Nature Futures, page 13
I slip a few bucks in a vending machine for one of those big leather bones. I chew.
When I get back to my office a savvy-looking brunette in a well-cut suit is sitting on a corner of the desk. Gossman. “You’re wondering about the cats,” she says.
I wave my tail a bit. Not a wag, but it says I’m paying attention. Her hair has copper highlights. Or maybe she put drugs in my water dish.
“Project Felix,” she says, “is an undocumented feature of the new Man release.”
“Undocumented is right,” I say. “You’re doing some kind of super-tweaking with the human-cat chimaeras, and I don’t think it’s for Man 2.1. Chimaeric DNA ripping through the wild? Influenza vector?”
“You’re a smart pup,” she says.
My hackles raise. “Do Bill and Steve know what you’re doing?”
“Down, boy,” says Gossman. Instinctively, I sit back on my haunches. “Bill and Steve will find out soon enough. This is all for the better. Infected humans—and dogs too—will be smart and independent. The rest will just keep right on dipping seafood feast into plastic bowls.”
Woof. That’s straightforward.
She looks at me speculatively. “Right now, we need a top-flight coder.”
I’m alert: my nose is quivering.
But Gossman is relaxed. “Everybody knows dogs are the best. But, as a dog,” she says, “you have some loyalty issues. Am I right?”
I just stare at her.
“Loyalty is a gift, freely given,” says Gossman.
I give a halfhearted wag of my tail. Not for dogs, I think.
“But not for dogs,” says Gossman. “Wouldn’t you like the freedom to make your own decisions? A whiff of feline flu could make all the difference.” She pulls a tiny aerosol can out of her purse.
I’ve got reflexes humans can’t compete with. I could have it out of her hand in a split second. But do I owe my loyalty to the company, or to the great web of which all dogs, cats, and humans are part?
She sprays. I breathe deep. She’s right: dogs are the best coders.
Heartwired
JOE HALDEMAN
Joe Haldeman served in the Vietnam War and used his experiences to pen the classic SF novel The Forever War, which won the Hugo and Nebula Awards in 1975. He has a degree in astronomy from the University of Maryland and is currently adjunct professor at MIT, where he teaches writing. He is author of many stories and novels, and lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Gainesville, Florida. His Web site can be found at http://home.earthlink.net/~haldeman.
Margaret Stevenson walked up the two flights of stairs and came to a plain wooden door with the nameplate “Relationships, Ltd.” She hesitated, then knocked. Someone buzzed her in.
She didn’t know what to expect, but the simplicity surprised her: no receptionist, no outer office, no sign of a laboratory. Just a middle-aged man, conservative business suit, head fashionably shaved, sitting behind an uncluttered desk. He stood and offered his hand. “Mrs. Stevenson? I’m Dr. Damien.”
She sat on the edge of the chair he offered.
“Our service is guaranteed,” he said without preamble, “but it is neither inexpensive nor permanent.”
“You wouldn’t want it to be permanent,” she said.
“No.” He smiled. “Life would be pleasant, but neither of you would accomplish much.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper and a pen. “Nevertheless, I must ask you to sign this waiver, which relieves our corporation of responsibility for anything you or he may do or say for the duration of the effect.”
She picked up the waiver and scanned it. “When we talked on the phone, you said that there would be no physical danger and no lasting physical effect.”
“That’s part of the guarantee.”
She put the paper down and picked up the pen, but hesitated. “How, exactly, does it work?”
He leaned back, lacing his fingers together over his abdomen, and looked directly at her. After a moment, he said, “The varieties of love are nearly infinite. Every person alive is theoretically able to love every other person alive, and in a variety of ways.”
“Theoretically,” she said.
“In our culture, love between a man and a woman normally goes through three stages: sexual attraction, romantic fascination, and then long-term bonding. Each of them is mediated by a distinct condition of brain chemistry.
“A person may have all three at once, with only one being dominant at any given time. Thus a man might be in love with his wife, and at the same time be infatuated with his mistress, and yet be instantly attracted to any stranger with appropriate physical characteristics.”
“That’s exactly …”
He held up a hand. “I don’t need to know any more than you’ve told me. You’ve been married twenty-five years, you have an anniversary coming up … and you want it to be romantic.”
“Yes.” She didn’t smile. “I know he’s capable of romance.”
“As are we all.” He leaned forward and took two vials from the drawer, a blue one and a pink one. He looked at the blue one. “This is Formula One. It induces the first condition, sort of a Viagra for the mind.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head, almost a shudder. “No. I want the second one.”
“Formula Two.” He slid the pink vial toward her. “You each take approximately half of this, while in each other’s company, and for several days you will be in a state of mutual infatuation. You’ll be like kids again.”
She did smile at that. “Whether he knows he’s taken it or not?”
“That’s right. No placebo effect.”
“And there is no Formula Three?”
“No. That takes time, and understanding, and a measure of luck.” He shook his head ruefully and put the blue vial away. “But I think you have that already.”
“We do. The old-married-couple kind.”
“Now, the most effective way of administering the drug is through food or drink. You can put it in a favorite dish, one you’re sure he’ll finish, but only after it’s been cooked. Above a hundred degrees Centigrade, the compound will decompose.”
“I don’t often cook. Could it be a bottle of wine?”
“If you each drink half, yes.”
“I can force myself.” She took up the pen and signed the waiver, then opened her clutch purse and counted out ten £100 notes. “Half now, you said, and half upon satisfaction?”
“That’s correct.” He stood and offered his hand again. “Good luck, Mrs. Stevenson.”
The reader may now imagine any one of nine permutations for this story’s end.
In the one the author prefers, they go to a romantic French restaurant, the lights low, the food wonderful, a bottle of good Bordeaux between them.
She excuses herself to go to the ladies’ loo, the vial palmed, and drops her purse. When he leans over to pick it up, she empties the vial into the bottle of wine.
When she returns, she is careful to consume half of the remaining wine, which is not difficult. They are both in an expansive, loving mood, comrades these twenty-five years.
As they finish the bottle, she feels the emotion building in her, doubling and redoubling. She can see the effect on him, as well: his eyes wide and dilated, his face flushed. He loosens his tie as she pats perspiration from her forehead.
It’s all but unbearable! She has to confess, so that he will know there’s nothing physically wrong with him. She takes the empty pink vial from her purse and opens her mouth to explain …
He opens his hand and the empty blue vial drops to the table. He grabs the tablecloth …
They are released on their own recognizance once the magistrate understands the situation.
But they’ll never be served in that restaurant again.
The Forever Kitten
PETER F. HAMILTON
Peter F. Hamilton was born in Rutland, in the English Midlands, and still lives there. He began writing in 1987 and sold his first short story to Fear magazine in 1988. His first novel was Mindstar Rising, published in 1993. Since then he has produced a number of SF mysteries and space operas, including the Night’s Dawn trilogy, Pandora’s Star, and Judas Unchained. His Web site can be found at www.peterfhamilton.co.uk.
The mansion’s garden was screened by lush trees. I never thought I’d be so entranced by anything as simple as horse chestnuts, but that’s what eighteen months in jail on remand will do for your appreciation of the simple things.
Joe Gordon was waiting for me; the venture capitalist and his wife Fiona were sitting on ornate metal chairs in a sunken patio area. Their five-year-old daughter, Heloise, was sprawled on a pile of cushions, playing with a ginger kitten.
“Thanks for paying my bail,” I said.
“Sorry it took so long, Doctor,” he said. “The preparations weren’t easy, but we have a private plane waiting to take you to the Caribbean—an island the EU has no extradition treaty with.”
“I see. Do you think it’s necessary?”
“For the moment, yes. The Brussels Bioethics Commission is looking to make an example of you. They didn’t appreciate how many regulations you violated.”
“They wouldn’t have minded if the treatment had worked properly.”
“Of course not, but that day isn’t here yet, is it? We can set you up with another lab out there.”
“Ah well, there are worse places to be exiled. I appreciate it.”
“Least we could do. My colleagues and I made a lot of money from the Viagra gland you developed.”
I looked at Heloise again. She was a beautiful child, and the smile on her face as she played with the kitten was angelic. The ball of ginger fluff was full of rascally high spirits, just like every two-month-old kitten. I kept staring, shocked by the familiar pattern of marbling in its fluffy light fur.
“Yes,” Joe said with quiet pride. “I managed to save one before the court had the litter destroyed. A simple substitution; the police never knew.”
“It’s three years old now,” I whispered.
“Indeed. Heloise is very fond of it.”
“Do you understand what this means? The initial stasis-regeneration procedure is valid. If the kitten is still alive and maintaining itself at the same biological age after this long, then in theory it can live forever, just as it is. The procedure stabilized its cellular structure.”
“I understand perfectly, thank you, Doctor. Which is why we intend to keep on funding your research. We believe that human rejuvenation is possible.”
I recognized the greed in his eyes; it wasn’t pleasant. “It’s still a long way off. This procedure was just the first of a great many. It has no real practical application, we can’t use it on an adult. Once a mammal reaches sexual maturity its cells can’t accept such a radical modification.”
“We have every confidence that in the end you’ll produce the result we all want.”
I turned back to the child with her pet, feeling more optimistic than I had in three years. “I can do it,” I said through clenched teeth. “I can.” Revenge, it is said, is best served cold. I could see myself looking down on the gravestones of those fools in the Bioethics Commission in, say … oh, about five hundred years’ time. They’d be very cold indeed by then.
Joe’s affable smile suddenly hardened. I turned, fearing the police had arrived. I’m still very twitchy about raids.
It wasn’t the police. The teenage girl coming out from the house was dressed in a black leather micro-skirt and very tight scarlet T-shirt. She would have been attractive if it wasn’t for the permanent expression of belligerence on her face; the tattoos weren’t nice either. The short sleeves on the T-shirt revealed track marks on her arms. “Is that…”
“Saskia,” Joe said with extreme distaste.
I really wouldn’t have recognized his older daughter. Saskia used to be a lovely girl. This creature was the kind of horror story that belonged on the front page of a tabloid.
“Whatcha starin’ at?” she demanded.
“Nothing,” I promised quickly.
“I need money,” she told her father.
“Get a job.”
Her face screwed up in rage. I really believed she was going to hit him. I could see Heloise behind her on the verge of tears, arms curling protectively around the kitten.
“You know what I’ll do to get it if you don’t,” Saskia said.
“Fine,” Joe snapped. “We no longer care.”
She made an obscene gesture and hurried back through the mansion. For a moment I thought Joe was going to run after her. I’d never seen him so angry. Instead he turned to his wife, who was frozen in her chair, shaking slightly. “Are you all right?” he asked tenderly.
She nodded bravely, her eyes slowly refocusing.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Joe said bitterly. “We didn’t spoil her, we were very careful about that. Then about a year ago she started hanging out with the wrong sort: we’ve been living in a nightmare ever since. She’s quit school; she’s got a drug habit, she steals from us constantly; I can’t remember how many times she’s been arrested for joyriding and shoplifting.”
“I’m sorry. Kids, huh!”
“Teenagers,” he said wretchedly. “Fiona needed two Prozac gland implants to cope.”
I smiled over at Heloise, who had started playing with the kitten again. “At least you’ve got her.”
“Yes.” Joe seemed to make some kind of decision. “Before you leave, I’d like you to perform the cellular stasis-regeneration procedure for me.”
“I don’t understand. I explained before, it’s simply the first stage of verifying the overwrite sequence we developed.”
His attitude changed. “Nevertheless, you will do it again. Without my help you will be going back to prison for a long time.”
“It’s of no use to adults,” I said helplessly. “You won’t become young, or even maintain your current age.”
“It’s not for me,” he said.
“Then who …” I followed his gaze to Heloise. “Oh.”
“She’s perfect just the way she is,” he said quietly. “And that, Doctor, is the way she’s going to stay.”
The Road to the Year 3000
HARRY HARRISON
Harry Harrison was drafted into the army on his eighteenth birthday. His experiences during World War II left him with a hatred of all things military, demonstrated in his satirical novel Bill, the Galactic Hero. After the war he was an artist, editor, and writer for pulp magazines: many of his early stories appeared in John W. Campbell’s Astounding. His best-known creations are The Stainless Steel Rat and Make Room! Make Room! He now lives in the Republic of Ireland. His Web site can be found at www.harryharrison.com.
It has certainly been an interesting third millennium. High points that spring to mind are the intergalactic wormhole expeditions—all thirteen of them. All departed as planned. Of course, none of them has returned yet.
Perhaps more satisfying has been the global reduction of greenhouse gases. So successful has this been that, in fact, the global ice caps are growing and the glaciers expanding. The new industry of growing forests, just to burn them for the carbon dioxide that they release, is becoming a most profitable one worldwide.
Most interesting, perhaps, was the discovery in 2688 of the remains of germanium-based life-forms that might possibly have visited the planet Pluto. This is still very much of a mystery. Was it hoax or visitation? The jury is still out.
But these, and other physical events of the millennium, are far outweighed by the idea, the theorem, the equation—the concept—that has changed every element of our society, every formula, every scientific discovery that makes mankind what it is today.
At the risk of being pedantic, I draw your attention to the Universe. It exists. It functions. Interactions occur at every micro and macro level. Scientists observe, study—and discover. The animals of the Galapagos Islands had millennia to mutate before Charles Darwin arrived. It was his intelligent observations of them, then his ratiocination, that produced the Origin of Species.
Albert Einstein did not, of course, invent energy, for it existed independently of him, and was there for him to study—waiting, some might say, for his application, clarification, and classification. He possessed the skill, the intuition, the intelligence to observe and simplify—and declare that E=mc2.
These are two samples out of thousands—hundreds of thousands—that clearly demonstrate that it is the application of intelligence to observation that reveals nature’s secrets. But, oh, it is such a haphazard occurrence that we must stand in awe at how much has been learned in such an unstructured manner.
Now, as we approach the end of this third millennium, and look forward to the as-yet-unrevealed wonders of the fourth, we must bow our heads in gratitude to the man and the woman who discovered, and formularized for mankind, exactly how the process of discovery works.
We are all familiar with the titanium sculpture of this couple, standing in the station of the lunar shuttle in Mare Serenitatis, where they met. Then, because of a photon storm, the shuttle was one hour late, and they talked.
Stern was a professor of philosophy, specializing in intuitive logic; Magnusson a physicist well known for his study of tachyons. They seemed to have little in common, other than an academic background. Nothing could be further from the truth; their respective disciplines embraced each other like the Yang and Yin.
We will never know those first words that they spoke to one another. Would that we could! We must settle for the scribbled equations on the back of an envelope: equations that poured from the fruitful mating of those two great minds. Before their shuttle trip was over, the basic theory was clear, the applications virtually universal. Before the next day was out, the equations were clarified, reduced, and finalized into the Stern-Magnusson Equation as we know it today.
