Malthus walked through the front gate of the Federal Bureau of Permanent Materials. It was a Friday morning in December, and the grand hall was empty, except for a few cleaning robots toiling on the far ends of each wing. The sunlight barely passed through the morning haze and the dusty windowpanes, casting long, slanted patches of light on the cement walls. In the middle of the hall stood a row of sharp-edged columns with metallic surfaces, each rising to the vaulted ceiling. The place resembled a cathedral more than a government building.
Malthus pulled several wrinkled sheets of paper out of the chest pocket of his trench coat, unfolded them, and stepped up to one of the columns with a green light on top. A screen on the column lit up, showing a woman’s face with a wide smile.
“Name?” a speaker buzzed from behind the screen while the mouth of the woman moved, somehow still maintaining the smile.
“Malthus Ming, M-I-N-G.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes, for nine a.m. I believe.”
“It’s nine-oh-two. You’re late.”
“I’m sorry.” Malthus cleared his throat. “You know these New York trains. They’re …”
“Documents?”
“Right, right.” Malthus flipped through his papers, almost dropping them, and eventually pulled out one with a QR code on it. He held the code up against a scanner next to the screen. It made a blipping sound.
“Please have the document in your hand before you come to the counter next time. Let’s not waste each other’s time.” The face on the screen grinned ever wider. “The consultant will meet you at table E3. Fifth row down the corridor in the center.”
“Thank you. Sorry.”
The long corridor was covered with neon-yellow wallpaper and had no windows. One of the fluorescent tubes at the far end of the corridor was flashing at random intervals. It reminded Malthus of the twenty-sixth floor of the Courant Institute. A graduate student had jumped off the building there last week.
The consultant was a stout, middle-aged man in a dark brown khaki suit. Sitting on what was presumably an office chair, he seemed to fill up the lower half of his little cubicle with his belly. On the desk in front of him was an old Del-Phi laptop and a retinal polygraph. With a rather courteous hand wave, he motioned for Malthus to sit on one of the green wooden seats in front of the desk. Malthus handed over his documents, and the consultant started to study them. He slowly began to frown.
Five minutes passed in silence, with intermittent throat clearing contributed by both men. Finally, the consultant took off his glasses and scratched his left eyebrow. “So, Dr. Ming, just to make sure I’m reading this correctly, you are not making a petition to make a DNA coffin with plasteel?”
“No, sir. As I mentioned in the application, my heart is not doing so well, and the doctor said we must find a way to deal with my coronary artery, and I figured …”
“But they usually make artificial hearts with some sort of biological material or whatever stuff they have at the hospital, right? Sounds like a wasted opportunity to me if you are gonna use your chance on a medical procedure. Besides, plasteel doesn’t sound like something you’d want in your chest, no?”
“Yes, but you see, I can’t afford that bio-engineered product myself. My university insurance wouldn’t cover any invasive procedures, and the federal healthcare system’s waiting period is very, very long at my precinct. So when I saw a video of the funeral procession of President Aguilar and the Parsec executives to Sagittarius A Star, I suddenly realized that I could try my luck at the FBPM lottery. Plasteel is malleable before hardening and completely inert after, right?”
“That’s true.”
“So, perfect for making implants. It is the eternal material after all. I don’t have to worry about replacing it every five years. Besides, the doctor said the longer I wait, the greater the chance for my heart to stop pounding spontaneously, so I am willing to try any alternative here.”
“Sure, sure, but at this point, why not just upload? Preemptive euthanasia should be free if you have social security. I’ve heard good things about the free public heaven they host for New York residents. Good beer selections, unlimited free calls to the living world, all that.”
“Yeah, about that…” Malthus twiddled his thumbs, staring at the union legal rights pamphlet taped to the wall behind the balding head of the consultant. “I have decided to take my true death with my natural one. This body is it for me.”
The consultant looked at Malthus for a few seconds, put on his glasses, and sighed. “Of course, a death wish. I guess that also explains why you don’t want to take your chances at making a coffin like the rest of us.” He fumbled through a stack of forms in a drawer under his desk and picked out one with a bright yellow header. “I understand your situation now, Dr. Ming. I see no point in persuading a mortal about future harms of a permanent object. In that case, let’s get the bureaucratic procedures over with. I am legally obliged to read the following declarations to you. Please bear with me.
‘The United States Federal Government, consistent with the United Nations Recommendations on the Creation, Use, and Disposal of Permanent Materials and Objects, reminds all persons that permanent objects, once created, are immutable by physical means. Such objects cannot be broken, burned, discolored, destroyed, degraded, or otherwise altered in any manner. Citizens are advised to consider carefully the enduring consequences of creating permanent objects. Regardless of future social, technological, or civilizational developments, such objects will persist indefinitely. The disposal of permanent objects on Earth presents substantial and long-term challenges. Accordingly, the creation of such objects on Earth should be undertaken only after careful consideration of their necessity, utility, and perpetual existence.’
Can you verbally acknowledge that you fully understand the statement above and would still like to proceed with the Citizen’s Permanent Material Creation Process?”
“I do.”
“Can you confirm that I, as the consultant on your case, have attempted to persuade you not to create your requested object with the permanent material, and that you, of your own free will, would still like to enter the lottery of the Citizen’s Permanent Material Creation Process, despite the challenges your requested object may pose to humanity in the future?”
“I do.”
“Finally, please confirm that, pursuant to the Federal Permanent Material Code P-57C-203B, the object you requested must be less than fifty grams in mass and fully containable in a rectangular bounding box less than ten centimeters in width, height, and depth. For each additional gram or cubic centimeter of the object manufactured, you will need to pay up to one billion US dollars to the Federal Bureau of Permanent Materials for the transfer of the object to your possession. Please note that you are allowed to bypass the lottery and receive immediate approval of your permanent material object request with an upfront payment of fifty billion US dollars to FBPM, with the same constraints and penalties applied. You can make this additional request at any time during the waiting period of the lottery drawing process.”
“Understood.”
“Great.” The consultant took out three more stacks of paper from the drawer under his desk and laid them on the desk. “Here’s the consultation document for you to sign. It covers the things we just talked about. You will need your initials there and … there. Here’s the questionnaire. If you lose it, you can also download it online, so don’t worry too much about it. Here’s a brochure covering the lottery process. It helps calculate your chances based on your age, level of education, employment status, etcetera etcetera. You will have thirty days to gather all the supporting documents for your case. After you submit, the typical waiting period is six months to a year. OK, you’re all set. Good luck, Dr. Ming.”
Malthus shook hands with the consultant and took his leave. With the papers wedged under his arm, he walked out of the FBPM building. Overhead, a hearse fleet was escaping Earth’s gravity, carrying the ancient hope of resurrection and eternal life.
“Hey Sophie, thanks for calling. Is she okay?” Elisa said while taking off her shoes.
The hologram of a woman lit up in the living room. She had lustrous blonde hair, high cheekbones, and a pale white face. She was wearing a white tank top and a white skort, and held a tennis racquet in her left hand. “Don’t worry, she’s fine. Probably lost one life, but she should have six left, by my last count.”
“What happened?” Elisa walked into her bedroom.
“Being an adventurous lady, as usual.” Sophie followed, now in a butler’s uniform. “She was trying to jump on top of that bookshelf behind the bed and fell in an uncharacteristically ungraceful manner. My diagnostic scan reported one fractured bone in her left hind paw, so I called you, but the scan appears to be inaccurate. The virtual vet said her limp is just due to a sprained ankle, so nothing really to worry about. I’ve settled her in her bed.”
In the little woolly house under the wardrobe, Princess curled into a small, black ball, recovering her grace after the unfortunate incident.
“You know, Princess is getting old. If you want to prevent this sort of thing from disturbing your day again, may I suggest a visit to a gene clinic? I can help you look up all the available ones in New California.”
“Oh, please don’t.” Elisa smiled wearily. “We’ve been through this already, Sophie. I think I really need to lower your persistence level a bit.”
“Alright, alright.” Sophie raised her holographic arms in defeat. “I’ll not mention it again. No need to resort to setting adjustment.”
Tiptoeing around the cat bed, Elisa made it onto the bed. Kneeling on a pillow, she picked up several paperbacks from the bed and put them back on top of the bookshelf.
“Oh, one more thing,” Sophie said. “Princess did kick this thing down to the floor when she fell.” With a beam of light shooting from her fingertip, she pointed to a metallic decoration lying next to the bed. “Good thing it’s made of plasteel.”
Elisa picked up the silvery little box from the floor. It felt smooth to the touch and had no edges. On the top, several tubes of different sizes made of the same material extended out of its body. Under the artificial dusk light of Ganymede, the contraption glimmered.
“I don’t recall registering it in my home decor memory. Would you like to create a new entry, madam?” Sophie took out a sheet and a pencil.
“Sure. Name it ‘Grandpa’s heart,’” Elisa murmured. She put it back on the shelf.