Authors: Vasily Klyukin
Twelve
years ago Jeremy Link, a Professor at the University of London who taught in
the biology department and was a doctor of bioenergetics, invented a way of
measuring the energy responsible for an individual’s originality, fantasy and
imagination. He called it “orange energy”, or simply OE, the basis of
creativity, which every human being possesses at varying levels. Three years
later he successfully downloaded creativity for the first time, and two years
after that he learned how to store it and utilize it. In the same year he added
to his depositary the creativity of 30 dying scientists who volunteered. He
called the computer that ran on OE “Collective Mind” and its measuring unit –
Human Imagination Tone.
It
was a revolutionary breakthrough! The scientific world, the TV and the press
literally went crazy. The human fantasy stored in the server became a kind of
super-potent biological data base. A lab technician linked in to Collective
Mind temporarily acquired the pooled creativity of all the people whose
individual OE had been downloaded. An idea that was previously incomplete
immediately became concrete, complete and meaningful. Virtually any problem was
processed by the computer like a simple jigsaw puzzle. The missing pieces
became as clear as if they were traced out on paper, the gaps were analyzed,
and the idea itself was completed and finalized.
To
impress the scientists and journalists who gathered at the press conference for
the presentation of his invention, Jeremy Link uttered just one short phrase to
his lab assistant: “A treatment for cancer”. The assistant put on a helmet
connected to Collective Mind, flipped the “on” switch and started typing on an
ordinary laptop. After precisely two minutes, he took off the helmet. The
professor went across to the lab technician and projected the result of his
work onto a large screen. The image that appeared was a mass of formulae. “This
is the most effective treatment for cancer, gentlemen!” For several seconds
there was dead silence. Then the hall exploded into applause and people were
weeping. Two years later the machine found out how to eliminate cancer
completely.
Human
beings aren’t computers, they can’t concentrate intensely enough to visualize
the detailed picture. Now this had become possible. How many technologies and
inventions had we missed out on because of overlooked details? And how many
scientists had wrestled with a problem, each one of them solving it 60 or 70
per cent from different angles, but never reaching a solution? Now their
partial solutions were combined in Collective Mind to produce 100 per cent!
A
brilliant idea might have seemed impossible to implement, utopian, but the
answer was really within easy reach. How many scientists died without ever
bringing their research to a conclusion? Their ideas have gone with them.
The
internet, social networks and world press exploded at once, competing with
exalted headlines: “World’s first artificial mind”, “Safe artificial intellect
created”, “Everyone can become part of Mega Brain”, “All experience in one”;
even “Future is here” and “First step to immortality”. People were taking part
in numerous discussions about the prospects of the new invention. They offered
to name the measuring unit after Professor Link, but he refused firmly, saying
HIT was enough.
And
the hit it really was!
Dr.
Link made the discovery of the century…of the millennium and quite possibly the
most important discovery ever made by mankind. A lab assistant connected to
Collective Mind could easily solve problems from different areas of science,
from nuclear physics to linguistics, without the slightest stress or damage to
his own health. By amalgamating creativity the world started getting answers to
thousands of questions.
Initially
Collective Mind’s capacity grew in almost geometric progression with each new
download of creativity. Energy is energy, it doesn’t matter where and how it
has been obtained. It’s the same in people of different races and religions, it
has no language barriers, and it’s not infected with either viruses or bigotry.
Collective Mind made it possible to combine people’s potential from the most
varied specialties. A chemist and a physicist, a musician and a painter, an
astronomer and a chef. Combining them all, mingling them together. The energy
multiplied its capacity, filling in more and more of the gaps in different
problems. By combining the energy and talents of seven middle school pupils,
the programming produced the hypothetical intellect of an Einstein!
Creative
energy powers a computer that has no tastes or preferences and is not affected
by emotions. Energy cannot be infected by evil. All that matters is the battery
power of the human head. The combined energy of an artist, a biochemist, a
musician and a doctor can now solve the most complex medical problem. It’s not
artificial intelligence, which can take decisions. It’s a biological processor,
a repository of ideas and answers to questions.
The
United Kingdom immediately declared Dr. Jeremy Link’s discovery a secret of
strategic national interest and classified information. The security services
raided Link’s house the very next day, Link had already handed over the technology
to the UN beforehand – to a friend of his, Antony Blake, who was a specialist
in computer modeling in nuclear physics and a Deputy General Secretary, before
disappearing himself, temporarily, as people thought at the time.
The
technology eventually became the property of the world, without increasing the
power of any individual state or any international corporation The idea of
transferring the technology to the UN saved the world from domination, and
possibly even from World War III. The United Nations International Collective
Mind Agency, or UNICOMA, was now set up, becoming popularly known as COMA.
In
three years of operation the agency completely vanquished cancer, AIDS and
diabetes. Oil consumption dropped by a factor of three, and two years later –
by a factor of five. After seven years, more than 70 percent of cars ran on
non-polluting hydrogen. Plastic became soluble, metals coated with a new
compound didn’t rust, the problems of freon, CO2 and other harmful emissions
had been forgotten. The UN had deposed NATO from its throne of military
domination and the number of wars in the world was steadily declining. No one
wanted to have anything to do with UN peacekeepers, who now looked like an army
of soldiers out of Star Wars.
UNICOMA
became a very successful institution, in both the popular and commercial
senses, priding itself in a host of inventions and achievements. The agency
earned fantastic profits from the sale of patents, even though the fees paid to
talented people who off-loaded their creativity were extremely generous.
There
was another side to the coin – those talented people transformed into a grey
mass. But is that really a high price, if their accumulated knowledge and
future potential have been preserved, while wars have become a thing of the
past, and cancer, drug addiction and smoking, which used to cost tens of
millions of lives a year, have been defeated? The agency entered into lifelong
contracts to provide the off-loaders with continuing support, and it took good
care of them, not to mention the huge fees they were paid. A particularly
important point was that the donors’ creativity wasn’t completely drained. It
fell to a minimum of 500 base points, and for some reason these final vestiges
of the energy couldn’t be downloaded. Specialists assumed that this level was
essential to life, and was regulated by the body itself. A kind of “notional
zero”.
One
could see photographs of smiling people in dressy clothes, sitting beside azure
swimming pools, with the caption: “I gave people what I was given from on high,
and I have been rewarded!” These people looked very happy. Stupid, but happy
and harmless. So Happies were they called.
Why
Jeremy Link disappeared, if he really did disappear at all, or was killed or
hidden by someone’s secret services, has been the greatest mystery of recent
times. All sorts of different theories have been proposed, including some
totally off the wall. Perhaps, it was thought, the brilliant professor, like so
many others, became a feebleminded Happy, living somewhere in the Caribbean or
New Zealand. Link was named Man of the Year and awarded the Nobel Prize in
absentia. The UK made a U-turn and became terribly proud that the brilliant
inventor was English. The Royal family even wanted to knight him, if only he could
be found. Even the omnipresent internet couldn’t offer any indication of his
whereabouts or information concerning his death. For several years “Link” led
the query ratings in internet search engines, outstripping “download”, “porn”
and “games” and coming second only to the query “how”, but there weren’t any
answers. On the other hand, in China alone the number of new-born children who
were named Link, Linky, Linxy and Lin was almost a million.
The
depressing thoughts ran round and round Isaac’s head. His feet quite literally
tripped over each other, and it took him more than half an hour to cross the
square.
The
buzzing of the little device in Isaac’s pocket irritated him, and he switched
it off. Cold trickles of rain ran down over his gloomy face and dribbled down
his neck. Isaac shuddered and pulled himself together.
He
called his device “V-Rain” both in honor of his sister and because it was a
victory over the rain. Selling market-ready technology for good money wasn’t
easy, and Isaac had clearly put things off for too long. He had carried on
improving the device, reducing its size and perfecting everything, even the
visual design. And then Vicky’s problems began and Isaac wasn’t able to handle
her illness and at the same time navigate the labyrinthine bureaucracy of the
patent system. These days the Patent Office and the system of selling
inventions were practically vestigial relics. All corporations bought their
technology from COMA, without any legal hurdles, using the standard contract
developed by the Agency.
V-Rain
was now ready, even though only one copy, a compact device like a small, smooth
oyster, but it was finished. Isaac knew he could count on receiving a check for
a couple million dollars minimum, but it would take at least three months to
arrive, and Vicky needed her surgery on Monday. He would never forgive himself
if his sister died, he wouldn’t want any money then. Better to be a Happy with
a zero creative index than a smart guy whose wealth cost the life of the only
person he really cared for. Why had that damned Professor Link disappeared?
Maybe he would have come up with a way to offload only half or a third of one’s
orange energy leaving a bit more than a pitiful 500 points?
Isaac
had already drawn up the obligatory contract and instructions a month ago, just
in case it was needed, and dammit, now it was needed! He had appointed Victoria
his guardian, and she would take care of him when she was back on her feet. But
in the meantime it was the temporary guesthouse at Theoule. He had written into
the contract that they should keep him there and transfer the management of his
property and guardianship to his sister upon her first request.
A
large drop of cold rainwater gathered on his neck behind his collar and scalded
its way down his back. Isaac returned from oblivion. How long had he been
standing in front of the door of the Town Hall? One minute, or maybe ten? One
final intelligent glance at an airplane flying past, at a policeman walking by,
at a taxi, at the sea, and Isaac opened the door and walked inside.
It
was cozy inside the Monaco branch of UNICOMA. Cool music playing soothingly,
light colors, a spacious hall. Isaac mentally compared the reception area with
a day-spa in Thailand, except there was no scent of lemongrass and no smiling
Thai girls. There were quite a lot of people there – five at once. An old man,
an elderly woman, a young guy, Isaac and some hippy-looking vagrant. Five
neurones ready to replenish the power of the artificial brain. Five clusters of
the world’s creativity drive.
Isaac
habitually hypothesized about people. He didn’t often get a chance to check his
theories, but at least it was more interesting than simply waiting.
With
some of the off-loaders everything was clear straight away. The old man had
probably decided to supplement the provisions of his pension. If he still had a
good level of creativity, he could quite easily spend the rest of his life
here, in the sunshine of Côte d’Azur, in one of the sanatoria that had
sprung up like mushrooms just recently, from St. Remo to Marseilles.
“So
many people dream of the blue sky and blue sea – azure, that is,” thought
Isaac, grinning to himself. “Spending the rest of their life, their pension
years, in the best seaside resort in the world… in France.” The building boom
in guesthouses had almost doubled the population of Provence. And they had
started building a third terminal at the Nice airport.
Judging
by his clothes the old man wasn’t from here; he’d come to take a look at the
level of his would-be subsistence and stayed on. The way it looked, no one was
expecting him back at home or wherever it was he lived, so he was kissing his
own identity goodbye on the spot, and from here he would be taken to his final
place of residence. That is if he was lucky, of course. Many people
overestimated their reserves or came too late, when their orange energy was
already exhausted. Europeans had to move elsewhere and find themselves a haven
in southern Croatia or Montenegro, or maybe even in some Asian countries or
Latin America.
The
woman was quite wrinkled for her age. She had obviously been through a lot. She
looked old, although she was probably about 50, or even younger. Maybe it was
too much for her, supporting some good-for-nothing child, who was an idle drone,
or maybe a first-wave Happy. During the early years of Collective Mind, young
people, mostly drug addicts, had offloaded their creativity en masse, without a
thought for what came next. Their brothers, sisters or parents had to pick up
the pieces, there were plenty of those. Or maybe things weren’t that way at
all, and she was simply tired of being alone. So many men, so many problems.
The
fidgety young guy was running away from love. This was his legal way of
suicide. He was ugly, with a pimply, lumpy face, greasy skin and deep-set eyes.
Skinny but not sinewy, with an unhealthy stoop. In short, a geek. No dreamboat,
and not a “man” in the female interpretation of the word.
It
was probably personality suicide, a way to put an end to heartaches. Isaac realized
he wasn’t mistaken when the young guy took a photo out of his wallet and gazed
at it for a long time. His entire being exuded despair, but not the kind Isaac
had. Isaac was miserable about himself, about the shape his life was in, about
the brains he was soon going to lose, but this guy was miserable about a girl.
“The
photo, of course! The one you keep looking at.”
Pierre
got nervous and shrank as if he was trying to disappear, dissolve, and reduce
himself to an inconspicuous, transparent molecule. He blushed and instinctively
pressed his hand against the pocket where he kept his wallet with the precious
photograph in it.
“Hey,
take it easy. After all, love is worth showing, isn’t it?”
“I
don’t…” Pierre began and stopped short. “I…” he continued in an apologetic
tone. “I don’t… What do you want? Who are you? Leave me alone!”
Isaac
laid a friendly hand on Pierre’s shoulder and spoke in a firm, commanding
voice.
“The
two of us will leave this place as dimwitted boneheads, with no shame or
emotions. And you won’t give a hoot about who you loved and what you were
embarrassed about. We’ve got nothing to lose.”
“I
don’t think so.”
“C’mon,
show me. Don’t be a pighead.”
Pierre
reluctantly took out his wallet and handed it to Isaac. Isaac opened it. A few
small-denomination banknotes, documents for a motor scooter and a slightly
crumpled photograph of Pierre, hand-in-hand with a black-haired girl. Sweet,
but by no means a beauty. To all appearances the photo was about five years
old, maybe a bit less.
“What’s
her name?”
“Chantal.”
“Chantal…”
Protest.
A feeling of protest at what was happening, at the paradox of him ending up
here, was gnawing at Isaac and bursting out of him. He wanted to cancel
everything; he wanted everything to be different, not like this. He didn’t want
to come here, and now the urge of not letting it happen to Pierre, of
persuading him not to download, was swelling up with enormous force, permeating
every fiber of his being. Pierre could be saved! Isaac’s brains started
whirling furiously, he wanted to choose the right words, convincing enough to
stop the young guy. What did Pierre want this for? What sort of raving nonsense
had this guy, almost a teenager, got into his head? Instantly Isaac thought of
Pascal, who had wasted his creativity out of love. He tried to calm down, so
that he would sound more convincing. He felt like a negotiator, standing on a
roof and talking a teenager out of jumping off the edge. All he knew was that
had to save him, and he put his trust in intuition, the kid’s will to live and
his own wild desire to help him!
He
never had time to finish his thought.