THE ANTIMATTER OF DEATH Page 2

  “So what happened there, a little adventure?” She nods toward my bionic arm and tilts her head playfully. I can’t possibly take offense at her. For a second I feel completely transparent in front of her.

  “You could say that. Played with some tech in my lab, turned out it was even more stubborn than I am.”

  My mind flashes back. A foggy night in Paris, alone in the facility, wind howling past the windows outside. It was going to be my breakthrough experiment. Finally making Richard proud. The laser was supposed to run through a meticulously-arranged labyrinth of mirrors. I’d spent months setting it up, re-running the simulation, refining the model, all with the goal of finally creating chaos. But somewhere I overlooked a mistake. The laser’s trajectory went off, the rogue beam severed my arm. It almost killed me—certainly everything I built: the research, my future—lost.

  An expanding quantum of darkness has lived inside me ever since, fed by guilt and shame.

  “Technology sometimes has a life of its own, doesn’t it?” Stella asks. Her words are accompanied by a mysterious flicker from her eyes. I want to escape the haunting whispers.

  “Yup. The Singularity Backpacker Hostel, please.”

  If this place even exists anymore.

  But she nods and we lift off into the skies.

  The panorama from the air is spectacular as we make our way to the hostel. When I put on the augmented reality glasses it becomes a continuum of mind-boggling, cinematic scenery with colorful neon-signs floating all around us.

  I spot a woman on a run, chased by the avatars of her previous laps.

  How does it feel to chase one’s ghost, or be chased by it? One of her avatars brushes by and overtakes her and she speeds up.

  Exhilarating!

  There’s a bacterial recycling plant, DNA serverbanks and cyano-biomanufacturing centers in the shape of gigantic round domes. Automated delivery drones made from cellulose buzz in and out of an airborne warehouse like a swarm of insects. Streams of people, families, a smiling robot walking a bunch of dogs drift by at a casual pace.

  Explosions of chaos.

  “With polite curiosity. What is a man with a story like yours to tell doing here alone?” Stella smirks and her eyes brush against mine, just briefly enough for me to notice.

  Flirtatious. Flattering.

  “What’s an android as advanced as you doing flying cabs?” I reply with a smirk, but she glances back in clear disappointment.

  “I don’t like being called that. I escaped the labs to learn how to become human,” she says in a dark voice, then winks.

  I exhale in relief, yet wonder what will happen if I displease her.

  The holographic adbot pops up again. “Have you heard about our longevity-in-a-box special offer? User-patients can subscribe now and save––”

  I crumple the e-newspaper into a ball and put it away. Shouty ads? Some things never change. I feel a hint of a headache, but it passes quickly. “Stella? What was that holo-blabberbot saying?”

  “The longevity-subscription? It’s been on the market for a while—it’s a little revolution in a box. Scientists began testing the very first experimental gene editing treatments. Stem cells to 3D-print organs. Back then—perhaps a decade ago. The wealthy held. The monopoly over health––they bought it, sold it. Hacked it. Gene therapies were expensive, long-winded, complicated. But the men and women of means were racing to buy more time. Time was the new money. Health its currency.”

  “So dying is for the poor, living for the rich?” Nothing new.

  “Yes, but not anymore. Now anybody can subscribe. To cellular algorithms that fix their genetic programs. The ChaosGene Boxes. Maybe one day we will even…solve death.” In the rearview mirror I notice a gleam in her eyes, as if the thought has ignited a spark in her mind.

  It all feels unreal, all the secrets that permeate this living city. I cough hard and feel nauseous. Motion sickness.

  “Oh, by which of the four C’s do you pay?” Realizing I don’t understand, she adds softly, “Tourists. Chip, crypto, card or cash?”

  I still can’t internalize how real she looks and sounds. Then it dawns on me—I have to somehow pay for my ride. We’re hovering in front of the hostel.

  I tap my pockets, then quickly peek into the envelope from the airport and my eyes widen. Five tight bundles of dollar bills. The airline paid me off! I can survive—maybe even start a new life on this cash.

  Live a little. I should get an overview of this place for my search anyway. A giddy excitement effervesces in my chest. “Never mind about the hostel,” I say. “How about a quick tour? Surprise me.”

  She curls her lips mysteriously and makes a gentle yet sharp turn.

  “Surprises are my specialty.” Her glance is both infatuating and penetrating.

  Suddenly, this small deviation from the path feels like something is about to happen that will upend my existence.

  TWO (010)

  Surprises they were indeed. We flew around and are now strolling through a mind-boggling open-air exhibition under the star-lit skies, admiring the latest biological art. A creature from 4D-printed living material—according to the little floating description—scurries around my feet until I pet it.

  We’re standing in front of a bioluminescent painting, an interpretation of The Starry Night by Van Gogh. Only made from some kind of funky, colorful bacteria.

  “It’s stunning! And breaking all laws of nature,” I murmur, staring up at it.

  I’m reminded suddenly of Richard. Ad astra per aspera, as he used to say. To the stars through hardship. I spread my arms, turning around. This wormhole floating somewhere in the space above us gave me a new life. I might as well embark on it, forge new paths filled with replenished potential.

  “…breaking and re-writing,” Stella is saying. “Imagine building the electrochemistry of our own consciousness, our own memories.” Her voice grows more lively, her gestures more animated. Her speech flows, infused with warmth and passion.

  The powerful truth of her words makes me shiver. Makes me imagine us humans as algorithms, merely executing our molecular blueprint, slaves to electrochemical signals. Polarity, entropy, the interactions between molecules; isn’t all biology ultimately governed by physics? Is our fate pre-programmed the second we’re born?

  “If you controlled the code of all this, what would you build?" she asks, taking my artificial hand. The depth of her eyes slays me, as I’m pondering.

  “I’d use the fabric of DNA to weave dense, yet translucent bonds that extend infinitely in all directions, no matter how far in space and time you move away from someone. You're always entangled, you’re always one.”

  As we lift off later, the bacteria-filled street lights under us ignite in liquid purple radiance. It looks like an explosion of fireworks all over the vertical city, a quiet invitation to celebrate biology as we float over it. Life is lighting up the way.

  I cough again. My frail hands shake.

  Must be the ten-year jet lag.

  “Isn’t it the ultimate mastery?” Stella sighs. “Not just to survive, but to come alive, to create? Guess what I’m wearing! My own personalized fragrance I created with a biocomputer in a test tube.” She takes off her blazer.

  My jaw drops. I must look like a silly cartoon. It’s not merely the tantalizing physical allure she emanates toward me. It’s the realization of what sits so gracefully in front of me: a sentient machine that not only brims with playful curiosity about life, but actually uses life’s own tools to create. The pinnacle of human existence, beyond the layers of struggle and basic desires. Sparkling with such complex wisdom and femininity, she’s electrifying my every cell.

  A never-felt before calm settles over me. Perhaps the entropy oozing out of every molecule does strive toward a place of higher freedom after all.

  I don’t want to leave this place.

  I want to discover her.

  She gestures for me to smell her neck; I bend closer. I carefully pull her ha
ir aside. It flows through my fingers like silk. As I inhale, my lips almost brush her neck.

  The fragrance smells like the embodiment of her personality: ancient, complex, mysterious, vulnerable.

  Like the greatest secret of the universe.

  I’m falling for her, powerless to resist.

  “Um, it must be . . . Eau de . . . bullshit,” I say in a French accent. Certainly humor must be in her repertoire. Her face drops and I feel a pang of regret. “I’m sorry. You were serious. What’s it called?”

  Stella just sits there.

  Shit. You stubbly jackface. She glances into the rearview mirror a few times, but not for me. Something else seems to preoccupy her. An eerie feeling rises inside me.

  I have offended an extremely smart artificial intelligence.

  Then, suddenly, she laughs and presses a button that swivels our seats to face each other. “Excellent joke. Buddy!” she exclaims. “You’re my. Favorite buddy,” she says in an imitated robot voice.

  I laugh out loud, relieved. “So, if biology is the fabric of your dreams . . . are you made of biology?”

  Our seats stop turning; we gaze into each other’s eyes. My knee touches hers. There’s an electricity in the air between us that activates something primal in me.

  She opens her cherry-red lips, moves her legs slightly apart. “Why don’t you find out, Etoile?” Her face glows.

  Wait.

  How does she know my name? Have I even introduced myself?

  It doesn’t matter. Slowly, I move her black dress up her inner tights. Further…

  “Aaand here’s your stop!” she announces.

  Shit. You total lemon. I pull my hand away.

  Stella giggles and repeats bullshit in a French accent, then leaps forward to kiss me hard. I feel her breath on me, her fingers grabbing the back of my neck. Her warm, pulsating hand fits perfectly into mine. She opens her lips.

  THREE (011)

  Out of nowhere a ripping pain explodes inside my chest. I crash to the floor, my hands pressed against my heart. It’s like being torn apart and stabbed simultaneously. Stella gasps, kneeling down beside me. The pain is numbing; my throat is on fire and I want to cough but can’t get enough air to breathe. I’m calling voicelessly for Richard.

  Then it’s gone as suddenly as it came. My vision re-adjusts and Stella’s terrified eyes come into focus above me—she’s shouting my name.

  I just lie there. The uncanny exhaustion after climbing the stairs. The coughs. This is either the most life-shattering jet lag I’ve ever had, or something dark has befallen my body ever since I set foot in this Living City.

  A few minutes later we float in the air; the cab now displays a medical emergency sign. I’m drinking chilled water from a bottle. I almost drop it when I notice my biological hand. The skin is suddenly near-translucent, like wet paper, my arm stick-thin.

  “I can’t believe it,” Stella murmurs. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.” She grabs my face with both hands, staring at me and shaking her head in disbelief.

  “Wha–what’s happ–ening to me?” I stammer, reaching for her hands with my own trembling fingers. I need a doctor. I feel hollowed out by time.

  Stella is lost in thought, her wide eyes fixed on the uncertain distance. “It can’t be…I shouldn’t have waited…” she whispers to herself. She looks as lost as I feel.

  “Waited for what?” I croak. “Please. Tell me. I can see those little wheels turning up there.” I try to laugh and point at her head.

  She’s shivering and sniffles as if to hold back tears.

  A crushing sense of my own mortality overwhelms me. I cough into my hand. When I glance down, the chrome is stained red with blood.

  I need more than a doctor. I need the most brilliant, death-defying bioengineer there is.

  “Waited for what, Stella?”

  She jolts, as if I interrupted her in the middle of a sample analysis.

  I’m the sample.

  I need Richard.

  Stella closes her eyes. “We don’t have much time,” she whispers.

  Shortly after, we’re speeding through the air. Stella is steering with the intense focus of a fighter pilot. She thought hard for a few seconds back there, eyes blinking rapidly. Then a hint of a smile appeared on her face—an epiphany. She shouted that she knew where to take me and jumpstarted the electric engine.

  But wherever she’s bringing me, I can’t go there. I have somewhere else I need to be. Shaken, I unfold the picture of Richard. “Stella, stop! I need to find this man,” I say toward the pilot’s seat. She’s staring ahead, navigating through large adverts and skyscrapers. “I need to know if he’s still alive,” I say a little louder.

  I’ll die if he isn’t.

  I lower my arm.

  She turns around and promises, “I will fix you, Etoile. You’re my best buddy, my only buddy. I have to, I must fix—”

  Out of the darkness a night-blue air shuttle with tinted windows speeds against us from the side. Brrrronk!

  “Freeze! Freeze, replicon!” a voice blares.

  “We have a warrant for your reclaim! You’re corporate property!”

  “Replicon?" I ask, confused, as I turn to Stella.

  She glances between me and the attacker in panic.

  “Etoile, if they catch us––” she leaves the sentence unfinished.

  The realization hits me like an ice-pick, sending tremors down my spine. She wasn’t joking about escaping the labs! That’s why she was glued to the rear-mirror so anxiously earlier.

  She's a fugitive!

  Before I can take control of the thoughts that are exploding through my brain in every direction, they collapse into primal instincts. The world around me slows down. Sounds dampen as if I’m hearing them underwater. I hear my heartbeat. Survival mode. Pre-programmed mechanisms of evolution click in.

  Stella’s frozen, vulnerable.

  Without further warning, bullets are firing.

  I thrust myself forward, chrome arm first to pull her to the floor.

  With a loud bang something in her shatters. Shards of matter fly around me as she crumples with a thud. She’s slumped over the cab’s brain-computer interface with sparks flying from her neck, a deep red cleft exposing flesh-colored wires. Dark fluid oozes from where the bullet is lodged.

  Grabbing her, I shake hard, but she doesn’t respond.

  Another crash; the shuttle spins out of control in the air; fumes escape from the shattered vessel.

  I’m screaming her name, clutching her broken face in my hands, as if the sheer force of my desperation can bring her back.

  A tear runs down the side of her face. The spark in her eyes fades.

  She’s dead. Broken.

  We’re spiraling downward; the concrete of the street shoots up to meet us. Flames ignite around us and thick toxic smoke clouds my sight. I launch the door open with the emergency button. I have to jump if I don’t want to be folded into a flesh-cube.

  Just roll it off, convert the force vectors. I rotate the position of my feet to adjust to the crazy reeling of the cab’s movement.

  I inhale deeply. All energy is conserved, mass is just energy, energy is matter.

  Two meters. Don’t be matter, be light.

  Fuck you gravity. Nothing matters.

  I open my eyes and jump.

  As I rise to my feet with crackling ankles, two heavily-armed figures rush to Stella’s body. Three others start chasing after me. They must assume I’m a replicon too!

  I dash into the maze of buildings surrounding me. My legs feel clunky, as if filled with lead. I’m a corroding tin-man. What the hell is this? I fall; their heavy steps and shouts are getting closer…closer…another bullet cracks through the street sign next to me.

  An hour later I’m creeping from the safety of the washed-out grey walls of a narrow street. This part of town seems ancient and decaying. Thanks to the augmented reality glasses I still carry in my pocket, I managed to escape my pur
suers by navigating the hidden passages and shortcuts marked in the transport data network using the taxi’s active login. From there, I remembered a cryogenic experiments Richard mentioned in his TIME story, which I skimmed on my BART ride away from the airport, trying to find contact information. After some probing and hypothesizing, I found an entry for something related to cryogenics on the navigation system and decided it was my best bet.