The only true taboo left was cloning people without their consent.
Genuine incidents remained quite rare. But Evan possessed both the focus and imagination to see patterns where others saw happenstance. To him, it was self-evident that there were wicked people and slick organizations that existed for no reason but to steal away a person's genetics. What Evan believed as a boy still held its grip on him. There had to be an underground market, and one or many governments were involved in the trade. Anybody with a clear gaze and the right frame of mind could see the threat, and the only way to fight the war was to remain solitary, strong and secure, waiting for the opportunity to do some genuine good.
Evan had worked out a routine that felt responsible as well as just. This led to a few uncomfortable moments. Strange men would say, “What are you looking at?” An old woman once warned him that he was making her nervous. And once, an off-duty policeman found him near a schoolyard and misunderstood Evan's pure intentions. No, he wasn't interested in little boys. He was watching for people who might want to steal a child's genetics. But there was no way to admit his true purpose. So he spun a lie about looking for a niece who was supposed to be here with his sister, and he gave them names and described them, and then asked the officer if he'd seen either one.
An incident report may or may or not have been filed.
Evan didn't bother to check.
But after that scare, he was more cautious about his work. Using hidden cameras, he photographed thousands of suspects, and with software linked to a multitude of databases, he identified hundreds of people who proved their innocence without having to say one word.
Then came a warm spring afternoon at a popular playground, and the gray-haired gentleman who was watching a special boy.
The boy was amazing, yes—wiry and strong, and in ways that Evan could only marvel at, fearless. He was perhaps ten years old, wearing a wide smart grin, and he would scramble up the side of a shelter standing in the center of an expansive sandbox. The shelter had a passing resemblance to a castle. Written signs and audio overseers warned the boy that he was using the structure improperly. But the climb was just a minor accomplishment. Once on top—three meters off the ground, nearly—the boy would assume a tucked position, the balls of his bare feet set against a horizontal pipe. Then he would lift his hands, and with a smooth, seemingly effortless motion, he would leap backward, the bare feet snapping as the legs soared above his twirling body.
Somehow, that young acrobat landed upright in the soft sand, facing the shelter, unharmed and perfectly in balance.
Several adults and half a dozen kids watched the show. One young woman chastised the boy for endangering others. But words couldn't stop him. Again and again, he climbed high and made the same leap, each time lifting higher and landing closer to the edge of the sandbox, the final jump putting him within arm's reach of a steel fence.
A gray-haired man happened to be sitting on a nearby bench, one arm thrown protectively over a blond boy with a passing resemblance to him.
That was his grandson, Evan learned in time.
Later that day, a pair of face-recognition packages produced the same name—Gary Olsen—and with that name came an empty criminal file. But a resourceful man has countless avenues, and through means not entirely legal, Evan recovered both a thorough biography of the fellow as well as three old incident reports—a string of telltale clues whose cumulative effect was to make him lie awake through the night, enjoying his extraordinary luck.
* * * *
Saving One Child
Three careers and two failed marriages might have embittered most men. But once he reached retirement age, Gary discovered that he still had his health, and for no obvious reason at all, he acquired a late-in-life capacity for happiness. His abrasive humor was still present, but tempered with a measure of wisdom and a practiced capacity for knowing how to act in public. Maybe being a grandfather was the secret. Certainly he pulled all the pleasure he could out of that experience. And he liked to believe that he was a better father now, too. Although maybe that's because Pepper was an adult, responsible in his own right and far smarter than his father could ever pretend to be.
Of course Gary could be happy for a much less noble reason: His days weren't filled with work that he despised, and his personal peace stemmed from that.
Whatever the cause, each day was a little celebration.
Most mornings began with a walk on a bikeway that on Sunday mornings, like today, was almost empty.
Gary noticed the young man at a distance—a solitary figure that in some fashion or another looked as if he should be alone. There was a lonely quality to the silhouette and its patient, nowhere-to-be gait. At closer range, the man seemed a little peculiar. Why was that? Because he stared in Gary's direction but didn't quite look at him? Or was it the way he kept his shoulders hunched, hands meeting in the front pocket of a sweatshirt that looked unbearably heavy for what was proving to be a warm, sultry morning?
Gary never suspected that the man would produce a pistol.
And even when it was in plain view, held firmly in both hands, the weapon had an unreal quality. Surely, it was a toy. A prop. Somebody's misguided attempt at humor, and Gary just happened to be an accidental witness to something of no real consequence.
Then the young man said, “Mr. Gary Olsen."
And recited his address.
And then with a dry, slightly nervous voice, he said, “I know what you've done. And I know what you are."
Too late, Gary realized that at this point on the path, no homes or traveled streets were in view. And since it was Sunday, and early, there was absolutely no reason to hope for somebody passing by soon.
Like bad men in old movies, the stranger pointed with his gun.
He intended to herd Gary back into the trees.
When the adrenaline struck, Gary's heart nearly burst. Then from some reservoir of courage or stubbornness, or most probably fear, he told his enemy, “No. I'm not doing that."
"Then I'll shoot you here."
"I would,” Gary managed. “Because I'm not going anywhere with you."
The stranger had not imagined events happening quite this way. He took a few moments to consider his prospects, licking at his lips while dipping his eyes. Then he whispered, “Fine. I will."
Gary nearly collapsed. But he forced himself to breathe, looking at his enemy's very serious eyes, and with a plaintive voice asked the simple, boundless question, “Why?"
"Why?"
Gary nodded. “Why do this to me? What's your reason?"
The stranger seemed offended. “I have a very good reason."
"Don't I deserve to know?"
The young man saw the logic, or at least in his position of total power, he could afford to say, “I guess so."
Gary waited.
And with perhaps half a dozen sentences, a life story was told to him—a fanciful tale of conspiracies and farflung enemies, none of it bearing any resemblance to anything genuine and very little that was sane.
Deny any portion of the tale, and his enemy would shoot him. Gary was sure of it.
For a few moments, he couldn't speak. Or think clearly. Weak legs bent, and he settled on the pavement, on his knees, bowing his head while he managed a few ragged breaths. Then with a choking voice, he said, “You're right, yes. You caught me.” And he lifted his head, meeting the stranger's gaze.
The pistol dipped.
"I do steal people's DNA. For years and years now.” Gary felt detached, like an observer, never quite certain what words his own mouth would say next. “But you have to understand ... I don't work for a secret organization. No, no. I work alone. For my own reasons—"
"What reasons?” his enemy snapped.
"Sometimes...” The voice failed him now. What could he possibly say that would help? “Sometimes,” he muttered again. Then, “Some people ... you know, children...?"
The pistol lifted again.
"Children,”
Gary repeated. Then his voice recovered its purpose, and he asked, “What if there's a boy, and he has enormous talents and all kinds of potentials ... but his home life is miserable. You know? Bad parents and poverty, and if he grows up at all, he'll be too damaged to become half the success he should have been."
Just slightly, his enemy's expression changed.
"I find those boys,” Gary lied. “I find them and steal a few of their cells, and I clone them. But I make only one clone for each boy. And I'm very careful to give them full-length telomeres and no serious mutations. Because if you're going to save somebody's life, that's what you need to do."
"Save what life?"
"The boy's,” he repeated. Then he managed a smile, adding, “Each baby is adopted by good people ... responsible, caring parents ... and while their older twins are dying of drugs and ignorance, those lucky few get a second chance at the success they deserve."
None of this was what the stranger expected, and he didn't know exactly how to respond.
"I know, it's all illegal,” said Gary, his smile collapsing.
He was about to be shot; he felt certain.
But then he muttered, “It's just that ... if at the end of the day, if I can save just one child...."
There was a long pause.
Then that sick young man dropped his gun, and screaming softly to himself, he ran up the path and out of sight.
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Coming Attractions
A man, his past, and a Prius—that's not as catchy as the palindrome “A man, a plan, a canal: Panama,” but it accurately sums up “Against the Current,” Robert Silverberg's first contribution to our pages in this century. It's nice to have the master back, especially when he's in such fine form.
Also in fine form is Michael Swanwick, whose novelet “Urdumheim” is a Babylonian creation myth. (Yeah, yet another one of those! What's that make, six this year?) Fantasy fans, we think you're going to love this one.
Other fantasy stories tentatively planned for next month include Paul Park's haunting “Frangrant Goddess,” Daryl Gregory's wild “Unpossible,” and Fred Chappell's latest tale of Falco and Astolfo, “The Diamond Shadow.” Plus (need we even say it?) lots lots more.
Looking past the anniversary issue and on into 2008, we've got stories in the works by James L. Cambias, Charles Coleman Finlay, Alex Irvine, and Kate Wilhelm. We've also got stories from writers whose names might be unfamiliar to our readers, including David Marusek, David Moles, James Powell, and the writing team of Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald. Make sure your subscription is current so you won't miss any of the goodies coming in the months ahead.
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Science: Visit the Metaverse and Change Your Mind by Paul Doherty & Pat Murphy
In the 1992 novel Snowcrash, by Neal Stephenson, a character named Hiro Protagonist uses his computer to enter a virtual world called the Metaverse. Hiro enters this world as an avatar, a computer representation of himself. In a virtual nightclub named the Black Sun, he watches as the club owner Da5id opens a “hypercard,” which infects not only Da5id's computer system with a virus but also the brain of the person behind Da5id. The computer virus appears as a computer screen full of white noise or snow. Viewing this snow destroys a human brain.
As an astute reader of fantasy and science fiction, you know better than to dismiss this as pure fiction. As you may know, there is a version of the Metaverse available right now. It's called Second Life.
Working with other Exploratorium staff, Paul has built the ‘Splo, an Exploratorium-like museum in this world. (Pat has spent time in Second Life, but has been a bit too preoccupied with her First Life, also known as the Real World, to spend any time working on the ‘Splo.) In the ‘Splo are several exhibits that will change your brain. In this column, we'll tell you a bit about the real Metaverse of Second Life, then we'll discuss how experiences in this virtual world can change the real you in the real world.
Introducing Second Life
Second Life is a massive multiplayer online role playing game (MMORPG, for those who prefer the acronym). Visiting the world of Second Life is free; just go to www.secondlife.com, where you can download an application onto your computer. (Of course you will need a powerful computer to handle the computing needs of this Second Life. It's a whole ‘nother world, after all.)
Getting into the world of Second Life is like getting into a novel. You have to make an investment before the story begins to make sense and provides you with a payback. In a novel, you must learn about the characters, which are creations of the novelist. In Second Life, you must create yourself.
First, you design your avatar. You can choose from some prefab avatars or design one yourself by choosing from 100 different values for 80-plus different variables describing your avatar's appearance—from your avatar's height to the thickness of its lips. You can make the avatar like you, or not like you. The choice is yours.
After you enter Second Life, you can hire a plastic surgeon (or learn to be one yourself) and become anything you like. In Snowcrash, Neal Stephenson got it right when he said that an avatar could be a “gorilla, a dragon, or a giant talking penis.” (Of these choices, Paul has occasionally been a dragon. Pat just runs around as a guy in tie-dyed pants. She really should pay more attention to her wardrobe!)
Once you have designed your body you are no better off than the Terminator who arrived in the world naked. You'll need clothing. Free clothing is available in Second Life. (Where do you think those tie-dyed pants came from?) There is also clothing available for sale for Linden dollars, the currency of Second Life. Linden Dollars can be traded for real dollars ($1 = 250 Linden Dollars in March 2007) . If you want to buy nice clothes, you'll need to spend some money. After becoming an avatar and getting dressed, you'll need to learn to walk, to look around, to chat with others, and to fly!
There is a whole world to explore, completely created by its inhabitants. Unlike computer games in which a few people create an experience for you, everyone in Second Life has the ability to create experiences for everyone else. These experiences range from fun to dumb.
Paul's initial experiences in creating experience in Second Life highlight the similarities and the differences between an experience in a real museum, in a museum on the web, and in a virtual museum.
The Museum, the Web, and the Metaverse
On March 29, 2006, the Exploratorium brought live video of a total solar eclipse to residents of the Metaverse—that is, Second Life. And in the process, we learned a thing or two.
Let's start by saying that the experience of observing a total solar eclipse is not to be missed. But when the moon eclipses the sun, only the people who happen to be standing on a narrow slice of the Earth averaging a hundred miles wide and a thousand miles long can experience totality.
In March 2006, that narrow slice included Turkey, and the Exploratorium sent a team to cover the event. Paul was the on-site host for the Exploratorium's coverage of the solar eclipse. He stood in an ancient Roman theater in the Turkish town of Side (pronounced see-day) and narrated the eclipse events as the Exploratorium streamed the event live to thousands of visitors at museums around the world, to millions of viewers on the web, and to a hundred viewers in the Metaverse. Consider how these experiences differed from each other.
Paul reports his experience of the real eclipse as follows. During the partial eclipse leading up to totality the light went dim even though there were no clouds in the sky. As totality began, the midday sky went dark and the air became cold. The sun was replaced by a black blob with the ghostly white arms of the solar corona spreading out from the blackness. Even though Paul is a scientist and he knew what was going on, he reports that the hair on his back rose up. On a primal level, he knew that the sun should not vanish from the clear sky. Seeing a total solar eclipse, Paul says, was an amazing experience that changed his perception of the universe. As the first rays of the returning sun peeked through valleys on th
e Moon to end the eclipse, the audience in the Roman amphitheater cheered.
In the Exploratorium and in museums around the world, thousands of people watched monitors displaying the images sent by the Exploratorium eclipse crew. As the last crescent of the Sun vanished and the image showed the ghostly solar corona, audiences in these museums went quiet, then cheered as they first saw the coronal rays emerging from the sun—and finally erupted in discussion with their neighbors. They asked questions of the museum staff and listened as other people asked questions.
Millions of viewers on the Web watched the Exploratorium's live video of the eclipse. (www.exploratorium.edu/eclipse/2006/index.html). People sitting by themselves or viewing with friends and family watched the images on their own computer. Using internet search services, people could look for answers to questions.
For the first time during this eclipse the Exploratorium also brought the eclipse into the Metaverse of Second Life. More than a hundred avatars sat in a three-dimensional recreation of the Roman amphitheater to watch the eclipse happen live, and to hear the eclipse program presented by the Exploratorium. (To see the amphitheater in Second Life, visit Kula 4. The Second Life coordinates are 245,252,29. The coordinates are in meters; the Metaverse is metric.)
Just like the audiences in museums, the avatars in Second Life clapped and cheered and danced as totality began. (Some of them flew around or flapped their wings as well!) Then they turned and began talking with each other just like the people at the museums.
These avatars came from all over the world to sit next to each other to watch and discuss the eclipse. An avatar representing a person in Finland sat next to an avatar from someone in Japan. These people could talk about the shape of the spectacular helmet streamers in the corona. They used English for their conversation (although Second Life does have a translator like the Babel fish that Arthur Dent slips into his ear in Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy).
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