If This Happened...

Ifthishappened.com speculates rampantly and ridiculously on the implications of the futuristic technologies explored in its partner blog, www.couldthishappen.com

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Check out this awesome animation by @splatterplop​ of a weird short story I wrote called “Variations on a Second Head” 

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If This Happened has decided to explore sci-fi scenarios more creatively and colorfully. I write the short science fiction (many of which are based on Could This Happen posts), lovely friends do some voice over work, and then Jim Miller pulls it all together in an animation. Enjoy!

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How Many Mes Can There Be?

In my recent article for Slate, I talk about the recent advances made in the area of cloning, particularly human cloning. 

The long and the short of it is that we're not terribly consistent at cloning animals (RIP, Dolly) but we're way better at that than cloning humans. In fact, despite a few claims that briefly electrified (and later disappointed and disgruntled) the scientific community, we've never successfully cloned a human. Perhaps we never should; after all, many countries have outlawed such experiments.

But what if we did? It's the perfect scenario for a rogue scientist. You know, the kind of scientist who doesn't care about his standing in the scientific community because he'll be surrounded by copies of himself.

Cloning ourselves seems like the perfect solution to the problem of never having enough time, doesn't it? Right now, the closest we can come to cloning ourselves is sending a robot emissary bearing our Skyped-in faces to wherever we want or need to be. But the problem with self-cloning is that, even if successful, the clone would start as a baby. As far as I know, there's no way to age the baby soap opera style, so it's unclear how useful self-cloning would be, unless one wants a child slave. But then, would you want yourself as a slave? That would just be weird, or possibly really satisfying depending on one's level of masochism.

Speaking of which, if one were to have sex with one's clone, would that be intercourse or masturbation? Or both? Cloning could be a sexual narcissist's wildest (and wettest) dream.

Self-clones could give rise to organ-harvesting scenario. Sometimes a couple with a terminally ill child will have another child in the hopes of creating a bone marrow or organ match, so why wouldn't the same happen with cloning? Say I clone myself when I'm 40, and then as I age (and drink) and my organs give out, I can just harvest them from my clone, provided a heart isn't the first thing I need. Regardless of self-transplants, it's likely that therapeutic cloning will be a boon to organ transplantation, so long as recipients aren't picky about which mammal housed their new body parts. 

One of the most fascinating scandals to emerge from the human cloning storyline is that of Clonaid. Clonaid was founded by Rael, a religion that keeps company with Scientology--Raelists believe in the existence of UFOs and think that cloning will pave the way to immortality. Due to their ceaseless exuberance, Raelists are also impressive jumpers, as their website demonstrates. If their Raelist underpinnings haven’t sealed their credibility, there’s more: based initially in the Bahamas, unwanted attention from French journalists and American no-gooders caused Clonaid “to pursue its human cloning project in another country where human cloning is legal.” Which country is that? Your guess is as good as mine. Tralfamadore?

In 2002, the CEO of Clonaid announced the birth of Eve, the first cloned baby. Of course, the press conference didn’t show the mother, child, or any DNA samples. An attorney in Florida even tried to sue Clonaid and appoint a temporary guardian for Eve; he eventually gave up, though not before subpoenaing the CEO and vice president of Clonaid. It’s hard to win a lawsuit when the subject doesn’t actually exist. Clonaid continues to claim that Eve, as well as a dozen other cloned babies, have been born around the world.

Such claims would likely become common if human cloning was legal and/or mainstream. I imagine that DIY cloning kits would become hot ticket Christmas items.

If we ever get a handle on human cloning, think about what a powerful physical force our nostalgia would take. People already clone their beloved lost pets. What a mess our family trees would become, with people at the top of the tree re-emerging at the bottom, dangling like questionably ripe fruit. People’s DNA would also hit the black market—think about how much you could fetch for a strand of Kurt Cobain or Winston Churchill. And you know some asshole would claim to have cloned Hitler or Stalin (although it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that someone somewhere has dictators’ DNA). There’s an ethical conundrum—can you imagine discovering you have Mao or Mussolini’s DNA? The nature v. nurture studies would be fascinating.

What if I cloned myself and me2.0 also became a writer? And what if that dastardly clone scooped my stories? What if she was a better, more successful writer than me? Would my feelings be considered hatred or self-loathing? And if I killed her, would that be suicide?

That settles it—no mini-me for this human. My cat may be another story, as long as her clone has her crossed eyes. 

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Robot Combat League: Training Us for the Future

American Gladiators and Robot Wars had a baby. It’s called Robot Combat League.

Syfy’s latest offering has a simple premise: twelve robots enter, one robot leaves. 

Robot designer Mark Setrakian developed twelve hulking humanoid robots, all equipped for hand-to-hand combat. Each robot has two human handlers—the robo-tech who controls its feet and mobility, and the robo-jockey who wears an exo-suit and controls punches and blocks, not unlike playing the Wii.

This is BattleBots on steroids. The rabid Roombas that rammed into each other on previous TV shows seem fluffy and adorable by comparison.

The robots run on hydraulic fluid delivered via a steel alloy T bar, which services as the “bloodline” and helps them balance. The bar supplies up to 2,000 pounds of hydraulic pressure, which enables the robot to fight and delivers enough juice to allow for some impressive spraying when the robots get “injured.”

The 24 human competitors include robot developers, professional athletes, gamers, MMA fighters (one of whom is George Lucas’s daughter), engineers, scientists, a toy designer, a software manager, and a superhero impersonator. The winning pair receives $100,000—and, of course, glory.

“You’re all about to become superhuman,” host Chris Jericho tells them as they enter the arena to meet their robots, who are named in true gladiatorial tradition: Robo-Hammer, Drone Strike, Steel Cyclone, Axe, Steampunk, Medieval, Scorpio, Crash, Commander, Game Over, Brimstone, and Thunder Skull.

The robots have various strengths and weaknesses—Axe has laser eyes and a face shaped like a cleaver, Crash has a cage that covers its body, Medieval has hands shaped like morning stars, etc. They vary in height, weight, and range of arm movement, but they’re all “so powerful and so dangerous that if you were standing in the middle of the ring it would be like standing in the middle of a car crash,” Setrakian says.

The teams compete for ranking by racing to hit a target on a practice foe-bot. Some teams—all but one of which have been randomly paired—seem more natural than others; the teamwork aspect is crucial, as the robots’ arms and legs need to be synched in order to fight effectively.

The first bout features the top ranked team, a robotics entrepreneur and an Olympic athlete, driving Steel Cyclone. The underdogs, driving Crash, are a father-daughter pair who both work as engineers at Intel.

The trash talk before the fight preserves a human element. Robots will truly be equal to humans when they can throw down the gauntlet by way of taunts and verbal chest-pounding.

The fight consists of three two-minute rounds. Three judges keep score; each hit to a vital part earns a point. Each team has a pit crew and 20 minutes to make any necessary repairs. If a robot can’t make the bell for the next round, or the judges deem it too injured to continue, the match is over.

The match starts off dramatically—Cyclone loses its foot, but rains blows down upon Crash that result in a shower of sparks and cheers from spectators who scream like wrestling fans, but are better dressed.

The first round is as hard to watch as a lopsided boxing match. Steel Cyclone dominates while Crash’s robo-jockey flails away, clearly frustrated that her dad can’t quite coordinate Crash’s footwork with her punches. Toward the end of the first round, Steel Cyclone lands a blow on Crash’s left shoulder that dislodges the cage, exposing the actuator, the robot equivalent of a muscle. Steel Cyclone aims right for that vulnerable spot until hydraulic fluid spurts like blood, eliciting cheers.

Despite being over seven feet tall and close to 1,000 pounds, the robots are surprisingly fragile. Sure, they can knock the crap (or cables) out of each other, but they have soft spots, vulnerabilities, places that yield quickly to force. They can go from invincible to incapacitated in seconds—just like humans.

After twenty dramatic minutes of pit repair time, Crash re-enters the ring. There’s a great moment when the two simultaneously whale on one another, bathing in each other’s sparks. I won’t spoil the ending, but if you’ve ever seen a television show (or a boxing match) before, you can guess what happens. The losers take the head of their defunct robot as a souvenir.

P.W. Singer, a specialist on 21st century warfare, says in his TED Talk that “Mankind’s 5,000 year monopoly on the fighting of war is breaking down in our very lifetime,” referring to the rapidly increasing prominence of robots in war. Robot Combat League isn’t war—yet—but it makes the leap from drones to humanoid combat robots. The fighting becomes more real, more human; the robots are boxers with gears. RCL is a proving ground for robotic infantries, as well as a means of conditioning viewers for a future in which this kind of fighting will happen on a mass scale.

The robots in RCL manifest the movements and intentions of the humans that drive them, which is a long way from the robot uprising feared by many and studied by some. But the show also starts to prepare us for the evolution of robots. Now, human-controlled robots fight. Soon, autonomous robots will fight each other—and we’ll almost certainly be watching; perhaps these bouts will become the new cockfights. If so, will the robots, as they do in so many sci-fi stories, call bullshit and bring the fight to us? And can anything, televised or not, possibly prepare us for that?

  Read the Could This Happen post on robots and war

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Packin’ Heat

Oh, jet packs. The subject of the first Could This Happen post, as well as a subsequent update.

Jet packs represent an iconic idea of the future. We were promised—by whom, I don’t even remember anymore—by everyone who could make promises, I suppose, that we would all be zipping around with these by now. The new millennium was supposed to mark the turning point from the road to the sky in terms of daily transport—“where we’re going, we don’t need roads”.

Jet packs symbolize hopes, promises, and visions of the future, as well as the realities that keep those aspirations grounded. Still, jet packs do in fact exist, albeit imperfectly. What would reality look like if we integrated them into our lives?

If jet packs were readily accessible (practical, or at least vaguely affordable), they would become one of those items that indicate wealth, like porches and yachts. It’s difficult to imagine a persnickety, starched businessman whizzing through the air to a meeting; the average Wall Street type might worry about the effects a jet pack might have on his reputation—depending on the branding of the jet pack and how much it wrinkles a button-down shirt,  being seen wearing one might be tantamount to getting caught in a designer suit and sneakers.

And what about the branding? Well, we’d see a lot more commercials, except they wouldn’t be as charming, and they’d be the type of metaphorical, rhetorical, image-crammed ads that take more than two minutes to figure out.  

We’d see lots of commercials with eagles. Because flying a jet pack is like being an eagle, and it’s patriotic.

Companies would start giving jet packs dumb names—the Mercedes Altimeter, the Toyota Takeoff, the Lincoln Lift. The Testosterone, the Venus, the Blastoff.

And the insurance…collision or comprehensive?

Like cars, iPads, or any other pricey device, parents would give kids jet packs for their 16th birthdays. But then, who pays for fuel? Some jet packs run on hydrogen peroxide, though those better be for quick errands of thirty seconds or less.

The most advanced jet pack runs on gasoline and can hold out a full thirty minutes. Either way, the fuel situation will make the state of affairs at the gas pumps today look like Camelot.

There would be flying tests for new jet packers. The RMV, no longer bound to ground vehicles, would require people to demonstrate proficiency in maneuvering around maypoles or goalposts or old telephone poles. Maybe jet-packers would have to endure something like the vomit comet, or at least prove not to have debilitating motion sickness. We can skip the parallel parking test, but the landing  exam would be no joke.  

There would be laws governing jet-packer behavior, like helmet laws. Or maybe there wouldn’t be, which would generate taxpayer controversy. Roofs would be equipped with landing pads; during rush hour people would vie for runway space.  We’d have special take-off zones with clear verticals—it’s not hard to imagine someone flying up into an overpass or awning or straight into a window or the side of a building like a blind or stupid bird.

There would be accidents; people would be charged with FUIs and jetpackular manslaughter. You’d have jet pack drag races. Rival jet-packer gangs (look out, Sharks). There would be laws preventing dive bomb by jet pack—how awesome would that be to swoop down upon some unsuspecting, poor pedestrian, maybe even dropping down some choice tidbits! Legislation would probably do away with that fun.

Every now and then, someone would simply drop out of the sky. Equipment malfunction? Fuel shortage? Kamikaze mission? Intrigue—thanks to the jet pack!

Don’t settle for a fair weather jet pack—get a wet pack, outfitted with an umbrella or a pack poncho. You could go to Chinatown for a knockoff jet pack case and make your jetpack look like a fire extinguisher or a Dalek or an elephant. On the way there, you could zoom to a fast food fly-thru for a quick nosh.

Surely, a movement will start—anything you can do on the ground, you can do in the air. Like get married, go trick-or-treating, attend a bail hearing (in flight court, of course), read, or have sex.

There will be that guy who tries to fly around the world. Or to space. He’ll finally give some competition to this guy, who currently holds the Guinness World Record for the fastest man in a jet pack

And young men will, sadly, use the jetpack in a misguided attempt at romance, hovering outside the window of their latest crush, looking less like John Cusack and more like the ghost of Jacob Marley. Or worse, Peter Pan.

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Endless Joking about Breaking Wind Angers Citizens

(photo from universe-beauty.com)

If we could harness the energy from hurricanes, tornadoes, and other energetic weather events, it’d be hard to hear the devastation wrought by these storms over the sound of people whining. 

I’m not sure if those complaints generate psychosomatic symptoms, but if run of the mill (ha!) wind compromises the health of nearby residents, I can only imagine what “we’re not in Kansas anymore” winds would cause.

If we could harness the power of windstorms, the Bible Belt and the Great Plains would get rich—they’d be able to harness and generate enough electricity to host their own version of Burning Man on a dusty plain (and wouldn’t that be a sight!) The coastal cities would fume about all their lousy water (unless we learn to harness hydroelectric tsunami forces), and Nor’easters  would be causes for celebration.  

The plains would be able to harness lightning, too. Tractors and plows would thrust big rods into the sky, as though issuing a cosmic dare.

You’d see NSTAR and Con Edison vans chasing funnel clouds and lightning bolts.

With all this wind, we’d be able to contact alien ships—without a Speak and Spell!—as such phenomena are visible from space. Though if we succeeded, inquisitive buggers such as E.T. would have to be careful not to get swirled around (he did have an adorable little scream…). And Eliot would have to wait for the winds to die down before riding his bike through the sky. Or not.

Instead of the potato clocks we got all excited about in the fifth grade, we’d use mini funnel clouds instead. Think of how much more interesting science fairs would be! And how late we’d be for everything.

And just imagine what generators would look like! And speaking of generators, Van de Graaff machines would become old-school. Unless they already are, in which case, the young’uns would roll their eyes at the mere mention of them.

Perhaps most importantly, fart jokes would take on a whole new level of nuance—or maybe not, but who cares, because jokes about breaking wind are always funny, and fans of slapstick might appreciate the new head of steam. And where there’s a fart, there’s art.

(art by Chen Wenling, photo from Huffingtonpost.com)

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Neanderthals: The New Vampires

“You would certainly have to create a cohort, so they would have some sense of identity. They could maybe even create a new neo-Neanderthal culture and become a political force,” says George Church of Harvard University, explaining the details of his proposal to make Neanderthals “de-extinct.”

If this happened and a neo-Neanderthal culture rose up from the ashes…er, DNA, the consequences would be widespread, and would change the social fabric for the sweatier.

It wouldn’t take long for a Neanderthal to run for president. Of course, it would be male, white, straight, and Christian, but it would nonetheless be a watershed moment for the revived species.

I can imagine the bumper stickers: Size DOES Matter! Or: Older=Wiser. Or: Hairballz! Lolz!

Anti-hairball medicines would drive the economy.

There would have to be a Neanderthal equal rights movement. Employers would have to hire Neanderthals, though the hair net requirement could prove problematic in the food service industry. They would be allowed to play on sports teams; they would need bigger helmets and jerseys with expanded neck holes. Some might challenge the fairness of having a Neanderthal on the team the way some people complained that a guy without legs had an unfair advantage as a runner. Neanderthals would constantly fight accusations of steroid use, and rip of the heads of skeptics to prove their innocence.

There would be Neanderthal escort services, online dating sites (Hairier? Marry Her!), Craig’s List postings.

And speaking of Craig’s List, which I imagine to assume a storied place in Neanderthal re-history when it attracts the female progenitor of the new race, Church has gone on to debunk the want-ad fantasies that have blossomed in the hearts and minds of readers since his Der Speigel interview. Still, that doesn’t stop me…

Craig’s List would Scientist Seeking Adventurous Female (22-32) (M4W)

Must have health insurance

Must be willing to be impregnated with DNA of extinct species

Must have good sense of humor

Must like pets, but not have any

Blindness is a plus

An addendum published by Der Speigel suggests that what’s “most bizarre about the entire media hysteria over Church’s interview is that potential surrogate mothers are now contacting the geneticist.” Phew! No worries about finding volunteers. I don’t know whether that’s frightening or comforting.

Neanderthal kids would attend school with all the other kids. And I bet they’d get revenge for any social mistreatment during dodge ball and recess. Or they may refuse to mix for some activities. I’d get behind a Neanderthal hockey team—the sport needs more diversity anyway. And they’d have an awesome mascot.

Neo-Nazis would be extremely threatened by the existence of a group literally more hard-headed than they are.

There would be all kinds of adorable pictures on Reddit of Neanderthals walking their dogs.

A Neanderthal would lift a car off the leg of a child and win a hero’s status until some jealous snoop in town discovered that he hadn’t paid his taxes in the past five years.

Neanderthals at college campuses across the country would serve as the new faces of an updated and historically poignant Take Back the Night campaign.