by Dima Zales
“It’s a knitted sweater,” real-world Alan says without a hint of the disappointment that even I feel on his behalf. “Thank you.”
He walks over to Mom and kisses her cheek, and she promptly melts into a contented puddle. I sure hope he never turns evil, because that move would make Machiavelli proud.
“My turn.” Uncle Abe pulls out a wrapped package that’s obviously a skateboard. “Here you go. It’s so you can play outside more.”
Unlike the rest of the family, Uncle Abe didn’t join the new Human++ megacorporation, and he’s refused advanced versions of Brainocytes. It took a lot of convincing to even get him to accept the newest, FDA-approved Brainocytes delivered via a transdermal patch—the Tier III ones Human++ has been giving away for free to billions of people. His lack of understanding of Alan’s mental capabilities is why he miscalculated his gift so dramatically; otherwise, he’d have known that Alan assessed the risks of skateboarding and found the scary statistics unacceptable—or at least I hope that’s what happened.
Oddly, Alan looks genuinely grateful, which is worrying. I privately think at Ada, “Hon, we should create a virtual reality experience of riding that thing for Alan so he doesn’t get tempted to split his head for real.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s only planning to ride the board using one of his robo-avatars,” she replies calmly. “My other thread can see his favorite body walking this way.”
I check the museum security cameras and confirm that one of Alan’s “bodies” is indeed walking our way. More reminiscent of a Terminator skeleton than a human being, this advanced model has sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch sensors that pass for their human equivalents. But unlike a human body, it also allows us to sense electrical and magnetic fields, perform echolocation, detect changes in air moisture, and a couple of other things I haven’t tried yet.
On a whim, I spawn another instance of myself, take possession of one of the robot bodies I left on standby, and walk it toward Alan’s metallic avatar.
Embodying this equipment still gives me an eerie feeling, much more so than when I operate avatars in virtual environments. In part, that’s because I have hundreds of virtual personae running at any given moment, whereas I only rarely need a physical robot body for business or recreational tasks. Still, to my expanded consciousness, the robot body is quite serviceable, and its senses are surprisingly lifelike. Riding this body really nails the idea Ada has been trying to sell to everyone for ages: that the human body is a machine like this robot, just made from meat.
“Will you let me ride your skateboard?” my robot self asks Alan’s robot instantiation. My synthetic voice is almost indistinguishable from that of a human.
“Of course, Dad.” As an addendum to his words, Alan’s avatar’s metallic face tries to smile at me, something that still looks ghastly on this particular model. “But I go first.”
“Hey, it’s your birthday.” I make my robot wink.
“I got this for the little warrior,” Gogi says in the meantime and pulls out a box. If the newly arrived robots made Gogi nervous, he doesn’t show it, unlike white-faced Uncle Abe.
As his robot body skates away, the tiny human version of Alan rips into the wrapping of Gogi’s gift with age-appropriate enthusiasm. As a rule, Alan and Gogi get along, having bonded over violent video games. Not surprisingly, Gogi’s present turns out to be a pair of little boxing gloves—another not-so-subtle hint that Alan should begin training in self-defense in the real world. In the virtual world, the kid wipes the floor with Gogi already, and I bet if Gogi were able to control a robot, which he can’t, Alan would beat him that way also.
Ada frowns at the gift. I grab her small hand in mine and gently squeeze, saying privately, “If Alan learned to box, it would only make him safer.”
She doesn’t seem pacified but doesn’t say anything.
Joe clears his throat, indicating that he must also have something for the birthday boy.
Ada’s frown deepens. Despite Joe’s recent improvements in his business dealings and temperament, she’s still not his biggest fan.
“Here,” he says to Alan. “I hope it fits.”
Alan unwraps Joe’s box with even more enthusiasm than Gogi’s, but when he looks inside, his whole posture seems to deflate. With excitement I can clearly discern as fake, he says, “A bulletproof vest. Wow. Thanks, Uncle Joe.”
In our private virtual reality, Ada and I exchange a meaningful glance, and I secretly say, “You know, it could’ve been something worse—like a knife.”
Unlike his father, Joe has the more advanced Tier II Brainocyte suite that gives its user a wider range of utilities, including a modest brain boost. Tier II is a perk for all Human++ employees, and as Head of Security, Joe was one of the early adopters.
Tier II brain boost has had an interesting effect on my cousin. The guy now seems to possess a conscience, albeit a rudimentary one. There are a couple of theories as to the cause of this, and all of them assume he didn’t have a conscience before. Mitya believes Joe is simply mellowing with age, but we all think that’s baloney, as the “mellowing” happened in the last four years. I think that the experience of getting smarter makes one realize that violence is sometimes not the best solution, but my friends think that’s too simplistic an explanation, as plenty of intelligent people have committed violence over the years.
Ada thinks the older Brainocyte brain boost methodology is behind the changes in Joe, as we still employ the older method for Tier II. The old boosts use simulated computer brain regions to enhance brainpower, meaning Joe is getting more brain that isn’t his original brain and thus somehow gaining empathy or whatever else he previously lacked. If she’s right, we may want to be careful about how, when, and if we give Joe Tier I access, as that uses the newer method for the boosts.
Out of necessity, Tier I Brainocyte capabilities are still available only to the four original members of the Brainocytes Club, plus my son. It’s not because we’re trying to hoard power, though. We want everyone to become Tier I eventually; we just have a bottleneck when it comes to computer resources.
The Tier I brain boosts are different because of advancements in brain scanning technology. We let existing Brainocytes scan our biological brain in minute detail. Then, when we build computer models for the extra brain regions, we base them on the scans of our brain circuitry. This new and better method of enhancement cuts down on the negative side effects that Tier II people experience, such as pre-cog moments. The new method also decreases the boost adjustment period to a matter of hours instead of days. But it’s computationally much harder to accomplish, and we can’t afford to give it to everyone yet.
Additionally, this brain scanning gives us backups of our brains in case something happens to the fragile tissue, like a stroke or a blow to the head. Mitya has become obsessed with this line of research and already has his whole biological brain backed up. It’s this obsession of his that was behind the protocols that ensure our prodigious nonbiological brainpower is backed up on a regular basis. I think he’s wasting his time worrying so much about his meat brain, as Ada calls it. Our biological brainpower will soon become but a tiny part of what we are, so small that we might not miss it if we suddenly lost it.
“You’re multitasking too much again.” Ada’s complaint pulls me out of my thoughts.
“No.”
My reply is too defensive, and I take in a breath to examine myself. Ada’s been trying to get me to be more in the moment. She worries that I don’t get any quality time with her and Alan. I don’t like to think that I’m the kind of father and husband who needs reminders like that—even if I sometimes do.
“I’m merely coding that new app we discussed”—the defensiveness is completely gone in my thought-speech—“testing our surprise gift, reading work emails, and having a psychotherapy session with Einstein. That last one was something you suggested.”
Using Einstein as a shrink is a new service we’re about to roll out to the w
orldwide Brainocyte user base. It’s going to be part of our freemium model, and we expect it to bring about a lot of good in the world, as this therapy has been instrumental in curbing my nightmares and relieving my post-traumatic stress.
Ada looks placated enough, and we companionably watch Alan open a gift from JC, which turns out to be, of all things, a yo-yo. Alan seems to appreciate it and starts doing tricks with it immediately.
“Our turn soon,” Ada says with a wink. “You might want to reduce your workload a little more. For whatever reason, you seem a bit distant.”
Ada claims that heavy multitasking takes away from each activity. Since she designed the system, it must be true. On my end, though, I rarely feel the distractedness. I stopped feeling as if I’m doing multiple things at once a couple of years back.
The term multitasking is misleading for what we can now do, anyway. The me who’s talking to Einstein in the virtual therapy room feels very different from the me who’s watching the current proceedings. It’s as though I exist in multiple places at once, but later I have the memory of all these bits of myself. Of course, rationally I know that each of these instances of myself uses dedicated computer resources, and that if these resources are overloaded, something will happen to all instances of me. That something could easily look like distractedness to an outside observer.
“Didn’t you design the system to prevent a thread from being created during resource overload?” I ask her.
“I did, but once your resources are allocated, they are never taken away. If you start doing more with your resource allotment, you can get distracted.”
I stop some of my tasks. I know better than to argue with Ada about Brainocyte tech. She’s still the world expert, so if she says multitasking leads to being distant, it’s probably true despite my feelings to the contrary.
“Let’s let Mitya go next.” I make myself look as alert as I can. “We want to end this gift giving with a splash.”
“Show off, you mean?” Her private avatar, the one that looks like a punky panda bear, smiles.
“Maybe,” I reply, realizing that my earlier list of activities didn’t include skateboarding with Alan—a sign that I honestly am distracted right now. “You’re proud of our work too. It’s okay to admit it.”
A smile touches Ada’s real-world amber eyes, and I can tell she’s anxious to see her son’s reaction to our surprise.
“My gift is something everyone might enjoy,” Mitya says, and we switch our attention to him. “I’ve secured a deal between Human++ and Disney. The folks at Disney are going to build a huge virtual park that Brainocytes users can visit in VR, without the need to fly to places like Orlando. This”—a huge golden ticket flies toward Alan in the shared VR environment—“is part of that deal. Alan gets VIP access pass to the park—for life.”
Now that most of the human population has Brainocytes in their heads, many companies have chosen to create apps and experiences tailored for Brainocytes, so Disney’s jumping on the bandwagon isn’t a shock to anyone. Still, Alan seems thrilled at the prospect of seeing what the folks at Disney will create. My guess is he has professional interest as a world creator—and probably also thinks a Disney park will be fun.
“Looks like it’s our turn.” Ada gets up and I follow.
“You’ll be able to enjoy our gift right away,” I say to Alan. I give Mitya a narrow-eyed stare—he knew what Ada and I had prepared for Alan, yet he chose a gift that’s very similar to ours. “I’d like everyone to pay attention to the public VR.”
Ada lets me launch the B-Day app, and the museum around us comes alive.
Chapter Three
A flock of pterosaurs swoops toward our big table, and Mom squeals in excitement. The giant skeleton in the room grows meat and muscle, and is seconds away from manifesting skin. When the monster dinosaur begins to move, it gives Godzilla a run for her (or is it his?) money.
“Our room is but a small part of the world Ada and I put together,” I tell the awestruck guests. “Other rooms in the museum are also animating right now. Here are some highlights.” I share screens with everyone so they can see the walking mummies, the giant blue whale that sings its song as it splashes the virtual water on the first floor, and Ada’s least favorite, Lucy and the other early hominids hunting animated mammals and dinosaurs from other exhibits.
For the first time today, Alan behaves as I imagine a four-year-old should: he jumps to his feet and runs to check out the rest of our creation.
Before Ada can notice and disapprove, Joe nods to a couple of his security people, and they follow Alan at a perfectly calculated distance.
The fact that our son is physically running is a testament to our gift’s success. The kid is a master of distributing his mind into robots and cameras, to the point where Ada and I sometimes worry about his lack of physical activity.
Ada and I both take a bow, and the rest of the guests clap with genuine enthusiasm, even Muhomor. We sit back down, and Gogi pours another round of drinks across the table as giant virtual dragonflies swarm around his head.
“I don’t mean to spoil the merriment,” Joe says with a cold carelessness that contradicts his words, “but you should at least be aware of the protestors outside.”
I suppress a groan as adrenaline surges through my veins. If there’s a consequence of our success I could do without, it’s the protests. If one is really happening outside the museum, it would be an especially unpleasant surprise. We tried so hard to keep this event a secret from the public.
It takes me just a moment to find the best camera from the myriad available outside. After a quick examination, my adrenaline levels stabilize. “These are the anti-GMO people,” I say privately to Joe. “They’re harmless.”
My cousin doesn’t bother showing his disdain for my opinion. He probably spent all his disdain on the protestors outside.
I inwardly sigh as I take another look at the crowd of haters. Despite the obscene money Human++ regularly spends on PR, these kinds of protests have been happening more frequently. It’s shocking how many of our gifts to humanity have been met with hostility. In part, this is because certain technologies have been villainized by books, Hollywood, and special interest groups. Robots are a great example of the former, à la The Terminator, while GMOs are a good example of the latter.
What people don’t seem to get is that we’re smart enough to avoid Skynet scenarios and purposely keep Einstein’s intellect far behind our own. Also, our genetically enhanced plants are different from the GMOs of old, in which foreign genes were introduced into traditional domestic plants. We use CRISPR and other gene-editing technologies to merely tweak certain genes in semi-domesticated or wild plants. The wild legumes and quinoa at this very table are the products of this work, and they’re amazing—and the fact that they’re being eaten by the richest and smartest people is a good indication of their lack of risk to human health. But it’s hard to convert people who have turned their hatred of GMOs into a quasi-religion.
Ada nervously spikes her hair. “The Real Humans Only crowd is also outside. Joe was right to be concerned.”
“Maybe those guys are not as violent as we think,” I tell her, wishing I could believe my own words. “At least the RHO’s cause is easier for me to understand.” Seeing Ada frown, I add, “Though not agree with or condone.”
Her frown deepens. “They’re basically Luddites under a different name, except the machines they want to break are in our heads.”
It’s true. Like the original Luddites, the RHO worries that jobs will go away as a result of our technology, and there are good reasons for that. One Brainocyte-enhanced lawyer can do the workload of ten unenhanced lawyers; ditto with doctors and almost any other profession. Given that the world needs a limited number of doctors, some jobs could disappear. And it’s not just experts in danger; regular workers will be impacted as well. Our tech now allows one person to control a group of robots that can do many of the difficult, dangerous, and dirty jobs t
hat formerly required teams of people.
“Will this make it hard for the other guests to arrive?” I ask Joe. “Alan has an after-party planned.”
“The after-party people are already here and have been vetted,” Joe says.
Alan runs back into the room, catches his breath, and rattles out, “That was awesome. Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad.”
“You came back just in time,” I say to Alan as I spot the baker navigating his way into the hallway. No doubt he has also been vetted. “Prepare your wish.”
Instead of saying something like Happy Birthday, Alan, the cake states P vs. NP in yummy chocolate sauce.
“What does that mean?” Uncle Abe asks. “And do I even want to know?”
“It’s just a computer science problem I want to solve when I grow up,” Alan replies with false modesty. “In a nutshell, this asks if every problem that can be quickly verified can also be quickly solved.”
“By quickly, he means polynomial time,” Muhomor says, though it’s clear Uncle Abe couldn’t care less if he actively tried. “I think we can all agree that P does not equal NP.”
“You’re just saying that because you hope it doesn’t,” Alan replies teasingly. “Tema would be beatable if P equals NP.”
Alan and Muhomor begin to argue computer science theory, and everyone else focuses on their own conversations as they consume large quantities of dessert.
“You should let the after-party people in,” I tell Joe when the last of the cake is gone. “The family portion of the festivities looks to be over.”
As though on cue, everyone gets up and attempts to overcome their impending food comas by walking around the museum to check out Alan’s gift. Alan, Ada, and I remain behind, since we already know what it looks like. Waiters attack the big table, and within minutes, the space is ready for the cocktail-style after-party.
“It’s going to be great to see some of my friends for the first time,” Alan tells us excitedly.