The living space he’d purchased in Washington, D.C. felt luxurious, although small by twentieth-century standards, only 15,400 cubic feet. That was plenty for him, since he could alter this environment in any manner he wanted just by directing his AI butler. And the virtual reality entertainment was superb: fascinating VR movies of astoundingly varied lengths, exciting VR games, even great VR sex. But he knew VR was addictive, so he’d irrevocably programmed his central AI to limit his usage to four hours per day.
Easy, safe, rapid travel was available. Instant communication with anyone, anywhere on earth, and only slight delays conversing with those elsewhere in the solar system. He could always find out whatever information he wanted to know, immediately, in as much or as little detail as he wanted it. Very little human suffering or injustice remained throughout civilization, lifting perhaps his greatest psychological burden.
Yes, he was fortunate indeed! Still, part of him wondered what was missing.
Until the Nobine mouse fraud in 2006, opinions on the efficacy of each suspension technique had been varied and loudly expressed.
And needless.
Perfusion, vitrification, gradualized cryogenics, flash-freezing, salinization; each had had its adherents. As it turned out, none of it mattered. Once the AIs had learned to perform revivs on vitrified subjects, interpolating the newly gained knowledge to fix any freezing damage to neurons had been an easy project.
Within days of the first human revivs in 2066, the machines had calculated every protocol. Trajectories of molecules could be backtracked based on each type of freezing and the predictable patterns effected. Even if some had been destroyed, most human memories are redundant and scattered throughout the brain. Thus, even a ten percent memory loss might barely be noticeable.
But there was one common type of brain damage that the AI-directed nanomachines could never—would never—learn to repair: rot.
Many twentieth century postdeath suspendees had suffered too much of time’s disintegration. They’d been revived with flawlessly repaired DNA, but with impaired or often randomized memories and imbued personality traits. They were healthy enough, and some knowledge, such as language, math, history, science, logic, and motor skills, could be repatterned, or newly patterned, into the brain by nanomachines. But such individuals were like superintelligent amnesiacs whose only awareness of their previous lives had been learned rather than remembered, as if a new person with their own genetic traits had come to inhabit their bodies. As far as Epstein was concerned, those poor twentieth century souls had been lost forever, replaced by entirely new human beings.
Epstein had been diagnosed with brain cancer in late 1980, and had formulated his plan: Rather than allowing the disease to destroy his mind, he’d found a doctor on the Cayman Islands who’d agreed to supervise a (then very illegal) suspension while he was still alive. He’d been anesthetized, perfused using a protocol formula obtained from the Phoenix, and maintained in liquid nitrogen in George Town, Grand Cayman, for twenty-two years.
Once suicide was legalized, his body had been transferred back to the United States.
He’d left detailed instructions to be revivified as soon as practical, and had awakened in 2066 in the presence of a professional guidance adviser named Rhysa Archer, a stranger, but competent and pleasant. They had enjoyed a brief affair, a common occurrence during revivifications of unmarried suspendees. After an eighty-five-year suspension, he’d come out of traumatism in barely three months, a statistic for the record books, considered especially remarkable for someone not revived by friends or loved ones.
Epstein had set up three trust funds prior to his 1981 suspension, all authorizing payment for his revival as soon as his disease and aging could be cured. Two of those funds had been looted by scam artists, but one had survived, and compound interest had been a godsend. He was hardly rich by the standard of the time, but had enough money to support himself forever without reducing the present value of his resources; to do what he wanted, to live a comfortable life.
At first it had all seemed amazing. And he still appreciated it, particularly compared with his previous existence.
Now, however, he was starting to get bored. He needed a career, he decided, before he lost all motivation, or worse, turned into a VR junkie. But people had little use for human doctors anymore. AIs were a lot better at it than humans ever were. In fact, he imagined the AIs could tell him where his aptitudes might best be applied.
But he realized he had unfinished business to attend to first.
Once again he asked his central AI to display data on Ben Smith, the man to whom he owed his life. In a split second the machine transmitted the answer to Epstein’s screen tablet.
Benjamin Franklin Smith
Born: Wakefield, Massachusetts, January 14, 1925
In Suspension Since: June 2, 1988
Reason: myocardial infarction
Location: the Phoenix
Revivification Instructions: none
Brain Damage: unknown
Revival Prospects: unknown
Surviving Descendants: Alica Claire Banks, Erik Cornell Banks, Frederick Harmon Banks, Robert Goddard Banks, George Jacob Crane III…
George Jacob Crane III? Trip Crane was Ben’s descendant? Very interesting.
January 14, 2072
—Using a process similar to the technique that propagated dodo birds last year, zoologists successfully clone six mammoths and four mastodons from tusk DNA. The giant beasts, driven to extinction by humans about 10,000 years ago, will be bred for captivity in wild animal parks.—A comprehensive AI study on the nature of evil concludes: “Violence and cruelty arise from impulses such as ambition, misplaced idealism, and sadistic pleasure—but only if such impulses remain unchecked. Fortunately, the current state of technology and political science appears to offer scant breeding ground for evil.”
Wendy II barked at a wall-sized 3-D screen. The screen displayed an AI-generated depiction of a single human cell, with an insect-shaped disassembler machine one-tenth of the cell’s length, width, and height attached to it. Extending from the disassembler’s torso were sixty-four tentacles, which deftly and systematically removed the cell’s molecules layer by layer, analyzed each molecule, and rebuilt the cell directly adjacent to itself, like a mechanical mason moving an enormous wall one brick at a time.
“This depiction is approximately one ten-thousandth actual speed,” I explained to Carl Epstein. “Right now there are eighty of these dissections occurring, mostly of skin cells frozen by the Phoenix a few years before his suspension. We compared them to a scraping just to make sure the samples weren’t switched.”
“Looks astonishingly fast, even for full speed,” Epstein remarked.
“An effect of the enlargement. If what we’re viewing were actual speed, DNA mapping would require a year; not the hour it’ll really need. After that hour, the reconstruction phase takes about 140 minutes. Of course, neurosuspensions or missing organs require sixteen additional months to grow new body parts. But your friend—”
“And your great-grandfather—” Epstein put in, reminding me of the reason I’d agreed to personally supervise Ben’s reviv in the first place.
I slapped my forehead. “Yep, my great-grandfather. Fortunately, all his organs were left intact. He needs nothing more than basic DNA overhaul and minor heart repair. Then we’ll watch the early reports from his brain; keep our fingers crossed the D/A machines find no irreparable damage.”
“The Phoenix used state-of-the-art techniques,” Epstein said. “Hell, I was frozen seven years before Ben, and they kept all my memories intact.”
“Yeah, but your suspension was predeath. His wasn’t. Besides, the Phoenix kept changing their processes. He, and possibly his mother, are the Phoenix’s only pre-1995 suspendees who survived a terrorist attack in 2017. So there isn’t any way to know for sure.”
Epstein’s eyes narrowed; his expression seemed almost despairing.
“At least the Phoenix kept good record
s,” I explained, hoping to encourage without creating false hope. “We knew his medical history and cause of death. We even have a separately frozen DNA sample. Of course, it would’ve been nice if they’d asked their patients to leave instructions.”
“What do you mean?”
“For example: We still haven’t cracked the cellular-death clock. Most suspendees today leave instructions to wait until we do. Nobody wants to undergo two suspensions.”
“Most suspendees today are at least 120 years old.”
“True,” I said. “That’s why I figured Ben wouldn’t mind. But I find it surprising that so few twentieth century cryonics facilities asked their members when they wanted to be revived. Some people would probably have liked to come back as soon as their diseases were curable and they had a reasonable likelihood of being revived successfully. So they wouldn’t miss too much of the world, you know. Others might be more risk-averse; might have preferred to wait until revival was one hundred percent certain, or aging could be reversed, or even immortality somehow achieved.”
“Barely thought of it myself back then,” Epstein said. “Why would I have?”
“Good point. I’ll say one thing, though: Ben was awfully lucky to be frozen as quickly as he was.”
Epstein nodded. “Sure was. Last week, I read the court documents from the lawsuit after his death. What a battle!”
“It’s not a part of our family history I’m especially proud of.”
“Times were different back then,” he advised. “Lawsuits were almost standard procedure in early suspensions. That’s why I kept my own suspension a secret, except for my three trustees.”
“Three?”
“Uh-huh. I was hoping they’d keep each other honest, which in my case didn’t happen. But one of the trustees was scrupulous, and that was enough. If I’d put all my funds in one trust, there’s a two-thirds chance I’d be broke. People were rapacious back in the twentieth century.”
“Probably still are, deep down,” I said. “But now there’s no point in not being honest.”
“In a way, it seems I was fortunate not to have family to muck things up. Never even told my friends I was dying.”
“Yeah, things must’ve been real different back then. Secrecy’s the last thing you’d want in today’s world. Openness keeps us secure. Thank God for that,” I added; Epstein probably hoped it was just an idiom. “And for you, too. My great-grandfather’s truly blessed to have a friend like you.”
“Actually, all I’m doing is repaying a few years from the decades—or centuries—he rescued for me. The least I can do.”
“Still—”
“Y’know,” Epstein interrupted me before I could embarrass him further, “Ben often mentioned Toby Fiske to me. When he wakes up, I intend to explain what the man did for him, giving him morphine like that, subjecting himself to civil and possible criminal charges. Very soon your great-grandfather’ll realize just how great a friend Dr. Fiske was. I only hope he can remember him.”
“I hope so, too.”
I’d offered to revive my great-grandfather at no charge, but Epstein had insisted on paying the going rate. For today’s process, I would bill him 2,600 WCUs (world currency units), barely an average worker’s monthly earnings. The true cost, however, extended far beyond money. Sponsoring any long-term reviv entailed great personal responsibility and a major commitment of time; usually two to five years, even for early twenty-first century suspensions. Epstein had agreed to sponsor the reanimation, but had already decided not to cover members of Ben’s family, or Toby Fiske. That would become the burden of Ben himself.
The Code of Reanimation to which Epstein—and most others during the 2070s—subscribed, was that one took care of one’s own family, and perhaps one’s friends, but never their families and friends. The restoration of a loved one brought joy to both restorer and restoree, while the restoration of a loved one’s loved one was often a recipe for sorrow or resentment. The philosophy behind the Code was based on the axiom that benevolence should bring its provider the greatest possible pleasure, and thus altruism worked best when bestowed upon the deserving. Furthermore, the Code was a form of motivation to those who were reanimated; it encouraged them to become productive more quickly so they could sponsor revivs of their own suspended loved ones.
An adult human body contains nearly a septillion (1024) protein “machines,” and each cell contains thousands of different kinds of molecules. Still, within fifty-eight minutes the army of 24 trillion nanomachines and nano-AIs had mapped the location of every molecule that comprised Benjamin Smith. Less than 141 minutes later, each broken or lost piece of protein had been repaired or replaced, and every molecule restored to its ideal position.
A small boy attempts to heave a softball to his smiling father, barely five feet away. “Nice try, buddy boy. Let’s give it another go.” All at once the boy is years older, watching a documentary film at school. A hummingbird’s wings beat on the screen. “Seventy-five times per second,” the announcer says, “yet it still moves more slowly than your arm throwing a baseball. That’s because the wings are so tiny.” Now much older, making love in a hotel room with Marge Callahan. Then without warning, the horror-filled bowels of the Asahi Maru; the screams, the smells, the terrible confinement and fear. He stares down at hands scoping a lower intestine. Skilled hands. His own. He knows he is valuable, useful, and wishes he could always feel this way. His heart pounds as he drives to the hospital to see his father. “I don’t have time for your questions right now,” a terrified and angry voice shouts at his only son. Damn! Why did I say that? Floating above himself, he watches Toby Fiske inject morphine into the IV next to his own unconscious body, then the tunnel, and the light…
* * *
It seemed to Ben as though he’d been dead for a period of hours. When he first emerged from the tunnel, he’d found himself welcomed to a heavenly place by his father and Marge. But events had progressed from the mysterious to the bizarre. His age had advanced and reversed almost at random; one moment he was an old man, the next a child. He’d met, chased, run from, conversed with, and even become dozens of people he’d known, or known of. He’d traveled to places he’d seen or imagined, always finding them strange yet never surprising. His thought processes had become more unpredictable and fractal than at any conscious moment of his life.
Eventually he came to realize that he’d simply been dreaming during his revival: the lucid, three-dimensional dreams of the oxygen deprived-then-reventilated. It was as if his mind was directing its own reconstruction, putting itself back together again, shard by shard, fragment by fragment.
But when did he dream? And for how long?
He opened his eyes. The room appeared clean, streamlined, sparkling white; radical in its modernism, yet benignly unintimidating. It smelled wonderful, comforting. Brahms played in the background. His body felt rested, healthy, and strong. Yet he strained and shivered with anxiety and dread. Where the hell was he?
He saw Carl Epstein’s very young face. “Welcome back, Ben.”
“Welcome back?” Ben heard a voice answer, and, yes, it was his own, but distant, strangely separated. By time? “Where am I?”
“You’re back in Boston,” Epstein answered.
“B-But how?”
“Nanotechnology.”
“What’s that?” Good God, I’m back? Back! It’s real!
Epstein placed his arm around my shoulder, guided me closer to my great-grandfather, and introduced us: “Ben, this is Trip Crane, your great-grandson. I think he can explain it better than I could ever hope to.”
I began: “Nanotechnology is the science of manufacture and repair at the molecular level—”
As I watched Ben’s eyes studying my face, I felt I could actually see the wonder growing in them. “My great-grandson?” he interrupted.
Instinctively, without any thought, I grasped his right hand in both of mine. “Yep. I’m a nanoscientist, Ben. We used trillions of tiny machines to pu
t all your molecules back in the right place. To repair all damage to your body and mind from freezing, age, and disease.”
“Age, too?” he asked. “You mean I’m young again?”
“Yep. In fact, that part was a lot easier than repairing the freezing damage. We simply restored all your DNA along with every gland, organ, and neuron.”
Ben’s eyes widened. “How did you know where everything goes?”
“Artificial intelligence. Much like very advanced computers.”
“Incredible.”
“Not when you think about,” I said. “In a lot of ways, nanotechnology is actually easier than industrial manufacture was back when you were suspended.”
“Easier?”
Ben was looking at me as if he’d suddenly found himself in an alien world. In a way, he was right. Perhaps, I thought, just telling him the simple science might calm him best. “With nanotechnology, all you need is a good description of something, and you can make another one. And if you don’t have a good description, nanomachines can examine the object and describe it for you. During the twentieth century, engineers had detailed blueprints of automobiles, yet to turn those blueprints into working cars took a lot of highly skilled people. With nanotech, none of that’s necessary.”
Ben tilted his head and bunched his mouth into a scowl. “Why not?”
I figured what happened next was his fault, not mine. After all, he’d asked, hadn’t he? “I can think of six reasons,” I said. “First: The parts a car factory needed were expensive, but the parts nanotech uses—atoms—are incredibly cheap.
“Second: Car manufacturers used thousands or even millions of different types of parts, and had to learn how to operate them all. At most, nanotech can only use ninety-six different parts—the number of stable elements known so far—and for all practical purposes, everything we need is made from less than sixty different elements. And living organisms comprise less than thirty-five.
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