And diseases we might beat if caught early enough (cancer, neurodegenerative disorders, suicidal depression). Plus, what annoys, relaxes, arouses, distracts, bores, thrills, entertains, and whether our mode is flight or fight given the predicament. Also, how we honestly relate to and perceive everything and everyone.
Meaning there will be few secrets anymore as we’re watched over by an electronic God. A well-meaning but demanding one with judgmental tendencies and a need to know.
“It’s not all that different from chipping your pets in case they get lost,” Dick shows me another diagram, and let’s be honest, what he’s talking about is nothing like that.
Implanting a silicon Radio Frequency Identification (RFID) microchip in your poodle is one thing. It’s another to inject a human with scores of sensors and other microdevices, unleashing them under the skin and into deeper spaces like an array of nano-satellites or a virus.
“Made of hydrogel and other biocompatible materials, including your body’s own proteins to prevent inflammatory responses and scarring,” Dick shows me on his laptop as we lean against pillows on the bed like roomies. “As you can see, your SIN is only partially switched on so far.”
“When might I expect that to change?” I want to know. “And will I be aware of it?”
“As they say in quantum computing, it all depends,” he answers, and I ask him who’s in charge of the so-called switching.
“It’s only fair that I know, considering the power that person has. Or maybe it’s more than one,” I add, studying digital schematics and downloads of what should be intensely private.
“You and Carme are in charge of your own switches, of what you’re ready to handle and when,” Dick replies. “The good news is, much of it won’t be conscious. You’ll automatically adapt for the most part.”
“For the most part doesn’t sound reassuring or what I’d consider good news. This is getting more unmanageable by leaps and bounds,” I complain. “Not to mention what you’re describing is ridiculously dangerous and scary.”
“You’ll have robust assistance that I’ll introduce you to in a minute,” and he goes on to explain that in the main I shouldn’t be aware of devices as small as ground pepper flakes, some no thicker than a human hair.
It’s hard to know what to expect when it’s largely uncharted territory, he adds. I shouldn’t feel pain from injection sites, most of them no longer visible. But I might be aware of a vague tenderness near the foramen magnum, the opening at the base of my skull. Beyond that, I probably wouldn’t have a clue what’s been done to me had he not begun to paint a vivid portrait of what I am under the hood, of how I’m configured and connected.
I wonder when it would have dawned on me that I’m not myself anymore, perhaps when my physical actions and gestures cause manipulations and disturbances of televisions, locks, other electronics. Maybe I would have been alerted by the strange vibrations and tingles like I’m experiencing in my scarred finger.
Unusual thoughts and moods might cause me to suspect I’ve been altered or worse, fear I’m becoming delusional, possibly paranoid and psychotic. How awful it would be if nobody told me what’s really going on. How distressing for Carme if the same thing were done to her and she didn’t know.
Thinking back on her increasingly erratic behavior over recent months, I sure hope Dick and his Gemini project don’t turn us into something we’re not . . .
Hostile, destructive people ruled by bias . . .
Supremely selfish ones with no empathy or remorse . . .
Coldly calculating automatons that get the job done at any cost . . .
Ruthless cyborgs who will charm your socks off . . .
“The race is on to combine telemedicine with AI and quantum computing,” Dick continues describing why it was necessary to appropriate Carme’s and my double lives.
The potential benefit to the public is extraordinary in terms of health and safety monitoring, he says.
“Also, the implications for the intelligence community, for law enforcement and the military,” he makes his bigger point.
“Except for one thing,” I remind him. “Anybody with a signal sniffer is going to see me coming. In fact, if someone in the area has one powered on right now, it should be ringing like a bell.”
8
STARTING in the low range of 125 to 134 kilohertz, I describe what my SIN is transmitting based on the digital twin app on the laptop.
“And up around 13.45 megahertz,” I add. “Also, UHF at 800 to 915. Plus, frequencies in the 2 to 4 gigahertz range, plus S-band, which is pretty insane. In other words, I’m Pigpen, the character in Peanuts,” I summarize. “Only the dirty cloud that follows me everywhere is electromagnetic, meaning I’ll constantly get in my own way.”
My own signals will interfere with those I need to read if I’m to evaluate my environment accurately. Security checks will be undoable. Forget trying to get into places that have to defend against intellectual theft and spying. And that’s almost any facility or headquarters I access in my line of work, whether it’s NASA, the Secret Service, the CIA, Scotland Yard, top secret military installations.
“Should Carme and I have an MRI, a CT scan, then what?” I go on describing what seems completely untenable. “Even if the sensor, the nano-radio or an antenna is no bigger than a sesame seed, one of these days someone’s going to detect it.”
And what happens to us? I ask, and Dick doesn’t have an answer. Will Carme and I end up in prison? In the OR, on an autopsy table with people chopping us up to remove our electronic stuffing? Dismembering and dissecting us for our secret pieces and parts? I continue painting the grimmest of scenarios.
“We have a kill switch,” he shows me on the laptop we’re sharing. “Similar to what happens if your phone is lost or stolen, you can remotely wipe it clean. If need be, we can render your SINs inert, basically dissolve yours and Carme’s injectable networks. But not without wreaking havoc in ways that frankly are unknown.”
“If our cover’s blown, there may not be time to save us. Not if we get hauled away or shot first,” I finish my second muffin, and if only my interest in food had a kill switch.