Tyrol gazed in silence at the distant glimmering walls of the colossal glass Dome under which the city of Jericho-2 nestled in silent midnight splendour. From his bedroom window he could see the sleek skyline of super-skyscrapers and gargantuan towers that lined the edge of the Dome. The air traffic was considerably less at this time of the night; but the sky trains and air buses were still plying their way silently across the night sky, their neon violet afterglows lighting up the night sky like fireflies in summer.
To the north east, Tyrol could see the 4-km-high shimmering white edifice that was the Quantum Memorial Tower—a monumental tribute to human ingenuity and the power of science. It glowed with an almost haunting luminescence, a constant reminder of the determination, drive, and innovative spirit of the people inside the Dome.
He was joined by his wife, Galatea. She followed his gaze in silence.
“Do you think humans have a future inside the Dome?” Tyrol said, thinking out aloud more than anything else.
Galatea wasn’t sure how to respond. “Why do you ask? People have lived inside the Dome for centuries. Hardly anyone ever chooses to leave.” she replied
“Is it right to disconnect ourselves from the rest of humanity?” Tyrol wondered.
Galatea looked at him in surprise. “But think of what has been achieved inside—think of the peace and stability. Think of the advances in science and in art. Outside… outside lies madness and barbarism. They’d slit your throat in an instant—you epitomise all that they hate about us.”
Tyrol sighed. “You’re right,” he whispered. But in his heart he knew, this was to be his last night inside the Dome.
***
Here inside the Dome was the fifth generation of people committed to a science-based existence. For nearly five hundred years since the Dome had been built, the children of Jericho-2 were taught to value logic and reason. They had no place for superstition. The ancient gods of the Bronze Age and Plastic Age were long since forgotten. Here, for the first time in the history of mankind, was a race of people committed to being scientifically literate and technologically savvy.
The Founding Fathers of the city had enshrined three words in the original constitutional charter: ‘Kindness, Curiosity, Creativity.’ These words stirred the same lofty sentiments in the souls of the citizens of Jericho-2 as did the words ‘Liberty, Equality, Fraternity’ in the breasts of their French ancestors all those centuries ago.
The New Declaration of the Rights of Human Animals defined Kindness as ‘The act of being generous, compassionate, and humane towards all human and non-human animals’. Curiosity was characterised by ‘A desire to explore, learn, and seek knowledge without hindrance from the government or persecution from the state.’ Creativity was determined to be ‘The ability to create anything that was of sentimental or practical value to either the individual creator or to the society at large.’
These three core values had seen the city in good stead for nearly five centuries. The ten million citizens of Jericho-2 had built a technologically superior society where the evils of 21st century market based economy had been replaced by a moral and sustainable cybernated economy. There was no scarcity. But neither was there waste. A potential abundance of everything meant the citizens of Jericho-2 had no tendency to greed and little recourse to accumulation of personal wealth.
***
Tyrol was a poet—the most renowned poet in Jericho-2. He dreamed of things that could be and might have been. He felt a sense of restlessness at the perfection he was surrounded by. He felt the might of his generation and the power of his youth all too keenly. In his moments of solitude, he felt a sense of exile, aloofness, superiority to the common herd, and the insatiable craving for a life of sensation, be it pain or joy. He longed to live, to escape this life of predictability and ease. He knew it was madness, but he constantly thought about the vastness outside the bounds of the glass Dome.
That morning, Tyrol and Galatea were at the breakfast table. Jericho-2 was abuzz with activity—creative endeavour spurred by nothing more than the desire to create. Ars gratia artis could easily have been the motto of most of the people living in Jericho-2. With no money to trade with and no scarcity of resources, each person spent their life pursuing interests after their own heart.
Galatea turned her delicate features to her husband. Everyone who saw them together envied Tyrol his good lot—he had fame, talent, and a beautiful wife. She was, indeed, perfect past all parallel. Her Praxetellian nose, sultry lashes, and dreamy eyes were almost those of an Attic goddess than a mere mortal. The Phidian contours of her body seemed newly formed or moulded. Lustrous auburn hair rolled down her shoulders. When she spoke, her voice hinted at enchanted forests and cosmic mysteries. She was at once modest and graceful with an inquisitive temperament and mischievous sense of humour.
Tyrol was too lost in thought to notice her rare and mesmerising beauty at precisely that moment. He stared at his mug of coffee.
“What are you thinking about, my dear?” Galatea whispered gently.
“Do you know the ancient Greek story of Prometheus?” Tyrol asked, without looking at her.
“No, I can’t say that I do. But I can access my advanced holographic neural array and find out, if you like.”
“No, there’s no need. Prometheus was a Greek God—one of the Titans, you know… more powerful than the other Olympian deities. He was a rebel of sorts—stole fire from the Gods and gave it to mankind.”
“Was that wise?” Galatea asked?
“Well, he did what he thought was right. Obviously, the fire was a metaphor for knowledge, understanding, and forethought. Prometheus believed that these should not be kept from mankind. He rebelled against his fellow gods.”
“I’m sure he paid for his rebellion.”
“Oh, but of course—the Titans would not tolerate dissent. Poor Prometheus was bound to a rock and had his ever-regenerating liver eaten by an eagle for eternity.”
“This sounds suspiciously like the Lucifer myth, doesn’t it?” Galatea observed, astutely.
“Now that you mention it, yes, in fact, it does,” said Tyrol, glancing at her with mild admiration.
Galatea smiled and continued, “Lucifer was part of Jehovah’s inner circle of angels. He rebelled and was sent to hell for eternity.”
“You’re right, of course, my dear. And what’s more, much like Prometheus, Lucifer offered humans the Fruit of Knowledge. He tempted them with the truth. He believed humans deserved to know good from evil and not live in blind ignorance about morality.”
“And so Lucifer too paid for his dissent.—Do you know what I think?” said Galatea, with an elfin twinkle in her eye, “I think the ancient deities of the outside world were like the olden-days Mafioso bosses getting rid of rivals in drive-by shoot-outs.”
***
Five hundred years ago, the Founding Fathers of the Dome had chosen to isolate themselves from the rest of humanity.
However, the barbarians were constantly at the gate. They distrusted the post-modern utopian world represented by the Dome and its inhabitants. The fortified crystal matrix wall of the Dome was self-healing and practically indestructible. But that didn’t stop the outsiders from routinely attacking it. Much like the Visigoths, Huns, and Vandals that assailed the Roman Empire all those millennia ago, the outsiders were an ever-present menace; a constant threat to the continued existence of Jericho-2.
A ragtag mob of fanatical high priests, dogmatic preachers, and obscurantist gurus constantly railed against what they saw as a morally decadent life inside the Dome. Oracles and soothsayers prophesied the imminent collapse of the Dome. Eschatological literature abounded and there was no shortage of doomsday scenarios. Science was denigrated and logic belittled. What use was science in securing eternal bliss, railed the rabid fundamentalists from their pulpits of worship. Why focus on the intellect when what mattered was the spirit, inveighed the fuming prophets in alleys and street corners. Children were taught arrant nonsense about the physical world and women were persecuted much as they were in the Bronze Age.
Inside the Dome however, all was bliss. Peace, progress, and plenty marked the daily existence of the citizens of Jericho-2. Libraries flourished. Scientific exploration was given a free hand. Art and Creativity thrived. Free thought, open inquiry, and honest exchange of ideas characterised much of what went on inside the Dome. The Founding Fathers had long since given up trying to make peace with the bellowing herd outside the Dome. No concession, no compromise, no overtures, no treaties, no discourse would satisfy them. Only the absolute destruction of the Dome and the obliteration of everything it represented would have seen them content.
***
Tyrol had been working on his latest work of poetry. After years of toil and existential angst, he believed it was destined to be his masterpiece—his chef-d’oeuvre—the equivalent of Hamlet, Paradise Lost, or The Illiad. That evening he was supposed to be at the prestigious Craig Venter Awards for accomplished poets. The public was eagerly awaiting the revelation of his masterpiece. The newspapers and journals had been full of speculation about the nature and content of his work, but thus far, as was his wont, Tyrol had been cagey about his creative endeavours.
Galatea could sense her husband’s nervousness. It was unlike him to be so distracted. If she didn’t know him better, she’d have thought he looked overwrought.
“What the matter, dear?” Galatea ventured.
“Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to be alone for a while…”
“It’s the grand reveal of your magnum opus at this evening’s poetry award, isn’t it—that’s what you’re worried about.”
“As a matter of fact, yes, that’s exactly what’s plaguing me mind. It will change everything. What if people see it as immoral?”
“Tyrol, you can’t control what people think. And anyway, Art ought to be above morality.”
“I don’t fear condemnation… perhaps a part of me welcomes it…”
“You’re a poet, Tyrol. If you don’t push the boundaries who will?” Galatea said, earnestly.
“Yes, perhaps you’re right, but…” Tyrol’s voice trailed away. He felt listless, torn, uncertain about his work. Not for the first time was he racked with guilt. Not for the first time did his thoughts drift to the repugnant notion of fatality. How much of his actions were free will? How much choice did he really have in his artistic creation and moral decisions? He knew no one would deny the artistic merit of his work—but it was the moral implications…
There were still a few hours for the award ceremony, so Tyrol did what he usually did to kill the monotony of a vacant afternoon—he decided to travel to the edge of the Dome and gaze at the outside world.
He stepped on to his telepod device—a compact hovercraft that transported people across the city along electromagnetic lines that served as roads and highways.
Jericho-2 had been modelled after classical Rome. Tyrol’s telepod hummed silently along to Capitoline Hill on the summit of which was the Newtonian Central Library—a massive triangular structure made of titanium and iridescent white nacre with holographic versions of every single book ever written in the last thousand years.
From his exalted vantage point, Tyrol gazed at the world below him. A wide boulevard led to the foot of the hill. Gold and faux-ivory statues of writers, poets, freethinkers, musicians, and artists of yore lined the two sides of the wide street. Here was a hologram of Newton contemplating an apple; there was Einstein gazing at the event horizon of a black hole; over yonder was Stephen Hawking in his primitive wheelchair.
A rich tapestry of ultramodern urban life sprawled before him. Sky trains and air buses whizzed silently along their EM field lines. People on telepods just like Tyrol’s zipped in and out of the library behind him. Lush green trees lined the pristine alleys. Almost everything was coated with a shiny iridescent interference medium giving it a strange lustre that hinted at its new-millennial nature and futuristic composition. Great pillars and obelisks celebrating the many scientific and artistic endeavours of the citizens of Jericho-2 over the years lined the lakefronts and waterways around the city. Numerous rooftop gardens and outdoor cafés littered the city. People were out in the sunshine. Life was good. Happiness filled the air.
Tyrol was the most prolific writer of his generation. Revered and admired in equal measure, he was the darling of the masses and the toast of the town. He was feted and cheered wherever he went.
But even in the midst of a crowd he felt lonelier than ever. And it was this that drove the poet to sublimate personal sorrow through the act of creating. It was his poetry that gave him meaning and kept him alive. For, he was cursed with the spirit of individual isolation, of metaphysical unrestraint, and of limitless desire. He wished to be alone. He did not crave the approval of the herd. He saw the attractiveness of standing alone above mankind in acknowledged if hated pre-eminence.
He gazed at the distant horizon and could only just make out the city walls. He felt preternaturally drawn to it. Within half an hour, his telepod had transported him to the outskirts of the city. Under the noon sky he gazed at the wilderness outside. Inside the Dome, the sky was a lucid azure blue; outside, it was a hazy grey. The glass Dome was over fifty metres thick but so perfect was its crystalline matrix that light from the outside world travelled in with hardly any distortion or refraction. Spiralling dust clouds and sand storms on the other side met his gaze. Shanty towns and ramshackle huts stretched as far as the eye could see. The sense of decline of the outside world was ramified in Tyrol’s mind. He felt an aching awareness of the history of his species. There on the other side, all the brave and free and beautiful had been swept away in time’s tide, whether naturally or in the senseless destruction of war. He realised for the umpteenth time that this Dome was a bubble. Outside, all was ruin and decay without the vestige of a promise of renewal.
There outside, were men and women living under the yoke of tyranny; children bowed under the weight of lies, superstition, and primitive thinking; people clinging to the authority of ancient scribbling. Had they no hope of redemption? Would no one save them from their folly? Was there no chance of deliverance from their perpetual state of ignorance? Could they ever be taught to live a science-based existence? Would they ever come to appreciate the virtues of Kindness, Creativity, and Curiosity? What if there was even one individual out there who could be saved? Was it right of the citizens of Jericho-2 to abnegate all responsibility towards the teeming millions outside the Dome? These and other questions plagued Tyrol’s mind as he turned his telepod and whizzed back to his home base.
***
The Founding Fathers had set up Jericho-2 on the premise that human beings could be modified to be perfect. The first hesitant reading of the human genome in the early 21st Century had given rise to startling new discoveries about disease, the human mind, and human nature. The human genome comprises all the genetic information that we inherit from both of our parents in the form of 46 chromosomes, 23 from each parent. Chromosomes are in turn long stretches of DNA which is composed of four different purine and pyrimidine nitrogenous bases: Adenine, Thymine, Cytosine, and Guanine—chemical letters known simply as A, T, C and G. The Human genome has six billion of these genetic letters.
They started off the sequencing of human DNA by identifying chemical base pairs in each gene and putting them in the right order. Next, they assembled packets of genes and placed them in the right order on the chromosome. Finally, came the annotation phase where they identified the role of each gene in disease causation, cognition, language use, and so on.
From those humble beginnings the great genome movement thrived within the confines of the Dome. Initially, scientists wrote out gene sequences that allowed them to create genes that encoded for fairly simply things like eye-colour and height. But gradually, the Founding Fathers began designing entire chromosomes of new bacterial organisms—bacteria that could consume plastic, metabolise iron, produce hydrocarbon fuel—all from sugar solutions, nutrient soups, air, and sunlight. As long as the letters of the genome were encoded in the right order and transcribed correctly, almost anything was possible.
It was a matter of a few decades before sophisticated computers were programmed to write out DNA sequences that were inserted into the cells of bacteria that were then programmed to make millions of copies of themselves. Made-to-order DNA sequences soon became common place.
A whole new poetry of synthetic biology was born, comprised of computational verses. Those writers of DNA, shapers of new species, and designers of life became the new poets.
***
In the centuries that followed, generation after generation of poets learned the letters and language of the genes. The Poetry of Synthetic Genomics was taught in elementary school almost as a core subject. Children were composing DNA strands and transcribing gene sequences with the same easy felicity that Wordsworth and Coleridge penned sonnets and couplets. Children no longer drew flowers and butterflies. The transcribed them into existence. Of course, there were protocols and safety standards to prevent genetic contamination and the utmost precautions were taken to avoid any ramifications to either health or environment.
And so, there were epic forest poems and fruit-fly elegies and bacterial ballads. Great gardener poets and lyrical horticulturists dominated the public domain with their trees that grew into houses. Fascinating new species of orchid lined the boulevards of Jericho-2. Unimaginable new species of fruit, each more succulent and nutritious than the next, hung from the boughs of the orchard trees in the squares and piazzas of the city.
It was in such a milieu that Tyrol had been raised. His poetic creations had touched many a heart and moved many an eye to tears. He was revered as a sublime genius, a poet unlike anyone before.
But Tyrol was not content. On the one hand he could see the dangers of pursuing the poetic vocation, of becoming nothing more than a swayer of crowds. On the other, he recognised that surpassing mankind by gaining the heights, the heaven of poetic genius, was a way to break clear of the ghastly conditions of natural birth. It was a way to break clear of the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.
And so he created. He refined and repackaged nature. New species of flowers and butterflies and fruit-flies spilled from his brain at a prodigious rate. But Tyrol was not content with simply combining and transcribing genes to construct piddling flowers and footling insects. No. He had always had a grander vision. He wished to transcend Darwinian evolution and for years he had been working on it with a single-minded devotion.
***
The Dome was a solitary oasis of scientific cooperation in a blistering desert of religious and nationalistic feuding. The Founding Fathers of the Dome were men of great foresight and strong personalities. They came from diverse and disparate fields. They were biologists, computer engineers, geneticists, astronomers, cosmologists, physicists, doctors, geologists, poets, artists, and mathematicians. They had only one thing in a common: a passionate optimism about the future and a belief that science was the only solution to disease, starvation, and death.
With the help of several billionaire philanthropists and like-minded captains of industry, the Founding Fathers set about the construction of the Dome over several decades. They realised soon enough that not everyone had the same quest for knowledge; not everyone had an inquiring spirit or a desire for understanding the profound questions in life. In the end, only 200,000 people from around the world chose to accept the constitutional charter and live inside the Dome.
When the Dome was sealed, even though anyone from the inside who wished to leave was free to do so, no one from the outside was ever allowed to enter. The rest of the world was left to its own fate.
***
Tyrol made his way back to his home base on his telepod. He entered the bedroom and woke Galatea up. She’d been fast asleep.
“Galatea, it’s time to go,” Tyrol whispered.
“What time is it?” Galatea mumbled.
“It’s nearly 6:00pm.”
“Have you decided what you’re going to tell them at the banquet?” Galatea asked.
“Yes. I’ve decided to tell them the truth.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes… yes, I’m sure. As long as you agree,” Tyrol said sitting down next to her and stroking her hair.
“You know I’ll go to the ends of the world with you, Tyrol,” Galatea whispered, nestling her head on his shoulders.
***
The gala awards event was being held in the amphitheatre section of the Newtonian Central Library. The guests were distinguished members of the senate, doctors, university presidents, college deans, fellow poets, artists, and professors from various fields.
Hushed whispers remarked on the gorgeous beauty of Galatea. Learned minds speculated on the content of Tyrol’s new release. Champagne and chandeliers graced the occasion. Robotic stewards whizzed about with hors d’oeuvres and canapés. Excitement abounded. An air of anticipation filled the room. Galatea sat demurely on stage, but all eyes were on Tyrol.
Tyrol took a deep breath and strode to the podium. “I know you’ve been eagerly anticipating the launch of my new work of poetry. We’ve been tinkering with nature for centuries now. I’ve always craved an identification with nature—a union, if you will, between my psyche and the synthetic biology that we create. I write with concentrated passion and focused turmoil. The welter of emotions I feel—only I know. I crave neither fame nor recognition. All I care about is the artistic process—the drive to create is an overwhelming impulse inside of me.
“All of my poetic endeavours and artistic efforts have been to stave off absurdity and chaos. It is by creating that I live and give meaning to my existence. My seeking an emotional communion with nature has led me to break one of the last taboos in Jericho-2.
“Ask not what nemesis of fate or error of will has led me here today. I know some may be horrified by my latest work. They may find it grotesque and Frankenteinian; others may think it unnatural and immoral. But it has been done and I have no regrets. My critics have, in the past, called me aloof, melancholic and misanthropic. If my work be in error, then put it down to the revolutionary spirit that is beyond my control. My torment will be revealed. I follow only my artistic conscience.
“I know I will have no place in Jericho-2 after news of this scandal breaks, so I’ve decided that tonight I will leave the Dome forever of my own accord.”
The crowd gasped. They looked at each other in confusion and wonder, and perhaps a touch of fear.
Tyrol concluded his speech: “You’ve waited long and patiently—I give you my epic, my masterpiece, a poem I would live for and die for—the first Synthetic Human: my wife, Galatea.”
