by Judyth Baker
Letters to the Cyborgs: As Humans becaome 51% Machine, or More, Who will Inherit the Earth?
Copyright © 2016 Judyth Vary Baker All Rights Reserved
Published by:
Trine Day LLC
PO Box 577
Walterville, OR 97489
1-800-556-2012
www.TrineDay.com
[email protected]
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016939214
Baker, Judyth Vary.
—1st ed.
p. cm.
Includes references and index.
Epud (ISBN-13) 978-1-63424-075-8
Mobi (ISBN-13) 978-1-63424-076-5
Print (ISBN-13) 978-1-63424-074-1
1. Science Fiction, American. 2. Cyborgs. I. Baker, Judyth Vary. II. Title
First Edition
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the USA
Distribution to the Trade by:
Independent Publishers Group (IPG)
814 North Franklin Street
Chicago, Illinois 60610
312.337.0747
www.ipgbook.com
The fringed curtains of thine eye advance
And say what thou seest yond.
Prospero, The Tempest: Act I, Scene 2
While you here do snoring lie,
Open-eyed conspiracy
His time doth take.
Ariel, The Tempest: Act 2, Scene 1
I’ll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I’ll drown my book.
Prospero, The Tempest: Act 5, Scene 1
Lee, this book of science fiction is dedicated to you, in tribute to what you might have become, had you not been slain before my eyes on Nov. 24, 1963, in the presence of seventy Dallas police. I will always love you. For all that you were, and for your courage and free spirit, to you this book is dedicated.”
– Judyth Vary Baker, Berlin, Germany 2016
Table of Contents
Cover
Title page
Copyright page
Epigraph
Dedication
Foreword
Letters to the Cyborgs
The Perfect Wife
The Wearing of the Green
The Mud Pack
Airspace
Little Green Men
Mouse House
Re-Runs
Teenagers
Save the Tiger
Hansen’s Snake Oil
Hospital Zone
Underground
Cryogenics
Algorithm
How Green is the Sea
About “Free Ship One”
You are now entering a Twilight Zone…
Update:
The Music of the Spheres
The Religion Solution
Time Capsule
A Primitive Beat…
Powerful Woman: the Story of Your Mother
Her Way
Introduction
Her Way
Her Way: more comments about Lee’s science fiction story.
Lee H. Oswald: What He Read and What He Thought
Lee’s “System Opposed to the Communist”
Lee Harvey Oswald, the Reader: Oswald’s Reading Habits in New Orleans, and Evidence Manipulation
APPENDIX
Acknowledgements
Foreword
One of the pleasures in life is to identify and read a great science fiction book, one that is imaginative and that can give us a glimpse into our potential future as well as our present. I was pleasantly surprised by Judyth Vary Baker’s Letters to the Cyborgs, especially that the topic is particularly relevant.
We live at the crossroads of establishing the rules for artificial intelligence and the limits of medical science. A time when powerful authority figures in the world, like Bill Gates, Warren Buffett and Stephen Hawking, are warning us about the threat of artificial intelligence. How it could wipe out our economy and put everyone out of a job, and then take over the world as we lose control over its development.
There are others like Ray Kurzweil, inventor and futurist working at Google, who welcome the new AI era as a new industrial revolution no one should prevent. An era ushering in the abolition of work, leaving humanity to pursue other matters like culture and creativity.
What will our future hold? Who can predict the future, if not science fiction authors? And this is precisely why Letters to the Cyborgs is an important book, because it imaginatively opens up fresh avenues we might not have considered, and all in an entertaining way.
Judyth strikes me as a perfect candidate for such a search to uncover the potential of AI. She has won multiple science prizes; she was in the newspapers a number of times in Florida as a whiz kid who would go on to achieve an extraordinary career in science. She was snatched away early on to work on medical projects where she demonstrated a unique mind that could cut through to the essential and produce excellent results. She’s still thinking and working independently on a promising cure for cancer.
Judyth first contacted me before her historical books were published, through the insistence of our common friend, the late Martha Rose Crow, with whom Judyth was working on a book on the subject of ponerology. Martha was a force of nature: she believed in us all and was a key inspiration for us to achieve our greatest potential. Judyth and Martha were both American women living in exile in the Netherlands, fleeing persecution, and the three of us shared a passion for science, poetry, books and science fiction.
In my opinion it is not only Judyth’s obvious intelligence, it is also this knowledge of science she has managed to acquire during those years, that led to a creativity and imagination worthy of Iain M. Banks and Frank Herbert. Judyth is a databank of all the research done in every scientific domain, and it shows in the results of Letters to the Cyborgs.
Judyth’s interests in writing science fiction is not new. Whilst dating Lee Harvey Oswald in New Orleans in the 1960s, together they were passionate about the world of sci-fi. Judyth presents in Letters to the Cyborgs one sci-fi short story written by Oswald himself. After all those years, the publication of Oswald’s sci-fi story is akin to history in the making.
I feel readers of this first science fiction novel from Judyth will agree that this is an excellent debut which shows great potential. I find the short stories, which are all linked to a certain extent, extremely intricate and cleverly woven into hard science. This is sci-fi at its best.
– Roland Michel Tremblay
Roland Michel Tremblay is a French Canadian author, poet, scriptwriter, IT events and development producer, and technical adviser and science-fiction consultant for authors. His science fiction website (http://www.themarginal.com/) was created for authors working in the genre for television.
Letters
to the
Cyborgs
The Perfect Wife
The first robot wedding in history was held June 30, 2015. “Frois, the bulky groom … married Yukirin, an android made to look like the Japanese pop star Yuki Kashiwagi.…The wedding was officiated by another robot named Pepper. She usually spends her days helping customers at Softbank’s cell phone stores. The ceremony was even sealed with a kiss. Guests … were treated to a robot-sliced cake and a robot wedding band, RT reports. The robots’ big day was put on by the Japanese company Maywa Denki … according to the International Business Times. It was only a matter of time before ‘bots started tying the knot. Tech-savvy brides and grooms already employ them as ring bearers and officiants, the New York Times reported last year.”1
– Huffington Post, 6/30/15.
When Henry Wallet dodged across the
busy street with its screaming car horns and roaring trucks, he found himself transfixed by a brightly-colored sign. He spotted it just as he reached the opposite curb. What was odd was that he’d never noticed it before. It was a garish-looking sign, but Henry couldn’t pull his eyes from its brilliant, warped-looking letters. He forgot the rush of the New York crowd around him as he pondered its message. Squinting, he leaned closer to read the small print there.
Divorced? Time to try A Perfect Wife – 30 Days Free Trial. No Money Down! Easy payments, quick credit check. Access us on Civilian Web, PerfectWife.cw.us, or visit between 09:00 am-21:00 pm at 421 5th Ave, NY 10018.2
Having a site on the Civilian Web meant the business was government approved, monitored, and legal. Ever since the World Government moved in to make sure the Internet would be truly safe and patriotic,3 millions of unsavory sites had vanished (along with some that Henry thought were OK, but what did he know?). Now he took a deep breath, as he considered the message. This wasn’t a scam. He took a photo of the sign, which was a hologram, and watched it disappear. He was used to being targeted by such signs, but this was the first time he’d had one thrust at him on the street. Well, advertising was everywhere. It was just the way it was. For a small sum, he was at least able to block ads out of his head while he was asleep (or so his AdBot Blocker claimed: maybe he just couldn’t remember them, which was the next best thing). Meanwhile, the craving he had to eat at Sunday Snackers Restaurant was an urge he couldn’t fight. Why he’d never thought about eating there before, he couldn’t explain. One thing for sure: dinner at Sunday Snackers had to come first. Its persuasive ad was simply irresistible.
As Henry slid into a comfortable chair at the restaurant, he noticed that his belly was in the way. He’d been gaining weight ever since he and Helen divorced. Despite the campaign going on against overweight people, despite the fines imposed, despite the fact that he was about to lose his job because he was borderline obese, Henry couldn’t help himself. Restaurant and grocery store advertisements constantly barraged him with visions of fast, cheap food, along with their attractive smells and certain subtle excitatory signals that made his brain tell him that he was always hungry.4
Henry had gained ten kilos, but it didn’t stop him from missing Helen’s meals, which were health-conscious, with big doses of organically-grown vegetables. His weight gain began almost as soon as the divorce was final and Henry was legally cleared to receive restaurant advertisements three times a day, instead of once a day, since he didn’t like to cook. To combat his depression (Helen had run away with a man who had so many implants that he was supposed to be able to function sexually for another fifty years), Henry’s doctor also advised that he must treat his brain’s almond-sized hypothalamus with electrotherapy while he slept.5 That tiny bit of very primitive tissue couldn’t be reached by mere logic.
After eating more than he wanted and just as he paid his expensive dinner bill, a suggestion to visit a nearby dessert kiosk popped into his mind. The smell of freshly-fried donuts accompanied the ad. Henry, choosing to control his equally urgent desire to contact PerfectWife until after he got a jelly donut, felt proud of himself for buying just one. Henry also decided to walk back to the block where he first saw the PerfectWife sign, since it was only a kilometer away. “I need the exercise,” he said to himself, but the truth was, Henry hoped he’d lose a kilo or so by walking the extra blocks, instead of taking a motorized chair.
The night crowd was thick with shoppers, the signs blinked off and on, as Henry, shaking his head with amusement at himself, exercised his way toward where he’d encountered the sign.
“A perfect wife? Hah!” he said, stopping where the hologram had appeared. Instead, nothing happened. Surprised that it didn’t materialize again, and sorry that his shoes were so tight and his belly was so full, he paused to complain about it. He must have been a random target instead of a potential client selected by researching profiles. “I see they’ve mismatched my preferences again!” he told the empty space. “I hate random, meddling ads!” He was about to lodge a complaint with the Ad Ombudsman, but then he paused. Perhaps it was already 9:00pm, and “PerfectWife” was closed. That would explain why the hologram didn’t appear again. He usually kept his watch (embedded in his wrist) visible, but he’d turned it off while holding the donut, which was dripping with raspberry-flavored goo. Seeing that it was only 8:00, he had plenty of time. “I’m coming, PerfectWife!” Henry said aloud. He began walking toward 5th Avenue.
Immediately, visions of beautiful women began to fill his head, nearly overwhelming his senses. Somehow, Henry was able to stay on his feet, but he scarcely knew where he was as one woman after another appeared before his eyes, sizzling with personality and good looks. Long before he neared 5th Avenue, dozens of potential PerfectWives had already paraded themselves through his head and before his eyes, while his brain kept responding automatically to some candidates more than others. Henry was so absorbed in browsing the PerfectWife Catalog that a Track Guide alert went off: he was not paying adequate attention to where he was going. He had stepped out of the walkway boundary three times, which was unlawful. Now he was ordered to seat himself in a Street Chair (the fee was low) for the rest of the journey, but he hardly cared.
The selection process was now down to three candidates: one was called Lucy Lips, who would always provide him with all the news; another was called Mrs. Dines (she was a terrific cook of natural foods), and the third was called Sexx Kitty. To his surprise, at this point, all three women merged into one. Standing before him was a PerfectWife, smiling at him, nestling in his head. Still, he kept comparing her lovely figure to his own Pillsbury Doughboy rotundity. How could she care about him? As he thought about that, Lucy Sexx Dines vanished. “See you soon, honey!” he heard her say, her mouth in a kissing shape being the last thing to disappear. She had vanished little by little, reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland.
Checking his watch again (of course it had many other functions), Henry was now suffused with an urge to relax as the Street Chair trundled him along. As he slouched down, half-numb, he was given a once-over by the Chair’s built-in Prosperity Assessment Device. Henry learned that he had recently eaten 1.5 kilograms of food – 3,900 calories – with insufficient fiber. His toilet would be sent the message, and later tonight, when he sat on it, the toilet seat would prick him with a tiny injection of a drug that acted as a laxative. That would solve the fiber problem. If there were any blood sugar problems, another tiny prick would fix the insulin levels. Many people had artificial pancreases now, with automatic insulin regulators,6 but Henry could not qualify for the implant until he gained a few more kilos and developed Type 1 diabetes. He looked forward to the operation, because then he could eat without worrying about his blood sugar. All would be well.
By the time he stopped thinking about food and insulin, Henry found himself deposited at the PerfectWife entrance. It was a tall, impressive office building. The thought came to him to press his hand down on the security buzzer. He received a warning message that all data concerning him would be accessed if he decided to meet Lucy. Was he willing to do that? “What the hell!” he said. “I want to meet Lucy and her other personalities. After all, it’s a Free Trial. What can go wrong?” He pressed the security buzzer and felt a wave of electricity pass through him as he was quickly scanned.
Welcome, Henry Wallet, Typical B-Inhibited, Straight Male, in danger of losing a productive position! Your employers realize how valuable you are and have confirmed that they will contribute 42% of the cost of your therapy, should you accept your Perfect Wife after the 30-day free trial.
Forty-two percent! Henry was stunned. He hadn’t realized that his company valued him so highly. It had been made known to him that the average support for therapy from his company was only 19%. He was more than twice as valuable to them as the typical employee! For the first time since Helen had walked out on him, Henry began to feel twinges of hope. Maybe life was about to
deal him a new hand of cards, with all aces.
As the security door swished open, Henry was told that his entire profile, including (of course) DNA and his life story, had now been downloaded into PerfectWife’s system. When a door to an elevator down the hall flashed with the holographic sign, Henry entered that elevator. As he did so, two robotic arms gripped him and its door closed, but even so, Henry was half-flattened by the speed of the elevator,7 which got him to the twentieth floor in two seconds. As he stepped from the elevator, which opened to reveal gleaming black marble floors and a brightly-lit white corridor, two beautiful women appeared. Each gently took him by an arm and guided Henry toward a half-open door farther down the corridor.
“We’re so glad you came, Henry!” the blonde to his right told him, as they entered the room. “Won’t you please be seated, Henry?” the brunette said, indicating a red-leather chair. Henry’s watch glimmered green: both women were robots. Properly speaking, they were Cyborgs, because they carried so much human flesh in the right places. These days, everybody’s watches analyzed the percentage of human flesh versus machine.
The blond served Henry a legal-level relaxation beverage, while the brunette escorted a gray-haired gentleman into the room.
”Mr. Landry,” she said, “please meet Mr. Henry Wallet, Therapy Experiment #21.”
“Experiment?” Henry said, flushing. “I don’t want to be in any experiment.” He stood up, intending to go for the door, but Landry said, in a commanding tone, “Sit down, Henry. Let’s talk some business. You’ll like the financial benefits that will accompany your completion of this experiment. Your company values you as an employee, and has agreed that you can receive, as a bonus for your cooperation and consent, a brand-new pancreas at no cost to you. By the way, your pancreas is shot.”
Henry considered. He knew that his pancreas was precancerous and was anxious to get it replaced, so he sat down again. But he wasn’t anybody’s fool.
“Is this going to be dangerous?” he asked.
