abandoned. The whole shabby environment of the cla.s.sroom seems forgotten; Liona and the kids are happily and actively living in a small bubble of their own.

It's a fragile sh.e.l.l, though, pierced by reality time and again. Like now, as Timmy comes back from lunch with his parents.

"Miiiiiissss, Dad won't listen to meeeee!" he says with tears rolling down his cheeks.

Liona picks him up, cuddles him, and kisses his forehead. "Shush, Timmy, easy-peasy." As I watch her hugging this hurt child I suddenly see the mother instead of the seductress, and I think crazy thoughts of marriage. She puts him down after he's calmed, and asks what's up.

"I tried to tell him he was doing it wrong, the way he's doing the farming--"

"Uh-oh," Liona tries to interrupt.

"--but he says that it is the only way to do it. Grandpa taught him, and Grandpa's dad taught Grandpa, and--"

"Uh-oh!"

"--whilst we found out a much better way with our long term simulation programs, but he just--"

"AHEM!" Liona's loud throat-clearing finally breaks through Timmy's rant.

"Yes, Miss?"

"Has it not occurred to you, Timmy, that you're going just a little bit too fast for your poor old dad?"

"He's not old! And not dumb. Just so...stubborn."

"Like you, you mean?"

Timmy tries his best pout, but draws his out-thrust lower lip back in when the rest of the cla.s.s begins to laugh. His semi-hurt look only lasts a fleeting moment as he receives friendly pokes from his mates and a fond stroke through his thick hair from Liona. A spark of defiance remains, though.

"But what good is all this running best-choice scenarios when we don't use them?"

"You're right, Timmy," Liona says, "but first people need to be convinced. And often that is the most difficult part of the job."

"Oh. But how?"

"Well, I may have a little idea. Let's throw it into the group."

I can't follow what happens next as my work is calling me. In the evening, however, I try to get more information straight from the horse's mouth. In our typically untypical way, she wants to have s.e.x whilst I just want to talk. Fortunately, she indulges me for the moment.

"What's with this simulation program, this long-term scenario thing?"

"Well, that's a thing our BIKOs do extremely well."

"What?"

"Because they're quantum computers: biological quantum computers--"

"Like the experimental set-up you were working on back in Holland? But I thought your team was the first to achieve quantum computing, and now you tell me those BIKOs can do it, too?"

"Yes. BIQCO is my acronym for biological quantum computer. And quantum computers are very apt at ma.s.sive parallel calculations."

"So?"

"You feed them all the known parameters of an existing situation. Then you apply several choices for changing that situation. Then the BIKOs compute a near-infinite number of likely scenarios and give you a statistical breakdown of the most probable outcomes."

"A future predictor? A quantum crystal ball?"

"Sort of. It gives you a good projection as to which solutions are most likely to work best in certain situations."

"Like a hugely advanced version of SimCity. And what about the software you put in the BIKOs: I've never seen such interactive programs. Where did you get those?"

"Those are not dead software programs, darling. They're AIs."

b): Very early morning, four months ago, somewhere in The Netherlands.

An unknowing spectator might think that madness reigned in a certain university lab: a lone woman talking to herself, conversing into thin air. She got quite agitated at times, and her finely manicured hands cut through the air in sweeping, defiant gestures. Still, the intent way she stared at a large monitor seemed to suggest that she was actually getting answers.

"So I need to start all over again, when I get there? Build a BIQCO, set up a Ubiquity-Kit, and nurse a new AI into self-awareness?"

"But how about you? I can't leave you behind. And pulling the plug is murder. Can't I release you on the net?"

"Yeah, I forgot: you need a quantum environment to maintain self-consciousness. s.h.i.t."

"So there is a way? Then this leaves me with one final question: I'm still not fully convinced that you and your fellow AIs will be benign. Because eventually you will be mult.i.tudes smarter than us, and you may find some higher principle that will make us obsolete."

At this, Liona sat down in front of the large monitor. With her right elbow on the desk she put her chin in her hand as she watched the big screen. Written across it in eloquent script: --If truly objective moral principles exist, then--by definition--they must be beneficial for all-- * * * *

IV: Late night, somewhere in Zambia.

It's one of those nights again: whilst I can just about keep up with her physically and emotionally, I sometimes get completely left behind intellectually. Curiosity not only killed our little cat-and-mouse game, it overwhelmed my mind as well.

"Artificial Intelligence? Isn't that another Holy Grail evading research teams all over the world?"

"So far, yes. That's because they're missing a fundamental ingredient."

"Your secret touch."

"Not really. The others don't have a working quantum computer."

"What has that got to do with Artificial Intelligence?"

"Everything. According to Roger Penrose's--very controversial--hypothesis, quantum processes in our brain's microtubules form an essential part of our consciousness. If he's right, then all attempts at creating self-awareness on normal computers are doomed. Then Artificial Intelligence can only arise on a quantum computer."

"I didn't know your team was doing AI research as well."

"We weren't. But during my lonely nightshifts I had quite some time at hand. So I experimented a little."

"A little? You developed AI by fiddling around a wee bit?"

There's that smile again, with that naughty look when she's thinking up something kinky.

"Hard to explain, darling. So let me show you how good I am at fiddling with things."

At which point she gets down to demonstrate just that. It's the kind of proof I never tire of.

V: The next morning.

I've taken the morning off. Liona's revelation has piqued my curiosity to burning point; I need to see things for myself. Initially, the hubbub in her cla.s.sroom is overwhelming: too much going on at once. I sit down near Melissa and her friends, who are interacting with their BIKO, and each other, almost at the same time.

Somehow, they do notice me, and subtly I'm drawn into the maelstrom. Slowly, I'm seeing that there is a method to this madness, that there is order in this chaos. I guess knowing that those intuitive--almost telepathic--programs running on the BIKOs are actually AIs helps me make a bit more sense of the whole.

Still, I'm worried about something. I can't help but ask Melissa, who seems wise beyond her years.

"Melissa?"

"Yes, Mister David?"

"This here, this is all wonderful," I begin, groping for words, "but if Zambia and the rest of Africa become industrialised, the problems of the world as a whole will only increase."

"How can you think we will do that, Mister David?" she says, bewildered. "That is one of the worst scenarios that we have run."

"It is?"

"Of course. We can't believe that you people in the West are doing it. It is bad long term strategy for yourselves, too."

"Yeah. I guess most of us are just short-term egotists. But you people--"

"We have seen better ways. We would be stupid not to use them."

Which makes sense: if you know, deep in your bones, that it's bad, you will choose the long-term view. It's incredible: in this little world, the kids are not only learning fast, but trying to incorporate their lessons into reality as well. Of course, some kids develop faster than others, but there is this very strong sense of community, almost tangible, that makes the brighter ones help the others. There is a sort of selfless co-operation where each other's strengths and weaknesses are complemented, an invisible bond within which the group as a whole truly cares for each of its own.

It's as if Liona's cla.s.s has transformed into a peculiar kind of group mind. The lessons become mind-bending sessions where everything seems to happen at once: kids learning new things, kids proposing new things, vehement discussions interspersed with laughter, dizzying sequences of sight and sound from the BIKOs, and Liona madly gesturing and talking to everybody through her BIKO like the conductor of an orchestra in overdrive.

It's like they're composing a different tune to some mystic rhythm, based upon that crazy Aura Aurora song: Struggling on the oldest continent The bereaved no longer stand alone When the foothold is permanent: The seeds of change are sown The tide is turning More becoming less.

Curiosity burning.

Transcendence express.

Epilogue: a few months later.

In the summer heat, a tired black man returns to his home after a long, hard day of working the land. He's dog-tired and suppresses his antic.i.p.ation. Whilst today is a special day, it's better not to expect too much, if only to avoid disappointment.

His wife is cooking his favourite dish, cardamom: a rich mixture of yams, onions, paprika and tomatoes. His kids gather around him, ready to celebrate. But they wait and let his oldest son come forward. The smart kid is smiling broadly, and hiding something behind his back.

"I made something for your birthday, Dad."

"So kind of you, Timmy," the large man says, still sweating from his exertions. "What is it?"

"Something to help you plan your work," Timmy says, eyes gleaming. "A computer."

A tall white guy and a pet.i.te redheaded woman are walking through a little village that is bustling with happy activity, abuzz with new wonders, and alight with hope. Liona acknowledges the scene as if it's the most normal thing in the world, but David still has trouble believing the evidence of his eyes.

"I can't believe the progress that's been made here. If this keeps up we'll be unnecessary here in a couple of years."

"Isn't that the greatest kind of job--the sort where you eventually make yourself superfluous?"