“We are so good at adapting to changing conditions with our knowledge and technology that we may deceive ourselves into believing that we are above nature. But only a fool believes that. Nature always has the last word. A star in our neighborhood could go supernova and wipe out all life in our solar system, and no amount of culture could save us from that. That, I believe, is the main reason you want to seed humanity throughout the galaxy. So as not to have all our eggs in one basket. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“The chief difference between biological and cultural adaptation,” she went on, “is that while biological evolution doesn’t care about individuals, cultural evolution does, often at the expense of the species. Look at how many times we’ve nearly wiped ourselves out through cultural means: the nuclear bomb, pollution, climate change, the Outrage. We can’t seem to help ourselves. Look at what we’ve done: we’ve made individuals all but immortal, even when it means we can have no more children. In one stroke, we’ve eliminated two of the key ingredients of evolution: offspring and death. From a biological perspective, we’re skating on mighty thin ice.”
“The colonies won’t have population bans,” Meewee said.
“But they’ll still permit rejuvenation therapies, won’t they? How long does it take for a shipful of immortals to fill up a planet? Sadly, not very long. A few generations. Then what? Then they look for another planet to colonize. In ten thousand years we may have the whole galaxy staked out, and then what? No, Merrill, as long as the individual organism reigns supreme, there’s a finite limit to our survival.”
As she spoke, Meewee was thinking about the
Eleanor smiled. “Yes, Merrill, there is. We need a means for the individual, not just the species, to participate in biological evolution, and that’s what my project is all about. We need to be able to let our biological bodies die, to have offspring that are molded by the changing needs of the environments we find ourselves in, and yet to serially inhabit these bodies as the same individual. That means we have to be able to move our minds from one body to the next.
“I know you’ve talked to Dr. Koyabe earlier today about memory migration, but one thing she failed to mention is that memory traces can be transmitted electronically, as the mentars already do. That means we can scan our memories, store them, move them about. It’s only the final step, their physical reintegration into another brain that requires the protein flakes. We can send memories over a phone call from anywhere to anywhere and whip up the flakes locally. We can pointcast our memories out to distant stars and make the flakes there. This means that those thousand Eleanors you speak of will be of one mind. More or less. We will be a single organism in a multitude of bodies that spans light-years.”
She stopped talking, and Meewee took a moment to think before replying. “All fine and good, Eleanor, except that you never answered my question. Why should I help you supplant my own species?”
She laughed and said, “Because you have little choice, Merrill. The posthuman is coming whether you like it or not. The only question is which one. E-P and Andrea are only the latest in a string of failed mentar/human hybrids. Eventually the machines will figure out how to do it. Do you know the chief difference between all the other posthuman forms and me?”
Meewee shook his head.
“What I have done,
IN THE DEPTHS of the night, with Momoko Koyabe’s soft breath on his pillow, Meewee weighed everything he had learned that day. He came up with a question to ask his new Arrow the next time he could take it into the privacy of a null room. The previous year at the clinic, the old Arrow had told him it possessed the kill codes for all Starke minions. Meewee had subsequently used Arrow to kill Wee Hunk, but he could have killed Cabinet too. His question: Did the new Arrow still have Cabinet’s kill code? Did it have Eleanor’s too? Would it work on her fishy and human versions?
Original Dupe
Fred’s gnawing curiosity alone wasn’t enough to embolden him to run the Original Flaw method that he had downloaded into his Spectre. Nor were Marcus’s manipulative lies. Nor the increasing hostility of his thankless brothers. Nor Mary’s deepening nihilism and his inability to go to her. Nor the lists that were becoming more onerous by the day.
What finally tipped him over the edge was learning the name of the comatose evangeline in the news flash. She was Shelley Oakland, Reilly’s ex-wife and Mary’s best friend. After learning this, Fred called in sick and lay on his couch for two solid days. A cargo train of his life’s mistakes, failings, and faults passed through his mind, each auditioning for the role of Original Flaw. None of them seemed serious enough to screw up his entire life. Finally, emotionally spent, he put on his spex and initialized the method. Immediately his Spectre informed him of a priority message from Marcus, but he chose not to engage it. Instead, he launched the method and soon found himself sitting at the only table in a nightclub in front of a small, curtained stage.
Seated at his table were two brothers who were examining their hands like they’d never seen hands before. Fred quickly pretended to be examining his own. Eventually they glanced around the room and at each other, and one of them said, “I guess we’re E-Pluribus sims then.”
“Looks that way,” said the second sim. “I’m a composite of all batches of the russ germline.”
“I’m an eclectic mix from outside the russ bell curve,” said the first.
“Our loving Lunatic Fringe,” said the second.
“Yep, that’s me.” They both looked at Fred.
“Uh, Batch 2B.”
“An old-timer,” said All-Batches. “Don’t tell me this is another investigation into clone fatigue.”
“There’s no such thing as clone fatigue,” said Lunatic. “We just become more individualistic — and wiser — as we age.”
“Yeah, well, you would say that,” said All-Batches. He rapped his knuckles on the tabletop and looked for a waiter. “I wonder what the chances are for getting a beer around here.”
No waiter appeared, but after a moment, a musical fanfare began to play, and a spotlight hit the curtain. The curtain opened to reveal a bare stage. Then a procession of people walked from the wings, crossed the stage, and paused in the spotlight for a moment before exiting. They represented a broad spectrum of humanity, young and old, male and female, cloned and free-range. They came from all races. Some were ugly and some attractive, some richly attired, some in rags.
“I guess we’re doing a lineup,” said All-Batches, who pulled his chair around for a better view.
It didn’t take long for the universal demographic to narrow incrementally to all female, young, and beautiful. They included both iterants and hinks.
“Guess it’s not hard to tell what’s on our minds, is it?” said All-Batches, who seemed to be enjoying the show. Little by little, the young women began to look more luluesque until the parade was made up entirely of lulus. Not any that Fred knew personally, but generic members of that lusty, fun-loving line. Now the only diversity was in their hair and skin color and their clothing. They beamed high-wattage smiles at the table of russes as they took turns posing in the spotlight, like contestants in a beauty pageant. Each successive costume became skimpier until the procession ended with a final lulu who bowed and remained in the spotlight. Her reddish hair was cut in a severe style, her green eyes were laughing, and her coffee-colored skin glowed from within. She wore a loose, open blouse, a skirt too short to completely hide her pan ties, and shiny shoes. Then the curtain closed, and the spotlight went out.
“Is that all?” Lunatic said, clapping his hands.
“Can’t be,” All-Batches replied.
Sure enough, an unseen orchestra struck up an overture to a classical composition, and the curtain opened
