The First Immortal

by James L. Halperin

  July 5, 2005

  —A survey commissioned by the United Nations Technology Council shows over half the world’s population, and nearly 98% of American households, are now hooked to the Internet. Personal computer sales worldwide reached 800 million units in 2004, and are expected to exceed 1.7 billion annually by decade’s end as more members of the middle class accumulate multiple PCs.—A march on Washington sponsored by the National Coalition of Churches to protest capital punishment draws an estimated 600,000 demonstrators. Nearly 14,000 convicted violent criminals have been executed nationwide during the first five months after enactment of President Travis Hall’s Swift and Sure Anticrime Bill.—A combination of genetically redesigned viruses and microwave therapy is proven to cure most cancers in humans without major side effects. The regimen, developed by scientists at Johns Hopkins University, converts ordinary cold viruses to cancer-killing “scouts” and “smart bombs.” The viruses invade cancer cells, turning them into viral reproduction factories, eventually either killing the host cell or making it visible to imaging machines. Any residual malignancy is then killed off with image-directed microwaves transmitted from several angles, which heat the cancer to 108°F, killing only targeted tissue. The new therapy will almost certainly revolutionize cancer treatment.

  Gary adjusted the image on his seven-foot video display screen, raising the moon 1.72 inches. Then he darkened the sky 5.6 percent. Much better, he thought. He visualized the picture on canvas, and hoped this neoteric design technology wasn’t atrophying his artistic synapses. Then again, how many writers still composed novels without word processors? Of course, he used to do just fine without such silicon marvels. He wondered if he still could.

  Then with typical fractal logic, he banished such thoughts into limbo: Yeah, and surgeons had once enjoyed the occasional success without the assistance of electric lighting, too. But once Thomas Edison showed up, they sure as hell hadn’t worried about his invention becoming a crutch that would diminish their talent as doctors.

  No wonder they called this the Age of Neuroses!

  A delicate “Bee-eep” interrupted his musings.

  Raising his wristband, he examined the code on the tiny screen and smiled. “Where are you, Senator?”

  “Just finished a speech at the Copley Plaza,” George Crane’s boyish voice answered through the tiny speaker. “Got some time?”

  Gary stared at his watch, and wondered if the thing had malfunctioned. Jesus, he’d been at it for seventeen straight hours? If he didn’t take a break soon, he figured he might turn into a paintbrush. “Meet you there in ten minutes, George. Didn’t much feel like working this afternoon anyway.”

  Staff members, reporters, and a few of George’s more generous supporters crowded the small hospitality suite, the din of their cocktail party chatter drowning out the latest InterNetwork news on the wall-mounted narrowcast screen. When Gary entered, the noise level dropped noticeably, but then resumed as partygoers decided it wasn’t cool to gawk. Two reporters began to thread their way toward him, but as a whole the crowd feigned nonchalance.

  A young staffer reached Gary before the reporters, and ushered him to an adjoining suite, where Senator Crane got up and embraced him warmly.

  “You documenting?” George asked. More and more private citizens were leaving their AudioVids recording around-the-clock; the scrambled transceiver signals accumulated in the archives of the central computers as a deterrent to (and evidence of) violent crimes. But few politicians were predisposed to cast their private conversations upon these public waters like digital subpoena bait.

  Well-aware of George’s inhibitions when in document mode, Gary decided he preferred the unguarded version of his nephew. “Not anymore,” he said, deactivating his wristband recorder. “Just don’t make me into an accessory after the fact; but feel free to blaspheme, curse, and gossip all you like.”

  “Fair enough.” George grinned. “Well goddammit, Uncle Gary, I guess those shit-for-brains savages are gonna own the White House the next coupla decades. Obviously Americans don’t have the patience to fight crime with restraint.”

  “You voted for Swift and Sure too, didn’t you?” Gary asked, knowing full well that his nephew had. Gary’s own feelings about the popular bill were similarly mixed: It seemed a barbaric solution to an intolerable problem. Most criminologists agreed that Swift and Sure would save two innocent lives for every (presumably guilty) person executed, but nearly every liberal and right-wing libertarian believed there had to be a better way. To this odd alliance, raw numbers did not equal moral imperative.

  But to the ever-widening constituency of crime victims and their families, any such argument seemed absurd.

  Rather than executing violent criminals, Gary favored freezing them, a solution Republicans denounced as a waste of money. Even most Democratic legislators supported spending any requisite funds on cryonics for the law-abiding poor instead.

  “Held my nose with one hand and raised the other!” George interrupted Gary’s thoughts. “My vote didn’t make a mosquito turd’s difference anyway, so I did the prudent thing, at least according to sixty-four percent of my voters. Plus I figure the lives of twenty thousand convicted violent criminals a year are less valuable than forty thousand potential victims. Not to mention the two million lives a year a rational cryonics policy might save. Which I can hardly push for if I’m not in office.”

  “Where have I heard that rationalization before?”

  “Well, damn me to hell! I’m not turning into another Herbie Rainwater, am I? Fact is, Gary, I like the job, compromises and all. And we did get a watered-down assisted-suicide bill through.”

  “True enough,” Gary teased, sarcasm dripping from his words like maple syrup off a short stack, “a very valuable concession indeed to those wishing to legally end their lives—after the standard six-month approval process for a permit, while cancer eats their brains or unbearable pain racks their bodies.”

  George grimaced, then smiled. “Touché!”

  Gary’s face turned serious. All of a sudden he could see Katie, Alice, even Ben, resting quietly in the back of his mind. And whenever he pictured them lying in canisters of liquid nitrogen, he saw a fourth, vacant canister: the one meant for him. “What’s gonna happen with all this?” he asked.

  George did not have to ask what his uncle meant. “Believe it or not, I think the long-term dynamics might be in our favor. Not the party’s, of course; we Democrats are in deep doodoo. But Kevorkianism will gain momentum, which can only help cryonics.”

  “How?”

  “Right now, about fourteen percent of Americans say they intend to be frozen. That’s a big increase over the last few years, but still a meager number if you relate it to policy. There are five major reasons why most people say they won’t do it.”

  “Fear of the unknown being the most intractable,” Garry speculated, once again glimpsing the empty ice canister at the back of his mind.

  “Don’t know. It may be right up there, but nobody ever owns up to that one. The five reasons people admit to are cost, scientific uncertainty, social disapproval, religious beliefs, and philosophy. In that order. Of course, if we’re ever able to restore a mammal—even a sewer rat—after a decent interval of liquid nitrogen immersion, well, then everything changes. All the politics or rational cajoling in the world can’t compare with an empirical result.”

  Obviously true, Gary thought.

  “So until that happens,” George continued, “—and notice I said until, not if—lower costs become our most effective persuasion. If suicide is legalized, and I mean really legal as opposed to bullshit legal, cryonics’ll become cheaper. Most of the expense right now is red tape. Liquid nitrogen’s inexpensive and plentiful. Maintenance and storage cost is next to nothing, not much more than mowing and watering the grass at a cemetery. Theoretically, cryonics shouldn’t cost more than a decent funeral does. Lower the price to what it should be and you’ll increase demand by at least three hundred
percent. Bigger market creates more competition and better research, which leads to public acceptance and even more demand. A real snowball effect.”

  “How do you figure the outlook’s improving for Kevorkianism?” Gary asked. “Seems like the religious groups are putting up a hell of a fight. To them, one life’s worth the same as any other, whether it belongs to a senator, fetus, death-row inmate, or terminal patient. They’re picketing courthouses, surrounding all the capital execution facilities twenty-four hours a day, harassing the few doctors still willing to practice obitiatry, and assassinating judges and prosecutors. It’s as bad as the abortion fight ever was.”

  George shrugged. “These are turbulent times. Let’s face it, Swift and Sure is having a rough first year; executions are running way over President Hall’s original projections. But I figure by this time next year most of the hard-core violent criminals are gonna be six feet under. Crime rates’ll plummet; so will the number of executions, and the protesters’ll have to find something else to complain about.”

  “Yeah. Kevorkianism.” Gary always enjoyed playing devil’s advocate.

  “Maybe so, but the Republicans’ approval ratings should exceed sixty percent for the next few presidential terms.”

  “How in hell does that help us?”

  “If I’m right, the GOP won’t screw it up this time; learned their lesson in 1996 and 2000. This time they’re gonna consolidate their power by hugging the middle; ditch the Christian right like a bad habit. Won’t need ‘em anymore. And that, Uncle Gary, is very good for us.”

  November 30, 2006

  —Intuit stock plunges for the third day in a row, as the software and banking behemoth remains unable to assure the markets against a repeat of last week’s corporate terrorism. For 38 hours, a virus unleashed into one of Intuit’s central data processors interrupted the financial services of nearly ten percent of North Americans. With the perpetrators still at large, the company’s market capitalization has now declined by 31%, or almost $135 billion. The Department of Justice is rumored to be questioning parties with short positions in Intuit stock.—Memorial services are held in churches throughout the world in remembrance of the estimated 1.2 million lost in the nuclear incinerations at Sarajevo in May, and Baghdad in September. Interpol continues to investigate leads but admits having no suspects. The two horrific crimes still appear to have been unrelated.—Ten days after scientists in France revived a cryonically frozen mouse, Fidelity Investments, the Boston mutual fund and stock brokerage giant, offers Cryonic Trust Accounts that conveniently combine suspension life-insurance and trusteeship. CTAs assure those enrolled with cryonics organizations that their suspension-funding will be in place when the time comes to be frozen, and that their capital will be prudently managed for optimal after-tax growth until their possible revival. Fidelity reports opening 712,432 new accounts, a record for any 24-hour period.

  Toby shook his head. “Amazing. Two cities blown off the face of the earth, and months later, nobody has a clue why. Or who’s responsible.”

  Having just completed one of their thrice-weekly thirty-five-minute cybernetic strength-training routines, the two men relaxed at the juice bar of the Boston Fitness League, sitting in a private booth and sipping individually formulated replenishment tonics. “Makes you wonder,” Gary said, “if the second law of thermodynamics doesn’t predict the future. You know, entropy increases overtime…”

  Toby considered the vivisected metaphor and smiled. “Exactly! Matter of fact, that’s why I chose my second career. Any closed system suffers ever-increasing disorder and will ultimately decay and die. Nature—including our own human nature-is the enemy of all living creatures, except…”

  “Except…?”

  “Except when intellect is introduced. At least that’s my theory. Physics itself would dictate that the human race will eventually become extinct. But physics can’t account for higher intelligence and rational thought. I believe science will either save the human race if we respect its tenets—including those that apply to our own nature—or destroy us if we ignore them.”

  “But how do you persuade people to reject the appeal of mysticism? After all, mysticism is easy; science is hard.”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t seem to make much of a dent in it.” Toby scowled and shook his head. Then his eyes seemed to brighten. “But faster and cheaper computers should help, and as information expands, so must our ability to evaluate it. Maybe the free market could contribute, too, by rating scientific opinions for money. But artificial intelligence is the real deal, Gary. Software’s already the most important industry on earth, and within a few decades we’re bound to have artificial intelligence far more advanced than our own minds. Our imaginations may well be limitless, but next to today’s machines, our ability to compute and evaluate facts is a joke. And if you think technology’s moving fast now, just wait till AI arrives. If machines could learn to sort the clear, objective data from self-serving and muddled science, that would be a leap to boggle the senses.”

  “A great dream,” Gary agreed.

  “Of course, nothing ever turns out quite as one imagines it.” Toby bought another round by flashing his smartcard on the scanner in front of him, then turned to Gary and spoke with obvious care: “Once, way back in 1941, I told your father I expected to be dead within forty years.” He chuckled. “As you can see, I was grievously mistaken.”

  Gary considered not only his friend’s words but also the manner in which they were delivered. Toby had reached some kind of decision. “Good thing, eh?”

  The older man hesitated. “The timing does seem optimal.” Toby displayed a chilling serenity that Gary had twice before witnessed in loved ones.

  “Timing? For what?” He already knew the answer.

  Toby pulled a black-trimmed, 1.4-ounce matchbox-sized digital communicator from his shirt pocket, pushed a few buttons, and handed it to Gary, who stared at the screen.

  Gary fought a desire to crush the little thing in his fist. “A two-year-old suicide permit? What the hell’s going on, Toby? You can’t be serious about this.”

  “Not only am I serious, but I’m acting upon the same logic I learned from you and your father.”

  “Are you dying?”

  “Genetic Scorecard says I probably have ten comfortable years left; maybe twelve. And that’s based on therapies available when I had myself tested, almost three years ago. So you can probably even add another year. But unless I’ve completely misjudged you, when I tell you the circumstances, you’ll realize I have no choice.”

  Gary downed the rest of his tonic and grabbed their refills from the conveyor track. He handed Toby his, and waited for the explanation.

  Both men were well aware of the “Prometheus Protocol.” Prometheus Incorporated was a private partnership, founded in 1999 after having raised $10 million during the previous two years from a group of 134 cryonicists. The pledges, intended to fund research and development, were collected from these “investors” in ten percent increments over a ten-year period. Some of the more skeptical participants even chose to donate their pledges to their favorite cryonics organizations (to realize charitable tax deductions), rather than holding the stock themselves, a decision most of them would first come to exult and then rue.

  In spite of its for-profit status, the majority of Prometheus investors did so in pursuit of self-preservation rather than financial return. After all, there had been no proof that the freezing techniques in use at the time properly preserved any of the brain’s nongenetic information. A proven protocol would increase each investor’s own odds of identity preservation upon reanimation. Also, once such evidence existed, they’d reasoned, the public would flock to cryonics, creating both economies-of-scale and political clout, rendering biostasis cheaper and safer.

  Prometheus’s goal had been to test and prove the viability of long-term brain preservation using “vitrification.” This technique replaced the water from each organ with various homogeneous liquid m
ixtures. Then the tissue could be made to behave more like vitrified glass, amenable to cooling without disruptive crystallization.

  In a scientific sense, Prometheus had succeeded quickly. By securing excellent scientists and state-of-the-art equipment, they’d developed an expedient brain vitrification protocol in 2001, and over the subsequent two years had proved its efficacy on many varieties of mammalian brains.

  To the shareholders’ astonishment and dismay, however, the Protocol’s success had done little to increase the popularity of cryonics. Since there had yet to be a successful revival of an entire mammal from suspension, the public continued to view cryonics as dubious speculation at best, farce at worst.

  During the year 2005, fewer than forty thousand persons had undergone suspension worldwide, and about a third of them had purchased the Protocol. At $1,700 per suspension, the company had been grossing under $25 million per year, barely enough to cover operating expenses and interest on its debt. Wobbling on the edge of insolvency, Prometheus had been forced to sell a sixty percent interest in its patents to Nobine et Cie, a French biotech outfit owned by Drs. Claude Noire and Edouard Binette.

  Ten days ago, in the city of Aix-en-Provence, under fully observed conditions, Noire and Binette had revived a mouse they’d frozen two weeks earlier at minus 79 degrees Celsius. The scientists had used a slight modification of the Prometheus Protocol. While this rodent had been the only survivor out of 1,300 attempts, the feat was nonetheless a majestic achievement, immediately shifting the scientific paradigm of biostasis.

  Most experts now predicted at least 500,000 human suspensions per year by decade’s end.

  “I’ve known for thirty-one months,” Toby explained, “that I have the R17ALZ gene.”

  “Late-onset, moderated Alzheimer’s?” Gary offered.

  “Wow. You still keep up with all this stuff?”

  “Some of it. But you don’t have any symptoms, do you?”