by Greg Bear
“I haven’t been in an accident,” Vergil said.
“Jesus, they beat you, to keep secrets?”
“You don’t understand me, Edward. Look at the images again. That’s not trauma.”
“Look, there’s thickening here,” he indicated the ankles, “and your ribs—that crazy zigzag interlocking. Broken somewhere, obviously. And—”
“Look at my spine,” Vergil suggested. Edward slowly rotated the image on the screen.
Buckminster Fuller came to mind immediately. It was fantastic. Vergil’s spine was a cage of triangular bones, coining together in ways Edward could not even follow, much less comprehend. “Mind if I feel?”
Vergil shook his head. Edward reached through the slit in the robe and traced his fingers along the back. Vergil lifted his arms and looked off at the ceiling.
“I can’t find it,” Edward said. “It’s smooth. There’s something flexible; the harder I push, the tougher it becomes.” He walked around in front of Vergil, chin in hand. “You don’t have any nipples,” he said. There were tiny pigment patches, but no nipple formations whatsoever.
“See?” Vergil said. “I’m being rebuilt from the inside out”
“Bullshit” Edward said. Vergil looked surprised.
“You can’t deny your eyes,” he said softly. “I’m not the same fellow I was four months ago.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about” Edward played around with the images, rotating them, going through the various sets of organs, playing the NMR movie back and forth.
“Have you ever seen anything like me? I mean, the new design.”
“No,” Edward said flatly. He walked away from the table and stood by the dosed door, hands in his lab coat pocket “What in hell have you done?”
Vergil told him. The story emerged in widening spirals of fact and event and Edward had to make his way through the circumlocutions as best he could.
“How,” he asked, “do you convert DNA to read-write memory?”
“First you need to find a length of viral DNA that codes for topoisomerases and gyrases. You attach this segment to your target DNA and make it easier to lower the linking number—to negatively supercoil your target molecule. I used ethidium in some earlier experiments, but—”
“Simpler, please, I haven’t had molecular biology in years.”
“What you want is to add and subtract lengths of input DNA easily, and the feedback enzyme arrangement does this. When the feedback arrangement is in place, the molecule will open itself up for transcription much more easily, and more rapidly. Your program will be transcribed onto two strings of RNA. One of the RNA strings will go to a reader-a ribosome-for translation into a protein. Initially, the first RNA will carry a simple start-up code—”
Edward stood by the door and listened for half an hour. When Vergil showed no sign of slowing down, much less stopping, he raised his hand. “And how does all this lead to intelligence?”
Vergil frowned. “I’m still not certain. I just began finding replication of logic circuits easier and easier. Whole stretches of the genomes seemed to open themselves up to the process. There were even parts that I’ll swear were already coded for specific logic assignments—but at the time, I thought they were just more introns, sequences not coding for proteins. You know, holdovers from old faulty transcriptions, not yet eliminated by evolution. I’m talking about the eukaryotes now. Prokaryotes don’t have introns. But I’ve been thinking the last few months. Plenty of time to think, without work. Brooding.”
He stopped and shook his head, folding and unfolding his hands, twisting his fingers together.
“And?”
“It’s very strange, Edward. Since early med school we’ve been hearing about ‘selfish genes,’ and that individuals and populations have no function but to create more genes. Eggs make chickens to make more eggs. And people seemed to think that introns were just genes that have no purpose but to reproduce themselves within the cellular environment. Everyone jumped on the bandwagon, saying they were junk, useless. I didn’t feel any qualms at all with my eukaryotes, working with introns. Hell, they were spare parts, genetic deserts. I could build whatever I wanted.” Again he stopped, but Edward did not prompt Vergil looked up at him, eyes moist “I wasn’t responsible. I was seduced.”
“I’m not getting you, Vergjl.” Edward’s voice sounded brittle, on the edge of anger. He was tired and old memories of Vergil’s carelessness towards others were returning; he was exhausted, and Vergil was still droning on, saying nothing that really made sense.
Vergil slammed his fist on the edge of the table. “They made me do it! The goddamn genes!”
“Why, Vergil?”
“So they won’t have to rely on us anymore. The ultimate selfish gene. All this time, I think the DNA was just leading up to what I’ve done, you know. Emergence. Coming out party. Tempting somebody, anybody, into giving it what it wanted.”
“That’s nuts, Vergil.”
“You didn’t work on it you didn’t feel what I felt. It should have taken a whole research team, maybe even a Manhattan Project, to do what I did. I’m bright but I’m not that bright. Things just fell into place. It was too easy.”
Edward rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to take some blood and I’d like stool and urine.”
“Why?”
“So I can find out what’s happening to you.”
“I’ve just told you.”
“It’s crazy.”
“Edward, you can see the screen. I don’t wear glasses, my back doesn’t hurt, I haven’t had an allergy attack in four months, and I haven’t been sick. I used to get infections all the time in my sinuses because of the allergies. No colds, no Infections, nothing. I’ve never felt better.”
“So altered smart lymphocytes are inside you, finding things, changing them.”
He nodded. “And by now, each duster of cells is as smart as you or I.”
“You didn’t mention clusters.”
“They used to cram together in the medium. Maybe a hundred or two hundred cells. I never could figure out why. Now it seems obvious. They cooperate.”
Edward stared at him. “I’ve very tired.”
“The way I see it I lost weight because they unproved my metabolism. My bones are stronger, my spine has been rebuilt—”
“Your heart looks different.”
“I didn’t know about the heart.” He examined the frame image from several inches. “Jesus. I mean, I haven’t been able to keep track of anything since I left Genetron; I’ve been guessing and worrying. You don’t know what a relief it is to tell someone who can understand.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Edward, the evidence is overwhelming. I was thinking about the fat. They could increase my brown cells, fix up my metabolism. My eating habits have changed. But they haven’t got around to my brain yet.” He tapped his head. “They understand all the glandular stuff. Old-home week. But they don’t have the big picture, if you see what I mean.”
Edward felt Vergil’s pulse and checked his reflexes. “I think we’d better get those samples and call it quits for the evening.”
“And I didn’t want them getting into my skin. That really scared me. Couple of nights, my skin started to crawl, and I decided to take some action. I bought a quartz lamp. I wanted to keep them under control, just in case, you know? What if they crossed the blood-brain barrier and found out about me—the brain’s real function. I figured the reason they wanted to get into my skin was the simplicity of running circuits across the surface. Much easier than trying to maintain lines of communication through muscles and organs and the vascular system; much more direct I alternate sunlamp with quartz lamp treatments now. Keeps them out of my skin, as far as I can tell. And now you know why I have a nice tan.”
“Give you skin cancer, too,” Edward said, falling into Vergil’s terse manner of speech.
“I’ve not worried. They’ll take care of it. Like police.”
&nbs
p; “Okay,” Edward said, holding up both hands in a gesture of resignation. “I’ve examined you. You’ve told me a story I cannot accept. What do you want me to do?”
“I’m not as nonchalant as I seem. I’m worried, Edward. I’d like to find a better way to control them before they find out about my brain. I mean, think of it. They’re in the billions by now, more if they’re converting other kinds of cells. Maybe trillions. Each cluster smart. I’m probably the smartest thing on the planet, and they haven’t begun to get their act together. I don’t want them to take over.” He laughed unpleasantly. “Steal my soul, you know? So think of some treatment to block them. Maybe we can starve the little buggers. Just think on it. And give me a call.”
He reached into his pants pocket and handed Edward a slip of paper with his address and phone number. Then he went to the keyboard and erased the image in the frame dumping the memory of the examination. “Just you. Nobody else for now. And please…hurry.”
It was one o’clock in the morning when Vergil walked out of the examination room. The samples had been taken. In the main lobby, Vergil shook hands with Edward. Vergil’s palm was damp, nervous. “Be careful with the specimens,” he said. “Don’t ingest anything.”
Edward watched Vergil cross the parking lot and get into his Volvo. Then he turned slowly and went back to the Frankenstein Wing. He poured a cc of Vergil’s blood into an ampoule, and several cc’s of urine into another, inserting both into the hospital’s tissue, specimen and serum analyzer. He would have the results in the morning, available on his office VDT. The stool sample would require manual work, but that could wait; right now he felt like one of the undead. It was two o’clock.
He pulled out a cot, shut off the lights and lay down without undressing. He hated sleeping in the hospital. When Gail woke up in the morning, she would find a message on the answerphone—a message, but no explanation. He wondered what he would tell her.
“I’ll just say it was good ol’ Vergil,” he murmured.
CHAPTER TEN
Edward shaved with an old straight razor kept in his desk drawer for just such emergencies, examined himself in the mirror of the doctor’s dressing room and rubbed his cheek critically. He had used the straight razor regularly in his student years, an affectation; since then the occasions had been seldom and his face showed it: three nicks patched with tissue paper and styptic pencil. He glanced at his watch. The batteries were running low and the display was dim. He shook it angrily and the display became crystal-clear: 6:30 A.M. Gail would be up and about, preparing for school.
He slipped two quarters into the pay phone in the doctor’s lounge and fumbled with the pencils and pens in his coat pocket.
“Hello?”
“Gail, Edward I love you and I’m sorry.”
“A disembodied voice on the phone awaited me. It might have been my husband.” She had a fine phone voice, one he had always admired. He had first asked her out, sight unseen, after hearing her on a phone at the house of a mutual friend.
“Yes, well—”
“Also, Vergil Ulam called a few minutes ago. He sounded anxious. I haven’t talked to him in years.”
“Did you tell him—”
“You were still at the hospital. Of course. Your shift is at eight today?”
“Same as yesterday. Two hours with premeds in the lab and six on call.”
“Mrs. Burdett called, also. She swears little Tony or Antoinette is whistling. She can hear him/her.”
“And your diagnosis?” Edward asked, grinning.
“Gas.”
“High-pressure, I’d say,” Edward added.
“Steam, must be,” Gail said. They laughed and Edward felt the morning assume reality. Last night’s mist of fantasy lifted and he was on the phone with his wife, making jokes about musical fetuses. That was normal. That was living.
“I’m going to take you out tonight,” he said. “Another Heisenberg dinner.”
“What’s that?”
“Uncertainty,” Edward said crisply. “We know where we are going, but not what we are going to eat. Or vice versa.”
“Sounds wonderful. Which car?”
“The Quantum, of course.”
“Oh, Lord. We just had the speedometer fixed.”
“And the steering went out?”
“Shh! It’s still working. We’re cheating.”
“Are you mad at me?”
Gail hmphed. “Vergil better see you during office hours today. Why is he seeing you, anyway? Sex-change?” The thought made her giggle and start to cough. He could picture her turning the phone away and waving at the air as if to clear it. “’Scuse. Really, Edward. Why?”
“Confidential, my love. I’m not sure I know, anyway. Maybe later.”
“Got to go. Six?”
“Maybe five-thirty.”
“I’ll still be critiquing videos.”
“I’ll sweep you away.”
“Delicious Edward.”
He cupped the receiver and smooched indelicately before hanging up. Then, rubbing his cheek to ball up and remove the tissue paper, he walked to the elevator and rode up to the Frankenstein Wing.
The analyzer was still clinking merrily, running hundreds of samples bottle by bottle through the tests. Edward sat down to its terminal and called up Vergil’s results. Columns and numbers appeared on the screen. The suggested diagnosis was unusually vague. Anomalies appeared in highlighted red type.
24/c ser c/count 10,000 lymphoc./mm3
25/c ser c/count 14,500 lymphoc./mm3
26/d check re/count 15,000 lymphoc./mm3
DIAG (???) What are accompanying physical signs?
If the spleen and lymph nodes show enlargement, then:
ReDIAG: Patient (name? file? ) in late stages of severe infection.
Support: Histamine count, blood protein level (call), phagocyte count (call)
DIAG (???) (Blood sample inconclusive): if anemia, pain in joints, hemorrhage fever:,
ReDIAG: Incipient lymphocytic leukemia
Support: Not a good fit, no support but lymphocyte count.
Edward asked for a hard copy of the analysis and the printer quietly produced a tight-packed page of figures. He looked it over, frowning deeply, folded it and stuck it in his coat pocket. The urine test seemed normal enough; the blood was unlike any he had ever seen before. He didn’t need to test the stool to make up his mind on a course of action: put the man in the hospital, under observation. Edward dialed Vergil’s number on the phone in his office.
On the second ring, a noncommittal female voice answered, “Ulam’s house, Candice here.”
“Could I speak to Vergil, please?”
“Whom may I say is calling?” Her tone was almost comically formal.
“Edward. He knows me.”
“Of course. You’re the doctor. Fix him up. Fix up everybody.” A hand muffled the mouthpiece and she called out, somewhat raucously, “Vergil!”
Vergil answered with a breathless “Edward! What’s up?”
“Hello, Vergil. I have some results, not very conclusive. But I want to talk with you, here, in the hospital.”
“What do the results say?”
“That you are a very ill person.”
“Nonsense.”
“I’m just telling you what the machine says. High lymphocyte count—”
“Of course, that fits perfectly—”
“And a very weird variety of proteins and other debris floating around in your blood. Histamines. You look like a fellow dying of severe infection.”
There was silence on Vergil’s end, then, “I’m not dying.”
“I think you should come in, let others check you over. And who was that on the phone—Candice? She—”
“No. Edward, I went to you for help. Nobody else, you know how I feel about hospitals.”
Edward laughed grimly. “Vergil, I’m not competent to figure this out.”
“I told you what it was. Now you have to help me control it.�
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“That’s crazy, that’s bullshit, Vergil!” Edward damped his hand on his knee and pinched hard. “Sorry. I’m not taking this well. I hope you understand why.”
“I hope you understand how I’m feeling, right now. I’m sort of high, Edward. And more than a little afraid. And proud. Does that make sense?”
“Vergil, I—”
“Come to the apartment. Let’s talk and figure out what to do next.”
“I’m on duty, Vergil.”
“When can you come out?”
“I’m on for the next five days. This evening, maybe. After dinner.”
“Just you, nobody else,” Vergil said.
“Okay.” He took down directions. It would take him about seventy minutes to get to La Jolla; he told Vergil he would be there by nine.
Gail was home before Edward, who offered to fix a quickie dinner for them. “Rain check the night out?”
She took the news of his trip glumly and didn’t say much as she helped chop vegetables for a salad. “I’d like to have you look at some of the videos,” she said as they ate, giving him a sidewise glance. Her nursery class had been involved in video art projects for a week; she was proud of the results.
“Is there time?” he asked diplomatically. They had weathered some rocky times before getting married, almost splitting up. When new difficulties arose, they tended to be overly delicate now, tiptoeing around the main issues.
“Probably not,” Gail admitted. She stabbed at a piece of raw zucchini. “What’s wrong with Vergil this time?”
“This time?”
“Yeah. He’s done this before. When he was working for Westinghouse and he got into that copyright mess.”
“Freelancing for them.”
“Yeah. What can you do for him now?”
“I’m not even sure what the problem is,” Edward said, being more evasive than he wanted.
“Secret?”
“No. Maybe. But weird.”
“Is he ill?”
Edward cocked his head and lifted a hand: Who knows?
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“Not right now.” Edward’s smile, an attempt to placate, obviously only irritated her more. “He asked me not to.”