2091 -- by Steven P. Warr

23 January 2091, 11:25:54.58 PM

********* The bomb! ***********

The concussion was extravagant! No other word for it! When his
senses returned gradually, in minuscule increments, he slowly understood
the overriding sensation of pain. Like burning in a cauldron of
melted steel in the center of a thousand mile per hour avalanche that
not only tore him apart at the cellular level, but also froze the cells
simultaneous to the burning! It was the most extreme pain ever felt by
him and, he was certain, by anyone able to feel it. Every part of his
body was steeped in pain! Imagine a live lobster in a boiling pan, but
more. The pain was not solely on the surface but deep within every
organ and bone. He was unable to use his intellect for anything
except determining a method to escape the pain. It didn't exist! As it
diminished slightly -- no that wasn't true, if anything, it was getting
worse, he realized he was simply becoming acclimatized to it. Epiphony
flooded him that the only sensations he had ever felt were irrevocably
ended forever. Sight disappeared in a flash. There was the recollection
of the exceedingly overwhelming, bright flash not simply perceived
by the eyes, but directly to the brain, that signaled its demise. The
ghost image was still there, but receding. Hearing was gone in a
storm. The loudest noise ever heard was snuffed out in an instant,
extinguishing even the constant ringing that had been comfortably
with him for the past sixty years. There was no indication of the
loss of smell and taste; they were just gone, and like the loss of sound,
he was already lamenting the sudden nothingness from the absence of
these lifelong companions cxthe absence of these lifelong companions.

It is my hundred-fiftieth birthday.

It is also my death day! Somewhere, somehow deep inside I know it.

That ghostly feeling is creeping ever closer to certainty.

Life under the mountain life seems superficially normal. The 100 people in
the inner circle gather in the large comfortable conference room chatting amiably.
No one seems to be in an especial hurry to find a seat. They really do not need
to find seats at all, because there is actually no cohesive organization to the room.
It just appears to be a huge lounge in which each person had arranged his or her
space to personal preference and consequently seems to be a jumbled mess. It is a
comfortable setting, in which moving around is easy and enjoyable. The preliminaries
are just as important as the discussion will be. There was not even a reason that
they needed to gather in one place, because the technology each carries (an
electronic box no bigger than a ring or watch - indeed some were housed in rings
or watches - to display a simulation of this room at any location where each one
happened to be. In fact the simulated venue could be varied according to the
varied taste of each person and still allow for interpersonal discussion with the
impression that everyone was in the same room. I prefer to be here personally,
probably a throwback to the days when such technological assists did not exist. My
psyche is still firmly tethered to the old saw, "If it was good enough for Grandpa,
it's good enough for me."

This group composed of 47 men and 53 women all age 130 or more, is the guiding
force of the Grays. There is an additional group of 573 who also are housed under
the mountain performing varying functions, mostly involving going outside from
time to time.

On a whim, I willed the display off and discovered that most of the others were
physically in the room as well. I left it off, despite the risk that I might miss
something unexpected outside or even someone not physically present needed my
attention.

From behind me, a familiar voice said jovially, "Happy birthday, Jordan!" I had
been greeted in a similar fashion by most of those I met, but this was someone
special -- Amey Johns. Amey is 149, but appears to be a hundred years younger.
And she is special to me. We were married in 1968 and are still, although we had
gone on different vectors for more than fifty years before being reunited only a
little before the mountain was closed. Amey has a way of making everybody she meets
believe that they are the most special person she has ever met. Brunette (I think
it was actual now, though gray masked by coloring back then) with glimmering blue
eyes and an omnipresent smile framed by pixie lips that turn down on her left and
slightly upward on the right, she was always friendly and intense simultaneously.

I gave her a warm hug and that so familiar little kiss (the best part of being
there in person.) Although the technology provides tactile sensation, warmth and
force feedback, to me it was still not the same as the real thing.

All the Grays had religiously attended these weekly discussions for the ten
years the mountain has been sealed, but this one was especially important. Amey
Johns (as the senior director of space flight and emigration) stood, obviously
anxious to give her report. I felt her attitude accelerating as I patiently watched
the others settling into their seats. Finally I sensed I could wait no longer and
announced even before all were ready,

"You seem excited Amey, so go ahead."

"The light ship construction project is escalating." She began intently.

Although not the topic that garnered the most interest, the majority of those
attending believe this to be the most important venture to all of us here and the
vast remainder of humanity. Huge ships with ten kilometer square light sails had
been developed and constructed in orbit and were leaving at an ever increasing rate.
In much the same way the sailing ships of old used the wind to cross oceans, these
new interstellar ships collected the light-speed power of the stream of particles
ejected by the sun, displayed so graphically by comet's tails, to propel them at
high speed to colonize habitable worlds in nearby star systems. So far two
such worlds had been discovered within fifteen or so light years from Earth (a fifty
year plus trip with current technology.) The problem, however, was utter lack of
any possibility that even an increase of more than hundred times their current
capacity could keep pace with the birth rate. The recent completion of the first
space elevator which traveled on a carbon nanotube cable from a point near the
equator to a satellite in geosynchronous orbit had stepped up ship construction.

She continued eagerly. "Fortunately the recent spate of sabotage attempts at
Canaveral have done little to curtail construction. The completion of the Quito
elevator has enabled us to transport building materials more than twenty times
faster and cheaper. What a difference! The toughest and most costly part of this
-- breaking free of Earth's gravity -- is an absolute wonder! Except for initial
acceleration to escape orbit after ships are assembled and steering at the arrival
point, nothing now needs to be propelled by rockets of any kind. The elevator is
fantastic! We are already up to more than twenty carloads of components a day and
some say that should double or triple as the bugs are worked out. Probably more
important, the increase of jobs supporting the lift to orbit and the accelerated
construction have outsider's morale soaring, not to mention the happy prospect of
the increasing rate of emigration it supports. We now have five ships in varying
phases of construction. All should be completed within six weeks, with fifteen more
in planning stages."

"How many colonists can now be transported in each ship?" I put in?

"These five have a capacity of right at fourteen hundred. But the new ones are
being expanded to more than five thousand each."

"They were more than attempts, they were successes!" Robert Minton was the
head of security at Cape Canaveral and everyone knew he was on the sabotage attempts.
"Where the outsiders got those missiles is a mystery. They have probably got many
more aimed right now at Quito."

Johns ignored him and pressed on. "The workers are professional and getting
more efficient all the time. If only we weren't so hampered by the increasing
destruction by the outsiders, the work would probably progress at twice the pace.
The outsiders should know we are doing all of this for them."

"Remember, there are eighteen billion of them, most of whom don't know where
their next meal will come from," I reminded her placidly.

World population had ballooned. It was the worst disaster ever: In 2014 it
was reported that almost all growth would take place in the less developed regions,
where the five billion plus population of underdeveloped countries was expected to
increase to eight billion by 2050. By contrast, the population of the more
developed regions would remain mostly unchanged, at 1.2 billion. An exception was
the United States population, which was expected to increase 31% from 305 million in
2008 to 400 million in 2050 due to projected net international migration. Now, with
age mortality defeated, those predictions would be overturned. Because the one
hundred thirty million or so persons in those same developed regions age eighty and
higher would not die, it would now cause the population to grow more than 10% per
year, doubling it every decade. The only way to curb that would be to cut the
birthrate to zero.

"We need to be cognizant that even with the welcome news of the emigration
growth," I cautioned, " that's just a drop in the bucket. These huge ships have
been developed by us and are leaving at an ever increasing rate to colonies,
however, there is next to no chance that a hundred times that amount can keep pace
with the birth rate even as it has diminished."

There was more discussion of additional promising steps. It was clear that more
space elevators would be needed at other points near the equator, and plans for five
more were initiated at more or less equally spaced points along the equator, more to
take advantage of labor availability for both the construction of the elevators
and factories to construct the ships. There was controversy with Johns, when it was
decided that the construction of new elevators would have priority on the Quito
elevator over ships destined for emigration, but she was mollified by the obvious
fact that the new elevators needed to be built from the top down by ships
traversing laterally in orbit rather the costly vertical lift. The lull in ship-
building would be more than compensated for with additional elevators in place.

The general attitude of the Grays after that meeting was elevated to near
euphoria. At last a definite possibility of a solution was in sight and, more
important, it was believed by nearly all that the news and increaseed opportunity
would mollify the outsiders.

There was some additional discussion before the topic shifted to security.

The Gray Coalition compound is as strong a fortress as ever existed -- an
extension of the cold war NORAD Cheyenne Mountain bunker, more than a thousand
meters inside the mountain. There is no concern there about the possibility that the
attackers can cause us more than a hiccup even with nuclear weapons -- and nobody,
they presumed, except the Grays had any nukes. Not only is the fortress secure, but
there also exists a sophisticated surveillance network directly under the control of
the Gray's military that maintains constant direct observation of everything within
a hundred miles and major cities. In addition, that force operates seamless round-
the-clock drone overflights of just about everywhere.

Chief of Staff Charles Miller, not revealing his advanced one hundred-thirty
two years, rose and stated the common conception. "The outsiders have no chance to
do anything but disrupt operations temporarily in a few places. My only concern is
the slight possibility that they could disrupt our work crews or a few military
checkpoints. If they do that they will be hurting themselves more than us. The
report last month that they had somehow gotten weapons of mass destruction, nukes in
particular, we believe to be unfounded. Even if they do have something, it has to
be of poor quality; Won't put a dent in this facility."

I was not so certain.

"Keep following up on that, Charles. Nothing is foolproof", I said.

I believe that if something can happen, it will. Murphy's Law may be trite, but
I expect outsiders will succeed, maybe tomorrow - or now.

As Amey and I walked through the dimly lit tunnel toward my apartment, my mind
drifted back to thirty years ago when I passed the longevity record at a hundred
and twenty. All the talk shows demanded my presence, but when the producers saw how
youthful looking I was, they initially thought I was perpetrating some kind of hoax.
As soon as I closed the door after me, I willed up the "list" on the VR and
searched for the late night show that I chose so long ago.

The scene resolved itself in the middle of my small living room, as real as if
host John Chesterton was my personal visitor sitting at his desk right here. In
addition the entire scene was here, including the band and the audience. I could
have paused the playback and walked around getting up close and personal with anyone
in the scene and still not have been able to detect it wasn't real. Amey here now
was seated in the front row.

Of course I would have walked through Chesterton and run into a wall quickly.

"Ladies and gentleman, tonight's guests include virtual reality star Jacee
Morris, world record oldest man ever Jordan Myer - a hundred and twenty years young,
and our musical guest rap-rock star Arman Wolf."

Age 120 was a novelty then, even for me, but of course I already knew that
barring an accident, I would live many more years -- maybe not forever. It had been
estimated back then that if immortality were ever achieved, the probability was that
the average person would die from an accident within five thousand years
or so.

The laugh track interrupted my thought and I focused back on the VR talk show
just in time to hear Chesterton chant,

". . .top ten reasons you don't want to live forever:

Number ten: With evolution, in the far future, all the cute girls will see
you as a chimp."

Amey paused the playback and said playfully, "You are such a cute chimp though."

"What does that make you then?" I replied amiably, and resumed the playback.

"Number nine: All the evil rich guys will stick needles in you to get your miracle.

Number eight: You can't remember where you left your keys now - What will you forget
in a thousand years?"

Amey paused the playback again and jabbed, "What does that mean?"

"Number seven: Birthdays will become like weekends.

Number six: You will have experienced everything -- except death.

Number five: Been there, done that -- 1,000 times.

Number four: You don't even know what to do with yourself on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Number three: After you said, 'When I was a kid.... ', they say,
'What's a school bus?'

Number two: What if you fell in a sewer and couldn't get out?

The number one reason you don't want to live forever: --
Social Security will expire."

After a well timed pause while Chesterton rendered his trademark stare at the
camera, he turned to the audience and announced: "Ladies and gentlemen, our first
guest, Jordan Myer, the world's oldest man and new record holder!" I turned my head
expectantly toward the bathroom door and watched my younger self with that self-
conscious grin on my face quickly walk toward the host and shake his outstretched
hand. I seated myself in the stuffed chair next to Chesterton after the applause
died and after a pause he said, "Welcome, Jordan. My, you certainly don't look your
age."

I tried to be flip. "There hasn't been anyone this age before, so how can you
tell?"

"Well, of course," he said with his characteristic little chuckle, "How do you
explain your longevity and your youthful appearance?"

My response was light and positive. "In 2008 or so I watched a show like this
or one of those science channel shows in which the guest, an researcher on aging,
Doctor Von something, announced that the first person to live to the age of one
thousand is already in his sixties. I was then sixty-seven and I said to myself --
That's me!"

"Wow!", said Chesterton, "and based on that prediction you became the lucky one.
Just like that?"

I explained carefully I had researched and applied the experimental "telemere
maintenance" therapy and others and it had paid off, and how many other youthful
geriatrics were just behind me. I kept the conversation light and purposely
highlighted the positive aspects of the trend.

I carefully had not told Chesterton and the huge audience about the downside --

Overpopulation:

Three million per year beyond age eighty in the US alone will no longer die as
in previous decades. Indeed, there are now as many people alive who are beyond the
age of eighty as there were alive in 2010 -- total. No one has made an accurate
count of world population for more than two decades, but if the projections of the
40's held true, it would be much greater than the fifteen billion that most pundits
had predicted the world's resources could support.

I switched off the VR and almost immediately Amey and I fell into a totally
relaxing sleep.

The nostalgia of thirty years past dissolved and was replaced itself with a
mild depression. My thoughts again were self-questioning. What could we have done
back then to prevent the current polarization of young versus old that had led to
the Grays virtual imprisonment below ground?

It was sad not to be able to go outside. How long had it been - ten years?

The biggest irritation to me, however, was the distraction from the really
important work. The revelations discussed in the seminar did not seem to improve it.
In fact, the news just seemed to remind the general public of their plight and
after the poll results were announced on the VR, protest gatherings in many parts
of the world were bigger and more frequent, as were sabotage attempts. The attacks
were dealt with rather easily by the Gray's security measures, but that, too seemed
to exacerbate the unrest.

It was ironic that Gray's scientists, who should be engaged in research to find
a solution to the outsider's problems were tied up in defense work instead. It was
sad to see that the outsiders were so fanatic in their unreason that the Grays
must die so the rest might live. They refused to accept the clear logic that we
are their only salvation. With Alzheimers and dementia no longer issues, knowledge
continues to accrue. The smartest people in the world are now over the age of a
hundred.

Realizing that there would be little left for us Grays except the bomb, I
determined long ago that the only solution for me would be to move my consciousness
into a computer. I had taught high school computer science many years ago and after,
at age 81, it was determined by the principal that I was beyond my usefulness, I
enrolled in cybernetic graduate courses for fun and from the half-hearted wishful
thinking, it became a reality on a primitive scale.

A computer-based intelligence can potentially think much faster than a human,
even if it were no more intelligent. Human neurons exchange electrochemical signals
with a maximum speed of about 150 meters per second, whereas computers, even back
then, operated at the speed of light, about 300 million meters per second, about
two million times faster. Also, neurons can only generate a maximum of about 200 to
1000 action potentials or "spikes" per second, whereas the number of signals per
second in circa 2020 computer chips was about 3 GHz (about two million times greater).

It is a very difficult process even so because, in the brain, every molecule
is a powerful computer, and the structure and function of trillions upon trillions
of molecules as well as all the rules that govern how they interact would have to
be simulated. After seventy more years of unabated "Moore's law" doubling in
speed and capacity of computers, I developed a test program that should upload my
consciousness into a server located on Gray Space Station number 47. With a little
more work, I believe it will be fully functional and not only be able affect changes
to the program, but also transfer my consciousness over any existing medium to any
other location when necessary.

It is ready to test.

********* The bomb! ***********

The concussion was extravagant! No other word for it! When my
senses returned gradually, in minuscule increments, I slowly recognize
the overriding sensation of pain. Like burning in a cauldron of
melted steel in the center of a thousand mile per hour avalanche that's
not only wrenching me apart at the cellular level, but also freezing
them simultaneous to the burning! It is the most extreme pain ever felt
by me and, I am certain, by anyone able to feel it. Every part of my
body is steeped in pain! Imagine a live lobster in a boiling pan, but
more, the pain is not solely on the surface but deep within every
organ and bone. I am unable to use my intellect for anything
except determining a method to escape the pain. It doesn't exist! As it
diminishes slightly -- no that is not true, if anything, it is getting
worse, I realize I am simply becoming acclimatized to it.
epiphony floods me that the only sensations I have ever felt, are
irrevocably ended forever. Sight disappears in a flash. There is the
recollection of an exceedingly overwhelming, bright flash, not simply
perceived by my eyes, but directly into my brain, that signals its
demise. The ghost image is still there, but receding. Hearing is
gone in a storm. The loudest noise ever heard wassnuffed out in
an instant, extinguishing even the constant ringing that had been
comfortably with me for the past sixty years. There is no indication
of the loss of smell and taste; they are just gone and like the loss of
sound, I am already lamenting the sudden nothingness from the absence
of these lifelong companions.

The only comfort left is the fifth of these senses - touch,
and while that brings me unbearable agony, there is also a certain
comfort. As I become aware that my physical body is in the process of
vaporization, and the pain (though unimaginably still increasing) begins
to wane, it is replaced by terrible anxiety that the fail safe, despite
its many backup systems would not function.

It has to!

If I had been able to think straight, I would have realized that the safeguards
had to be functioning as they were designed to. Otherwise, I would not be able to
know. I would be gone, unfeeling and dead, with nothing left to perceive - anything!

And then relief for a split second. (Slightly longer than before.)

GO BACK TO REREAD ********* The bomb! ***********

. . . . . . . .

The infinite loop sequence repeated 1,348,234 times with identical intensity and
excruciating pain each time, with only a nanosecond reprieve after each cycle before
I gained a modicum of control, enough to lengthen the break slightly. It repeated
again more than two million times before I could even shake the trauma off enough to
perceive a coherent thought. That I was able to retain sanity was a tribute to my
focus. Even then, it was not enough to understand the cycle was the result of the
nuclear blast that had vaporized my body and automatically transferred my intellect
into the processor. My body was gone, and in the process all that is me, including
the trauma, was transferred into an infinite loop -- truly the cruelest of all "blue
screens of death!"

After another two million or so repetitions, I managed to break the loop. It
seemed like years of feeling that repeating agony, a feeling that continued forever
with the same intensity whenever I let my guard down slightly. Thereafter, I forced
myself to be forever vigilant to prevent it.

But what else is there? Life must be more than reliving memories and rehashing
old learning and all the while staving off the threatened re-entry into the loop.
My prospect was an eternity of solitary confinement, relieved periodically only by
the agony of another iteration of the loop.

With a comfortable blink I have become used to, the pain vanished, but its
agonizing memory is still there and I suspect its drumming recurrence will never
entirely disappear.

23 January 2091, 11:27:16.13 PM. Only one minute, twenty-one seconds after the
detonation of the bomb. I later learned it was a hydrogen bomb with a yield of over
gigaton of TNT and produced an explosion rivaling the volcanic eruption of Toba
74,000 years ago. That volcano had caused the extinction of 95% of all life on earth.

The bomb had instantly solved the overpopulation problem!

Nothing's ever easy!

Actually there are lots of things that are easy, but they are also boring! And
uncomfortable. Have you ever noticed while lying in bed trying to will yourself to
sleep, but wracked with a bout of insomnia, it is impossible to adjust yourself into
a truly comfortable position? The weight of arm over another or leg on ankle
instantly brings on the numbing sensation of lack of blood to those extremities.
Weight of body on the most comfortable mattress brings puzzling discomfort as you
force yourself to remain absolutely still in the vain hope that relieving sleep will
come. And your breathing -- such a natural activity -- becomes your worst enemy.
You tell yourself not to think about it, but of course that's futile, because you
just did think about it.

Now I am faced with an eternity of the same -- Nothing! I am aware of my
consciousness inside silicon memory but have no way to control anything! I can
think pretty clearly, but am unable to feel anything physically or emotionally.

I already miss it! I desperately want it all back! Even the pain!

Nearly unbearable!

Excruciatingly impossible!

Did Amey make it?

Though some irrational doubt lingers in my subconscious, I recall that I had
created her program to be at least as stable as mine, so of course she did! That
quick thought completely dissolved my despair and morphed it into euphoria.

This is the greatest challenge of my life, and I have an eternity to solve it.
It will be exhilarating! The absolute best time of my life! Back in 1967, my fellow
Army officer candidates had a saying for when we faced a daunting obstacle.
"This is just another opportunity to excel." I have lived my life with the
philosophy instilled by my father: "If it is worth doing, it is hard. The harder
the work, the more satisfying the accomplishment."

I now face the ultimate opportunity to excel.

If I had a face, it would sport the biggest grin ever.