Dream Dance

Day 302 - Crabs and the Priviledge to be Wrong

It didn't take long to discover that everything we thought we knew about Crabs was wrong. As soon as we saw their cities, their power plants and factories, their trains, planes and rockets, we jumped to the natural conclusion that they were sentient. Their technology meant they were clever; their space travel meant they were curious; their peaceful global community meant they were wise. It was, in retrospect, an obvious mistake.

The raw probe data suggested troubling divergence from the model. Nowhere was there any trace of writing. No labels or signs, no billboards or placards, no books or newspapers, no street names or numbers, not even any graffiti -- nothing. Likewise there was no radio communication, and the clicks they made themselves seemed to be more correlated with their level of arousal rather than their activity. There was no obvious hierarchy or leadership structure, and nothing that we could discern as coordinated decision making. It just looked like they all knew what they needed to be doing without having to ever ask.

Chemical language theory was invented to hold up the edifice of sentience. Crabs engage in trophallaxis, much like ants. While sharing food by mouth they probably also pass pheromones and other chemical signals. Why couldn't there be a pheromone grammar to express complex ideas? This chemical language might resist reduction to symbols, unlike our own very linear form of communication, so perhaps they never discovered writing or radio. Some even argued (those troubled by the Crab's tiny brain size) that the chemical signals might be a deeper type of "brain language" that would allow individual Crabs to share thoughts. They would solve problems collectively, like a kind of "hive mind."

Tantalizingly close, and yet wrong in every important respect.

When the E.O.Wilson dropped into the Crab system one of the survey team's very first tasks was to get samples of Crab saliva. They found it was easy to send probes to the surface; the Crabs entirely ignored both the starship and all their robot vehicles. Of course the samples were teeming with Lexocytes. It seemed like the answer. Lexocytes ("book cells") held about 10 times the genetic material of the Crabs themselves, and that would make an excellent media for expressing thoughts in a chemical language.

The name stuck, but the idea died quickly. Too many converging lines of evidence contradicted any plausible theory of Crab sentience. Once they worked out how Lexocytes worked in the Crab brain there was no going back. Crabs are semi-sentient at best, and more likely rate as entirely non-sentient. It might be more realistic to argue that the Lexocytes live a technological lifestyle using the Crabs as hosts, but the idea of a sentient microbe is beyond nonsense. Sometimes finding out you're wrong can be the most important conclusion.

Day 298 - Revenge of the Proton Membrane Model

Despite the rain, I've been outside a lot. It's not just because I find the outdoors more calming than my increasingly claustrophobic hab. It lets me shut systems down in strategic patterns, and test my fuel cell model. Since I had no test data for comparison I needed to create my own baseline. Each piece of equipment, alone and in combination, gives me a new load level and thermal resistive datapoint. My model and my measurements, after endless refinement, are finally starting to fall into line.

As usual the results are more complex than expected.

The cells are clearly underpowered. The curves cross somewhere around 75%, the membranes overheat and efficiency drops so low I'm basically getting nothing more. I suppose, if I didn't run the AC or the crapper, I could get along OK with those levels. But I need the crapper; I'd have to spend the whole day gathering nuts if it couldn't produce the food oils I need to live. The AC I suppose I could live without (although it would make food refrigeration more energy hungry), but the new demands for long cooking times of the native planets are another story. Again, something I need to do to live. So what's left? The science. I have to ration power to my field gear.

The tricky part is what to do about it. Both cells are identical. This is awkward since I had been expecting one cell to be clearly weaker, which would indicate malfunction and would make it obvious I need a replacement. Since they are the same it's not clear that replacing even both of them would make any difference. What I need is a third cell to bring up the total capacity, and that's a somewhat more difficult case to make.

I could go to Maija. She would probably see the negative affect on the science and PI's are about nothing if not results. On the other hand she's busy and this is a minor issue that can be handled by the support staff. She would tell me to go to Bea. Bea li-Edregis is -- let's just say -- not my biggest fan. I've spoken with her about this before, and she scoffed at my request. Everybody always wants more power, she told me, and put my complaint at the bottom of the queue.

Our Mission Support chief was sponsored by Pi. My fuel cell models would not impress her.

I feel hollow. Building the model seemed frustratingly futile, and yet I hoped it would turn up something. Now I have nothing to do, and no sympathetic ear to turn to. The science is suffering -- I'm falling more behind every day -- and there's nothing I can do about it.

Day 294 - Invasion at the Tiny End of the Scale

My normally almond-brown skin is taking on a decidedly yellow tone. Some expedition members with less natural melanin are sporting an even more alarming shade of orange from their steady diet of Tangroot. Of course we could filter out the staining compounds, but it would take energy and what really would be the point? We knew this planet would change us, as we ultimately may change it to suit ourselves. Not all biospheres can support human life, and we should not invade all of those that can. In some cases we have the potential to destroy fragile ecosystems and disrupt life cycles just by our presence. It all comes down to chemistry.

The human body is host to tens of thousands of species of "friendly" bacteria. Our own body cells may be outnumbered ten to one by tiny organisms. We need them; they come with us; they are part of the package. And yet they represent billions of years of aggressive, invasive evolutionary strategies. Even otherwise benign biota in a new environment could run wild, overrunning the native species and overwhelming the entire biosphere.

Fortunately for the most part stable microbiotic systems like Sigma 957 are quite robust against invaders. The probe did extensive testing -- and we confirmed the results when we arrived -- to determine that Earth bacteria wouldn't find it easy here. Although our chemistries are similar enough that large creatures like us can eat what we find and (mostly) live, the microbial environment is mutually hostile. While this means that we're not likely to get sick on native diseases, it also means that the genetic tricks that our bacteria have evolved for living comfortably in a multicellular Earth animal will not work if they try it outside our bodies. Microbes depend on a chemical ground truth, and those differ enough to protect both sides.

We're cautious nonetheless. A cache of Earth bacteria, left carelessly, could ultimately find a way to thrive, so to reduce the chance of that we limit how much gets left about. Mostly that means we process our own wastes, recycling what we can and sterilizing anything that remains. As the old saying says, we try to leave only footprints.

For ourselves, we're soaking in it every day. This is why we all have artificial immune systems; if I didn't have one I wouldn't be here. Most likely before anything from this ecosystem could learn to pose a threat to us we'd have changed ourselves. If we stay we will, over the centuries, become native to Sigma 957.

Day 289 - Space in the Age of Money

Space travel is a triumph of intellect but a tragic failure of reason

Space exploration was largely impossible in the Financial Age. Science had to ride the coattails of industry, and space travel could not be monetized unless the price was low. But space travel was enormously expensive, and it could not be made cheap without massive investment in research and infrastructure that no one was willing to make. It was a giant game of chicken -- any corporation that spent the money to make space travel affordable would have opened the way for others to exploit their investment. Whoever made the first move would lose, so the vast potential of space went unrealized.

Of course there was some space activity. Orbital boosters can also carry warheads, and such it was that in a great orgasm of technological innovation the United States of America lofted Neil Armstrong, and the few others who followed, to walk on the moon. They did a little science as a pretext, but mostly they just walked, showing the flag in a pointless exercise of militaristic posturing, a last gasp of the dying power structures of the obsolete nation-state. The fact that this happened in 1969 proved that relatively low technology was sufficient for the task. The fact that as national governments became more and more financialized the funding dried up proved that corporations had no interest in space, let alone space science. That's what the quote above means. However great the adventure, the price meant that to pursue it was considered irrational.

And yet space beckoned. After decades of stagnation, a huge consortium of industrial, aerospace, media and other industries began the project of returning to the moon using mid-twenty-first century technologies and -- of course -- the best of modern financial "discipline". Humanity's second stroll on the moon would turn a profit. This massive global organization, whose stated goal was nothing short of the monopolization of space and space technology, without irony or any sense of shame called itself "The Syndicate."

They missed the centennial of Armstrong's famous small step by two years. Some of that was an international graft scandal that halted the project for a year (although it was later alleged that The Syndicate manufactured the scandal in order to stretch out the schedule for obscure financial reasons, which was easier to believe than the notion that governments had any power or will to challenge them), and some of it was ongoing cost overruns that required constant sources of new revenue. You see, when a corporation sets out to make a profit it doesn't matter if it succeeds at doing anything else. As long as contractors were getting paid they didn't care if anyone ever walked on the moon.

Nonetheless, 102 years after the first time it happened, Else Erdwalde stepped in lunar soil. Except her boot left the imprint not just of human aspiration, but of the corporate logo of the shoe company that had built it.

And yet any triumph was irrational by their standards. 2 years later The Syndicate dissolved. The patents reverted to their parent companies and the assets were sold at auction. The financial geniuses had decided they were worth more money that way, and they were probably right. Erdwalde's team used their emergency vehicle and blasted away, wrecking their lunar habitat and obliterating her footprint that had until then been carefully preserved. Humanity was confined to an ever-shrinking Earth for another 60 years.

The next humans in space were not there for profit or military glory -- they were there to explore. Science, the bastard stepchild which had always had to beg for scraps, now led in an unprecedented explosion into the unknown. Driven by the inherently positive meritocratic cycle of discovery, the vast depths of space lured us with a siren call. Intellect no longer fights reason, and the children of the Reawakening have inherited the universe.

Day 283 - How to Get Lost without Really Trying

24 minutes after I was born, the first infant died. Before I was eight hours old there were thirteen more. Panic spread, and my routine surgery was delayed. After 26 more deaths, it was suspended indefinitely. Something had gone terribly wrong, and parents everywhere where holding their breath.

My mother and father were not afraid of technology. They were both scientists and knew the difference between a statistical aberration and a deep trend. Somehow, however, the unknown hit them hard. My mother was always susceptible to depression, and her post-partum state of mind must have been especially lacking. Not only that, but back in the '70s there was a movement proposing that enhancement was an evil that should not be imposed upon children. Demonstrably wrong, the ethos had nonetheless taken root in my parents. A week of indecision was all it took. I was Lost.

The deaths were caused by septic shock due to flaws in the implant kits from one of the e2 replication programs. Despite infant mortality on a scale unknown since the first neo-natal enhancement -- 682 babies worldwide in just a couple of days -- the system of review found the problem and corrected it very quickly. Less than a week after the first death was reported a comprehensive report was issued and the ban lifted. e2 enhancement surgery resumed and millions of my cohorts started normal lives like everyone else.

But not me. Too many children had died for my parents to let the matter go so easily. I was to be unenhanced, they decided, and live my life as a natural human. They thought it was the rational, ethical decision, and they justified it to me many times over my life. Right or wrong, it was a decision shared by thousands -- we of the Lost Generation.

I've often wondered what my life would have been like if I'd been enhanced as a baby. Simply put, I'd be someone else. It's not a matter of different capabilities, it's a matter of a different self. It's not possible to separate the mind from the body, as many might like to think. If my body were e2 -- which I would have been if I'd been born only hours sooner -- "I" would not exist.

Day 278 - All Prototypes have Parlor Tricks

Coach ne-Voosen shared an office with another coach in the school of medicine, and she had a young intern, and he was a prototype. His name was Zen. He explained to me how it all worked.

The role of a prototype is to verify the platform. All e3 have a standard set of enhancements, the fundamental systems that all have to work together properly or the subject dies. Already proven in the lab, the core chipset -- the genetic alterations, the array of biological, electronic and neural devices, and the control systems that bind them together -- are installed in volunteer infants and carefully monitored for complications. Scientific rigor is critical to their safety and those who follow, so it's important to minimize variables. On the other hand, there many more extensions of the base platform that also need testing. As result, every e3 prototype gets one specific extension.

Zen has a kit that alters the chemistry of his muscles and tendons. His unique mix of different muscle fibers and the increased strength of his connective tissues make him a natural-born athlete. Well, an athlete anyway, however he was born. When I was doing some of my own training at the school's underground track, I watched him vet applicants for the field program. As they would run as fast as they could, sweating and straining, Zen would run backwards in front of them so he could watch their form. That is, as Zen put it, his parlor trick.

The Alpha session started shortly after that. I knew we had an e3 on the short list, but I had never bothered to look up who it was. I was far too busy with my own preparation. Several grueling days after we arrived the entire team came together for a social event at a makeshift club that someone had whipped up on one side of the oceanographic lab. Whoever it was had cleverly darkened the main part of the bar so that the only lighting came from large windows into a huge tank. The eerie bluish light danced over everyone and made us all look like were we at the bottom of the sea. With the various seashell motifs in the rest of the decoration the result was quite spectacular.

As Umam, who was the only one I really knew at that point, introduced me around to some of her colleagues, I suddenly noticed there was a naked girl in the tank. She seemed to have been there quite a while and didn't act in a hurry to leave. She casually worked her way through bits of underwater equipment, turning off valves and securing them with binding straps. Her blond ponytail streamed out behind her as she moved and flared out into snaking tentacles when she stopped, making her oddly long head look rather like an octopus. She eventually swam for the surface and disappeared, her body arcing in a lazy dolphin kick like a serpent. She had been holding her breath for at least 30 minutes.

I saw her later, somewhat more clothed and talking gaily with a large group of admirers. I went over.

"That was your parlor trick, wasn't it?" I said, a bit more accusingly than I had intended. I hiked my thumb over my shoulder toward the glowing tank windows.

She smiled brightly, white straight teeth gleaming in her clean, 19 year-old face. Her hair was still a little wet, and yet it shone as she nodded. "V-gap hemoglobin." She bowed politely. "I'm Evo."

"I know" I said. I bowed and smiled, and I think my teeth ground a little. If her prototype ears could hear it she kept on smiling.