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

by L. L. Fine

"Rather than shoot with a pistol, we'll do so with a cannon," Lia described the move with dry humor. "Cannon in a flock of pigeons. Well, well. Let's run this computer."

  They didn't need to wait more than five hours to see a red line on the screen. "Immunological respiratory failure," she interpreted the data. And back to work. It took a very long time to achieve a more satisfactory result.

  *

  "Good. But I’m not doing a simulation this time," he surprised her.

  "What?"

  She pursued him into his room, tube in hand. He entered – and she, of course, had to stay outside. There was no space in the room for two people.

  "I have no time for experimentation. I'm going to New York next week. Come with me."

  *

  And she came.

  Not without doubts. Not without considerations. Not without falling into despair again and again, and not without canceling one ticket only to book it again two hours later.

  Zomy did not bother to talk to her about it. For him, she thought, it was obvious she would leave everything and go to New York. It angered her. I’m actually doing him a favor! She did not owe him anything. On the contrary, he would owe her his life.

  Hopefully, at least.

  And how dare he? How dare he ask her that, then ignore her! Treat her as if she were, as if, well, obvious.

  But finally she came.

  Maybe something inside her would not let her abandon Zomy in his time of need. Maybe it was something that her scientist’s mind would not let her miss - so fascinating an experiment, so fateful. And maybe that something was the female psyche which knew that Zomy treated her so, not out of arrogance or disregard, but out of fear.

  Fear of disappointment.

  So she came, finally. Took an urgent vacation on the grounds of wanting to see the family (which was true, in part). Did everything regardless of him, studiously ignored his presence, as if a brick wall separated them. He on his flight, she on hers.

  And she came.

  And now she cursed the moment when she’d agreed to go with him, take a vacation, meet in New York, rent a hotel room, connect to the monitor. Inject the virus.

  Peck, Fitz. Peck Fitz.

  And he began to flutter.

  She ran to him, quickly preparing a small syringe, sticking it in the hand muscle. Then, having no other choice, she tried to restrain his twitching hands, and after a few seconds just climbed on the bed and lay down covering him with her body, trying to mitigate the epileptic movements. She tried to think what medication to use against them.

  And she couldn't find one. Her stock was so limited.

  Saliva began to erupt from his mouth, and his eyes rolled back… long sequence of coughs… getting worse, getting weaker, more shaking of his body.

  Lia began to cry, as she struggled to keep him on the bed.

  Deep in the lungs of Zomy, she knew, every moment, millions of small hemorrhages were being created, at the same time as the planted virus penetrated into millions of lung cells, splitting the nuclei of the cells, and make them only God-knows-what.

  She, herself, could only guess. Would viruses really only replace a small section of DNA in another section, almost exactly the same, and then stop working? Or, maybe they wouldn’t act according to her plan? And maybe now that they were free of the syringe’s boundaries, they were replicating over and over and over, rippling along the branches of the Tree of Knowledge, erasing all traces of leaves and of its original fruits, twisting him out of action?

  The tics passed, and Lia fell heavily over the bed.

  Zomy was still breathing. Very weak, very shallow, with only slight expansion of the thorax, accompanied by the sounds of bubbling and a trickle of blood from his nose and mouth.

  She felt a sense of relief. Finally there was a problem she could handle, something which she could really help. In cold, mechanical movements, she put an airway tube in him, allowing free air passage and connected him to a compact respirator. This caused a dramatic change. Breathing became more regular and deep, precise to the beat machine. The change, of course, said nothing about what was going on inside. The destruction continued there, no doubt. And Zomy's life hung in the balance.

  The question, in fact, was arithmetic. If the bubbles in Zomy's lungs could still absorb oxygen and transfer it into the bloodstream, Zomy would live. Apparently. If not, if the damage to the cells would be irreversible, or if too many cells ceased to function at once, simultaneously, Zomy would choke to death.

  It was an equation. Simple, finite, respirator or ventilator.

  The pulse accelerated to nearly 190.

  And again she began to think of a cure, a modest mix she made herself, to inject in case - but then, with a sigh of despair, she gave up the effort. Zomy's fate was far beyond her. It was not she who would decide whether he would live or die. She didn't have the power.

  And she leaned forward and kissed his sweating forehead, and moved away from the bed.

  The sounds of the monitor dimmed behind her. Became irrelevant. With an effort she cut herself off from what was happening in the room - the sounds, the sights - and watched from the window.

  There was nothing she could do for him now, she knew.

  What's the time? she thought suddenly.

  Far beyond the escape window Zomy gave her, a few hours ago, far beyond it now. And now she had no excuse. Whether she would or would not leave the room, when it came to Zomy, she would not slip.

  Outside the sun began to bleed for the sunset, and a group of boys took advantage of the last rays of light for a neighborhood basketball game. Flocks of birds suddenly rose up over the top of a tree, and Lia wondered what scared them so much.

  Behind her, Zomy dived deep into himself.

  *

  (3 days ago)

  As always, Rabbi Eligad’s eyes expressed not the slightest surprise.

  He listened carefully to Zomy’s plans, his legs in full lotus position, hands relaxed at his sides. His radiated peace was not disturbed even for a moment, in complete contrast to the storm that occurred in front of him. Zomy moved in, out, heated, moving from side to side, explaining, sometimes quietly, sometimes on the verge of shouting, what happened, what he did and what he planned.

  "... And that's it. I'll do it when we get there," he finished, and stole a glance at the rabbi. He was sitting still, in a lotus position, in calm white clothes, his eyes softly watching Zomy.

  "Why?" he asked, in the same soft tone.

  Zomy shrugged and answered, as usual with the rabbi, very frankly.

  "Because I want to live."

  "But you've been alive."

  "I want to live more."

  "What if I told you there is no problem. You will live."

  Zomy looked at him in frustration. How would he live longer, but then…

  In fact, he thought about it again, actually.

  'You will live.' It was so fitting for Rabbi Eligad to say such words, so quietly, with so much certainty, as if there was nothing in the world that could appeal to that statement. As if there was no cancer.

  And why he did not think of this before? Suddenly it was clear - and had always been, in fact - that Rabbi Eligad could do things. Many things. Of course, to help him overcome the disease. He had seen it happen many times before. But…

  "You couldn't help my father."

  Nothing stirred Rabbi Eligad’s face, but his eyes that earlier had expressed listening and participation, were now filled only with love, as if his whole body hugged all of Zomy's soul.

  "Your father," he said slowly, softly accented, "did his job faithfully and conscientiously. Only after he finished his lifeline was he allowed to join his fathers."

  "Sorry!?"

  Zomy never talked about his father with Rabbi Eligad. He never even hinted, and the rabbi did nothing to raise the issue. And it was strange, he thought for a second, considering the long years he lived there, considering the thousands of conversations conducted on any subject. Almost.


  "Your father had a cure. He used it regularly, and it left him alive as long as he wanted. He had a purpose, he had a mission and he stuck to it, despite the suffering he had to go through. When he fulfilled his destiny, he had no reason to continue to suffer here. Then he went, and went gladly. "

  Zomy was left standing open-mouthed for several minutes. A wave of memories flooded him, emotions from which he’d been free for many years. He remembered again those dark days of his childhood, hours spent with his father, at -

  "What was his medicine?"

  Rabbi Eligad looked at him with a steady eye, letting Zomy get to the insights alone, without fear of the truth. As he always did with him.

  "What," Zomy said finally, "is my medicine?"

  "You made it yourself, I think."

  "But still I did not take it."

  "And if I tell you not to take it, will you listen to me?"

  Zomy did not answer.

  "And again I ask, why."

  It’s very annoying to talk to someone who already knows the answers to your questions. And the purpose of the questions is to get you to see into the heart of hearts, to yourself. See yourself naked, with weaknesses, with all the ugliness, the inner truth. Annoying. But Zomy learned it long ago transcended his own annoyance.

  "Because, I want to make decisions for myself," he said at last from his inner truth.

  "What?"

  "My life. My death. I want to be responsible for that. It will be mine. Thanks to me. Because of me. Not you. With all due respect, I want it to be for me."

  "And you're willing to pay the price?"

  "Behold the fire and the wood: but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?”

  Rabbi Eligad's eyes sparkled with pride.

  *

  (15 years before.)

  Conscription center Tel Hashomer was, as usual in those days, very crowded. Hundreds of youths, if not more, filled it to the brim, filled it with plenty of earrings, belly shirts, torn pants, spiked hair and acne. Loud voices were heard from all sides, childish laughter, shouts of friends, and less friendly calls, military jargon.

  "Yalla! Come here!"

  "Tell me, where do we deliver the urine ..."

  "Look, look at those babes ..."

  "Come on, come on, it's your turn for the medic!"

  "Not coming here again, not comi..."

  "They are training paratroopers in …"

  "Say, Air Force is…"

  And in the midst stood one group, cohesive, dressed in black. They stood there, like a herd of bison surrounded by wolves, in the corner. They didn't use the chairs that were next to them. Alert, attentive, close to each other.

  The other boys tried to ignore them, although some threw different looks at them, ranging from cold contempt to hot hatred.

  "You come to be released?" taunted one of them, tall, with glasses and short hair.

  He received no reply. Their rabbis warned them to never respond, to say nothing. Don't throw salt on the nonreligious wounds, they told them at home. They are mere kidnapped babies, jealous fire burning in their hearts. Do not mock them, don't spark fights. Go, fill your forms, always stay together, and get out of there by afternoon prayers.

  Still, boys will be boys. And snide looks, as well as arrogance, were sent from the religious side of this invisible boundary.

  "Go over there, kid. There's the queue for goof-offs," Zomy heard the words from behind him a split second before he felt hands on his back, pushing him forward with force.

  He stumbled, tripped, lost his balance and fell forward on his chest and face. Blood flooded his mouth, dripping from a cut lip.

  A chorus of laughter behind him. The orthodox bloc acknowledged his plight with a little crowded, bow-headed defensive movement. Some of the faces wanted to get out of the circle, to help him. No one did.

  Zomy stood up, quite shocked. He ran the back of his hand across his face, and was surprised to see the blood. It didn't hurt much, but he did not understand where the pusher was. He looked all round, but did not see anyone who looked like he’d pushed him.

  "I did not come to get released," he said, trying to control the anger. "I came to do my duty."

  "Wait," said one of the boys, with a surprised face. "You came to enlist?"

  Zomy looked at him, and suddenly he knew. It was the boy who pushed him. He recognized the voice. For a moment he wanted to react violently, but this moment passed quickly. Instead, he decided to be practical.

  "Yes, that's what I said. Do you know where the…"

  "There, there," the boy pointed to the other side of the room. "But you'll have to wait, there’s a long line."

  Zomy cleaned the dust from his black clothes, brushed his hat and started for the right queue without looking back.

  "Surely they’ll throw him out because of his medical profile," chuckled someone behind him.

  And the black herd, more surprised than anyone, became even more tight.

  *

  Four hours later Einat, a military medic, raised a blonde eyebrow. She was already a sergeant, soon to be released, and she thought she had seen everything in the conscription center, but this she hadn't seen.

  She was looking over her notes.

  "To tell the truth, I don’t know what to do with you. The Haredi Nahal can accommodate you, but ..."

  "I know computers," he said shyly.

  "You have an education?"

  "Not officially. But I know computers."

  She smiled. "Well, a little doesn’t mean anything. I think you’d be better for the General Corps, but are you sure don’t want to be released? It’d be a little hard in the army. I'm serious."

  And she really was serious. There was something in that skinny kid that touched her deeply. Touched her maternal nature which had not yet sprouted or taken root. She honestly wanted to do well for him. Wanted to embrace him. To pick him up, give him a home.

  She could not know this, but years later, that's exactly how a certain, green-eyed doctor would feel for him. It would be what would save his life.

  "I know computers," he repeated stubbornly as Rabbi Eligad had taught him. "And I'm willing to take tests to prove it."

  "Listen…honey, I understand you might have seen a computer before, but this is a subject quite new to the army. People who are into computers are really experts on the subject. Obviously you are not. "

  "But I'm willing to take tests!" He was almost in despair.

  She looked at him, seeing the verge of despair. What do you do with such a strange kid?

  "You know what? Wait a minute."

  *

  Einat did not really know why she did it.

  Perhaps, because that little guy really touched her heart. Maybe because she was tired of him, and she could not see a quick way to get rid of him. Maybe because she wanted to show him that he had nothing to offer in computers really. Maybe to show him that he was making a big mistake not getting released. It might also be related to a certain reservist from Tadiran, who’d come in to sort out the computer ordering system that wouldn’t work this month, but who made sure to visit her office every two hours. He had blue eyes... nice.

  Maybe it was because she felt that maybe, just maybe, there was something in the words of that little conscript. And he needed to be tested.

  And perhaps for another reason. She did not know exactly why. But she made a little effort, of the type that can sometimes determine destinies. Change the world.

  "See, that’s Yoav. He works at Tadiran, and he’s here to sort out our computer problem," she said.

  "Yoav, this guy here says he knows something about computers. Can you check out what he knows?"

  Yoav smiled to himself. Here was the opportunity he’d been looking for. Too bad it came just before discharge. Whatever, it would be nice to show off to Einat a little. He still had a weekend in the center.

  "Sure. What d’you know about assembly programming?"

  *

  After half an h
our of lively conversation, Yoav went out of the room, puzzled but still smiling. Zomy was left behind, his throat dry and his heart beating fast and Einat, her two bright eyebrows erect, quickly scribbled data on a page. Finally she looked at Zomy.

  "Ever heard of a unit 8200?"

  *

  (Seven years after the event in the conscription center)

  The journey through the streets of Bnei Brak was short, but busy. Every block had a meaning for him, each small hill, each section of the street. Memories of a peeling balcony suite, an engraved heart. A study hall, a soup kitchen. A clinic.

  Zomy chose not to drive this time, even though he knew the streets better than any taxi driver. This time he chose to observe. Think. The slow progress made every house, one after another, bring a familiar face to visit his head. Broken illusions spun in his eyeballs.

  This was the first time since the first anniversary he had dared to appear at his father's memorial service. The first year he had felt strong enough, shaped enough, to deal with old walls, with brothers, with the rest of the family. With his mother.

  Years had passed, but Bnei Brak had been left behind. Nothing had changed there, he felt. Nothing. No peeling plaster repairs. Sidewalk pits were still there. Only street names had changed slightly. Not replaced, only varied. Street this and that became three different streets, without any apparent reason.

  He thought of those years during which he surely missed memorial after memorial. At first, his family accepted hollow excuses. Over time, this stopped. He stopped going, stopped making excuses, no longer living there. Did not want news from home. Did not want to speak about him, either.

  Dim memory, that’s all that was left. A closed wound.

  "This is the address?" asked the taxi driver.

  "Yes," he lied, and paid his way. In fact, he still had more than ten minutes’ walk to his parents’ place, but he welcomed the fresh air. It was a lovely August night.

  *

  (A decade before the Bnei Brak trip.)