1
Paris
The way Jacob figured it, by the end of today, he would either be the most hated man in the world, or the most loved. At least that’s how the media was playing it. But for now, between the interrupted sleep and the jetlag from the twelve-hour flight to Paris, he could barely keep awake in the taxi. He’d been spoiled by all those years living in London, when Paris was only a two-hour ride on the Eurostar. Flying from San Diego was a different story. Still, it was good to be back. He hadn’t visited the City of Light in at least five years.
The taxi made its way through the familiar Place Des Vosges with its antique shops, cafés, and street musicians, then to the grand, tree-lined Champs-Élysées, and on to the Hotel Concorde La Fayette, where the conference was being held. As they progressed slowly toward the hotel, Jacob looked at the conference welcome letter he’d printed out for the trip.
Welcome to the World Conference on NBIC Convergence and Human Performance, a gathering of thought leaders in nanotechnology, biotechnology, information technology, and cognitive science.
His eyes traveled down to his photo. Next to it was the writeup about his keynote presentation:Memory Recovery and Transmission from Intracranial Nanobotic Networks in Severe BI Candidates, which seemed an overly fancy way of saying “recovering and transmitting memories from a dead or damaged brain using microscopic robots.” Some of the other topics included transhumanism and cyborg development; brain-machine interfaces; and human cognitive and physical performance enhancement in warfare. He thought about the incredible advancements in his field in the last five years. But those presentations were about works-in-progress—things to come in the near future. His breakthrough was already here. And people were now going to see it in living color.
As he looked up, he could see that the taxi was finally approaching the hotel. And there they stood out front, just as he had expected: the swarms of protesters. Not surprising, given the news coverage recently.
The driver pulled just ahead of the mob, and Jacob stepped out to pay him. As the taxi drove off, he tried to make his way through the crowd. It wasn’t easy, as everyone was pushing and shoving. Protest signs were everywhere, and in all different languages. As he forced his way through the sea of people, an angry bald guy started yelling at him in what sounded like Italian, making the sign of the cross on his chest and forehead.
Jacob shook his head and continued on.
Goddamn lunatics would rather see us usher in the dark ages.
Out of the corner of his eye, to his left, he noticed a little girl crying. She couldn’t have been more than four or five. There was no sign of her p
