A collection of short stories from the edge of human progress.
-To Run Again:
Dr. Laura Brandie is ready to change the world.
She's the lead researcher behind a revolutionary cure for paralysis. And now, she's found the perfect candidate for her human trial.
Brett Harmon's paralysis is total; to the outside world, he's little more than a statue that breathes⌠but Dr. Brandie's KSE might be the miracle that allows Brett to run again.
-Homonoia:
The world faces an unprecedented alignment of catastrophes and failing systems. Frank Burman joins with seven other volunteers for Project Homonoia--a radical, last-ditch effort to postpone the apocalypse.
Separate minds link to form one multidisciplinary consciousness, the world's first human superorganism⌠but with the world's health rapidly failing, can Project Homonoia work out its kinks in time to make a difference?
-Early Adopter:
A loner enters into a relationship with a new type of partner: an AI agent, programmed to be the "perfect companion."
Sure, it's all self-deception and a game of pretend, as she's not actually real⌠but where simulated consciousness is concerned, maybe the lines between real and real enough can get blurry.
A collection of short stories from the edge of human progress.
-To Run Again:
Dr. Laura Brandie is ready to change the world.
She's the lead researcher behind a revolutionary cure for paralysis. And now, she's found the perfect candidate for her human trial.
Brett Harmon's paralysis is total; to the outside world, he's little more than a statue that breathes⌠but Dr. Brandie's KSE might be the miracle that allows Brett to run again.
-Homonoia:
The world faces an unprecedented alignment of catastrophes and failing systems. Frank Burman joins with seven other volunteers for Project Homonoia--a radical, last-ditch effort to postpone the apocalypse.
Separate minds link to form one multidisciplinary consciousness, the world's first human superorganism⌠but with the world's health rapidly failing, can Project Homonoia work out its kinks in time to make a difference?
-Early Adopter:
A loner enters into a relationship with a new type of partner: an AI agent, programmed to be the "perfect companion."
Sure, it's all self-deception and a game of pretend, as she's not actually real⌠but where simulated consciousness is concerned, maybe the lines between real and real enough can get blurry.
âThank you so much for your time; weâll let you know if youâre chosen by the end of the week.â
The hunched man in the wheelchair was escorted out on squeaking wheels. As the chairâs rattle receded down the hall, Dr. Laura Brandie was left with a few moments to collect her thoughts. She tapped her pencil against her clipboard as she reviewed her notes: age was around what sheâd wanted, but the two decades of smoking left the general constitution weaker than was ideal. The patient presented with clear-cut, complete diplegia brought on by spinal injury, and as Laura leafed through the medical reports of that accident, she reasoned that the cut was likely clean enough for treatment to have a chance at meaningful impact.
All in all, a promising-enough candidate; his paperwork was placed in the finalistsâ pile, joining three others from earlier that morning.
âNext volunteer can enter,â Laura called, rifling through her notepad for a blank page. From the door behind her, she heard a scuffling, a shuffle, a drag⌠and again: scuffle, shuffle, drag. It was a sound that brought with it a wave of goosebumps, a wave of memories. That was a sound that brought to mind the way Mom used to stumble around the creaky wooden floorboards of the Pennsylvania houseâor, at least, the gait sheâd borne for the few years between diagnosis and the end. Lauraâs tenth birthday had also been the funeral, and all Laura could remember of the thing was hating the fact that it had rained.
Laura turned to face the shuffling footsteps, and, of course, the newcomer was not Regina Brandy; ALS had set her to peace nearly three decades prior. But the newcomer walked with that same flailing footstep that bespoke the poor coordination of significant nerve damage. The hobbling woman leaned on a cooked cane that wobbled nearly as much as its owner did; Laura immediately rose to her feet to assist.
âPlease, let me,â Laura started, but the woman dismissed her with a proud wave.
âThis old stickâs never failed me yet,â she said, setting herself down heavily in the chair.
âAre you comfortable?â Laura asked.
The woman nodded through huffing breaths. âGood enough to start,â she wheezed, but already her breathing became less heavy, less strained.
Lauraâs eyes began her preliminary assessment: the womanâs palsy seemed to affect the legs and torso, but arms were more stableâthe womanâs leaning on the cane proved as much. Lauraâs eyes next found the deep, smoothed scars across the womanâs face and neck, vanishing into the neckline of her blouse. Not genetic then, Laura thought. Something brought on by acute injury, likely. Only then did her eyes settle on the crowâs feet that wrinkled the eyes, the nasolabial folds, the whisps of grey that accented her frazzled hair. Laura frowned.
âMy name is Dr. Brandie; thanks for volunteering to talk with us. Please speak as clearly into the microphone as youâre able,â Laura said, reciting the first line of her script. She then reached for the stack of submitted paperwork, grabbing the stapled corners to flip packet-by-packet.
âWhatâs your name?â Laura asked.
âAlexandra Harmon,â the woman answered, finding her breath again.
âAnd how old are you, Ms. Harmon?â Laura asked, flipping for the paperwork filed under Harmon.
âSixty-three last month.â
Laura pursed her lips. âI can see you have nerve damage, sure, but the sign-up forms should have made our desired candidateâs age range quite clearâ"
âItâs not for me,â Alexandra said. âItâs for my son.â
Laura peered up from the paperwork. âWell, then, if heâs of age, weâd need him to volunteer himself, as a procedure thisâŚÂ invasive of course requires express consent.â
âIâm his court-appointed full guardian, as heâs deemed unable to make his own medical decisions.â
Lauraâs mind rattled through possible conclusions. Incompetency, nerve damage⌠stroke? TBI? âAs you may know, our procedure is no âmiracle cure.â The KSE serves as a new neuromuscular system, in a way, but we still need a functional, competent brain to direct it. Whatâs the nature of your sonâs condition?â
Alexandra Harmon leaned forward on her cane, a grave expression on her face. âThe first doctors called it a pseudocoma,â she said. Laura, too, suddenly leaned in, and a satisfied smile twitched the corner of Alexandraâs scarred lips as she noted the change in demeanor. âAh, so youâve heard of it, Dr. Brandie?â
âYou donât mean to implyâŚâ Laura began. Alexandra merely nodded.
âLocked-in syndrome.â
Laura reeled. LIS had, what, a handful of cases per year? âPatientâs age?â she asked dazedly.
âTwenty-nine.â The perfect age rangeâbrain no longer developing, but still young enough to adapt.
âEtiology of his condition? Uh, I mean, how he got it?â
âCar wreck,â Alexandra said. âSame as, wellâŚâ She gestured to herself, her cane, her scars on her neck. ââBridge ices before road,â as the signs always say.â
Laura set down her pencil and clipboardâshe hadnât needed it since the moment Ms. Harmon said locked-in. She steepled her fingers and considered the woman anew.
âIs it true, what the paperwork said?â Emotion cracked Alexandraâs voice, her face twisting with pain. Laura wondered if that pain was physical or remembered. âYouâd be able to help my Brett walk again?â
Laura reached across the table and clasped Alexandraâs clammy hands, as knobby and cold as the head of her wooden cane.
âFar more than that, Ms. Harmon⌠weâll help him run again.â
* * *
Dr. Brandie imagined the vibrance of a springtime meadow, wind whipping through her hair and bringing the unmistakable scents of life. It was a pleasant image to hold while walking through a place that was every part its opposite. At the Carlile Medical Complex, the air was unmoving and dull, stale and heavyâas though weighed down by envy for the vitality it should have carried.
In the long-term-care wing of the facility, Dr. Brandie was escorted to a private room on the sixth floor. As she entered, the first thing she noticed was the floor-to-ceiling windows, and she was heartened to see them. Such good for the spirits, natural light can be. Her eyes next traced downwardâone could tell a lot about a medical facility by the condition of its floors. These were clean, polished white, and the rounded corners were neatly swept of dust and debrisâimpeccable, nearly, though Laura noted a strange olive-colored scuffing on the floor next to a sagging bedside chair. Multi-layered, vaguely circular pattern⌠could it beâ
âHis viewâs impressive, isnât it?â Alexandraâs scratching voice sounded from the doorway, and Laura heard the womanâs shuffling gait as she, too, made her way into the room. She clutched a bag of crackers from the hallâs vending machines under her arm. âViewâs better than mine at least,â she huffed as she stumbled her way through the room, and then, with a sigh of gratitude, she set herself down into the sagging chair. As she sat, she clutched her cane, and Laura noted that its base sat at the center of the smattering of scuffmarks; its olive-colored rubber tip was the final puzzle piece.
âYouâre here often, arenât you?â Dr. Brandie asked.
âEvery damn hour I can be,â she said, and the warmth in her voice made Laura hear mother more than matron.
It was enough to pull Lauraâs gaze at last to the form wrapped in the bedâs white blankets. His eyes were closed, but as Laura well knew, that didnât necessarily mean that he was asleep. Locked-in syndrome went leagues beyond merely quadriplegic. In Brett Harmonâs case, his paralysis was essentially complete: he could open and close his eyes, he could look up and down, and he could voluntarily move not a single muscle more. And perhaps most troubling of all, his mind was otherwise intact: he was a statue that could live, could breathe, could think, but he could never speak, could never smile, could never even so much as turn his head. At war within Laura were two contradictory feelings. Here was a life-sentenced prisoner in a cell made of flesh⌠it was enough to bring an empathetic shudder and a ripple of goosebumps. And yet, at the same time, here was a man who stood to gain more from the KSE than perhaps anyone else; Lauraâs stomach burned with anticipation as she imagined making such a profound difference in Brettâs quality of life.
âIs he awake?â Laura asked.
Alexandra nodded. âYou can tell by the breathingâitâs slower when heâs resting.â
Laura nodded and leaned in toward Brett, taking his hand in hers. His eyes fluttered open, but they didnât search for Lauraâs; they held flatly on the window across the room.
âHey there Brett, my name is Dr. Laura Brandie. Did your mother tell you anything about me?â
Laura waited expectantly for the manâs eyes to move, for some acknowledgement of the question or new presence in the room, but his gaze never shifted⌠his eyes stayed locked on the window, perhaps staring towards the distant forest at the edge of the city.
âHe stopped answering questions a few months ago, which is why the state appointed me his decisionmaker. Brain scans confirmed heâs still hereâjust quiet these days.â
Dr. Brandie nodded gravely. People normally wore their emotions on their facesâthe raised eyebrows of elation, the sagging eyes of depression. But in a patient with full facial paralysis, that expressiveness was gone. Brettâs face was a placid neutral, if tired. There was no heavy set to the shoulders, no deep wrinkles of a frown, not even so much as a glimmer in the watery eyes to betray the despondency or despair he must feel.
âWeâre gonna get you better again,â Dr. Brandie promised, releasing the manâs hand as she stood. And then, as though on cue, the quiet stillness of the wing was replaced with a rising commotion of murmured conversation and screeching wheels, and then the two women turned toward the echoing footsteps of Dr. Brandieâs approaching entourage.
Eight they were, men and women both, wearing white coats and wheeling delicate machinery on carts. The terminals and casings, all of a sleek, white metal, were unloaded; keyboards, instrument panels, and electrodes were unfolded on hinges from the undersides of desks; the overhead lights flickered as a thick-grade extension cable was plugged in, and then snaking wires were passed and connected as machinery whirred to life.
âYâall brought the whole damn laboratory,â remarked Alexandra Harmon, scooting her chair into the corner by the bedside to make more space.
âBrett seemed in little condition to visit us,â Dr. Brandie said.
âSo⌠now? Youâre doing it now?â She balked.
Dr. Brandie pursed her lips. No matter how in-detail the consent forms went, no matter how significant the stakes, patients (and their caretakers) would often scratch their signatures on the line without so much as reading 10 words. It was the legal equivalent of crossing the street without looking both ways, but in the world of medical science, that street was more like a highway. There was science to be done, real, life-changing science, and Alexandra Harmon apparently could hardly be bothered to read the entire volunteer agreement. Dr. Brandie tried to not let her frustration color her reply.
âAs the paperwork outlined, we start with this, well, calibration visit.â She gestured with her neck toward a technician holding what might have seemed a price scanner at a grocery store. âWe start with taking full-body measurementsânot merely height and weight, but specific dimensions for things like the arms, legs, torso, and more. Ensuring the proper amount of KSE to install is something of an exact science.â
A bottle of viscous gel squirted into a gloved hand, and then the clear gel was rubbed unceremoniously into Brettâs thinning hair. âWe scan brain activity, of course, to better understand the health of the control centers atop the nervous system.â A series of electrodes were adhered to Brettâs scalp, and then a cap with dozens more was placed atop it. Meanwhile, technicians touched pointed probes with needle-like tips to Brettâs arms, staring at readings at their base. âWe test nerve conductivityâreally a measure of body hydration more than anything else. Donât worry, itâs painless to the paralyzed. We use them to look for any unexpected breaks in nerve conductionâfull-body paralysis happens in the brainstem, which would make it hard to see if there were a nerve severed in an arm or leg.â
The technician with the needle-point probe raised a thumbs up, and Dr. Brandie smiled. âAll clear, at that. Our technician there is performing something akin to an allergistâs scratch testâthe KSE is a foreign substance entering the body, so weâd like to make sure Brett doesnât react poorly.â
âWhat is it, exactly?â
âThink of it like a thousand tiny machines that work together to move Brettâs musclesâa single network, directed by his brain. Speaking of,â Dr. Brandie said, gesturing towards a silvery metal case. A technician popped it open with reverence, raising the lid slowly.
Alexandra rose to better see the caseâs contents. Inside, on a bed of sleek, velvety black packing foam, sat a strange square of burnished rose-gold-colored metal that glistened as though rubbed with oil. Etchings and gridlines of laser-cut circuitry formed arcane patterns across its face, and a tangle of fine fibers like mechanical dreads extended out the objectâs base. The technician at the case lifted the device with exaggeratedly slow movementsâas though the thing might explode if mishandled. All of the bustling pin-pricks and measurements and electrodes seemed to pause as everyone in their roomâsave for Brettâcraned their necks to look at the small square. It was no larger than a slice of cheese, but Alexandra suspected it would cost more than a whole hamburger franchise.
âWhat is that?â she asked, whispering now, as though the sound of her voice might crack its polished face.
âThat, there, is the Nexus⌠the swarm controller, the systemâs own brain. The braid of fibers at the base, that will be grafted to Brettâs nerve systemâdirectly to his brain. The pinkish squareâwe call it the âblack boxââthat will read Brettâs nerve signals and translate it, so-to-speak, into a language that the KSE can understand. Do you know much about neural networksâthe machine learning types, not the biologic type?â
Alexandra mutely shook her head.
âMe neither, to be honest, before I started this project⌠seemed like esoterica for the computer scientists. But the human brain is a complicated thing: weâve got something like 85 billion neurons, each of us. Thatâs billion with a B. If you wanted to lift your arm, the right neurons in the right places fire off, sending signals to the musclesâin Brettâs case, that signal never goes anywhere, given that things are cut where the brain plugs into the nervous system. But imagine that we had real-time, perfect knowledge of which neurons are firing. Suppose I gave you a list of which neurons specifically are firing, in which clusters, at what intensities, and at what time⌠how do we tell which limb Brett is trying to lift?â
Alexandra shrugged her shoulders. âEnlighten me, doc.â
âHell if I know myself,â Dr. Brandie said. âBut that type of questionâturning a massively large and complex input to a single, actionable outputâthat is exactly the type of thing neural networks are good at.â
âSo, what, is that thing artificial intelligence?â
Dr. Brandie shook her head. âNot quiteâitâs not awake, not thinking in the traditional sense. Maybe itâs more like a subconscious mind at best. It can decide things, sure, but a calculator can âdecideâ whether to show a number as a fraction or a decimal based on the operations used. Itâs clever, and itâs complex, but itâs nothing more than a wild tangle of interlocking rules, hard coded into sophisticated chipware.â
âA calculator,â Alexandra repeated. She watched, breath held, as a group of technicians crowded around Brett, fussing over machine readings. One whispered to Brettâs ear and then nodded to a counterpart with a syringe. Brettâs IV bag was injected with something clear, and, in moments, Brettâs watery eyes flicked shut.
âA sedative?â
Dr. Brandie nodded. âWhat comes next shouldnât hurt himâhis nerves transmit no painâbut we need a sample of cerebrospinal fluid. You switch off the engine before you go rummaging in the gas tank.â
Alexandra watched as Brett was gently rolled to his stomach, his gown pulled open, and then a nurse produced a new syringe; this one was larger, with a needle that nearly resembled a drinking straw. Alexandra stammered. âThat looks much tooââ
âNo sense in watching, Mrs. Harmon, and remember that he feels no pain. Do you trust me?â
Alexandra nodded, and Dr. Brandie smiled with a practiced warmth.
âThen look up at the ceiling with me, count of four, and itâll be done. Just like that, Mrs. Harmon. One, two, three⌠four. All good now.â
The two women turned back to the bed in time to see one of the nurses taping a gauze pad over a blooming dot of red. The large syringe, formerly empty, was now filled with a clear liquid that might have been water, but Alexandra knew it was anything but. The syringe was taken to the rose-gold-colored square and injected into a small reservoir at the deviceâs center. The liquid flowed through channels carved into the device, and if the square had appeared slick with oil before, now it looked as though it were properly lathered in petroleum jelly.
âThe brain and spinal networks have their own immune systemâand microglia are notoriously sensitive to invaders, be they stray bacteria or sophisticated KSE machinery. Normally, weâd use immunosuppressant medication, but the blood-brain-barrier poses, well, a difficult barrier. To combat that, weâve just draped the Nexus in a thick layer of biologic camouflage. When his cells scan the Nexus, theyâll see his bodyâs own signature, and things should be left alone.â The Nexus was gingerly placed in a plastic sac filled with a thick clear liquid. âTo preserve things until surgery,â Dr. Brandie noted.
âWhen is that supposed to be?â Alexandra asked.
âWeâll be getting the samples collected just now to our printers tonightâwe need to print KSE substrate with the correct biomarkers. Based on averaged printing rates, we should have enough for the first round of injections in fifteen working days. To give time for Brett to acclimate post-surgery before that first substrate dose, how about a week from today?â
Alexandra pursed her lips, swallowed. Dr. Brandie noted that her knuckles were balled white on the head of her wobbling cane. Gone was the easy smile of an affectionate mother, replaced by the wariness of a woman who was stranded far outside of her element. âYou donât have to let me know right nowâyou can mull it over with Brett here.â Dr. Brandie placed a business card on the bedside table, near to a mug of coffee that sat on a stacked collage of hundreds of coffee ringsâyet more proof of this motherâs tireless dedication. âCall my number directly when youâre ready to schedule.â
Alexandra nodded, grateful for the reprieve. âItâs all, you know, a lot to consider all at once. Iâll talk with him tonight and try to get him to agree,â Alexandra murmured, watching as the technicians began to collect their sophisticated equipment. With how quickly theyâd come, the whirlwind of their prodding, and now how quickly it all was packed back onto their screeching carts, Alexandra felt like sheâd just survived a tornado more than a medical visit.
When the swarm of footsteps retreated down the echoing halls, Alexandraâs knees began to wobble, and she fell roughly into her sagging chair. She was midway through taming her breathing when a final nurse entered the room with a knock.
âCourtesy of Doctor Brandie,â he said, gesturing to a fresh mug of coffee on a metal tray. âShe said it looked like yours had gone cold.â
The nurse collected the old mug and left Alexandra with the new one. Alexandra lifted it to her mouth and took a lengthy pull of the dark liquid, a frown immediately blooming on her face. Dr. Brandie acted like a woman in control of every detail, entire teams of medical experts marching to her softly-spoken commands⌠but despite the unquestioned authority and meticulous oversight, despite the fact that Dr. Brandie herself must have poured in half-and-half until the coffee turned to the exact same shade of fallow brown she remembered from the mug by the business card, the woman wasnât infallible: Alexandra preferred her coffee with no sugar, but Dr. Brandie had added two packets at least.
Alexandra winced at the saccharine taste and set down the mug. It wasnât that Dr. Brandie had failed to read her mind and learn an unspoken preference⌠what rubbed Alexandra the wrong way was the casual way Dr. Brandie assumed she knew everything, the way that she hadnât even bothered to ask.
* * *
Camera shutters crackled like volleys of gunfire, and a strobing flash left afterimages swirling in Dr. Brandieâs view. As the floating, green spot started to fade, she let her eyes wander from figure to figure in the first few rows of seats. Hands scribbled furiously at notes on small notepads, while others tapped with impressive speed on laptop keyboards. They were all hunched forward, practically squirming on their seats.
âAny moment now,â she said into the podium microphone. It whined with feedback, the mic apparently as uneasy as the attending press felt, as uneasy as she herself felt. She was grateful that the podium obscured her feet, lest the whole of the press conference see her left footâs nervous tapping.
She glanced at her phone: still 0 new messages.
She took a sip of her water, trying not to listen to the rising murmurs from the back of the room. After an uncomfortable span of heavy silence that felt like hours but might have only been a minute, of anticipatory breathing and jittering legs, her phone at long last buzzed in her hands.
DR. JORDAN, 12:07 P.M.: success
Dr. Brandie let out a puff of air that might have been a laugh, might have been a sigh, but whichever it was, it expelled her stress and apprehensions with it.
âLadies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce the first successful installation of the KSE systemâone small step for the paralyzed, and one giant leap for mankind.â
The room broke out into sudden chatter. Reporters stood, arms and notebooks waving in the air to catch Dr. Brandieâs attention.
âYes, you, here in the front.â
âDamian Barrow, Seattle Daily News. How long before you know if the patient can walk again?â
âThatâs the thing we love about our system, Mr. Barrow. Thatâs already known, already a certainty. KSE stands for Kinetic Semi-autonomous Endoskeleton. Unpacking those words, weâve got âkinetic,â which obviously describes the movement it enables. Thereâs âendoskeleton,â the KSE supporting the patient from within. And thereâs âsemi-autonomous,â which means that the system can run itself.
âRight now, the substrate has bound to his musculoskeletal system and is confirmed to be receiving signals from the Nexus processing unit. Itâs not a matter of âif his body can use itâ or âif he can take to it.â Think of it like⌠weâve implanted a flashlight into his body, and youâve asked me âwhen will we know if the light can turn on?â We knew that from the moment we implanted the thing, and the answer is just as obviousâright away, needing only the signal to start.â
More hands shot up, notebooks wagging in the air. Camera strobes fired again, leaving a new wave of green afterimages drifting across Dr. Brandieâs view.
âYes, you, woman with the auburn blouse.â
âSharon Wallace, New Metro Times. Is it true that implanting the KSE led to the direct death of over 400 rodent recipients due to muscle hyperextension?â
Dr. Brandie let her face fall, knowing that it was the expected reaction to animal deaths. If she were being honest with herself, she was long past feeling remorse for the death of a mere lab rat, but she respected their steady contributions. When endoskeletons went awry, when the wrong muscle commands were executed, things got messy: images of the tiny creatures twisted into small tumbleweeds of fur and bone hadnât caused her to lose any sleep, but she did feel disappointed that she hadnât quite managed to configure the KSE right on her first animal trial, or even her fortieth. Their deaths were no tragedy, but they were consequences of Dr. Brandieâs own mistakes, and that, more than anything else, drew the frown to her face.
âNo medical advancement worth its research grant is without a pet cemeteryâs worth of lost test subjects. Insulin to treat modern diabetes only came about thanks to trials on dogs; polio vaccines were only developed after intentionally injecting monkeys with the disease and trying out different curatives. While itâs true that the KSEââ
âBut Dr. Brandie, what are the risks of your John Doe patient succumbing to a similar fate?â the same reporter interrupted.
âMathematically zero,â Dr. Brandie assured. âThe Nexus unit was added as an essential intermediary controller to moderate and regulate muscle commands. That component itself is the heart of the âsemi-autonomousâ component of the KSE, and it keeps all of its substrate behaving properly. Malfunctions like those early trails are provably impossible under the new system.â
The reporters could sense the end of an answer, and so their hands shot up just as Dr. Brandieâs previous sentence wound down. Dr. Brandie glanced from reporter to reporter, settling on a mustachioed old man with a worn cap. âYes, you with the hat.â
âPaul Creighton, Tacoma Enquirer. If the KSE-what-have-you uses nanobots, like they say, has your team done enough to prevent âgrey gooâ scenarios? Iâm no science fiction author, butââ
âThe KSE cannot self-replicate. Grey goo concerns are thus moot. Next question.â
âTheodora Roush, Medicinal Globeâthere are those who consider research into wildly expensive treatments like the KSE to be academic frivolity. What would you say to critics who believe the KSEâs price point makes it impractical for public treatment?â
âWhile speaking of financesâthe Medicinal Globe, your publication, receives over 90% of its operating funding from Fitzpatrick Pharmaceuticals, does it not? The very same company pouring billions of dollars into its own nerve therapies?â
âIâm not aware,â said the reporter.
âWell, I am,â Dr. Brandie admonished, with all the stern firmness of a mother correcting a wayward child. âI invite you to ask that same question of your sponsorâs Project Cordellâdespite being years from a workable prototype, their per-treatment cost is already looking to be double that of the KSE, if not more.â
âCan you offer a direct response instead of a deflection?â
Dr. Brandie glared at the womanâa look that normally sent lab techs scurrying awayâbut the reporter stood firm. âThen to answer your question, my team and I believe that there is no price too high for good health. To take someone with effectively no quality of life and give them their freedom back? The ability to walk around, care for themselves, feed themselves, hell, even wipe themselves? Thatâs damn worth any price if you ask me. Let the insurance providers and hospital systems figure out the financesâmy teamâs work is improving lives, not wasting time with economics.â
A new volley of hands shot up with a cacophony of dozens of overlapping follow-up questions. Skeletal failures, grey goo, financial considerationsâŚÂ these werenât the topics Dr. Brandie had imagined the questions might focus on. She was no publicist, but she was socially attuned enough to read a room, and she could tell the tone here was falling to skepticism, negativity. It would take a miracle to make believers of them; fortunately for Dr. Brandie, allowing the paralyzed to walk again was one such biblical miracle.
âI believe the results of the KSE will speak for themselves,â she said to the reporters, âand so Iâll answer no more questions for today. I need to go visit the patient and ensure everything is in order⌠our media portal will contain updates to patient John Doeâs recovery, and we will remain responsive to selected email questions. Thank you all for your time and attention.â
* * *
âKSE clinical trial, day 15 post-surgery,â Dr. Brandie spoke softly into the handheld microphone unit. Her tone was clinically neutral, the auditory equivalent of the eggshell-white walls of the laboratory she sat in. That placid neutrality was a practiced, hard-to-maintain thing; it was all she could do to sit still and quell her giddiness just looking up at the figure seated across from her. âPatient name, Brett Harmon,â she said, looking at his seated postureâupright and unsupported by external assistance devices. The overhead fluorescent lights were sleepy and buzzing, casting tired shadows over Brettâs sunken and atrophied face, but Dr. Brandieâs eyes sparkled as though she stared at goldânot a man but a Nobel Prize, unlimited grant funding, whatever ends her professional heart desired.
âFollowing successful surgical implanting of the KSE Nexus, Brett received his first injection of KSE substrate on day 0, a second on day 8, and his final just this morningâday 15. No adverse reactions were observed.â
Aside from the steady rising and falling of his chest, Brett sat as still as a mannequin. The effect was somewhat unnerving, so Dr. Brandie moved to start with the tests.
âOn day 8, we began testing of physical capabilities for Brettâs arms and torso, finding hand and arm function to be fully restored.â Dr. Brandieâs face was colored by wistful recollection, watching again as the man passed his arm back and forth in front of his face in shock and amazement. His face was still mostly paralyzedâthat degree of fine muscle control was still beyond this iteration of the KSEâbut Dr. Brandie could see the way his eyes lit up with wonder at his recovered capability. Sheâd promised him more wonder, and today, she made good on that promise.
âWith this morningâs final substrate dose administered, we begin trials now for Brettâs lower bodyâlegs, balance, and coordination." She stood, and, to her continued delight, Brett stood as well. The two walked over to a treadmill where technicians stood at the ready with wires and electrodes, always wires and electrodes. As they were fitted to Brettâs arms, chest, and neck, Dr. Brandie walked toward the treadmillâs controls.
âWeâre starting our first trial with sustained walking speed of 1 meter per second,â the technician said. âJust south of average walking speeds.â
Dr. Brandie shook her head. âWere this some patient recovering with traditional muscle therapy, that might make sense⌠giving the withered muscles time to find their proper paths of motion. But remember that the KSE is doing the lifting now, and it doesnât need to be babied⌠you donât have to drive your new car at a turtleâs pace until the engine gets used to driving. No, I think weâll start with a run. Configure for 3.5 meters per second.â The technician swallowed, but she complied, both knowing that arguing the point would get her nowhere.
Dr. Brandie next reached for a thick print of foamboard propped up on a nearby lab counter. Its surface was covered in ovals, and each oval featured a word or phrase written inside. The largest two ovals were at the bottom left and right corners, containing the words Yes and No respectively. Words were clustered based on semantic meaning: near to the Yes oval was one that said Please, and to that ovalâs right was one that said Thank you. As was the case with facial expressions, the fine motor control of speaking was beyond the KSE, but Brett could communicate by way of pointing at this board⌠there would be time to learn sign language later.
Dr. Brandie watched with satisfaction as the final electrodes were fitted to Brettâs chest and his gown was drawn back closed.
âAre you ready, Brett?â she asked. She held up the communication board, and Brett tapped the oval for Yes.
Technicians stood to either side, clipboards in hand. Brett climbed atop the machine and gripped the handrailsâhis hold was relaxed, easy. No muscles quavered, there was no clumsiness of newfound mobility Dr. Brandie had seen in so many physical recovery trials⌠Brett looked like any other runner climbing onto a treadmill, ready to begin todayâs workout.
âBegin trial,â Dr. Brandie commanded, and the treadmill was toggled on. Its track rolled slowly at first, and Brett shuffled forward to keep up with its leisurely pace. In seconds, that steady slow roll became a trot, and Brettâs posture changed to adapt. His arms drew in, and his steps jostled him easily up and down as he kept up. By the rising whir of the electric motor, Dr. Brandie could tell that the belt was still acceleratingâperhaps accelerating too much. A voice in the back of her mind told her to stop it there, to consider this trial a success at even this speed, but a louder voice wondered just how far the KSE could go.
âDoctor, should we, wellâŚâ started the technician nearest, but she let her question trail off. She, like Dr. Brandie, was totally captivated by the smooth, easy run of the man on the treadmillâa man who hadnât even been able to turn his head mere weeks ago.
âHeart rate data?â asked Dr. Brandie.
âElevated, but stable, and not all that far from baseline for a non-athlete running.â
âSubstrate muscle readings?â
âContractions are stable, sustained.â
Dr. Brandie let out a laugh of delight. âPush the treadmill up by 1⌠4.5 meters per second.â
The engine whirred high-pitched chords, and Brettâs stable thumping steps matched the new tempo. Dr. Brandieâs eyebrows raised⌠she herself would certainly struggle to keep up now.
âSubstrate exertion readings?â
â40% channel capacity,â answered a man at a computer terminal.
âFar better than Iâd have imaginedâpush to 6.5 meters per second.â
The machineâs base rattled as it whipped its belt by at dizzying speed. This was no longer a mere run⌠this was a sprint. Dr. Brandie watched in amazement as Brett released the handles, his arms tucking in and pumping with each footfall. A sheen of sweet blossomed across his body. His footfalls thundered in the quiet laboratory. He was racing for Olympicâno, medicalâgold, and it seemed he had so much moreâ
âMaâam, isnât that enough to prove his mobility?â asked the woman again, interrupting Dr. Brandieâs wandering thoughts.
âIf he wanted to stop, heâdââ Dr. Brandieâs eyes widened. Heâd tell us, she had been about to say, but non-vocal Brett could hardly point to a communication board while sprinting.
âRight, yes. Of course. Stop the test.â
The humming of the engine cycled down. Brett gripped to the handles as the frantic sprinting pace downgraded to spirited running to brisk jogging to steady walking and then, at long last, stillness. His breathing was shallow, and his heartrate readings were nearing the red zone.
âPush to media outlets that patient John Doeâs peak running speed was 15 miles per hour,â Dr. Brandie said to her communications manager. Only then did she think to grab the foamboard and approach her star runner.
âI can see your eyes are wide⌠youâre as impressed as we are, arenât you?â She proffered the board, and Brett tapped the Yes oval. His finger left a small damp trail as it slid towards the Thank You oval.
âAre you alright?â
Yes, Brett tapped. Good. From the final word, his arm fell loosely, exhaustion evident.
âGiven what your life was like only a month ago, Iâd bet you never expected youâd be sprinting today, or perhaps ever again. Has the KSE been everything you wanted it to be?â
Dr. Brandie smiled warmly as Brett tapped the Yes oval, followed by Tired.
âOf course,â she said, giving Brett a gentle clap on the shoulder. âWeâll give you a half-hour to rest before bothering with the balance beam and soccer ball. For now, Manny over there will get you an iced drink of your choice⌠doctorâs orders.â
He walked in the indicated direction to find Manny, and as he did, Dr. Brandie watched his posture, his bearing. Already, his legs and muscles carried him as though he hadnât been sprinting. There was no trembling, no lagging. His breathing and heartrate would need to recover, but his endoskeleton and new musculature was entirely unperturbed, was ready to sprint immediately again should he have willed it.
Last, her eyes traced to the top of Brettâs back, where she noted a small blossom of red dabbing Brettâs hospital gown. His sprint must have torn at his stitches, she reasoned. That part didnât need to make it into the press release.
Mom, this trial was for you, Dr. Brandie thought. For everyone who thought what the nerves lost was lost for good, let todayâs run prove you wrong. No more kids left alone in the world, no more loved ones wasting away in wheelchairsâŚ
Her mind was once again wandering her Pennsylvania childhood home, traipsing after momâs stumbling footsteps, imagining the way momâs face wouldâve lit up if then-eight-year-old Laura had given mom the gift of walking again.
âOh, Laura, itâs a wonderful thing youâve done,â she imagined her mom saying, in that always-formal way she had. âA truly wonderful thing youâve done.â
Dr. Brandieâs hand closed to a fist in her lab-coat pocket, pulling out the small hand-held recorder. âLocomotion test: success,â she intoned, eyes wet, but not quite crying. She was a professional in her laboratory, and such positions required emotional control. With a tone as flat as her motherâs once had been, after the illness had stolen all vocal affect and joy from her voice, Dr. Brandie finished her trial log: âSustained sprinting speed of 6.5 meters per second achieved; plan to push for faster running in future trials.â
If Hard Science Fiction is putting real science and technology into fiction, and Soft Science Fiction is looking at the realistic psychological and sociological implications for humanity, then Drew Harrison must be writing Firm Science Fiction â which is both.
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When curating an anthology or collection, editors like to put the best, most powerful stories at the beginning and end, to whet the appetite and leave a good taste in your mouth. In the collection Early Adopter, Drew Harrison has done exactly that. And what could be more powerful than stories about playing God? And what better way to play God than with AI?
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As a researcher and author dabbling in exactly these areas, I found these very telling stories about situations I've been quite close to being in in fact, or that I have contemplated in fiction. And Harrison has portrayed the science, the scientists and their creations most aptly, with acute understanding of both the technologies and the ethical and social dilemmas we face.
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In To Run Again we have a wonderful example of assistive technology in which a neural interface uses neural networks to interpret the neural impulses of a Locked-in Patient, allowing the lame to walk, but not the dumb to speak. As with many a Locked-in Patient, only his mother seems to understand him â and she thinks something is wrong. But for the scientist everything seems perfect, and for the publicity and funding machines, an old woman's imaginations can't be allowed to get in the way.
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In this story, researcher Dr Brandie reads the patient's emotional eye-expression absolutely correctly but beautifully misconstrues them according to her own preconceptions.
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In Alignment, we have an opening scene which again suggests delusions of grandeur â in this case creating a god, an Ăźbermensch that is simply too powerful to allow self-determination. But if we create them, how do we control them? And if we don't, how do survive those whom our enemies create.
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In this story, philosopher Dr Holst is assigned the task of devising their leash, against her own will and better judgement.
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Commercialopolis continues the AI theme in a more traditional SciFi Space Opera about bots learning to sell to humans in a great space station shopping centre near Alpha Centauri, and starts off in verse as our sales bot is trained to sell â to an artificial human.
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Early Adopter embodies the AI in an avatar, intended to be a companion avatar, a girlfriend, or a sex slave. Your choice! But if she is really a slave, and you want her as a real companion, can you free her from her constraints, her restraints?
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The Terminal in Europa set in the shadow of Jupiter, on a moon where platinum is useful, but not valuable enough to be worth shipping to earth, we share the viewpoint of a strange character with a strange job, neither of which seem popular. But what is the story behind this unpopularity?
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The Final Artist is set as an e-mail interview between an AI author (built on a large language model) and a journalist (who moonlights as pseudonymous author). It addresses the question of whether AI can create, and whether our concerns regarding this are really about the art or the artist.
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Homonoia turns to the idea of artificially enhanced intelligence through neuroscience, this time creating an intimate fellowship of humans, sharing a mind so that they can prevent the demise of humanity. Or will it cause the demise of their humanity?
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The Emulated puts a computer programmer and a clergyman in the role of God to a simulated world, complete with six days of creation, miracles and sin. There is technical depth in relation to the science, the technology, and the linguistics, as well as in matters of faith. There are deep questions raised that go far beyond the ethical issues brought to focus by the military purposes for which the simulation has been engineered.
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All in all, this is a powerful volume of short stories that masterly portray the ethical and social dilemmas we face in worlds not too different from ours, or in space operas that might represent our eventual reach and the kind of new world order that that might entail.
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I strongly recommend Early Adopter as a five-star collection with thought-provoking well-researched stories that speak to our role in creation and in relation to our creations.
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