The Hundred Gram Mission (19 page)

"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 take 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?"