A Wonderful World

“Mum, what does it mean I see skies of blue and clouds of white?” was one of the first questions Kevin asked his mother as they drove home from their first monthly check-up after his hospitalisation at the Luminous Centre. They were in the car, and that beautiful old song by one Louis Armstrong was playing.

They had celebrated Kevin's sixth birthday just three months earlier. The boy had blown out candles on a cake he couldn't see because of his congenital blindness, and now a new range of sensitive experience was opening for him.

“Long before you were born,” his mother replied, “and even long before my grandparents were born, people could see the world with something they called colours. Before the blindness pandemic and before we were all born blind.”

Kevin sat there ruminating for a moment, trying to process what his mother had told him, which he found extremely disturbing.

“In fact,” his mother added, “even most animals see in colour, like machines. Long ago there were marine mammals that lived in the sea and supposedly saw like us, in light and dark. Bats that live on the ceiling of the barn don't see colours either. Scientists say they see by hearing sounds that we cannot hear.”

“I really like bats; they eat all the bugs that attack plants. And I love also dairy cows; they have a nice shine. I also like bison and woolly mammoths. The mammoths are the cutest animals on the farm, especially the newborn mammoths.”

“Your father always loved life on the farm. Me too, of course.”

“Were there cows and pigs swimming in the sea?” Kevin asked, intrigued.

“No. They were called whales and dolphins, and they were like fish, but they didn't have scales and they suckled their young. We can see them in the archives. If you want, I'll transfer them to you later. But I don't want you to fill yourself with so much useless information.”

“And what were colours for?” Kevin insisted.

“To tell the difference between a ripe tomato and an unripe one, and not to confuse water with blood. Fortunately, we now have fruits that glow with dots when they are ready to eat.”

Kevin Coogan was intrigued by this question of colour for a while, though he was busier learning to look at the world through his now light-and-dark-sensitive eyes, capable of a whole new sea of experience. He found it funny that the ancients spoke of black, white and grey as colours, when the world was decoded in darkness, light and gloom.

Kevin spent the first six years of his life, before his discovery of vision, not knowing what light and dark were, like millions and millions of children. His world was guided by the words and sounds of nature, by hugs, cuddles and kisses, and by tastes and smells like his mother's milk and the pungent aroma of vanilla, chocolate and cranberry juice, plus controlled interaction with farm animals. Although many of these memories were probably made up or told to him by his elders. It's amazing how you build up your memory.

“The operation went very well,” Dr. Elbio Fontana had told Kevin's parents on their first visit to the Luminous Centre. “We were able to successfully implant the chips in both eyes. In addition, we put a new interface at the base of the brain and a new battery.”

Richard Coogan, Kevin's father, sighed with relief. Martha, his mother, was still tense.

“When can we see him?” Martha asked.

“As soon as we complete the calibration. I reckon in a couple of hours,” Fontana replied.

“Is his vision going to be 100 per cent complete?” asked the father.

Dr. Fontana looked at them with a professional, paternalistic expression. He had been in that instance countless times before. Parents became anxious at two points in their children's lives: at birth with the implantation of the brain interface and at retinal implantation when they were older.

“As you know, six years of age has been set as the date for authorising synthetic retinal implants, instead of the previous four years. The eyeballs of younger children still need to acquire more volume and therefore more retinal surface area, over and above the maturational processes, which will be completed in the next few years.”

“We've been waiting for this moment for a long time,” said Martha Coogan.

“Yes, we thought Kevin would be four years old, but we had to wait two more years,” said her husband.

Dr. Elbio Fontana was unfazed by the comment.

“Don't worry, it's for the good of your child. Today we are implanting fifth generation retinas, which allow an unequalled visual acuity, better than yours, always in terms of light and dark processing. One day we will surely achieve colour processing, recovering the historic ability of the human retina.”

“When will that be?” Kevin's father asked again.

“Well, well, how impatient! Be thankful that neuroengineering has succeeded in reversing the pandemic of congenital blindness of a century ago. We are making progress in the development of colour vision technology, although I'll tell you that it will probably be very expensive to make it popular right from the start.”

“As with everything; first it's for the few at high cost. And then it becomes popular, doesn't it, doctor?”

“All in due course. Also, we have machines that can decipher light waves into what used to be called colours and can help us with that. Surely, your bots have that capability.”

“Yes, but we put them to basic domestic use,” said Richard Coogan.

“We have a family farm where we raise Siberian bison and dwarf woolly mammoths. We do very well, although it's a lot of work,” added his wife.

“It's good to still find old-style farmers,” said the doctor, adding, “Remember to bring Kevin back in a month for adjustments. I'll leave you now, because I have a lot of work ahead of me.”

Dr. Elbio Fontana retired and left Kevin's parents alone in the waiting room.

As the doctor had promised, two hours later the Coogan family was happily returning to their home in the heart of Illinois.

Kevin was part of the sixth generation of congenital blindness. There was no one left to remember a world full of colour; there were only the oral accounts and physical testimonies of this strange phenomenon. Old music, literature and film were brimming with references to colours, with a myriad of names to call them, some quite imaginative, such as emerald green, cobalt blue, navy blue, salmon, turquoise, and orange. It would never have occurred to Kevin that oranges and salmons had such a special luminous quality.

***

Fifteen years have passed. Kevin Coogan, mounted on a quadrupedal herding bot, assisted by two bot dogs, is leading a group of four bison to a corral, where they will receive injections of synthetic nanocells, which will eliminate all the pathogens they encounter from the beasts' circulatory system. A sort of robotic immune system.

Soon the bison find themselves locked in a narrow passageway, where humanoid bots inject the nanocells into blood vessels in their necks. The procedure is quick and mildly painful. Within minutes the Siberian bison are galloping free across the meadow.

Kevin climbs down from his herding bot and sets it free.

He is approached by one of the humanoid bots.

Kevin smiles and gives the bot a high-five. He had learned that greeting from watching an old movie from the 20th century. Kevin had formed a special bond with this bot years ago.

“Ready, boss,” the bot said. “This will bring the Permavirus outbreak under control. It will even cross-protect the mammoths.”

“What are colours?” Kevin asks, without warning.

The bot freezes for a moment, as if processing the question.

“What are colours? Do you find them useful?” Kevin insisted.

“Colours are categories of electromagnetic waves within the spectrum of visible light, which depend on special receptors to be perceived as such,” the bot replied, as if reciting an automatic response.

“And you can see them?”

“Of course I can. I can even scan waves above and below the visible spectrum, such as ultraviolet and infrared. I can even encode low-frequency heat and vibration waves. The current human retina lacks colour receptors, although retinal mini-bot implant technology allows humans to see gradients of light.”

“I knew that last one,” Kevin tells him. “And are these extra abilities of any use to you?”

“Not much, given the requirements of my unskilled job. Although my heat vision helps me better pick out a mammoth or a bison in the snow in the distance.”

“And can you see without colours, only in light and dark, like us?” Kevin asked enthusiastically.

“Yes, of course. In fact, the achromatic vision mode consumes less power, so when I'm low on charge I use it to my advantage. But I must admit, I do get a certain aesthetic enjoyment out of seeing the world in colour.”

Kevin thinks about what the bot has just told him, with a mixture of regret and curiosity.

“I didn't mean to offend you or put you to any kind of hardship with my comment,” the bot says.

“Is it true that the trees are green, the roses are red, the sky is blue and the clouds are white, like the old song says?”

“The Louis Armstrong song?”

“Yes, my mother's favourite.”

“Actually, trees are not always green; depending on the species and the time of year, their leaves can be yellow, red, ochre or green. And roses can be red, yellow, white or even other colours. In addition, the sky, depending on local weather conditions, can be yellow, orange, blue or grey. Similarly, clouds are not always white.”

Kevin thinks again about what the bot had told him.

“Do you think the nanites can be modified to fit on my retina to see colours?”

“If it were that easy, someone would have done it by now.”

“Maybe they haven't tried hard enough,” Kevin says.

The humanoid bot stands for a few moments evaluating a suitable response. He thrills as he recalls his visions of green meadows tinged with the yellow and purple wildflowers, the deep blue skies on clear days, and the purplish red of a dwarf woolly mammoth's tongue.

“We can try,” he replies.

Kevin Coogan smiles. That night, for the first time in his life, he dreams in colour.