by L. L. Fine
She held them back from him.
"I went through them more than once. Did the run a few times."
"The results surprised you? What, then?" His tone suggested that they would not be a surprise to him.
"Bothered me, rather."
"Sexually harassed?"
"It's ... let's go somewhere else, okay?"
They went.
Zomy let Lia lead him through the long corridors, away from the bowels of the building, to the main elevator. This elevator had no conventional buttons, only a keyhole in a steel door. Three key turns, and the door opened. They went up several floors up to the second elevator that also needed a key. The third elevator, outermost, was the conventional kind without a key. But it was occupied by a big confident guy with a full vest and a loaded gun.
Grinding, clicking. And then up, up, under the gaze of strict security cameras, to the heat of the summer, embracing young, green lawns.
They didn't leave the Institute. Lia felt too exhausted to begin to explain such an exit to their commanders, and Zomy did not hurry her. Life in there was quite closed, and under constant surveillance - despite the extensive security vetting done during recruitment, and then regularly every year. Many prohibitions were in place in that world, but on the grass outside the Institute they were allowed to sit down. And so they did.
"You already know the answer, right?" she said, twisting a blade of grass.
"I guessed at it."
"Otherwise you wouldn’t let me run your father. You already knew what the answer would be."
"You know ..." he began, his eyes looking away to the horizon. "It wasn’t my idea to preserve his hair. It was my rabbi's command. He told me to cut off some of his hair, what little was left to him. Then he put it in this pendant, and closed it around my neck. Weird."
A minute’s silence passed between them. Lia finally felt the need to break the silence.
"I didn't know you had a rabbi.”
"I had. Once."
"And now?"
"Forget it."
"Are you religious?"
Zomy did not answer her. She let another minute pass, and then another. And more. The test results were within Zomy’s reach - but he made no attempt to take them. Its engines straining in the distance, a fighter plane took off making low but intrusive noise.
"Your father ran eighteen times," she said finally.
"Oh. Interesting."
"That's one more than you, Zomy."
"Apparently."
The plane passed, leaving silence studded with birdsong. Zomy adjusted his oxygen valve slightly. He had more than thirty minutes in the tank, he noticed. Well, there was still time.
"What’s your explanation for this?"
Zomy looked at her, as if for the first time. She was the doctor, a geneticist. Why did she turn to him for an explanation? His eyes begged for an answer, but did not find it in hers.
"Zomy?"
*
Stopwatch: It occurred to me, and don’t ask why or how, that things are connected.
Looking for a challenge: What things?
Stopwatch: Mechanisms of death.
Looking for a challenge: There’s more than one?
Stopwatch: I don't know. But we found one that determines the personal time of each and every one of us. And I think we've found another one now.
Looking for a challenge: Explain, explain!
Stopwatch: Well, trilobites. That's the explanation.
Stopwatch: At some point they lost their death mechanism, and multiplied and multiplied infinitely.
Stopwatch: And then, boom! No more trilobites…
Stopwatch: A mechanism for the whole race to die was activated.
Looking for a challenge: What, all of them suddenly died?
Stopwatch: No.
Stopwatch: I think they all suddenly stopped reproducing.
Stopwatch: It probably wasn’t sudden, maybe over a few tens or hundreds of years.
Stopwatch: But in terms of evolution it was sudden. A split second.
Looking for a challenge: And ... how did this happen?
Stopwatch: Again, this is my hypothesis, to apply the word correctly.
Stopwatch: It’s suddenly like science fiction and I’ve no proof that you will get a serious academic reception for your book.
Stopwatch: The Film Academy may like it.
Stopwatch: But I have the feeling that we have that same internal clock.
Stopwatch: Pacemaker mutations…changes.
Looking for a challenge: What changes?
Looking for a challenge: What are you talking about?
Stopwatch: You know the those watches that don’t need a battery?
Stopwatch: Kinetic.
Looking for a challenge: I bought this one for my wedding. A Swatch, kinetic. Without numbers.
Stopwatch: Oh, it's the net metal one?
Looking for a challenge: Yes, you see the mechanism?
Stopwatch: It's beautiful, I like it. Great taste!
Looking for a challenge: Thanks.
Stopwatch: So these watches are driven by movement. Every movement of the hand winds them.
Looking for a challenge: Yes.
Stopwatch: It’s as if they’re on borrowed time, constantly cheating their end.
Looking for a challenge: ?
Stopwatch: As long as you move the watch is alive. When you stop moving it, it’ll stop working eventually. And every time you move it you postpone its death a little.
Looking for a challenge: Clocks reverse-calculate their own end?
Stopwatch: What?
Looking for a challenge: Shlomo Artzi, doesn't matter!
Stopwatch: I didn’t understand…
Looking for a challenge: Let it go! Just a line from a poem of his.
Stopwatch: He sings about watches?
Looking for a challenge: No, cats! Forget it!
Stopwatch: What cat?
Looking for a challenge: LEAVE IT.
Stopwatch: Ok, ok.
Stopwatch: In short, that's how our DNA is built. As long as it evolves and achieves significant changes in evolution, it holds off its own end.
Stopwatch: So if there are no changes, the stopwatch starts ticking.
Looking for a challenge: And trilobites, you say, stopped?
Stopwatch: I think so. If animals have no need to change because they control the environment, there will be no major changes to the DNA.
Looking for a challenge: I don’t like your point.
Stopwatch: Me neither, so what? The DNA gets tired, bored with itself…
Stopwatch: There must be development! If not, then death…
Stopwatch: For humans there are no changes in the genome for generations.
Stopwatch: So we don’t like it, but there’s another issue.
Looking for a challenge: So move it!
Stopwatch: Since we stopped being changed by our environment and we took control of the environment, there haven't been too many mutations.
Stopwatch: When it's cold we don’t grow fur, we kill sheep.
Stopwatch: If we get sick, we don’t develop pandemic natural immunity, but antibiotics.
Stopwatch: Medicine kills any changes in the genome, because it kills all the genetic factors that forced us to change.
Looking for a challenge: OK, I got it.
Stopwatch: Agriculture.
Stopwatch: Technology.
Stopwatch: Meanwhile the clock is ticking.
Stopwatch: Eighteen generations since my dad.
Stopwatch: Seventeen generations from me.
Stopwatch: Sixteen generations from my children…
Stopwatch: If there are any.
Looking for a challenge: How long is seventeen generations?
Stopwatch: It’s considered each generation is roughly 25 years.
Stopwatch: So 400 years, say.
Looking for a challenge: It's quite a long time.
Stopwatch: It’s just an
evolutionary second.
Stopwatch: It’s too late to develop mutations.
Stopwatch: Don’t even try. Who would give up the medicine, the technology?
Stopwatch: It'll never happen.
Stopwatch: Ever.
Sometime in July 2001
All at once ... all the red lights came on.
Alarm.
The modem lines near Zomy’s terminal were attacked by hysterical flashing. All the lights flashed out of sequence, evidence of something seriously not right. At that moment two phones began to ring out a warning, and one pager began to vibrate.
A delay of two seconds then the speaker system, flooding the air around his head, started making noise.
Zomy froze for a beat.
The alarm did not reach him at first. He was thinking about something entirely different, deep in his heart, a complex calculation going on in his head. He was deep in the Enchanted Garden, the spider trying to control the army, an interesting event that he had not come across before.
Another beat.
The alarm kicked in ... but too slowly. Almost ten seconds since the first alarm, and only then did he begin to wake up, begin to be aware of what was happening.
Even then, a few seconds passed before his adrenal gland realized something was going on. Something that was not supposed to happen here. Something that he did not believe would ever happen here. Not for him. Not here.
And by the next pulse of the alarm he woke up.
His pupils widened.
Both hands, until now slowly stroking the keyboard, began to tiptoe a crazy dance. Eyes opening wide and quickly, he saw data that caused his breathing to stop for a moment. No, it just could not be!
His reaction speed doubled. His fingers moved too fast for the eye to follow, tapping forcefully on the keys, like a loud humming.
More data streamed to the screen, absorbed by his eyes, decoded and swept out again in vital seconds. New windows began to appear on the screen, orders were given, fiery words were keyed in, and questions like "Are you sure you want to do this?" received a positive response.
There was only one way to deal with the attack.
Shut down. Turn off the system!
And fast.
His reaction speed increased even more. Close procedure. Closed. "Yes, I'm sure." Closed. Closed. "Yes, I'm sure." Closed. Turn. Stop activity. Lock all movement. Closed.
Finally, after the last stroke, he leaned back, his heart pounding like a madman.
A long breath. Frantic. Relax. Relax.
His pulse began to return to normal, breath rising and falling more slowly. You can relax. Everything is fine. The attack was halted. Here, you can see…
And his heart rate jumped again.
Unbelievable - but the data leak continued. Something, someone, was pulling information directly from the vault - the central computer of the Institute - and Zomy’s lockdown instructions did not stop it.
On the contrary.
The alarm, he knew, would be activated by even a light information leak, even just the tiniest trickle, and this happened regularly, apparently. It was a sensitive alarm - but not too sensitive. It was designed to alert to hacking - just in case of minor information theft.
But now the pace changed.
And precisely when all the internet connections were supposed to be closed, when the outside world was meant to be completely sealed off, the data stream accelerated dramatically. The dribble became a tremendous stream. A flood.
Zomy watched in amazement as the information was sucked out of its safe. As the system streamed trillions of gigabytes - going, going, copied out through the broken bridges (really?) and locked gates (maybe not?), to a location unknown.
It bordered on the impossible.
On the spur of the moment, Zomy jumped up from his chair and broke quickly from the room. He ran down the hall, all excited, and only after a few steps he remembered he had left his oxygen bottle behind.
But that did not stop him. On the contrary, Zomy increased his speed, telling himself that anaerobic capacity – the kind that would let him work his muscles in the first half-minute - does not require any lung function.
Still, he reached the elevator panting heavily.
Key.
Turn.
A sweaty press of a button.
Breathing - a second, a third. Something in his lungs began to creak. Slight burning began to form in his chest. Suffocation.
He forced himself to breathe deeply, as much as possible, frustrated that even his deepest respiration gave no sweet sense of fresh air. On the contrary - it was the last struggle of a drowning man, without a drop of oxygen.
Black spots began to dance before his eyes.
His legs wanted to give out.
Stop. The door opened. Right or left?
He chose the right direction and began to try to run. The black dots increased, occupied more and more parts of his line of vision. Somewhere behind him, someone called his name. He did not bother to turn around.
Another few stumbling steps, and he saw the door before him. Then paused, looking right and left. Yes! There it was, right where he was last working. Red and transparent, solid and reliable.
Punch. A hit.
The crunching sound drew more than one person from his room. More voices were calling his name, but he could not hear them. A tool that he wanted… he could ... but in front of him was another door. And nine keys.
What was the secret code?
He dragged it from his mind, somehow, leaning heavily on the wall. Eight presses, hash mark… but a red light disobediently flashed in front of him.
Missed something out. Enter the code again.
That took another five seconds. Five more seconds lacking of oxygen, fainting imminent. His lungs were screaming, clamoring, demanding oxygen. And immediately.
Eight clicks, this time more carefully. Pounding. And…
Green light. The door swung open, and Zomy fell into the cooled room. Somehow, the almost frozen air slightly softened the roaring fire in his lungs, alleviating the pressure. But it was an illusion. The computer room was filled with oxygen.
He looked around almost not seeing it. His hand tightened around the smooth wooden handle, so heavy. And suddenly he was not sure he could even lift the weight.
But he had to try. Must.
His legs collapsed and he fell to the floor, injuring his nose and hand. Stayed down, no matter… the floor was just fine, if he could only keep going...
Behind him came another voice. Dim, distant, not belonging. An irrelevant firestorm strangled him, his blood baking hot, his hand burning, a thick bundle of cables, he could make them out only with difficulty, somewhere at the end of the tunnel that was once his vision.
Crawl. More. Now for it.
Swing it.
(What if you get electrocuted? What if …)
He brushed aside the thought, and struck.
The axe in his hand, which he had taken from the fire cabinet, sliced through the main power cable, disconnecting the datasafe, physically, from the outside world.
The world went dark.
*
And here I'm going to take the big risk, perhaps for the first time in this book. The risk that someone will make connections and begin to understand that what I write here is true, not fantasy.
That something did happen, sometime in the summer of 2001. A computer event that not many remember, but maybe someone does, and now he’s raising an eyebrow and asking himself if it really can be. And no, I'm not saying I will risk more and say what software it was, and how long the blackout was. But it did. For a short period of time, and raised quite a few questions and doubts because it was the basis of a very popular free service, and suddenly it stopped.
And Customer Services did not respond. And nothing worked. And so it was for quite a while, as mentioned above. Until suddenly it came back.
And there was, of course, an explanation for this one.
0
7/24/01 Email
I got a virus.
Not health virus, not something from the laboratory. I’m talking about a computer virus, that I can't believe I got. That we got, all the Institute. We had a system penetration, a batshit-crazy penetration, and we got it without Vaseline. I got it - I, of all people. I built a system that was impenetrable – but it wasn’t.
I was fucked in the ass! In the ass!
And they mocked me, and humiliated me. You have no idea how I felt, how I was boiling. Even now it’s hard to make you see I’m still fuming. Cold fury! I’ve only killed twice in my life, and when I did, when I dished it out, people suffered greatly. People died. And I'm not kidding.
And I’m so vengeful. You have no idea, Lir, how vindictive I am. And how I can strike back. I can go days without sleep and not feel tired. This virus defiled the whole system. Do you know, Lir, they’d followed us for a long time. A virus, did I tell you? It reminds me of a fungus that spreads on the skin and penetrates inside.
So we got a deluxe fungus. The best of the best. From Satan's dirty feet. And it merged into the system, spun its web in all the files, in the operating system, the personal computers, all the bots. An incredible pollution. It took me a while to recognize the extent, more time writing software pesticides, and start cleaning up the mess. We physically exchanged almost all our computers, everything else we could, and burned them. Would you believe it?
We simply burned and crunched them. The infection was so bad, even a system format didn’t help. So we decided not to take the risk. Like the plague, we burned and crunched. There was a budget for it, thank God.
After that we had to rebuild all the bots, and replace the whole system, in short- a nightmare. And all that time I’ve worked on it because I’ve had to but I’ve been gnawing my nails, my heart red from the desire to avenge, my ass clenching and burning. The high-ups, they just sit there and do nothing. I tell you, Lir, I'm going to find the bastard who did it, and rip off his skin. Literally. I'm going to find him, and burn his system. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. He’ll regret the day he was born.
You'll see, Lir. The person responsible for it will die in agony, after I chop all his systems. I swear. Or my name is not my name.