BRAIN MAPPING

January 2058

Jordan switched off his Konektor and put it on the top shelf of his refrigerator next to the condenser. “Stay cool,” he muttered.

Then he took a basketball from the lobby cupboard and walked down to the court on the corner. He could always count on being alone here. No one played outdoor sports anymore; they preferred virtual reality games like Court Jester, where they could lie on the settee and pretend to be seven feet tall, making slam dunks and elbowing point guards in the face, while chalking up extra points for dishing out insults that would easily land them in a different kind of court in real life.

“Hey, Chinese umpires are barefaced liars, man.”

“How do you figure?”

“Ever see a Chinaman with a beard?”

The thump, thump, thump of the bouncing ball stilled his mind. When he was ready, he’d jog up to the charity stripe until he’d thrown nothin’ but net, then dribble back out behind the three-point arc until he’d thrown three in a row, finishing by taking it to the hole. No thoughts—just the easy rhythm of thump, thump, thump, shoot!

But once he’d finished, that damn thought was still waiting for him. Alexa worked for the state. She wanted to track down Artie Sharp. He knew this friendship had been a mistake. As a Non-Person, he’d spent twenty years under the governmental radar, ineligible for Transitional Benefits, Medicare, or Social Points: a free man. This was the grey area in which his colleagues also chose to operate; open and creative minds could only stay that way by avoiding any entanglements with bureaucracy. Even though Alexa seemed to recognize this—or at least she said so—there was no way she could ever be allowed near Artie.

He needed to find a way to get out of this relationship before it was too late.

But later, as he rode the Urban Transitor to the laboratory above a converted car park that housed the data center for his artificial intelligence and augmented reality research programs, he began to realize what an opportunity he’d been given. He had always claimed to be apolitical. He was only interested in logic, empiricism and truth, he’d convinced himself, and this mindset served as the basis on which he’d programmed Artie. But that was a lie in itself; politics was in everything. Declaring oneself to be apolitical was simply intended to avoid any accusations of being partial—which then freed him to let loose Artie’s satirical attacks on any elements of society that breached the rules of probity, regardless of where they stood on the political spectrum.

And the key point was that Artie learned these rules from Jordan McPhee.

Alexa’s revelation—that the Agenda Implementation Tribunal had basically admitted that the Social Points system on which Transitional Benefits policy was built was now effectively collapsing—could signal the single biggest disruption to society since the Overthrow. The more that Alexa had revealed, the more certain Jordan became that the foundations of Agenda 2060 were about to be shaken to their core … and he’d be crazy to give up an opportunity to be this close to the action.

By the time the Urban Transitor arrived at his destination, Jordan had begun to form a conclusion. Artie Sharp had been trained to use hyperbolic humor and absurdity to make people think differently about issues. But the real issue with Agenda 2060 was that it reduced everyone to members of exclusionary groups, polarizing society at every turn—and now Alexa was on the brink of pitching a proposal that would, if successful, dismantle the entire system.

This was no time to distance himself from Alexa. Maybe it was time to get closer.

Placing his outstretched palm against the door sensor, Jordan looked up at the retina scanner; the door welcomed him by name as he entered the data center lounge, quietly closing behind him. The lounge had been Jordan’s idea. He was old-school, believing that face-to-face human interaction added a dimension to communication that was missing from Konektors and the like, no matter how big the screen or how high the definition.

This facility, known as the DDC (Derangers Data Center), housed Jordan’s mathematics laboratory. It functioned primarily as a storehouse for graphics processing units (GPUs) running artificial, deep, and convolutional neural networks designed to emulate the human brain. GPUs were faster and more efficient at performing complex mathematical tasks than conventional central processing units (CPUs). The on-site computational power and data processing were never likely to be limiting factors, as they were remotely connected to centers elsewhere that magnified their capacity exponentially. That was the strength of the Derangers’ network: they were embedded everywhere in the nervous system of the tech economy.

The young engineers and programmers who staffed the facility included high-end gamers and video graphics designers who gravitated toward AR and VR. To them, Professor Jordan McPhee was a social relic from the dark ages who spoke a language they didn’t fully understand, but which they couldn’t ignore, for it was rumored he’d played some part in the development of the first exaFLOP supercomputer, capable of making a quintillion (or a billion billion) calculations per second. For his part, Jordan liked his privacy, encouraging the young people to keep their distance unless he had a backlog of code to be written.

The exception was one Antonio Muchos, producer of the Artie Sharp video segments for the Artefact Channel. Antonio was not only a wicked designer/programmer, he also had a wicked sense of humor for someone his age, without even a whiff of political correctness. Jordan had resolved that this morning they would discuss one of the social issues he’d identified while riding the Urban Transitor, in hopes that Antonio would come up with a light, bright, and entertaining perspective on it.

Before he could find Antonio, however, he bumped into Hedley Payne, a fellow Deranger, apparently waiting for Jordan’s arrival while crouched over the coffee machine with a puzzled expression.

“Is this coffee organic?” Hedley asked by way of greeting.

“I don’t even know what that means,” Jordan muttered. There was something about Hed Payne that always made Jordan bristle, even though he considered him a friend.

His sarcasm was ignored as Hedley suddenly turned serious. “Jordan, I need your advice.” He glanced around. “… in the absolute strictest confidence.”

The lounge was full of young engineers and programmers sprawled out on beanbags, their faces hidden behind VR headsets as they argued with colleagues in other rooms, across the country, or on other continents—or perhaps even with those sitting right next to them. The environment was distracting and exposed, and apart from Jordan’s office, the only place where they could shut the door and turn on the Do Not Disturb light was one of the video conference rooms. Jordan led the way.

Hedley, his brow furrowed, set his coffee down on the conference table and pulled out a chair. “It’s about the work I’ve been doing on genome sequencing,” he began. “I’ve explained it to you.”

“Yeah… It always sounds to me like playing at God,” Jordan quipped.

“Maybe. It’s just biotechnology to me.” He shrugged. “Anyway, as you know, genome sequencing determines an organism’s complete set of DNA, including all its genes—a full blueprint of an organism’s genetic material. And as you also know, the cost and speed of human genome sequencing has plummeted, and genetic editing technology has rapidly expanded, allowing genetic diseases to be identified years before symptoms present themselves.”

“Sure,” Jordan prompted, trying to move things along. “So, you target these disease genes and splice healthy genes in their place. Medicine will never be the same, you keep saying, provided people can afford it.”

“Yes. But here’s the thing,” Hedley admitted. “I’m a biochemist, not a health practitioner.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“The two fields are vastly different. We have different rules and ethics.”

“Okay…” Jordan sat back, sighed, and looked at the ceiling. What did he know about ethics? It was one of those topics that had been hijacked by societal groupthink, and he wasn’t a member of the group; he was an outsider.

“There’s a company called Micomic Health,” Hedley went on. “They’re based in New York and sell something called Micomic Life Xtension, and they’re major clients of our genetic editing technology. They’re the best in the business. Essentially, what they do is identify the patient DNA that contains the mutation, then use a guide RNA to target it and a special protein to cut it out, so it can be replaced by a healthy one.”

“… Just like editing software.”

“That’s right. And when the cause of disease is removed, the impact can be seen in weeks.”

“Sounds great, but this is old stuff,” Jordan observed. “So, what’s the problem?”

Hedley stood up and started pacing the room. He walked over to the video transmitter and sound system, bending down to check whether they were switched on. Still not satisfied, he pulled all the power connections out of their sockets.

“You’re right, this stuff is not new,” he said suddenly. “It’s been in use for years for things like cancer and cystic fibrosis, but it’s not available to everyone. You have to be a special class of person to even get access to it.”

“What class of person?” Jordan asked innocently.

“Rich. Powerful. Influential.”

“Of course.” What a coincidence, Jordan thought, that would seem to exclude everyone on Transitional Benefits. “So, rich, powerful, influential people get to live longer,” he observed with only a hint of irony.

“There are plenty of them, don’t worry,” Hedley asserted. “And yes, they do live longer. That’s the whole idea. The salutogenesis arm of Micomic Life Xtension can extend your life span by fifty percent, if you’re rich.”

“Or powerful.”

“Or influential. And I have a feeling influence counts for more than riches or power,” Hedley said earnestly.

“Well, the three do tend to go together,” Jordan concluded. “So, is that what’s troubling you?”

Hedley shook his head. Then he took out his Konektor. “Is your device bypassing?” he asked anxiously.

“Of course it is. I invented the AI, remember?”

Hedley wasn’t convinced. He turned off his Konektor and put it on the conference table, glaring at it suspiciously. Even when powered down, a Konektor that wasn’t fitted with bypassing would continue to carry voice and data traffic in both directions to government cybercenters. With the speed of the latest 12G signal, the content analyzers five thousand miles away would have finished their work before the sound of the words spoken had even died from the room. Every member of the Derangers’ network had an Alt-Identity, as did every one of their trusted employees. Since the Overthrow, it was just the way of things, and Hedley Payne’s sudden distrust of its efficacy was a clear indicator to Jordan that he must be feeling troubled indeed.

“You mentioned rules and ethics,” he reminded him. “Are you concerned with the medical ethics involved in this treatment? Why don’t you talk to John Erasmus? He’s a leading light in the field of salutogenesis. Ask him if he thinks Micomic Health’s treatment is ethical.”

Hedley laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “It’s my ethics that concern me.”

Jordan waited. When people ask for advice, he thought, they’re usually just asking for permission. Hedley had come to get his blessing.

“The final frontier of genome sequencing is the human brain,” Hedley said, returning to his chair. “The expressed sequence tags from a brain DNA collection require vast amounts of computing power to reassemble the pieces—as you know, because we’ve drawn on your GPU capacity.”

“Right.”

“But the brain itself—to put it politely—is not something you fuck around with.”

“I can understand that,” Jordan acknowledged, touching his head thoughtfully.

“So, we’ve been reluctant to sell our expertise in this area.”

“Very wise.”

“The problem is that we have an agreement with Micomic Health that gives them first rights to our genome sequencing—and they want it now.”

“And if you don’t release it to them?”

“Then we can’t release it to anyone. All our work in this area will be wasted.”

At this point, Hedley’s motor stalled. Had he come to an intersection and was waiting for the light to change, or had a sudden thought dashed across the road in front of him? He sipped his coffee while Jordan waited.

“Do you know George Kyros?” he asked, engine revving to life again.

“The name sounds familiar,” Jordan mused. “Remind me.”

Hedley jumped up and did the pacing thing again. “Multibillionaire. Currency manipulator. Helped trigger the debt bomb explosion that caused the European bank collapse. Said to be behind the IMF’s SDR Crypto Credit scheme that led to the abolishment of cash. Think of any conspiracy theory that’s turned out to be true, and George Kyros is likely behind it… Ring any bells, Jordan?”

“Sounds vaguely familiar,” Jordan agreed.

“Yeah, don’t be cute; you know damn well who he is. It was his money that funded the original Earth Day back in 1970. His hand guided the pen that drafted Agenda 21, Agenda 2030, and now Agenda 2060. You talk about playing God? In the mind of George Kyros, he is God.”

No wonder Hedley wanted to be sure the room was safe, their bypassing Alt-Identities switched on. Nobody talked like this so openly. He needed to calm down.

“Look, Hed, you’re giving me a headache. The thing about conspiracy theories is that people grab onto them without pausing to think. If George Kyros funded Earth Day way back in 1970, that would mean he had to be born around 1930. This is 2057. So, unless you’re saying…”

Jordan trailed off. Was Hedley saying what he thought he was saying?

“That’s right,” his friend said. “That would make him 127 years old. He’s Micomic Health’s most important client—and he’s the reason they want our brain sequencing.”

Jordan whistled softly. “Kyros has brain problems?”

“Kyros wants to avoid brain problems. Alzheimer’s and dementia terrify him.”

“And Micomic thinks that by mapping his brain DNA, they can protect him from it?”

Hedley nodded. “In a nutshell. Problem is, the human brain contains around one hundred billion neurons. Start playing around in that space, and anything could happen.”

“You’re afraid something might go wrong.”

Hedley shook his head this time. “It’s beyond that. What we’ve found is that we can manipulate brain function in areas that have nothing to do with DNA. We can even control or suppress conscious decisions and instincts at the foundational level—things like telling the truth, for instance, or the ability to lie. It is, quite literally, a minefield … and we’d be giving the toolbox to Micomic.”

Jordan thought long and hard.

“You know what?” he asked eventually. “I think you’ve already decided that’s a risk worth taking. So why don’t we look at bringing everything Micomic does under the surveillance of our Quantum XR-11? For peace of mind, at the very least!”