Into the Twilight

By Michael Segedy

Kirkus - Into the Twilight received a recommended label from Kirkus Reviews

" A often heady SF tour of humanity that offers a good deal more engaging talk than phaser-fire action." Entire review is posted at: www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/michael-segedy/into-the-twilight/

Into the Twilight takes place 200 years into the future when Jacob Ladder and Emma Fine, strangers to one another, wake from two centuries of suspended life to a future that challenges many of their deep-rooted assumptions about what it means to be and remain human.

As the story opens, the human race faces demise from within and without. Mulling over its options, the governing council decides that the human genome will require “major redesigning” or “scrapping” if what’s left of humanity is to survive.
And that’s where Ike comes in.

Not only is Ike a test case for future humanity, and the story’s clever, enigmatic narrator, he could very well be its last historian, that is, the one chosen to record the final events in human evolution. As he attempts to fulfill his newly assigned role, he engages in a journey of self-discovery that ends in the most unlikely of all places.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Segedy
• Release date: Feb 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005085117

Michael Segedy

Michael Segedy is an award winning author. Over the years he has lived abroad in faraway places such as Taiwan, Israel, Morocco, and Peru. His life overseas has inspired him to write thrillers that include scenes set in foreign lands. Several of his works have won recognition in international book awards contests. Novels to date: Hampton Road, young adult thriller In Deep, a political thriller Cupiditas, a political thriller Evil's Root, includes In Deep and Cupiditas EMMA: Emergent Movement of Militant Anarchists, a terrorist thriller Our Darker Angel, a political, psychological thriller The Bed Sheet Serial Killer, crime thriller A Lethal Partnership, political thriller Sanctimonious Serial Killers, includes The Bed Sheet Serial Killer and A Lethal Partnership Why Blame the Stars? young adult thriller mystery Into the Twilight, social science fiction Apart from writing novels, Michael has published three non-fiction works: A Critical Look at John Gardner's Grendel Teaching Literature and Writing in the Secondary Classroom Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson with Introduction, Notes, and Lessons by Michael Segedy He's also published numerous academic articles about literature and writing in various scholarly journals. Gwendolyn Brooks, former poet laureate of Illinois, presented him with Virginia English Bulletin's first place writing award.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

00:00 – 07:46

Greetings to you, whether from near or afar! Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Ike, and my task will be to provide you with a captivating account of a crucial period in the history of humankind, beginning in the first quarter of the twenty-third century.

Wow! I know. Sounds pretty darn daunting. Gangs of history to cover. And if not delivered, uh, artfully, could turn out to be as stuffy and dry as one of those old-fashioned libraries with shelf after shelf and row after row of dusty old archives called books. But don’t fret. History doesn’t have to be presented like some dead thing that needs to be poked with a stick to see if it’s still alive. That certainly won’t be my approach. My role will be to make it exciting, to breathe life into it, and I believe I’ve come up with a way to do just that. Let me explain.

Since what you’re about to hear is a rather long history—long if you choose to hang around until the end—I’ve decided to use an old technique to add a little color and dimension to what could, in the wrong hands, turn out to be a drab narrative. The approach I’ll be borrowing was still popular right up until that dreadful day when the lights went out. In less than a fortnight the world became a place full of chaos and death. Darkness and frozen corpses everywhere. Far worse than the Dark Ages after the fall of Rome. By comparison, that period was more like a walk in the park on a sunny afternoon.

You see, the blackout in 2190 had nothing to do with plundering barbarian hordes. And this time it wasn’t just half the world that was plunged into darkness and death. It was the whole kit and kaboodle, except for a tiny, exceptional enclave that managed—because of good planning and dumb luck—to miraculously survive.

Okay, so how am I going to pull this off? What is my plan exactly? If nothing else, to present history in an informative and entertaining way. To use an antiquated expression, I plan to create a narrative that is dulce et utile, which in Latin means sweet and useful. This of course will require skipping over as much of the dry eye-glazing stuff as I can, unlike the historians and academes of old who dedicated their lives to creating a plethora of marvelously detailed tomes. Not to disparage their achievements, it’s just that I, unlike my esteemed predecessors, dance to a different drummer. A different muse.

At the same time, I must humbly confess that I’ve never undertaken anything creative. Most definitely never anything along the lines of historical fiction. Uh, quite frankly, though this might come as astonishing, I’ve never actually narrated anything of any length—fiction, non-fiction, or otherwise. Never ever. So you might think that I would feel a little cowed by the challenge. But truthfully, I’m not, nor for that matter ever could be. For now suffice it to say that trepidation is not something I register, and as regards my competence, I have sufficient reason to believe I can actually accomplish my task most admirably. I even have side bets hedging on it, which I’ll fill you in on later.

Now before introducing two of my principal characters, I think it’s fitting to present the backdrop for this history in the form of an image. You could say that it’s a kind of metaphorical/metaphysical illustration of an underlying reality that I and everyone and everything must ultimately face. For this reason, its best to consider the image as sort of an antagonist. And not just my characters’ antagonist, but the omnipresent and omnipotent antagonist of everyone and everything in the universe. I believe seeing it in this light will give you a much better idea what humanity’s greater battle is ultimately about and why there’s this proclivity to Make hay while the sun still shines.

Okay, ready? Here goes.

I’d like you to imagine a frozen lake—really, really frozen—at −459.67 °F, infinite in size, covering earth and sky and all the star clusters and galaxies and universes known and unknown, something akin to a humongous mass of ice, black and inert, its chill evenly distributed from top to bottom, end to end, containing everything that exists, existed, or ever will exist. Better yet, in quantum terms, a superposition both existing and not existing simultaneously, everywhere and nowhere. Place and time useless constructs. Got it? Yes? No? Maybe? Not important. I’m not sure I get it either. It’s a painfully abstract image. Analogy. But I do get the general contours. The Big Picture. Where everything in the universe is destined to end up. For now, suffice it to say that if you’re confused, by the time you reach the end of this chronicle, assuming you do reach it, the importance of that image will gradually become illuminated.

All right then, it’s about time to meet Jacob Ladder and Emma Fine, two loveable and courageous young people who have been in suspended life for 200 years. They will wake to a future that will challenge many of their deep-rooted assumptions about what it means to be and remain human. Yes, to be and remain human, which is largely what this history is about. Quite frankly, what most of human history is about. First I’ll introduce you to Jacob and then later to Emma. Oh, there’s this other thing I need to mention before I begin. Something I’m obliged to point out about yours truly to set the record straight.

Let’s see, how do I explain this? I guess you could say I have this physical condition, call it a glitch, which you might think places severe limitations on my ability to present, accurately and vicariously, the emotions of my characters. Although I do not at all think this is true, that my physical condition gravely limits me, certainly a solid case could be made against me. That’s why I’m strongly inclined to broach the subject now. Nonetheless, I believe, have confidence even, that I’ve been able to surmount my handicap. Or if not, been able to work around it. Please indulge me while I briefly explain.

Okay (sigh), this condition I have is similar to that of a person suffering from analgesia: the inability to feel pain both within and without. Now you would think that might seriously handcuff me as a historian when it comes to understanding emotion and imbuing my characters with it. That it’s a requirement I need in order to describe my characters’ feelings. To be fair, you could smack me with a ballpeen hammer and I wouldn’t even cringe. That’s a fact. Therefore you might hastily conclude that for me to compose historical fiction would be something like, uh, expecting a goldfish to appreciate Bach’s concertos in D minor. Well, let me just say that goldfish manage quite well despite their limitations. That being said, I think I do a splendid job of capturing my characters’ feelings, regardless of any constraints placed on me. Of course, like I mentioned before, you’ll have to be the judge of whether or not I pull it off. As the old saying goes, The proof is in the pudding.

All right, now that I’ve apprised you of my handicap and the weighty task I have before me, let’s get started. I prefer to begin on the day when one of our two brain-dead protagonists wakes up. Not figuratively, but literally. Literally brain-dead and literally wakes up.

CHAPTER TWO

00:00 - 23:48

The warm light strikes his shuttered lids as his entire body starts to emerge from a deep and empty sleep. It twitches twice and then his eyes open sluggishly, slowly, like the dew-soaked wings of a butterfly. He can feel his heart accelerate as the blood in his arms and legs circulates and the numbness in his toes and fingers begins to vanish.

Straining, he raises a heavy, unsteady arm and touches his forehead with his fingertips. It’s cool and dry, and behind it there’s a dull, throbbing pain.

He blinks several times and then tries to focus, but all he can make out is a fuzzy gray curtain of pale light. Gritting his teeth, he strains to lift his head and look around, but it’s too much of an effort so he gives up.

As he lies there the thin film covering his eyes gradually begins to dissolve. Above him he can see a ceiling, its entire surface glowing softly.

He sucks in air and smells something salty and rank. It’s so strong he can taste it, which causes his stomach to begin churning. The smell makes him think of decaying skin and he hopes he’s wrong.

He tries again to lift his head and this time he’s able to raise it slightly, just enough to scan the room. He can see what looks like a missing wall, though everything is still out of focus. Through it he sees a muddy haze of colors, mostly green, blue, and yellow. His neck can no longer support his aching head, which feels as heavy as a block of granite. He slowly lowers his head while keeping it turned towards the opening.

As he fixes on the patches of color, tiny rivulets of water course from the corners of his eyes down his cheeks. He blinks his eyes several times and then waits for his vison to clear.

After a minute or so the colors begin to morph into shape and he’s able to recognize a grassy field with two trees. The field is dotted with what looks like hundreds of bright yellow wildflowers. A pleasant scent of earth and fresh grass replaces the odor he smelled moments before. He turns his attention to one of the trees and its bent, leaning trunk. It reminds him of the tall birches in his back yard. Beneath their sprawling branches he can make out dark pools of shade thick enough to wade in. Above them the empty blue sky shimmers silently. Its brightness stings his eyes, causing him to roll his head over to the opposite side of the bed.

As he does so, he suddenly realizes that whatever is underneath him is not a mattress, surely not like any he’s ever known. His hand slides down beside him fumbling to touch something. Whatever it is, it’s soft, so soft that his hand seems to slip right through it. He has a sensation that he’s lying on top of a cloud without falling through it.

Where in the hell am I? he asks himself as his aching head scrambles to remember anything.

His memories come slowly. Incoherent images pulled from the darkness: A traffic light, large, green, dangling from a cable. And barely in view, something ominous, big and red with bright light dancing on chrome. The brightness makes his head throb, so he forces his mind to go blank. He lowers his chin and glances down at his body, moving his feet underneath what appears to be a gown. It’s white and soft and super light. Feels like satin.

Suddenly he senses someone in the room. He looks up and to the side. It’s a young woman. She has large blue eyes underscored by enormous striped patches shaped like sevens starting at the lower corner of her eyes, near her nose, and stretching across to her ears. The stripes are purple, blue, gold, and green. And semitransparent. He can see her skin under them. The diagonal stems of the sevens, about two inches wide, terminate at her upper lip. She’s quite attractive, perfectly smooth skin and golden hair pulled back on the sides and fluffed up on top like a field of autumn rye.

Hello there. How are you feeling this morning?

Her voice is light, like fizzy champagne bubbles, and her smile, pleasant and disarming. He likes the sound of it, how its airiness puts him at ease.

I don’t know, he says. And that’s the truth. He doesn’t really know what he feels, other than a persistent pain deep in the center of his head. And that he’s tired and confused. And disoriented. Terribly disoriented. Who wouldn’t be? Waking up in this strange setting with no idea of what’s going on, who or where he is, or what’s transpired.

He thinks he must be in a hospital of sorts. He examines her outfit. Tight-fitting white slacks, the material smooth, sericeous. Her jacket is really odd looking, more like a fancy costume than a nurse’s outfit. Certainly not like any nurse's outfit he’s ever seen. It’s white with wide gray stripes running diagonally across the front. But what really strikes him is the jacket’s large lapels. They’re really big. Like elephant ears. Pinned back elephant ears. And between them, a wide V-shaped opening, revealing a lot of smooth white skin. So smooth it looks unreal. He notices the left lapel has a name tag attached to it. Well, not attached, more like a part of the garment’s fabric. It’s glowing like a miniature monitor and displaying a name: Janus Pemrose, SLN.

The young woman steps over to the wall panel and instantly a 3D hologram of a human body emerges with icons and numbers hovering off to its side. One icon shows a heart, the numbers next to it ostensibly measuring blood pressure and heartrate. The other icons and numbers surrounding the hologram don’t mean anything to him.

He glances at a name above the dimly illuminated hologram, straining his eyes to make out the letters. The name’s familiar. Jacob Ladder. He reads the name again and feels his heart jump. Yes, that’s him! Jacob Ladder! His heart’s pumping as fast as an air compressor. Like the kind used to fill tires. He senses his blood swelling in his arteries and coursing through his body, through his arms, down his sides, and through his legs. What more does he remember? Yes, his age! He’s twenty-two-years-old, son of Martha and John Ladder, both scientists. Good! What else? He’s in college. About to graduate. Right! He’s majoring in computer science. He suddenly feels like his heart’s going to explode. It’s like a dear, long-lost friend suddenly popped up at his front door. He even has a faint memory of what he looks like.

Do you have a mirror? he asks excitedly of the woman with the incredibly smooth skin.

Yes, she answers, and then rotates her body towards the wall panel. When she spins back around she’s holding a mirror about a square foot in size and as thin as a blade of grass. It’s like she’s just engaged in some sleight of hand where the mirror appears out of nowhere. At the same time, the upper half of his bed begins to elevate slightly, though he still can’t feel it under him.

When she holds the mirror out to him, he touches the back of her hand. He does it intentionally. He wants to know if she’s real. He brushes his fingers over her skin and finds it soft and delicate and warm. They linger for a second before he takes the mirror. She waits, smiling obligingly, and then pulls her hand back and lets it drop to her side.

As he looks into the mirror he’s amazed to see this small 3D face. It’s so lifelike that for a second he thinks it might float right up out of the glass. He looks closer at the round face with the dark brown eyes and thinning hair staring back at him and is relieved when he discovers that it’s exactly the same Jacob Ladder he remembers. Not exactly a Hollywood mug, but not unattractive either, except for the puffiness under the eyes that makes him appear like he’s recovering from a serious hangover.

If you’d like, you can enlarge it like this, she says, lightly touching the corner of the mirror and drawing her finger downward. The image is now nearly the same size as his face, and the bags under the eyes ghastly larger, which causes him to cringe and lean back. She notices his startled reaction and immediately shrinks the image.

I can reduce the size even more if you like. Or you can do it yourself. Watch, she smiles, pressing her fingertip against the corner and moving it upward. The 3D image inside the mirror becomes so small that he can see his entire body."

Whoa, he says. That’s crazy. I look like this tiny little elf.

She then slides her finger downward returning the image to its former size.

Yeah, I think I like that better, he says. I just wanted to confirm something. He hands her the mirror. Thanks.

As she traipses over to the wall panel, the mirror suddenly disappears from her hand. He jerks his head back, not believing what he thinks he just saw, but before he can give it a second thought, she distracts him by taking her forefinger and scrolling down the side of the hologram and reviewing the icons and numbered lines.

Well, everything looks fine. She spins around and smiles. How are you feeling?

Okay, I guess. But not really, he thinks. The headache that he thought had disappeared down the black hole in the center of his brain is beginning to resurface. And his body still feels as weak as a noodle.

Would you prefer to sit up more? she asks.

Yes, please, he utters politely, though he’s not sure that’s a good idea.

She glances over her shoulder at the wall panel and the hologram immediately disappears. At the same time, whatever it is under him begins to reconfigure itself. He’s now sitting upright with his back resting against a fluffy cushion of air.

I don’t understand, he says. It’s like I’m, uh, just kind of suspended here. I can’t feel anything underneath me or behind me. Like there’s no mattress.

Mattress? Oh no, she grins. It’s not like the beds in olden times. The ones that caused awful sores.

Olden times? he asks.

Yes, before the Great Catastrophe.

He has no idea what she’s referencing, but it sounds like something really bad. He wonders if he’s even hearing right. Or seeing right. Brain damage maybe? Or is this some mad dream he’s having? The problem with that idea is that his dreams are never this vivid. 

Sorry, but could you please tell me where I am exactly and what happened to me? I’m really pretty confused. I assume this is a hospital of sorts, but I’ve never seen any fancy hologram stuff like what was over there, he nods towards the wall panel. Or that over there. He turns his head to the left. That, uh, missing wall and that scene out there. I mean it looks real, but then not really.

Oh, that, she smiles.

His attention is fixed on the birch branches swaying silently without an apparent breeze.

That’s a VR display. It’s an ambience enhancer. I can change it to something else if you wish. Would you prefer a jungle? A desert? An alpine scene? Perhaps an African savannah. They can be real exciting with all the wild fauna prancing about.

No, it’s fine. But really, where am I? he asks pleadingly. His stomach is churning nauseously and his headache has returned. Please, I’d really like to know where I am and what happened to me.

You’re in the SL Center, but sorry, I’m not privy to your background medical history, she says apologetically. Dr. Ames has all your records. She’ll go over them with you. In fact, you’re scheduled to see her later this morning.

What the fuck’s an SL Center? His thoughts return to the big red object. And the shiny chrome. The last thing he remembers before his mind went blank. He needs to make another effort to penetrate the darkness before the explosion, but everything’s so foggy.

Then suddenly his thoughts slip through it. He’s in a kitchen, sitting in a chair at a table. It’s early morning. Warm vapor from a steaming cup of coffee wafts up his nostrils. He’s anxious about something and in a hurry. The clock over the refrigerator is ticking off the seconds. The ticking is so loud that it fills the entire room. Why the hurry? His mind flashes to a college campus. Then to a computer lab. Then back to the kitchen and the ticking clock. He takes a quick sip of coffee, but it burns like hell. He bites down on his lip to quench the pain and then sets the cup back down. He pushes the chair back and jumps up from the table and grabs a backpack. He hears a woman’s voice call out to him. It’s his mother. He thinks she’s saying goodbye. But the word sounds eerie. Not like your normal goodbye, more like an omen.

Suddenly he cringes from a sharp pain in his head. He squeezes his eyes shut. He’s overdone it trying to force back memories. He feels like his fucking skull could split and that he might puke, but there’s really nothing in his stomach. He presses his fingers against his temples and begins massaging his head, trying to stop it from hurting.

Are you okay? she asks.

I don’t know. He bites down on his lower lip. I just don’t feel right. He lowers his hands from his head and pinches his throat, hoping he doesn’t start puking.

The nurse steps away from the bed over to the wall panel. The body hologram instantly reappears displaying its column of numbers off to the side. He watches her examine the 3D chart and then spin back around and return to his bedside.

Well, your heartrate is elevated, which means you should try to relax. She places her hand lightly on his forearm and gives it a squeeze. Her hand’s gentle and comforting and he’s disappointed when she removes it.

He closes his eyes for a few moments and then begins to feel a little better. The head throbs are not so bad now and his stomach seems to have settled some. Maybe it was only a panic attack, he thinks.

Dr. Ames? he manages to get out. You mentioned a Dr. Ames. That I’ll be seeing her later.

Yes, she smiles. She’s the psychologist who meets with the SLs.

He glances again at the initials SLN on her lapel. What’s an SL? he mumbles.

Suspended Lifer. You were in suspended life.

Suspended life? He thinks he’s heard that expression before. Maybe it was suspended animation.

So I’m a Suspended Lifer, which I guess means I’ve been like, uh, out of it for a while.

Yes, I think you could say that.

Like Lazarus?

I’m not sure I understand.

Judging by her surprised expression, he’s sure she doesn’t. I mean why have I been brought back from the dead?

She chuckles awkwardly. Well, it’s not like you were ever dead. Your metabolism and life functions were suspended until you underwent CMRR.

And what’s that? He’s annoyed a little by how lightly she seems to be dealing with his situation. Whatever his situation is.

CMRR is short for consciousness mapping, rectification, and reactivation. It’s a procedure that you needed before you could exit suspended life.

Oh, he says faintly, trying to take it all in but not really understanding what any of it means. I guess this thing I’m feeling, this uneasiness or panic or whatever, is normal then?

Yes. After an extended time in SL your body reacts to dormancy. It’s still in the process of waking up.

Okay. He swallows hard. How long was I in this suspended life?

Dr. Ames will go over all of this with you. I’m sorry, but I don’t have access to your personal history.

He clenches his teeth. He can feel the arteries in the side of his neck throb. He searches again for something from the past, anything to cling to. An image begins to arise out of the darkness of memory. It’s a young woman, her head turned over her shoulder, her lovely eyes smiling alluringly. Spread over the pale white skin of her back is a shadow. It must mean something, but he doesn’t know what. He tries to recognize the face but its features are too blurry. He suddenly feels beads of cold sweat on his forehead.

My mind. Something’s wrong, he mutters, his hands pressing against his temples as anguish and confusion spread across his face. I can’t remember anything.

Please, just try to relax and not think too much. The SLN’s face shows real concern. Like things might get out of hand. It’s natural to experience a sense of dislocation and memory loss, but most of your memories should return shortly. You just need to give the recovery process more time.

Most! he cries in a panicky voice. "Most of my memories should return. So…so you’re not sure. And like you don’t even know how long, how long I’ve been asleep or dead or whatever."

Sorry. Her brow drops. He notices the tiny lines at the corner of her eyes tighten. I’m not privy to that information. Please, you need to try and relax some. Later in the day Dr. Ames will be able to answer your questions. As I said, I don’t have access to your suspended-life profile.

He tries to make sense out of what she’s saying, but still has no clear idea what suspended life entails. He remembers a test somewhere. An experiment on mice. A mouse embryo placed in suspended animation. How long, he can’t remember. Maybe a week. But humans? No way. And what was this consciousness mapping shit she mentioned? And rectification and reactivation? It sounds insidious. How much had they screwed with his head? Would he ever be normal again? And who the hell are they anyway?

Questions populate in his head like lethal bacteria, making it nearly impossible to think. She’s right. He needs to relax. His chest feels tight, like it has this huge metal clamp around it. And his breathing is off. Out of sync. And the damn pain in his head is returning full force. He takes a deep breath, drawing in as much air as he can, and then breathes out slowly.

The nurse’s eyes have not left him and her lips are pressed together tighter than ever. She starts to speak, then stops and gives his arm a gentle squeeze before turning away and stepping over to the wall panel.

His head feels hot. Sweat is beginning to trickle from his forehead down his cheek. He raises his arm to wipe it away. His hand feels as heavy as lead, and when he removes it from his brow it falls deadweight against his chest. The sweat’s everywhere now. About his neck, on the inside of his palms, in the hollow of his back. It’s just nerves, nothing more, he tells himself. But is it?

As he fights to get a grip on himself, he hears a sharp beeping sound emanating from the wall panel. His eyes travel quickly to the nurse who has her back to him scrutinizing the numbers hanging in the air.

Suddenly the bed begins to reconfigure, and he finds himself lying once again flat on his back looking up at the ceiling. But this time something’s different. He makes an effort to lift his arms but can’t move them. It’s like some hidden force has him in its grip. He attempts to wiggle free but his entire body is held fast. By what, he has no idea. He makes a concentrated effort to move his head to the side, but it won’t budge either. Not even a millimeter. He grits his teeth and tries again. He can feel the veins in his forehead and neck push against his skin as he strains against the invisible tethers.

Finally he gives in and relaxes his tired muscles and stares up at the ceiling. His heart has stopped pounding against his ribs. All at once a light mist, like a fine sea spray, begins to settle over his face and creep up his nostrils. He thinks about holding his breath but realizes how futile the idea is. As he lies there, the muscles in his arms and legs grow numb as though his whole body has been shot through with Novocain.

As he makes one final effort to keep his eyes open, a heavy blackness begins spreading out, mopping up the light on the walls and ceiling and every corner of the room. He no longer has a will to resist. There’s only this feeble pulsing in his ears as his jaw goes limp and saliva builds in the corners of his mouth. As his heart’s palpitations grow thinner, more distant and disconnected, he senses a thick, smothering silence wash over him.

CHAPTER THREE

00:00 – 20:27

David Sagan, a slender man in his early thirties with thoughtful brown eyes and hair the color of dark chocolate, stands gazing at the distant volcano and its snowy crown swathed in a thin gray mist, his mind somewhere far beyond its rugged beauty.

I believe we’re trying Curzweil’s patience, he laments in his suave British dialect, suddenly turning away from the open wall to address Karl Emory, a middle-aged man with gray fenders over his ears. We need to show him something.

Like his friend, Emory’s dressed in a long-tailed tunic and snug pants that disappear into his boots, which are the same color and fabric as the rest of his suit.

He’s a bit skeptical about our interest in the two young, uh, time travelers, Sagan chuckles. And maybe he’s right. That our fishing expedition won’t turn up more than a minnow.

Well, Curzweil has big ideas, as you and I are fully aware. And it appears he has the support of several others on the council. Emory’s rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, a habit of his that Sagan has grown familiar with. As well as his mild Russian accent.

But his solution, is it really that? It’s too…too theoretical. And all of us on the council should have reservations about it. What he’s envisioned is not a clear step for us to take. It’s a leap in the dark. Thank goodness there’s at least one other council member, Jessica Brentano, who realizes what he’s proposing could lead to dire, unforeseen consequences.

Yes, I hear you, David.

Why make plans to circumvent M-16 only to choose self-annihilation? I know that sounds strong, but that’s exactly what it could very well come down to. Sagan’s face is several years younger than his friend’s and more intense. When he speaks, the muscles in his jaw tighten and his hairless cheeks become even smoother, highlighting the thin line running from each nostril to the corner of his mouth. Please, Karl, make yourself comfortable, he says, gesturing towards the living room.

Yes, I agree, but as you pointed out, we have little at the present to offer. Emory settles down in a chair that transfigures itself to fit his body as he shifts his weight around. You’re right, even if leaving for Zeta-5 in Sappho saves us from M-16, then what? If we haven’t resolved the life cessation issue. Although there aren’t a large number of LCs, the cases are increasing. Given our small number, any increase threatens our survival every bit as much as M-16. Our aim is to end the life cessation threat without compromising our humanity in the process. Can what Curzweil’s suggesting really accomplish that aim? Well, the two of us apparently have our doubts. Over a century ago the founders agreed we needed to safeguard humanity by preserving essential human traits. They were careful to address dangers we should try to avoid when undertaking genetic engineering or using cyber enhancements.

Yes, they did. Sagan sits down in the chair across from Emory.

They certainly had ample warnings to base their fears on. Like the war back in 2095, when Singapore’s superintelligent AI unexpectedly became autonomous and launched a cyber-attack on its neighbors. Being the history buff you are, I’m sure you remember that frightening little piece of the past.

That I do, Karl, Sagan says, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees. Its super AI ended up knocking out networks and utility grids all over Southeast Asia, shutting down the banking systems, hospitals, schools, airlines, water and sewage systems, you name it.

Right, and had Great Britain, France, and Germany not taken precautions to develop advanced AI to counter such threats who knows what would have happened. Yes, that must have been one scary time. When Singapore’s AI went renegade, not only could its own government not reign it in, but its designers couldn’t even begin to understand the AI’s motive or plan. Assuming it even had a motive or plan. The scientists that created it had overlooked a vulnerability in its design that allowed it to recursively write its own code and act independently. And to what end, no one ever discovered. One thing was certainly clear. Humanity had become an obstacle in its path.

Fortunately, Europe, as you said, was able to shut it down. Fortunately for everyone. Sagan’s jaw clenches and then slowly relaxes, like a pang of gas just belted his stomach. Well, not everyone. The chaos it created resulted in thousands of casualties.

And you would think that little history lesson would be enough to make Curzweil reconsider what he’s proposing.

Well, Karl, Sagan says, rubbing his earlobe like it’s suddenly developed an itch, Don believes what happened was due to the AI not being conscious. That it never really had a motive for destruction but went about it blindly. As he sees it, AI superintelligence was not the issue. An issue with shutting it down, but not an issue related to its malfunctioning. He’s convinced that human and machine consciousness will inevitably merge, and that our survival depends on it. Yet, what he’s calling consciousness, consciousness without a biological substrate, is highly questionable. Certainly the current AI experiment he and I are working on hasn’t convinced me that a silicon structure can be conscious, not as I understand consciousness, though our AI appears to use human language creatively and learn freely on its own.

Curzweil, he chuckles, finds your view of consciousness extremely limited. Though, of course, I’m in your camp, as is Jessica. I hope that consoles you some, Emory says reassuringly.

Sagan stops and shakes his head and says with a laugh, Yes, it’s been an ongoing argument between us that may never end. Anyway, even if he’s right, we made certain that our AI experiment isn’t superintelligent. So, nothing to fear there. But that could change.

Yes, David, I agree. For Curzweil, it’s not important that humankind remains biological. And that scares me too. He’s really stretching the definition of what it means to be human beyond recognition. Perhaps your AI experiment has encouraged him more. And will even win over a few other council members.

That certainly isn’t my intent, as you know.

Of course.

Although our AI certainly displays creativity, has human linguistic aptitudes on par with humans, has imbibed encyclopedias of information as well as tons of creative works, and has problem-solving capabilities two deviations above the norm, none of this is absolute proof that it is truly conscious, that it has an inner, subjective experience of self.

Now all you have to do is get Curzweil to agree, Emory sighs.

Yes, and easier said than done. Curzweil’s ultimate dream is to advance the human species, and he’s convinced that the use of ASI, artificial super intelligence, is integral to accomplishing that end. His aim is for human beings to obtain a level of near perfection. I guess you could say, become godlike. As I see it, his trinity is: man, machine, and super-intellect. Yes, intelligence is his holy ghost

Mortals creating god. A very old inclination, Emory smiles ironically, his lips curled up into a Salvador Dali mustache.

I have no idea how his god could be humanlike, or even conscious, as we understand consciousness, not if it’s incapable of feeling, which I’m convinced any subjective experience requires. Even pre-Hebrew myths portrayed their gods as having feelings. Of course that makes perfect sense since their gods were created in their image. But how would Curzweil’s new god be capable of feeling anything? Even if created in our image. Not as a myth, but as a reality. And if it could not feel, but instead was governed by pure intellect—if that’s even conceivable—then what would possibly motivate this new god?

Yes, and that’s a question of primary concern, David. Emory begins wiggling around in the chair again. Sagan has pretty much concluded it’s an unconscious tic of his.

Well, as humans we’re quite aware of some of the things that motivate us, and though intellect may be one of them, I believe he exaggerates and overvalues both its nature and role. In particular, when it comes to machine intelligence, or AI. Sagan pauses and then chuckles, struck by some hidden irony in his own argument against AI. You know, to be fair to Curzweil, there’s still a good amount of machine behavior built into our biology. Instinctual behaviors coded into our genes over the millennia and hardwired predispositions. And many of those behaviors were quite dark and primal. Thank goodness, Karl, our scientists have done a good job editing out aggressive tendencies. Yes, cleaning up our biology.

And our world is all the better for their absence.

Fortunately, the thin artifacts that remain are still strong enough to fire our engine.

Fire our engine? Emory’s brows arch like rockets ready to launch.

Yes, there was a time when we were driven almost entirely by aggressive replicator instincts. Our primary goal in life was ‘to multiply and be fruitful.’ And at any cost. Not exactly an edict handed down to us from on high from some deity, as some cultures believed. And when I say at any cost, I mean we were far from being sweet and loving creatures. No, not at all. We were quite violent sorts with aggressive impulses that led to all sorts of ugly, self-serving behavior. Motivated primarily by sex and reproduction. Much later, when we saw the damage such dark impulses wrought and that it was to our benefit to develop change, we decided to tame the beast inside us and transform our social landscape. Of course that took centuries and we were never fully successful. So, embarrassed over what we were, we took measures to deny the beast within. Instead we chose to lay the blame on something outside of us. An external demon we could not see or deal directly with, but could maybe drive away through prayer, ritual, and, ironically, even human sacrifice. But it just didn’t work. The beast just couldn’t be restrained. So much of what we undertook or thought about, what we created and dreamed about, what we fought over and killed for, Sagan sighs, got all mixed in with serving and satisfying the same primal impulses.

Yes, that is pretty dark, David, Emory grimaces. Thank goodness we were finally successful.

Well, it doesn’t exactly delight me to paint such a dreadful picture of our predecessors. And we’re not yet completely free of their influence, you know. Sex still plays a role in firing our engines. The trouble was that back then we were one terribly mixed up lot.

But thankfully our geneticists sorted all that out long ago, Emory says, with a sigh of relief.

They certainly took a stab at it. The challenge was to tame the beast without killing the passion that drove and inspired us.

Sagan looks past Emory over to the open wall and the fluttering wingtips of a large, yellow-nosed peregrine Falcon settling on a noni branch. The falcon is no more real than the VR scene that encapsulates it. The only thing firing the bird’s engine is a lifeless algorithm. He had hoped that someday it would be different. Someday he might see real birds on a planet that would be around long enough for them to thrive. That he would have a choice between gazing at a phony Hawaii facsimile consisting of fake birds and trees and volcanoes and gazing at a real world full of biological splendors.

Well, it’s certainly a better world, Emory says.

Sagan thinks Karl’s remark comes off as platitude, like he only halfway believes it, though he realizes that he’s perhaps injected too much of his own sentiment.

No crime, no war, no violence, no obsessive desire for power or dominance, Emory smiles.

Yes, Karl, but you know, Sagan says, padding down some hair that’s sprung up from his crown. I wonder if too much of the baby was thrown out with the bathwater?

Baby with the bathwater? Emory laughs. Where’d you get that?

It’s an old expression I came across somewhere. It means not throwing the good out with the bad. Not throwing out the baby with the dirty water. We need to keep the baby, Karl. Keep the wide-eyed marveling baby, the hungry, thirsting baby. The baby that wants to—to use something else I picked up—to, ‘suck the marrow out of life’ and live life, what was it? Yes, live life ‘deliberately.’

So that’s another golden nugget of yours from the past. I like it.

That it is. And I just hope our two SLs can show us how to...

Suck out the marrow? Emory chuckles.

Yes, precisely. Suck out the marrow. Sagan sprightly pushes himself up from his chair. I need to stretch my legs. Would you like a coffee or tea?  I think I’ll have a coffee. He struts over to what serves as the kitchen area. The typical Sumpserisian kitchen is bare except for a solitary wall panel. There are no cupboards, chairs, appliances, or tables. Just an abundance of free space.

No, thanks. I have something I need to do. He rises and adjusts his tunic, flattening its large lapels against his chest.

Well, thank you for coming, Karl, he says, returning to the living room.

The pleasure’s mine, David.

Extending his arm, Sagan gestures towards the foyer. Please, let me show you out. They take a few steps before Sagan’s tall satin boots skid to a stop against the smooth tile floor. Karl, do you think we can meet later this week? I’d like to get together with you, Brentano, and Ames, if you can work it in. I believe I mentioned that Dr. Ames is the psychologist in charge of our guests.

Yes, you mentioned her when we were having lunch at my place. I’d be delighted to join you, and later this week would be fine. Maybe if all of us put our heads together, we’ll figure out how to proceed.

Since Ames isn’t a council member, she hasn’t been privy to our recent discussions, so we’ll need to spend a little time filling her in. I’m curious to see how receptive she is to Curzweil’s views.

On transhumanism, you mean, he says, twisting his lips into a wry smile.

Yes. Trans-something or other, he replies sarcastically.

As they approach the front door and it swishes open, Emory stops and stands in the foyer for a few seconds saying nothing. He appears as though he’s forgotten where he was off to and needs to be reminded.

Is there something you wanted to say, Karl? Sagan asks, surprised by his sudden pause.

Yes. There is. I don’t feel like I really need to say this, but I’ll say it anyway. He sticks his lower lip out and leaves it hanging there, a lump of pink flesh.

Okay, Karl, what’s on your mind? Out with it. Sagan has his hands shoved into his tunic pockets while he brushes the toe of his boot over the smooth tile like he’s trying to remove a stain.

I’d just like to say that sometimes I have this feeling whenever we meet that our minds are already made up. And that troubles me. I think while we weigh in on Curzweil’s idea, we need to try and reign in any bias we might have. I feel I’m having trouble doing that. It’s hard for me to fight back my own built in prejudices. Curzweil’s been on the council nearly from the beginning of its formation, and I’m sure you’ll agree he’s one of our sharpest scientific minds, which means we need to hold his ideas in the highest regard.

For sure, Karl, but also let’s not forget that you and I have also been on the council nearly as long as Curzweil. And yes, though he is one of the most gifted scientists in Sumpseris, that doesn’t make him infallible. Though, of course, you’re right. In order to be fair to him, we need to give him the benefit of any doubt. As you’re aware, he and I are on the best of terms and have been working together on the same AI consciousness experiment.

Well, it’s probably my own bias I need to guard against, Emory laughs. I think I brought the topic up because I felt you needed to keep a watch on me. But certainly, we’re no dummies either.

I suppose we’re not, Sagan says goodheartedly.

As the two men step outside, Sagan takes a deep breath. The air is perfectly still and fresh and smells of honeysuckle, though the scent is no more real than the peregrine falcon tracing circles across the virtual sky in the niche in his living room. He glances up through the thin transparent bubble at the cloudless blue expanse, and though he’s young in mind and body, the long years weigh down on him as he reflects on the cold fact that there’s absolutely nothing alive outside their protective shell. Nor has there been for centuries. Nothing out there but the icy wind and barren earth.

Turning to Emory he says, I think what’s important is we assure ourselves that whatever we come up with is built on solid turf. And that we believe in it 100 percent. Sumpseris has already been given one chance, and I don’t believe there’ll be a second one if we screw up.

Let’s just hope we can come up with an attractive and safe alternative to what Curzweil is proposing.

Yes, and one that we can convince him to believe in as well. And if we can’t discover an alternative, then I guess we need to accept our failure.

Yes. Which means we need to get busy.

That we do, my friend, Sagan sighs, shivering slightly as he imagines the icy wind sweep over him from beyond the dome. "That we do."

CHAPTER FOUR

00:00 – 65:56

I’m sitting in a chair across from an attractive brunette in her late twenties or early thirties, with the same weird makeup under her eyes. Large, wide sevens, like Janus, the SLN, but thicker maybe and with heavier rainbow-like colors. Now that my head has cleared, I remember being sedated, remember the cloud of gas traveling up my nose into my brain. After that the lights went off in my head, I have no recollection whatsoever of getting dressed in this weird…robe. Tunic? Whatever the hell it is. Nor do I remember leaving my room and being brought here, wherever here is.

Hello, I’m Dr. Ames, the brunette says from behind a large desk composed of something like quartz. She stands and then swipes her hand quickly over the desk’s glistening top. The hologram screen hovering above it instantly vanishes.

Her hair is really wacky. It’s dark and braided in crisscrossing cornrows on top, except for its crown, which rises like a large fluffy mushroom. On the sides, her hair falls down in cascading streams, striking her shoulders and then flattening out into silky dark pools. She doesn’t look at all like a doctor, more like a posh fashion model.

I avert my attention from Wacky Hair to the wall opening on my left. It has a spacious outdoor scene. A turquoise ocean with flat waves rolling peacefully in and out, gently lifting strands of white pebbly sand. A steady breeze bends the palm trees slightly, stirring their fronds and causing their trunks to sway gently back and forth like giant bushy-topped metronomes. From where I’m sitting, ten or so feet away, I have a sensation of air tickling my skin, though I’m wondering how that’s even possible. The scene’s no more real, the ocean and breeze no more real, than this drug-induced hallucination I had right before I regained consciousness. In it my parents and sister are standing right next to my bed and smiling pitifully down at me. Their faces magnified and parabolic, and like maybe three times their normal size. Which really spooked the hell out of me.

It’s one of my favorites, she says, slipping out from behind her desk and then strolling casually over to where I’m sitting.

I hardly notice her approaching. My mind’s not really in the office. I don’t know where it is. Maybe I’m confused by the scene in the wall opening. Half of me is on a remote island in the Caribbean and the other half stuck in this bleak office.

It shows what the world was like before the Great Catastrophe. She sits down across from me and crosses her long slender legs.

Oh, I say. Her comment gives me goosebumps. I can actually feel them as I run my hand over my forearm. The Great Catastrophe? What in the hell is that? I’m afraid to ask. I remember the nurse mentioning it too.

She clasps her hands together and rests them on her thigh while my attention remains fixed on the swaying palms. I don’t know what it is, but I’m reluctant to make eye contact with her. Maybe it’s because she’s so damn attractive. I sense she’s been studying me though. I can feel her eyes all over me.

Is there anything you’d like to talk about? she asks.

I shift myself anxiously in the chair hoping to unravel the knot in my stomach. I don’t know why I feel on the edge. Part of it is her reference to a cataclysmic event I know nothing about. That and the whole weirdness of this place, like this fake beach scene I’m looking at. A goddamn mirage setting up false expectations. It’s not like I can walk out there, wade into the surf, and chill out. Also, everything about it is off. The sound, the rhythm of the waves, even the faint, far-off smell. Instead of the forgery providing any comfort, it intensifies my uncertainty, making me feel even more like I don’t belong in this bizarre place.

Yeah, there is, I say. Again, I shift around in the chair. It’s soft, and when I move it adjusts immediately to the contours of my body.

Please. Tell me what’s on your mind, she smiles warmly, the corners of her mouth forming curly cues.

Not only is she gorgeous, there’s also something strikingly familiar about her. It’s something about her face, about her complexion. She reminds me of the SLN, though she looked like she might be from Sweden or Norway. Not like the doctor here, who strikes me as Southern European. Could be their makeup. This Dr. Ames has those alluring sevens under her eyes, too, and like the nurse, little if any lipstick. Which I think sets off their natural beauty. But that’s not it. I think it’s mostly the skin. Yes, that’s it. That’s the similarity. It has no creases. No moles. No skin discolorations. It’s like their skin’s unreal.

So, Jacob, how can I help you?

Well, like maybe you could help me understand why I’m here. Not in your office but here in general, wherever here is. I feel the knot tighten again in my stomach. From what I’ve gathered so far, I’ve been in an accident and have been like asleep. And for a very long time.

I pause, waiting for her to say something, but she just sits there silently, studying me. It’s apparent she’s expecting me to continue. I guess she wants me to get my feelings out. That’s what therapists do. They want you to do all the talking. Not that I know anything about shrinks. I never had one or needed one.

The nurse told me I’d been in some kind of extended sleep. She said suspended life, whatever that means, I say kind of nervously and then dig my teeth into my bottom lip. I have no idea how that’s done, or who agreed to it, or how long I’ve been, uh, out of touch, you know, like in a coma or whatever.

Again I stop and wait. When she sees I’m reluctant to continue, she smiles and, acknowledging my obvious frustration, decides to speak up.

First, Jacob, I believe you need to know that in your particular case, the choice was not yours, nor could it have been. You see, some SLs had a choice, but you didn’t. Because of the seriousness of the accident, the choice had to be made for you.

Not capable. My heart skips like a loose chain on a sprocket, causing my body to jerk slightly. Because of the seriousness of the accident? I manage to squeak out.

Yes. You arrived with serious head trauma. The accident you were involved in caused grave neural network impairment, so your parents had to make the decision for you.

Are you saying that I suffered brain damage? That my brain got all screwed up! I cry out, getting rather emotional, especially for me. That would explain all that weird shit that’s been going on in my head.

I’m immediately sorry for losing it. I can feel the nerves in my arms and legs buzzing like thousands of miniscule gnats. I need to pull myself together.

Forgive me, but you see that’s not what I wanted to hear, not what I wanted to learn. And there are other things, yeah other things I think I’d rather not learn about. Like about this place, that is if it is really a place. As far as I know I never woke up. What I’ve been experiencing is more like a dream than anything else. A nightmare, rather. Sorry, but even you. And the nurse. The SLN. And the weird clothing you wear. Like what I’m dressed in now. And all the crazy hologram stuff. Yes, and that fake shit outside, I say, nodding at the beach scene. Everything about this place strikes me as surreal.

I stop, realizing how awful I must sound. I’m just spewing out things incoherently. I need to get a grip before I sink too deep in my own shit. Sorry, really, I didn’t mean to offend or go off like someone half mad.

Well, you didn’t offend and you don’t sound crazy, she says completely composed.

Good. And I mean it. I try to smile. It’s not like me to become unglued. Besides, she strikes me as a nice person.

Let’s just say if I appear to you unreal, I’ll just take that as an off-hand compliment, she says with a laugh.

It’s a pretty laugh, a happy laugh, like a bubbling stream.

I do understand, Jacob, how this world must be so different from the world you know. But you need to let it in. Absorb what you can of it. Not all at once, just a piece at a time.

Her voice is as assuaging as a quiet, peaceful, sun-kissed sky. A real sky. Not like that fake one out there. On the other hand a part of me has this fear, irrational or otherwise, that she might be coaxing me to believe I’m on solid ground when there’s nothing underneath. I don’t know if it’s my own paranoia or her sensuous voice that’s making the hairs stand up on the nape of my neck and electricity tickle down my back.

Would you like a mild sedative? she asks. She’s definitely noticed that I’m still wound a little tight. A little? I have to be kidding myself. I’m like ready to topple off the fucking cliff.

Anything special you’d like to have? Something to drink?

She has that smile on her face again. I find it subtly seductive. Still, I don’t think she’s trying to come on to me. Why would she? Unless she’s into prematurely balding, short, twenty-some-year-old guys with dumpy bodies. Well, maybe not all that dumpy. Maybe just a bit too squared-off. This attraction I sense is probably just some neurotic wish I have, like wanting to believe this lovely lady is interested in more than fixing my damaged brain. I mean, Sid was really cute, but the doctor here’s like otherworldly cute. Like ethereal.

I bite my lip thinking of Sid. I wonder what she thought when she heard. She must have been devastated. I sink my teeth deeper into my lip. Why’d I have to go there. Like I don’t have enough in my head to confront. I suddenly feel this guilt sweep over me. No, I’d choose Sid any day over the doctor, though I know I don’t have that choice now. Still, Sid was from the real world. From my world. Not like the doctor here. She’s like a 3D model, somebody’s Pygmalion, that’s been brought to life and given flesh and bone. I feel if I reach out to touch her, my hand might go right through her. I don’t know. Maybe this perception I have of her is connected to the drugs the SLN gave me. My head hasn’t totally cleared up. The gas I inhaled hasn’t had time to wear off.

You okay? she asks, her face expressing mild concern.

Yeah, yeah. Just kind of spaced out. And, uh, about that sedative you offered, thanks, but I’m gonna pass. I don’t need my head more screwed up than it is, I tell myself.

Part of her appeal might be her damn crazy outfit, as nuts as that might seem, and it’s not because I have some weird clothes fetish. I can’t help but notice how its thin fabric accentuates her curves, even the upper half of her outfit is revealing, though it’s kind of formal. Some kind of tunic like what I have on, but more stylish. And, yeah, sexy. Its large wide-open lapels are particularly striking, designed to reveal a lot of skin and bust. In her case, nice bust. Not too much or too little.

It unnerves me a little that her eyes are still on me. I look away, feeling a little bit like a pervert. Not that I’m going to jump on her or anything, but...

You sure you don’t want something? she asks.

What? I ask, startled by her question.

Something to drink or a snack?

No, I’m good.

She turns to the wall panel and pauses, like she’s about to say something, but I notice her lips don’t move.

Holy shit, I think. It’s got to be the drugs screwing with my head. Just like that, a woman materializes in front of the panel! She’s dressed kind of like a waitress.

May I be of service? the image asks in a hollow, dreamy voice as it takes a few steps towards the doctor. It has on a white silky top with puffy corkscrew sleeves and a black vest. Its gray pants flare out at the knees and bellow down to its high boots that reach nearly to its knees.

Christ, what is that? I blurt out, totally astonished. My bowels suddenly feel loose.

"It’s my personal