It’s a good thing no one ever saw the final step in the progression.
Once it was determined that JW cells already present could return an animal from death, John knew that he would need to test whether they would be effective if administered to a creature — a human — that was already dead. The problem was that legally, ethically, he could do nothing of the sort. The Buckley incident was a rare accident, but it had nearly cost him everything.
Joseph Buckley was a computer tech for the university. Three months ago, he’d had the unenviable task of babysitting the uninterruptible power supplies serving the computer room while University Engineering repaired the emergency power switch for that building. Despite massive battery backups, each server was connected to the emergency power circuits to ensure that no data could be lost due to power interruptions. During the switch repairs, Buckley had to make sure that the servers were running off of the batteries, or carefully shut them down with their data intact. The power surge was unintentional, but it caused one UPS to fail catastrophically. Fortunately for the computers in the room, the resultant arc found a closer path to ground; unfortunately for Buckley, his body completed that circuit.
John was enroute from the basement to his upstairs laboratory when the lights flickered and died. He heard the scream from the computer room and was the first to arrive at the scene. When he discovered that Buckley had no pulse, he realized he had to do something. While he could not administer ‘mouth-to-mouth’ resuscitation — after all, he had no ‘breath’ to share — he could at least provide heart compression until the paramedics arrived. After nearly an hour with no success, the paramedics declared Buckley dead and sent his body to the morgue. When Joe woke up screaming in a morgue drawer six hours later, all Hell figuratively and literally broke loose.
Without injection, without ingestion, and without any overt intent to use Buckley to test John’s theories, somehow the JW cells had been transferred. The Ethical, Legal and Scientific Investigation Board determined that the transfer had occurred during the prolonged skin-to-skin contact during the CPR attempt. John had opened Buckley’s shirt and placed his hands directly on his chest, providing a pathway for JW cells to migrate from Wissen to Buckley. Since that event, John had been in effective isolation and anyone in contact with him during that past months was subject to intense examination and distrust.
The video presentation was drawing to a close. On the computer screen, John’s recorded image was talking about the unique metabolic requirements of JW cells. A red light flashed 5 times in the studio, and the “live video” indicator was displayed on all video screens.
“That video was prepared over the previous three months. You can now see why I was unable to attend the meeting in person.” The audience members were visibly startled by the biological isolation suit, not to mention John’s gaunt and withered appearance compared to the recording they had just viewed.
Wissen coughed, and resumed in a hoarse voice. “We have since learned that JW cells infiltrate brain, nervous system and muscle within hours. However, they do not appear in endothelium or the lining of the gut for many months. Until the digestive system is reactivated, the subject is unable to process or absorb nutrients from food. JW cells have a very efficient metabolism, but eventually the need for nutrients causes them to break down the very cells they have reanimated.
“For those who are encouraged by these breakthroughs, I must caution you that they are short-lived. For the many who are outraged and offended at my very existence, I can likewise assure you that it will soon end.
“I caution you, though. I may have been first, but I suspect that I will be far from the last of my kind. Knowledge, once found, cannot be undiscovered.”
The video camera turned off, and the computer screen displayed a message that Professor Wissen would be unable to answer questions. Further inquiries should be directed to office of sponsored research at his university.
***
Laura Diaz had been sitting out of camera view. She quickly rose and came to Wissen’s side to move his wheelchair as soon as the video feed was turned off. “John. You’re weak. Please eat; we both know what you need.”
Wissen looked at his oldest, dearest, and possibly last remaining friend with sadness. “No Laura. There are some things that even a renegade scientist can’t do, zombie or not.”
“Yes, you can John. This is a medical center. There are ways. It does not have to be like this. It’s the one thing we learned from Buckley.”
“Oh, yes. That will go over well. The Vegan Revolution won’t even let the native Scots eat haggis. No, I’ve had my chance. I can’t do this anymore.” He refused to look at the tears in Diaz’ eyes, but he took her hand and she said nothing.
The JW cells found in Buckley were much more developed than the unpurified cells which had originally accidently infected Wissen. Buckley woke up in six hours compared to John’s seventy-two. Joe’s second life lasted just two months to John’s twenty-eight.
Of course Buckley started having food cravings only 4 weeks after his reanimation. The scientists would never know just how long he might have existed if he’d had continued access to food.
I’ll be damned if I let that happen to me. Buckley had been literally dismembered by an angry mob after he’d been discovered bent over the bloody body, eating the heart of his latest victim. Then again, I’m probably damned anyway. After all, I’ve lived more than two years in Purgatory, if not outright Hell.
“Laura, promise me that you’ll figure it out. Either figure it out, or destroy the JW cell line once and for all.”
“Yes, John, I promise.”
“Good. I would really rather not be remembered for unleashing zombies on the world.”
Laura looked shocked. “Surely you don’t think…”
Wissen sighed, and it sounded like a death rattle. “I do, Laura. ‘Not with a bang,’ nor a whimper, but a starving bloody madness. I just hope we’re not too late.”
***
But they were.
Afterword
Neural Alchemist is the result of several challenges imposed upon me by friends who are SF authors and readers. Frankly, the effort started with the joke “Professor Posthumous,” based upon professors of my acquaintance who keep working in their chosen fields until forced to stop… but never by choice. Soon after, the first challenge was imposed by a group of fledgling writers of which I was a part. We were instructed to write an opening scene using ‘show, don’t tell.’ The image of Wissen outwaiting the office clock was the result, along with the Dean’s meeting and the inclusion of my private joke.
The second challenge was of writing outside of my comfort zone. As a scientist, if I follow the instruction to “write what you know,” then obviously, I would write ‘exploration’ stories about scientists, in labs, or in academic settings. I once told a very good friend (who writes SF, fantasy, space opera, mystery and historical fiction) that I did not feel I could write in a fantasy setting. She replied “when asked to write outside your comfort zone, do not say ‘No,’ say ‘How many words, and when is it due?’“ She then challenged me to write a three fantasy short stories: one each about a zombie, a werewolf, and a vampire.
The third challenge was from the writing group: Take the opening scene, follow my friend’s advice, and finish this unusual scientific fantasy. I confess that I could not quite leave out the research scientist, but I will justify the finished product by observing that the line between science and fantasy is getting ever more blurred with recent advances in stem cells, gene editing, quantum physics and virtual reality.
The setting of this story is very real. The offices, labs, classrooms and auditoriums are all modeled after places I have worked or visited. The tissue engineering and stem cell research group is in the building next door to my own. Not that it’s my field, mind you, but I have worked with researchers on testing stem cell transformation into precursors of the neurons — brain cells — that are the subject of my own research.
I have taught nerve cell physiology to their students, and in fact, one of their professors was a classmate of mine in graduate school way too many years ago. On that note, I have not transplanted any of my colleagues into the story. The fictional characters and names are… mostly… made up. One of my close friends is included with his permission, and some readers may recognize the inside joke among some authors of ‘killing Joe Buckley.’
Do I necessarily think that stem cells would result in a zombie plague? Not really, stem cells require very careful growth conditions; notably, they require specific trophic factors to transform them into the various specialized cells comprising the human body. The concept of stem cells taking over the oxygen and energy transport function by diffusion without blood circulation is clearly a McGuffin or gimmick requiring the ‘willing suspension of disbelief.’ Even if stem cells could utilize the scaffolding and chemical residue of a cadaver to grow, differentiate and repopulate the body, too many specific connections and functions would be lost. In the brain, our memory, skills and personality are a product of the synapses and connections between neurons. As we grow and learn, we change those connections in order to store new information. These connections are fragile, however, and even the process of remembering can produce subtle changes in the stored pattern. Unfortunately, the neural connections are among the first to be lost in death or serious head injury. The likelihood of restoring them via stem cell regrowth is very low, but may perhaps be responsible for a scientific version of the ‘brainless zombie’ of movie and TV cliché.
Finally, I have attempted to capture the cycle of life-to-death and recycle it from reanimation-to-decay because my own research in tissue physiology suggests that no ‘cell culture’ version of reanimation would last forever. Even if stem cells completely replaced the deceased cells of a cadaver, once they run out of cells to replace, they run out of raw materials and nutrients for sustenance. Only an additional, easily metabolized source of nutrients would stave off eventual decay. Again, the fiction cliché of the peculiar dietary needs of zombies actually makes a little more sense from this scientific standpoint. A reanimated corpse would not have a functioning digestive system and liver; thus, liver and brains, with their complex proteins, sugars and lipids, would be the perfect nutrient, requiring less metabolic processing than muscle or vegetable matter.
This is a fun exercise, and if a few readers go out and learn a bit more about stem cells and neural function, my task has been accomplished. I firmly believe that good ‘hard SF’ is a means of scientific outreach that is largely overlooked as we scientists seek to educate and inspire our successors. I am grateful to have had the chance to contribute.
© The Author 2017
Michael Brotherton (ed.)Science Fiction by ScientistsScience and Fiction10.1007/978-3-319-41102-6_6
Hidden Variables
Jed Brody1
(1)Atlanta, USA
Anything worth saying, is worth saying again. So here goes.
I found the hidden variables, the ones that Einstein always insisted on. It turns out they were under my couch all along, covered with dust and the black and brown hairs of a small yappy dog that died three years ago.
I haven’t told anyone about the hidden variables yet. Nothing’s really changed for me or for anyone else. I rise at dawn and swim in the ocean, I go to campus to teach my class for an hour, and then, through the magic of tenure, I depart immediately and hike in the forested hills. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, I attend karate classes followed by advanced sparring with the other black belts.
I want my twin sister Chloe to be the first to know about the hidden variables. She was the first and only person I ever told about my mystery poems. I was only six when I began finding the poems under rocks, folded in the pages of books, and sometimes even in my pockets. I didn’t know this was unusual; I thought this happened to everyone. Like the time I went to my friend Ali’s five-year-old birthday party and her mom wasn’t there, and I said, “She must be at the observatory or at yoga.” Because, obviously, those are the only possible reasons for a mom not to be at home.
It was Chloe, who was also only six, who had the insight that mystery poems were not common occurrences, and I should keep them hidden or claim authorship. It’s cute to have an imaginary friend who leaves you poems, but not when some of the poems are dark and apocalyptic. If such poems are found around you, it’s better to say you wrote them on a whim, as an adventure, out of curiosity, just an exploration; than to say they were left for you by some kind of unidentified invisible paranormal entities.
And, of course, the most obvious explanation is that I do write the mystery poems but suffer selective amnesia about it. The main reason I don’t like this theory is that if my subconscious mind is writing poems, I wish it would do a better job. They’re really not that good.
Chloe and I speculated long and hard about where the mystery poems were coming from. Was she writing them but denying it? Did I write them in the future and travel back in time to deliver them to my younger self? Were they written by a secret (and totally creepy and inappropriate) admirer? Ultimately, we had to give up and accept that the mystery poems were just an unsolvable riddle.
Chloe is coming over today to celebrate our 33rd birthday. She hasn’t visited for almost 15 months. She’s been traveling through Asia on a quest for transcendental experiences. I yearn to see her again, but I’m also apprehensive. It’s the apprehension that precedes looking in the mirror. You never really know what you’re going to see, and you’re not sure if you’re going to like it.
I lift a small teapot from the two-tiered, glass display-table where I keep all of Chloe’s pottery. The teapot has always been my favorite piece, painted with psychedelic teal and pink swirls. I’m not sure what kind of tea it was meant for, but I prefer Earl Grey. I set the clay teapot on the coffee table and start water boiling in a mundane teapot on the stove.
I return to the display table and examine the teacups. None of them match, so I pick a tall, blue, ridged cup, and a squat green cup on which lambs are painted. When I lift the lamb cup, I discover a small piece of folded paper underneath. A mystery poem! I consider waiting for Chloe before reading it, but then I quickly unfold the paper.The sky’s the blue of Krishna’s breast
The sun devours mass, a billion of me per second
Once I heard of a black hole that devours thoughts
Oh wind-flung plank, oh grazing bee, into that tempest lead me
I smooth out the paper and place it in my folder of mystery poems. I set the folder on the coffee table, next to the teacups and teapot. I open the folder again and look at the one item that’s not a poem, but is the greatest mystery of all: the six-month ultrasound image, where Chloe appears for the first time. In all the earlier ultrasounds, I was alone in the womb.
I hear the mundane teapot whistle just as Chloe rings the doorbell. She always shows up at the right moment, when everything’s ready. No reason to sit through the primeval chaos of the first two trimesters if you don’t have to. I turn off the stove and then open the door.
Chloe’s black hair is shorter than ever, but her smile is more radiant, to an almost unimaginable degree, and her muscles are even more defined. I squeeze her in my arms and marvel at the resting power in her shoulders and back.
We pull apart and smile. “Happy birthday!” we shout in unison. Then we giggle like when we were eight.
“Come on in!” I say. “You look great!”
“You too,” she says, flopping onto the couch. “Tenure’s doing you good.”
“The most ironic thing about tenure,” I say, pouring boiling water into the clay teapot, “is that students are giving me much higher course evaluations, now that it doesn’t even matter. I think, when I was under the stress of working toward tenure, I passed the stress onto my students. I like to say that I was stress-passing on them. To remind myself not to do that, I put a No Stresspassing sign up in my office.”
“No Stresspassing. Very nice,” C
hloe says with a grin. “I wish my pottery professor had observed that rule. We could tell when he was fighting with his wife because he’d hurl students’ pots against the wall. He said he wasn’t there to kiss our boo-boos and pretend that we had talent. He was there to be a merciless destroyer of the untalented, the unoriginal, the uninspiring and uninspired. He made students cry.”
“He didn’t smash any of your work, I’m sure,” I say, sprinkling loose tea leaves into the steaming water.
“Actually, he smashed some of my best pieces,” Chloe says, shrugging and briefly rubbing the mole above the left corner of her mouth. I catch myself starting to rub the mole above my mouth, on the right. “But whether I sell them, give them as gifts, or have them destroyed by an emotionally disturbed mentor, I don’t get to keep them.”
“Have you been doing any pottery lately?” I ask, settling into my easy chair.
“Not lately. It’s hard to make a living off it, and if you’re not making a living off it, it’s an expensive habit. And I have too many expensive habits as it is,” she grins.
“Such as scouring the world’s largest continent for the secrets of spiritual ecstasy, unwavering bliss, and other altered states?”
“I was thinking of organic almond butter,” she laughs. “Have you seen what the drought has done to the prices? But yes, I have sought after wise old men. Wise old women, too. They’re wiser but harder to find.”
“Have you learned anything?” I ask, pulling my feet onto my chair and adjusting my pink socks.
“Yes,” she says, smiling, but leaning forward earnestly. “First, there’s no one true path. Second, for me at least, spiritual knowledge is worse than useless. Knowledge without practical techniques is itself a technique, for frustration and depression. I took Buddhist philosophy in college. On the first day of the semester, the professor talked about how her students were transformed by the class. Runners ran faster, fencers fenced better, watermelon-seed spitters spat watermelon seeds farther. So I expected to get better at everything. Everything!
Science Fiction by Scientists: An Anthology of Short Stories (Science and Fiction) Page 10