Nature Futures 2 (14 page)

Transmission Received

Peter J. Enyeart

Such journeys are permitted only for those who submit to death and rebirth.
Eva remembered those words as they put her to sleep, as the bright round light overhead started to spin and then went out.

The company rep had said those words when Eva asked why she couldn't be shipped out to the asteroids in her original body. Oddly poetic for a corporate headhunter. She supposed he thought it sounded more momentous than saying: “It's not worth the time and expense to drag 60 kilograms of meat up out of the gravity well and across 30 vacuous light minutes when we can just radio the data necessary to reconstruct it on the other side.”

“By providing your digital signature here,” he had continued, “you affirm that you accept the Employment and Transmission Contract and understand its terms. We are required to remind you at this point that once the transmission and reconstitution of your data is complete, the original will be destroyed, in accordance with the law, which allows only one physical copy of a given individual to be in existence at any given time.” When she'd hesitated, he'd smiled and put his hand on hers. “It doesn't hurt. You'll be put under anaesthesia before the recording is done. Then you'll just wake up at the other end. I've done it several times myself.” She'd resisted the urge to jerk away.

Eva had lost her lab as a result of false charges of academic dishonesty. Subsequent legal wrangling had exhausted her finances but yielded nothing. She was rejected from every remotely technical job she had applied for. Except one. Having nothing left to lose engenders boldness. She signed.

“The company will cover the costs of the basic transmission package, which guarantees a high enough resolution for you to perform your duties, but may entail amnesia, aphasia and partial paralysis, and an increased risk of neoplasia, fibromyalgia, aneurysm and osteoporosis, among other conditions.”

“How can you guarantee I'll be able to do the work you need at the other end?”

“The prospective individual will be subjected to physical and psychological evaluations at the work site. Should the prospective individual not be up to spec, or should performance subsequently deteriorate, a replacement will be transmitted at no charge to you from the digital record of your molecular structure stored in our servers.

“There is also an upgrade to the high-resolution package available for purchase. Actually, I am pleased to inform you that you have been pre-approved for a company loan that will cover the costs if you lack sufficient funds. The rate is very reasonable, and, conveniently, payments will be automatically deducted from your salary. Would you like to upgrade?”

“Bastards!” she whispered, and opened her eyes.

The light above her was still bright but was now an oval. Her head was immobilized, and her wrists and ankles were strapped down. This was not in the contract.

“Congratulations, Eva,” said a soft male voice. “You have escaped the cycles of linear death and rebirth.” She looked around as best she could but couldn't see anyone. It smelled of bleach.

“What is it with you people and the cult talk?” she responded.

A face came into view. A young man. The bright backlight obscured his features. The voice she had heard before laughed, but didn't come from the man above her.

“Do you know where you are?” the man asked. It sounded like the first voice. Another face came into view, identical to the first.

“I damn well better be on 9 Metis, or I'll be suing for breach of contract.”

The laugh again, off to the side.

“A version of you is on 9 Metis…”

A third version of the face now came into view. Realization hit her.

“You pirated me! Who the hell are you?”

“Clever
and
feisty. Yes, I'm glad we chose you.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Calm down.” They seemed to take turns talking.

“You tell me where I am, and who you are, now!”

The faces gave each other concerned glances.

“We monitor the System Government's transmissions for individuals who have qualities we admire. When we find one, we make a copy.”

Eva was intrigued. “How can you parse that information from the signal without physically reconstructing the whole person? That technology doesn't exist.”

“It doesn't exist in the space controlled by the System Government. But the System is decadent. The desire to advance technology is gone, and anything startlingly new is seen as a threat to the status quo. You should know.”

She scowled.

“We've been following your work for some time. We were very excited at the prospect of having you on our team.”

“So what now?”

“Join us as we develop the technology to destroy the System Government and bring human civilization to the next phase of its development. Or be destroyed as an illegal copy.”

“What choice do I have? I'm with you,” she said, although her mind was already working on alternative arrangements.

“Excellent. Each of your copies will get a free back-up every six months, and — wait.” The faces looked concerned. “Unfortunately, your neurological monitors are showing intense animosity. We'll have to try again with an approach better suited to building your confidence.”

“No, wait! You can't —”

They smiled, and a hand patted hers. “It doesn't hurt. You'll be put under anaesthesia and then you'll just wake up again. It happens a few times to everyone until we learn how best to tailor our introduction to the new recruit.” She tried to jerk away.

*   *   *

“Bastards!” she whispered, and opened her eyes.

Peter J. Enyeart is postdoctoral researcher studying metabolic engineering at MIT. He also enjoys sleeping and patent translation.

A Perfect Drug

Dan Erlanson

Jeffrey rose slowly, scanned the half-dozen people in the darkly panelled boardroom, and sonorously announced: “You all know the good news. It's the bad news I've gathered you to hear.”

Alan carefully maintained a neutral composure, but quietly he seethed. It was bad enough for the head of commercialization to call an emergency executive meeting without informing him, the chief executive, what it was about. Now Jeffrey was going to theatrically draw out whatever he was planning to say — and there was nothing Alan could do. Jeffrey had powerful supporters on the board; after all, he had certainly delivered for the company.

“As you know, the launch of Paxpharma has been one of the most successful product rollouts in the history of our industry,” Jeffrey continued. “In the crowded field of antidepressants, our drug stands out with the lowest side-effect profile on the market. Uptake has been phenomenal, and we've gone from a struggling mid-tier pharmaceutical company with a looming patent cliff to the darling of Wall Street.

“As you also know, Paxpharma almost didn't launch. The molecule is a nightmare to synthesize, and the size of the phase III trials necessitated a complete reworking of the manufacturing process. Even with the new synthetic route in place, we barely scraped together enough material for the trials.”

Alan remembered that period painfully well. The company was being pounded by analysts and investors for its thin pipeline. A new antidepressant wasn't an obvious home-run, but the phase II data were compelling, and they didn't have much else. Manufacturing spent months validating the new production procedure, and when everything was worked out and signed off with the FDA, the factory went into 24/7 production mode. It was expensive, but it paid off: the phase III trials revealed Paxpharma to be just as effective as existing antidepressants, but with a faster onset of action and milder side-effect profile. In particular, there was no evidence of weight gain or sexual dysfunction, two problems that focus groups had shown to be particularly unpopular with competitor drugs.

The company launched an aggressive and edgy advertising campaign touting Paxpharma. It worked. One of the ads went viral on YouTube, and the drug got the kind of attention from talk-show hosts and celebrities that can only come about through deserved but dumb luck. There were concerns that demand would outstrip supply, but somehow production increased, and profits soared. Stock analysts who had been calling for changes in leadership suddenly became fawning. Alan couldn't help smiling, remembering his change in fortune.

His reverie was broken by Jeffrey, who was still pontificating. “As I said at the outset, the good news is that the trials were positive. Paxpharma was approved and is now a major commercial success. Now the bad news.

“When the drug was approved, we were at a loss as to how we could scale up production even further. We struggled to make enough material for the pivotal trials, let alone for a launch. And, of course, any significant change in manufacturing procedure would have to be approved by the FDA. We realized we couldn't do it in time.”

There was silence in the room as people tried to digest what they had just heard. Alan finally blurted: “But you did. Right?”

“No,” said Jeffrey. “We tried, but we couldn't do it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Alan, his voice rising tremulously. “We've been selling product for the past 18 months!”

“Yes, we've been selling product,” Jeffrey repeated slowly. “But we haven't been selling a drug. We've been selling sugar pills for the past six quarters.”

Alan felt his stomach hit the floor. Time seemed to stop. “But … it works,” he finally managed, weakly.

Jeffrey shrugged. “Yes, we were happily surprised by that too. The placebo effect is strong with psychoactive drugs. I guess we never realized how strong.”

“That's the bad news,” Jeffrey continued. “A small team of us have kept this secret until now, and we could probably continue to do so indefinitely, but some new developments require decisions.

“The production difficulties with Paxpharma are well-known, and we've been diligently adding capacity. The new plants are now online, and we believe we can now supply enough active pharmaceutical ingredient to meet demand. The question is, should we?”

Alan shouted: “Of course! Right away — why wouldn't you?”

Jeffrey looked at Alan condescendingly, then gazed slowly around the room. “Think about it. We've been selling a product with no side effects, and people are clearly benefiting: just read the patient testimonials posted everywhere online. Look at the sales figures.

“If we switch to selling the actual drug molecule, we'll be putting patients at risk. Sure, the side-effect profile is lower than other drugs out there, but there are side effects with any drug. Worse, these will be especially noticeable to the people who are most benefiting from our product — the patients who have been taking it for months without any problems.

“We will of course continue to manufacture the genuine article as a smokescreen for regulators, but, in the interest of our customers and our shareholders, I recommend continuing to sell placebo.” Jeffrey paused before adding, “Of course, the decision is not mine to make.”

Alan could feel a dozen eyes on him. The seconds ticked into minutes, and by the time he finally replied, his voice was barely audible.

Dan Erlanson is a chemist trying to discover non-placebo-based drugs in San Francisco, California. He blogs about a tiny niche of drug discovery at
http://practicalfragments.blogspot.com
.

Words and music

Ronald D. Ferguson

Yeah, you got me, fair and square. I didn't think you'd recognize me. I am the government translator, the guy who lurks off the shoulder of Space Systems' chief negotiator and whispers connotations, corrections and culpability in case the computer renders too literal a verdict on Utmano phrasing. I've got nothing to do with speakos. Talk with the programmers for input–output problems.

I hope you're recording this, because it will be my only interview. Please, just a few questions, so quit yelling. I'll tell the story, and then I go home. Understood?

Here's what happened. The meeting began with the formal greeting …

Example? You want to know what the Utmano said? Do you speak Utmano? Oh, the literal translation into English? Right. Let me see …

It is beautiful weather we shall be having tomorrow wasn't it?

That's not the literal translation of the Utmano greeting, but that's as close as I'm likely to get on a Tuesday. Today is Wednesday? No, I can't do better today. Of course, the literal translation isn't what the Utmano meant. From the variations of pitch within the context of the meeting, my best interpretation is:

We should complete negotiations successfully tomorrow based on the current tolerant atmosphere and previously adopted ground rules.

The computer's translation was close, possibly better based on pitch and less accurate where context was important. Diphthong? No pitch, like I said. Intonation would be a reasonable description. Thai is the human intonation language that comes to mind, but Utmano is like intonation on steroids. Spoken Utmano must be sung.

No, I don't think an Utmano looks like a whale. That's uncalled for.

Speak Utmano? Unaided, I cannot speak Utmano. My base vocabulary is okay, and I might squeeze out a few words, but the Utmano tonal range is 14 octaves. They have some vocabulary modifiers well above 20,000 hertz, which is likely to make your neighbour's dog bark. Humans have a more limited range. I use a synthesizer to …

Human range? Oh, I don't know. If you watch old videos, Julie Andrews had a four-octave range, Mariah Carey perhaps five, but most people can't do that. I certainly can't. I'm good at listening to the symphony that Utmano call speech. I'm not Mozart, but I have a good ear, and training as a professional musician.

No, Julie Andrews. You know,
The Sound of Music
. Okay?