by Mac Tonnies
We still don’t know what intelligence is, exactly, let alone how it works in a universe governed by quantum mechanics. The physicist David Bohm argued that the barrier between our own minds and the outside universe was a sensory illusion; he postulated an “implicate order” that circumscribed both observer and observed in a sort of dynamic hologram. According to Bohm, this enfolded, implicate aspect fuses the rules of nature into an elegant whole—the basic notion behind the Grand Unified Theory sought by theoretical physicists such as Paul Davies, Michio Kaku, and Stephen Hawking.
Quite independently of Bohm, biologist Rupert Sheldrake postulated “morphogenetic fields” that somehow transfer information from one region of space-time to another. Cydonia researchers have wondered if Earth’s morphogenetic field might have influenced life on Mars (or vice versa)—if it exists or existed. Morphogenetic fields could form a feedback system in which life on Earth and Mars is able to “converse,” resulting in similar forms. If Bohm or Sheldrake is correct, then the discovery of fundamentally similar life-forms on Earth and Mars may not merely be a boon for exobiologists but a window into a new and uncharted science.
One can only wonder what the role of intelligence in a morphogenetic cosmos might be. Sheldrake’s theories view the universe as ordered and unexpectedly coherent, just as Bohm’s deep-rooted implicate order obliterates the notion of duality. Yes, there is a ring of Eastern mysticism to the notion that the cosmos is a single, undivided entity, forever resistant to empirical analysis. But then again, the lessons of quantum physics have primed us for the unexpected and the illogical.
Human-like Martians may be an inevitability, given Mars’s proximity to the Sun. Perhaps all life, in our own galaxy and beyond, is based off the same hidden template. We can expect a vast variety of divergent forms, each suited to its particular planetary environment. But the basic genetic language (DNA-based or otherwise) may be quite similar, employing a crude grammar or molecular lingua franca well beyond the realm of pure chance.
Viewed as a large-scale quantum phenomenon, the rise and fall of a Martian civilization in humanity’s own prehistory may be a literal forewarning. The “weak” version of the “Anthropic Cosmological Principle,” conceived by physicists John D. Barrow and Frank J. Tipler, suggests that the universe is as we experience it because, if it were otherwise, the enormous chain of cosmological events that allowed the development of human life on Earth would have been different, and we simply wouldn’t be here to experience it.
This is in marked contrast to Barrow and Tipler’s own interpretation of the Anthropic Cosmological Principle, in which the universe is somehow designed for the existence of terrestrial intelligence to the exclusion of intelligent alien life. It bears noting that the majority of cosmologists—and, needless to say, exobiologists—disagree with Barrow and Tipler’s thesis, which they perceive as essentially creationist anthropocentrism couched in heavy scientific terms.
One could argue that if the Cydonians hadn’t preceded us (and perhaps even dabbled with our genetic make up, for whatever unknown reasons), then sentient life on Earth would never have occurred. Mars plays a major role in world mythologies, from American Indian creation legend to the stories of the ancient Greeks and Romans. In a strange but nonetheless literal sense, maybe we do owe our existence to Mars and its hypothetical inhabitants. Even the briefest excursion to Earth on behalf of an extraterrestrial race would permanently change the course of history; the observer and the observed are inseparable, and attempts to construct a partition between them simply results in a different level of interference.
Climatologists cite the “butterfly effect,” in which a single butterfly flexing its wings in Perth, Australia, dramatically alters the climate in Kansas City, Missouri. A similar chaotic cascade effect would result from contact between native and alien species, no matter how indirect. If such contact occurred sufficiently long ago, it would invariably change the course of our evolution to some degree, even if the cumulative effects were infinitesimal.
The Cydonians wouldn’t have had to throw themselves into some globe-encircling engineering works á la von Däniken in order to affect our progress as a species. If they visited, it could have been amazingly brief, even casual. Contact could have been as ambiguous and relatively unenlightening as a close encounter of the second kind, in which a witness describes seeing an unidentified craft at close range.
Contact could even have been accidental. When we try to conceive alien contact, we almost always assume that contact is the culmination of at least one species’ agenda. In science fiction movies, for example, visiting aliens always have a goal in mind, whether it’s enlightenment or genocide. But this is anthropocentric chauvinism; it’s naive—and arrogant—to consider ourselves of primary importance in the galactic community simply because we perceive ourselves as important. The same fallacy has probably plagued millions of civilizations, some of which, one hopes, now know better.
Inadvertent, minor prehistoric run-ins with extraterrestrial intelligence don’t exempt the more fashionable exotic scenarios sketched by Zechariah Sitchin. If the Cydonians were dead set on passing along their genes—if not their culture—in a last bid for immortality, the possibility of genetic interference cannot be justifiably overlooked. In fact, it might be much easier for an advanced culture to pass along its biological heritage rather than attempting to preserve its physical infrastructure. After all, the Greek countryside may be littered with ruins of a vanished culture but there are still plenty of “ancient” Greek genes thriving among the contemporary population.
A species attempting to relocate to a new world—even if it meant shedding its familiar form—would be fueled by desperation, ennui, and horror. Relocating from Mars would have been a sociological sea change, and efforts to pass along as much of the original culture’s heritage as possible might have been correspondingly subtle.
If there is such a thing as Carl Jung’s collective unconscious, populated by archetypes that transcend language barriers, maybe it was emplaced by an intelligence antedating our species. An archetypal language might be the echo of a distant contact event, a mingling of thoughts and genes prepared to make us think like Martians. The Cydonians may be long dead, but by utilizing protohuman raw material, they could have furnished an agar in which their collective self could live on. We could be their simulacra. Like the genetically tailored “replicants” in the film Blade Runner, we may not realize that we are, ultimately, synthetic stand-ins.
And what of the riotous “junk” DNA embedded in the nucleus of every cell in our bodies? How much of it is truly bio-molecular white noise? It’s just conceivable that the ladder of the double helix ascends a moat between an inconceivably remote past and an unknown future. If we venture deep enough, will we find messages scribbled in the language of chemistry or merely random graffiti?
Buildings inevitably decay. Parchments rot. But DNA is a dynamic medium, a peculiarly selfish molecule that perpetuates itself via the mechanism we know as life. Over time, genes will show up in unexpected places or even mutate. But this innate flexibility is vastly superior to inorganic technology. Although perhaps not for long. Nanotechnology, which involves microscopic robots capable of manipulating matter on the molecular or cellular level, will probably begin to rival organic life in some respects within the next few decades.
Perhaps, knowing that the chances of advanced life on Mars were slim, the Cydonians transplanted themselves to Earth, making necessary changes in their anatomy to correspond to the higher gravity and different day-night cycle.
Researcher Bruce Rux offers the most overtly strange hypothesis for what became of the Cydonian civilization. Noting the correspondence between UFO flaps and Mars’s periodic close approaches to Earth, he concludes that we are being visited by lifelike robots—the Cydonians’ mechanical descendants? Zoologist Ivan T. Sanderson arrived at similar ideas in his analysis of UFO encounters, although he never addressed the Mars link. More recently, historian Richard Dolan h
as ventured that we are being visited by a “machine intelligence,” and that UFOs are best viewed in a cybernetic context rather than in astronomical or Jungian terms.
The UFO controversy notwithstanding, Dolan’s ideas are fully compatible with Carl Sagan’s estimates of extraterrestrial visitation as well as astronomer Ronald Bracewell’s eponymous probes (hypothetical automated craft designed to establish contact with emerging technical civilizations). We visualize space probes as delicate, tiny conglomerations of solar panels, instrument packages, and radio dishes. Probes like Viking and Magellan, which orbited and mapped Venus, last a matter of years before exhausting themselves and falling inert. But a probe launched by a mature, farsighted culture might be very different. Instead of a brittle observation platform designed to last all of three years, we might expect self-repairing (or even self-replicating) interactive machines that might easily pass our criteria for “intelligence.”
Communication with such an artifact—if it chose to communicate at all—could take bewildering forms (e.g., theatrical as opposed to arithmetic). Human time scales might be irrelevant. A suitably equipped alien probe could outlast entire civilizations, shrugging off cosmic rays and whiling its time in a show of godlike sentience. Perhaps it would assume a form not unlike Dolan’s hypothetical machine intelligence.
In The Galactic Club: Intelligent Life in Outer Space, Bracewell suggests that advanced ET civilizations might send out a diaspora of probes to neighboring star systems to monitor potential emerging technical civilizations. Like other SETI theorists, his definition of “technical” seems to be “able to transmit radio signals into space, intentionally or inadvertently.” For the purposes of his thesis, this definition is solid. But the probes he envisions are hopelessly low-tech, little more than souped-up versions of Pioneer 10. Bracewell assumes that they will perish relatively soon because the hypothetical alien project coordinator will be tied to a strict budget (shades of NASA’s “faster, better, cheaper” Mars mission philosophy) and that quantity will prevail over quality because of financial considerations. For a relatively original thinker, Bracewell waxes disturbingly anthropomorphic.
Bracewell’s most interesting contribution to the SETI argument is that his probes will be interactive to some degree. After one of his probes picks up on our radio signals, it echoes a reply, instigating a simple dialogue from which we can eventually learn where the probe came from. Then, presumably, we will turn our radio dishes to the star of origin and transmit a reply.
But why limit his probes to kindergarten radio exchanges? Why not self-replicating probes built to last millions of years? Why not true, thinking, intelligent probes able to carry the genetic templates of its designers, or machines capable of colonizing the space around the target planet with automatic observatories? Frank Tipler entertains such ideas in The Physics of Immortality, a book whose major tenet requires that the universe be devoid of intelligent life except for humans. Tipler argues, quite unconvincingly, that sentient life can enjoy the cyberspace equivalent to heaven only if intelligent machines populate the universe and the energy of the presumed “Big Crunch” can be directed into supercomputers.
While the physics—and metaphysics—of Tipler’s theory are open to debate, his approach to interstellar colonization is refreshingly sensible. Rather than sending ponderous “arks” to other star systems, Tipler recommends sending automated archives of genetic material. DNA samples take up considerably less space than human passengers, and a small probe containing the genetic substrate for a planetary civilization could be sent to a habitable extrasolar planet without the need for bulky life support.
Upon landing, the probe would synthesize human beings, drawing from its genetic archive. Within a century or two, a population of clones could colonize an extrasolar world. The ever-prescient Arthur C. Clarke employed a basically similar concept in his novel The Songs of Distant Earth.
While not cheap, the “seed ship” concept offers a practical alternative to manned spaceflight. Faced with impending disaster, a planetary civilization might realize that its only way to survive would be to carry on its social and technological legacy via clones. This is disturbing to old school advocates of interstellar colonization, who envision astronauts boarding massive arks and entering biostasis for the length of the trip. But seed ships are not as removed from the prevailing paradigm as one might think. In the “Generation Ark Model” for instance, the original astronauts are long dead by the time the spacecraft rendezvoused with its target planet; it’s the astronauts’ descendants, many generations removed, who finally make landfall.
There is no fundamental difference between transmitting one’s ancestors to a distant planetary shore via manned space travel and sending them directly via tissue cultures. A DNA archive offers the further advantage of custom-designing the would-be colonists. Mission planners wouldn’t have to contend with the random familial offshoots of spaceborne humans. Of course, this opens a bioethical can of worms. Who decides what an optimal colonist consists of? Whose genes get to make the trip?
More portentously, the DNA sent might not be fully human at all. If a candidate habitable planet is discovered by space-based telescopy or remote probe, we may find it advantageous to customize our progeny to allow them to survive hostile or unforeseeable conditions. A planet with relatively little free oxygen might require expanded lung capacity. The absence of an ozone layer might mean tougher, cancer-proof skin, or an especially long day-night cycle might necessitate specially adapted eyes. But regardless of superficial differences, a close look at the genetic architecture of such artificially adapted humans would reveal a common source code.
Such a scenario could very well apply to the Cydonian civilization, assuming it came from another star. If the Cydonians were humanoids (as suggested by the Face), then they might have chosen Mars because—at the time of colonization—it was a virtual twin of their home planet.
Proponents of the extrasolar hypothesis for the Martians don’t seem to realize that the intruding civilization could have colonized Earth as well. Given millions of years, any artificial structures it may have left would have disintegrated or been subducted into the planet’s interior by plate tectonics.
When ancient astronaut theorists pursue possible extraterrestrial relics on Earth, they generally look to ancient Egyptian, Sumerian, and Incan civilizations. In geological time, these cultures flourished only an eyeblink ago. It’s not unreasonable to expect evidence of extraterrestrial visitation to exist if the aliens were here as recently as the Pyramid-builders. But we would be hard-pressed to find evidence of their visitation if they established an encampment in, say, the Jurassic Era. Intact dinosaur fossils are rare enough; consider the odds of finding a fossilized integrated circuit chip or some other token.
Mainstream SETI avoids another unsettling possibility—that some extraterrestrial radio transmissions may not be signals at all, but templates for actual alien personae. If it’s possible to place a self-replicating automated probe in another star system, it could be used as a receiver as well as an observation instrument. Neurologically inclined aliens could “upload” themselves into a computational substrate and “fax” themselves to the distant receiver at the speed of light. Assuming the transmission remained intact, the receiver would reassemble the disembodied traveler, embodying it in a new substrate medium. In theory, it’s possible for unlimited numbers of extraterrestrial explorers to visit remote worlds in this manner, even if it means making informational copies of themselves and remaining at home in physical form.
It’s compelling to try to fathom the nature of such a civilization. Knowing that they were emulations of long-dead individuals, the extraterrestrials’ definition of self-identity would be radically different from our own, and this would be reflected in their culture and aesthetics. It may even explain the strange assortment of oddities in Cydonia.
Suppose that an artificially intelligent probe arrived on Mars hundreds of thousands of years ago. Using indigenous m
aterial, it immediately set about making copies of itself—and perhaps even terraforming the planet to desired specifications. Keep in mind that a machine-based intelligence would be spared many of the dangers presented by climate, tectonics, and space debris. But it might choose to render Mars into a rough facsimile of its home world; after all, even though its uploaded incarnation may be incredibly durable and immune to sentimentality, the soon-to-arrive faxed alien personae might have aesthetic preconceptions their benefactors considered valuable and worthy of preservation.
Humans, for example, enjoy a sense of tranquility when near bodies of water. It’s no accident that so many office parks and shopping malls boast artificial lakes and noisy fountains. Our relationship with water is transgenetic. Our ancestors fortunate enough to live near water sources benefited profoundly. Like the invention of agriculture, living near a faithful source of water allowed relative permanence in a very unpredictable environment. Most people today are spared the crucial need to locate and exploit sources of water; nevertheless, we experience subconscious pleasure when in its presence. Just ask homeowners with ocean views, or the many thousands who vacation at lake homes.
Our fondness for bodies of water is largely vestigial, yet we continue to derive comfort from it. Extraterrestrials advanced enough to translate themselves into radio emissions may choose not to part with such genetic imperatives, even if they’re obsolete. So there’s no reason why a suitably advanced machine-based society couldn’t continue to appreciate abstract concepts such as beauty. If the Cydonians were robots, it doesn’t necessarily mean that they were soulless, pragmatic drones. Their engineering works might betray a post-biological sensibility utterly alien to human experience.
