The First Immortal

by James L. Halperin

  “So I’ll ask you a series of questions, and the D/As can implant an appropriate, generic set of language skills, academic knowledge, motor skills, and various athletic, sensory, and mental capabilities. But no firsthand memories. And we can’t insert character, either. That has to come from her genetics and whatever learned patterns of behavior and thought haven’t been erased. If there are any.”

  “Will she still be Alice Smith?”

  “No one can be sure. Identity is so… ethereal. Completely her? No, never. But to what degree, it’s simply unknowable. If we’re lucky, some of her learned personality traits were so deeply ingrained they’ll survive in some proportion. But she won’t remember anything about her previous life.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing at the conscious level, and nothing that can ever find its way there. Ben, I’m sorry.”

  “Damn!” Ben took a long, slow breath. “Well, let’s get to work.”

  For the next twenty minutes Virginia asked him questions, and fed each answer into the central AI supervising Alice’s brain reconstruction:

  Q. What languages did she speak?

  A. English, Italian, a little German.

  Q. I see her parents were from Rome. I assume that’s the dialect of Italian she knew.

  A. Yes.

  Q. And she was born in Wakefield, Massachusetts. Did she ever live anywhere else?

  A. Not till she moved to Brookline in 1961, the year after my father died.

  Q. Education?

  A. Graduated from Wakefield High School, first in her class. Never went to college. Got married instead. But she read constantly: newspapers, books, even the dictionary and encyclopedia. Loved to think and learn; she was always using her mind.

  Q. What were her other interests?

  A. She’d wanted to teach, but the only time she ever got to was when I served in the Navy during the Second World War. That was January 1942 to June 1944. She taught eleventh grade. English literature and history.

  Q. Can you remember the names of any newspapers and magazines she used to read?…

  They were forging her, Ben thought. Counterfeiting his mother. And a good forgery needed lots of detail work. In all, Ben answered 159 questions.

  It was a good thing we had Mnemex by then: He knew—and therefore remembered—all the answers.

  Alice Smith opened her eyes and sat bolt upright. She saw three young adults forcing smiles; two men and one woman, all strangers to her. The room was pleasant enough; modern, bright, cheerful. Classical music surrounded her; she recognized it as “Winter,” from Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons. The air smelled fresh and sweet, like ripe strawberries, and she felt relaxed and rested; and robust! The absence of all physical pain and discomfort was the first thing she noticed, even though she had no conscious memory of any previous pain.

  If only she could remember who she was.

  “Who are you?” she asked us three, almost as a small child might ask visiting friends of her parents.

  “Virginia Gonzalez. I’m a neuroscientist; also married to your great-great-granddaughter.”

  Virginia’s answer was no shock to Alice, whose reconfigured brain was familiar with modern marriage customs.

  “I’m Trip Crane,” I said. “Your great-great-grandson.” Alice recognized my name. Trip Crane, a pioneer of nanotech. But she knew of me only as someone famous.

  “And I’m your son, Ben Smith.”

  A son? She had a son? Apparently so. But she didn’t know him—at all.

  When he grasped her hand, she neither recoiled nor overlapped his hand with her own. She did smile at him, a grateful acknowledgment of his obvious feelings, then saw in his eyes that it was not quite what he’d wanted; needed.

  “And who am I?” She turned toward Virginia for the authoritative answer.

  “You’re Alice Franklin Smith. You were born in 1904, frozen in 1990, and revived today: April twenty-second, 2081.”

  “Why can’t I remember any of that?” she asked, even as her own mind told her the answer: that poor woman, Alice Franklin Smith! She had simply taken Alice Smith’s place in this world, hadn’t she?

  “Unfortunately, “ Virginia explained, “your memory was destroyed in 2017 when terrorists violated your canister.”

  Alice’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. But if you tell me enough about myself, they’ll come back—my memories?”

  “I’m afraid it never works that way. Once we infuse new knowledge, skills, and patterning, the old memories never return.”

  Alice thought: That would make me just like her clone or her twin. Her doppelgänger. Alike, but a brand new person entirely. The real Alice, God rest her soul, was gone.

  She pondered the sadness of it, not for herself, but for the other Alice Smith. And, of course, for her son.

  “Never?”

  “Never in my experience. But there might still be traces of your past life embedded somewhere in those neurons of yours. Maybe enough to affect your personality.”

  We four sat speechless, trying our best to absorb and perhaps accept an unalterable reality. It was Alice who broke the silence. “Other than my memory,” she asked Virginia, “I’m healthy now?”

  “Yes. Perfectly healthy.”

  “And obviously I’m with people who care about me.”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Well, Virginia Gonzalez,” Alice Smith said, “if those memories are still there, I’ll find a way to dredge them up. And if they’re not, I suppose I’ll have to make the most of it, won’t I? But either way, I’m pleased to be alive.”

  At that moment, Ben decided this woman was definitely Alice Franklin Smith. As far as he was concerned, he had his mother back.

  It was the only viewpoint he could bear.

  November 3, 2081

  —Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey announces the closing of their all-machine circus, as the six-month experiment fails to attract sufficient attendance. “Our experience was similar to that of other entertainment organizations in dance, theater, and athletics,” a spokesman explains. “Although it’s impossible to discern the difference, even VR audiences insist on knowing that the performers are of the genuine flesh-and-blood variety.”—The World Hedonism Conference sets a goal of ending all human (and if possible, all mammalian) suffering on earth by the middle of the third millennium. Conference Chairperson David Pearce explains, “exponential advances in nanotech, eugenics, genetic engineering, and clinical psychopharmacology should give us the power by the year 2500 to induce a permanent state of sublime happiness without impeding survival, or further reducing motivation or creativity.” Separately, the latest Census Bureau statistics suggest that a person’s acceptance of the Hedonistic Creed tends to increase based upon how recently he or she was born.

  Dawn broke. Ben had survived 156 years to see this day, the biggest day of his life. It was as though every idea considered, every word spoken, every dream imagined, had led him to now. This exciting yet terrifying notion so energized him that he could barely force himself to remain in bed while the micromachines removed his whiskers and cleansed and dressed his body.

  Slightly over six months had passed since Alice’s reviv, and Gary now remained his and her only direct descendant yet on ice. Ben had witnessed the revival of all three daughters and five grandchildren. My grandmother had achieved an especially satisfying outcome: Virginia had repaired Rebecca Crane’s senility without memory loss by flawlessly executing a standard regimen of interpolation memory-reconstruction techniques.

  But this would be Ben’s most difficult reviv, and not only because his son’s brain had undergone nearly two hours of ischemic damage. Even if Gary’s memory remained intact, Ben wondered if he could ever build the loving relationship with his son that had eluded him longer than any other father in history. Indeed, reconciliation might be harder if Gary’s immersion in Boston Harbor had not eradicated his memory.

  All nine once-frozen Smiths now inhabited a 46,000 cubic foot space in the sa
me Somerville, Massachusetts, residential complex where Ben had lived since 2073. As each new family member had been revived, AI-directed micromachines reconfigured the walls and floors, and arranged appropriate sound and odor shields for maximum privacy, but always at the expense of spaciousness. Each person now had a small room with private adjoining bathroom. They shared two kitchens, a foyer, and a medium-sized dining room/den.

  Ben rose in a quick, fluid motion, as if propelled by a tightly wound coil spring. He took only a few steps before the wall separating his bedroom from the common rooms disappeared into the ceiling. He greeted most of the family at breakfast. Only Katie and Jan had yet to join them, and both would certainly arrive momentarily. Communal breakfast was a daily ritual upon which Ben insisted: a house rule.

  Ben briefly considered another house rule he’d established: no more than one hour of VR per day. By the standard of the times, it was a draconian regulation, he knew; average consumption worldwide now approached seventy hours per week per person. But there was simply no way that his children were allowed to be average!

  “House rule!?” Maxine had shouted at him, just three weeks ago. “House rule? What did you do? Bring us all back so you could be Daddy again? Have a house full of girls to obey and worship you?”

  “Wait just a damn minute—” was as far as Ben got.

  “No, Daddy dearest, you wait a damn minute. Or a hundred. Or a million. What difference does it make anyway?”

  “Oh, come on—”

  “No! You go on! Go on forever, if you want. I’ve already been around the big wheel once. What’s the difference if I spend my second trip in a pod? I like it in there!” Maxine had begun to pant-hitching breath, but no sign of tears. “If you brought me back so you could tell me how long I can do VR, like you limited our TV time in the sixties or something, that’s just plain sick. I’m not a child; I’m 129 years old, for chrissake, ninety-two of them conscious! Jesus. You are one sick asshole, you know that?” Then she started strutting; even kicked the wall. “You must’ve done all this just so you could finally get it right. This time. Being Daddy once wasn’t enough, was it? You liked it so much you—”

  “Shut up!” Ben bellowed. He hated it, but what choice did he have?

  Now Maxine was frozen, suddenly crying, and there’d been something scary about it—like every ounce of moisture might drain from her body through those tear ducts.

  Ben had stepped to his daughter’s side and hugged her, burying his face in her hair.

  “Let me guess,” he whispered. “There’s more to this than limited VR time, right?”

  She was still crying, but the violence had melted. Now she seemed more hurt adult than angry child. He kissed the top of her head.

  “Daddy,” she’d said, warmth returning to her voice. “I’m sorry—sort of. But what have you done? What is there for me in a world like this? Everything I know is worthless here. I’m like a cavewoman in Paris.”

  He’d chuckled; hoped it would be contagious.

  It wasn’t.

  “Honey,” Ben tried, “I’m not the one to help you. I’m too close. Our emotions would swallow each other’s. But I promise: Soon, your being here will mean as much to you as it does to me.”

  She nodded ever so slightly.

  Again Ben kissed her hair. “There are people who can help. We’ll go see them together. Okay?”

  Eventually she’d agreed. Although drug therapy had been required, she seemed okay now, even grateful that Ben had intervened. He prayed it wasn’t an act. Thank God the drugs hadn’t changed Max’s personality, he now thought. Or cost her any crucial memory.

  Of course, he’d run across far more difficult cases of VR addiction nearly every day in his practice. Sometimes entire brains had to be reformatted to keep them from atrophying! But Ben had always been able to separate himself from such tragedies; those cases were not his own flesh and blood.

  After ordering breakfast from the microassembler, Ben announced, mostly to Katie and Jan, who were just then seating themselves at the table, “I was thinking Gary’s three sisters should probably be there when he wakes up; and you, too, Katie, since he was there at your suspension.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Katie said.

  “Don’t know how much he’ll want to see me,” Jan said. “But I’d really like to go.”

  “Of course he’ll want to see you,” Rebecca said. “We were all ignorant back then. If Dad could forgive us, Gary certainly will…”

  “Nothing to forgive,” Ben said. “Back in the 1980s? Hell, I’m not even sure I believed biostasis would work. Besides, it was as much my fault as any of yours. I should’ve discussed it with you all before I set up that godforsaken Trust in the first place.”

  “Oh, maybe not,” Maxine said. “What if we’d talked you out of it? Some of us would no doubt be dead now. Cremated, embalmed, all that barbaric stuff. Anyway, we all made it, and that’s what matters.” She winked at Ben, who nodded back at her.

  Alice grinned. “Amen.”

  “Do you want to come, Mom?” Ben asked her.

  At first it had felt strange to Alice to be addressed as “Mom” by this young man who in most respects seemed older than she did. At times she had even found herself jealous of his memories, the measure of life. But she’d indulged him, and by now was used to it.

  “Oh, no thank you,” Alice answered. “I’ll attend Toby Fiske’s reviv if you want the company, but not Gary’s. He’ll have enough to deal with as it is. I think he’ll need some preparation before he meets his amnesiac grandmother. Besides, I can use the time to study for my eugenics ethics exam.”

  Of course Alice didn’t want to come, Ben realized. She didn’t know her own grandson. Or was he her grandson? A wry smile hid Ben’s uneasiness. “Always studying. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re in a hurry to move out of here.”

  Her expression changed to one of calm circumspection. “You’re a wonderful son, Ben. But I need to be independent as soon as humanly possible. I’m sure we all do. I mean, a person can live without his or her own money these days, but, let’s be honest, not nearly as happily as those who have it. And envy is a great motivating force!”

  Everyone laughed, but they all knew it was true.

  “Besides,” Alice added, “your daughters, much as they love you, would prefer to be living with their husbands. Once they can afford to revive them.”

  “Can’t blame them for that,” Ben said. Recently Jan had seemed especially heartsick.

  A lawyer in her former life, Jan’s skills were the least applicable to modern society. It would probably be three years before she would be able to revive Noah, which was still too soon for Ben. Never could stand that weasel, he thought.

  These days, most of the Smith clan, Jan included, spent their time studying while holding low-paying apprentice positions, and would likely be forced to accept Ben’s generosity for months or perhaps even years. Only two of his grandchildren, Sarah Banks (Alica’s aunt) and Justin Swenson, having adapted their skills to today’s world, had been able to resume their previous careers as a newsservice journalist and a real estate sales executive.

  Sarah and Justin both planned on moving out today to make room for two new arrivals.

  Ben had resolved to reintroduce Gary and Toby to consciousness on the same date. Toby’s reanimation should be no problem, Ben thought. After all, his suspension had been predeath.

  Therefore Toby was scheduled as today’s lead-off reviv.

  Yes, indeed, he thought, Toby ought to be there to joyously welcome Gary back—to a world infinitely more promising than the one he’d temporarily abandoned. But Toby might also have to help him reorient his son’s mnemonically obliterated shell.

  * * *

  The moment I entered the room accompanied by both Wendy-girls, Ben knew Toby was fine. One of the golden retrievers ran up to Ben and began to lick his face.

  “Textbook perfect biostasis!” I announced gleefully.

&
nbsp; Alice and Ben both beamed at the news. Ben hugged Wendy I, and rolled around with her on the carpet. It was now ten-fourteen A.M.

  Less than an hour later, Toby was awake and grinning. “Ben! Alice? You two look terrific! Like generation X-ers, for goodness’ sake. What year is it?”

  “It’s 2081. November third.”

  “Holy cow! We made it, pal.” Then Dr. Tobias Fiske let loose a jubilant, “Whoooooooooopee!”

  Of course! Ben thought. Toby had had himself frozen on a schedule. What a luxury! He’d been completely prepared for it. No stress. Just like going to sleep one night and waking up the next morning, in paradise.

  My own perception about this morning’s case, the easiest long-term reviv I’d seen, was almost identical to Ben’s: It made sense. That was why short-term biostasis revivals tended to be so much less difficult than the long-term ones: not because of the time elapsed, but because the suspensions themselves had usually been performed under much less traumatic conditions. “So where the heck’s Gary?” Toby inquired.

  “Funny you should ask,” Ben said.

  Gary’s reviv was scheduled for one P.M., a fact that Toby was delighted to learn, until Ben explained that Gary had spent close to two hours at the bottom of Boston Harbor.

  To pass the remaining, tense minutes, the two men borrowed my office to trade stories about the world and their lives; the years on each end of their suspensions when only one had been sentient. It was a diverting celebration of their own victories over Death, and Ben contented himself by finally expressing appreciation to Toby for jettisoning a medical career to rescue him, first from brain damage and then from dissection.

  Toby explained how instrumental Gary had been in preventing the autopsy. “And another guy who might deserve some credit was Brandon Butters, the attorney who prosecuted me.”

  “Yeah? For blowing the case, you mean? Jan used to date Brandon in high school. Seemed like a helluva nice kid back then. I was pretty surprised, and a little disappointed, to see his name on those court documents.”