Yet something hadn’t been right. Did he feel he’d been cheating on Marge somehow? No, that wasn’t it.
Thank God Margaret hadn’t inquired how he felt afterward. She must have known better than to ask.
Although they’d traveled separately, Ben, Gary, and Margaret each arrived at Neural Nanoscience Labs within a minute or two of their one-thirty P.M. appointment. Virginia and I were waiting.
“How many times have you actually performed this procedure?” Gary asked Virginia. He knew specific-memory implantation was a brand-new discipline, and didn’t envision his beloved Margaret as the ideal guinea pig for it.
“Six,” Virginia said, “and the last one actually worked… we think.”
Before Gary had time to pull Margaret out the door, Ben and I laughed in unison, “She’s kidding, Gary.”
“Oh, you think that’s funny?”
“Sorry, I can’t help myself,” Virginia said. “Fact is, we’ve done almost 1,600 of these without the slightest hitch. That doesn’t mean the procedure shows identical efficacy with every subject. Just means we haven’t had anyone who wasn’t glad they did it.”
“Explain how it works again,” Gary said.
I began: “For three and a half decades we’ve known how to implant generic memories into human brains—as long as we were willing to lose any unique memories. Sort of like erasing a twentieth century computer’s floppy disc to add new information. You could always replace an entire file on a floppy, but until around 2010 there was no way to add and subtract specific data from a file without going back inside the computer.”
“Okay. I remember that.”
“When we started Caching people, Virginia and I figured: Since we have to store all this information anyway, why not program our AIs to analyze each component of it? After all, the AIs from last month’s line are at least a hundred times more complex than human brains.”
“That way,” she explained, “we’d learn how to dissect individual memories piece by piece. We could take any specific memories from one person, and implant them into another person without disrupting any of their existing memories.”
I nodded. “So, after about the one thousand one hundredth Cache—”
“One thousand one hundred seventh,” Virginia interrupted.
I pretended to glare at her; she grinned, of course. “Okay,” I said. “After 1,107 of ‘em, the AIs had cataloged every molecular pattern, effectively cracking the human memory code. Big breakthrough! Obviously there’s an astounding number of applications for stored memory. We hope to retrieve forgotten memories with absolute certainty, erase selected traumatic events from someone’s life, even produce crude home VR movies from a person’s past experiences. We can also sort a person’s memories by any category we choose, and implant those memories into any other person, with whatever degree of vividness we want. That’s what we plan to do today, with Margaret.”
“I tried to get Alice to undergo the procedure, too,” Ben explained, “but the original Alice’s memories began long before I was born. Besides, she felt that without my father to share those memories—and she doesn’t plan to clone him for another fifty years or so—what would be the point? She considers herself an entirely new person anyway.”
“Not me.” Margaret smiled lovingly at Ben. “But then, I have considerably more incentive.”
“I’d marry you anyway,” Ben said, “and love you forever, whether you do this or not.”
“I know, but I want those memories.” Margaret turned toward Virginia. “So after you implant Ben’s common memories with Marge into my brain, will I recall those events as Marge or as Ben?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Virginia answered. “Within a week your brain will reviewpoint everything. A split second after they’re imprinted, your brain will subsume them the same way it integrates any new knowledge. Human memory has always done that, which is why you can only remember certain things about each experience. Otherwise, memory would be as vivid as life itself, and you’d never be able to retain as much information as you do.”
“Fantastic!” Margaret said. “Now all we have to do is figure out how to deflect Nemesis. After that, what could possibly be left to invent?” This was a rhetorical question, asked amidst the wrong crowd.
I couldn’t resist. “Oh, we’d still be so far from finished, I barely know where to begin. But for starters, we’d need to find places for our ever-expanding populace. With nanoprocessors creating food and other necessities, we can live anywhere. Soon, we’ll honeycomb the earth, and build habitats along Earth’s orbit using raw materials from the asteroid belt.”
“I’ve been studying that proposal,” Gary said. “Micromachines could create space cylinders miles long, and AIs could rotate them just fast enough to replicate Earth’s gravity.”
“Absolutely right,” I said. “With the proper materials, landscaping, and technology, space cylinders would be virtually indistinguishable from this planet. There’s enough matter in the asteroid belt alone to build habitats for half a trillion people. And we’ve barely begun to colonize the outer portions of this solar system. No human has ever been a light-year from Earth. Within a century, we might routinely send peopled spacecraft to other stars, and sometime this millennium, colonize their planets.”
“What about energy?” Margaret asked. “Won’t we run out?”
“No time soon,” I assured her. “Only a billionth of the energy cast by the sun reaches Earth. And atomic energy is for all practical purposes limitless.”
“Then what?” Gary asked.
“There’s plenty to do,” I said. “Subatomic particle manipulation might allow us to form any element from any other: true alchemy. We might even discover the unified theory of physics to help us prevent our universe’s projected Big Crunch. But time is short.” He laughed. “We may only have a couple quintillion years left!”
“Are there any limits to what scientists can accomplish?” Gary asked.
“Of course,” I answered. “The hardiest flexible materials nature permits might only be about twenty times stronger than steel. I doubt we’ll ever travel or transport solids—maybe never even communicate—faster than light-speed. Under singularity conditions, nothing’s predictable, and might never be. No organization, no intelligence, no imagination can conquer even a single law of physics. We’ll push the very limits of those laws, but eventually, whether it’s a thousand, a million, or ten billion years from now, all physical advances may cease, and not just for a year or a millennium. They’ll stop forever.”
“And when progress ends, what’s the purpose of humanity?” Gary asked.
“Same as it’s always been,” Ben said. “We exist for our own joy, and to bring that joy to those we love.” He gently kissed Margaret Callahan Smith, step-granddaughter, clone of his past, embodiment of his future. Then he asked Gary, “You sure you’re okay with this, son?”
“If Margaret’s certain, then so am I.”
“I am,” she said. “I intend to love and cherish your father forever.”
Gary turned to Ben. “Gives the expression ‘She was made for you’ an almost literal meaning.” He paused, wondering if his sentiment had come out as intended. “And I couldn’t be happier for you both.”
To Gary, the most amazing aspect of his statement was that he meant it.
November 1, 2104
—All of the oldest Neanderthals announce their intention to vote in this month’s World Government elections. Of 612 Neanderthals currently living on Earth, only 17 have yet attained voting age. Nine say they would cast their ballots for Vice President Andreopolus were the election held today; six intend to vote for Councilor Parrino; two remain undecided.—The names Johannes Brahms, Victor Hugo, Stephen King, Christopher Reeve, Gary Franklin Smith, and John Wayne are added to the Honor Roll for the Ages Monument in Hamilton, Bermuda. The monument, designed by Lillian Upton, now bears the names of 297 artists judged by the Monument Advisory Committee to have “inspired humanity throu
ghout history.” Not counting clones, Reeve and Smith are only the 18th and 19th living persons to be so honored.
As the day began, Margaret kissed Ben the same way Marge always had: same suction, same moistness, same pressure. She gently pulled herself back, disentangling her supple, sweat-glistened body from his. “That was wonderful, Benny!” she said, and cheerfully inserted another old coin into the piggy bank by the side of their bed.
Just like Marge, Ben thought.
They’d been married forty-seven weeks, and had made love 584 times.
About on schedule.
“Only thirty-six more days before we start removing them,” she said.
“And how long you think it’ll take us to empty old Porky?” he asked, stroking her back the way she had always liked to be cuddled. Marge sighed and Ben smiled; he knew exactly what she wanted, as always.
“It took almost twenty months the first time we were married,” she said, “but when Gary was born, it slowed us down a little. This time, we’ll do it in fifteen.”
“You always were up to a challenge.”
She was Marge. At least in their minds. What a miracle!
That afternoon, Ben and Gary stood thumbing through the folios of old maps at Ashley’s Antique and Knickknack Emporium in Falls Church, Virginia. The place was a bit seedy, but fascinating, offering almost-nice wicker furniture circa 1880, precybernetic toys from the early twenty-first century, and everything in between. Prices ran the gamut, too: near-bargains to the absurdly overpriced.
Both men loved shops like this. Every time they ran across a new one, they felt as if they’d stepped through a wormhole in interstellar space, falling backward into unpredictable epochs.
Pulling out a beautifully watercolored, freehand map of 1890 Cape Cod, Gary nudged his father. “This one seems too cheap. And even better, I like it.”
Ben ran his molecular scanner over Gary’s selection. “Kind of amazing in a joint like this. Hasn’t even been microrepaired. If you don’t buy it, I will.”
Gary offered a wolfish grin. “Don’t hold your breath. It’s already mine.”
Herb Ashley ambled over. The owner was one of those very peculiar people who had let his body age to about thirty-five before having his nanos programmed to maintain that physical aspect. Ben and Gary had seen others like Ashley, all involved in the antique collectibles business. Apparently this was done to add an aura of authenticity to their trade.
Ashley nodded. “Good choice, my friends.” Of course, he said that to everyone.
“I’ll take it,” Gary said, then resumed thumbing. Ashley’s register AI had already debited Gary’s account and transferred ownership.
“You two check ScienceWatch today?” Ashley asked, seemingly out of nowhere.
Ben shook his head.
“Bad news,” Ashley declared. “Really bad. In less than 120,000 years, apparently, half the atoms in your brain and body break down. Shoot. I guess by then we’ll only be halfway the same people we are today.”
“Actually,” Ben said, “that would be 120 million years.” Ashley’s face brightened and his posture straightened noticeably. “Oh, thank goodness. I’ve been depressed all afternoon.”
Ben and Gary traded glances. Both bit their tongues. This man wasn’t kidding with them; he was utterly serious.
After about a minute Gary asked, “How old are you, Herb?”
“A hundred sixteen.”
Ben cleared his throat. He wasn’t delicate about it. “Let’s see, Herb. In your lifetime, you’ve gone from an at-birth life expectancy of maybe seventy-nine years to a lifetime that’s arguably infinite, right?”
“Well, yeah. Assuming the comets don’t get me.” He chuckled.
Ben immediately recognized these words as a throwaway line, almost a joke. Ten years ago, everyone had still been terrified of the Nemesis threat, but these days people seemed a lot more confident that astrophysicists could eventually come up with a foolproof plan. Or if not, the nanoscientists could probably put every casualty back together.
It was amazing how easily human thinking adapted over time, Ben mused. Yet few could stand to shift their core views all at once. Shock led to confusion, most often temporary; then it usually rectified itself.
“So,” Ben asked—he couldn’t help it—“you were worried that in a thousand times as long as you’ve already lived, there wouldn’t be any more quantum breakthroughs?”
Ashley glowered. “What’s your point?”
Herb Ashley’s two customers laughed so long and so hard that he finally asked them to leave.
January 14, 2125
—All life signs from the nine mammalian and six avian subjects on Orion II continue to register in the normal range after 16 days in space. The lightsail-powered spaceship has already achieved a velocity of .39 light-speed. Orion’s grand tour of our solar system will last five more months and reach a maximum speed of .84 L.S. WASA officials anticipate full recovery of all 15 subjects, clearing the way for humaned flights late next year and journeys to other solar systems within the next few decades.—ATI Co-Chairpersons Randall Petersen Armstrong and his wife, Maya Gale, appear close to perfecting a brain circuitry regimen that will replace certain nerve impulses with electrical current, allowing humans to think at computer speed. The WFDA announces that it stands ready to rule on the efficacy of the Armstrong-Gale Process immediately upon consummation, perhaps as early as next month. It seems likely that almost every human in the solar system will purchase the product once it becomes available. Beyond its recreational implications, AIs project that this innovation will greatly improve odds for indefinite human survival against the forces of nature.
I’ve long enjoyed collecting and toying with early computer programs, ancient floppies, and old CDs. In data of the past, I often find inspired nuggets to help place the here and now and my visions of the future into proper perspective. What I like best is to dump the encoded material into my AIs, especially the new mind-reading Random Image Organizers. What emerges always comes as a surprise. The thing might tell me a story, draw out visuals, create a VR movie, even spin an essay.
I knew tonight would be extraordinary, a night that for 99.9967 percent of human history would have been unimaginable, an absurd dream of only the most ambitious (or overmedicated) science fiction writer. And yet this was no dream, no result of magic or wishful thinking. Tonight we would celebrate the result of tenacious will and teamwork throughout human civilization, combined with luck and the inevitable consequence of fortunate coincidence.
The occasion put me in mind of my long-lost parents, of course, the times they’d missed and the ultimate vindication of nearly all they’d believed. I’d been obsessing about them even more than usual recently and, with Stephanie’s help, had just reached a watershed decision. Impelled by the choice we’d recently made, I began digging through a small box containing a multitude of George Crane Jr.’s recorded thoughts and experiences from days prior to the universality of the central archives. The old storage units varied widely in size, of course, from clunky twentieth century floppy discs right through the hundred-gig, half-inch-diameter datacoins of the early teens.
I came upon an old CD ROM inscribed with the date July 1998 and penned on its faded label a single word: “Coincidence.”
Dad had been a writer of essays, great and small, even from childhood days (after he’d kicked the TV habit). Dad—childhood? I smiled, a million scattered thoughts racing through my head. Picking up my antique Digital Language Universal Translator, I dumped Dad’s old disc into it, then swept the cerebral image scanner across my brow, thinking of all that once had been and of all that might soon come.
I looked at my primary display screen and read words my own father had composed 127 years ago, long before I was born:
Coincidence is the inadvertent ally of mysticism. If enough potatoes grow in the world, some of them are bound to look like Jesus Christ or Elvis Presley.
Chances are that every person you see in
public is somehow connected with a person related to someone you know. Such discoveries, while amusing, do not mean fate intends the two of you to become interwoven in a great enterprise.
If every human being on Earth tosses a unique marble into the ocean, some will eventually find their way back to their original owners. With every breath you take, you inhale molecules once part of nearly every other person who has ever lived; a new fragment of Benjamin Franklin enters your lungs every five seconds. Put fifty random people in a room, and almost invariably at least two will have the same birthday. Think about enough friends you haven’t seen in years, and one of them is bound to call you—or die that day. Wait long enough, and you’ll see a solar eclipse. Give enough people mango juice, and some of them will win the lottery, experience spontaneous cancer remissions, or earn a gold medal in the Olympics. if a million baseball players alternate between red and green underwear, some of them will lose every red-underwear game and always win wearing green.
Even coincidences themselves are not so amazing when one considers how many trillions of different kinds are possible. Coincidences occur as simple numerical probability; it would be far more amazing if they did not occur. Yet through the ages, human beings have used the ubiquity of coincidence to sell their snake oil or invoke the illusion of divine intent.
* * *
Gary had insisted on entering the room first. Now Ben understood why. In mild shock, he flashed a bemused smile, then occupied the seat of honor, nestling snugly between Alice and Margaret.
Over the past months the two women had been planning tonight’s surprise two-hundredth-birthday banquet.
One gigantic table, microconstructed moments earlier to permit all thirty-six human guests a clear view of each other, filled the restaurant’s private dining room. Food and tonic nanoassemblers built into the table had been programmed to serve each guest instantly from an astounding six terabyte menu, while tranquil outdoor scenery illumined the wallscreens, and quiet custom-synthesized music lilted through the flawlessly blended atmosphere.
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