A pleasant, ginger-haired man shook his hand and introduced two more smiling scientists. Spektorov smiled back and promptly forgot their names.
"Likewise Sir, Likewise. My father had Alzheimer’s. We brought him to the Memory Disorders Clinic at BMC. The stem cell injections helped. They bought him time till he was ready to go."
"I’m sorry to hear about your loss."
"It was a long time ago. BMC and BU did a lot to help. For that, myself and my mother are deeply grateful. But I’m here to talk about the future."
"Of course! We’d be happy to help the Pathfinder Program however we can. Though," his brow furrowed, "I’m not sure that we’ll be able to. Our work doesn’t have a lot to do with space."
"You might be surprised. But perhaps you can tell me about your work here. I’ve been doing my homework but it would be great to get the tour from the guy in charge."
"Of course. Until recently, the human brain has been a mystery. We could cut it up, weigh it, and study people with brain injuries. But, what we really needed was a way to study it while it was functioning. The technology for that didn’t really start to appear until the early this century."
"Like MRI machines?"
"MRIs go back a lot longer, but essentially, yes. Diffusor tensor imaging is a form of MRI. It can show the flow of water in a brain. Magnetoencephalography can time changes in electrical fields, down to a thousandth of a second. Transcranial electromagnetic scanners can ‘turn off’ parts of a brain. We can do deep brain stimulation with electrodes, reaching pretty much anywhere. All of these technologies are at least forty years old. We’ve learned more about the brain in the past fifty years, than in the past five thousand[xli]."
"And you’re building artificial memories."
"That technology too, is not new. Early experiments with electrodes in mouse brains, recorded the electrical patterns created by learning and thought. These were played back in other mice, giving them the memory. Our work is just a scaled up version. The human brain is a lot more complex than that of a mouse. Our memories are more complex too – often involving components of sound or vision. Vision alone involves millions of bits of information. We also store our memories across our brains, not just in one area."
"And I understand, you’re getting it done."
"Well, we’re certainly making good progress. We have volunteers with nanoelectrodes implanted throughout their brains. It takes a lot of resources, but we chose to record everything. Every single electrical impulse their brains produce, for months on end. The results are complete, detailed libraries of their lives. We can play them back for them, or even into someone else’s brain. The data is so rich, you feel like you’re living it. But the point is, we can save memories for people who may otherwise lose them. It’s not a cure for Alzheimer’s. However it can help people for whom conventional treatments can only do so much."
"Thank you for that. I do have some specific questions I’d like to ask."
"Please, go ahead."
"Thank you. I apologize though; they’re going to be a bit strange."
Ciesielski laughed, "We copy human memories and skills to hard drives. We’re used to strange."
"Well, is it possible to capture the signals a brain produces, for a much longer period? Say for years, or even indefinitely?"
"Yes, there’s no reason why not. It’s just a challenge of storing all that data."
"And if you have all the electrical impulses a brain produces, can that be used to model the original person?"
Ciesielki frowned.
"You mean, like an engram?"
"Precisely."
"No, sorry. That’s far too beyond us."
"But in principle? You do record every electrical impulse, every signal. Complete records of a person’s brain activity."
"Well, in principle, yes. All the data is indeed there. It is theoretically possible that using that data, one could model the brain that produces it. It would be an emulation, rather than a simulation. Not a copy, so much as mimicry. You can’t actually make a copy with the data, the brain is just too complex."
"Could a Self-Transcending System solve it?"
"A Self-Transcending System will solve it. We just may not understand it when it tells us how. But for now, I can tell you yes, in principle. It is possible with enough recordings, to mimic a person. Any experiences, knowledge, or skills learned, will be real."
"And how long would you say, until we can actually simulate a person, rather than just mimic one?"
"That’s not my field, sorry. A lot of people are working on translating the human condition to digital media. Others are creating software to model human brains. Some are just across the river, at MIT. The processing power is there, it’s just a matter of when. Twenty five years? Fifty? How ‘human’ these will be though, is open to question."
"And if a simulation was built around a decade's worth of someone’s brain recordings – what then?"
"It would be a very effective simulation of that person. Not effectively the same as that person – that’s a different challenge. But, it would be very hard to tell the two apart. Mr. Spektorov, I must ask you why you’re asking this."
"I’m interested in funding some long-term studies for the Center, Doctor. In exchange, I’m asking your help with recording the brain activity of a group of Pathfinder volunteers."
"Volunteers?"
"Crew candidates. They’ll be learning the skills needed for founding a successful colony. Mechanical engineering. Medicine. How to be a team player. Best practices. The recordings will be used to create synthetic memories and skills. Pathfinder will travel at a tenth of light speed. It will take at least forty-five years to reach Alpha Centauri. By then, we should have figured out how to make true, digital, humans. We’ll transmit that data to Pathfinder. It will take these highly personalized records, and recreate those people. Doctor? Would you like me to say that again?"
Rayburn House, Washington DC
The elderly suited man stepped out from around his desk. "Mr. Spektorov," he said, his tone guarded.
The walls were cream with cherry wood paneling. On the carpeted floor was The Great Seal of the State of Ohio. Atop a furled US flag, a brass eagle stretched its wings and glared at Spektorov. Through the window, the trees were turning red with Fall.
"It’s an honor to meet you Sir," Spektorov shook his hand with both of his. The man pulled his hand free. "Thank you for making the time to meet, Congressman Herrera."
On the walls were pictures of the man, grinning and shaking people’s hands. Some wore lab coats. Others had the NASA logo in the back. A few were with astronauts.
"Well, don’t thank me yet," said Herrera. "I haven’t listened to what you have to say, and you haven’t heard my reply. So! The richest man in space wants to talk to a Congressman. And not his Congressman either. Shouldn’t you be talking to Eisner or O’Grady?"
"Respectfully Sir, Congressmen Eisner and O’Grady are not known for being strong supporters of America’s space initiatives."
"So this is about your Pathfinder Program."
"It is."
He rolled his eyes and sat. "Alright, what do you want?"
"Sir?"
"Spit - it - out," he leaned forward. "I don’t have all day, and let’s get this over with."
"Congressman, the Pathfinder Program is an attempt to send –"
"No," he shook his head and waggled his finger. "Don’t pitch to me. I know what it is. I wouldn’t have given you this meeting if I didn’t know what it was. What do you want, Mr. Spektorov?"
"Sir, we need help."
The old man leaned back and smiled.
"Well, the first stage is recognizing that you have a problem."
"We need to talk to experts on planning deep space missions."
"So talk to NASA, why are you talking to me?"
"Sir, there’s getting help from NASA, and then there’s getting help from NASA. A good word from you would go a long way to having them t
ake us more seriously."
Herrera’s lip curled.
"I know all about you, Daryl Spektorov. How you cheated your partner out of his company. All the money you spend in your pet districts, just to make sure Congress stays bought and paid. And now, here you are, trying to get me to make NASA help you with your little ego project."
"Sir it’s not an ego project – "
"The hell it isn’t! You’re as bad as any Internet billionaire I’ve seen. You make your money, and then you try and do something fun and noble. Just as long as everyone knows it’s you who’s doing it. You’re like a beardless Branson. You’re just like a beardless Branson. Peter Diamandis was a regular guy, who wanted to see the first private suborbital flight. He was a visionary. He spent years talking to rich people who called themselves visionary, but weren’t. Richard Branson turned him down, twice, for an amount he probably had stuffed in his sofa. When Spaceship One won the prize, Branson swooped in. He bought the technology, donated the plane for a tax write off, and started pre-selling tickets for Virgin Galactic.[xlii] And people call him – and you - a visionary."
"Sir, if risk-taking is how you’re measuring this, I don’t see how you can not respect Pathfinder. It’s a tremendously expensive project. It’s driving breakthroughs in many new technologies."
"Technologies that you’re going to patent," Herrera nodded. "I understand you’ve been pre-selling antimatter engines. I know the Air Force is pretty interested. Must be nice, to have convict laborers and a stolen company give you a head start in the deep space market. That would be pretty good for most people, but maybe NASA can give you some expert advice. You have a duty to yourself you know, to lower your risk."
"Sir, are you measuring the value of this project based on how much I’m risking?"
"It’s just a big game for you, Spektorov. You’re playing with your money, and you want the public to waste its time, playing with you."
"I have to say, I’m shocked to hear you say this about the world’s only interstellar mission. It doesn’t matter what you think of me, or how or on what I spend my money. Frankly Congressman, I don’t much care what you think about that. But I do want you to care about Pathfinder. It’s going to Alpha Centauri. It’s going to put people there. That’s an adventure you of all people should support."
"The project and the man, can’t be separated, Mr. Spektorov. All your supporters out there, kids on social media, guys on their lunchbreaks – they all pretend you’re not what you are. They look away, and just focus on the mission. Me? You’re sitting on my office. I’m focusing on you."
"You want to see me risk something? Otherwise it’s not real to me? Just a rich man’s game?"
Herrera smiled and said nothing.
"Fine. If you get NASA to help us out, I'll fund the Clyde Tombaugh Telescope."
"What?" Hererra frowned.
"You heard me. And as an immediate gesture of good faith, I can supply some antimatter for launching science missions. The Oort Explorer? Done. The Maccone Telescope?[xliii] Launch that sucker. I’ll make it happen. I’ll take my head start in deep space as you call it, and give it to space science. Is that enough? Or are you still focused on me?"
Herrera said nothing for a while.
"What are you playing at?" he spoke at last.
"I want exactly what I’m asking of you. I want the Pathfinder mission to succeed."
"Then send a probe, first."
"Pathfinder is the probe."
"Pathfinder is a colony ship."
"They’re the same thing now. All it’ll carry is information, nano-assemblers, and its own mind. It’ll make probes, colonists, or more of itself if we ask it to. How is the traditional definition of a probe useful here? It’s all of these things. It’s more. You guys need to get over that."
Herrera said nothing again for a while.
"You won’t live to see Pathfinder arrive, anyway."
"Maybe, but that just means I need to make sure it succeeds, even without me."
"Do you think it will?"
Spektorov paused. "Yes, it should."
Herrera laughed. "You maniac. You can’t imagine it happening without you. You think we’ll never leave the system unless you personally get humanity out the door?"
Spektorov looked out the window.
"Well?"
"Would you chance it?" he turned and faced Herrera. "No! I don’t think they’ll go. I think they’ll find some stupid reason to stay home. I have the chance to do something that matters here. All I’m asking, is that you give me the best chance at this."
"I’ll make some calls, Mr. Spektorov -"
"Thank you Congressman, thank you so much!"
"- Calls to some lawyers. We're going to draw up an agreement. You won’t be able to trick your way out of this one."
"You can have my first born if it makes a difference."
"If you try to screw me, I will."
UNHCR Field Office, Chennai
"Anjana," Rao poked her head through the office doorway. "Do you have the population projections for E2 yet? Anjana? Anjana?"
"No," her aide didn’t even look up from her screen. She leaned in, peering. A single crutch was propped by the table.
"Hmm. Alright. Do you know when you can have them by? I need them for my 7pm call with Geneva."
"I won’t have them by then. I’ll – hold on," she trailed off, still reading the screen.
"Anjana! What is going on with you today?"
Still screen-bound, Anjana frowned and raised her finger to her boss. "Just hold on! There, done." Her printer out tray started filling with full-color prints.
"What’s this?" Rao picked up a page. "’Lowell City – Gateway to the Red Frontier?’"
"It’s Daryl Spektorov’s new project. A permanent orbital colony around Mars."
"Why are you wasting time on this rich idiot? Now it’s Mars? Anjana, we talked about this last year. He’s not trying to get access to a shipyard. He’s too arrogant anyway, Mister Space Private Sector."
"Are you so sure? Here," she leafed through the growing pile of documents and pulled out a page. "Look at this."
It showed the inside of an immense space habitat. Maglevs ran down its central spine. Clouds fluffed over rich green lawns and small houses. Along the side were statistics like size, spin, and population.
"Looks like an O’Neill Cylinder. Who even thinks those will ever happen, anymore? Why should I care?"
"Look at the dimensions. Look at the area."
"Thirteen square miles. That’s huge. So?"
"Nothing Sun Star makes has even come close to that. Mojave Fields has their record with three square miles. They have no experience with construction at this scale."
"Companies talk big all the time."
Anjana smiled.
"Thirteen square miles, is roughly thirty six square kilometers. Do you see now?"
Rao’s eyes flashed.
"But that's the size of - the bastard. He wouldn’t dare!"
"Wouldn’t he? This man has convicts digging up Uranium. Why wouldn’t he dare to get his hands on an E-series orbital?"
"But this isn’t his pattern. He’s spending his own money on Pathfinder. He doesn’t care for outside involvement."
"People like him only spend money when they can’t get someone else to. Why risk money and years learning to build super-heavy habitats? The Big Five have been doing it for almost a decade. An E-series refugee habitat is a permanent space colony. Lowell city is a permanent space colony. Why not take one we’re already building, and shove it off to Mars?"
"You can’t just send refugees to Mars."
"Lowell City won’t send refugees at all. They’re asking for volunteers with certain skills. Preferences are for scientists, physicians, and engineers. Can you see two thousand, young, STEM graduates saying no to a free home around Mars?"
"That’s ridiculous. The whole idea is ridiculous. The UN Orbital Program is in place for a reason. It has consequences for global s
ecurity. The Russians even pay for it out of their defense budget! It took years to negotiate, and the Big Five have committed huge resources towards it. They’re not going to chuck it because Spektorov had a new dumb idea."
"You shouldn’t underestimate someone like him."
"What," she brandished the picture, "has he done besides talk?"
"Several things. Firstly, he’s making grass roots allies. Lowell City is an initiative of the Mars Pioneers Society. They’re a well respected American group calling for Martian settlement."
"I’ve never heard of them."
"They have their circles. Spektorov recently joined their board of advisors. Among their plans for the year are to go from four thousand, to forty thousand members."
"That’s ambitious."
"They want to go Mars, Lakshmi. They’re not short on ambition. Or, anymore, on funds. I went through their newsletter back issues – guess who recently donated ten million dollars?"
"Alright, so he wants people to picket the White House and do bake sales for Mars."
"He’s done more than that. This is what I just finished when you came in," she handed Rao a set of papers.
"What are these?" she scanned them. "Are these are US mid-term results?"
"Almost two thirds of 2052’s winning candidates received money from the Spektorov Foundation. Each got ten million dollars – same as the Mars Pioneers. Look at the last page."
"The last three here are Democrats."
"Yes. Arroyo, Saunders, and Fastello. All three are openly pro-space. Saunders and Fastello ran against incumbents, John Kuzmicki and Sandra Wong. Both had received donations from Sun Star Mining in the past. This year, Sun Star kept its purse shut. Wong and Kuzmicki both had voting records favorable to Sun Star."
"Why would Spektorov betray them?"
"They’re big on defense. They co-sponsored a bi-partisan bill for increasing US shipyard output, for the UN Orbital Program."
Rao went silent.
"Even if he can get political support behind this Martian city of his, the US is not going to break ranks," she said.
"Why not? The US prides itself in its independence from foreign treaties."
The Hundred Gram Mission Page 14
