Sundman reports that none other than Eric Raymond, the articulate and outspoken advocate of open-source software, declared "Acts of the Apostles" "immoral and deeply ugly." The reason: Capitalism doesn't come off so good in the novel, and that's not something that libertarian free market acolytes like Raymond want to hear.

But it's hard to argue with the central thesis of "Acts of the Apostles," which is that advances in computer technology and biotechnology are proceeding so quickly that we are speedily approaching the day when scientists and programmers are able to design machines that can alter our genetic structure and reshape our brains. And what is the engine of this change? Why, capitalism, of course. In particular, Silicon Valley-style capitalism -- the relentless search for products that can generate vast revenue through innovations in high technology.

In Sundman's view, this is a progress that can't be stopped. Ethicists can't stop it, governments can't stop it, and even the band of heroes in "Acts of the Apostles" is essentially powerless. They can deflect it, but not derail it. His horror at the future echoes Sun co-founder Bill Joy's warning about technological progress. But whereas Joy argues that the dangers of technological progress call out for restraint and/or government intervention, Sundman, at least as far as his novel is concerned, seems convinced that little can be done to stop it. The capitalist imperative is too strong. Even if you stop one megalomaniac software czar, a hundred more will jump to take his or her place.

Seen in this light, Sundman's abandonment of his career and his single-minded devotion to finishing his novel make sense. Like a programmer working to ship code before an all-or-nothing deadline, Sundman had to get his message out -- the world must be alerted.

But why? If there's no way to stop it, why the necessity for protesting it?

"I could no longer ignore my misgivings about the cult of technology," writes Sundman in his autobiographical note on his Web site "and my role in sustaining it."

His misgivings explain part of it, but his autobiography goes further:

My novel erupted from within me, like the monster erupting from the belly of the crewman in the first "Alien" movie. I was like the Richard Dreyfuss guy in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" -- the guy who abandons a family he loves, compelled by circumstances he does not like or understand to address the meaning of his life. I now know what artists and writers have talked about through the ages: how their art controlled them, not the other way around. I am sure it all sounds like bullshit -- it is bullshit -- but it's the only answer I have. I was trying to do something meaningful that I and my family could be proud of, and at the same time I was trying to make a lot of money. But the simple fact is it was impossible for me to stop. In the meantime my wife sold her jewelry -- family heirlooms -- to put food on the table.

The odd thing about this quote is that Sundman claims to finally understand how artists and writers have acted over the ages. But the self-consuming passion he describes just as closely resonates with the compulsion of hackers to hammer out their code -- a compulsion that he depicts in his novel with searing accuracy. "Acts of the Apostles" is a gripping read on an important topic, but it's also a testament to the motivating energy that unites anyone engaged in the act of creation, whether it be of a software program or a silicon chip, whether it be untangling the genome or the syntax of a paragraph.

That creative power cannot be stopped. That's good news for novels, but, as "Acts of the Apostles" demonstrates, it might not be so hot for humanity. Ready or not, overmind, here we come.

The Free Software Project
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