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The Next Phase of Human Evolution

Where Will it All End?

By KillianPublished 2 years ago 18 min read
9
The Next Phase of Human Evolution
Photo by Adrien Converse on Unsplash

You may be wondering what the NIP (Neural Interface Project) is. I wish I could tell you plainly, but what can I say? Legally, very little, as it turns out. But I would like to tell you what it was… and what it was meant to be.

2016 A.D. - Sixty-Five Years Ago

I stood at the front of a classroom of about 20 graduate students in the fields of neuroscience and bioengineering presenting a lecture on “Central Nervous System (CNS) Injury and Repair.” I had just plunged into my explanation of regenerative apoptosis when a young woman in the second row squared her shoulders and raised her hand. “Gutsy? Arrogant? Probably both,” I thought to myself as I nodded to give her the floor.

The young woman began speaking in an even, matter-of-fact tone. “We are talking about programmed cell death and regeneration here, which we know are organic processes occuring after injury to facilitate recovery. But we have all seen the limitations of the body’s natural ability to rehabilitate post-injury, particularly in cases of brain damage. Stem cell research is promising, but I want to know why we aren’t working on a program overlay for the cortex which we can modulate externally to control cell death and regen.”

I paused for a half second, cleared my throat and raised an eyebrow “Are we talking about brain-chipping right now?”

“I am,” she responded.

“Well that is a very ambitious topic for the limited time we have today, but I would be happy to talk with you further at the end of class or exchange emails for correspondence.”

“Yes, great. Thank you.”

And there she was: no apologies, no wavering eye contact, no fear. Just Nora. She was bloody brilliant, and I loved her from that very moment. That I never doubted.

-*- I took Nora for coffee at the end of my lecture and she told me all about her plans for designing a neural interface, or brain machine, for brain injury rehabilitation. As we got to know each other and became friends, I joked that she had more aspirations than I had nerve endings. Still, I think her most critical quality was her courage. Nora would stand on the front line of any cause she deemed worthy. She could think and talk at near lightspeed, and she never doubted her abilities.

Nora lived in a world that served as her personal laboratory. She didn’t allow herself to be encumbered by society's expectations nor by the deadening press of time. Neither did she mourn the woes of humanity, because in each one she saw an opportunity to test and ultimately prove her worth.

I had never met anyone as focused, centered, and driven as Nora. I was enamored of her. She was, in her own way, amused, and in time, drawn to me. Though my intellect was never as sharp as Nora’s, it was broader, and sometimes, I could draw her attention to something just out of her line of vision and possibly expand her perspective. Therefore, I had value, and I think appreciation was as close as Nora could come to that ideal of love. We were married in December of her third year, months after she completed her Master’s Degree.

Children were never part of the plan, but our only son, Ben, was born four years later, midway through Nora’s postdoc. Ben’s very existence sent the rest of the universe into a microcosm for me. Everything I thought I had known became minute and indistinct in comparison. For Nora, Ben’s birth was confirmation of her own understanding of the universe and reinforced her sense of personal significance. He was THE reason why she needed all of the answers. Suddenly, time became the antagonist in Nora’s story, and she worked more hours than ever before, determined to fix the world’s problems before Ben was old enough to realize how badly it was all broken.

I found myself dissatisfied with my scholarly endeavors and yearning for more human interaction, so I returned to school to get my medical degree. Nora, on the other hand, was fully immersed in her research. Her dissertation, “The Function of Neural Interface Technology in the Rehabilitation of Brain-Injured Patients” was a nationally lauded manuscript upon its publication in the spring of 2021. The body of research she had built during graduate school made her one of the most sought-after young scientists of the early 21st century. We soon found that this credential had earned her a spot at any research institution stateside. But that wasn’t what Nora had in mind. She wanted to make her own path. True to form, her magnetism and determination pulled her desires towards her. That’s when the NIP found her… or she found it. -*-

* * * * *

In 2025, neuroscientists and neurotechnology companies were leading the industry in rehabilitation. They formed the NIP (Neural Interface Project) to address debilitative brain injuries and organic disease through modern technology. The initial goal was to invent a brain machine interface (BMI) which could be implanted into the brains of individuals with the most desperate need. After nearly a decade of intense, collaborative research and development, the first bidirectional gray matter “chips” were ready for trial.

The revolutionary tech was a multi-part system involving hundreds of granules of “neural dust” and a single, dime-sized “chip.” The dust would be inserted intracranially via a small laser incision, and the chip would be implanted at the base of the skull. BMI technicians would need about an hour while the patient was under sedation to disperse the dust across the cortical tissue using a computer operated remote control system. A universal dust configuration was mapped for procedural efficiency, but localized granule distribution would be highly variable according to each individual’s needs.

The earliest interfaces were used to stimulate the deep centers of the brain to help with movement initiation. Their bidirectional programming allowed the chips to read electrical signals in the brain to communicate with and control external technology, such as assistive devices for people suffering paralysis. The devices could be programmed to solve an incredible range of issues which had plagued medical scientists worldwide for generations. The dream was always big, but we had no idea how much bigger the reality would be.

The ambitions and pockets of entrepreneurs sent the tech rocketing forward. By 2034, Phase 1 BMIs had passed through trials and were being used therapeutically, while Phase 2 BMIs were gearing up for testing. The new wave chips could bridge damaged neuronal connections in epilepsy patients, sidestep impacted tissue in traumatic brain injury patients, improve emotional regulation, and monitor and inhibit unwanted sensations, perceptions, and behavior.

Within five years, we saw inpatient rehabilitation time for stroke and spinal cord injury patients halved. Not only could the chips bypass damaged nerve tissue, but they could also monitor and reduce stroke risk by sending small electrical pulses through the vasculature of the brain. In 2042, members of the scientific community celebrated and Phase 3 BMIs began production.

Over the next five years, the need for antidepressant and antipsychotic medications was all but eliminated. The NIP was praised for scaling a mountain that we had skirted around for a century. They had taken control of the brain, and the possibilities seemed endless.

By 2048, we began to see the NIP entering the prisons to conduct “voluntary” implants on “verified sociopaths.” The convicts received a commuted sentence under a lifetime contract for continual observation and implant renewal every 15 years, “until death do us part.”

They began with the federal and state penitentiaries. Scientists had enhanced the newest chip model to program empathy right into the emotional centers of the brain. Over the course of the next decade, 35% of the “lifers” had been reintegrated into society. This certainly met some strong consternation at first, but as the months passed, and we didn’t see a spike in violent crimes, the public began to accept that its safety was inviolable. Terms such as “psychopath” and “sociopath” began to undergo a process of reconceptualization. Tax dollars were rerouted into infrastructure, education,.. and the NIP.

2058 A.D. - Twenty-Three Years Ago

“I told you this was a mistake, Nora! Can’t you see what this has become?” I pushed my words at her desperately, waiting for her to unclench her fists and grasp them.

“No, Jim, what I see are the thousands of lives we have saved and millions more that we can make better! Why don’t you want people to have this?!” she glared at me defiantly with a barely perceptible tinge of repulsion buried beneath her simmering rage.

“Because it isn’t right, Nora, and it’s not real! Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? The lines of your face have all but faded. I barely recognize you. Yesterday, you were quoting lines from books that I know you didn’t have time to actually read. And even now, in the midst of one of the worst arguments we have ever had, I can see you replaying old conversations in your head, just looking for something to leverage against me. Where the hell are you?”

"You see and believe only what fits into your safe little paradigm, Jim. The world is changing, and you don’t want to admit how much that scares you.”

“Maybe you’re right, Nora. But you can’t really want this for our son? Our granddaughter?”

“You’d rather them get left behind?”

“No. I would rather them get to live real, human lives without someone else always working the strings.”

Nora just stared at me, unflinching, unyielding, completely stoic.

“You're little more than machine,” I spat.

The sound of her hand connecting with my jaw in what I knew instantly would be our last physical contact had an undeniable finality to it.

-*- For many years prior to this fateful day in 2058, I had been aware of a growing uneasiness in the back of my mind. I felt increasingly concerned by the frenetic pace of growth the NIP was experiencing, but Nora’s unshakeable optimism was difficult to quash. In 2054, when Nora volunteered to test out the Phase 4 BMIs - those designed to enhance “normal-functioning” brains - I hit a tipping point. In over 35 years of marriage, that was the first time I could recall having raised my voice at Nora. Sure, we had argued, but our arguments were always calculated, deliberate, a delicate balance of push and pull, with a clear understanding that we would eventually end up on the same page. This one was different.

I told Nora outright that I thought Phase 4 was a mistake, and I felt her immediately recoil from me to build up walls around herself. She told me that rejection of her life’s work was synonymous with rejection of her person. She asserted bitterly and almost vengefully that if anyone else received the first Phase 4 BMI, it would be over her dead body. That was the instant when I realized that what we had set in motion would never willingly stop.

Ben was 32 years old the day Nora and I had our first real fight, and in those days, I spent most of my free time with our four-year-old granddaughter, Liza. She was grandpa’s girl first and foremost, though she lived in awe of her grandmother, orbiting her like a planetary body. Liza’s precociousness reminded me so much of Nora when we were younger, and I little realized how much it pained me.

Nora underwent her BMI implant in 2056, and she grew more unfamiliar, more alien day by day, as the technology became central to her conception of herself. I spent more of my time with Ben and Liza, but I noticed tension beginning to develop weeks before Ben put himself on the waitlist for a Phase 4 chip. He began taking Liza to Nora’s lab on weeknights after school, and Liza gabbed excitedly to me about all the games she would play when she grew up and got her own chip.

After two years of trying to learn to love the stranger in my home, Nora and I had our last fight, and we separated. I was 69 at the time. I had retired from my government position a few years before, and with their heavy ties to the NIP, they agreed to retain my pension only on the condition that I not speak out against Nora’s work. I would be allowed to live out the rest of my days without a chip provided I stay quiet, invisible, and docile. I knew I could be all of those things if it meant I could watch my Liza grow. -*-

* * * * *

In 2060, the NIP’s revolutionary technology was coined “The Pacemaker for the Brain.” It was in this year that it became available to the general population at a modest fee of $6,500, marketed as “personal acceleration and augmentation.” Not bad for brain surgery, you might think. Most subscribers didn’t realize that the $6,500 was just a start-up fee, a down payment on a lifestyle they would spend the rest of their days trying to afford. The BMIs required regular, paid software updates to ensure they didn’t “time out” like the computer operating systems of old. Many people jumped at the chance to get a leg up in life, to make their daily routine a bit easier. The chip’s ability to control and communicate with external technology would do just that.

By 2064, an impressive 40% of the urban population were chipped. This was the year that the NIP activated the “Sync Link,” connecting billions of chipped individuals “telepathically” and keying them into the database where they could communicate instantly with any and all technology. The “chipped” could control home appliances and vehicles, shop online, schedule appointments, and dial 911 without a single verbal command. Best of all, mundane tasks such as meal planning, grocery shopping, and exam cramming could be programmed into sleep hours.

Life got faster then, much faster. The people who had held out against the new tech discovered they could no longer afford to. They were losing their edge. Then came the real push. Between 2064 and 2068, over 1.5 billion people were chipped worldwide. There was no going back.

Time went on. These days, I’m too old for anyone to care much about, and I live relatively undisturbed. It’s the unchipped 20- and 30-something year olds who are really struggling. They are children and grandchildren of people like me, people who refused to “assimilate.” Now, they are pariahs.

2081 A.D. - This Morning

At 6 am, I woke up in my small, urban flat to the sound of a call buzzing through. I tapped the key on the nightstand beside the head of my bed to patch the call through to my outdated cell. For a moment, I could hear only room tone, then a buzz, and then her voice.

“How are you, Jim?”

“Well, and you?”

“You should have received some packages yesterday. Did they come?”

“Four, yes.”

“Good. There will be more soon. You’ll see that they get to where they need to go?”

“Of course.”

“That’s good. Take care, Jim.”

“Always, N— [click]”

I sighed and acknowledged I loved her still.

-*- I get up to make my coffee and teeter to my second-story window. From here, I can see my neighbors walking their dogs up and down the street. A woman and her Boxer jog past. She’s multitasking on another work call. A man walks his German Shepherd as he books his last minute flight to California. Their paths meet often; their eyes never do.

I remember when people used to trip on the sidewalks trying to walk while using their cell phones. Now anyone can host meetings, give presentations remotely, schedule home maintenance, update the company budget, and book last minute flights via the “Sync Link,” all while walking the dog or taking a shower. “Chipped” has become synonymous with efficient, yet it still amazes me what a person can accomplish in the time it takes for me to brew my coffee.

Today is Sunday. I dress warmly. The city air feels thinner and sharper lately. I leave my flat and walk slowly down the ten wide steps. Everything is slow for me these days. I head south down Wathen Ave. I carry a cane. I don’t actually need it yet, but it makes me look weak and feel strong. In about a mile, Wathen will turn into Stern St. which runs right past the old hospital before cutting deep into the acidic guts of the city. That’s where the people live.

I round the last corner and come to a clearing amongst the low-lying, dilapidated buildings. Tents - hundreds of tents - are flung up and down a widening concrete meadow. I see a couple of teenagers sitting on wooden crates sharing a joint and think “Boy, has it been a while since I’ve had one of those.” Three small children run around ducking behind cardboard boxes and darting in and out of tents ringing out peals of laughter.

The adults here are less carefree. They appear stretched, overworked, angry, ill, and desperate. The oldest person I have seen here was in his sixties, and he died three weeks ago yesterday. Every single person over 20 walks around with the weight of their own ticking bomb on their shoulder, and those with kids carry the heaviest burden of all. Such is the price of freedom in this world.

I finally reach the “center” of the meadow where a large, old army tent is sturdily erected. Inside the tent, I find the young woman who cares for the people in this place. She is headstrong, determined, and tireless in her efforts to bring hope to a place devoid of anything resembling faith. Her name is less important than the scar she bears on the back of her neck where an elderly neurosurgeon illegally removed her chip eight years ago. That man was her grandfather, and he taught her everything he knew of medicine and of humanity. -*-

* * * * *

Everything is controlled. Everything is regulated. Society is a giant, walking, talking beast. The giant’s foot comes down. The giant’s hand closes. “Assimilate” is what she told me almost half a century ago. “Assimilate, or be lost.” It’s too late for that now, and I suppose I am lost among these outliers in this great hive mind. I move among the ants that scavenge the giant’s body and refuse. It no longer matters if mine was the right choice.

I imagine there are places like this one in every city: places where the people live and suffer for the illusion of freedom. I keep fighting alongside them, though I long ago lost sight of what I am fighting for and why. I must appear an ancient relic to these young, hungry creatures, but the fight is the only thing I have left.

2081 A.D. - Now

“I brought you what I could carry,” I tell her as I unload packages of gauze, cases of antibiotics, antifungals, and antivirals, and boxes of new needles and scalpels. “Some new equipment should be coming Tuesday if you can spare one of your guys to come and pick the shipment up.”

She places an affectionate hand on my shoulder and gives me a tired smile “Thanks, Jimbo. Not sure where we’d be without you.”

I study her with my brow furrowed. “How are you feeling today? You look tired.”

“I’m fine, really,” she says with a sigh. “There’s just a lot of work to be done today.” I hear a child crying nearby and a racking cough beyond the tent flap. I see her moist eyes dart around in a look of transitory despair.

It is my turn to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. I give her my old man’s wobbly smile and pick up her patient chart. “Where do we begin?”

-*- At 92 years old, I walk 1.5 miles every Sunday to see this woman less than half my age, because she is the only person in this God-forsaken place that I trust. She is the only family I have left, and the only “real” human who knows who I am. She is my Liza, and each day of rest I trudge to the bowels of the city to see her and do the only work that matters anymore. -*-

* * * * *

To say that hopes were high would be a drastic understatement. Hopes were soaring. We expected the NIP to improve the quality of our lives. By all accounts, it has. I have seen tetraplegics walk and Alzheimer’s patients reclaim their identities. I have seen more than my fair share of modern day miracles.

There was just no way we could have foreseen the true cost to society… that as the bad and ugly was gradually eliminated from our daily lives, so too was the good and the beautiful. No more non-profit charities for the poor: the poor are the non-chipped living in ignominy. No more carolers at the nursing home during the holidays; the elderly die at home in extreme old age, often by their own hand. No more rallies for climate change or any other cause; the government oversees it all. Not a lot of violent crime anymore; most are committed by children and teenagers whose neurons are still developing or by the starved and invisible unchipped at the margins of society.

There is no more learning from our mistakes, no striving towards a better humanity. Even our humanity is neurally manipulated. Nothing brings people together anymore. Not family. Not illness. Not death. We live alone and die alone.

Those who are unwilling or unable to assimilate are ignored until they dwindle to extinction. When I learned about evolution in school, I never dreamed that I would choose the species less fit to survive, and yet here I am.

science fiction
9

About the Creator

Killian

Words... Trees... People... Life

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