Sep 23th, 2081
The room had undergone a transformation. This typically chaotic landscape of Brenda Myers' workspace took on a new, orderly guise. It was a strategic evolution from laboratory chaos to the structured calm of an office setting—a deliberate stage for a significant scientific breakthrough. The air was charged with the collective focus of four brilliant women, each playing a vital role in the dance of discovery.
Brenda and her colleague, Pooka Chooke, acted as the maestros of this cerebral orchestra, their intellects perfectly in sync as they navigated the complexities of their shared vision. Anáa Conchi, with her unwavering eye for detail, meticulously transcribed the unfolding experiment with an air of scholarly discipline that was almost palpable. Peace Harmonie, the digital archivist of the ensemble, wove a tapestry of electronic expertise from her trio of laptops, which hummed with the quiet promise of technological support.
Meanwhile, Peace wielded her cell phone like an artist's brush, capturing the scene with scholarly care, her voice enriching the narrative with a social and historic fabric that deepened the significance of their work. Each motion, every controlled variable, was destined for preservation in the annals of time, thanks to her adept digital chronicling.
Peace cleared her throat and gathered her nerve before addressing the group formally. "I know you guys hate these things, but chronicling important events is my job. I'd like to remind everyone of one of the pitfalls of the last time we did this: I know we all speak multiple languages, but can we agree to keep it to English today?"
"Afirmativo," Anáa replied with a light-hearted tone.
"Chai," followed Pooka, her customary smirk conveying her easy concurrence.
"Bestätigt. Oui," Brenda joined in, her dual affirmation implying her multilingual ease.
"Gut zu hören!" Peace responded, refusing to dampen the group's spirits while trusting they got the point. As she did not understand the science, chronicling was a way for her to be important, and her lack of knowledge actually helped her in the role of everyman, obtaining explanations that both she and the audience would understand. And subtitles for dense scientific jargon in multiple languages easily doubled the time required for the presentation.
Amidst this carefully choreographed routine, Brenda stood transformed. She had shed her habitual lab attire for an outfit that spoke volumes about the day's gravitas. Despite her sartorial innocence, it was clear someone with a keen sense of fashion had orchestrated her look to match the occasion's import. Draped in a refined off-white lace blouse, she was the embodiment of precision both in her scientific endeavors and her attire. The geometric lace patterns played upon the fabric, as if each thread was spun from the very essence of methodical exactitude.
Every angle was considered, every layer purposeful. The blouse was designed not just to catch the eye but to command respect, with linings that preserved modesty without dampening the dynamism implied by the semitransparent material. The lace sleeves fluttered gently at her wrists, hinting at a delicate balance between her femininity and her formidable role as a scientist on the brink of the extraordinary.
Her dark gray slacks were a masterstroke of tailoring, offering a subtle contrast to the blouse's lighter tone. They fell in soft lines, echoing the grace of her movements as she cleared the workspace with deliberate haste, rearranging the physical world to create an unobstructed arena for their intellectual conquest.
Brenda, still human in every sense, bore the quiet dignity of her age. Lines of wisdom etched her skin—a tapestry of experience no form of immortality could replicate. She stood amidst a sea of perpetual youth, a striking contrast to the others who basked in artificially sustained prime. Anáa, Peace, and now Pooka had embraced a flawless avatar of their past selves, each frozen in their twenty-third year through the marvels of science, a permanent manifestation of their DNA code at peak potential.
The occasion was a ceremonial one, steeped in the kind of tradition that seemed to imbue Anáa and Peace with a joyous sense of purpose. They thrived under the spotlight of this orchestrated pomp, embracing the roles and narratives laid out before the recording lenses. Brenda Myers, on the other hand, was made of sterner stuff; she had no time for the theatrics of scripted lines or dramatized reenactments. With the steely resolve that had carried her through decades of life's trials, she disdained performance in favor of authenticity.
Without a word or a glance at the cameras that sought to capture and immortalize this moment, Brenda merely signaled to Pooka. It was a subtle yet definitive gesture, transferring the attention to her esteemed colleague, the silent acknowledgment that they were there to celebrate not just scientific triumph but personal metamorphosis as well.
Pooka, the most recent to join these ranks of the ageless, now carried herself with the same vibrancy that had once punctuated her life in the far reaches of Thailand and Mexico. The echoes of her former self, once muted by the shadows of The Collapse and the cruel passage of time, were now vivid and alive. Pooka's transformation had been remarkable, a return not to the weary and worn figure she had become but to the strong, confident woman of her youth.
Her choice in attire reflected this rebirth, a bold celebration of her regained vitality. She donned a diminutive black halter top, skin-tight and provocative, emblazoned with the emblem of Moon Blossom corporation. It was designed as much for spectacle as for comfort, accentuating her well defined figure and leaving her athletic stomach unveiled, a testament to her restored fortitude. Her shorts, akin in spirit, were only a nod more reserved, while practical sneakers grounded her, a surprising counterpart to Brenda's own choice of formal heels.
In a moment unperturbed by the omnipresent lenses that sought to document this scientific milestone, Pooka’s approach to the cabinet was distinctly pragmatic. She moved with the clinical precision typical of a seasoned researcher. Reaching into the cabinet, she retrieved what appeared to be an ordinary glass beer mug—a vessel mundane in appearance but evidently significant to their endeavor. With routine care, she passed the mug to Brenda without a word, her actions speaking volumes in the silence.
Brenda received the mug with equal sobriety, her hands steady in spite of the years they wore. She presented the unassuming object to the cameras, rotating it methodically to offer viewers a comprehensive look. It was clear that she sought to engage their curiosity, allowing the viewers to contemplate its ordinary features, yet she delegated the narrative to Peace. Her own role seemed to be one of quiet facilitation rather than vocal explanation.
After allowing sufficient time for observation, Brenda's next action was abrupt, a sharp departure from the earlier tranquility. With a decisive movement, she cast the mug onto the white-tiled floor at the heart of the cleared space. It shattered upon impact, fragments spreading across the floor in a spray of glass and potential. Brenda's fingers crossed in a rare display of hope or superstition, whichever it might have been that whispered in the mind of the rational scientist.
Witnessing Anáa holding her breath in suspense, Brenda cautioned the administrator with a mentor’s gentle admonishment. "I wouldn't do that, this isn't going to be fast," she advised, her tone setting expectations for a process unhurried by desires for instant gratification. Heeding her own counsel, Brenda took a seat—her actions reflecting a readiness to witness events unfold over time rather than moments.
Peace continued her reporting, a soft stream of commentary flowing into her smartphone, likely weaving the scattered glass into a tale of scientific pursuit and ambition for her unseen audience. The waiting began, a test of patience in a room filled with anticipation and silent expectancy. Only Peace's narration pierced the quiet, her underlying irritation unseen and unheard but keenly felt as she recounted the mundanity of watching glass on a floor.
As the minutes stretched into an hour, it became evident that Brenda's characterization of the process as "slow" was something of an understatement. The four observers, poised in a quiet equilibrium between science and spectacle, could discern a subtle yet unmistakable transformation unfolding before them. A careful eye could catch glimpses of glass fragments stealthily retreating from existence, disappearing before the very tiles they rested upon. Meanwhile, the base of the mug, steadfast amidst the splinters, engaged in a meticulous renaissance, piece by infinitesimal piece reassembling itself as if guided by an invisible artisan's hand.
Despite the significance of the phenomenon, the spectacle offered little in the way of rapid visual gratification; it was a lesson in persistence and the inexorable march of microscopic progress. The fragments' fading and the mug's slow resurrection teased the imagination with hints of what was to come, but the process tested the observers' endurance—demanding they bear witness to natural laws unwriting themselves at a painstaking pace.
The choice of materials now seemed inopportune—the clear glass set against the white tile presenting not just a visual challenge but a philosophical provocation. Just as they straddled the line between permanence and impermanence with their varying degrees of mortality, they now grappled with the visual interplay of clear and clean palettes—a test of observation where seeing was as difficult as believing.
Murmurs of lighthearted regret passed between them, acknowledging that the aesthetic pairing, while sleek and clean in a typical lab setting, was proving to be a less than ideal backdrop for this groundbreaking demonstration. Indeed, the environment that had once held flasks and beakers, now transformed into a sterile theater, seemed to mock their foresight with each elusive sparkle of glass that blinked out of existence or inched its way back to form.
"Next time, can we make the glass dark green?" Anáa asked Brenda sincerely. "I was just thinking the same thing," came an answer from Pooka.
The slow spectacle was a paradoxical dance of matter, a laborious crawl towards a future where the broken could be made whole—an echo of the human journey. Patience became their shared mantra as the room filled with the tension of watchful eyes, all waiting, hoping, and silently willing the fragmented mug to find its former glory against the backdrop of a floor that refused to betray its secrets easily.
"Let's get some food," Brenda suggested, hoping to break the monotony.
"Anáa, would it interrupt your process to go get us some Reubens?" Brenda asked.
Anáa rose to her feet, smoothing out her green shorts, which featured a practical design complete with pockets and legs that extended nearly to her knees. Her untucked button-down shirt was a cacophony of colors, mimicking the haphazard splashes of a vigorous artist at work. The garb was striking—almost excessively vibrant. As she turned, her nearly floor-length black hair acted like a curtain, momentarily concealing the array of colors with its sweeping darkness. “Is everyone happy with Reubens?” she asked, her voice reaching out to the room for confirmation.
"You know I don't eat meat. I'll take a gemischter Salat—a nice big one. Since I'll have to time-lapse this whole part and overdub it anyway, I can eat during it," Peace interjected, reaffirming her dietary preference.
With no notes needed, Anáa headed for the exit. "Don't have any breakthroughs without me," she said with a laugh, smiling from the doorway.
Peace was acutely aware of her junior status in the room but nonetheless knew she had a role to fulfill. Their lack of engagement was not helping. She had anticipated a dynamic display that would captivate viewers, yet here they were, witnessing a scene tantamount to watching paint dry. With a push against her hesitation, she spoke up. "Can one of you please explain what's happening to the viewers on a more technical level than I can provide?"
Pooka glanced at Brenda, who seemed to have succumbed to a momentary rest, and let out a small, understanding sigh before gathering her thoughts to address the camera. "The mug is made from programmable matter. The atoms and molecules that compose it are entirely constructed by and composed of nanobots. Similar to the BioNano—though on a much smaller scale and with far less complexity in their functions. Here they maintain the form of a mug. As you can witness, even if shattered, the fragments will eventually degrade, navigate their way back to the mug's base, and reassemble themselves. If everything here proceeds without a hitch, my subsequent challenge will be to accelerate this process. I'm considering the integration of additional gravity manipulation, and perhaps a transmuter to create copies from the environment rather than rely on the original components."
"Was that so hard?" Peace smiled.
After an arduous period that spanned well over nine hours, the intricate process reached its impressive conclusion. The mug, once shattered, stood before the group perfectly intact, indistinguishable from its original state. Brenda, visibly fatigued yet unwavering in her determination, sidestepped the remnants of their meal—wrappers from Reubens now littering the floor. Her heels were a memory, cast aside to a forgotten corner of the lab. Despite the wear of the long day, she addressed the attentive audience with a poised and compelling oration.
"Today, we've witnessed something that edges on the fantastical, but is deeply rooted in science and perseverance," Brenda began, a sense of profound achievement infusing her speech. "This mug embodies not just reformed ceramic, but the pioneering spirit of programmable matter. What began as scattered pieces, directionless and fragmented, has coalesced into a symbol of potential — of what we can accomplish in the realm of molecular engineering."
"With the successful restoration of this mug, we unlock the next chapter in our endeavours. The true triumph will be in harnessing the power to refine this process, to increase its efficiency and speed, enabling a reassembly that is not only precise but swift. We also stand before the challenge of creating a robust programming language tailored to direct this programmable matter into new forms, new functions, unfettered by the constraints of their initial design."
"This accomplishment is not just an experimental success; it's a portal to a future where the boundaries between creation and recreation, between what's broken and what can be reborn, are blurred. The implications are vast and transformative — this is indeed a game changer. As we move forward, the fabric of reality as we know it will be woven with ever more fascinating and intricate patterns, crafted by our ingenuity, our commitment to pushing the envelope of what's possible with programmable matter," Brenda concluded, the fervor of her vision resonating within the very walls of the lab.
Brenda, standing amidst the aftereffects of their day's labor, took a deep breath and addressed the weary but expectant team. The remnants of their meal lay scattered on the lab's floor, the room silent but for the hum of technology cooling down from its extensive exertion.
"Today, we have bent the very rules of matter and redefined the possibilities of creation," she declared, her voice steady with the day's accomplishments. "The resurrection of this mug from its fragmented state is not merely a technical boast; it is a testament to where our research and determination can lead us."
"Looking ahead, our mission is to streamline this process—making it not just possible, but practical. We envision a future where reassembling shattered objects is as simple as pressing a button. The next steps involve developing a programming language sophisticated enough to grant us mastery over the building blocks of matter itself."
"This is the dawn of a new era in material science. What we achieved today is the first step into a world where the only limit to what we can fix or create is our imagination. Programmable matter will become the canvas upon which we paint our future, unfurling unexpected avenues in countless applications—medicine, architecture, industry... the list is endless."
Concluding her impromptu speech, Brenda met the eyes of her colleagues. "This is truly a game changer. We've not only repaired a broken mug—we've laid the groundwork to build, unbuild, and rebuild the very essence of our reality."
Exhilarated by the implications of their success, and despite her exhaustion, Brenda allowed herself a small smile. She had encapsulated the grandeur of their work, setting the stage for the profound advancements to come.
She turned to Pooka and then clasped her shoulder in a congratulatory manner. "Eight days," Brenda exclaimed with a mixture of awe and pride in her voice.
"No, it was only nine hours," Pooka replied, maintaining a straight face for a brief moment before succumbing to a smirk.
"Eight days from measurements to a working prototype. While admittedly, we built on our own shoulders, it's still going to be a landmark record." Brenda's voice carried the weight of their accelerated progress. "And 'Eight Days' would also be a fitting title for a book about this historic moment," she mused, the idea clearly sparking enthusiasm for the legacy of their achievement.
Peace, battling fatigue and a tinge of hand cramps, switched off the cell phone finally. She lingered for a few seconds, massaging her fingers to soothe the residual stiffness from recording for an unbroken stretch of time. Though her body ached, her spirit was buoyed up with the sense of witnessing and documenting history. With a satisfied sigh, she brushed her long blonde hair out of her eyes and made her way to leave the room, cognizant of the silent notes she had contributed to the annals of progress.