Barely Human

by Dhtreichler

  The Chronicle reporter turns to Dr. Woodall. “Is that something you’re close to solving?”

  Dr. Woodall tries to smile, probably remembering that is what he’s supposed to do when he’s talking with the media. “I can’t comment on what’s under development. About all I can say is we are aware of the current limitations she is dealing with.”

  “Why can’t you give us a definitive answer, Doc?” the Chronicle reporter asks.

  “Because you’ll come back on whatever date I tell you we expect to have a solution and ask me if we have deployed it yet. If the answer is yes, you’re happy and go off to the next story. If the answer is no, then you report it to the whole world. The stock of a dozen companies drop like a rock because we didn’t meet a release schedule.”

  “Come on doc. It’s not like that,” the Chronicle reporter tries to convince him to answer.

  Dr. Woodall shakes his head and looks for the next question.

  “You said you were dying?” a middle-age bottle blonde from a medical blog site asks, the question comes to me.

  I nod.

  “The statement says you had a combination of syndromes for which there are no cures.”

  Again, I nod.

  “And that was what drove you to risk everything in this unproven procedure,” the bottle blonde looks up from the written statement.

  “Your question is why would someone with a good job and career risk not making it through the surgery, when I could have kept working at least for a while longer?” I suggest.

  “That’s a good question too,” the bottle blonde smiles at me.

  “Dr. Woodall explained the risks of the procedure. I knew the probability was I’d never get off that operating table. The fact I did is a testament to the preparation and professionalism of Dr. Woodall and his team. I shouldn’t be here. I should be home waiting for the end of my life as so many others have and do every day. What Dr. Woodall has been able to do is find a solution that addresses the chronic shortage of research funds and researchers willing to find cures for diseases that attack smaller populations than the big ones we all think about.”

  “Did you pay him for what did you call it… transitioning you?” The Chronicle reporter has come back with a vengeance.

  “I did, although not nearly the full cost of the procedure. A significant portion of the cost was underwritten by the research grants the hospital has received,” I inform the room.

  “I only ask because it sounds like he paid you to be here,” laughter amongst the reporters.

  The young reporter from KNTV interrupts, “Why thirty days?”

  I glance at Dr. Woodall, who shrugs indicating it’s up to me what I want to say. “We didn’t announce the transition until now because I had thirty days to go back to my biologic body.”

  “Go back?” Clearly the young reporter hadn’t considered this. “Why would you want to?”

  Dr. Woodall decides to offer at least a partial answer for me. “We knew we could keep her biologic body alive for thirty days. So, we told her up front that if once she inhabited this very different body with new capabilities, and limitations, if she wanted to go back we would take her back.”

  “Back to a body that would die in what? A few months?” the young reporter wants to get this right.

  “Or less,” I clarify.

  “Doesn’t sound like a real choice,” the bottle blonde interjects.

  “It was much harder than you could imagine,” I shake my head. “I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do until less than an hour ago.”

  “Tell us more,” the young KNTV reporter asks.

  “I am now probably an immortal. If something wears out or breaks, we replace it like a part on a car. If we want to upgrade my memory, we substitute or add chips. I need a software upgrade? It can be done over the air. Don’t even need to come in,” I smile at Dr. Woodall. “Other than Dr. Woodall likes to gather data about how I react so I do, but just for that reason.”

  “You’re immortal,” the Chronicle reporter isn’t sure what to believe. “That means you’ll live forever.”

  I nod. “Or at least a whole lot longer than you.” Nervous laughs from the other reporters.

  “Is that a problem?” the bottle blonde asks the Chronicle reporter who is trying to make sense of my comments, making a few sparse notes on his pad.

  “Could be,” he offers.

  I want to redirect from where I think the Chronicle reporter may be wanting to take this conversation. “How would you like to watch all your friends, family and people you care about die? To be replaced by an infinite number of other people who will never be as important to you as those who cared for you in your formative years?”

  “Got to be better than growing old, useless to anyone and watching your body fall apart around you,” the middle-aged bottle blonde notes.

  “I’m relatively young and I was doing exactly that.” I respond. “Watching my life cut short by diseases I couldn’t see, couldn’t do anything about. And yet the one thing most women think about is having a family of their own. To have a child or children to carry on after them. Perpetuate mankind. I was no longer going to be able to do that either way.”

  “Why not?” the young KNTV reporter hasn’t thought this through.

  “Do machines have kids?” I respond simply.

  “Oh.” The KNTV reporter makes a note, then continues. “That’s one of the limitations you talked about. What are the others?”

  “For me the plusses and minuses are I can solve things in seconds you would need to consult a super computer to work through. I don’t need to sleep, eat or drink. I don’t get sick except maybe for computer viruses. But that’s not an immediate worry. On the other side the minuses are I can’t react to your feelings with feelings. Only memories of what I should do. It’s not the same.”

  “So how do you party?” the Chronicle reporter asks.

  “Why would I want to?” having not thought about this question.

  “To have a good time, meet people, you know,” he’s clearly looking for an angle.

  “Sex, drugs and rock and roll? They have no effect on me,” I admit not sure I should.

  “Whoa. You can’t get high?” the KNTV reporter clearly hadn’t considered this limitation.

  I shake my head.

  “What about getting laid?” A young male reporter in the back from the Stanford Daily, the university newspaper who hadn’t asked a question yet pipes up.

  “Can’t procreate.” Dr. Woodall interjects. “She wouldn’t feel anything special from the experience. But it is something we’re trying to improve as fast as we can. We know a lot of folks don’t get together just to have kids.”

  “Call me when you get that fixed,” the Stanford reporter responds to laughter.

  The Chronicle reporter continues his dialog with Dr. Woodall. “This has to be horrendously expensive.”

  “Just like any new procedure. When you get to routine the costs fall.”

  “But like how many people do you think will really avail themselves of this? Would you say it’s going to be five a year or five thousand?”

  Dr. Woodall nods, understanding the question, “That will be determined by the number of people who present themselves as needing this option.”

  The Chronicle reporter glances up at me from his notes. “You only talked about having a real fast brain. But what about the rest of you? Like do you have X-ray vision or anything?”

  I shake my head, “Nothing so exotic. My senses are much more acute than yours. I can hear things you can’t, see further and clearer than you do, smell things and be able to classify smells because my memory will align information about smells, sights and sounds in a way your brain can’t. I can run longer and probably faster than you can because I don’t get tired, but when my batteries run down I need to recharge before I continue.”

  “Batteries?” all of the reporters look up at the realization of how I’m powered.

  “I have to r
echarge periodically. Takes about fifteen minutes but that’s still better than having to sleep for eight hours a night.”

  “How often is periodically?” the bottle blonde is now taking more detailed notes.

  “Depends on my level of activity, but generally every three or four days.”

  “You plug into the wall or something?” the Stanford Daily reporter asks clearly trying to visualize the whole process.

  I smile at the misconception. “No. I have a bed that recharges me inductively. Could be a chair or even just a place in the floor where the inductive coils can come into close proximity of me. The bed is convenient but a remnant of the engineers who couldn’t imagine a being that didn’t need to rest.”

  The Stanford reporter has finished writing up something and re-engages. “Since you’re gonna be around like forever, does this mean that over time you might evolve into something different? Something that doesn’t look like a person? You just said the engineers couldn’t conceive of a being that doesn’t sleep. Does that mean as you evolve further and further away from being like us and limited by the things that limit us, you might start looking like one of those monsters in the movies?”

  I smile, knowing from a memory that is the right thing to do with a statement like his. “I hope not. I actually like the new me.”

  “What did you look like before?” The young blonde from KNTV asks.

  “Not that different, but a few pounds heavier in all the wrong places,” I confide, to smiles from the women reporters.

  “You have a picture we could use? You know, before and after.” The Chronicle reporter asks.

  I look to Dr. Woodall, “If Dr. Washington is willing to sign the necessary releases I’m sure we can provide them to you.”

  “Doctor?” The Chronicle reporter hadn’t caught that.

  “Of software engineering.” I respond.

  Everyone dives into the press release, “You’re a big deal at AppleCore,” the Chronicle reporter looks up first. “Is that how you got moved to the head of the line?”

  Dr. Woodall answers this question without hesitation. “Dr. Washington wasn’t moved ahead of anyone. No one had been given a priority number or date or anything. We weren’t ready for that. And frankly if her condition hadn’t been so acute we wouldn’t be standing here for probably another year or more. We would have taken more time to get it right. Dr. Washington has had to endure some tough times adapting to an incomplete solution. She’s done a remarkable job.”

  “Did your engineering background make it any easier?” The Stanford reporter cuts in.

  “You an engineering major at Stanford?” I ask.

  Dr. Woodall takes the question. “We don’t know if it did or not.” He looks at me to see how I’m taking his answer. “She’s been able to give us objective feedback in some instances that it’s likely someone without her understanding of electronic and mechanical systems may not have been able to describe quite so precisely. But that has nothing to do with why she was chosen. I was made aware of her case by a colleague. He presented the case just like any other. Symptoms, prognosis and alternatives. The fact that she had none is not unusual. There are a lot of patients who participate in clinical trials of drugs and treatments that have not been approved for general use. Many of them are at the same place as Dr. Washington. A last desperate attempt to see if anything can save her life.”

  “Why do you sound so defensive, doc?” the Chronicle reporter again.

  “Do I sound defensive?” He looks to me and I shrug. “Nothing we’ve observed makes us think Dr. Washington will not continue to thrive in her new condition.”

  “So, who is number two?” the bottle blonde asks.

  “Without a written release we cannot provide any specifics on the next person in line.”

  “What headline would you put on this story, Doc?” the Chronicle reporter asks.

  “An unusually flexible option for saving lives?” he offers, but I know instantly the reporters won’t buy it.

  “How about: ‘The first immortal?’” the Stanford reporter suggests.

  “Don’t you think that will scare people?” I question his suggestion.

  “It will generate a lot more ad revenue and pull way more eyeballs,” he responds seriously.

  “Let’s talk about that for a moment.” I respond firmly. “Right now, I can do more in a day than all of you together because I think and write four times faster than you do. I also work three times longer. And I’m still the first generation. I can do more labor than most construction crews, lifting heavier loads, climbing up tall structures and all the while moving faster without rest. Think about what we will be able to do when we move beyond the current limitations of the human body. We are on the cusp of a very different future than anyone has given consideration to. That is the real story here. The fact that I’ll live forever? Minor in consideration.”

  “Is that the plan, doc? Make all of us like her?” the Chronicle reporter challenges Dr. Woodall.

  “My plan is to save the lives of those without other options. That’s why Dr. Washington is what she is today. Not because of some grand plan to transform humanity.”

  “But what about those you do transition?” the Stanford reporter in the back has understood my challenge to them. “Don’t they become a top one percent of a different kind? Maybe not rich, but able to run circles around the rest of us? Is this the beginnings of a whole different kind of inequality? One that will be even more difficult for society to address?”

  “That is precisely the dialog we need to consider.” I respond. “How do people like me advance our society, enhance our humanity, and address the limitations the human body has imposed on us since we first learned to walk upright. Will a new concept of humanity result from an emergence brought about by a growing number of immortals with instant access to all the world’s knowledge? Will we learn to espouse a spirituality even though more machine than man? Will society bifurcate or homogenize? Will my presence and more like me pose a threat to you? It all depends on what we have learned from our past mistakes in welcoming people who aren’t like us into our communities.”

  “But from what Dr. Woodall is saying, there’s no telling how many of you will be made.” The Stanford reporter continues. “What about all the rest of us in the mean time?”

  The pugnacious reporter from the Chronicle answers his question, “Do you think the Pentagon’s gonna sit on this? Changes the whole dynamic of war.”

  IMPATIENCE

  Mindi, my protective assistant at AppleCore, looks up from the newspaper on her desk as I walk into my spacious office. “You’re only the most famous woman on the planet at the moment,” she calls after me.

  I plug into the AppleCore proprietary computer network to download information that isn’t shared outside the company. In only seconds I have a good understanding of how the company is performing: where bottlenecks exist, are inventories in stock, where we are having design and integration issues, how our affiliates are meeting sales targets and whether we are on track with our immortal transitions. I know only the latter is of concern to A’zam since my choice to stay immortal leaves me responsible for everything else.

  By simply thinking about it I send off an email to each of the section leads about the problems the status sheets have revealed to me. I don’t expect to hear from any of them until the end of the day as I know each will have to go look at the data and then pull together a team to figure out what it was I saw before formulating a response and sending it back to me. Maddenly slow. I can’t wait for the first AppleCore immortals to come back from Dr. Woodall’s lab, ready to dig in and give me answers at the same clock speed I’m running at. When I chose to stay an immortal, I made a promise to myself that I’d never get upset with a mortal who is working as fast as she can, just because I can do the same in a fraction of the time. Not fair and not appropriate.

  I scan the news feeds. What’s trending? What is the topic most people are focused on at the moment?
Does this have anything to do with AppleCore? I don’t know for sure, but I’ve convinced myself that if I’m broadly read I won’t be surprised very often when someone at the company raises an issue. And I need to be ahead of the issues. Not just in terms of what they are and the causes, but also in terms of how we respond. We should never be caught unaware. Blunder into an inappropriate response that would cause someone not to buy one of our products.

  Mindi appears in my door. She is aware of the decision I just made. But probably not aware of the implications for both her and me. I will be her last boss. Regardless. There will be no where she can go. If she stays mortal she will die in a few years to be replaced by someone else in a long chain of mortals who come and go within the confines of a century or less life span. If she elects to transition, then she will be with me as long as we both exist, which could be one hell of a long time.

  “A’zam would like to see you as soon as you get in.” Mindi is relaying the message just as she got it. A’zam doesn’t like others to interpret what he asks. Mindi and others have been at the receiving end of an A’zam cutting remark. All the admins and members of A’zam’s old staff knew better than to question or not faithfully deliver a message.

  “Is he planning to come here or is this Mohammed must come to the mountain?” I ask, expecting Mindi will not know, but will give me her best understanding of the intent.

  “You can go there knowing he probably won’t be available,” Mindi observes, reflecting on all the times we had tried to be responsive. “But if you don’t, you can be sure he will show up here when it’s least convenient for you.”

  Mindi is being snarky, but I can’t say anything to her about it because then she won’t be willing to tell me what she really thinks. “I’ll wander that way in a bit. Is he still getting in as early as I am?”