Genosimulation (A Teen & Young Adult Science Fiction): A Young Adult Science Fiction Thriller (12 page)

Gilad also collapsed. Shit.

*

Same laboratory. The same building. The same team.

But the atmosphere, oh, the atmosphere.

This has been a completely different one, Zomy noticed,
hiding a smile behind the oxygen mask. Familiar smiling faces, full of
motivation, were replaced by red eyes and lack of expression. The scent of
success that had characterized the place had given way to an embarrassing smell
of failure.

How many parents does a failure have?

Too many looks sought them in the hallways.

A large number of those looks lingered, again and again, on
Zomy. He felt it from all sides. Sometimes he managed to capture them, to enjoy
how they were trying to penetrate the darkness of his mask. Eyes darting,
elusive, blaming.

So he didn't take the mask off. Ever.

Although he could. Since the incident in New York Zomy's
condition improved slowly, thanks to strenuous breathing exercises, performed
daily. But Zomy preferred to hide this progress. The mask protected him from
the world, and it was good these days.

Because the atmosphere had changed.

Glory days of pure scientific research, the togetherness of pioneering,
had disappeared. Something dreary had penetrated the complex. He did not know
what exactly, but it was something divisive, cold.

Twice he had found listening devices in his room. Twice he
had poured coffee on them 'accidentally'. Twice he forgot to report it, and
twice the remains were removed within a day, in thin silence.

As a preventive measure, he hacked Keshny's computer. Just
as he was about to enter into conversation with Keshny, Zomy remotely started
up his vocalmeter. He then checked the results.

It was the right move, it seemed. Keshny's intonation, the
software reported, was full of distrust. Keshny was sure he was lying. It did
not surprise Zomy - but it was another warning signal.

Another signal came from the direction of Lia. Lack of
signal, actually.

And this was something he did not really understand.
Overnight, concrete walls had been erected between their hearts. As if piped
between them, suddenly a deep ocean of loneliness lay in the way. She simply
did not communicate with him more. Did not speak, did not return his calls.
Just went in and shut herself inside her.

He sent flowers – but that did not help. Nor did the flow of
his other gifts distract her from her melancholy. She began to mutter to
herself, avoided his gaze, disappeared for periods of time, excusing her
behavior when she had to, as illness. She was not feeling well. Stayed at home.
Without him.

And of course, Omri 19. And now Gilad 19. Two mysteries that
almost drove sleep from his life, and also made the professional atmosphere
more and more tense. The experiment did not work, the theory was falling apart.
Despair and frustration were slowly building.

Maybe that's what made it hard for Lia.

His room was not that close to hers. But more than once he
heard her arguing loudly with other scientists, shouting atypically, the sort
of shouting that passes through walls. He heard a door slammed twice.

And once she also confronted him, swearing. Accusing his
computer system of malfunctioning.

This was nonsense, of course. Long before the biologists
began to think about the possibility of glitches in the computer system, Zomy
broke it down into modules himself. With fury and frenzy.

There was no routine or link that went untested. He started
the system in all its force, fully up to the precautionary limit to avoid
external exposure. He again started to run the genosimulation.

*

"Goddamit, the Internet isn't moving. What's the number
of Support?"

"I already called, and they said there are attack
viruses running riot in the world. Half the servers have fallen."

"When will they fix it?"

"They don’t know."

"All these bastards with viruses."

"Come on, it’s just a game of Maccabi."

*

Alone again. His room. Looking at the results, decoder
numbers, formulae, circuits. Again and again and again. Omri, 14, 15, 16, 17,
18 – all’s well.

Only 19 Omri stuck. Crashing.

And in turn, even Gilad 19.

18 live simulations...

And the next one - dead. Always.

DEAD END.

And now, here they were gathered together at this meeting – a
jamboree. An emergency.

The emergency meeting concerned with the project included
the Institute’s higher echelons. Like that meeting, with the monkey. However,
unlike then, the lab was not wearing holiday clothes. Not at all. It was not
tidied, nor cleaned, did not become an underground banquet hall. And Keshny,
again in a formal suit, subdued in proximity to his superiors and blunt with
his inferiors, did not speak this time.

Instead, someone else spoke.

Zomy lazily recognized him, knew his face from the press,
television. One of the top brass, although not the most senior. And now his
words – Zionism – how bad it all was - how resources were invested in it - and
you ( “in you", he dared to say. "You!") - and how essential it
was for the future state, etc. etc. and blah blah blah…

Everyone listened, all were silent. What could they say?
Even when the director stopped babbling, asking for comments, questions,
anything - no one piped up. Sometimes silence is the best policy – and this was
such an occasion. When they’re announcing the hunting season, you’d better
escape from the spotlight.

And it was declared, leaving no doubt, at least from the
management. Those who lived in the past, those who couldn’t move forward, those
who remained bogged in old ideology - all of these were the subjects of the
hunt, and whoever got into the viewfinder was doomed.

And the Institute itself? These were difficult days, and
this special meeting was merely courtesy. But no one dared to speak up. It
would not help. So everyone kept quiet, especially while they were talking.
Silent as fish, long faces, and eyes roving the floor.

Zomy just stared into the eyes of the hunters, protected by
his mask. And all in all, only Zomy allowed himself a bitter smile, slim,
sarcastic. A smile that widened, without a trace of shame, as the director
almost directly addressed him, praising him for his achievements (as if he
needed it) and urging him to devote even more hours to resolve the problem.

As if he needed to.

There was only one good thing in this meeting. For the first
time in days, he and Lia were in the same room. She in obvious discomfort, he
reveling in the opportunity, sipping up every move and shift of her, well
hidden under the mask, suppressing the desire to take her in his arms, to ask,
to find out.

Twice their eyes met, and he saw  in her some new,
hidden sadness. He resisted hard the urge to cross the room to her. To hug her.

Their eyes touched lightly twice, and twice she focused her
eyes on far-flung ethereal space somewhere in the world.

"... And I want to conclude on an optimistic note. The
nation owes you much, and I'm certain you won't disappoint. Thank you,"
the director’s concluding words made their way to his mind. Keshny applauded
shortly, thanked the top brass for their attention, and scattered them all to
work.

But Zomy skipped his room, trotting after Lia.

"Wait," he touched her shoulder.

She turned, looking at him in a green, opaque steadiness.

Like a blow in the face. Zomy, who had become accustomed to
her evasions, did not expect this indifferent gaze. Closed eyes of solid,
glassy green. For a moment he lost his balance, but stabilized again. She did
not move away, at least. That was good.

"What's going on?" he asked, genuinely.

"Working, you know. The 19th running of the
subjects." She did not call the children by name, of course. No one dared
to call the children by name.

"And beyond that?"

"No more than that."

"Lia!"

"What, Zomy? What?" She sounded more tired, more
exhausted, than he had never heard before. The green in her eyes got a little
watery. Just a little.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I have to. Don’t ask why, please..."

He considered her words a split second and decided to obey.
For now.

"Want to exchange a few words on the runs?" he
asked instead. "Network. Promise?"

Was there a blink of agreement in her eyes?

"Come on."

*

"You're not going to convince me that this is not a
computer problem."

In the cafeteria their talk was able to flow more. Freed
from personal matters by their public exposure, they were able, finally, to
have a real conversation. With an exchange of words rather than silences, with
arguments and counter-arguments. It was not a romantic conversation, but Zomy
grabbed her every word as if it were embroidered in flaming love fibers.

"I don’t need to convince you of anything. I know what
I'm doing."

"And I know that something is wrong with the
computer."

"Prove it!"

She had some quality that could make him lose his temper, he
noticed. After all, there was no other person in the world who could make him
question his professionalism. No computer genius, no analyzer, no one. He was
king of the class, the best in his field, and no one, just no one, could
undermine his confidence.

Apart from her, of course.

"I'm not in court. I don’t need to prove anything. It's
just a matter of common sense."

"What common sense? What are you talking about?"

"You have to be blind not to see it. I work in the lab.
I know what biological material comes out of there. And nothing biologically
has really changed! That same DNA, the same data, which only ran it and ran it
and got stuck. So, it’s the computers! Obviously this computer is messed up.
"

"No. No. It’s clean and right. I checked the software,
the hardware. Everything’s fine. Correct, it can seem like a problem, but it
isn’t! Everything is normal there. The genosimulation program is something
properly biological.”

"But there is no geno in the genosimulation, baby!” Her
voice was heavy with irony. “It's all only a simulation! Nothing to do with
biology, it’s all data on your computer - baby!" Heavier than irony now:
full-on sarcasm.

"This is not a computer problem, B – A – B – Y. Believe
me, everything’s normal there. The computer runs the rest without
problems."

"Do me a favor - they both get stuck operating the 19th
run. It’s not biological, it’s mathematical, this segment. Something in your
software’s screwed. Millennium Bug 19!"

"What nonsense!"

"Not nonsense!"

"Yes, nonsense! You know what? Something in the
software, in your band of happy brothers, is fucked!"

Lironzik,

I’ve had a lot on lately. No personal things, only work
matters. Of course, it's personal, eventually. And it turned out I was right.
But Lia was also right.

That talk we had, she and I, came just at the right time.
Sometimes you need such conflicts to arise, to see things from another angle. I
noticed that some of my best thoughts come when I'm angry, when I don’t think.
It’s as if, in those moments, the truth flows out of me, clear as spring water.

Who was the prophecy given to, do you know? I guess you
know. I'm not a woman (I checked the gardens ...) and I'm not small, to my fear
(or delight). A fool, maybe? You could say, pretty surely, I'm a fool. Look where
I find myself now, instead of having a wife and kids, in some beautiful home in
Bnei Brak. Maybe that’s the route to happiness?

On the other hand, I was once a street kid and had an
aggressive cancer which would have finished me off in a few bad months. Nothing
could be done about it. This is my software.

And that's exactly what I understood in that angry
conversation with Lia. Yes, something’s wrong with the software, but it's not
the computer's software - but of the man's.

This is man’s software that’s screwed. His DNA.

This idea suddenly came to me. You ask how we tested it?
Well, after Lia and I argued, we decided on a new line of experiments.
Basically, it went like this: we did not run Omri 19 times, but we ran it once
- 19 times.

I guess it's not the clearest way to explain it to you. I’ll
explain again: basically, each run of a simulation takes information from the
end of the previous simulation. It’s not for the tests, it's just my laziness,
it’s a lot easier to use the information in this form. It also shouldn’t
interfere at all - should be all the same genetically, and as it is in reality,
every child comes from his parents’ lineage.

Only it's not working.

It turned out that if you run from scratch, original
samples, you can run 19 at once! We reached thirty.

So it's not my computer problem. The computer knows how to
run. But if we ran it 19 times for the same sample, it stuck. Something in the
DNA changes, and makes meiosis occur.

In fact, we found that only a few minutes ago. You haven’t
heard from me for a long time, so I thought you might like to know we have
progress.

Zumzum.

Hi Liron,

I'm sorry, I won’t go into a chat now, I'm just too busy
with these two crazies, Omri and Gilad. I'm not sleeping at all, living on caffeine
pills, there’s something bothering me I can’t explain.

Wow, I'm totally busted, can't see what's right in front of
me.

Yesterday I ran all the algorithms of the continuous exec
tests to see what’s different between now and then. The fact that it’s a
computer assistant makes it easier to see such changes, taking DNA samples from
mice or from people, even though we received a sample from Arick (the happy
father) and got some DNA samples of their mother – you don't want to know how.

What I want to say to you is - there is a difference. I
found the missing sequence, but it makes no sense at all. This is related to
aging, but does not make sense! Now I'm trying to find out whether this
sequence is only a part of the simulation, or actually exists in the original
DNA.

Well, no matter, I’ll come back to you later.

Zumzum

*

They found him on the floor, unconscious after working
something like sixty hours straight. For almost three days he had not left his room,
typing at an increasing rate, looking at computer screens from a decreasing
distance, almost pinning them up to see the text.

A worker found him, the third time she brought him coffee to
him. He had not asked for the coffee, not even on the previous two occasions –
but the worker knew instinctively what he needed, and brought it to him.

But this time she was wrong, and the coffee was unnecessary.
Zomy was lying on his desk, breathing labored, thin mucus dripped from the edge
of his mouth onto the cold floor, his hands twitching occasionally.

It was not easy to get him out of that little room. For a
moment he woke up and tried to protest, grabbing at the table, muttering
something to the physicians who dragged him out. But then he erupted with
reddish puke, lost consciousness again and was rushed to the clinic.

During the next twelve hours relaxing medicines were
injected to him, slowly, to keep him asleep. Apparently it worked: his body did
not move.

Still, Lia knew it was not restful sleep. The EEG showed how
alert Zomy’s brain waves were. Beyond simple alertness, actually. Typical waves
of a very upset man, on the verge of panic. And under his closed lids raged a
storm of eyeballs, darting from side to side.

Occasionally his lips formed words, but even his shallow
breathing blew them away. His regular mask was set aside, and he now had a
transparent plastic oxygen tube leading to his nostrils.

Lia saw it as a significant improvement. And thought, this
time as a doctor, the diagnosis was wrong. Any improvement, if any, touched
only his appearance. Not his physical state, certainly not his mental state.

She left the hospital and went back to her office. Sat on
her treatment bed, looked at the posters on the wall (structure of the heart,
tissues, and respiratory system), trying to organize her thoughts. Laying on
her back, trying to relax. Called the attending physician, the head of the
team, asking him to keep her informed on Zomy’s condition.

"Yes, it’s unfortunate... overwork... as someone who
works with him, I feel I have to be near him when he wakes up. Then you’ll let
me know? Thank you."

Finally, somebody decided Zomy had slept enough, and the
soothing intravenous drip was discontinued. An hour later, Zomy squinted
through two blurry eyes, and tried to get up right away. His world spun and
stopped in fear.

"Relax. Slowly."

Caressing the soft words in his mind, he returned with
relief to a reclining position. His eyes blinked twice, and the focus returned
to them gradually. Zomy felt slower, hovering, as if under the influence of
drugs. Well, he was, of course, properly under the influence of drugs.

But wait, that voice was familiar. And hey, he even loved
the voice! Where was it coming from ..?

Zomy looked a bit around the bed, seeking the voice. Lia’s familiar
face slowly came into the center of his vision. He smiled at her, and she
responded with a smile of her own.

"How did this happen?" he muttered, finally.

Lia shrugged. "You worked too long, probably."

"Ahhh ... yes."

He closed his eyes, remembering what happened. And suddenly
opened them again quickly. New sparks flickered in his eyes for a moment, as if
remembering something from the item which previously eluded him. He lay back
again.

"I have to go back to the computer," he said.
"I’m on to something."

"You're too weak. Wait a little bit."

"No, no. I have to! You don’t understand ..."

"Not yet," said Lia, and restarted the dropper.
Small drops of barbiturate, carefully regulated, entered into and swirled
around Zomy's bloodstream. The effect was almost immediate. Voices dimmed,
Lia's face faded out of focus. His head sank on the pillow again.

 After several minutes, he went back to sleep.

This time he was a little calmer.