Then again, perhaps we all become different people over time anyway. Sometimes, when I look at my journals from college or other writings I composed many years ago, I think that the person who wrote those things could not possibly have been me. And yet it was, wasn’t it?
Even in the Truth Machine era, some truths are unknowable.
The technician warns Pete, “Now the medicine is injecting. Please try to sit still. If you move, it may have a stronger effect than we want.”
The potion goes into his jugular vein through the neck. It’s painless. In fact, Pete would not be aware of it, except that the technician tells him exactly what’s happening at each step.
“It’ll take about 90 seconds for the medication to reach your brain. You’ll notice very little change, even though the effect’ll be almost instantaneous.”
Pete waits for the treatment to take hold. Less than two minutes later he is unshackled, but his body does not begin to rock; he’s absolutely motionless. This change takes me by surprise as I’m sure it does many of my fellow reporters. None of us ever expected to see Pete Armstrong sit completely still.
The technician warns him, “Don’t get up too quickly, Mr. Armstrong. Most people experience some light-headedness. Occasionally they faint.”
Finally Pete stands and appears to be smiling. “I don’t even feel dizzy.”
Later, at the press conference, I ask him if he feels any different.
“Not really, Tom. Maybe a little calmer. My mind seems less cluttered, I suppose. But I’m definitely still Pete Armstrong, for better or for worse.”
But I have never seen him look this, well, normal. He seems so relaxed, not at all fidgety. I wonder if he really is the same Pete Armstrong, and if he isn’t, how would he know? I’m not even sure I understand exactly what I mean by that.
SIX MONTHS LATER—January 20, 2052—Thomas L. Mosely
A few weeks ago I persuaded Pete to grant me real-time access to his digital archives for one day. With today’s optic and audile technology, real-time means I get to see and hear exactly what he sees and hears, at the same time he does, with no editing. Pete treasures his privacy these days and such access is rarely granted. I guess he felt The Truth Machine might have helped him get amnesty, so he feels beholden.
We agreed I’d get the access today, exactly six months after he received treatment.
Maya and Pete have a solid marriage, but IDD treatment was not an easy adjustment, particularly for Maya. She had been so relieved her husband’s life was spared that she never considered what its effects might be on her. Today Pete is more relaxed, his mind focused on his family rather than on saving the world. This attitude may be a side effect of the treatment, or perhaps he simply recognizes his new limitations.
He is, of course, no longer possessed of the same overpowering intellect, which Maya misses. By most objective measures, Pete is now less intelligent than his wife.
There were times when Maya questioned whether Pete was still the same man she had married. Who wouldn’t wonder? In pre-ACIP days, such feelings in marriages would often fester until the relationship was no longer salvageable. Fortunately the Truth Machine forced them to confront the issue, uncomfortable as it was, head-on.
Pete had insecurities about his diminished mental powers and was surprised at how easily he adapted to being “normal.”
“Look, Maya,” he’d said, “I’m still the same person I always was; just not as smart as I used to be. But in a way, I like it. I never knew I could be this happy.” He’d grinned wryly. “There’s a lot to be said for the quiet life.”
Then they had both laughed as Michael’s ear-splitting demand for attention rang through the house. Maya had risen, but Pete caught her hand and looked into her eyes. “I have time now—and I still love you and the boys more than anything in the world.”
We humans do adapt to reality extremely well, once we recognize it. That may be the Truth Machine’s greatest value of all: clarifying reality. Maya and Pete attended several weeks of professional counseling that, since money was no object, was supervised by a human therapist. They both believe the sessions were beneficial.
Pete later told me, “I came to realize that without the ACIP, my relationship with Maya might never have worked in the first place. We both would’ve fallen into patterns of deceit, as in all my pre-ACIP relationships. After the treatment the Truth Machine put us through a difficult time, but may also have saved our marriage.”
Maya agreed. “The Truth Machine forces people to confront their feelings candidly. The treatment changed Pete and left him with less of the intelligence that had initially attracted me. At first I felt cheated. But soon I realized he was also less intimidating, more patient, and more sensitive. He’d lost some of his brilliance, but gained a certain tenderness. The new Pete was neither better nor worse, just different. I fell in love with him all over again.”
Now they’re contemplating having another child.
Maya continues to work at ATI, she and Pete sharing the position of CEO. Under World Law, the stock remains in his name until he decides to transfer it. New products aren’t being developed as rapidly as they once were, but ATI still owns most of the best software franchises. The licensing fees are a money machine. ATI continues to be the most profitable company in the world, although its stock price has declined over the past several years.
Pete still donates to charities, particularly intelligence and aging research and health education programs. Recently however, he’s begun to place most of his income into trusts for his sons; the bulk of his fortune will go to Leonard, Michael, and to other Armstrongs yet unborn.
A few weeks ago Pete explained his reasoning to me. “I’d always planned to give the money away myself. But after the treatment I decided that when our children reach adulthood, the trusts should fall under their control. It won’t be long before they’re more intelligent and I hope much wiser than I am. I’ll let them figure out the best way to distribute the money, or even if we should donate it at all.”
It’s Saturday morning, about 9:30. Pete kisses his wife goodbye. Maya plans to work until 3:00 p.m., while Pete babysits their sons.
“What do you guys feel like doing today?”
Before Leonard can say anything, Michael shouts, “Disney Texas!”
Leonard grimaces. He would obviously rather read a book or go swimming. They’ve already been to the Galveston theme park a dozen times in the last six months. But he goes along with it.
“Okay with me.”
Leonard is now four years old and Michael is two and a half. The boys adore their dad and vice versa. But small boys can be a handful and little Michael is the epitome of impishness. As you’d expect, they’re both bright for their age. Michael is astonishingly quick and astute, although he doesn’t have his brother’s awareness of the effect he has on others. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.
Leonard is a quiet child. When he does talk, he speaks like an adult, with clear pronunciation and excellent grammar. I’m told he reads constantly and is very sensitive, as his father was at that age. He also inherited his father’s photographic memory, although that’s not such a rare characteristic in small children. In fact only a small percentage of child prodigies ever realize the promised potential of their early years.
Pete dresses Michael, which is always a chore. Michael makes a game of it, taking his clothes off almost as quickly as Pete puts them on him. Pete laughs cheerfully, but Leonard, obviously less patient, decides to start a computer game. It’s just a ploy, but a cunningly clever one.
Michael, thinking Leonard actually intends to play on the computer, commandeers it for himself and begins playing “Escape from the Zoo.” The holographic animals appear in the center of the room. The zookeepers must employ a completely different tactic to capture each one and get it back into its cage before the next animal escapes. One false move and the zookeepers are overwhelmed, ending the game.
Michael is a pro at Zoo. It’s amazing to
see how he runs through each segment of the game without missing a stroke. I’m told he never loses, which would be unusual even for an adult. With Michael thus distracted, Pete finally begins to dress him for their excursion.
With nothing to do but wait, Leonard calls for Marvin, their cat. Marvin runs into the room and jumps into Leonard’s lap. Leonard begins to pet the purring animal.
“Want me to tickle your belly, Marv? How’s that?”
Michael sneers at the cat and goes back to the game. Pete continues trying to dress Michael while he plays.
Pete knows I’m watching; he laughs. “Tom, this is pretty much what my life’s like now.”
It’s obvious he’s loving every minute of it.
If Galveston were closer, they would use their gyrocopter, which is subsonic. Instead, the 300-mile subway trip takes 11 minutes, which is still enough time to test Michael’s patience. The two-year-old demands relentless attention and Pete spends the entire ride reading Darryl the Dinosaur stories to him. They have one of the new portable holographic screens and Michael’s eyes are glued to the images. I can’t tell whether he can actually read the words yet, or if he just remembers everything. Every so often Pete changes or omits a word just to tease him.
“Darryl wants to know why Carly eats eggs and lizards while Billy the Triceratops only likes leaves.”
Michael is not fooled. He always corrects his father, pretending to be upset at his mistakes, which is also part of the game.
He giggles. “Daddy! Billy’s a brontosaurus. Pay attention, Sluggo!”
Pete pretends he’s insulted and Michael laughs. Throughout the entire trip, Leonard hardly ever takes his eyes off Michael. Obviously he finds his little brother fascinating. So do I.
When they arrive, Michael wants to go straight to “The Alamo.” It’s his favorite ride. It’s Leonard’s favorite, too, but even if it weren’t, there’s little doubt who would have gotten his way.
The walk takes four minutes, during which almost everyone they pass seems to recognize Pete. He’s popular these days, especially in Texas. Most people just nod or wave, but a few greet him with, “I’m glad you got amnesty,” or “I thought you deserved a medal, not IDD treatment,” or something similar. Nobody says anything negative.
Pete always thanks them and occasionally adds something like, “I appreciate your saying that.” He seems pleased when people talk to him. He even gives his thumbprint to a teenage boy, although he usually doesn’t do autographs when he’s with his kids.
When they arrive at the Alamo, there’s no waiting. There never is anymore, even at peak times, since they added C30 logarithms to the people-mover software. They go right in and watch a seven-minute VR disc, which both boys know by heart. They recite all the words along with the announcer and act out the movements with Travis and Crockett and all the other heroes in the center of the room, now loading the cannons. A lot of children are doing the same thing, which used to be quite a problem until the Disney organization began installing soundproof microwave barriers around each cart.
Then their cart takes them inside to the main event. Pete finds the lighting a bit dark and they’re too close to the action for his taste. He instructs his wristband to calculate the optimal setting for his digital contact lenses so he can see the show perfectly. I’m grateful for the adjustment too, since I see whatever he sees.
“Now that I’m over 60,” he says, “I should probably think about getting automatic lenses.”
He should indeed, but not because of his age. Neither of us yet realizes adjusting the lenses would actually be counterproductive. He spends 14 of the next 15 minutes watching Leonard and Michael rather than the show. He doesn’t want to miss a single laugh or expression of wonder on their faces.
They have time for 15 more rides over the next four hours. The day goes by quickly and soon it’s time to return to Dallas. Pete wants to be there when Maya gets home at three o’clock.
Apparently Michael has only two speeds: full and stop. He falls fast asleep in his father’s arms as they walk back to the subway.
“What is it about the Alamo that you guys like so much?” Pete asks his four-year-old son. It’s their first opportunity for a real conversation, since Michael, were he still awake, would never tolerate being anything other than the center of attention.
“Michael just likes the characters and the fighting and all the noise. But I like the story.”
“What about the story, Len?”
“Those men were willing to die for a cause. They wanted to help their families and neighbors become free. They wanted it so much. And they all died, but they still won. It’s a great story, Dad.”
Considering his age, I find Leonard’s insight remarkable, but Pete must be used to it.
He simply answers, “It sure is.”
That night, while Pete reads his sons their bedtime stories, he tries to think back to his own childhood. Did the legend of the Alamo affect him the way it now touches his older boy? He’s sure he learned the story when he was young. Yet as hard as he tries, he can’t recall exactly how he felt about it. He wishes he could. It’s the first time today that he misses having his old memory.
(I know this because he tells me a few minutes later. I’ll also speak to Pete, Maya, and Leonard again the next morning before I submit my final version.)
Michael is asleep and Pete has finished reading a bed-time story to Leonard. He doesn’t want to leave him just yet. “How about one more story?”
“No thanks, Dad. I want to go to sleep now—and dream.”
“What do you dream about, Len?”
“I always dream I can fly. It’s really fun to dream about flying.”
“I know it is. I remember.”
Leonard looks surprised. “You used to dream about flying?”
“I sure did. A long time ago. When I was about your age.”
Leonard stares at his father’s face for a moment, then just smiles and says, “Good night, Dad. I love you.”
“I love you, too, son.”
These days, Pete still dreams about software, but now when he awakens he can no longer reconstruct the code. He remembers how he used to dream about flying and wonders if he’ll someday dream such dreams again. He imagines his son’s pleasure in the dream is much akin to his own delight 57 years ago, when an entire life of limitless promise lay ahead, spread out before him like a breathtaking, panoramic horizon at the onset of a long journey. A tear rolls down his cheek as he watches his son’s eyes close. Leonard begins to rock gently from side to side, and within seconds, he’s asleep.
Finally in his own bed, perfectly still, comfortably nestled next to the woman he loves, the woman he knows he will always love, Pete tries to recall the world he inhabited when he was his son’s age. He remembers enough to discern a place where you never knew who were your friends and enemies; a realm of changing allegiances rendered even more treacherous by the fact that nearly everyone told you the truth almost all the time. But not always.
In this world you never knew which of your comrades, in professedly kindred formation beside you, secretly plotted your deathly descent.
As he drifts to sleep, Pete Armstrong harbors no bitterness against the world he tried to save, a world he perhaps did save, a world that still saw fit to remove a part of him. He feels lucky to have survived such a world at all. He cannot imagine how his life could have turned out any better.
Across the hall, Leonard Gale Armstrong sleeps, a pure slumber of innocent childhood, once again dreaming he can fly. And in Leonard’s dream world, his powers are such that when he flies, anyone else he invites along is able to fly as well, so long as he wishes it so. The others gratefully join him as they soar over their gleaming Dallas neighborhood, waving and greeting the amazed onlookers below.
IS THERE A TRUTH MACHINE IN YOUR FUTURE?
Nobody is likely to agree with every political idea, much less every “prediction” explored in this novel. Nor do I endorse them all myself. But my ho
pe is that the story provokes thought. We cannot prepare for the future without contemplation, and like it or not, the future is coming.
The Truth Machine was my first work of fiction, written in 1995 as an amateur’s pastime. It was self-published in June 1996, and in July was discovered by the editors of Ballantine/Del Rey. I’m both gratified and amazed by the public’s reaction to it.
I have considered myself a futurist since my early teens. I think most of us are. We wonder what tomorrow’s innovations will be. Will they improve our lives, or hasten our end?
If we are to survive a world of nanotechnology, backpack nuclear weapons, and designer viruses, I suspect that the human race might really need a truth machine. So long as the device remains foolproof (admittedly, a big “if”), it may well offer the best hope of preventing our self-destruction. Others might reasonably contend that if misused, the truth machine itself would become our enemy. But then what does that say about the value of truth versus deceit?
Either way, a truth machine, although scientifically possible, might take a long time to arrive. Politics and economics will likely influence the timetable of its development even more than will technological progress.
Business managers could decide the demand doesn’t justify the research expense required to develop a truth machine. Politicians and others might feel threatened by it, although with everyone in the same boat, most pre–truth machine transgressions would have to be ignored. Some may disagree with the premise that a truth machine will create benefits outweighing its drawbacks. We will even hear the argument that it is our God-given right to lie. Either side of the debate would be easy to advocate.
The Truth Machine Page 36