The Cure

by Douglas E. Richards

  “They didn’t view any of our reality TV, did they?” said Erin with mock seriousness. “That would alarm any intelligence.”

  Hansen laughed. “I sure hope not. The good news is that they do recognize fiction from nonfiction. Although I’m not sure how they would classify reality television. But anyway, even after factoring out the endless violence and destruction we tend to depict in fiction, we’re the most violent, troubled species they have yet run across. Capable of atrocities the other species can barely comprehend. Mass genocides, tortures, and unspeakable cruelty. They find us gifted, but brutal.”

  “So they’ve matured beyond this stage?”

  “I’m not an expert, but my understanding is that none of them were ever at this stage. Evolution can work through competition, but it can work through cooperation also. Take a beehive. Total cooperation, and they’ve done brilliantly in the scheme of evolution. Most species have a mix of brutal, survival-of-the-fittest competition, and good-for-the-long-term-survival-of-the-entire-species-and-its-genes cooperation. We’re apparently much closer to the survival-of-the-fittest side of the ledger than the other seventeen intelligent species.”

  Erin digested this statement but didn’t respond. She swallowed the last of her sandwich, not taking her eyes from the man across from her.

  “But here’s the thing,” continued Hansen. “The Seventeen…” He paused. “That’s what I call them: the Seventeen. I don’t know why, but I feel a little ridiculous calling them Galactics or anything similar. The Seventeen have computers that are millions of times more powerful than ours. And their computers have predicted a ninety-two percent probability that we’ll destroy ourselves.”

  Erin nodded. She could have told him that.

  “Intelligence is rare in the galaxy. They would love for us to mature enough to join the galactic community. And they would hate for us to self-destruct.”

  Erin’s eyes widened as her agile mind leaped ahead. She suddenly had a very good idea where this Kyle Hansen was headed. But she decided to let him get there in his own time.

  “The problem is that they can’t do much to stop us from committing suicide. Interstellar distances are interstellar distances, and the speed of light is even more of a bitch to get around than we all thought. The Seventeen can travel at a good fraction of the speed of light, but that’s it. Even a ship from Suran would take several hundred years to arrive. This being said, their scientists have made a breakthrough allowing them to bypass the speed of light. But at a monumental cost in energy and resources. Their equivalent of the Apollo project just to send a single citizen here through a singularity. Requiring the equivalent of the entire energy output of their star for several years.”

  “So you’re suggesting they mounted this Apollo project and sent Drake?”

  “Right. They were convinced if they arrived by slow-boat it would be too late.”

  “And this community of seventeen species, they only sent a single, um … Wrap?”

  “Yes. Wraps are the unofficial leaders of the Seventeen. The species who has probably contributed the most to the group. And Suran is relatively close to Earth, at least compared to the home planets of most of the Seventeen. Most importantly, Wraps are one of the closest matches to us physically.”

  “Okay. So Drake was sent here, defying the laws of physics, sucking up a substantial amount of resources from an entire civilization, just to save us from ourselves. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “That’s right. The Seventeen weren’t positive humanity’s self-destructive tendencies could be reigned in, but if there was an answer, Drake was sent here to find it.”

  A slight smile played over Erin’s lips. The moment of truth had finally arrived. If it really was truth, that is. “Let me guess. Drake determined that the answer was finding a cure for psychopathy? Am I right?”

  “Yes. With the help of a quantum computer he brought with him. That’s what did the seamless conversion of Drake’s face into Hugh Raborn’s. Its capabilities are truly astonishing.”

  “Quantum computer. Sounds fancy, but I know nothing about computers.”

  “Then I won’t waste my breath explaining it to you. It works on principles of quantum physics that are far from intuitive, and far different from the principles governing computing today. And orders of magnitude more powerful. We’ve been working on them for decades, but haven’t gotten very far. And this computer has calculated that a cure for psychopathy would reduce our chances of self-destruction by a considerable amount, making it almost certain we could take our place in this galactic community in a few hundred years. When Wraps and others are finally able to reach us.”

  “If it takes hundreds of years for one ship to reach us, how does that constitute a community? Of Galactics, or Seventeens, or whatever you want to call them? Unless you like playing chess through the mail, making a single move every few centuries.”

  “First, while they can’t routinely travel faster than light, they have cracked faster-than-light communication. Using the same type of technology that made the quantum computer possible. Although Drake hasn’t spent the time or resources building such a transmitter, which is a daunting challenge using only current human technology, eventually he will, and can report back. If he is successful in saving us from ourselves, all seventeen known civilizations will send ships here to our solar system, the farthest away not reaching us for several thousand years. Each of the Seventeen now have sixteen of these ships in their systems. So each member of the Seventeen has a full intergalactic community orbiting its star. It really is the only way to make it happen.”

  Erin had a blank look on her face. “I must be missing something.”

  Hansen flashed a sheepish smile. “If you are, that just means I’m not explaining it well. I’ve already come to the conclusion that you don’t miss anything.”

  Inexplicably, Erin found herself responding warmly to the compliment.

  “The ships are interstellar arks,” clarified Hansen. “We’ve imagined ships like these for many decades, but they’ve put them into practice. Basically you just hollow out an asteroid and turn it into a mini planet—but one you can drive through space like a ship. You can fit millions, or even hundreds of millions of people very comfortably inside a hollowed-out asteroid far, far smaller even than our moon. Imagine a sphere only twenty miles in diameter. If you layered the inside like an onion, or honeycombed it, the total surface area available inside would be staggering. And that’s for a ship only twenty miles in diameter. Ships like these that transport huge populations over hundreds of years are called generation ships, or interstellar arks. The aliens who sign on are committing themselves and their offspring for all eternity to live in a foreign solar system. But this is the only way to achieve cross-cultural exchange, given the distances involved.”

  Erin realized that her mind was now officially blown. This Kyle Hansen was so convincing. His description of this galactic society was so well-reasoned, and held together so well. It was mesmerizing to imagine, and she found herself hoping it was true. But she had to remind herself that just because she wished it were true didn’t necessarily make it so. Science fiction and fantasy writers had fabricated societies that were every bit as complex and well-reasoned as this, and which were incredibly rich in detail.

  Hansen’s phone vibrated but he ignored it, his total focus on Erin not wavering for an instant. A fraction of her mind noted this with approval. So many people these days couldn’t possibly resist glancing at their phones to see what was coming in, no matter what the circumstances. There were a few people Erin knew who would check a ringing phone even if they were on fire at the time.

  Erin stared into Hansen’s expressive blue eyes, which continued to be alive with an easy intelligence. “Let me make sure I understand,” she said. “So now you have seventeen species living together, in each of seventeen different solar systems. Basically each species flying heavily populated mini planets to sixteen different neighborhoods. And they all liv
e in perfect harmony?” she said, a note of skepticism in her voice.

  “Great question. Again, I’m not the expert. But it’s my understanding that although these alien species are all much more peaceful and cooperative than humans, it isn’t a perfect world. Or a perfect galaxy in this case. So the answer is no. Two of the seventeen keep almost entirely to themselves. They send out generation ships, but with only thousands, not millions of inhabitants. And they have almost no interaction with other species. Almost as if they’re just making sure to have an observation post on the outskirts of civilization, keeping tabs. Some species hit it off with each other like humans and dogs, becoming fast friends, inseparable. Other pairings have an instinctive aversion to each other. Either due to their respective appearances, or to minds that are so incompatibly alien to each other there is instant hatred and combustion whenever they meet. There are a number of cases in which culture A is friends with B. And B is friends with C. But A and C haven’t interacted at all in a hundred thousand years.”

  There was almost a minute of silence as Erin digested the enormity of seventeen civilizations living together in seventeen regions of the galaxy.

  “All of this is fascinating,” she said finally. “Incredible. Very thought-provoking for someone who has studied psychology and sociology. So even if it isn’t true, hats off to you for a stunning vision of cross-culturalism in a galaxy with a prohibitive speed limit.”

  “Thanks, Erin. But it’s all true. You already have all the evidence you need if you really think about it. I know nothing about genetic engineering or medicine, but didn’t you ever question how Drake could have done what he did? Identify the precise genes that contribute to the condition and then find a way to reverse them—at the genetic level?”

  Erin frowned. She had. She had guessed that it was pure luck, plus the novel approach of sequencing entire genomes, which would have been impossible only years earlier. A dovetailing of knowledge about the physical basis of psychopathy, advances in sequencing, an impressive algorithm, and lots of luck—which scientists liked to call “serendipity” for some reason.

  But the odds of being able to do what he had done, when she really thought about it in a fully sober manner, were millions to one against. She had been so eager to believe. And his animal data was so compelling. But Kyle Hansen’s story would explain a lot.

  “Am I detecting some faint stirrings of belief on your face?” asked Hansen.

  Erin raised her eyebrows. “Maybe,” she replied. “But even if Drake is an alien, even if you prove this beyond a doubt, that still doesn’t mean any of this is true,” she pointed out. “He could have lied about all of it.”

  Hansen looked uncomfortable. “True. But I’ve worked with him closely for years and have come to trust him implicitly. He’s aboveboard, unless he’s forced to use deception out of necessity, like in your case.” He leaned forward. “The important point here is that you have the key to saving the human race. I know that sounds preposterous and melodramatic, but it happens to be true. So let me take you to our headquarters, so you can meet this alien you’ve been collaborating with. Let me cement the truth of what I’m telling you even more firmly in your mind. So you can join our efforts without any reservations. And tell Drake about your breakthrough. So we can get on with saving ourselves.”

  Erin shook her head. “I’m not sure I’m all that impressed with that computer of his. The cure he’s come up with is stunning. Nothing short of a miracle. This much is true. But it’s still years away from approval.”

  Erin had discussed this at length with Raborn many times. First they needed to prove it worked. But even with a working cure in hand, it would take some doing to get the FDA to agree to clinical trials to demonstrate this, while at the same time keeping her out of jail.

  They planned to introduce the cure into a population of psychopaths some other research group was studying, far away from Erin Palmer. When these other researchers realized what was going on and announced the impossible, that their subjects had somehow miraculously been cured, it would make worldwide news. It would be huge. Then Raborn would send vials with the cure and animal data to the head of the FDA, anonymously, explaining that this was responsible. The FDA would be forced to take it seriously. It might take a decade, but eventually the treatment would become available.

  But even if they succeeded, Erin had come to believe this wouldn’t matter much anyway. “Even if such a treatment were approved today,” explained Erin, “psychopaths don’t see anything wrong with the way they are. They think they’re superior. And when it comes to looking out for number one, and being able to operate without remorse, without conscience, without soul, maybe they are. And the ones whose cure would have the biggest impact on society—the dictators of the world, leaders of drug cartels, and the like—would be the very last to agree to use it. Unless you think the FDA, or our government, or Drake for that matter, has jurisdiction over a Middle Eastern psychopathic dictator.”

  How many dictators and tyrants throughout history had been psychopathic? Erin suspected almost all of them. Sociopath was a word that was often used interchangeably with psychopath, but there was a difference, although it was subtle and not well-known, even among those in the profession. Sociopaths also suffered from antisocial disorder, but their upbringing and environment played a role in this. This wasn’t true for psychopaths. They could have an idyllic upbringing and it wouldn’t change a thing. Their mother could have been Mother Teresa and their father Gandhi. It wouldn’t matter. Because for them it was all about wiring.

  But their environments did dictate where they would ply their psychopathy in many cases. Those raised in educated, loving homes might turn to white-collar crime, cons, corporate backstabbing, insider trading, and corruption. They might go on to become doctors and lawyers and accountants, because this was a clear path to get ahead. If blending in and stabbing people in the back, metaphorically, was what was needed, this was what they would do.

  But they especially thrived in environments for which butchery was in fashion. A psychopath raised in a gang environment, or a mob environment, or in a brutal society in Iran or Syria, would have no trouble becoming the most ruthless among the ruthless. Whatever it took to climb the ladder. If getting a law degree was what it took, fine. But if cutting off heads was required, this wouldn’t trouble them a bit. If brutal rape and torture would cement fear in their subjects, no problem at all.

  In brutal regimes, those capable of rising to the top were invariably psychopathic. And they preyed on the ignorance of the West. The quote that Apgar had given her during their first meeting from The Bad Seed was exactly right. These people appeared to be charming and reasonable men, not monsters. And normal people could never imagine a mind so alien to their own.

  So when Saddam Hussein or Mahmoud Ahmadinejad had given interviews to eager Western journalists, the journalists were putty in their hands, along with a huge number of the viewers of these programs. The psychopaths were warm, articulate, and smooth. So reasonable and unthreatening, that what was said about them had to be a gross exaggeration, a lie. “Am I responsible for personally using an axe to behead dozens of dissidents, smiling as the blood spurted over my face? Impossible. Look how clean I look in my pressed uniform. Look how nonthreatening my posture and smile are. This is just Western propaganda, of course. Our society is quite progressive.”

  And the West ate it up.

  Ironically, those whose genes made them the most compassionate, the most empathetic, who were the most removed from the psychopathic mentality, were the easiest to fool. These minds were unable to fathom a mind whose operation was so impossibly different than their own, whose motivations were so foreign. These empathetic elements could easily believe the lies—it was the truth their very genetic makeup wouldn’t allow them to believe. And when public relations were required, the most dangerous psychopaths of all could play the good people of the world like a Stradivarius in the hands of a master.

  “So a cure
is an incredible accomplishment,” continued Erin. “And the possibilities, although limited, are intriguing. But it won’t accomplish what Drake and his computer think it will. Those capable of destroying mankind with less remorse than you or I would feel over swatting a fly will still remain.”

  Hansen sighed. “You make some valid points. But there’s more to this than you’ve been told.” A guilty look came over his face. “And I have a feeling that, necessary as it is, it’s something that will take you some time to get comfortable with.”

  16

  FOR JUST A moment, Erin wasn’t sure if she even wanted Hansen to continue. The surprises, the tectonic shifts in her reality, were coming too rapidly. And this latest sounded worrisome. What had she missed this time? She wasn’t sure she could handle any more psychological shocks to her system. But regardless, she knew there was no closing Pandora’s box now.

  “I have an idea,” she said. “Let me regroup for a minute. Brace myself for whatever you’re about to throw at me. You know what always helps with shocks to the system? With having everything you thought you knew about your life and the world turned upside down?”

  Hansen’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “No. What?” he said finally.

  “Cheesecake,” replied Erin, the corners of her mouth turning up into a smile. “You bought lunch, how about I buy dessert? Then you can throw the next grenade while I take comfort in my food. A bad habit to turn to sweets when you’re stressed, but there you have it.”

  “You clearly haven’t abused it,” said Hansen appreciatively. “I’d have guessed you ate like a model.” He paused. “Hell, I’d have guessed you were a model.”

  “Okay, flattery helps also,” she admitted. “But not as much as cheesecake. Let’s go.”

  They were standing in line to order when Hansen’s phone issued two short vibrations and then stopped, alerting him to a new text message. “Sorry,” he said, “but I’d better check this. Drake must have left a message. I think he was checking in on us and called earlier. It’s not like we have a curfew or anything,” he added with the hint of a smile. “But he believes you to be the most important person on the planet right now.”