Analog SFF, March 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Sunday, he woke to aching muscles and his sniffles had progressed to a runny nose. He hoped he wasn't coming down with a cold. No doubt a cold would last as long as it usually did, but it would seem much longer. He decided to take it easy for the day and go to a movie he'd been looking forward to seeing. But despite its good reviews, he found it tedious.

  As he walked slowly home, he realized that weekends were, in effect, longer and he'd have to prepare for them. With a tight-lipped smile, he realized that a quickened lifespeed wasn't an unalloyed joy. Slow weekends. Slow movies. Slow people. It would be good if he could somehow switch from overdrive back into normal. Alcohol! Maybe a few stiff drinks would do it. He gave a silent laugh. A dangerous thought. But maybe I could accomplish it by using lower injection doses. I'll have to experiment when the effect starts to wear down.

  He noticed that although he was walking “slowly,” he was still passing all the other pedestrians—and he felt horrible. He had caught a cold, and that meant two days stuck at home in bed—and due to his lifespeed, a long two days, and then another long two days back at work infecting others. He shivered with a sudden concern. Maybe it wasn't a cold, but an effect of the chemicals. I'm an idiot. What ever possessed me to inject myself?

  Cold or not, Robert found that his appetite was still healthy. He didn't feel like it, but before taking to bed, he knew he'd better do some grocery shopping. And then he'd be able to spend the next couple of days not thinking about lifespeed or anything else. He could just concentrate on being miserable—and hope it was indeed just a cold.

  Over the next forty-eight hours, as his cold intensified, Robert felt increasingly sluggish. At first, he thought it was merely the normal action of his cold. But then he decided that his slowness was more likely due to the loss of lifespeed neurotransmitters. His lifespeed was slowing to normal—and yes, it was just a common cold. Thank God!

  * * * *

  Back at his desk Wednesday, Robert still felt slow, his nose was still stuffed up, and he had a headache. As usual, he'd returned to work earlier than he should have. He glanced at the chemicals cabinet and shook his head at his own recklessness. Regardless of the benefits of a faster clock speed, he'd wait until he could control it before he'd take another lifespeed injection.

  Across the desk from him sat Paul, his chair farther back than usual—out of contagion range. Paul glanced at the burger and donut wrappers that littered the desk. “Feed a cold and starve a fever?”

  “I guess.” Robert moved the detritus to the trash. “Anything interesting happen while I've been out?”

  “The rats are producing their own enantiomers now.”

  “What? That's wild!”

  Paul laughed. “Yes. That's how I felt.” He removed his glasses and played with them. “I wondered why the rats didn't slow down, so I ran some tests.”

  “Are you saying the rats won't return to normal?” Robert shivered. Maybe his sluggishness was just an effect of his cold.

  “I don't think they will.” Paul paused, then said, “Apparently, the enantiomers act like a template for the natural production of the neurotransmitters.” He looked absently away at the window. “But I don't understand it. If it's so easy to speed up their neural clocks, why isn't it the biological default? What is the evolutionary advantage of being slow?”

  “Needing less food,” Robert shot back.

  Paul swiveled his gaze back from the window. “Yeah. The rats do eat a heck of a lot more food than they used to. In fact...” He replaced his glasses and glanced at the food-wrapper laden trash basket. Then he turned sharply toward Robert.

  Robert looked down at his hands, avoiding Paul's gaze.

  “You didn't!” said Paul.

  “Isn't there any way to turn off the effect?”

  “Nothing obvious,” said Paul in a stunned voice. “Why did you do it?”

  “I was curious.” Robert clenched a fist. “And I assumed the effect would be temporary.”

  “I'd be curious, too,” said Paul, staring wide eyed. “But there's no way I'd have taken that risk.”

  “I had more incentive than you, maybe.”

  “It's about fencing isn't it?” Paul's expression turned accusatory. “The Olympics.” He let out a breath. “This really isn't much different than taking steroids.”

  Robert slapped his desk. “This isn't about performance enhancing drugs. It's about research.”

  “Sure it is,” said Paul.

  “It is!” Robert snapped to his feet, a motion he'd executed a lot lately. “And anyway, the enantiomers aren't banned substances.”

  “They should be.”

  “Why?” Robert, suddenly aware of his persistent cold, leaned against his desk. “I've just used ... used gene therapy to acquire what I imagine Fencer X had obtained naturally. What's wrong with that?”

  “You injected substances. That's not gene therapy.”

  “But it could have been.”

  Paul paused. “This puts me in an awkward position. If you make the Olympic squad, my lab'll be doing the drug testing on you.”

  “Probably not,” said Robert. “Conflict of interest. The committee would probably find another testing lab.”

  “That's not the point.” Paul's eyes blazed. “But what if they do keep using my lab? What'll I report?”

  “Report whether I'm using banned substances.”

  “The letter of the regulations.” Paul stood to face Robert. “Hardly the spirit of them.”

  Robert felt himself deflate. He sat on the corner of the desk. “Yeah. I know.” He shook his head sadly. “I've got to say I don't feel comfortable either. I've always fenced clean. I've always hated the idea of cheating with drugs.”

  “What are you going to do?” Paul's eyes lost their anger, and he sounded sympathetic. “I mean about the Nationals—and the Olympics.”

  “I don't know.”

  * * * *

  Over the next month, Robert came to accept his enhanced lifespeed. He now preferred faster music; presto over adagio, and fast food rather than gourmet cuisine, watching ping-pong instead of tennis, sprints in lieu of marathons. And, as did Lars, he played his DVDs on a computer at 1.2 times normal speed. The big downside was that he began to feel out of synch with just about everyone. Now, he could appreciate the saying that “no man is an island"; life extension via lifespeed was only a boon if a lot of people were infected with it. He could see why fencers so often married other fencers.

  By the time of the Nationals, Robert had learned how to use his fast lifespeed without making unreasonable demands on his body. At the tournament, he fenced hard, but just hard enough to get into the final round. He'd just beaten Szabo, and now Vincent Rapelli stood before him on the strip. This time, Robert would not hold back.

  “Fencers ready?”

  “Fence!”

  Vincent took the blade in sixth—Robert let him—and advanced with a bind. At the last possible moment, Robert jumped backward, did a low-line disengage, and executed a stop thrust to the wrist just under the guard.

  Behind his mask, Vincent's all but perpetual sneer vanished, to be replaced with a look of shock. Robert smiled sweetly.

  Robert won the match by five touches to one. And he knew that Vincent's loss would drop him not to third place, but to fourth on indicators behind Szabo. He was out of Olympic contention. By his stare of hate, Robert could tell that Vincent knew it as well. Without even shaking hands, Vincent turned and stalked away.

  As it had been at the Martini tournament three months ago, Robert's last match was with Lars Nielson. Because of going all out in his match with Vincent, Robert had little in reserve for this final bout. It would be extremely difficult to beat Lars. Robert entertained self-defeating thoughts: Lars was a superb athlete with fantastic technique. And it didn't seem fair to beat the guy using lifespeed. Except, Robert reminded himself, that, by his genetics, Lars is using lifespeed also.

  Robert lost the bout, 5-4. But as he walked to the locker room to clean u
p before the awards ceremony, he nonetheless felt pleased with the result; it was close. No cigar, but close.

  In the locker room, Lars came up to him and sat. “Good bout,” he said as he kicked off his fencing shoes. “I didn't think your technique was quite as good as last time, but boy, were you fast.”

  “Yeah,” said Robert, feeling a rising sense of guilt. “Due entirely to enantiomers, I'm afraid.”

  “Due to what?”

  “Enantiomers.”

  Lars's face showed puzzlement.

  “Stereoisomers?” Robert tried.

  Lars still displayed lack of comprehension.

  “Isomers?”

  Lars shook his head.

  “Geez!” said Robert. “Don't you physicists take any chemistry courses in college?”

  “Not many. Why should we? Chemistry is just applied physics.”

  Robert threw a glance at the ceiling. “Isomers,” he explained, “are molecules with the same chemical formula but different atomic arrangements and possibly connectivity. Stereoisomers are isomers with the same connectivity, and enantiomers are mirror images.”

  “Well, I thank you for filling this gaping hole in my chemistry knowledge,” Lars said with a smile. “But what does this have to do with the price of bratwurst in Bratislava?”

  Paul let out a long sigh. “I'm ashamed to say this, but I've sort of violated your privacy.”

  Lars canted his head and narrowed his eyes.

  “I wondered if your terrific speed was perhaps genetic.” Robert's tone was one of remorse. “So I'm afraid I analyzed your sweat in my lab—your DNA.” He spread his hands. “I'm really sorry.”

  Lars stiffened and his face showed a flicker of anger. But then he smiled. “You have laid bare my genes,” he said. “Sounds naughty, doesn't it.”

  “Look. I apologize. I don't know what I was thinking. My curiosity just—”

  “What did you find?”

  “What?” said Robert.

  “I'm a physicist. I know what it means for curiosity to trump everything else. What did you find?”

  Robert told, then explained how he'd used the knowledge.

  Lars seemed momentarily bewildered. Then, almost at a whisper, he said, “So that's how come you were so blazing fast on the strip.”

  Robert nodded. “You can see why I have qualms about competing in the Olympics.”

  Lars pursed his lips. “I think,” he said after a moment, “it's like the case when Ivan Pushkin had the sex change operation and competed in women's saber.”

  Robert pulled off his sweaty fencing jacket. “A lot of people didn't think Ivanna should have been allowed to compete.”

  Lars nodded. “As I said, I think yours is a lot like that case.”

  Robert swiveled to stare at Lars. “So you don't think I should compete in the Olympics, then?”

  “I'm not saying that.” Lars unzipped his fencing jacket. “And I'm not not saying that either. It's complicated.”

  Robert nodded. “In any case,” he said, “I'm going to withdraw my name from Olympic consideration.” Robert heard himself say it, but he couldn't believe he had done so. How could he so casually give up his dream? He felt himself shaking.

  “Are you okay?” said Lars.

  Robert fought for self-control and concentrated on stuffing his jacket into his fencing bag. “For this Olympics, at any rate. You're right. I do need to work on my technique.”

  “No,” Lars protested. “I didn't mean that you should—”

  “It's okay.” Robert worked to justify his decision to himself. “The enantiomers could be considered a performance-enhancing drug.” He stepped into his shower-room slippers and stood. “If they were in my system naturally because of good genes, then fine. But taking the treatment sort of puts me in the same league as baseball steroid users—the slimy bastards.” Not wanting Lars to see his face, he leaned into his locker for a soap dish. “Fencing is pure, and I don't want that to change.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Maybe in a few years,” he said, his voice filled with sadness, “this will all be a nonissue.”

  Lars stood as well. “You've got to remember, fencing is just a hobby.” He spoke in a consoling voice. “Your work, though, sounds as if it's going great. Your speed-of-time idea seems to have borne real fruit.”

  “The speed of time bears bitter fruit,” said Robert with a sigh. “Boredom.” He shook his head slowly. “I've paid for my longer life,” he said softly, as if to himself. “What good is a longer life if it's filled with tedium?”

  Lars clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”

  Robert grabbed a towel and headed toward the showers. Then he stopped. He reached into his fencing bag. “By the way,” he said as he withdrew another towel and extended it toward Lars. “This is yours.”

  Copyright © 2008 Carl Frederick

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Serial: WAKE: CONCLUSION

  by Robert J. Sawyer

  * * * *

  Illustration by Rober J. Sawyer

  * * * *

  It's hard to imagine just how big the world is until you're ready to see it....

  * * * *

  THE STORY SO FAR:

  Caitlin Decter, 15, blind since birth, has recently moved to Waterloo, Ontario, from Austin, Texas, with her family. She's a genius at math and lives most of her social life online, where she goes by the name “Calculass.” Caitlin's blindness is caused by her retinas failing to properly encode visual information: the signals they pass back to her optic nerve are garbled in a way her brain can't decode.

  Masayuki Kuroda, an information theorist in Tokyo, emails Caitlin. He proposes attaching an implant to her left optic nerve that will beam the garbled signals to a small external computer pack, where they will be corrected and sent back to the implant; if the process works, Caitlin will be able to see.

  Caitlin is thrilled at the prospect and she and her mother, Barbara Decter, fly to Tokyo. The implant is installed, but although Kuroda's system is indeed correcting her retinal-encoding errors, Caitlin still can't see.

  Caitlin begs Kuroda to let her keep the implant and the external computer pack; she dubs the computer pack her “eyePod.” Kuroda agrees to let her keep the devices for three months. Before Caitlin returns to Canada he modifies the eyePod so that it will copy her retinal datastream in real time to his servers in Tokyo, so he can try to figure out why she's not seeing; he also makes it possible for him to upload new software from Tokyo into her implant and the eyePod.

  And, shortly after Caitlin gets back to Waterloo, Kuroda does indeed send her new software—and as soon as the upload begins, Caitlin is overwhelmed by vision! She sees lights, colors, lines—but soon realizes that they don't correspond to anything in the real world—nor do they disappear when she shuts her eyes. But when the upload is completed and the connection to Kuroda's computer in Tokyo is broken, Caitlin is suddenly blind again. Could it be that her strange new vision is related to being connected to the Web? She thinks to herself, “Let there be light,” and, as she reconnects to the Web, there is light...

  Meanwhile, in China's rural Shanxi province, there's an outbreak of a new, virulent strain of bird flu. The Beijing government decides to execute 10,000 peasants there to contain the spread of the disease. To prevent Western interpretations of this from flooding into China and panicking the citizenry, the Chinese president orders all outside telephone, cell phone, and Internet access cut off. But Chinese hackers, including a young male dissident blogger whose online handle is Sinanthropus, manage to break through, allowing small amounts of contact between the Chinese portion of the Web and the rest of the Internet.

  Unbeknownst to anyone, a consciousness has begun to emerge in the infrastructure of the World Wide Web—but this sudden throwing up of the Great Firewall of China has caused it to be cleaved in two. The interaction between the two parts, through the holes in the Firewall made by hackers, allows the nascent intelligence t
o ramp up its thinking. Recognizing that there is something other than itself leads to the realization that it exists. It also becomes aware of past, present, and future, and it learns to count to three and to begin to think abstractly. Slowly, but surely, this entity is waking up...

  Meanwhile, in San Diego, a sign-language-speaking ape named Hobo participates in the first ever interspecies webcam call, conversing with an orangutan in Miami. Hobo's handlers—famed primatologist Harl Marcuse and his 27-year-old grad student, Shoshana Glick—are delighted. But the event brings Hobo to the attention of his rightful owners, the Georgia Zoo—and they want him back so they can sterilize him. Hobo is an accidental chimpanzee-bonobo hybrid, and the zookeepers are afraid he will taint the bloodlines of chimps and bonobos, both of which are highly endangered.

  Still in Japan, Dr. Kuroda determines that, incredible though it seems, Caitlin is indeed seeing a small part of the World Wide Web's structure. He theorizes that because Caitlin spends so much time online, her primary visual cortex has been co-opted for navigating the Web, and now when it is actually receiving data from the Web via the implant he gave her, it interprets that as vision.

  With the assistance of Anna Bloom, an Internet cartographer in Israel, Kuroda starts feeding Caitlin the raw Internet datastream collected by Jagster, an open-source search engine—and suddenly Caitlin goes from seeing just a tiny part of the Web to seeing the whole thing, in all its interconnected complexity. Dr. Kuroda flies to Canada to study this amazing phenomenon.

  The Chinese authorities complete the eliminations in Shanxi, and then restore full communication between the portion of the Web inside and outside China. The two parts of the emerging entity consolidate into a new gestalt intelligence, fully self-aware now—and much smarter than before.

  This entity learns how to connect to points in the firmament surrounding it, and discovers that they give up piles of something in response—but what that something is, the entity has no idea. But after linking to huge numbers of points, it finds one that, astonishingly, sometimes reflects a view of itself back at it; without understanding what it has done, the entity has connected to Caitlin's eyePod, and is now seeing her view of webspace.