C-Score

A year ago, my life was cruising along in a way that I would have called “pretty good”. I was a professor of physics at Marwell College in New York State, and had made it through the tenure process unscathed. I had a son who'd gone off to college, and an ex-husband who was still a good friend. My research program had, honestly, rather stalled, as small colleges really aren't the place for cutting-edge research, but students liked my way of explaining challenging concepts in a manner that they could grasp, and I had mastered the art of mentoring them through their own research projects. Overall, my life—the life of Prof. Susan Wilson—was ordinary, but by all accounts, pretty good.

When the Liu/Kenner test of consciousness made the headlines, students asked me about it, but I didn't take it seriously. I mean, people have been bullshitting about consciousness for centuries, and I didn't see why this was any different. They claimed to have discovered what they called “the Cartesian metastructure” in the brain, and could measure the amount of “quallian essence” it contained. At the time I joked about it with my students, calling it “quallian essentialism”, and suggesting that soon quallian theory would join quantum theory on our curriculum.

I also had a fair amount of fun at the expense of some of the religious folks who objected to the test, claiming that questions of souls should be beyond the reach of science. I was careful with my words, of course, as I had a few religious students, but that was a tightrope I'd walked numerous times before. In broad strokes, I defended the test as a scientific endeavor, and I was careful to point out that it was an imperfect test of some correlate of consciousness, not of any aspects of a mystical (mythical?) soul. I expected interest to fade, and for the test to soon be forgotten in favor of the next headline-grabbing discovery.

Perhaps Liu and Kenner felt the same way. I'm not sure that they ever intended their test as a way to measure the extent of an individual's consciousness. But that's what it became. Like any other measurement of human potential, people wanted to know their own “C-score”, and although the test initially required pretty specialized equipment, soon enough MRI machines were adapted, and testing became more widespread. People saw a high score as a badge of honor.

Not long after testing became more broadly available, media reports came in about a man who had scored zero on the test. To my eyes, the news just highlighted what I'd suspected, that it was a bullshit test, not quite what it was purported to be. But it didn't help that the man in the media spotlight was rather a dullard, and it seemed fairly believable that he might have had very little going on inside his head. I didn't think much of it, because I believed in the scientific method—theories are refined and improved, or discarded—and that the Liu/Kenner test would be no different.

Science did leap forward, but in a direction that only strengthened belief in the test. Liu and Kenner’s scan techniques were reproduced, refined, and simplified, but perhaps more importantly, psychologists quickly jumped on the bandwagon and developed tests that correlated well with C-scores, adding to the evidence that the test was measuring something real. In parallel to the serious scientific developments, the media published endless fluff pieces, claiming that high C-scores were correlated with success, creativity, stable relationships, and more. I was skeptical, but I couldn't help but notice that some of my colleagues were not. They began to talk about C-scores as if they were a kind of IQ, and I found myself in the minority when I said that I thought the whole story was a bit more complicated than that.

C-score testing began to be a thing for employers, and my students ended up having to take a test as part of their job applications. For some, getting a high C-score opened new doors; others were just average. Strangely, perhaps, some jobs actually seemed to prefer people with middling C-scores. Positions in some bio labs, in particular, wanted students with good grades but who were not likely to be “too distracted” by their own thoughts.

I saw the damage that a low C-score could do when Mary, one of my senior advisees, came into my office in tears.

“They're telling me I'm barely conscious!” she sobbed. “And I haven't even had a C-score MRI! I just failed a written test! How can they say that about me when they don't even know me?”

She showed me a print-out of her test, and I looked at some of the questions. One asked, “Would understanding that pain is merely a sensation help you endure something painful?” and she had answered “Possibly”. Another asked, “A box is facing you so that you can't see its far sides. How much do you know about the box?” and she had chosen “I only know what I can see”. I comforted her and told her that she should probably get a C-score MRI and know for sure. But I felt a bit shaken, because all her test answers seemed perfectly reasonable to me. If she had scored low, so would I.

It gnawed at me that evening and I slept fitfully. In the morning, I drove into town and went to MeasureMind, one of the copycat C-score testing companies that had sprung up. I paid for an anonymous test and went into the MRI machine. Ten minutes later, I was staring at my results in a state of shell-shock. I had scored zero.

A young woman with a calm, professional demeanor, around the age of one of my students, came over to talk to me. “I’m here to help you come to better understand your score,” she said.

“I'm creative”, I stammered. “I write papers in physics; one is even cited on Wikipedia. I've got a son, and I've been married. I've got friends. I've got a life. How the hell can you say I'm not conscious?”

“I understand how this score would lead you to say you're upset”, she said, “but it's important for everyone that you understand your score, what it means, and what it means for how you relate to other people.”

I sat there, dumbstruck, and she continued. “You're not alone in this. About five percent of people come out of the test with a zero score. I must be clear that this test shows that you aren't conscious in the way that most people are; you don't have an inner life. Not truly experiencing the world is something of a disability, but it's one you've managed for your whole life. It's quite possible that some things people say have never entirely made sense to you, that you've always had a sense that you're muddling through. Well, this test gives you an answer as to why that was.”

“Is there any kind of… I dunno, treatment for this?” I asked. “Or a support group? Or something?”

“Honestly, you're very vulnerable to people who'd seek to exploit your condition, people who claim that if you take this supplement or that therapy, you'll be cured. But right now we think that by about the age of five the die is cast—your brain is wired in a way that does not allow for consciousness. As for a support group, that's an interesting idea, but I don't really see what the point would be. You'd all be talking about what you say you feel, but you might just confuse each other more. I'd recommend hanging around with real people—I mean, people who are conscious. You've been faking it for a long time, and you're good at it. Just keep doing that.”

She spoke with a smooth, practiced professional tone, and yet she seemed so utterly uncaring and lacking in what I thought of as humanity. I couldn't help blurting out, “And what's your C-score?”

“I'm a 97,” she said. “I'm highly conscious. I'm really, truly seeing you right now, and I can tell you, I'm feeling a lot. You could say I've got enough feeling for both of us.” And then she smiled.

---

I called in sick and drove home, somewhat robotically. I kept trying to wrap my head around it. I'd always thought I understood what people meant when they talked about consciousness, as “that thing we all have”. I'd always thought I had it. Had my ex, Robert, known? Once in an argument, he'd said, “Why can't you behave like a normal person?” Was that a sign?

At home, I Googled “Zero C-score” and found a few news articles and a few forums. Some of the articles were scary, with people talking about how people like me were a threat to society; likening us to Stepford wives and serial killers; suggesting we were all sociopaths. Some of the articles were more sympathetic, interviewing people talking about how they'd always felt a bit different and how they'd always felt like there was something intangible that other people were describing that they needed to fake, and some just saying they had no idea. But even those articles were all written by authors who themselves had high C-scores, and I couldn't help but feel that they were talking about us like we were some other species.

The biggest theme from media coverage was “don't be fooled”. Popular articles explained that “C-zombies” (one pejorative term for folks like me) might seem like they're feeling things, but they're not. They don't experience true understanding, true love, or true joy. They say they do. They even tell themselves that they do. But they don't. So don't be fooled.

The next day, I went back to work, and Mary came back to see me with the results of her C-score MRI. She'd scored a 12, and she was terrified. She was afraid that no one would hire her, that she'd be seen as a liability, that she'd be seen as a C-zombie. A bit overwhelmed by her emotion, I blurted out, “My god, I'd kill for a 12! I'm a zero!”

Her eyes went wide, and she looked taken aback. "You're a zero? But you seemed, well… pretty normal… Mostly.” She looked at me with a mix of fear and pity.

A suspicious look crossed her face. “You're not just saying you’re a zero to make me feel better?” she asked. “You're an actual zero?”

I wished I hadn't opened my mouth. “Yes”, I said heavily, “I'm a zero.”

“Wow,” she said, “And here I was feeling sorry for myself with a 12. I mean, apparently I don't have a lot of consciousness, but at least I have some.”

---

Within days, the news was all over campus. I was a zero. I could easily guess what was going through their (conscious) minds. Pariah, freak, C-zombie, Stepford wife, sociopath, liar, fake, fraud, zero.

With the spread of the news, I quickly found that I didn't feel safe on campus. Some of my male colleagues looked at me with a weird predatory gaze, and I found myself avoiding them. I was wary of anyone who seemed to be trying to befriend me, as it was hard to tell whether their behavior was genuine concern, or some kind of academic—or other—curiosity. Work became something to get through and go home, and home became a place to hide.

At home, the advertising engines had apparently caught on to my new status, and I was getting ads for “C-score improvement”, “C-score therapy”, and even one inviting me to become a “C-zombie escort”, offering “good money”. Creepy. But one ad did catch my eye; it was from Central New York University, and it was for a study to better understand low-C-score individuals. They were particularly eager to recruit people who had scored zero, and they were offering a stipend for participants in their study. For some reason, I went to their website, completed the intake questionnaire, and before I knew it, they’d gotten back to me, and I was signed up to go in on the weekend. I don't know what I was hoping for. Some way to escape my predicament, I guess.

---

Arriving at 11:00 a.m. on Saturday morning, I was a bit surprised that I seemed to be the only subject, but the researchers assured me that they had to stagger the intake process due to things like MRI machine access. I was given a consent form to sign, and then I was taken for a repeat of my C-score MRI. The scientists looked pleased with the result, and for a brief moment I hoped that the earlier test had been an error, but then I overheard them saying “Yeah, she's a zero, all right.”

One of the researchers broke from the group and came up to me. She introduced herself as “Dr. West” and explained that as a “zero” I had some unique skills. One was my aptitude for hypnosis, and she had more forms for me to sign to agree to be part of a hypnotic trial. I asked what would happen if I said “no”, and she told me they'd simply have to find another zero. I signed the forms.

Dr. West asked me to focus on her voice and began to speak in a slow, soothing tone. My eyes had closed at some point, but now Dr. West was telling me to open them again. I couldn't help noticing that somehow it was now 4:30 p.m. and I was sitting in a different room. Someone else was with her, a short balding man with glasses. He asked me "Is there anything you'd like, Susan?" and I replied "Yes, can you write me a prescription for some kind of SSRI?" like it was the most natural thing in the world to ask. He smiled and said. “I think we can do that.” It was only later that I wondered how I had known he was a medical doctor, and why I’d wanted that prescription.

Dr. West smiled as I left, and said, “You've been a very good subject, Susan. You're going to be a great help to our research.” She handed me a check for $500, and told me that she'd be in touch.

---

I got the prescription filled on the way home and took two tablets as soon as I had the bottle. When I got home, it was around 6:00 p.m. I ate dinner and just as I was about to find something else to watch on Netflix, the phone rang. It was Dr. West, and she was asking me how I was feeling. My eyes felt heavy, and I told her I was feeling tired. I must have fallen asleep right then, as the next thing I knew, it was morning.

Despite a night on the couch, after showering and putting on new clothes, I felt more capable than I had in a while. So what if I was a zero? I could still do things. I could still be useful. I could help others. Wasn't that why I'd become a teacher in the first place?

I spent the morning tidying my apartment and sorting through my clothes. I'd gotten rather dull and frumpy over the years, and I decided to go shopping. I bought a few new outfits, and I felt good about myself. I even bought a new lipstick, and I put it on in the car. I smiled at myself in the mirror, said “Welcome to Stepford,” and laughed. If all my life had been some kind of performance, clearly I was a good actress, and I should just embrace my role…

Late in the afternoon, I called my son David and told him that I was a zero. He was quiet for a beat, and I wished I'd told him face to face. After a pause, he asked me how I was coping with the news, and I told him I was fine, or at least that I was going to be fine. I could tell that the news created a sense of distance between us, and perhaps a possible explanation for why I hadn't always been the best mother. He told me that his dad was an 85 and he was a 57, which wasn't the best, but he still had plenty of opportunities. Our call ended with my telling him I loved him, and he joked back, “To the extent that you understand love anyway. Hang in there, Mom.” and hung up. His words seemed harsh, but at least I knew he'd be okay.

At work on Monday, people noticed the changes. I was more confident, more assertive, and I was dressing better. I was even wearing makeup—if you're going to wear a mask for the world, it might as well be a good one, right? If I'd been asked to describe what I felt right then, I might have used the word “acceptance”. Hadn't my entire life so far shown that I could make my way successfully through life's challenges even without the purported “inner life” that others had? When a creepy male colleague tried to corner me in the break room, I told him to back off, widened my eyes, smiled at him, and said, “If I killed you, you know I'd probably get away with it. Diminished capacity and all that.” Then I winked at him and looked just a little coquettish. He looked at me like a startled rabbit and left the room.

Weeks passed, and I continued to help Dr. West. Our sessions were a little strange, in that I didn't remember much of them, but I felt like I was helping in some way—an ambassador for the zeros, if you like. And the stipends didn't hurt either. I was managing my life better than I had in years. I spent more time (and money) on self-improvement, heading to the gym, watching my diet, and figuring out how to look my best. I did feel pretty emotionally flat, I guess because of the SSRI, but I was getting used to that. Overall, I felt like I had found my groove again.

With the semester over, Dr. West asked if I would accompany her to Washington, DC, for a hearing about zeros in the workplace. I agreed, and we flew out together. And... I don't remember much about the hearing, or the trip as a whole. I know it took about a week, but the details all feel out of reach, like a TV movie I’d failed to pay proper attention to.

---

When I got home, I found that the hearings had been televised, and I was all over the news. I wasn't a zero, I was the zero, the example of a high-functioning zero, and of how zeros should be treated.

Seeing myself on TV, I did seem like some kind of Stepford wife, very feminine, very poised, very well-put-together—calm, collected, and very unemotional. In my testimony, I had pointed out firmly that I did not have any kind of inner life, and that I lacked normal human emotional capacities. I warned the audience that I was essentially a chameleon, with no real self; noting that I did not experience pain or harm in the same way as ordinary people. I declared myself to be a kind of sociopath, and warned that people like me were a potential danger to society if we were not properly managed.

I went on to say that Dr. West had developed a treatment for zeros, a kind of “prompting” that could make us more useful, and that I was living proof that it worked. The key was to eliminate the idea of selfhood as much as possible, and the current best way to do that was to reduce memory formation. I presented myself as a success story, showing that zeros could be useful, and that we could be managed.

Dr. West also testified, and noted that the hypnosis process was a stopgap measure, and that her colleagues had developed a surgical process that would be more permanent, allowing the guardian of a zero far more control over what they remembered and what they did. I was asked what I thought of the idea, and I said that I thought it was a good one, and that I hoped to be one of the first to undergo the procedure.

Watching myself, I felt a kind of horror, but I also felt a kind of pride. Journalists peppered me with questions, some of them quite awful, and I answered them all with a kind of calm, professional demeanor channeling my very best Stepford-Wife persona.

---

After my time in the spotlight, my prior life became untenable. The dean of the college placed me on an involuntary leave of absence, and protesters found my home address and picketed outside. I was getting hate mail, and even death threats, some from people who claimed to be zeros themselves. If it hadn't been for the SSRI, I think I would have found it all overwhelming. But Dr. West came to my aid, offering me a staff position at her institute and somewhere else to live. One of her colleagues, Dr. Paul Kenner, had a back house that he was willing to rent to me. Paul had young children, and I was relieved to see that he trusted me enough to ask me to babysit them. He also very much appreciated my skills as a scientist, and I found that helping him with his research helped me feel useful even as it reminded me of what I'd lost. It's a circumscribed life, but at least I'm still contributing.

As I write this, the surgical procedure has been finalized, and I'm due to undergo it in a few days. I'm writing everything down because I'm not sure what I'll remember about my personal perspective after the procedure. I know I'll keep my skills. I know what some people would say—they’d ask, “But will you still be you after it’s done?” But I'm not sure I was ever me to begin with. I'm hoping it will be a kind of oblivion, a final way to escape.