The First Immortal

by James L. Halperin

  Alice lay on her side, knees perhaps six inches from her chin. She weighed less than seventy pounds and her breathing had become audibly labored. “Of course I do,” she said. “You’re my grandson. Gary. My only son Benjamin’s firstborn child.”

  “And what day is today?”

  “Friday. March first, 1991.”

  “Who’s the President of the United States?”

  “George Herbert Walker Bush. A pretty good man. But unfortunately, that lightweight, Dan Quayle, Howdy Doody in the flesh… is only a heartbeat away!”

  Gary laughed. “Why am I here, Grammy?”

  “You’re here to record my dying wishes. To prove I’m of… sound mind.”

  “I think we’ve accomplished that!” He smiled warmly. “What are your dying wishes?”

  “With all my heart… and mind, Gary, I want to be frozen with my son.”

  “Why, Grammy?”

  “I have nothing… to lose. If it doesn’t work, I’m dead! So what? If I didn’t try it, I’d be dead anyway. But if it works… oh, if it works… what wonders I might see!”

  “Don’t you want to see heaven, Grammy? And Sam?”

  “Sam loves me,” she whispered. “If heaven’s real, he’ll wait for me. And I’m in no hurry… to leave this earth.”

  “The paperwork’s all filled out,” Gary said, and carefully read each entry to her. Afterward he guided her hand and she made the mark that would have to pass as her signature. Finally he could shut off the video camera and talk to her in privacy.

  “You know, it’s very strange,” he said, holding her hand, giving comfort and receiving it. “In life, Dad was so much closer to my sisters. Yet now he’s—I don’t want to say ‘dead’—no longer with us, I guess.” How odd, Gary thought. His father was like a specter. not just a memory, but also a half-living, half-dead reality. A pseudobeing, trapped on the far side of a wall. “And I seem to understand him better than they do.”

  “How do you… mean that?”

  “When he told me about his ordeal after they sank the Boise, I couldn’t admit this at the time—I was still too hurt—but as much as I refused to acknowledge it, even to myself, I began to know him then.” God, if only he’d said that to his father that morning in 1982, Gary suddenly thought. Instead of telling him he forgave him, for chrissake, knowing full well Ben would recognize that the opposite was true. Would always be true. Even if he could never forgive him, Gary did understand him. And that’s what Ben had really needed to know; still needed to know. Gary only hoped he could tell him someday; have another chance to… to be honest with him.

  Ben had always been honest with him, hadn’t he?

  Gary continued, “I could practically see him floating in the ocean, exhausted, swallowing that putrid fuel and saltwater. And later, crammed in there in his filthy clothes, sitting in his own excrement on that Japanese hellhole. I can almost hear the screams of agony myself. Think what it must have been like just to breathe in there; how every breath would’ve required an act of will. His only goal was to get himself through it. Not that he compromised his principles to do it. Mom told me about how he saved his friend’s life, and those prisoners in the camp he treated despite the risks, and how he wouldn’t crack when the commandant questioned him. Ol’ Dad, he kept his cool, by God. He stayed tough and smart and patient enough to keep himself alive. And I know how he did it. I understood the way he simply anchored himself to the idea that when it was all over, whatever the suffering, his survival would be worth any price he’d have to pay. My father, your son, was, is, a man who truly cherishes life.”

  “Yes, he is,” Alice whispered. “I hope he got it… from me.”

  “I’ve been reading about cryonics, you know,” he said. “Read The Prospect of Immortality last month. And every newsletter from every cryonics outfit I can find.”

  She stared up at him. Was it going to work? The thought sent a shudder from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. “What do you think… about cryonics?” But even as she asked the question, Alice decided that her grandson’s answer was irrelevant; nothing he said could change her mind or diminish her optimism. She needed the hope, just like Ben must have during his final moments.

  “It seems possible to me,” Gary said. “I won’t say it’s a sure thing, or even likely, but it’s a shot. I’ll tell you the most encouraging part is the sort of people it attracts. You’d think mostly superstitious, gullible souls would become cryonicists. But it’s just the opposite. It’s the skeptics, the mathematicians, the scientists who sign up to be frozen. People who think for themselves; who know how to think. People like Dad.”

  “And me.”

  “That’s right. And you, Grammy.” He kissed her cheek. “Now try to get some sleep, okay?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Twelve past six.”

  “I’ll sleep at… seven-thirty… after Toby leaves.”

  “Toby Fiske is visiting you here?”

  “Every day. Except when… he knows the girls… are coming.”

  “Damn,” Gary whispered. “Dad sure chose his friends well. The more I learn, the more confused I get.”

  “Sometimes those who love most deeply… can’t get past… the weight of… their own feelings.”

  “See you tomorrow” was all he could say. And, “I love you, Grammy.”

  Alice smiled. “Oh… do I love you.”

  March 15, 1991

  —The Emir of Kuwait returns from exile to a devastated country whose populace is demanding a more democratic government.—At a Los Angeles Police Commission hearing, participants castigate Police Chief Daryl Gates for sanctioning police brutality against Hispanic and black men.—Medical researchers announce the isolation of a gene that appears to mutate at the initiation of colon cancer, suggesting a possible approach to allow much earlier detection of the disease.

  It was almost eleven A.M. when Dr. Tobias Fiske raised his eyes from his computer monitor. “How’d you get in here?” he asked and immediately wished he could snatch the words from the air, swallow them, and start again.

  “Just limped right in,” Gary said. “Guess I look like I belong.”

  He looked more like he’d just walked off the set of a 1938 detective movie, Toby thought. “I’m sorry. I’ve been anticipating, and dreading, this moment for a while now.” Toby allowed his eyes to drift back to the computer screen, thinking that maybe if he finished reading this new angioplasty protocol, his emotions might stop quivering like the plucked strings of a harp. But the words and symbols suddenly conveyed no meaning to his frontal lobes. They could as easily have been Mayan hieroglyphics.

  He rose to close the door to his private office. “Please sit down,” he invited the younger man. “I suppose we’d better talk.”

  “Good.”

  “I didn’t murder your father,” Toby said, knowing full well he shouldn’t even be talking to Gary about the case. If Pat Webster were ever to find out, he’d have a fit. “At least in my own mind,” he added, “and, I think, in his.”

  “But you did kill him,” Gary said in a matter-of-fact tone, his candor chilling.

  “It was, er, necessary that he die just a little sooner than nature’s hand would provide, so his dreams might have some hope of fulfillment.” Toby tried to offer this as an honest explanation, but even he could discern its false echo.

  “You broke the law, Toby, and every traditional code of morality.” The swiftness of Gary’s statement suggested a sure purpose. “But I didn’t come here for an explanation or an apology.”

  Toby was taken aback. Then what did he want?

  “I came to tell you something, Dr. Fiske.” Gary spoke with a softness that Toby found menacing. “Not the other way around.”

  Toby felt himself stiffen, and resolved to accept whatever Ben’s son must now do or say.

  “For some weeks, I’ve been deliberating what I should tell you and how I should say it.” Gary was still speaking in measured, clearly well-rehea
rsed words. “So my observations will take a few minutes to spell out.”

  “Take whatever time you need.”

  “Please understand that this is very difficult for me. I still face my own unresolved conflicts. But those aren’t your concern. Just listen closely; that’s all I ask.”

  Toby nodded; in his ears he could hear the rush of his own blood.

  “I used to be a doctor, too, you know. Went through the same scientific disciplines and training as you and my father did. Science nourishes my art, for one thing; at least that’s what I tell myself. But mostly I love the process of trying to understand the truth about things.”

  Toby smiled weakly and thought, Like father, like son.

  “Recently, I’ve been reading books on cosmology,” Gary continued. “Fascinating stuff. Those scientists go after the universe like safecrackers. Cosmologists have a term they use to define circumstances where the known laws of science collapse, like at the event horizon of a black hole. That’s where the four forces—electromagnetic, strong nuclear, weak nuclear, and gravity—all break down. But break down into what? No one knows. They call the effect a ‘singularity.’”

  Toby listened, but could not imagine where Gary was leading.

  “You can take this concept, this singularity, and use it to illustrate a philosophical concept. We can understand nature’s laws and make precise predictions of what will happen given a specific set of initial conditions. These laws will work for each of the four forces independently of each other. I think the same holds true for us. We can write human laws that are universally applicable, and make fair judgments in one-, two-, and even three-dimensional circumstances.”

  Gary paused and stared at him. “But there are other times, aren’t there, Toby? Times when situation, emotion, ethics, and honor converge, or crash into each other, and create the kind of philosophical singularity I’m talking about. The kind that compels us into actions which in any other context would be unjustifiable. I think that’s what happened with you and my father. I think you experienced just such a singularity together. How can you apply any universal laws to a singularity? You can’t. The old rules don’t work. You can only judge it subjectively, through empathy, in other words, by asking yourself what you’d do in the same situation. And that’s the question I’ve been asking myself for weeks.”

  Toby’s hands trembled and his head bowed. He steeled himself for an adjudication from the one person whose opinion mattered more to him than any jury’s.

  “My answer,” Gary said, “is that I hope I would do exactly as you did. Which is why you owe me no explanation or apology. I came here to clarify that. I have no need to forgive what you did. I admire it.”

  By the time that Toby was finally able to raise his head, Gary had already left.

  Toby would sit in quiet contemplation for nearly an hour, gathering strength for his ongoing ordeal. But when he rose from his desk, he would no longer be the same man he’d watched shaving in the mirror that morning. He’d been given a gift of courage that would last him a lifetime.

  The afternoon deposition took place in Webster’s office; an accommodation to the expert witness who had flown in from New York City. There were no conference rooms available in the District Attorney’s building, and Banks & Smith’s modest facility would have required at least an hour’s cab ride, while Fialkow, Webster, Barnes & Zeeve was barely two miles from Logan Airport.

  Even so, had the request come from Noah Banks, Webster would have told the man to go screw himself. But Brandon Butters was a different story. The D.A.’s office was a bridge no intelligent lawyer would wish to burn.

  Webster thumbed through the expert report as he questioned its author. A stenographer tapped quietly at her small machine. Also in attendance were Brandon Butters, Noah Banks, and Tobias Fiske, all of whom had learned to keep conversation with the opposing side to a minimum. Toby studied his copy of the report and reviewed copious notes on a yellow pad of lined paper.

  “Please state your name, age, occupation, and credentials for the record,” Webster began.

  “Dr. Brett Wong, forty-nine. I’m a molecular biologist, with a B.A. from Yale, and an M.D.Ph.D. from UCLA. I now conduct research, while teaching at Columbia University. I’ve been a full professor for the past six years.”

  “You state in your expert report that Ben Smith can never be brought back to life under any conceivable circumstances. Is that still your contention?”

  Wong folded both hands into his lap. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “As I read this, I see you believe that at liquid-nitrogen temperature, ice damage so corrupts cells as to render them permanently nonviable.”

  “Yes. In many cases.”

  “Not all?”

  “No. Not even most. But far more than a critical amount.”

  “Dr. Wong, could you please describe, in the simplest terms possible, what happens to a typical human cell when it is so frozen?”

  As the witness spoke, Toby wrote furiously on his notepad.

  “Certainly,” Wong answered. “Most cells are about ninety percent water. At minus 196 degrees Celsius, water will expand by roughly ten percent. It also crystallizes, which in some cases may actually puncture the cell membranes. That effect, however, is relatively rare. What does happen, almost uniformly, is that ice squeezes and disrupts the ions and proteins of tissue, occasionally forcing them into shrinking pockets of residual unfrozen water. And sometimes the fabric of a cell itself becomes crushed into tiny spaces among the ice crystals.”

  “But many types of human cells have been frozen successfully, haven’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “And isn’t human blood frozen routinely?”

  “Certainly. But unlike most of our cells, red blood cells contain no nuclei. A percentage of the other blood cells, such as lymphocytes, die in the process. But even so, frozen blood, once thawed, is functional. That wouldn’t necessarily be the case with other organs.”

  “I see.” Webster accepted a note from Toby, and read it. “But Dr. Fiske tells me that lengths of intestine have been frozen in liquid nitrogen, thawed, and worked afterward.”

  “True. But an organ is not a living animal.”

  Toby tore another page from his notepad and handed it to Webster.

  “What about worms and other simple organisms that have been frozen and thawed without apparent harm?” the lawyer asked. “Wouldn’t those be considered animals?”

  “Well, those are much less complex than mammals, obviously.”

  “Aren’t human embryos and sperm often frozen, then stored for later use?”

  “Yes. But long before any mammal is viable outside the womb, it becomes too fragile to survive that kind of damage. Its cells become interdependent, and even small disruptions in the balance will kill the organism.”

  “And I suppose the human brain is more delicate still?”

  “More delicate? Depends on your definition of the word,” Wong answered. “Certainly brain cells are larger than other cells, and will not normally self-repair or regenerate. Besides, human neurons don’t grow or divide. Therefore, I believe the loss of each brain cell would be more devastating than the loss of any other type of cell.”

  Webster read another note from Toby: “Could scientists build a system to set out modified microorganisms that might guide the neurons and glial cells toward their own repair or regeneration?”

  “No. That’s impossible.”

  “Impossible?” Webster read. “Can’t bacteria and viruses do things at least that complex?”

  “Well, yes. But in my opinion, human beings are simply not capable of achieving that level of technology.”

  “In your opinion. I see. Please tell us what is likely to happen to this patient’s frozen cells once they’re thawed.”

  “With the cryopreservation techniques that were used on Dr. Smith, I’d estimate about six percent of the cells would be completely dead upon thawing. Of the remaining cells, if they survived lo
ng enough, most would eventually revert to their former condition, but a certain percentage wouldn’t.”

  “What percentage?”

  “No one’s sure. A small percentage, I suspect. Maybe only a fraction of one percent. But as I said, a mammalian system can tolerate the corruption of only an infinitesimal portion of its cells.”

  Toby handed Webster another note.

  “Tell me, Dr. Wong, how strong is your neurology background?”

  Wong smiled; flattened an eyebrow. “Strong enough. I teach a course in neurobiology.”

  “Then you must know most neurologists believe information in the brain is stored in many places, with a high degree of redundancy.”

  “Yes, that’s the current theory.”

  Webster grabbed another sheet from Toby. “A stroke often wipes out an entire section of the brain, which can have devastating consequences. But if you lost, say, seven percent of your brain cells, spread evenly throughout your brain, it might not be catastrophic. Maybe not even noticeable, correct?”

  “Possibly.” Wong audibly swallowed. “But we’re not just talking about losing cells. We’re talking about damage to living cells that would alter their function and disrupt every system in the body.”

  Webster read: “Suppose technology would enable us to remove defective cells, keeping only the healthy ones. Wouldn’t that give other cells time to regenerate?”

  “Nobody knows,” Wong answered. His eyes roamed the room.

  “Then it’s conceivable, right?”

  “Unlikely, but possible, I suppose.”

  “Dr. Wong, is this cell damage we’ve been talking about reversible by today’s science?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “What about tomorrow’s science?”

  “It seems dubious.”

  Webster leaned forward. “Dubious? But not impossible?”

  “In my opinion: impossible. You can’t resurrect a cow from hamburger.”

  Webster read another note from Toby: “Especially if it’s been cooked. Or eaten by worms.”

  The witness laughed. Then he scrunched his mouth and shook his head—an indulgent parent scanning a child’s second-rate report card.