Waste Tide

by Chen Qiufan

  Protecting their young was an instinct all animals were born with, even though the beneficiary of his protection at that time was only a wild pup who had followed him for many years. Today, this damnable dog had once again choked on the same bone, and the troubling waves he had set in motion remained surging and whirling beneath the surface, in the lightless depths, brewing for another furious storm.

  He decided that this time, he would sacrifice this dog, whose name was Knifeboy.

  * * *

  The puny man with the gloomy face watched as Scott and Xin Yu parted from each other. After hesitating for a moment, he decided to follow Scott.

  It was two in the morning, and the crowd in the hawker lane grew sparse, but the LED signs of the stalls and restaurants continued to shine and blink, bright as ever. Scott picked up his pace and the lights around him swayed and drifted in his vision, leaving long afterimage trails. A thousand enticing aromas found their way into his nose, the product of organic molecules strange to his body, stimulating his nerves with a trace of alarm.

  If only the people of Silicon Isle spent just a fraction of the brainpower they devote to food on environmental protection, Scott thought with some regret. The snoop was now closer, and Scott could hear his hurried footfalls behind. An automatic body film booth flashing with fluorescent colors appeared next to the street, devoid of customers. An idea popped into his head, and he ducked in, closing the door lightly behind him.

  The space within the booth was narrow and stuffy. Scott had to bend his neck and stoop down to make his large frame fit within the small volume. The virtual model on the screen gave him a mechanical smile and began to explain the season’s latest patterns and how to use the machine. Against the wall was a flexible, silicone disk attached to a segmented, omnidirectional arm, used for applying one-time inductive body films. Scott inserted some coins, selected a garish, heart-shaped pattern, and adjusted the branding temperature to the maximum.

  This temperature setting is suitable only for applying films to hard surfaces. The virtual model accompanied the warning with an incessant stream of “uh-oh”s.

  He waited, holding his breath.

  Three minutes passed. There was no sign of movement beyond the booth door. Just as Scott’s patience was about to run out, he saw a curious hand slowly pull the door open. The fish was biting.

  Scott grabbed that hand and dragged the man into the booth in one motion, pulling the door closed behind him. As the astonished spy’s face was crushed against Scott’s powerful chest muscles, he kept mumbling apologies in English and tried to open the door and back out of this tiny, crowded world of two. Scott lifted his knee to the man’s waist and pressed him against the wall while his left hand choked the man around the throat, and his right hand grabbed the spy’s right hand, which was reaching under his clothes for some weapon.

  “Who do you work for?” Scott squeezed his left hand until the man’s eyes bulged and the veins on his forehead stood out and his face turned red.

  “Sorry! Sorry!” the man repeated like a broken record.

  “Talk!” Scott kicked him in the back of the legs, and the man fell to his knees, his head crushed against the display screen by Scott’s hand. The vivid fluorescent light danced against his face. Scott pulled over the heated silicone disk until it was but inches away from the man’s cheeks, the heart-shaped pattern in the middle making a sizzling noise. Feeling the heat, the man looked terrified as beads of sweat rolled down his face. He no longer repeated his bad English, but instead began to patter in the Silicon Isle topolect.

  “Your name!” Even Scott found the heat from the silicone disk nearly unbearable and his shirt was soaked through with sweat.

  The man struggled fiercely with every ounce of his strength, and the disk kissed his left cheek, making a noise one normally associated with dropping food into a deep fryer. Scott smelled the familiar aroma of burnt meat, and an unbelievably high-pitched scream came out of the man’s mouth, which degenerated into a wailing interrupted by quick gasps, as though he had turned into a hyperventilating chipped dog exposed to the scorching sun.

  The disk came off with a crisp, kiss-like pop. The man slid to the ground weakly and curled up at the bottom of the tiny, two-square-meter booth. On his left cheek was a giant, pink-glowing, branded heart.

  Scott searched the man and found a knife and an old mobile phone. For good measure, he gave him a hard kick in the chest. The man moaned once but made no other move. Scott ducked out of the booth and tossed the knife into the bushes, tucked the phone away, adjusted his wet clothes, and headed for the rendezvous spot.

  “What in the world happened to you, Mr. Brandle? You’re sweating so much.” Xin Yu had been waiting for a while. “Here you go: your sea urchin.”

  Scott accepted the small, chilled box and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I haven’t worked out in a while, so I decided to go for a jog.”

  “Jogging? In Silicon Isle? With this weather?” Xin Yu looked unconvinced. “I guess this is what they call a cultural divide.”

  * * *

  Connecting … connection established … encryption active.

  HIROFUMI OTOGAWA: Clean?

  CHANG FENGSHA: Yes.

  HIROFUMI OTOGAWA: How’s progress?

  CHANG FENGSHA: Kaizong’s operation went well, and he’s recovering. The incident has turned into an unexpected bargaining chip for us.

  HIROFUMI OTOGAWA: I’m not sure I like where this is going.

  CHANG FENGSHA: Ha! Don’t worry. I guarantee the contract will be signed before I die.

  HIROFUMI OTOGAWA: If you discover any hidden risks, please communicate them to me immediately.

  CHANG FENGSHA: Well, since you mention it … there is something.

  HIROFUMI OTOGAWA:?

  CHANG FENGSHA: SBT-VBPII32503439. I’ve researched all the product serial numbers for SBT, including research prototypes, and I’ve found no trace of this number. It obviously isn’t just some “minor accident,” as you put it. It wasn’t even designed for humans. Right now, it’s like a ticking bomb. I don’t know when it’s going to go off, and I don’t know what kind of effect it’s going to have on the Silicon Isle project.

  HIROFUMI OTOGAWA:…

  CHANG FENGSHA: I understand that when an economic hit man is carrying out an associated task of convenience assigned by the Arashio Foundation, he has no right to be given all the information. However, I have no duty to undertake the associated risks either. I want this provision written into the contract. If you continue to maintain silence, I’m going to find someone willing to talk.

  HIROFUMI OTOGAWA:… This is a very long story.

  CHANG FENGSHA: Well, it’s the start of a long night in Silicon Isle. I promise you I’ll stay awake for the whole thing.

  13

  The inky color of night hadn’t yet been bleached away, and the streetlights remained lit, sketching out the contours of the shoreline. There were puddles of water on the ground, perhaps the remains of a shower during the night, faintly reflecting the indigo sky. On the horizon was a faint golden red line, smoldering, spreading, building up to a fiery dawn that would soon cover the eastern sky like a burning curtain. The trees stood dead still in the shadows, their branches drooping. This was going to be another windless, blistering summer day.

  Scott lay in bed in his clothes and watched as his window gradually brightened. He knew that he needed sleep—or at least his heart needed the rest—but he wasn’t sleepy at all. Under his threats, his contact back in the PST time zone, “Hirofumi Otogawa,” had revealed part of the puzzle for him, but the answers had only led to more questions. His restless mind was like a sandbox game in which he scratched out complicated mazes, wiped them away without a trace, and sketched new replacements without end.

  Scott felt that his nervous system was trapped in a feedback loop. He decided to get out and walk about.

  As he passed the hotel’s luxury display cases, something caught his eye: a limited-edition 2015 Ducati Mons
ter 1000 EVO Diesel.

  Unlike other motorcycles of the same model, this Diesel-Ducati collaboration eschewed the traditional ostentatious polished metal exterior for a combination of matte green and carbon black that coated everything from the engine cover to the exhaust pipe, from the wheels to the axles, making the whole resemble a giant beetle about to take flight.

  Scott felt a part of his brain light up. He had been repressed for too long in this restricted-bitrate zone; the turtle-like network speed and the bogged-down progress of the project made it hard for him to breathe. He suddenly understood what he needed: speed. The careless sensation of hurtling along like a lightning bolt, even if it meant placing a man’s fragile flesh and bones on the edge of a knife. A powerful desire, almost suffocating in its urgency, drove him, and he yearned to press his skin and flesh against this cold metal monster, as it trembled, growled, and bolted away, never to stop.

  Ten minutes later, once again invoking the all-powerful name of Director Lin Yiyu, he managed to obtain the key, goggles, helmet, and a free gas card.

  Gingerly, the young man in charge of the rental emphasized various precautions. Scott brushed him away. When I rode across America on my bike, you were still but a sperm in your daddy’s balls.

  The air-cooled L-Twin-cylinder engine rumbled, delivering a steady stream of 100 horsepower; the maximum engine displacement of 1078 cc surged out of the twin carbon-black exhaust pipes stacked on one side like the snorting of an angry bull. Scott leaned forward and straddled the bike, savoring the delightful sensation brought about by its precisely engineered ergonomic design. He adjusted the goggles and helmet, and lightly twisted the throttle, and flew off along the deserted street on the back of this giant beetle.

  It was still early, before the arrival of the trucks carrying e-waste; the inhabitants of Silicon Isle were still in slumber, with an occasional drunk lying by the side of the road, a puddle of pink vomit before him still warm from his body. Street-cleaning trucks playing retro eight-bit electronic music slowly swept the road while fishing boats heading out to sea tooted their whistles, like ancient beasts of legend moaning in the fog. Inch by inch, light chased away the darkness, and the sun finally rose.

  Like a gust of wind, Scott swept past all of this. The scenery stretched and distorted in his vision, blurring like the wild strokes of Postimpressionists. He had to keep himself from howling, and all sound was tossed behind with the streaming air, fading rapidly. He shifted and sensed the higher torque from a lower gear, as though the mechanical beast between his legs had melded with his body so that no matter what the road conditions, the machine would sensitively and appropriately translate his intent into motion.

  Fusing Man with machine. The idea surfaced in Scott’s mind, unbidden. Just like the shocking tale he had heard a few hours ago.

  The mysterious prosthesis with the serial number SBT-VBPII32503439 was intended to replace the back of the skull between the coronal suture and the lambdoid suture, including parts of the parietal and occipital bones. It wasn’t designed for the human skull, however. The prominent ridge in the middle was meant to replicate the sagittal crest present in the skulls of gorillas, chimpanzees, and orangutans.

  After Project Waste Tide was shut down, the military transferred more than three hundred related patents to newly founded commercial companies in various fields, among them the core technologies of SBT and TerraGreen Recycling.

  But Project Waste Tide never truly stopped. Hidden and decentralized, it had infiltrated all areas of human technology, changing the trajectory of the world’s progress. After several rounds of financing, spin-offs, and mergers and acquisitions, the military background of the Arashio Foundation that held stock in the various companies had become obscured, but multiple top-secret research projects continued to be run out of the public eye.

  One of these projects was the experimental treatment advocated by Dr. Suzuki in her later years for using gene-modified viruses to repair the muscarinic receptors damaged by QNB, but the research goals had changed completely. The virus known as the “Suzuki variant,” further modified to target other neural structures, evolved into multiple new varieties with amazing commercial value.

  One of them was perhaps the ultimate weapon against brain aging.

  There are about 100 billion neurons in the human brain, each of which connects to up to a thousand other neurons through synapses. Through neurotransmitters, the neurons communicate with each other and perform functions such as information sharing, coordinated action, memory formation, and so on. Synaptic damage and aging lead to neurological disorders, memory loss, autism, Alzheimer’s, and other neurodegenerative diseases. Such damage is often irreversible, like time’s arrow.

  However, one variety of the new virus could, working in conjunction with synaptic connection strengthening HDAC inhibitors, form new connections from aged axons. This was a key step in humankind’s quest for eternal life, though the premise was that we must be willing to give up our fragile, aging-prone mammalian shells.

  A nondescript, silver, domestically manufactured Volvo appeared in the rearview mirror. It flashed its headlamps, indicating that Scott should pull over. He frowned, tired of this endless game of cat and mouse. The throttle of the Ducati roared, and the bike leapt forward and agilely turned onto a side lane.

  Whether out of anger or the thrill of the chase, Scott’s heartbeat became irregular. He stopped gunning the engine and reduced his speed, waiting for the pacemaker to do its job.

  Another variety of the new virus had revolutionized the battery industry.

  Scientists found the genetic codons that enabled animal cells to aggregate metal atoms and introduced trace amounts of the single-strand DNA into the virus, where it caused specific molecules to form on the surface of the virus, capable of selectively adhering to metal atoms and particles. Complexes formed in this manner via adhesion were effective battery anodes and ideal conductors.

  The virus battery technology was transformational at every level: designers could precisely adjust the DNA injected into the virus to produce electrodes made of different metals; batteries could be made by mixing the corresponding components at room temperature, thus avoiding the risks associated with the high temperatures required for traditional battery manufacturing; and, most key of all, the electrodes made in this manner could span the scale from nanometers to ten centimeters, which meant that batteries no longer had to be bulky, cumbersome devices, but could be embedded into anything one might imagine.

  Like the thumbnail-sized virus-enhanced battery inside Scott’s chest, which had saved his life multiple times.

  The motorcycle roared onto a road next to the beach. The slightly salty sea breeze struck Scott’s face, and he greedily gulped down the rare fresh air. Over the ocean, long rows of unbroken swells glowed golden, gilded by the surging sun. Large, irregularly shaped clouds, dragging long trails behind them like tens of thousands of bronze horses leaping out of the sea, joyfully galloped toward the empyrean with ringing hoofbeats against reef islands peeking out of the foam and spray.

  A new day had begun in the world.

  * * *

  Chen Kaizong watched himself in the mirror. He closed his left eye, opened it, then closed his right eye. Something didn’t feel right.

  The operation was a success. His damaged right eye had been completely removed and replaced with SBT’s latest electronic model, the Cyclops VII. The color of the iris had been carefully adjusted so that there was almost no discernible difference between the left and right eyes—other than the fact that the new eye appeared brighter because it was so perfect and limpid that it lacked the spots and faint blood vessels left by the passage of time.

  I’ve turned into a cyborg after all. Kaizong became emotional as he imagined facing his parents and having to explain this. Maybe saying nothing was the better choice. He thought of the article of faith that his mother often recited, especially when, as they watched the news, the first-person-POV footage made her dizzy.
<
br />   Man is meant to look at the world through his own eyes. Any attempt to perceive the world through a perspective that transcends the self is a transgression against God.

  The artificial retina worked very well. While he had been asleep, the doctors had “installed” the user manual for the prosthetic eye into his visual cortex via fMRI. Afterward, the “sleep spindles” in his EEG showed that the information had already been transferred from the hippocampus to the cortex for permanent storage, much as one might save the data from a USB stick onto the hard drive. The technique for using the right eye and interpreting its data became part of Chen Kaizong’s permanent skill repertoire, much as riding a bicycle, swimming, or speaking English.

  For All Tomorrow’s Parties. 全为明日派对。

  Each time Kaizong paid conscious attention to the workings of his right eye, the advertising slogan drifted through his mind in both English and Chinese. Maybe it was a reminder installed as part of the user manual, like a symbol of confidence. The manufacturer was making a pledge to the customer: Don’t worry. SBT provides a three-year warranty, whether you obtained one of our eyes, hearts, muscles, or some other prosthesis.

  But in the world he had come from, the replacement cycle for prosthetic body parts was far shorter. Indeed, the media coined the semi-serious term “body fast-moving consumer goods” (FMCG) to describe them. SBT’s technology had turned the trade in prostheses into a business like mobile apps, sneakers, fashion, and online games: anyone could find, in a market full of choices, something that met their needs, was affordable, and provided good after-purchase services. Moreover, the black market was full of jailbreaking tools that could add unauthorized fun to prostheses.

  At parties, people no longer showed off their new gadgets, jewelry, or hairstyles, but prosthetic cochleas that improved the sense of balance, artificial muscles with augmented contraction characteristics, prosthetic limbs that obeyed mental directions, or updated firmware that enhanced sensory organs.