Visions of the Future

by Brin, David

  I walked over to the machine to see if I could help. Trudeau was wearing some perfume that smelled of cloves. She smelled good enough to make me sorry that I had not gotten to know her better.

  “You have to hit clear before it will warm up.”

  “Where does it say that?” She moved inches from my body and peered down at my fingers.

  “Nowhere. But, that’s how it works.”

  “The red button?”

  I nodded. “Hit it twice.”

  Trudeau was attractive in a rare, earthy, unenhanced way. Of course, rejuvenations had become quite popular and it was getting increasingly difficult to pick out who had been enhanced and who hadn’t.

  Trudeau was wearing a pink patch on the back of her right hand, a small, round adhesive bandage about a half-inch wide. All teachers were required to wear patches, but they were usually blue or red. Pink patches were reserved for high-distress workers like the riot police or air traffic controllers.

  “I am kind of surprised to see you wearing a pink patch,” I said. “Isn’t that a bit strong? I mean, what do you weigh, 100 pounds?”

  “Almost,” she said. “Once the Ministry decreed twelve hours of instruction every day, I had no choice. At least if I want to maintain consciousness while teaching.”

  “The Ministry is run by morons,” I said. “Twelve hours of teaching is insane. And no lunch break? They should all be shot.”

  “Speaking of patches, you wear blue?” she said, changing the subject.

  “No,” I said with a chuckle. “This is just something I painted on.”

  I showed her the back of my right hand, where I had drawn a blue patch with permanent, felt-tip markers.

  “I would say that is pretty ingenious if it wasn’t against the law,” she said with a smile. “I must say, your blue patch looks real. Do you work as an artist on the side?”

  “In my dreams,” I said.

  As the machine began to rumble, she turned to face me and struck a pose against the copy machine.

  “Blue patches are pretty low-voltage. If you just wore the blue, no one from the Ministry would hassle you,” she said.

  “I need to keep my edge. You have to be at least a little miserable and tired to teach English, don’t you think, Trudeau?”

  Her photos of lost, sad children made me think she might understand.

  “Actually,” she said, “misery is not in the standards. The standards say that a teacher can be a cruel, cold-blooded thug, but as long as your kids score well on the test, you are good to go.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “at least, that’s how the Ministry sees it.”

  As I moved closer to look at the picture she was copying, I brushed against her body, giving me a brief rush. Up close, the skin of her face looked like porcelain, natural, flawless.

  The picture she was trying to copy was a black and white photo of Rodin’s famous sculpture, Le Penseur (The Thinker).

  “Aha, The Thinker,” I said. “The question is, ‘will it work?’”

  “I thought that, if my students could visualize what thinking looks like, they might try it out for themselves,” said Trudeau.

  “If it was only that easy,” I said and glanced at the floor. Trudeau was wearing sandals and her feet were long and narrow, with a small big toe and very long second and third toes that protruded well beyond her big toe.

  Obviously, no enhancements had been done to her feet. At least, not yet.

  “And what do those feet say about Trudeau the woman?”

  “That I’m going to be late for class if I sit around here and discuss my big feet with you.”

  “Hey, cute toes, Trudeau. Really. I’m not kidding.”

  She laughed, gathered up her copies and flipped her red hair back behind her ears.

  Before I could relish the sight of her walking away, I heard a booming voice behind me. “Hey dork, you gonna make copies or you gonna flirt all day? Some of us got to work, you know?”

  It was Gail Ross, a large, angry woman who also happened to be chair of the English Department. She was wearing three round, blue patches on the back of her right hand, but they were obviously insufficient.

  “I’d rather flirt, Ross. You interested?”

  Behind Ross’s hulking frame, I caught a glimpse of Trudeau looking back and doing the little girl giggle.

  “Depends on what comes with it. Show me the money and I flirt.”

  “I’m good for about fifty cents at the moment.”

  “Then, you are wasting both our time.”

  I made my copies while Ross blabbed away about her weekend, how tired she was already, and how pathetic of a human being I was for hogging the copier. I thought about the beautiful Helen Trudeau and wondered about The Thinker, the pink-patch, the blue t-shirt dress, and big feet.

  Instead of a nice girl like Trudeau, I seemed to hook up with neurotic party girls who had as many problems as they had enhancements.

  “You heard what the Ministry done?” said Ross in the middle of one of her rants.

  “What now?” I said.

  “They hired on-site inspectors at every school.”

  “You are kidding,” I said.

  “They looking to reprogram the slackers,” she said, turning her head to look at me. “You were just flirting with the Ministry’s new inspector at our school.”

  BLOOD MUSIC

  greg bear

  Greg is an American science fiction and mainstream author who has been called the “best working writer of hard science fiction” by The Ultimate Encyclopedia of Science Fiction. He has been awarded two Hugos and five Nebulas for his fiction, one of only two authors to win a Nebula in every category. He has served on political and scientific action committees and has advised Microsoft, the U.S. Army, the CIA, Sandia National Laboratories, Homeland Security, Google, and other groups and agencies.

  The novelette below has also been credited as being the first account of nanotechnology in science fiction and won the Hugo and Nebula awards. It was later expanded into the book Blood Music available at http://amzn.to/1GX0j34.

  There is a principle in nature I don’t think anyone has pointed out before. Each hour, a myriad of trillions of little live things—bacteria, microbes, “animalcules”—are born and die, not counting for much except in the bulk of their existence and the accumulation of their tiny effects. They do not perceive deeply. They do not suffer much. A hundred billion, dying, would not begin to have the same importance as a single human death.

  Within the ranks of magnitude of all creatures, small as microbes or great as humans, there is an equality of “elan,” just as the branches of a tall tree, gathered together, equal the bulk of the limbs below, and all the limbs equal the bulk of the trunk.

  That, at least, is the principle. I believe Vergil Ulam was the first to violate it.

  It had been two years since I’d last seen Vergil. My memory of him hardly matched the tan, smiling, well-dressed gentleman standing before me. We had made a lunch appointment over the phone the day before, and now faced each other in the wide double doors of the employees’ cafeteria at the Mount Freedom Medical Center.

  “Vergil?” I asked. “My God, Vergil!”

  “Good to see you, Edward.” He shook my hand firmly. He had lost ten or twelve kilos and what remained seemed tighter, better proportioned. At university, Vergil had been the pudgy, shock-haired, snaggle-toothed whiz kid who hot-wired doorknobs, gave us punch that turned our piss blue, and never got a date except with Eileen Termagent, who shared many of his physical characteristics.

  “You look fantastic,” I said. “Spend a summer in Cabo San Lucas?”

  We stood in line at the counter and chose our food. “The tan,” he said, picking out a carton of chocolate milk, “is from spending three months under a sunlamp. My teeth were straightened just after I last saw you. I’ll explain the rest, but we need a place to talk where no one will listen close.”

  I steered him to the smoker’s corner, where three diehar
d puffers were scattered among six tables.

  “Listen, I mean it,” I said as we unloaded our trays. “You’ve changed. You’re looking good.”

  “I’ve changed more than you know.” His tone was motion-picture ominous, and he delivered the line with a theatrical lift of his brows. “How’s Gail?”

  Gail was doing well, I told him, teaching nursery school. We’d married the year before. His gaze shifted down to his food—pineapple slice and cottage cheese, piece of banana cream pie—and he said, his voice almost cracking, “Notice something else?”

  I squinted in concentration. “Uh.”

  “Look closer.”

  “I’m not sure. Well, yes, you’re not wearing glasses. Contacts?”

  “No, I don’t need them anymore.”

  “And you’re a snappy dresser. Who’s dressing you now? I hope she’s as sexy as she is tasteful.”

  “Candice isn’t—wasn’t responsible for the improvement in my clothes,” he said. “I just got a better job, more money to throw around. My taste in clothes is better than my taste in food, as it happens.” He grinned the Vergil self-deprecating grin, but ended it with a peculiar leer. “At any rate, she’s left me, I’ve been fired from my job, I’m living on savings.”

  “Hold it,” I said. “That’s a bit crowded. Why not do a linear breakdown? You got a job. Where?”

  “Genetron Corp.,” he said. “Sixteen months ago.”

  “I haven’t heard of them.”

  “You will. They’re putting out common stock in the next month. It’ll shoot off the board. They’ve broken through with MABs. Medical—”

  “I know what MABs are,” I interrupted. “At least in theory. Medically Applicable Biochips.”

  “They have some that work.”

  “What?” It was my turn to lift my brows.

  “Microscopic logic circuits. You inject them into the human body, they set up shop where they’re told and troubleshoot. With Dr. Michael Bernard’s approval.”

  That was quite impressive. Bernard’s reputation was spotless. Not only was he associated with the genetic engineering biggies, but he had made the news at least once a year in his practice as a neurosurgeon before retiring. Covers on Time, Mega, Rolling Stone.

  “That’s supposed to be secret—stock, breakthrough, Bernard, everything.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “But you do whatever the hell you want. I’m through with the bastards.”

  I whistled. “Make me rich, huh?”

  “If that’s what you want. Or you can spend some time with me before rushing off to your broker.”

  “Of course.” He hadn’t touched the cottage cheese or pie. He had, however, eaten the pineapple slice and drunk the chocolate milk. “So tell me more.”

  “Well, in med school I was training for lab work. Biochemical research. I’ve always had a bent for computers, too. So I put myself through my last two years—”

  “By selling software packages to Westinghouse,” I said.

  “It’s good my friends remember. That’s how I got involved with Genetron, just when they were starting out. They had big money backers, all the lab facilities I thought anyone would ever need. They hired me, and I advanced rapidly.

  “Four months and I was doing my own work. I made some breakthroughs”—he tossed his hand nonchalantly—“then I went off on tangents they thought were premature. I persisted and they took away my lab, handed it over to a certifiable flatworm. I managed to save part of the experiment before they fired me. But I haven’t exactly been cautious… or judicious. So now it’s going on outside the lab.”

  I’d always regarded Vergil as ambitious, a trifle cracked, and not terribly sensitive. His relations with authority figures had never been smooth. Science, for him, was like the woman you couldn’t possibly have, who suddenly opens her arms to you, long before you’re ready for mature love—leaving you afraid you’ll forever blow the chance, lose the prize. Apparently, he did. “Outside the lab? I don’t get you.”

  “Edward, I want you to examine me. Give me a thorough physical. Maybe a cancer diagnostic. Then I’ll explain more.”

  “You want a five-thousand-dollar exam?”

  “Whatever you can do. Ultrasound, NMR, thermogram, everything.”

  “I don’t know if I can get access to all that equipment. NMR full-scan has only been here a month or two. Hell, you couldn’t pick a more expensive way—”

  “Then ultrasound. That’s all you’ll need.”

  “Vergil, I’m an obstetrician, not a glamour-boy lab-tech. OB-GYN, butt of all jokes. If you’re turning into a woman, maybe I can help you.”

  He leaned forward, almost putting his elbow into the pie, but swinging wide at the last instant by scant millimeters. The old Vergil would have hit it square. “Examine me closely and you’ll…” He narrowed his eyes. “Just examine me.”

  “So I make an appointment for ultrasound. Who’s going to pay?”

  “I’m on Blue Shield.” He smiled and held up a medical credit card. “I messed with the personnel files at Genetron. Anything up to a hundred thousand dollars medical, they’ll never check, never suspect.”

  He wanted secrecy, so I made arrangements. I filled out his forms myself. As long as everything was billed properly, most of the examination could take place without official notice. I didn’t charge for my services. After all, Vergil had turned my piss blue. We were friends.

  He came in late one night. I wasn’t normally on duty then, but I stayed late, waiting for him on the third floor of what the nurses called the Frankenstein wing. I sat on an orange plastic chair. He arrived, looking olive-colored under the fluorescent lights.

  He stripped, and I arranged him on the table. I noticed, first off, that his ankles looked swollen. But they weren’t puffy. I felt them several times. They seemed healthy but looked odd. “Hmm,” I said.

  I ran the paddles over him, picking up areas difficult for the big unit to hit, and programmed the data into the imaging system. Then I swung the table around and inserted it into the enameled orifice of the ultrasound diagnostic unit, the hum-hole, so-called by the nurses.

  I integrated the data from the hum-hole with that from the paddle sweeps and rolled Vergil out, then set up a video frame. The image took a second to integrate, then flowed into a pattern showing Vergil’s skeleton. My jaw fell.

  Three seconds of that and it switched to his thoracic organs, then his musculature, and, finally, vascular system and skin.

  “How long since the accident?” I asked, trying to take the quiver out of my voice.

  “I haven’t been in an accident,” he said. “It was deliberate.”

  “Jesus, they beat you to keep secrets?”

  “You don’t understand me, Edward. Look at the images again. I’m not damaged.”

  “Look, there’s thickening here”—I indicated the ankles—“and your ribs—that crazy zigzag pattern of interlocks. Broken sometime, obviously. And—”

  “Look at my spine,” he said. I rotated the image in the video frame.

  Buckminster Fuller, I thought. It was fantastic. A cage of triangular projection, all interlocking in ways I couldn’t begin to follow, much less understand. I reached around and tried to feel his spine with my fingers. He lifted his arms and looked off at the ceiling.

  “I can’t find it,” I said. “It’s all smooth back there.” I let go of him and looked at his chest, then prodded his ribs. They were sheathed in something tough and flexible. The harder I pressed, the tougher it became. Then I noticed another change.

  “Hey,” I said. “You don’t have any nipples.” There were tiny pigment patches, but no nipple formations at all.

  “See?” Vergil asked, shrugging on the white robe, “I’m being rebuilt from the inside out.”

  In my reconstruction of those hours, I fancy myself saying, “So tell me about it.” Perhaps mercifully, I don’t remember what I actually said.

  He explained with his characteristic circumlocutions. Listenin
g was like trying to get to the meat of a newspaper article through a forest of sidebars and graphic embellishments.

  I simplify and condense.

  Genetron had assigned him to manufacturing prototype biochips, tiny circuits made out of protein molecules. Some were hooked up to silicon chips little more than a micrometer in size, then went through rat arteries to chemically keyed locations, to make connections with the rat tissue and attempt to monitor and even control lab-induced pathologies.

  “That was something,” he said.

  “We recovered the most complex microchip by sacrificing the rat, then debriefed it—hooked the silicon portion up to an imaging system. The computer gave us bar graphs, then a diagram of the chemical characteristics of about eleven centimeters of blood vessels… then put it all together to make a picture. We zoomed down eleven centimeters of rat artery. You never saw so many scientists jumping up and down, hugging each other, drinking buckets of bug juice.” Bug juice was lab ethanol mixed with Dr. Pepper.

  Eventually, the silicon elements were eliminated completely in favor of nucleoproteins. He seemed reluctant to explain in detail, but I gathered they found ways to make huge molecules—as large as DNA, and even more complex—into electrochemical computers, using ribosome-like structures as “encoders” and “readers” and RNA as “tape.” Vergil was able to mimic reproductive separation and reassembly in his nucleoproteins, incorporating program changes at key points by switching nucleotide pairs. “Genetron wanted me to switch over to supergene engineering, since that was the coming thing everywhere else. Make all kind of critters, some out of our imagination. But I had different ideas.” He twiddled his finger around his ear and made theremin sounds. “Mad scientist time, right?” He laughed, then sobered. “I injected my best nucleoproteins into bacteria to make duplication and compounding easier. Then I started to leave them inside, so the circuits could interact with the cells. They were heuristically programmed; they taught themselves. The cells fed chemically coded information to the computers, the computers processed it and made decisions, the cells became smart. I mean, smart as planaria, for starters. Imagine an E. coli as smart as a planarian worm!”