The Cure

Erin had a blank look on her face. “I must be missing something.”

Hansen flashed a sheepish smile. “If you are, that just means I’m not explaining it well. I’ve already come to the conclusion that you don’t miss anything.”

Inexplicably, Erin found herself responding warmly to the compliment.

“The ships are interstellar arks,” clarified Hansen. “We’ve imagined ships like these for many decades, but they’ve put them into practice. Basically you just hollow out an asteroid and turn it into a mini planet—but one you can drive through space like a ship. You can fit millions, or even hundreds of millions of people very comfortably inside a hollowed-out asteroid far, far smaller even than our moon. Imagine a sphere only twenty miles in diameter. If you layered the inside like an onion, or honeycombed it, the total surface area available inside would be staggering. And that’s for a ship only twenty miles in diameter. Ships like these that transport huge populations over hundreds of years are called generation ships, or interstellar arks. The aliens who sign on are committing themselves and their offspring for all eternity to live in a foreign solar system. But this is the only way to achieve cross-cultural exchange, given the distances involved.”

Erin realized that her mind was now officially blown. This Kyle Hansen was so convincing. His description of this galactic society was so well-reasoned, and held together so well. It was mesmerizing to imagine, and she found herself hoping it was true. But she had to remind herself that just because she wished it were true didn’t necessarily make it so. Science fiction and fantasy writers had fabricated societies that were every bit as complex and well-reasoned as this, and which were incredibly rich in detail.

Hansen’s phone vibrated but he ignored it, his total focus on Erin not wavering for an instant. A fraction of her mind noted this with approval. So many people these days couldn’t possibly resist glancing at their phones to see what was coming in, no matter what the circumstances. There were a few people Erin knew who would check a ringing phone even if they were on fire at the time.

Erin stared into Hansen’s expressive blue eyes, which continued to be alive with an easy intelligence. “Let me make sure I understand,” she said. “So now you have seventeen species living together, in each of seventeen different solar systems. Basically each species flying heavily populated mini planets to sixteen different neighborhoods. And they all live in perfect harmony?” she said, a note of skepticism in her voice.

“Great question. Again, I’m not the expert. But it’s my understanding that although these alien species are all much more peaceful and cooperative than humans, it isn’t a perfect world. Or a perfect galaxy in this case. So the answer is no. Two of the seventeen keep almost entirely to themselves. They send out generation ships, but with only thousands, not millions of inhabitants. And they have almost no interaction with other species. Almost as if they’re just making sure to have an observation post on the outskirts of civilization, keeping tabs. Some species hit it off with each other like humans and dogs, becoming fast friends, inseparable. Other pairings have an instinctive aversion to each other. Either due to their respective appearances, or to minds that are so incompatibly alien to each other there is instant hatred and combustion whenever they meet. There are a number of cases in which culture A is friends with B. And B is friends with C. But A and C haven’t interacted at all in a hundred thousand years.”

There was almost a minute of silence as Erin digested the enormity of seventeen civilizations living together in seventeen regions of the galaxy.

“All of this is fascinating,” she said finally. “Incredible. Very thought-provoking for someone who has studied psychology and sociology. So even if it isn’t true, hats off to you for a stu

“Thanks, Erin. But it’s all true. You already have all the evidence you need if you really think about it. I know nothing about genetic engineering or medicine, but didn’t you ever question how Drake could have done what he did? Identify the precise genes that contribute to the condition and then find a way to reverse them—at the genetic level?”

Erin frowned. She had. She had guessed that it was pure luck, plus the novel approach of sequencing entire genomes, which would have been impossible only years earlier. A dovetailing of knowledge about the physical basis of psychopathy, advances in sequencing, an impressive algorithm, and lots of luck—which scientists liked to call “serendipity” for some reason.

But the odds of being able to do what he had done, when she really thought about it in a fully sober ma

“Am I detecting some faint stirrings of belief on your face?” asked Hansen.

Erin raised her eyebrows. “Maybe,” she replied. “But even if Drake is an alien, even if you prove this beyond a doubt, that still doesn’t mean any of this is true,” she pointed out. “He could have lied about all of it.”

Hansen looked uncomfortable. “True. But I’ve worked with him closely for years and have come to trust him implicitly. He’s aboveboard, unless he’s forced to use deception out of necessity, like in your case.” He leaned forward. “The important point here is that you have the key to saving the human race. I know that sounds preposterous and melodramatic, but it happens to be true. So let me take you to our headquarters, so you can meet this alien you’ve been collaborating with. Let me cement the truth of what I’m telling you even more firmly in your mind. So you can join our efforts without any reservations. And tell Drake about your breakthrough. So we can get on with saving ourselves.”

Erin shook her head. “I’m not sure I’m all that impressed with that computer of his. The cure he’s come up with is stu

Erin had discussed this at length with Raborn many times. First they needed to prove it worked. But even with a working cure in hand, it would take some doing to get the FDA to agree to clinical trials to demonstrate this, while at the same time keeping her out of jail.

They pla

But even if they succeeded, Erin had come to believe this wouldn’t matter much anyway. “Even if such a treatment were approved today,” explained Erin, “psychopaths don’t see anything wrong with the way they are. They think they’re superior. And when it comes to looking out for number one, and being able to operate without remorse, without conscience, without soul, maybe they are. And the ones whose cure would have the biggest impact on society—the dictators of the world, leaders of drug cartels, and the like—would be the very last to agree to use it. Unless you think the FDA, or our government, or Drake for that matter, has jurisdiction over a Middle Eastern psychopathic dictator.”

How many dictators and tyrants throughout history had been psychopathic? Erin suspected almost all of them. Sociopath was a word that was often used interchangeably with psychopath, but there was a difference, although it was subtle and not well-known, even among those in the profession. Sociopaths also suffered from antisocial disorder, but their upbringing and environment played a role in this. This wasn’t true for psychopaths. They could have an idyllic upbringing and it wouldn’t change a thing. Their mother could have been Mother Teresa and their father Gandhi. It wouldn’t matter. Because for them it was all about wiring.