Films from the Future

by Andrew Maynard

  Thinking about coding biology in the same way we code apps and other cyber-systems is somewhat intuitive. There is, however, a third domain where we are effectively learning to rewrite the “base code,” and this is the physical world of materials and machines. Here, the equivalent fundamental building blocks—the base code—are the atoms and molecules that everything is made of. Just as we’ve experienced a revolution in our understanding of biology over the past century, we’ve also seen a parallel revolution in understanding how the arrangement and types of atoms and molecules in materials determines their behavior. These are the physical world’s equivalent of the “bits” of cyber code, and the “bases” of biological code, and, with our emerging mastery of this base code of atoms and molecules, we’re transforming how we can design and engineer the material world around us. Naturally, as with DNA, we’re still constrained by the laws of physics as we work with atoms and molecules. We cannot create materials that defy the laws of the nature, for instance, or that take on magical properties. But we can start to design and create materials, and even machines, that go far beyond what has previously occurred through natural processes alone.

  Here, our growing mastery of the base code in each of these three domains is transforming how we design and mold the world around us. And it’s this that is making the current technological revolution look and feel very different from anything that’s come before it. But we’re also learning how to cross-code between these base codes, to mix and match what we do with bits, bases, and atoms to generate new technological capabilities. And it’s this convergence that is radically transforming our emerging technological capabilities.

  To get a sense of just how powerful this idea of “cross-coding” is, it’s worth taking a look at what is often referred to as “synthetic biology”—a technology trend we touched on briefly in chapter two and Jurassic Park. In 2005, the scientist and engineer Drew Endy posed a seemingly simple question: Why can’t we design and engineer biological systems using DNA coding in the same way we design and engineer electronic devices?125 His thinking was that, complex as biology is, if we could break it down into more manageable components and modules, like electrical, computer, and mechanical engineers do with their systems, we could transform how “biological” products are designed and engineered.

  Endy wasn’t the first to coin the term synthetic biology.126 But he was one of the first to introduce ideas to biological design like standardized parts, modularization, and “black-boxing” (essentially designing biological modules where a designer doesn’t need to know how a module works, just what it does). And in doing so, he helped establish an ongoing trend in applying non-biological thinking to biology.

  This convergence between biology and engineering is already leading to a growing library of “bio bricks,” or standardized biological components that, just like Lego bricks or electronic components, can be used to build increasingly complex biological “circuits” and devices. The power of bio bricks is that engineers can systematically build biological systems that are designed to carry out specific functions without necessarily understanding the intricacies of the underlying biology. It’s a bit like being able to create the Millennium Falcon out of Legos without needing to understand the chemistry behind the individual bricks, or successfully constructing your own computer with no knowledge of the underlying solid-state physics. In the same way, scientists and engineers are using bio bricks to build organisms that are capable of producing powerful medicines, or signaling the presence of toxins, or even transforming pollutants into useful substances.

  Perhaps not surprisingly given its audacity, Endy’s vision of synthetic biology isn’t universally accepted, and there are many scientists who still feel that biology is simply too complex to be treated like Legos or electronic components. Despite this, the ideas of Drew Endy and others are already transforming how biological systems and organisms are being designed. To get a flavor of this, you need look no further than the annual International Genetically Engineered Machine competition, or iGEM for short.127

  Every year, teams from around the world compete in iGEM, many of them made up of undergraduates and high school students with very diverse backgrounds and interests. Many of these teams produce genetically modified organisms that are designed to behave in specific ways, all using biological circuits built with bio-bricks. In 2016, for instance, winning teams modified E. coli bacteria to detect toxins in Chinese medicine, engineered a bacterium to selectively kill a parasitic mite that kills bees, and altered a bacterium to indicate the freshness of fruit by changing color. These, and many of the other competition entries, provide sometimes-startling insights into what can be achieved when innovative teams of people start treating biology as just another branch of engineering. But they also reflect how cross-coding between biology and cyberspace is changing our very expectations of what’s possible when working with biology.

  To better understand this, it’s necessary to go back to the idea of DNA being part of the base code of all living things. As a species, we’ve been coding in this base code for thousands of years, albeit crudely, through selective breeding. More recently, we’ve learned how to alter this code through brute force, by physically bombarding cells with edited strands of DNA, or designing viruses that can deliver a payload of modified genetic material. But, until just a few years ago, this biological coding was largely limited to working directly with physical materials. Yet, as the cost and ease of DNA sequencing has plummeted, all of this has changed. Scientists can now quickly and (relatively) cheaply read the DNA base code of complete organisms and upload them to cyberspace. Once there, they can start to redesign and experiment with this code, manipulating it in much in the same way as we’ve learned how to work with digitized photos and video.

  This is a big deal, as it allows scientists and engineers to experiment with and redesign DNA-based code in ways that were impossible until quite recently. As well as tweaking or redesigning existing organisms, this is allowing them to discover how to make DNA behave in ways that have never previously occurred in nature. It’s even opening the door to training AI-based systems how to code using DNA. But this is only half of the story. The other half comes with the increasing ability of scientists to not only read DNA sequences into cyberspace, but to write modified genetic code back into the real world.

  In the past few years, it’s become increasingly easy to synthesize sequences of DNA from computer-based code. You can even mail-order vials of DNA that have been constructed to your precise specifications, and have them delivered to your home or lab in a matter of days. In other words, scientists, engineers, and, in fact, pretty much anyone who puts their mind to it can upload genetic code into cyberspace, digitally alter it, then download it into back into the physical world, and into real, living organisms. This is all possible because of our growing ability to cross-code between biology and cyberspace.

  It doesn’t take much imagination to see what a step-change in our technological capabilities cross-coding like this may bring about. And it’s not confined to biology and computers; cross-coding is also happening between biology and materials, between materials and cyberspace, and at the nexus of all three domains. This is powerful and transformative science and technology. Yet with this emerging mastery of the world we live in, there’s perhaps a greater likelihood than ever of us making serious and irreversible mistakes. And this is where technological convergence comes hand in hand with an urgent need to understand and navigate the potential impacts of our newfound capabilities, before it’s too late.

  Enter the Neo-Luddites

  On January 15, 1813, fourteen men were hanged outside York Castle in England for crimes associated with technological activism. It was the largest number of people ever hanged in a single day at the castle.

  These hangings were a decisive move against an uprising protesting the impacts of increased mechanization, one that became known as the Luddite movement after its alleged leader, Ned Ludd.

  It’
s still unclear whether Ned Ludd was a real person, or a conveniently manufactured figurehead. Either way, the Luddite movement of early-nineteenth-century England was real, and it was bloody. England in the late 1700s and early 1800s was undergoing a scientific and technological transformation. At the tail end of the Age of Enlightenment, entrepreneurs were beginning to combine technologies in powerful new ways to transform how energy was harnessed, how new materials were made, how products were manufactured, and how goods were transported. Much like today, it was a time of dramatic technological and social change. The ability to use new knowledge and to exploit materials in new ways was increasing at breakneck speed. And those surfing the wave found themselves on an exhilarating ride into the future.

  But there were casualties, not least among those who began to see their skills superseded and their livelihoods trashed in the name of progress.

  In the 1800s, one of the more prominent industries in the English Midlands was using knitting frames to make garments and cloth out of wool and cotton. Using these manual machines was a sustaining business for tens of thousands of people. It didn’t make them rich, but it was a living. By some accounts, there were around 30,000 knitting frames in England at the turn of the century—25,000 of them in the Midlands—serving the cloth and clothing needs of the country.

  As the first Industrial Revolution gathered steam, though, mass production began to push out these manual-labor-intensive professions, and knitting frames were increasingly displaced by steam-powered industrial mills. Faced with poverty, and in a fight for their livelihoods, a growing number of workers turned to direct action and began smashing the machines that were replacing them. From historical records, they weren’t opposed to the technology so much as how it was being used to profit others at their expense.

  The earliest records of machine smashing began in 1811, but escalated rapidly as the threat of industrialization loomed. In response, the British government passed the “Destruction of Stocking Frames, etc. Act 1812” (also known as the Frame Breaking Act), which allowed for those found guilty of breaking stocking or lace frames to face transportation to remote colonies, or even the death penalty.

  Galvanized by the Act, the Luddite movement escalated, culminating in the murder of mill owner William Horsfall in 1812, and the hanging of seventeen Luddites and transportation of seven more. It marked a turning point in the conflict between Luddites and industrialization, and by 1816 the movement had largely dissipated. Yet the name Luddite lives on as an epithet thrown at people who seemingly stand in the way of technological progress, including those who dare to ask if we are marching blindly into technological risks that, with some forethought, could be avoided. These, according to the narratives that emerge around technological innovation, are the new Luddites, or “neo-Luddites.” This is usually a term of derision and censorship that has a tendency to be attached to individuals and groups who appear to oppose technological progress. Yet the history of the Luddite movement suggests that the term carries with it a lot more nuance than is sometimes apparent.

  Back in 2009, I asked a number of friends and colleagues working in civil-society organizations to contribute to a series of articles for the blog 2020 Science.128 I was very familiar with the sometimes critical stances that some of these colleagues took on advances in science and technology, and I wanted to get a better understanding of how they saw the emerging relationship between society and innovation.

  One of my contributors was Jim Thomas, from the environmental action group ETC. I’d known Jim for some time, and was familiar with the highly critical position he sometimes took on emerging technologies, and I was intrigued to know more about what drove him and some of his group’s members.

  Jim’s piece started out, quite cleverly, I thought, with, “I should admit right now that I’m a big fan of the Luddites.”129 He went on to describe a movement that was inspired, not by a distrust of technology, but by a desire to maintain fair working conditions.

  Jim’s article provides a nuanced perspective on Luddism that is often lost as accusations of being a Luddite (or neo-Luddite) are thrown around. And it’s one that, I must confess, I have rather a soft spot for. So much so that, when Elon Musk, Bill Gates, and Stephen Hawking were nominated for the annual Luddite award, I countered with an article titled “If Elon Musk is a Luddite, count me in!”130

  Despite the actions and the violence that were associated with their movement (on both sides), the Luddites were not fighting against technology, but against its socially discriminatory and unjust use. These were people who had embraced a previous technology that not only gave them a living, but also provided their peers with an important commodity. They were understandably upset when, in the name of progress, wealthy industrialists started to take away their livelihood to line their own pockets.

  The Luddites fought hard for their jobs and their way of life. More than this, though, the movement forced a public dialogue around the broader social risks of indiscriminate technological innovation and, in the process, got people thinking about what it meant to be socially responsible as new technologies were developed and used.

  Ultimately, the movement failed. As society embraced technological change, the way was paved for major advances in manufacturing capabilities. Yet, as the Luddite movement foreshadowed, there were casualties on the way, often among communities who didn’t have the political or social agency to resist being used and abused. And, as was seen in chapter six and the movie Elysium, we’re still seeing these casualties, as new technologies drive a wedge between those who benefit from them and those who suffer as a consequence of them.

  These wedges are often complex. For instance, the gig economy that’s emerging around companies like Uber, Lyft, and Airbnb is enabling people to make more money in new ways, but it’s also leading to discrimination and worker abuse in some cases, as well as elevating the stress of job insecurity. A whole raft of innovations, from advanced manufacturing to artificial intelligence, are threatening to completely redraw the job landscape. These and other advances present real and serious threats to people’s livelihoods. In many cases, they also threaten deeply held beliefs and worldviews, and force people to confront a future where they feel less comfortable and more vulnerable. As a result, there is, in some quarters, a palpable backlash against technological innovation, as people protect what’s important to them. Many of these people would probably not consider themselves Luddites. But I suspect plenty of them would be sympathetic to smashing the machines and the technologies that they feel threaten them.

  This anti-technology sentiment seems to be gaining ground in some areas, and it’s easy to see why someone who’s unaware of the roots of the Luddite movement might derisively brand people who represent it as neo-Luddites. Yet this is a misplaced branding, as the true legacy of Ned Ludd’s movement is not about rejecting technology, but ensuring that new technologies are developed for the benefit of all, not just a privileged few. This is a narrative that Transcendence explores through the tension between Will’s accelerating technological control and RIFT’s social activism, one that echoes aspects of the Luddite movement. But there are also differences between this tale of technological resistance and the events from two hundred years ago that inspired it, that are reminiscent of more recent concerns around direct action, and techno-terrorism in particular.

  Techno-Terrorism

  Between 1978 and 1995, three people were killed and twenty-three others injured in terrorist attacks by one of the most extreme anti-technology activists of modern times. Ted Kaczynski—also known as the Unabomber131—conducted a reign of terror through targeting academics and airlines with home-made bombs, until his arrest in 1996. His issue? He fervently believed that we’ve lost our way as a society with our increasing reliance on, and subservience to, technology.

  Watch or read enough science fiction, and you’d be forgiven for thinking that techno-terrorism is a major threat in today’s society, and that groups like Transcendence’s RIFT are an i
ncreasingly likely phenomenon. Despite this, though, it’s remarkably hard to find evidence for widespread techno-terrorism in real life. Yet, dig deep enough, and small but worrying pockets of violent resistance against technological progress do begin to surface, often closely allied to techno-terrorism’s close cousin, eco-terrorism.

  In 2002, James F. Jarboe, then Domestic Terrorism Section Chief of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division, testified before a House subcommittee on the emerging threats of eco-terrorism.132 In his testimony, he identified the Animal Liberation Front (ALF) and Earth Liberation Front (ELF) as serious terrorist threats, and claimed they were responsible at the time for “more than 600 criminal acts in the United States since 1996, resulting in damages in excess of forty-three million dollars.” But no deaths.

  Jarboe’s testimony traces the recent history of eco-terrorism back to the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, a disaffected faction of the environmental activist group Greenpeace that formed in the 1970s. Then, in the 1980s, a new direct-action group, Earth First, came to prominence, spurred by Rachel Carson’s 1962 book Silent Spring and a growing disaffection with ineffective protests against the ravages of industrialization. Earth First were known for their unpleasant habit of inserting metal or ceramic spikes into trees scheduled to be cut for lumber, leaving a rather nasty, and potentially fatal, surprise for those felling or milling them. In the 1990s, members of Earth First formed the group ELF and switched tactics to destroying property using timed incendiary devices.133