Story: Two-Body Problem

I just finished writing “Two-Body Problem”, a little over 15,000-word short story with themes about embodiment and identity. I often describe the genre I most commonly write in as “identity horror,” where characters confront challenges to their sense of self and personhood (I generally mean “horror” loosely; often my characters do face some traumatic experiences, but the overall vibe in this story is more joy than fear).

The story explores what it might be like to literally have one mind that occupies two bodies, and to imagine with as much realism as I can, what that experience might be like. I hope it's just an enjoyable ride as a story, and perhaps if I've done things well enough, you might perhaps feel a bit wistful that you can't try having two bodies yourself.

But I think it's good to note some of the things I'm doing with this story that may not be immediately obvious to every reader.

There seems to be a ridiculous and yet rarely questioned claim out there in the world that “mere words” are insufficient to convey the essence of embodied experience. People make claims that, for example, large language models cannot possibly “truly understand” the world or human experience because they lack embodied experience. To my eye, this story challenges that claim head-on. If I can write a story that conveys, even if only partially, what it might be like to have two bodies, then it seems to me that the claim that “mere words” cannot convey embodied experience is false.

I've never had two bodies, but the story drives me to imagine what that might be like. Empathy is possible. It is possible for me to ponder being the character Mary from the story, or perhaps even being a bat reeling from a brief encounter with Thomas Nagel. Our imagination is imperfect, but it is far from nothing. And this truth should be obvious to anyone who has read anything more than the blandest of stories. The idea that words are not deeply powerful—instrumental in what makes us what we are—is just profoundly wrongheaded. If, after reading the story, you feel you understand something of Mary's experience—the comfort, the coordination, the terror of separation—then the story has already proven its point. Words reached you.

And the story makes a second point. Today, humans might be some kind of gold standard for embodied experience, but there is no reason to imagine that our status in that regard will continue indefinitely. We can easily imagine future intelligent systems that have, for example, multiple bodies or bodies with a broader range of sensory inputs than humans do. If you think how special you are is linked to how amazing your embodiment is, understand that you may not be at the top of the specialness heap forever. The story makes it clear: two bodies are better than one. Vastly better. Of course, since the human specialness goalposts are on wheels, if and when newer forms of embodiment arise, humans will likely find some new way to claim specialness, but at least for now, I think it's good to challenge the idea that standard human embodiment is the pinnacle of experience. I can certainly imagine something better.