James Halperin - The First Immortal

I knew tonight would be extraordinary, a night that for 99.9967 percent of human history would have been unimaginable, an absurd dream of only the most ambitious (or overmedicated) science fiction writer. And yet this was no dream, no result of magic or wishful thinking. Tonight we would celebrate the result of tenacious will and teamwork throughout human civilization, combined with luck and the inevitable consequence of fortunate coincidence.

The occasion put me in mind of my long-lost parents, of course, the times they’d missed and the ultimate vindication of nearly all they’d believed. I’d been obsessing about them even more than usual recently and, with Stephanie’s help, had just reached a watershed decision. Impelled by the choice we’d recently made, I began digging through a small box containing a multitude of George Crane Jr.’s recorded thoughts and experiences from days prior to the universality of the central archives. The old storage units varied widely in size, of course, from clunky twentieth century floppy discs right through the hundred-gig, half-inch-diameter datacoins of the early teens.

I came upon an old CD ROM inscribed with the date July 1998 and penned on its faded label a single word: “Coincidence.”

Dad had been a writer of essays, great and small, even from childhood days (after he’d kicked the TV habit). Dad—childhood? I smiled, a million scattered thoughts racing through my head. Picking up my antique Digital Language Universal Translator, I dumped Dad’s old disc into it, then swept the cerebral image scanner across my brow, thinking of all that once had been and of all that might soon come.

I looked at my primary display screen and read words my own father had composed 127 years ago, long before I was born:

Coincidence is the inadvertent ally of mysticism. If enough potatoes grow in the world, some of them are bound to look like Jesus Christ or Elvis Presley.

Chances are that every person you see in public is somehow connected with a person related to someone you know. Such discoveries, while amusing, do not mean fate intends the two of you to become interwoven in a great enterprise.

If every human being on Earth tosses a unique marble into the ocean, some will eventually find their way back to their original owners. With every breath you take, you inhale molecules once part of nearly every other person who has ever lived; a new fragment of Benjamin Franklin enters your lungs every five seconds. Put fifty random people in a room, and almost invariably at least two will have the same birthday. Think about enough friends you haven’t seen in years, and one of them is bound to call you—or die that day. Wait long enough, and you’ll see a solar eclipse. Give enough people mango juice, and some of them will win the lottery, experience spontaneous cancer remissions, or earn a gold medal in the Olympics. if a million baseball players alternate between red and green underwear, some of them will lose every red-underwear game and always win wearing green.

Even coincidences themselves are not so amazing when one considers how many trillions of different kinds are possible. Coincidences occur as simple numerical probability; it would be far more amazing if they did not occur. Yet through the ages, human beings have used the ubiquity of coincidence to sell their snake oil or invoke the illusion of divine intent.

Gary had insisted on entering the room first. Now Ben understood why. In mild shock, he flashed a bemused smile, then occupied the seat of honor, nestling snugly between Alice and Margaret.

Over the past months the two women had been planning tonight’s surprise two-hundredth-birthday banquet.

One gigantic table, microconstructed moments earlier to permit all thirty-six human guests a clear view of each other, filled the restaurant’s private dining room. Food and tonic nanoassemblers built into the table had been programmed to serve each guest instantly from an astounding six terabyte menu, while tranquil outdoor scenery illumined the wallscreens, and quiet custom-synthesized music lilted through the flawlessly blended atmosphere.

Already seated were Ben’s wife, his mother, four children, six grandchildren, nine great-grandchildren (including Alica and me), two great-great-grandchildren, eight spouses or former spouses of his offspring (including Brandon, Virginia, Caleb, Noah, Kimber, and Stephanie Van Winkle, my former assistant—who three years ago had become my wife), Epstein, Toby, Father Steve, and of course our dogs: both Wendy-girls. Ben had been the last to arrive.

How long have you known about tonight’s ambush? Ben telepathed Gary.

His Cerebral Implant Nanotransceiver system, ideal for such gatherings, permitted private conversation even in noisy crowds. Ben was so used to the eleven-month-old innovation that he barely had to think about the destination of his transmitted thoughts. This biological upgrade, partially based on Cache research at our Neuro Nanoscience Labs, consisted of approximately seventeen billion nanomachines swallowed in a small pill, then self-deployed throughout the brain. Although NNL’s royalty percentage was infinitesimal, nearly every human throughout the solar system had purchased the product. Royalties from the invention had allowed Virginia and me to expand our business to forty-six employees, and at the same time reduce our own working hours—a fact that had played a role in the decision that Stephanie and I intended to announce next.

About a month, Gary confessed.

Ben declared out loud. “We must’ve seen each other two dozen times in the last month, and not even a hint about it?”

“So now you know I can keep a secret. Happy birthday, Dad.”

“Thanks, son. Without you, I wouldn’t be here at all. In more ways than one.”

Gary smiled, without effort.

I was nervous as hell, so when I rose to speak, I put my hands on my wife’s shoulders. “We have an announcement, something Stephanie and I have been saving for tonight’s celebration.” Everyone stopped talking. I grinned at my great-grandfather.

“We’re going to clone Trip’s parents,” my beautiful wife said.

Ben’s knees seemed to buckle. “But how?” he demanded.

“How? We’ll bring them back as infants.” I laughed, then answered his real question: “I commissioned a search of my parents’ medical records, and found a usable skin sample of my mother from 2011. The AIs interpolated Dad’s genetic code from his parents’, Katie’s, Mom’s, and mine. Chance of error’s less than one in four million.”

Ben collapsed into his chair, his face radiant.

Stephanie kissed me, then added, “We figure it’s about time Trip nurtured something more than his wounds…” Wendy II snatched a canapé from my hand and swallowed it in a single gulp. “…and our dogs.”

Everyone laughed. Rebecca and Katie embraced. Ben rewarded me with a wide smile, then rushed to hug Stephanie. Gary hugged me and whispered a simple, “Thanks.”

This moment had to be bittersweet for everyone there; it certainly was for me. An injury that would finally be diminished, though never healed.

“What a perfect gift,” Ben finally managed. “You’ll make a wonderful father, Trip.”

I felt my face redden, more from fear than embarrassment. No turning back now. “I’ll sure do my best.”

“No child could hope for more than that,” Gary said. Then he stood and lifted his wineglass. “I propose a toast to the man who taught me through example the two most valuable qualities a parent can demonstrate to a child: logic and perseverance. The key components of a successful life.”

“Thank you,” Ben said. “But I have to disagree, Gary. Two even more valuable qualities are those which I was pleased to discover in you : compassion and forgiveness. Toby, do you remember what I used to say, back when we were teenagers, about every act of kindness?”