Analog Science Fiction and Fact - 2014-07

by Penny Publications

  "Who manufactured it? What's the model number?"

  Mayer finished with his shoes and stood. The doctor was tall but Mayer was even taller.

  "Not important. Is it working?"

  Hershfield started to continue, saw the expression on Mayer's face, and turned back to the display.

  "It seems to be doing all right," he said, grudgingly. "No leakers and the false lumen is collapsing around the stent."

  "Good."

  "But, Mayer, look at this other artery. Look here and here and here. This aneurysm might be fixed but the others are still there. You gained some time but that's all you did. We need to talk," Hershfield said. He looked up at Mayer, his expression twisted back into friendly concern. His voice went softer, less confrontational. "You need to make arrangements. More than that, you need to tell us who to talk to when... it happens."

  Mayer studied the display. DeAnne was the stent expert but Mayer knew enough to understand the doctor's concerns.

  He leaned over and peered closely at the display. De-Anne's stent was prominent, sharp and clear. He frowned and tilted his head to the side. The other aneurysms were there but they looked... wrong. Aneurysms were usually irregular shapes, stretched and bulging, but these were surrounded in a fuzzy aura, the edges blurred. He tilted his head the other way, leaned closer. Some of the aneurysm diameters even looked smaller than before, as if they were shrinking back to normal.

  He shook his head and stood straight. Probably cholesterol clogging up the arteries. Great. More trouble. He turned back to Hershfield. He touched his life necklace.

  "Every instruction is on here," Mayer said. "My lawyer has the rest and he's my medical executor. Doc, I appreciate everything, but I'm not sorry I did it. My headaches are gone. At least for a little while. It was worth it."

  Hershfield studied Mayer, then nodded.

  "You need your prescriptions refilled?"

  "No, I'm fine."

  "Four months, then. Judy will make the appointment. See her on your way out..."

  String finished with the last aneurysm, in the last lobe, in the brain, cleaned out all the dead areas, repaired and grew the improved cells and downloaded the last of DeAnne's memories and status into the new cells.

  His job was over. One if-then executable remained. After he finished, his instructions were very clear. He was to verify status, cease controlling the new brain lobes, and wait.

  He did not expect any of this to work. Nothing had happened when he downloaded DeAnne's memories into each of the new brain cells. All the new lobes exactly duplicated his records of her last few seconds but it did not seem to make any difference. The cells in the individual lobes sparked to each other, but it was random, charge and discharge, nothing that even resembled an active human consciousness. The pattern in each individual lobe was as inert and useless as a random collection of his own data statements.

  But orders were orders. His code was extremely explicit. She was properly down-loaded and in place now. His last job was to make sure the cells fired in exactly the same order as the last few seconds of DeAnne's life.

  He connected the quiet DeAnne lobes together and, with a sense of satisfaction, extended one last micro-thread out to a single new, modified, brain cell.

  He triggered the charge that turned on all the lobes at the same time and settled back to watch.

  There was no transition, no gentle phasing in. One instant there was nothing, the next she woke in the middle of bursting pain, tearing and blinding, as her aneurysm dissected.

  She knew, somehow, it was a memory. But that did not matter. She could not think through the pain.

  She felt herself collapse and fall to the floor. She heard the medics crash through her door, felt the twisting pain of the electric shock of the defibrillator as it shocked her heart, heard String shouting in the background. She felt the crushing impact of the tech's strong hands as he pounded CPR on her chest.

  Then she was gone.

  Seconds stretched by. The pattern repeated.

  One instant there was nothing, the next she woke in the middle of bursting pain, tearing and blinding, as her aneurysm dissected.

  But this time her fingers did not clutch for her life necklace.

  Instead, they touched the top of a wood-grained desk...

  Mayer felt tremendously dizzy and the room seemed to flicker, his eyes unable to keep any kind of focus. He felt his heart pounding, suddenly racing. He slid off the chair in his office, down to his knees on the carpet, then toppled forward. He caught himself at the last moment on his hands and held himself off the floor on his hands and knees, his head hung down. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths.

  He concentrated on breathing. The dizziness and vertigo peaked and then passed. He waited a few more seconds then leaned back and sat on the floor. His heart and breathing slowed and returned to normal. He touched his neck and took his pulse.

  He carefully stood and climbed back into his chair.

  He looked at his office. Everything seemed exactly the same. He checked his display and his numbers. The market was down and four of his long positions had just closed out and lost him money. A single short position had gone the other way. Overall he was down a few hundred.

  "If I'm dead, then the afterlife is a pain in the ass," he muttered to himself and to the display.

  He glanced around the room again and reached for his phone. He should call Hershfield, get another exam.

  For what? he thought to himself. He touched his life necklace and moved his hand away from his phone.

  "What is, is," he muttered to himself. He looked back at the display and the market. He brought up his financial model, matched it to the market. The numbers said it was time to do another trade.

  He went back to making money. Absently, he stroked the top of his old wooden desk.

  DeAnne died a dozen times, but each time there was more interference, more sensory input from the body, more uncertainty to deal with. She felt the desk, heard her heart beating strongly, smelled aftershave.

  The new lobes built by String began to relax, the patterns different from the last few seconds of DeAnne's life.

  "Mom?"

  "Baby?"

  "What do I do next, Mom?" String asked.

  "Where am I, baby?"

  String hesitated.

  "That's a hard question to answer, Mom," String said slowly. "It all started when you died..."

  "... so the question really is, who are you, not where are you." String finished and waited.

  DeAnne thought for a moment. She needed more information.

  "How far have you spread?"

  "All through the brain and the nervous system," String replied cheerfully.

  "Is Mayer asleep?"

  "Yes."

  "Keep him asleep. But wake me up," DeAnne ordered. "All the senses. I've got to know what's going on."

  "Done."

  DeAnne opened her eyes.

  Her lids were heavy but she forced them open. She rolled her eyes, glanced to the right and the left, up and down, without moving her head. Moonlight filtered through the half open window shades.

  "Let there be light," she whispered.

  The first thing she noticed was that everything was clear, in perfect focus. She remembered her old glasses, thick and smudged, her eyes too far gone for contacts. She had always wanted to get eye surgery, like Mayer, but she was never as brave as he was.

  This was, she had to admit, one hell of a lot better.

  She sat up and turned on his bedside lamp.

  She focused her attention on his hand. The fingers were longer, stronger, than in her old body, with small tufts of fine hair on the back of his hands. She clenched his hands into fists, then stretched them out. The skin was smooth and light brown and clear.

  "Son of a bitch," she said. Her voice came out low and gravelly. She studied his hand again, slightly moved his arms and shoulders.

  "I'm a man."

  She turned her arm, to bring up
the inside of his forearm. A medical tattoo, small and discreet numbers, ran along her wrist. She looked over at the table, saw her life necklace. She smiled with admiration.

  "Son of a bitch, Mayer. You pulled it off."

  String finished his overall survey of Mayer's connective tissue, nervous system, organs and body fluids and prepared his report. He included a detailed analysis, down to the genetic level.

  "It's ready," he told DeAnne.

  She concentrated for a moment and closed Mayer's eyes. String's information was suddenly there, as a comfortable memory. She remembered for a moment, then sat up straight.

  "You're sure this is right?"

  "Yes."

  "We're dying again?"

  "This body is dying," String corrected. "His genetics are terrible. He's breaking down at the chromosomal level. I can barely keep up with repairs in the brain. But he's also ripping apart in the heart, the lungs, all the major organs. I can't repair things fast enough."

  "And so, he dies," DeAnne finished. "And when he dies, so do we."

  "That's what my if-then tells me," String agreed cheerfully. "Best estimate is we have about a year."

  DeAnne felt trapped. She didn't have the headaches any more, her appetite was back, and her thoughts seemed faster, more clear, than ever. She realized she had problems she wanted to solve, places she wanted to go, bucket lists full of things she wanted to do.

  I'm too young to die.

  "Not acceptable," DeAnne declared. "Find another solution."

  "Can't do it," String came back promptly. "I don't have any if-then for another solution."

  In other words, it's my problem.

  That night, for some reason, Mayer felt like he needed a drink. But only the best. He bought himself a bottle of thirty-five-year-old Scotch and a deep-dish pizza.

  DeAnne woke with a huge hangover and the taste of extra cheese in her mouth. And an idea.

  "String!"

  "You should not drink so much. Or eat that much pizza," String said reprovingly. "It's bad for your cholesterol."

  "I have a question."

  "I'm occupied right now. I'm working on your last instruction, figuring out a way to talk with Mayer."

  "Put that on hold. This is more important."

  "Very well," String said, his voice an exercise in patience. "What now?"

  "We're going to approach this a little differently," DeAnne said. "What did you do to fit me into this brain?"

  "I built brain cells."

  "You built new brain cells," DeAnne corrected. "You built new and improved brain cells."

  "Yes."

  "So, we're not going to repair this body, String. It's shot, and we're not even going to try. Instead, we're going to build Mayer a new body. With new and improved and fixed cells. We're going to fix him from the inside out...."

  Six months later, Mayer noticed his hair.

  It was long and shaggy, a mixed-up tangle of gray hair tied back in a ponytail. And his sideburns were even worse. It was time to get a cut. He made a call and got a time for that afternoon.

  Melody had been his regular stylist for the last ten years. She was in her late twenties. Over the years they had chatted over the snip-snip of Mayer's hair, relaxed in the same ritual, a comfort to each other during sessions. She had sympathized with Mayer about the funerals. He listened to her talk about the ex-husband with the temper and the quick fists and the big plans that never quite worked out.

  Every session began the same, with a shampoo. It was one of Mayer's secret pleasures, to lean back with his neck supported on the edge of the sink and to let Melody wet and soap his hair and massage his scalp.

  What he did not see was the expression on her face. Mayer was one of her best clients. He always tipped well and he never complained about the cut.

  But this time something was... different about his hair. She untied the ponytail, spread out his hair and let her fingers slide through it slowly. She knew he had been sick and she expected thin strands barely attached to parchment skin. Instead the hair seemed stronger and thicker, the scalp strong and vigorous.

  Melody finished and wrapped Mayer's hair in a towel. He stood and moved over to her work chair. She slipped the apron over him and tied it at the back of his neck.

  "The usual?"

  "Not this time," Mayer said. He surprised himself. He realized he wanted something different. He felt better, hell, he felt younger, with the new stent and the headaches gone. He looked in the mirror, at the gray ponytail, and saw a young man with an old man haircut. To hell with that.

  "Make this one above the collar. Trim the sideburns even with the bottom of my ears. Standard businessman's cut. Let's get rid of that damned ponytail."

  "Not a problem." Melody tilted the chair back, just a little, and straightened Mayer's hair with a comb. She picked up her scissors and began to trim.

  The difference struck again.

  She realized his hair was darker, thicker, down at the roots. She also realized there was new hair growing where it had receded before. This was going to be a challenge.

  "You using dye, Mayer? One of those hair-growing medicines? You must have a new girlfriend," she chatted. Somehow, the words came out flat. She realized she did not like the idea of Mayer with a new girlfriend.

  Mayer was startled. He opened and rubbed his fingers across a clip of hair that had fallen into his palm. Gray, gray, gray. The usual. But then, brown. And another and another. All brown. For some reason this pleased him more than anything. He settled back in his chair.

  "No dye, no drugs," he said. He closed his eyes. "Nothing at all. I figure I am what I am."

  "Well, then, you must just be a lucky man," she said briskly. "Maybe you have a guardian angel."

  Mayer realized he liked the sound of her voice. She finished and he stood and followed her to the front of the shop. He paid but he did not want to leave. He glanced up at the clock, then back at Melody.

  "Would you like to go to dinner?" he blurted.

  Melody was startled. Dinner with a customer? With Mayer?

  Why not?

  "Give me an hour. I know a place just around the corner."

  DeAnne watched through Mayer's eyes. She smiled.

  "String!"

  "Yes?"

  "Work change."

  "Again?"

  DeAnne ignored his complaints.

  "I think we have a new area we might need to concentrate on..."

  * * *

  Vooorh

  Paula S. Jordan | 13032 words

  What was that smell?

  Jason sniffed, turning slowly on the dim path. A stink like week-old bait tainted the night air. Fish? On his mountain? Then it was gone on a puff of wind. A cold wind too, for October, and an old man's aching bones.

  Somewhere ahead Shep broke into another peal of the barking that had drawn him from his bed and part way up the mountain. Urgent barking, pitched high to carry, thin with distance.

  "I smell it too, boy," he muttered under his breath. "And I hear you. I'm on my way."

  He climbed, a frown tight between his brows. Fish smell or no, four days ago there'd have been no question what the problem was: one more forest critter slashed by the big cat he'd figured had wandered onto his Carolina mountain. Couldn't be much else, he'd thought. Not on his farm, remote as it was.

  But now he knew what was causing the injuries and it was no kind of cat.

  He knew who'd brought it, too. He and Sara had seen them: two creatures different in every cell from anything he knew.

  He paused, eyes fixed on the stars, then snugged the knitted cap down over his ears and went on uphill, wondering about that smell. And missing Sara.

  Soon the slim moon, just bright enough to show him the path's roughest spots, lit the dog's faint shape a good way ahead. He whistled as he climbed nearer, fogging the air with his breath. But the old border collie stayed where he was till Jason reached for his collar. Then he put out his head for a scratch and Jason obliged.
/>   "You miss Sara too, don't you boy," he said. "But she'll be back. You'll see."

  He got a finger on the collar this time, but Shep bolted up-slope, toward the ruined cabin at the edge of the high woods. Jason stared after him, tugging his coat tighter, wondering if he should have brought a gun.

  He went on, though, he and the dog, working their way up through denser forest, the underbrush crowding nearer the path as they climbed. He considered, and left the flashlight in his pocket. Best save his night vision for whatever might be out there in the dark, farther than the beam could reach.

  At the cabin Shep paused, waiting, and Jason stopped beside him. It was there, deep in the trees beyond the overgrown garden, that he and Sara had first seen the strangers.

  "Aliens," she'd called them, from those other stars.

  Jason felt easy with most any kind of creature. But these? He scratched at the graying stubble on his jaw. These were thinking creatures, from off the Earth. Was he equal to dealing with them? He'd thought so, that first meeting. Decent, they'd seemed. Not human, but people all the same. Still he'd wondered, were others of their kind as good as these?

  And the very next day...

  He rubbed his eyes and looked the other way, down the hill toward home. That second day he and Sara had followed the aliens' trail clear up the mountain, just to see what they could learn. Sara's friend Connie had waited here at the old cabin, with a cell phone to call for help if they failed to return.

  But when they returned it was Connie who was gone.

  She had managed to leave a voicemail, saying a new species of alien was taking her, creatures covered in shells like crabs. The ones he and Sara had met were trying to help her.

  Jason felt better, remembering that. Maybe, whatever the aliens wanted here, they could work it out peaceably. Like decent people. Maybe it wasn't foolish to hope.

  But a big thing like this, did he even know what to hope for?

  Shep was scratching at his boots by now, urging him to move on. He gave the dog a pat or two, looking out at the stars, and the answer just slid into his head. A simple hope, if you didn't worry about how to get it done. Just the rock bottom wish: to go on living the way they were.