She blushed.
CHAPTER 41
FUTURE PROBE
Cambridge, Massachusetts
June 15, 2045—World Government is officially installed in Sydney, Australia. Boris Malinkov, a Russian, begins his three-year term as the first World President, having received 54 percent of the popular vote and 56 percent of electoral votes in the run-off election against South African candidate Gordon Mondeto. China, formerly the most powerful nation on earth, is now the world’s most powerful state. On the basis of its smaller population, however, the United States drops from second to seventh. But with complete worldwide freedom of information, political power no longer holds the significance it once did.—Sun Microsystems, Texas Instruments, and CyCare Systems release reports on the status of their own Truth Machine projects. All three companies say they should have generic versions ready to compete with the ACIP as soon as ATI’s exclusive patent expires on August 10, 2049. An ATI spokesman states, “We will embrace the challenge of a competitive marketplace.”
Once he had actually resolved to do it, the decision to kill himself had calmed Pete; the stuttering, nervous shaking, and rocking had virtually ceased, and he rarely heard the voices anymore.
His life had settled into a strange yet comfortable pattern, the monotony and tedium of his work set against the tension of his predicament. Competing against time, he rarely abided distractions. In just four years there would be other Truth Machines and Pete intended to disappear before his crimes could be discovered. He wasn’t sure how he would end his life: maybe drown himself in the ocean or somehow cremate himself as he had incinerated Charles Scoggins. However I do it, I’ll leave no trace.
The Wests, Tilly, Jennifer Finley, and especially Ed and Liza Armstrong must never learn that Pete Armstrong was a murderer. He plotted that his parents would some day be revived from cryonic suspension, only to learn that their son, the heroic savior of humankind, had tragically disappeared.
The next four years, the balance of his life, was now mapped out. He felt more at peace than he had in decades, even as he tested his mental and physical limits.
Only David could get him to take a break from his work.
The invitation had appeared 10 days earlier on the multi-media screen in Pete’s office. “The World Future Society, an association for the study of alternative futures, is a non-profit organization founded in 1966. The Society acts as an impartial clearinghouse for a variety of different views, and does not take positions on what will happen—or ought to happen—in the future. You have been nominated by former United States President David West, and have been elected by the general membership to receive the 2045 Futurist of the Year Award, our highest honor. We would be proud if you would join us at 2:00 p.m. on June 16 at FutureProbe, our annual meeting in Cambridge, Massachusetts, to accept the award.”
He had commanded his wristband, “David West, please.”
(Note: I would just like to add that I have always admired the way Mr. Armstrong has spoken so politely to machines.—22 g CP)
David’s face appeared, hair still dripping wet from his daily swim. The image showed on both screens: the tiny one on Pete’s wristband and the Holograph covering his office wall.
David saw that Pete had at least a week’s worth of facial hair. Is he growing a beard, or has he decided whisker-removal is no longer worth the effort?
“I know why you’re calling, and yes, Diana and I will both be there. Will you?”
Pete’s answer surprised David. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
There are literally hundreds of compulsive and intermittent mental disorders known, all requiring different combinations of therapies. David had no specific theories and had never even heard of IDD, but having had some experience with compulsive behavior and its symptoms, intuitively knew. Something is seriously wrong with Pete.
Workaholics were addicts, just like David’s compulsive-gambler father. MediFact had long ago discovered that both addictions occurred more frequently among highly intelligent people who had lacked certain kinds of parental discipline as children. The newest cures for those pathologies had an unfortunate side effect of slightly lowering the operative IQ of the patient, and therefore were used only as a last resort. Generally, long-term therapy was preferable to the cure, but David prayed that whatever was wrong with Pete would require neither.
He was surprised when his friend had agreed to take a half-day off from his work just to travel a few thousand miles and pick up an award, no matter how prestigious. Aging research had become Pete’s life. He was offered some kind of award almost daily and had never accepted one in person before. Even when awarded the Nobel Science Prize, he had been too busy to go to Oslo to attend the presentation ceremony.
Then why agree to come to this one? Perhaps for a chance to get together with Diana and me in our old stomping grounds near Harvard. Or to take a break from his mind-numbing 100-hour-per-week work schedule? Or, David hoped, maybe Pete’s become more aware of his workaholism and decided the trip is exactly what his spirit needs.
Soon after the introduction of self-replicating tunneling machines and molecular bonding techniques in the late 2030s, pneumatic subways had been constructed throughout most of North America, revolutionizing the science of transportation.
(Note: Legal and bureaucratic wrangling unfortunately delayed this cost-efficient technology throughout much of the world. For example, Australia and Africa would not be fully tunneled until 2048.—22g CP)
Flying would have been faster, but the pneumatic subway still moved at mach three. The Wests took the subway; for the extra 5 or 10 minutes they decided they would rather have the convenience of door-to-door service. Unaccompanied by Secret Service, they boarded the tube near their Dallas home at 11:30 a.m. CST and arrived at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Cambridge at 1:40 p.m. EST, a 70-minute ride.
“Where’s the award’s ceremony dais?” David inquired into his wristband.
Earlier that day he had repeated the 15-digit zip code that pinpoints any location on earth to a 12-foot square; the map with flashing red arrows appeared on his dial and directed them to the front of the auditorium. It was a massive room with state-of-the-art acoustics and a Holographic screen at least 80 feet wide perched above the podium. At 1:51 p.m. about 7,000 persons already occupied the room and 3,500 more would file into the empty seats before the ceremony began.
Arriving with nine minutes to spare, the Wests walked up to the dais and chatted with the FutureProbe officials. Diana noticed Pete, wearing a neatly trimmed beard, was seated on the aisle near the front beside an attractive young woman. She was intrigued to see the two engrossed in conversation.
Pete had recognized her as soon as he walked into the room. Dr. Maya Gale was an accomplished neurobiologist and research scientist in the field of intelligence enhancement. Since beginning her sabbatical from Glaxo-Wellcome, she had written two books on the human brain. Pete had read them and, finding them fascinating, had hoped someday to meet her.
But his first thought upon seeing Gale in person was, She’s breathtaking.
Gale, 39 years old, was a slender, athletic woman with long brown hair and a fresh, girl-next-door face that Pete found irresistibly appealing. She looked 25. Naturally Pete remembered everything from her bio. She was the number five amateur women’s racquetball player in the state of New York, a graduate of Connecticut College and Yale Medical School, and unmarried. He also knew she’d been one of the principal scientists who had discovered the enzyme used in Synapsate, Glaxo-Wellcome’s anti-Alzheimer’s drug, and that her research team had also been the first to figure out how to apply the discovery to memory enhancement for healthy humans.
He saw that the seat next to her was empty.
“Is anyone sitting here?”
She shook her head.
Pete sat down, wondering whether she realized who he was. Maybe not. He rarely made public appearances anymore, and looked older than most of his photographs and news clips in the
public domain. Also, he had a beard now.
“I’ve never been to one of these meetings before. Have you?” Pete asked.
“Been to the last six. They’re fun.”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“You meet a lot of fascinating people. Once you go to one, you kind of get hooked.”
Hmm. Beautiful and friendly.
“I’ve always been interested in speculating about the future,” he said. “When I was younger, it was all I thought about.”
“Not anymore?”
“Now I’m so involved in my work, I rarely have time for anything else. I doubt I’d be here if an old friend hadn’t coerced me into coming.”
“Really? What kind of work do you do?”
“Genetic research. Aging. That’s what nearly everyone’s trying to crack these days. At my advanced maturity, it’s a far more personal mission than it would be for you.”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly. You can’t be much older than I am. I’m almost 40.”
“I knew that from your books, but I’m afraid you’re wrong about me. I’m 55.”
He knows who I am, she thought. He’s very attractive and looks like he has an interesting story. I wonder who he is.
“Well, you don’t look your age,” she said.
“Neither do you.”
Just then, David stepped up to the podium.
She thought, I’d better say something provocative or this conversation could end right now. “David West’s a handsome man, don’t you think? I voted for him both times and I’m a Republican!”
“Me, too.”
She hesitated, steeling up her courage, and added, “Since we have so much in common, why don’t you join me at the buffet after the speech?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
As the applause died down, David began.
“My friends, nothing could have kept me away from FutureProbe this year. The recipient of the 2045 Futurist of the Year award is a man I’ve known and loved for over 40 years. He was my roommate at Harvard College, and except for Diana, he’s been my closest friend ever since. I have truly been blessed to know him. But not as blessed as the world has been—by the work of the greatest scientific genius of this century.
“On May 17, 2003, 13-year-old Randall Petersen Armstrong sat across the table from Diana and me at a Chinese restaurant two miles from here and told us what he intended to do with his life. He said he was going to try to build a Truth Machine. I remember his exact words: ‘I really think I can do it. And when I do, it’ll change absolutely everything.’”
David paused a few seconds for effect. “He did, and it did.” The audience broke into spontaneous applause and cheers.
“Today Pete Armstrong is working on computerized models for genetic experiments that we all hope will help scientists stop the aging process. It’s possible that every person in this room will gain the ultimate benefit from his work, just as we have seen our lives enriched by the Armstrong Cerebral Image Processor. It’s an honor to present this award to my dear friend, Pete Armstrong.”
The crowd exploded. Dr. Maya Gale was shocked when the intriguing stranger seated next to her, with whom she had shamelessly flirted, rose from his seat and walked up to the podium to receive his award.
Afterward, they found a secluded table away from the buffet. Neither was terribly interested in the food—heightened PEA levels will have that effect on humans.
“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you,” Maya confessed. “Your name used to come up quite often back at Glaxo, especially among my team members.”
Pete’s wristband ACIP was running; he knew she was being truthful. Maybe she’s as physically attracted to me as I am to her.
“Speculating about the source of my memory, I assume. Did you come up with any interesting theories?”
“Actually one of my colleagues did. She thinks your perirhinal cortex may be especially well suited for forming new ion channels. The latest theory is that Mozart’s P-cortex was like that, and he could flawlessly remember every sound he’d ever heard.”
“Interesting. For a while, I’ve thought it had more to do with my brain’s ability to remodel the dendritic structures. They say you can build your synaptogenesis the same way runners build lung capacity, and I’ve been consciously exercising my brain since I was six or seven.”
“That may be why you still have your memory, but it probably isn’t why you had it to begin with. Otherwise you’d be hearing colors and seeing voices.”
“Yes, of course that’s right,” Pete conceded. “One of my favorite authors wrote, ‘Consistent, deliberate mental exercise is the only known way to maintain a photographic memory without inducing pathological synaesthesia.’” It was a quote from The Elusive Engram, Maya’s first book.
She smiled, impressed and flattered. This one’s a charmer. I’d better be careful with him. “Actually a Russian neurologist named Luria studied a man who never forgot anything.”
“I’ve read about him. Apparently he could remember anything he’d ever sensed by sight, sound, taste, smell, or touch. My mind only works that way with sight and sound.”
“This subject was a remarkable case. He could recount entire grids of 10,000 numbers he’d seen 20 years earlier. I guess you could, too. But unlike you, he never developed any exercises for his mind—and never really did anything constructive with his talent. A terrible waste.”
“And his synaesthesia?”
“Quite severe. He would say things to Luria like, ‘Do you have a cold today? Your voice is so crinkly and yellow.’ But he never lost his memory until the day he died.” She looked at him closely. “Tell me, what made you so ambitious at such an early age?”
“I don’t really know. My younger brother was murdered when I was five. I used to think it had something to do with that.” Pete could hardly believe he was sharing such a thought with a total stranger.
“I’m not a psychiatrist, but that seems possible.”
“I’m not so sure anymore. I think I might’ve been just as ambitious before the murder. Recently I’ve been thinking about my childhood a lot, and I keep coming back to a recurrent dream.”
“How recurrent?”
“Almost every night for over a year, right up until the day Leonard was killed.”
“What was it about?”
“I used to dream I could fly. But that wasn’t all, Maya. I could give anyone else the ability to fly along with me. We’d soar above the neighborhood and everybody on the ground would just stare at us in awe.”
“Hmm. I wonder what Freud would’ve said about that.”
“I think he’d have surmised I was a damned ambitious kid.”
“Or at least very optimistic. Do you think your brother’s murder made you more determined?”
“I don’t know, but I hope you’ll figure it out someday. In fact, I’ve just made an important decision.”
“Oh?”
He was completely straight-faced. “I’ve decided to change my last will and testament tonight. If anything ever happens to me, I want you to have my brain to dissect.”
“Thank you, Pete.” She took his hand. “That means a lot to me.”
Then they both laughed. And at that moment, Maya Gale realized how miserable she’d be if anything really happened to Pete Armstrong.
CHAPTER 42
THE MIRACLE
Stamford, Connecticut
August 5, 2046—Aries One, the first permanent colony on Mars, is established, and 15,732 settlers from almost every nation move their belongings into the domed city. Former United States President Caroline Whitcomb attends the opening ceremony along with several thousand friends and well-wishers. American Airlines issues a schedule of 26 round-trip flights per year between Paris and Aries One.—Motorola and the ATI Medical Division announce a joint venture to develop therapies to extend human life beyond its natural 130-year span by repairing DNA with nanomachines. They predict usable results within five to
eight years.
The ACIP has helped us learn things previously misunderstood about love. Perhaps the most interesting misconception was that true love somehow causes people to place the wants of their beloved ahead of their own needs. Not only is such behavior extremely rare and always temporary, it is not love; it’s a pathology, a mental disorder, not unlike schizophrenia or IDD. Even those of you who would willingly sacrifice your own life to save the life of another would do so only when your own needs (e.g., honor, religious belief, ego) outweigh your survival instincts.
Love causes a person to elevate his or her beloved above the rest of humanity, and that in itself is a miraculous phenomenon. When two mentally healthy adults are in love, they care deeply about each other’s needs and wishes, but never more, or even as much, as about their own.
Pete had experienced mixed feelings ever since his first date with Maya on the day they’d met at Future-Probe some 13 months earlier. How can I begin a relationship with this incredible woman knowing my life will be over in four years?
Thus it had been a long courtship, almost reminiscent of pre-ACIP customs, when getting to know someone took a very long time.
Maya had everything he looked for in a woman: extraordinary intelligence, sensitivity, beauty, and integrity. But then, Jennifer Finley had also embodied those qualities. What made Maya so different? He determined it was a combination of honesty, communication, and confidence. He knew he could believe and trust her completely. She always told him exactly what was on her mind and wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him. The differences, for the most part, flowed from the ACIP.
Maya challenges me. She shares her feelings unreservedly and insists on the same from me. Whenever he became quiet or brooding, she would deftly force him out of his shell, demanding intellectual honesty, attentiveness, and respect.
When he had taken her to dinner to celebrate their sixth month together, his mind had drifted to a thorny problem he’d been grappling with that day. She had been relating a conversation she’d had with her sister and noticed he wasn’t exactly paying complete attention.
The Truth Machine Page 28