Limos Lives

by R E Kearney

  Fett absentmindedly plays with two long hairs sprouting from a mole on her chin. “Vanished in the middle of the night. Expect ICC had Sheriff Rechtsbrecher come get him. I heard ICC didn’t want him here, since he was an Eject. You know, he been banished from Denver. ICC afraid he’d cause trouble. That’s why ICC gives us food, PMDs and power and lets us squat here, you know. Figure if they take care of us, we won’t cause them no trouble. Cause trouble and they call Sheriff to come and make you disappear. Sure do wish he was still around. Oh, he could make me feel so…”

  She picks a pill from her candy dish and pops it into her mouth. She pours the last of her beer down her throat. Rube hears her swallow. Looking worriedly to her left and then her right, Fett leans toward Rube and lowers her voice. “I don’t cause them no trouble. I don’t want to be sent into the deserted lands or be taken to Rechtsbrecher’s resort. That’s what people call Sheriff’s camp…Rechtsbrecher’s resort. But, honey, I tell you it ain’t no fun place to be. So, I keep my mouth shut cause I like it right here.”

  “Well right here doesn’t seem too bad to me, either.” Rube tastes the potato paste. He decides that it is no better or worse than the mock meat. “Would you let me use that Eject’s…Rele’s tent? My truck’s hot, cramped and not where I want to spend…”

  “You bet!” Smiling broadly, Fett rises from the table. “You be my neighbor. You and me can eat together, drink some beers and talk and talk and talk. Maybe even party a little, like me and Rele done. We’ll have you all set up in no time. No time at all.”

  “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home when you roam. I don’t have anywhere else to go and definitely no place to be.” Rube extends his hand to Fett. “So, howdy neighbor.”

  SEINE SANE

  “I fight cyberwars. I fight humans. Remove the technology and terminology and cyberwarfare is no different from any other type of warfare. Simply one human attempting to annihilate another human, except by detonating digits on silicon. I believe the only way to end a cyberwar is to hunt down and eliminate that other human. That is my job. I pursue and eradicate other human cyberwarriors before they terminate me.” His soliloquy completed, Robert Goodfellow raises his half-empty syntho vino bottle and drunkenly salutes the tour boat cruising past.

  Lounging on the sundeck atop a small houseboat - a well-aged peniche - anchored in Paris’ Seine River, he wishes his concerns and the voices squawking inside his skull would float away as gently and as quietly as those boats. Instead, a tumultuous clamor remains stubbornly moored in his mind. He is drinking synthetic wine in excess to disorder his thinking and drown those sounds. He is striving to get sane on the Seine.

  Three hours ago, Robert staggered into Paris seeking to escape into his work - his personal method of rest and recuperation. He raced here to answer a cybersecurity crisis call. The vertical gardens of Paris are dying and the twenty million people of the Ile-de-France are facing starvation.

  In actuality, he is also hiding. Robert is on the run from his baker’s dozen of transhuman daughters and sons. He grabbed this Parisian cybersecurity gig so he could put nine thousand miles and six hours of day between himself and his thirteen transhuman babies living in the seasteaded, capital city of Venus on Kiritimati Island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. But, the nine thousand miles of separation between him and his toddlers growing in the Corporate-state of the Society Preserving Endangered Agriculture, known to the world as SPEA, are not nearly enough.

  With Artificial General Intelligence nano-biochip, neuroprosthetic devices implanted in the neocortex of their brains, his thirteen offspring are crawling and crying and constantly chattering into the AGI nano-biochip, neuroprosthetic in his brain. Robert and the children are constantly connected through a deep learning convolutional neural network – mind to mind – a brain net transmitting every thought, entire emotions, feelings, sensations and memories. Only while they sleep is he free him from his thirteen’s suffocating demands.

  “Where are you, mon ami? Avoir la tête dans les nuages?” Asks his French host and friend, Michael Renard, as he hands Robert another bottle of grape-free, synthetic syntho vino to replace the one he just drained.

  Robert exchanges his emptied bottle for Michael’s full bottle. “No, my head is not in the clouds, at least not in the clouds you’re describing. I only wish it was. No, my mind is in…the Cloud…the computer cloud or zipping along the global quantum Internet of the Global Brain.”

  A quizzical look captures Michael’s face. "I believe Pliny the Elder said that ‘in vino veritas…in wine there is truth’. Now, heat and drought has wiped out France’s vineyards for Pliny’s wine of truth. But still, as you suck down my expensive, syntho vino like it is water, tell me truthfully, what you’re talking about. Perhaps it is the syntho vino in my mind, but you’re making no sense to me."

  With his Pliny the Elder quote, Michael scores the first point in a continuous intellectual competition between Robert and him. In their contest, he who can insert the highest number of quotations into their conversation wins. Then the winner is unofficially, but proudly, proclaimed Pithiest Epigrammatist. Both Michael and Robert agree that their competition is strictly a nerdy, geek game. Unfortunately, to the aggravation of their associates and acquaintances, neither of them can stop playing.

  Robert is preparing to award Michael his point when a delivery aerodrone slips with a whisper into a hover pattern above Michael. He extends his hands and the drone lowers their dinner - a package of two sandwiches. Michael retrieves a Saucisson and hands it to Robert. He unwraps a Poulet-crudites for himself, opens it and sniffs at its manufactured chicken meat and scowls for a moment before nibbling on the edge of the warm bread.

  Robert bites off a piece of his 3D printed, synthesized-sausage sandwich, gnaws on it and then flushes it down with more syntho vino. “Well, it’s not a Toronto peameal bacon sandwich, but it is good enough”

  “C’est vraiment des conneries!” Michael curses. “You Canadians and your ridiculous love for your Canadian bacon and Poutine. Your tongue is tasting a memory, Robert. You know Canadian bacon doesn’t exist anymore. So, either eat your sandwich or give it to me, but don’t gripe. With the growing food shortage, I was lucky to get it.”

  Robert grins, enjoying his friend’s reaction to his heckling. “Well then, it’s definitely not even close to as delicious as Maelo’s chicken was in Puerto Rico.”

  “Well of course not, Maelo’s was genuine chicken meat grown in Puerto Rico. But, like your Canadian bacon, it only exists in your dreams now, too.” Michael counters. “So, shut up and enjoy your Saucisson. Savor the 3D printed mix of ground mealworms, grasshoppers and, for a little flavor, lab-grown meat infused with Heme on fresh-baked, cricket flour bread. Your company grows most of the ingredients, so you know that every food Ile-de-France citizens eat is plant or bug based. With this heat and our two-decade drought, your vertical gardens and entomophagy are the only way we can feed ourselves. We survive on the vegetable and the bug, just like most of the other nine billion Earthlings.”

  Still grinning, Robert continues his taunting. “Ah now, don’t act as if you French don’t enjoy it. After all, you’ve been eating slimy snails for centuries. You just gave them the fancy name of escargot.”

  Seeing his grin, Michael realizes Robert is teasing. “Instead of insulting my nation’s food and causing me difficulties, be useful. Tell me why you say your mind is in the Cloud.”

  With a hand muffled burp, Robert begins his technical explanation. “I am a genuine transhuman, Michael. True, like many people, I’ve been undergoing cyborgization for years beginning with the personal communication device implanted in my arm, then add my computerized contact lens, my embedded inner-ear language translator, and the medical, nano biomarkers floating in my blood. But, nineteen months ago to repair damage from a lethal, head wound, a computer biochip, neuroprosthetic device or neural implant, if you wish, was transplanted into my brain by SPEA doctors in Venu
s. They saved my life.”

  Michael swigs some syntho vino then points his bottle toward Robert. “Well, many of us are bionic enhanced humans…cyborgized and even somewhat transhuman these days. Aren’t we? But, of course, not to your extent. You’re lucky. You’re years ahead…a leader. You’re cutting edge...the new human…Homo Novus. You, my friend, are the envy of millions, perhaps billions of people.”

  Robert nods his head in agreement. “True, many theorists are predicting that very soon the common human will be obsolete…useless. I find that the majority of them already are. So, they fight the future. While those who do comprehend their situation, live with growing anxiety and suicidal hopelessness.”

  Michael leans back, stretches his neck to appear intellectual and begins lecturing philosophically. “Just as the futurists predicted, becoming a transhuman through the acceleration of the evolution of intelligent life beyond its currently human form and human limitations by means of science and technology is the desire of everybody these days. It’s the conduit to economic and social survival. Being a transhuman is the difference between barely surviving as a mere unaided, human Sist and securing a chance at success by integrating with computers.”

  “It’s not all joy my friend.” Robert rubs his forehead. “Yes, implanting the neuroprosthetic device saved me from being a brain-dead, human vegetable. But that same neuroprosthetic robbed me of my cognitive liberty. I no longer have sovereignty over my own mind.”

  “Are you saying, you’ve lost your mind?” Michael stares questioningly at Robert.

  Robert nods yes. “Well, in a way. Now, I’m little more than a biological neural interface of SPEA’s, Artificial General Intelligence Quantum computer. That’s A…G…I for convenience, or, as I call it, Aggey. Anyway, my neocortex neural implant is connected through AGI directly to the Global Brain. So, you can say that now I am basically just a meat encased super computer…or AGI’s human peripheral device.”

  “Robert, tu m’embrouilles.” Michael closes his eyes and rattles his head. “Really, Robert, you’re totally confusing me.”

  Robert taps his temple. “I’m constantly on-line. And let me tell you it’s not fun being tied directly into the Global Brain.”

  Michael again looks confused. “What do you mean by Global Brain?”

  Michael’s question catches Robert with a mouth full of syntho wine. He takes his time to think before he responds. “I think an accurate description is that the Global Brain is the composite, self-organizing information system comprising humans, computers, data stores, the Internets, mobile phones, and all other communication systems. In other words, it is everything.”

  Smiling, Michael exclaims, “C’est Chouette! That’s cool, Robert. You can know everything.”

  “No, it is not cool!” Robert vigorously shakes his head. “I’ve lost control of my internal speech…you know…the language I use to navigate within my own thoughts. I’ve also lost control of my own memory. Instead, AGI has it, along with the technology to read my thoughts. Everything I see, hear, smell, touch, taste or think is immediately stored in AGI’s memory. I can no longer forget anything, even when I want to. Then, AGI studies everything I see and do, acquiring it as a new skill. AGI never sleeps and never stops learning. Also talks to me…all the time…actually it’s a little like nagging at me, since I made the mistake of giving it a voice similar to my mother’s.”

  Chuckling, Michael leans close to Robert, inspecting his forehead. He hears the words Robert is saying, but he does not completely understand, so he makes light of it. “Well, now that is interesting. Not many people are biological neural interfaces to an Artificial General Intelligence. You’re significantly different there. But, as the great Frenchman Victor Hugo once said, ‘le bonheur est parfois cache dans l'inconnu’ or as you Canadians may say, happiness is sometimes hidden in the unknown.”

  Appreciating Michael’s quote, as much as if he had made it himself, which he enviously wishes he had, Robert taps the end of his syntho vino bottle against Michael’s bottle. “Well, I’m definitely venturing into the unknown and at the moment…I’ll tell you…I’m not totally happy. Technically Michael, I also am now the transhuman father of thirteen transhuman children. I say technically, because for twelve of the thirteen I am a father by design, not by desire.”

  “Pardon?” Michael activates his wave energy generator riding the Seine’s currents beneath his houseboat. Its power flows to the air coolers built into the deck of his peniche designed to moderate the Paris heat. “What do you mean by father by design?”

  Robert leans toward Michael as he begins his explanation. “Those twelve AGI-enhanced-intelligence, genetically modified, transhuman immortals grew from embryos containing a mixture of my genomes…artificial progeny. Genetic engineer Shengwu Kexuejia designed and developed the twelve embryos through algorithmic manipulations and CRISPR-Cas9 editing of my DNA. She also edited their ASPM gene to radically increase their intelligence. Shengwu, claims they are the next stage of human evolution…her CRISPR children...her new species.”

  Michael frowns with disbelief. “New species? Do you mean a new type of human?”

  Wagging his right index finger, Robert wobbles back. “Well yes, they may indeed be, since she created them through germline genetic changes. You know, they can pass her…or their germline enhancements onto all of their descendants, because they are permanent components of their genomes. Thus, according to Shengwu…voila…her new species.”

  “Shengwu? Who is Shengwu?” Michael attempts to understand Robert’s ramblings.

  Robert ignores Michael. “Now personally, I think Shengwu is exaggerating. So, I just call them my chip children.”

  Wearied of Robert, Michael snaps his finger summoning his robotic canine companion, Rusty. Additive manufactured to resemble a miniature French poodle puppy, Rusty prances to Michael’s side and rests his front paws on his lap. Michael casually strokes the touch sensors on Rusty’s head and jaw. Rusty responds according to his deep learning technology with an affectionate whine.

  Late afternoon slowly slips away with the sun. Young and old Parisians begin promenading and playing along the Seine’s right bank inhaling the delights of dusk. Chatting friends savor the slow slide from overheated day into serene night. In the distance, a street musician’s violin strings sing. As Robert recalls the Mayor of Paris saying many years ago, “Long live life, long life Paris, and long live fresh air.”

  CHIP CHILDREN

  As the day disappears into darkness, Paris transforms into a sparkling galaxy of radiances. Avenues transform into milky ways - bands of light coursing through the night. Robert sits captivated as the Eiffel tower bursts into what appears to be a golden, effervescent shower of sparkles for several minutes, just as it has every hour on the hour for more than one hundred and forty years.

  A patrolling police aerodrone quietly glides above the Seine. Hovering, the aerodrone loiters near Robert and Michael while it scans them with its infrared, facial-recognition, electronic eyes and retrieves their identities from the international biometric database. “Bonsoir Monsieur Goodfellow. Bonsoir Monsieur Renard”, the aerodrone hails the two men.

  Robert silently waves at the aerodrone by extending and wiggling his syntho vino bottle. The aerodrone waggles in response. Robert is surprised. Security with a human sense of humor. Must be the result of deep learning by a security AGI, he reasons.

  “Do you think I earned any bon comportement points by being friendly or did I lose a few for syntho vino waving?” Robert wonders aloud, then takes another drink.

  Michael shrugs his shoulders. “Difficult to know day to day. Bon comportement scores can fluctuate daily based on how well a person abides by what the government deems to be good social behaviors that particular day. But, I know my bon comportement score is high enough that I’ve never been denied a loan, a trip or access to any services.”

  As the aerodrone scans their neighbors, Robert considers just how thick
the security net has become in the world’s metrostates. Throughout the Ile-de-France, but especially in its heart, Paris, millions of computerized, unblinking, electronic sentinels are constantly on guard. Never sleeping AI machines scrutinizing, examining and inspecting to protect humans from themselves. Privacy is exchanged for safety. Crimes are still committed, but the foolhardy perpetrators never escape.

  When the aerodrone is out of his sight, Robert returns to his explanation of his paternity. “Although, they are the result of a type of human parthenogenesis or self-conception. Shengwu could be called her designer dozen’s mother. She engineered and created their embryos with her father in her genetics lab in Puerto Rico. The twelve embryos were then transplanted and carried to birth in the wombs of volunteer surrogates living in SPEA’s Venus. Now, they are growing and learning under the tutelage of every Venus resident and SPEA’s AGI computer.”

  “Wait. Twelve? I thought you told me originally that you are the transhuman father of thirteen. What happened?” Michael activates a robotic squirrel for Rusty to chase. He laughs, as Rusty, programmed to imitate a clumsy, biological puppy, stumbles and falls in his pursuit of the squirrel.

  The squirrel runs past Robert with Rusty in hot pursuit. Robert ignores them. He does not enjoy watching the robot chasing robot game, as much as Michael. “Well yes, there are thirteen, but only one chip child is not a Shengwu, CRISPR creation. A transhuman female named Aethon is the direct result of my copulation. Believe it or not, Michael, I actually had sex…with a human woman.”

  Michael signals his approval with a thumbs-up. “Lucky you, I haven’t enjoyed a biological, human female’s company for months...wait…a year and eight months…that’s twenty months. Wow, I’ve been celibate longer than I thought. I fear I am a member of the postsexual generation. Seems only Sist caste men and women have the inclination and time to have sex these days. After all, I guess they don’t have anything else to do.”