Distress - A Novel Part 1

Distress.

A Novel.

by Greg Egan.

Thanks to Caroline Oakley, Deborah Beale, Anthony Cheetham, Peter Robinson, Lucy Blackburn, Annabelle Ager, and Claudia Schaffer.

It is not true that the map of freedom will be complete with the erasure of the last invidious border when it remains for us to chart the attractors of thunder and delineate the arrhythmias of drought to reveal the molecular dialects of forest and savanna as rich as a thousand human tongues and to comprehend the deepest history of our pa.s.sions ancient beyond mythology's reach So I declare that no corporation holds a monopoly on numbers no patent can encompa.s.s zero and one no nation has sovereignty over adenine and guanine no empire rules the quantum waves And there must be room for all at the celebration of understanding for there is a truth which cannot be bought or sold imposed by force, resisted or escaped.

From Technoliberation by Muteba Kazadi, 2019

Part One

I.

"All right. He's dead. Go ahead and talk to him."

The bioethicist was a laconic young as.e.x with blond dreadlocks and a T-shirt which flashed up the slogan SAY NO TO TOE! in between the paid advertising. Ve countersigned the permission form on the forensic pathologist's notepad, then withdrew to a corner of the room. The trauma specialist and the paramedic wheeled their resuscitation equipment out of the way, and the forensic pathologist hurried forward, hypodermic syringe in hand, to administer the first dose of neuropreser-vative. Useless prior to legal death-ma.s.sive ly toxic to several organs, on a time scale of hours-the c.o.c.ktail ofglutamate antagonists, calcium channel blockers, and antioxidants would halt the most damaging biochemical changes in the victim's brain, almost immediately.

The pathologist's a.s.sistant followed close behind her, with a trolley bearing all the paraphernalia of post-mortem revival: a tray of disposable surgical instruments; several racks of electronic equipment; an arterial pump fed from three gla.s.s tanks the size of water-coolers; and something resembling a hairnet made out of gray superconducting wire.

Lukowski, the homicide detective, was standing beside me. He mused, "If everyone was fitted out like you, Worth, we'd never have to do this. We could just replay the crime from start to finish. Like reading an aircraft's black box."

I replied without looking away from the operating table; I could edit out our voices easily enough, but I wanted a continuous take of the pathologist connecting up the surrogate blood supply. "If everyone had optic nerve taps, don't you think murderers would start hacking the memory chips out of their victims' bodies?"

"Sometimes. But no one hung around to mess up this guy's brain, did they?"

3 (Note: The numeration of pages preserves the page numeration of the original copy. the page numbers indicate the bottom of the page).

"Wait until they've seen the doc.u.mentary." The pathologist's a.s.sistant sprayed a depilatory enzyme onto the victim's skull, and then wiped all the close-cropped black hair away with a couple of sweeps of his gloved hand. As he dropped the mess into a plastic sample bag, I realized why it was holding together instead of dispersing like barber's shop waste; several layers of skin had come with it. The a.s.sistant glued the "hairnet"-a skein of electrodes and SQID detectors- to the bare pink scalp. The pathologist finished checking the blood supply, then made an incision in the trachea and inserted a tube, hooked up to a small pump to take the place of the collapsed lungs. Nothing to do with respiration; purely as an aid to speech. It was possible to monitor the nerve impulses to the larynx, and synthesize the intended sounds by wholly electronic means, but apparently the voice was always less garbled if the victim could experience something like the normal tactile and auditory feedback produced by a vibrating column of air. The a.s.sistant fitted a padded bandage over the victim's eyes; in rare cases, feeling could return sporadically to the skin of the face, and since retinal cells were deliberately not revived, some kind of temporary ocular injury was the easiest lie to explain away the pragmatic blindness.

I thought again about possible narration. In 1888, police surgeons photographed the retinas of one victim of Jack the Ripper, in the vain hope that they might discover the face of the killer embalmed in the light-sensitive pigments of the human eye . . .

No. Too predictable. And too misleading; revival was not a process of extracting information from a pa.s.sive corpse. But what were the alternative references? Orpheus? Lazarus? "The Monkey's Paw?" "The Tell-Tale Heart?" Reanimator? Nothing in myth or fiction had really prefigured the truth. Better to make no glib comparisons. Let the corpse speak for itself.

A spasm pa.s.sed through the victim's body. A temporary pacemaker was forcing his damaged heart to beat-operating at power levels which would poison every cardiac muscle fiber with electrochemical by-products, in fifteen or twenty minutes at the most. Pre-oxygenated ersatz blood was being fed into his heart's left atrium, in lieu of a supply from the lungs, pumped through the body once only, then removed via the pulmonary arteries and discarded. An open system was less trouble than recirculation, in the short term. The half-repaired knife wounds in his abdomen and torso made a mess, leaking thin scarlet fluid into the drainage channels of the operating table, but they posed no real 4.threat; a hundred times as much blood was being extracted every second, deliberately. No one had bothered to remove the surgical larvae, though, so they kept on working as if nothing had changed: st.i.tching and chemically cauterizing the smaller blood vessels with their jaws, cleaning and disinfecting the wounds, sniffing about blindly for necrotic tissue and clots to consume.

Maintaining the flow of oxygen and nutrients to the brain was essential but it wouldn't reverse the deterioration which had already taken place. The true catalysts of revival were the billions of lipo-somes-microscopic drug capsules made from lipid membranes-being infused along with the ersatz blood. One key protein embedded in the membrane unlocked the blood-brain barrier, enabling the liposomes to burrow out of the cerebral capillaries into the interneural s.p.a.ce. Other proteins caused the membrane itself to fuse with the cell wall of the first suitable neuron it encountered, disgorging an elaborate package of biochemical machinery to re-energize the cell, mop up some of the molecular detritus of ischaemic damage, and protect against the shock of re-oxygenation.

Other liposomes were tailored for other cell types: muscle fibers in the vocal fold, the jaw, the lips, the tongue; receptors in the inner ear. They all contained drugs and enzymes with similar effects: hijacking the dying cell and forcing it, briefly, to marshal its resources for one final-unsustainable-burst of activity.

Revival was not resuscitation pushed to heroic extremes. Revival was permitted only when the long-term survival of the patient was no longer a consideration, because every method which might have achieved that outcome had already failed.

The pathologist glanced at a display screen on the equipment trolley. I followed her gaze; there were wave traces showing erratic brain rhythms, and fluctuating bar graphs measuring toxins and breakdown products being flushed out of the body. Lukowski stepped forward expectantly. I followed him.

The a.s.sistant hit a b.u.t.ton on a keypad. The victim twitched and coughed blood-some of it still his own, dark and clotted. The wave traces spiked, then became smoother, more periodic.

Lukowski took the victim's hand and squeezed it-a gesture which struck me as cynical, although for all I knew it might have reflected a genuine compa.s.sionate impulse. I glanced at the bioethicist. Vis T-shirt 5.now read CREDIBILITY IS A COMMODITY. I couldn't decide if that was a sponsored message or a personal opinion.

Lukowski said, "Daniel? Danny? Can you hear me?" There was no obvious physical response, but the brain waves danced. Daniel Cavolini was a music student, nineteen years old. He'd been found around eleven, bleeding and unconscious, in a corner of the Town Hall railway station-with watch, notepad, and shoes still on him, unlikely in a random mugging gone wrong. I'd been hanging out with the homicide squad for a fortnight, waiting for something like this. Warrants for revival were issued only if the evidence favored the victim being able to name the a.s.sailant; there was little prospect of obtaining a usable verbal description of a stranger, let alone an identikit of the killer's face. Lukowski had woken a magistrate just after midnight, the minute the prognosis was clear.

Cavolini's skin was turning a strange shade of crimson, as more and more revived cells began taking up oxygen. The alien-hued transporter molecule in the ersatz blood was more efficient than hemoglobin-but like all the other revival drugs, it was ultimately toxic.

The pathologist's a.s.sistant hit some more keys. Cavolini twitched and coughed again. It was a delicate balancing act; small shocks to the brain were necessary to restore the major coherent rhythms . . . but too much external interference could wipe out the remnants of short-term memory. Even after legal death, neurons could remain active deep in the brain, keeping the symbolic firing-pattern representations of recent memories circulating for several minutes. Revival could temporarily restore the neural infrastructure needed to extract those traces, but if they'd already died away completely-or been swamped by the efforts to recover them-interrogation was pointless.

Lukowski said soothingly, "You're okay now, Danny. You're in hospital. You're safe. But you have to tell me who did this to you. Tell me who had the knife."

A hoa.r.s.e whisper emerged from Cavolini's mouth: one faint, aspirated syllable, then silence. My skin crawled with predictable monkey's paw horror-but I felt an idiotic surge of exultation, too, as if part of me simply refused to accept that this sign of life could not be a sign of hope.

Cavolini tried again, and the second attempt was more sustained. His artificial exhalation, detached from voluntary control, made it sound like he was gasping for breath; the effect was pitiful-but he wasn't actually short of oxygen at all. His speech was so broken and tortuous that I couldn't make out a single word, but an array of piezoelectric sensors was glued to his throat, and wired to a computer. I turned to the display panel.

Why can't I see?

Lukowski said, "Your eyes are bandaged. There were a couple of broken blood vessels, but they've been repaired; there'll be no permanent damage, I promise. So just... lie still, and relax. And tell me what happened."

What time is it? Please. I better call home. I better tell them- "We've spoken to your parents. They're on their way, they'll be here as soon as possible."

That much was true-but even if they showed up in the next ninety seconds, they would not be allowed into the room.

"You were waiting for the train home, weren't you? Platform four. Remember? Waiting for the ten-thirty to Strathfield. But you didn't get on. What happened?" I saw Lukowski's gaze shift to a graph below the transcript window, where half a dozen rising curves recording improved vital signs were extended by dashed computer projections. All of the projected curves. .h.i.t their peaks a minute or so in the future, then swiftly declined.

He had a knife. Cavolini's right arm began to twitch, and his slack facial muscles came to life for the first time, taking on a grimace of pain. It still hurts. Please help me. The bioethicist glanced calmly at some figures on the display screen, but declined to intervene. Any effective anesthetic would damp down neural activity too much to allow the interrogation to continue; it was all or nothing, abort or proceed.

Lukowski said gently, "The nurse is getting some painkillers. Hang in there, man, it won't be long. But tell me: who had the knife?" The faces of both of them were glistening with sweat now; Lukowski's arm was scarlet up to the elbow. I thought: If you found someone dying on the pavement in a pool of blood, you'd ask the same questions, wouldn't you? And tell the same rea.s.suring lies? "Who was it, Danny?" My brother. "Your brother had the knife?"

No he didn't. I can't remember what happened. Ask me later. My head's too fuzzy now.

7."Why did you say it was your brother? Was it him, or wasn't it?" Of course it wasn't him. Don't tell anyone I said that. I'll be all right if you stop confusing me. Can I have the painkillers now?

Please?

His face flowed and froze, flowed and froze, like a sequence of masks, making his suffering seem stylized, abstract. He began to move his head back and forth; weakly at first, then with manic speed and energy. I a.s.sumed he was having some kind of seizure: the revival drugs were over-stimulating some damaged neural pathway.

Then he reached up with his right hand and tore away the blindfold. His head stopped jerking immediately; maybe his skin had grown hypersensitive, and the blindfold had become an unbearable irritation. He blinked a few times, then squinted up at the room's bright lights. 1 could see his pupils contract, his eyes moving purposefully. He raised his head slightly and examined Lukowski, then looked down at his own body and its strange adornments: the pacemaker's brightly colored ribbon cable; the heavy plastic blood-supply tubes; the knife wounds full of glistening white maggots. n.o.body moved, n.o.body spoke, while he inspected the needles and electrodes buried in his chest, the strange pink tide washing out of him, his ruined lungs, his artificial airway. The display screen was behind him, but everything else was there to be taken in at a glance. In a matter of seconds, he knew, I could see the weight of understanding descend on him.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His expression shifted rapidly; through the pain there was a sudden flash of pure astonishment, and then an almost amused comprehension of the full strangeness-and maybe even the perverse virtuosity-of the feat to which he'd been subjected. For an instant, he really did look like someone admiring a brilliant, vicious, b.l.o.o.d.y practical joke at his own expense.

Then he said clearly, between enforced robotic gasps: "I ... don't. . . think . . . this ... is ... a ... good ... id ... dea. I... don't. . . want. . . to ... talk . . . any . . . more."

He closed his eyes and sank back onto the table. His vital signs were descending rapidly.

Lukowski turned to the pathologist. He was ashen, but he still gripped the boy's hand. "How could the retinas function? What did you do? You stupid-" He raised his free hand as if to strike her, but he didn't follow through. The bioethicist's T-shirt read: ETERNAL LOVE IS A LOVEPET. MADE 8.FROM YOUR LOVED ONE'S OWN DNA. The pathologist, standing her ground, screamed back at Lukowski, "You had to push him, didn't you? You had to keep on and on about the brother, while his stress hormone index climbed straight into the red!" I wondered who'd decided what a normal level of adrenaline was, for the state of being dead from knife wounds but otherwise relaxed. Someone behind me emitted a long string of incoherent obscenities. I turned to see the paramedic, who would have been with Cavolini since the ambulance; I hadn't even realized that he was still in the room. He was staring at the floor, his fists clenched tight, shaking with anger.

Lukowski grabbed my elbow, staining me with synthetic blood. He spoke in a stage whisper, as if hoping to keep his words off the soundtrack. "You can film the next one. Okay? This has never happened before-never-and if you show people a one-in-a-million glitch as if it was- The bioethicist ventured mildly, "I think the guidelines from the Tay-lor committee on optional restraints make it clear-"

The pathologist's a.s.sistant turned on her, outraged. "Who asked you for an opinion? Procedure is none of your business, you pathetic-"

An ear-splitting alarm went off, somewhere deep in the electronic guts of the revival apparatus. The pathologist's a.s.sistant bent over the equipment, and bashed on the keypad like a frustrated child attacking a broken toy, until the noise went away.

In the silence that followed, I almost closed my eyes, invoked Witness, stopped recording. I'd seen enough.

Then Daniel Cavolini regained consciousness, and began to scream.

I watched as they pumped him full of morphine, and waited for the revival drugs to finish him off.

9.2.It was just after five as I walked down the hill from Eastwood railway station. The sky was pale and colorless, Venus was fading slowly in the east, but the street itself already looked exactly as it did by daylight. Just inexplicably deserted. My carriage on the train had been empty, too. Last-human-on-Earth time.

Birds were calling-loudly-in the lush bushland which lined the railway corridor, and in the labyrinth of wooded parks woven into the surrounding suburb. Many of the parks resembled pristine forest-but every tree, every shrub was engineered: at the very least drought and fire resistant, shedding no messy, flammable twigs, bark or leaves. Dead plant tissue was resorbed, cannibalized; I'd seen it portrayed in time-lapse (one kind of photography I never carried out myself): an entire brown and wilting branch shrinking back into the living trunk. Most of the trees generated a modest amount of electricity-ultimately from sunlight, although the chemistry was elaborate, and the release of stored energy continued twenty-four hours a day. Specialized roots sought out the underground superconductors snaking through the parks, and fed in their contributions. Two and a quarter volts was about as intrinsically safe as electric power could be-but it required zero resistance for efficient transmission.

Some of the fauna had been modified, too; the magpies were docile even in spring, the mosquitoes shunned mammalian blood, and the most venomous snakes were incapable of harming a human child. Small advantages over their wild cousins, tied to the biochemistry of the engineered vegetation, guaranteed the altered species dominance in this microecology-and small handicaps kept them from flourishing if they ever escaped to one of the truly wild reserves, distant from human habitation.

10.I was renting a small detached unit in a cl.u.s.ter of four, set in a zero-maintenance garden which merged seamlessly with the tendril of parkland at the end of a cul-de-sac. I'd been there for eight years, ever since my first commission from SeeNet, but I still felt like a trespa.s.ser. East-wood was just eighteen kilometers from the center of Sydney, which- although ever fewer people had reason to travel there-still seemed to hold an inexplicable sway over real-estate prices; I couldn't have bought the unit myself in a hundred years. The (barely) affordable rent was just a felicitous by-product of the owner's elaborate tax evasion schemes-and it was probably only a matter of time before some quiver of b.u.t.terfly wings in world financial markets rendered the networks slightly less generous, or my landowner slightly less in need of a write-off, and I'd be picked up and flung fifty kilometers west, back to the outer sprawl where I belonged.

I approached warily. Home should have felt like a sanctuary after the night's events, but I hesitated outside the front door, key in hand, for something like a minute.

Gina was up, dressed, and in the middle of breakfast. I hadn't seen her since the same time the day before; it was as if I'd never left.

She said, "How was filming?" I'd sent her a message from the hospital, explaining that we'd finally got lucky.

"I don't want to talk about it." I retreated into the living room and sank into a chair. The action of sitting seemed to replay itself in my inner ears; I kept descending, again and again. I fixed my gaze on the pattern in the carpet; the illusion slowly faded.

"Andrew? What happened?" She followed me into the room. "Did something go wrong? Will you have to reshoot?"

"I said I don't want to-" I caught myself. I looked up at her, and forced myself to concentrate. She was puzzled, but not yet angry. Rule number three: Tell her everything, however unpleasant, at the first opportunity. Whether you feel like it or not. Anything less will be treated as deliberate exclusion and taken as a personal affront.

I said, "I won't have to reshoot. It's over." I recounted what had happened.

Gina looked ill. "And was anything he said worth . . . extracting? Did mentioning his brother make the slightest sense or was he just braindamaged and ranting?"

"That's still not clear. Evidently the brother does have a history of violence; he was on probation for a.s.saulting his mother. They've taken 11.him in for questioning . . . but it could all come to nothing. If the victim's short-term memories were lost, he could have pieced together a false reconstruction of the stabbing, using the first person who came to mind as being capable of the act. And when he changed his story he might not have been covering up at all; he might simply have realized that he was amnesic."

Gina said, "And even if the brother did kill him ... no jury is going to accept a couple of words, instantly retracted, as any kind of proof. If there's a conviction, it will have nothing to do with the revival."

It was difficult to argue the point; I had to struggle to regain some perspective.

"Not in this case, no. But there have been times when it's made all the difference. The victim's word alone might never stand up in court- but there've been people tried for murder who would never have been suspected otherwise. Cases when the evidence which actually convicted them was only pieced together because the revival testimony put the investigation on the right track."

Gina was dismissive. "That may have happened once or twice-but it's still not worth it. They should ban the whole procedure, it's obscene." She hesitated. "But you're not going to use that footage, are you?"

"Of course I'm going to use it."

"You're going to show a man dying in agony on an operating table- captured in the act of realizing that everything which brought him back to life is guaranteed to kill him?" She spoke calmly; she sounded more incredulous than outraged.

I said, "What do you want me to use instead? A dramatization, where everything goes according to plan?"

"No. But why not a dramatization where everything goes wrong, in exactly the way it did last night?"

"Why? It's already happened, and I've already filmed it. Who benefits from a reconstruction?"

"The victim's family. For a start."

I thought: Possibly. But would a reconstruction really spare their feelings? And no one was going to force them to watch the doc.u.mentary, in either case.

I said, "Be reasonable. This is powerful stuff; I can't just throw it away. And I have every right to use it. I had permission to be there-from the cops, from the hospital. And I'll get the family's clearance-"

12."You mean the network's lawyers will browbeat them into signing some kind of waiver 'in the public interest.'"

I had no answer to that; it was exactly what would happen. I said, "You're the one who just declared that revival is obscene. You want to see it banned? This can only help your cause. It's as good a dose of frankenscience as any dumb luddite could ask for."

Gina looked stung; I couldn't tell if she was faking. She said, "I have a doctorate in materials science, you peasant, so don't call me-" "I didn't. You know what I meant,"

"If anyone's a luddite, you are. This entire project is beginning to sound like Edenite propaganda, 'Junk DNA!' What's the subt.i.tle? 'The biotechnology nightmare?'" "Close."

"What I don't understand is why you couldn't include a single positive story-"

I said wearily, "We've been over this before. It's not up to me. The networks won't buy anything unless there's an angle. In this case, the downside ofbiotech. That's the choice of subject, that's what it's about. It isn't meant to be 'balanced.' Balance confuses the marketing people; you can't hype something which contains two contradictory messages. But at least it might counteract all the hymns of praise to genetic engineering everyone's been gagging on lately. And-taken along with everything else-it does show the whole picture. By adding what they've all left out."

Gina was unmoved. "That's disingenuous. 'Our sensationalism balances their sensationalism.' It doesn't. It just polarizes opinion. What's wrong with a calm, reasoned presentation of the facts-which might help to get revival and a few other blatant atrocities outlawed-without playing up all the old transgressions-against-nature bulls.h.i.t? Showing the excesses, but putting them in context? You should be helping people make informed decisions about what they demand from the regulatory authorities. Junk DNA sounds more likely to inspire them to go out and bomb the nearest biotech lab."

I curled into the armchair and rested my head on my knees. "All right, I give up. Everything you say is true. I'm a manipulative, rabble-rousing, anti-science hack."

She frowned. "Anti-science? I wouldn't go that far. You're venal, lazy, and irresponsible-but you're not quite Ignorance Cult material yet."

13."Your faith is touching."

She prodded me with a cushion, affectionately I think, then went back to the kitchen. I covered my face with my hands, and the room started tipping.

I should have been jubilant. It was over. The revival was the very last piece of filming for Junk DNA. No more paranoid billionaires mutating into self-contained walking ecologies. No more insurance firms designing personal actuarial implants to monitor diet, exercise, and exposure to pollutants-for the sake of endlessly recomputing the wearer's most probable date and cause of death. No more Voluntary Autists lobbying for the right to have their brains surgically mutilated so they could finally attain the condition nature hadn't quite granted them . . .

1 went into my workroom and unreeled the fiber-optic umbilical from the side of the editing console. 1 lifted my shirt and cleared some unnamable debris from my navel, then extracted the skin-colored plug with my fingernails, exposing a short stainless-steel tube ending in an opalescent laser port.

Gina called out from the kitchen, "Are you performing unnatural acts with that machine again?"

I was too tired to think of an intelligent retort. I snapped the connectors together, and the console lit up.

The screen showed everything as it came through. Eight hours' worth in sixty seconds-most of it an incomprehensible blur, but I averted my gaze anyway. 1 didn't much feel like reliving any of the night's events, however briefly.