(R)evolution (Phoenix Horizon Book 1)
Page 17
Peter never stood before two thousand slack jaws before.
“Think about this. People ‘locked in’ with Lou Gehrig’s Disease or brain traumas. Who can’t communicate because of cerebral palsy. Or in a coma. Or even in supposedly vegetative states! We could know what all these people, cut off from their families, friends, and caregivers are thinking. Or if they’re thinking at all. They don’t need to pretend to type in their brain. They don’t even need to know how to spell or move a cursor on a screen. They only need to think. And we’ll know. We can give the conscious among them fuller, more meaningful lives, through communication.
“Let’s take it a step further. If we can translate the thoughts of a human being, then thoughts can go both out . . . and in. And we can transfer that information, digitally, anywhere, knowing which thought we’re transferring by looking at its code. We can add information to a person’s brain, like learning educational models or skills or experiencing scenarios. We’ll be getting right down to the elements of what defines consciousness, in a way never possible before. The digital reader will even record the ancillary thoughts that memories attach to. So it will not only record my experience of speaking to you today, but any thoughts I’ve had that are related to this experience. Like my nervousness at public speaking, which made me flash back to my most nervous moment on a stage, in seventh grade in Mr. Penta’s class, watching a girl I had a crush on in the first row watching me. That’s all on the Cortex 2.0 now. This is the first step to something that, until now, was only thought of as science fiction—uploads—the copying or transference of all a brain’s contents into a computer substrate. The complete thoughts of a human. But in a machine.
“It’s extraordinary how far we’ve come. Everything we’ve learned about science and technology up to now is converging to produce the most fundamental change yet: taking our machines and putting them in ourselves. Prosthetic limbs, pacemakers, sensory implants, nerve stimulators. They make the unwhole whole. The Hippo 2.0 and the Cortex 2.0 will be key tools in this biotech revolution, bringing the information age to the inside of our brains, which can only lead to a fully-fledged biotech age . . .”
Carter’s small voice whispered in his ear. “Something’s wrong . . .”
Peter looked into the audience. There was a restlessness, a discomfort that was palpable. He spoke louder, as though increased decibels could win them back. “Never forget, humanity adapts, survives, and evolves. And because of humankind’s history of technological advancement, more people today, around the world, experience higher standards of living, better medical care, more security, and less trauma than in any previous time in human history . . .”
“Wrap it up!” the earpiece exhorted. Peter could see the sidelong glances at neighbors. At watches. Peter caught Carter’s expression, struggling to look calm.
He plunged ahead. “Some of you might be wondering why I made a presentation that was more ‘magic act’ than ‘investor’s pitch.’ Well, a man named Arthur C. Clarke, who wrote a book you might have heard of called 2001: A Space Odyssey, once said, ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’ And the magic will be here very, very soon. Thank you. Any questions?”
Tepid applause. Rumblings. Carter was subtly shaking his head at Peter. The audience was his until . . . the slack jaws. It was the extrapolation of the technology. But why? Perspiration flushed from his body.
A hand in the audience went up a few rows from the back, but the questioner was short and hidden behind a large man seated in front of him.
“I’m sorry,” said Peter. “I can’t see you. Can you please stand up?”
The man stood up and only smiled with his mouth, his gray eyes frosty with calculation.
Peter felt the blood rush from his face and flood his gut.
It was Bruce Lobo.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Do you think you’ve changed with this augmentation?” asked Lobo.
“Shit!” said Carter in the earpiece. “I didn’t think he was coming.”
How could he not have assumed Bruce Lobo was a member? A burst of adrenaline swamped Peter’s system. Time slowed . . .
“I . . . um . . . haven’t taken IQ tests yet to quantify how much more or what kind of intelligence is specifically involved, but I’m definitely better able to handle multiple and simultaneous information feeds and synthesize data more efficiently. If you’re asking if my personality has changed, no, I don’t believe so. But you’ll have to double-check with my wife. Remembering to take out the trash may qualify as a major personality shift for her.”
But Bruce wouldn’t sit down. “It’s such a subjective question, it isn’t fair to ask the patient. Maybe I should ask your partner? Carter, has he changed?”
Carter stared steadily at Bruce. “No. I agree with Pete’s assessment. But his wife is definitely happy about the trash.” He flashed his most charming smile, getting a big laugh, but Peter could tell he was lying.
His mind, changed or not, couldn’t stop spinning. Bruce Lobo. The Phoenix Club. Of course he was a member! A rush of thoughts consumed him: Was there a connection between Bruce’s membership and what Bruce did to him and Biogineers and the date of the Lobo/Biogineers merger: 10/26? And why would he be wondering that?
Another hand went up. “How accurate are a person’s memories with this device?”
“Usually more accurate, because there’s no post-experience reinterpretation of input that doesn’t fit your preconceptions. Meaning, even if we don’t believe what we saw, we’ll still remember it. If I saw a blue bus, it was a blue bus, because the Hippo 2.0 and the Cortex 2.0 are recording the blue bus. I don’t change it to a yellow bus later in my memory, because it makes more sense to me to have seen a yellow bus. Humans do that all the time. It’s why eyewitness testimony is so flawed. We see what we expect to see and remember what we think we should remember.”
From the very back, an elderly man asked, “Do they differ from our memories?”
“Well, the fact they’re digitally translated is different. But functionally, only more accurate.”
A young man who didn’t look too far out of college asked, “Can you put one person’s memories into someone else?”
“It’s a fantasy, isn’t it? To share memories, thoughts. It might create remarkable empathy, to really know what it is to be in another person’s shoes. But who knows, maybe not. It’s theoretically possible.”
A middle-aged man wearing a plain white T-shirt and chinos stood up. He gave Peter the willies. There was nothing concrete that should have disturbed him so. He felt like . . . amorality personified. “Can this machine be used on someone without their knowledge? Or under duress? Or if they’re unconscious?”
Carter’s voice in his ear was hesitant. “Careful . . . don’t know what he really does, but he’s with the Pentagon.”
Jesus, was the guy a torturer for a living? “If you mean instances against the will of the patient”—and the man nodded—“then I’d have to say you could, but it would be unethical to do so, and I wouldn’t. I guess this tech will bring up all kinds of issues over cognitive liberty.”
A broad-shouldered man with stick-straight posture and a steel-gray buzz cut two seats over continued the uncomfortable line of questioning, “Can you selectively record or retrieve memories, leaving some information secure and untouched?” He had to be military. DARPA or similar.
The voice in his ear said, “General Padechevsky. NSA.”
“I’ll have to say, theoretically, yes,” Peter replied.
The general continued, “One more please . . . can you tap into a live feed from the Hippo 2.0 or the Cortex 2.0, so it’s recorded in more than one location?”
What would the NSA do with this? “Haven’t tried it yet. I’ll let you know when I do.”
A man who looked like a late-night comedy-show nerd stood up. “Can you cross-reference a database of memories for common threads or concepts? And how about in a group of people?”
“Again, theoretically, yes, I’m hoping to prove you can. Until then, it’s only a hope.”
Charles, a gray-haired attorney from a white-shoe law firm, stood in the second row. “Could these memories be admissible as evidence in a court of law and, if so, how do you think that will affect jurisprudence?”
“I’m not a lawyer. I don’t even play one on TV.”
Four seats over, Ronald, a law professor from University of Chicago, stood to reply. “Charlie, I think the questions will revolve around whether recorded memories have any rights at all, since they’re digital and can be made external to the human body. For instance, e-mails don’t. They are seen as evidence. So will they have First Amendment rights? Or Fifth Amendment rights? Or the right to privacy? Doubtful. It’s back to the concept Peter called cognitive liberty. We’ll need to define that.”
Many heads nodded throughout the amphitheater. There were a lot of lawyers.
Dr. Azziz stood. “I’d like to state something I’m sure my fellow pharmaceutical executives are thinking and that is this technology will really cut into our profit margins!”
“But Dr. Azziz, we can finally make dementia or Alzheimer’s a moot point. Maybe this is naive of me to say, but isn’t that what everyone wants? Especially you as a doctor? To medically increase longevity, but with a good quality of life, mentally whole? What’s the point of a new heart if you have an old, damaged brain to go with it?”
Azziz didn’t look convinced.
A bald man with huge, bug-eye glasses stood up in the back row and said, “That’s all well and good and altruistic, but what’s the killer app?”
The killer application: the use of a technology that would elevate it into more than anyone had conceived. That would make it ubiquitous in society. Like e-mail encouraged people to use computer networks. Or popular gaming titles promoted particular gaming systems.
“I don’t know,” said Peter, “until it happens. That’s the thing with killer apps. It’s apparent after the fact. Rarely before. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it will revolve around being able to think and communicate more effectively and therefore create increased efficiencies in an increasingly competitive world. Someone will try something, I’m sure.”
An older gent rose. “That’s what I’m afraid of: the killer app. What happens to society if we allow these things to take over? How do we control it?”
“Control it?” yelled a younger member. “That’s not the problem. It already is mind control!”
The older gent did not sit down. “Am I the only person here concerned about these ‘cyborg citizens’ in our midst? This isn’t some benign implant replacing a disabled sense—this is a memory implant that could change what you think the world is. And what you think of your fellow, less intelligent humans. Do we all need to get one, just to survive?”
Peter jumped in. “I don’t see why you should be concerned. If anything, I remember things better than you, which means I see the world more accurately. I or my father or anyone who has this surgery, are not a threat to anyone. Why would we be any more so than anyone else?”
“Jobs!” yelled a voice from the audience. “You’d get their jobs!” Many heads nodded again.
The older gent turned to his left and directed his question a dozen seats over. “Would the religious right endorse this or oppose it?”
Before Peter could answer, a short man with camera-ready white hair rose slowly from his seat. Peter recognized him even before Carter cursed in his earpiece. It was the televangelist Dill Kenilworth, host of God’s World and owner of the largest Christian television network on earth. “I can tell you what I and my brethren would say. We’d say this is an evil technology, designed to enslave us to the Antichrist and cease us from being in God’s image, as we were created. I’m sure the young man means well, but as surely as I stand here, this contraption is an affront to our God-given human dignity. He’s trying to become God Almighty, instead of kneeling humbly before the Lord. He would find no support here.” Peter understood Kenilworth’s power. His few words were sold by a folksy-meets-brimstone persona. He was as aggressive as a gamecock, with more charisma than any five presidents put together. No wonder people followed him.
“So you would have us do nothing?” asked Peter. “Even as we watch more and more of our loved ones become . . . less and less?”
“It’s God’s will, to reveal to us our vanities and our arrogance of knowledge. We’re all God’s children and loved by Him, with or without our faculties.”
“Sir, I stand by my work. While you say suffering is the will of your God, I try to help. That’s what I was put on this earth to do.”
“But we do help them, son. It’s called prayer.”
The earwig whispered, “Don’t go there. Back off.”
Peter was dying to tell the reverend where to stuff the hundreds of millions of dollars his downtrodden faithful scraped together and mailed him to have their prayers answered, while he lived like royalty off it. “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to agree to disagree on this subject, Reverend. Next question?”
No one stood. No one raised a hand. Peter checked on the FDA chairman. He was frowning.
“May I say one thing in closing? You’ve opened my eyes today. I’m amazed at the broad range of opinions this group has about what I’m proposing. So maybe this is an opportunity to bring these issues, and the greater issues of science, to the public. It should be the obligation of a citizen scientist like myself to encourage public participation on these issues . . .”
But the uproar silenced the rest.
Voices, not bodies, stood out amidst the din of the arena. “. . . Who’s going to get these chips, because they can pay for it? And who deserves them?”
“. . . You don’t actually think that ‘the people’ out there have any idea what in blazes you’re talking about, do you? If half of the population is below average, that’s fifty percent that you might as well write off right now . . .”
Not all the comments were derogatory. The supporters entered into philosophical fights with their brothers where they stood.
It was difficult to hear Carter’s voice in his ear above the pandemonium. “Leave the amphitheater. Now!” Peter looked at him like he was crazy, but Carter was already walking.
Peter grabbed his laptop and hustled out. He chased Carter down the path toward the main lodge, hyperventilating. “What the fuck happened in there? I was ambushed!”
“Ambushed?”
“Well, whaddaya call that?”
“Healthy debate. You present something controversial and these guys’ll fight about it.”
“It was way more adversarial than that.”
“Pete, you’re paranoid. Really. Just . . . go away. I’ve got hands to hold and tempers to calm. And please keep out of trouble for the rest of the day. I’ll see you back at the cabin after dinner.”
There was nothing else to do. Peter sat at a bar and drank a couple of beers. If Carter was right, it made him even more aware of how ostrichlike he’d been, keeping his head down in Silicon Valley and ignoring the rest of the country and the world. His work touched people at a primal level. Anything that changed the future did that. He wondered if rational discussion between such divergent worldviews was possible. Members filed out of the amphitheater, still arguing amongst themselves, to take up predinner activities of tennis, volleyball, mind-alteration, and escorts, among other diversions. Paul Simon crooned “Boy in the Bubble” in his head, warning of the monied classes joining with technology to create, or destroy, the world.
He unconsciously pulled his hair in annoyance, as though tugging could make the music stop.
No one came up to him afterward. No one engaged him in conversation. Once again, he was the pariah, his invisible P emblazoned on his forehead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Peter took a walk around the camp a coupl
e of hours later, because walking alone was less pathetic than sitting alone. A voice called his name.
It was Bruce Lobo, sitting on the hip-high wooden post-and-rail fence that marked the red light district, next to one of the most beautiful women Peter had ever seen. Her long thick hair was the color of pale honey and her eyes the shade of violets. She was not dressed in camp garb, either. Her formfitting designer dress, expensive shoes, and gold-and-diamond jewelry, while inappropriate to the Sierras, led him to believe she was a woman of style and means. Their body language suggested intimacy. Bruce motioned Peter to join them. Since there was no way to avoid either insult or confrontation, he warily approached the pair.
“Excellent presentation, Peter. You’ve changed the game. Again,” said Lobo.
Not sure if it was a compliment, Peter said nothing.
Lobo smiled at Peter’s silence. “You’re right. I need to apologize. I’m sorry for the brawl. But then, you swung first . . .” Lobo grinned. “Peace?” He held his hand out to shake.
Peter reluctantly shook his hand. “Peace.”
“You know I wouldn’t bullshit you. Not about this. These idiots are so bogged down in old paradigms, they have no idea the world’s moved on. You’ve moved it on. It’s a neurosociety you’re building. And it’s damn well about time.”
Peter wondered who the beauty was. Member? Staff? Prostitute? He held his hand out to her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Peter Bernhardt.”
“Vera Kostina. The pleasure is mine.” She had a firm handshake, and her stunning face didn’t move much when she spoke, as though the emotions inside were well contained.
Lobo laughed. “Thanks, Bernhardt. You always had better manners . . . when you’re not trying to knock my lights out.” He turned to Vera. “I’m told he’s much more likable than me.”
“Attila the Hun was more likable than you,” the Russian purred.