Saturday/1st: Completed brain map of subject rat. Little beast got away before I could resecure him. Leaving his cage open in hopes he'll come home; must have him back to study the composition of his brain post-procedure. If the peanut butter crackers fail, I'll get a live trap.
Sunday/2nd: Completed analysis of brain scan. Gorgeous! Could not imagine a more perfect rendition. Neural stimulator responds to input beautifully. Must be honest: I haven't time to waste. In lieu of rat, why not move on to subject number two? I've been waiting for this for months. Intend to start with the temporal lobe. Program ready. Can hardly keep my hands still. I wish Eleanor were here to share this with me.
Wednesday/5th: Brain bump on Monday threw me off schedule. What happened—did I trip over that stupid rat, trying to catch him? No matter. First scan looks very encouraging. Running full diagnostic to verify integrity of setup. If everything checks out, will proceed with scan number two.
Thursday/6th: System checks out. Proceeding with second scan: forty-minute duration, starting 2 A.M.
And that was all. Sometime between the scan's end and the start of business Friday morning, Vince had suffered another concussion. Was the rat to blame after all? Wouldn't that be ironic, to have the most significant recent breakthrough in science impeded by a cantankerous test subject?
Letting his speculations go, Vince pulled up the three scan entries. They did look beautiful. And he'd already verified the integrity of the first two scans earlier, or he wouldn't have proceeded with the new scan on Thursday.
Still, prudence dictated that he check the setup for flaws. If there was a short in the system—something shocking him, perhaps, or... Vince couldn't imagine what it might be. For that very reason, a full diagnostic was imperative.
He left the system running it and took himself home. He was sweating profusely, and not just from the warmth of the room. His few hours of moving about had so exhausted him that he could barely drive. Trembling from actual weakness, he fell into bed and entered a long, heavy sleep.
He woke with a savage headache. It took him longer than usual to get going in the morning—lots more tea taken on the back deck, before he felt ready to drive into the lab. It worried him, coming in during the day. Usually the place was deserted on weekends, but occasionally Lauren or one of the research students would come in to continue one of their longer procedures. He almost sneaked up the hall—he was a little too unsteady to do it properly—and peeked through the iron mesh window that was set into the outer lab door. No one.
Five minutes later he was back in his secret lab, viewing the results of the diagnostic. The system was working perfectly. The flutter in his stomach that Vince had been attributing to nausea he now attributed to nerves. For he was going to do a third scan; he'd known it ever since he saw the beauty of those first two scans. His brain was being mapped to machine, bit by bit. Unfortunately, his organic brain was being destroyed at the same rate. It would take a while for the DNA damage to manifest, but it surely would. With the procedure now begun, Vince had set himself another uncompromising clock. Either his heart or the scans would kill him; Vince could only hope that he could complete this project before either event occurred.
He set the machine for the new parameters. With a whine of servos, the antiproton gun swung around to the side of the chair. Vince swallowed. Easing himself into the chair, he drew the metal collar of the pion detector around his neck, then fastened the stabilizing straps.
The concept was fairly straightforward. An ultraviolet laser stripped the antiprotons off the speck of antihydrogen ice. Magnetic fields guided the particles to an accelerator in a robot arm aimed at the subject's brain. The head was held immobile in the center of a large pion detector, which looked like a vampire collar on steroids.
The trick was to get a very tight, monochromatic beam of antiprotons to penetrate the exact distance into the brain before annihilating with the brain's protons and producing pions. The charged pions were picked up by the oversized collar of the detector that almost completely enclosed the subject's head, allowing it to map the brain's density down to the synapse level. The strength of every connection to every neuron was then copied into the neural simulator. The resulting image would, in effect, be him. With the right extensionals, Vince might be able to carry on his research, displaying himself in machine form as public proof of its success. Let Director Fred Tungsten try to block his efforts then!
Vince heard a series of whirs as the antiproton gun aligned itself to resume the scan. Then nothing. No noise, no indication that a scan was even in progress, save for the steady, almost undetectable motion of the robot arm moving the antiproton gun slowly down the side of his head. The antiproton beam didn't hurt; there was no heat, no discernible damage. Just the constriction of the collar that forcibly held him still for forty-five minutes.
Suddenly the collar clicked open. The scan had completed. Vince reached up to undo the straps that had held his head steady, even as the robot arm began moving the antiproton gun back to the start position.
The start position. In a flash, Vince saw it all—saw it with the helpless clarity of someone watching their locked car door slam shut just after noticing that they'd left their keys on the front seat. He'd programmed the cycle himself; at the end of the scan, the gun returned to the start position—the center of the collar, the place where Vince's head now was. Which must be precisely the spot needed to knock out his short-term memory.
Vince clawed frantically at the straps as the metal arm swooped straight for his forehead. This was how it must have occurred twice before, with him staggering dazed afterward into the main laboratory, the panel closing automatically behind him.
No rat, no seizure, no sabotage. Just the damn reset cycle.
He released the straps just as the blow struck home. As pain exploded behind his eyes and the world dimmed, Vince frantically hoped that, among his other checks, he'd remember to reprogram that reset cycle the next time around.
* * *
Just Like Grandma Used to Make
Brenta Blevins | 900 words
Jackie lowered her face to peer into the printer. Steam rolled out of the machine's interior, buffeting her cheeks. She inhaled deeply, smelling a sweet, hot scent. Cinnamon? Her mind leapt back to memories of the happy holidays she'd known growing up: the excitement of going to see Grandma, the once-ayear foods, the family gathering, the chill in the air. Back in the days of fossil fuels. Back when food was something that grew, and was not something licensed and patented.
Jackie breathed in again. Cinnamon, definitely. She remembered the way her grandmother had tied the brown sticks together with plaid ribbons and dangled them off wreaths as mere decoration.
Jackie's head jerked toward the door. No, little Benny hadn't disturbed the rolled towels she'd taped around the doorframe and windows. The curtains remained drawn. Again, she scanned the apartment for snitches. Phone, displays, tablets, Benny's toys—even the emergency contaminant detectors remained unplugged from the network.
She had to make this for Benny now, a gift to him before things got worse.
She turned up the holiday music, as if noise might somehow provide additional concealment. A musician sang about frightful weather and delightful fires. Jackie shook her head.
"Mo-ooo-om?" Benny whined from his room. "Isn't it time to eat yet?"
"Not yet." Jackie's back tightened with tension as the printer churned from side to side, shooting dough from its nozzles. Why had she chosen to prepare so much? With the green beans, mashed potatoes, gravy, and rolls that had already come off the printer, the small apartment had grown warmer. Jackie nudged the air conditioning up a little higher. An indulgence, but it was the holidays.
Benny trudged in, carrying the worn holiday paper book her mother had owned as a child. He reconnoitered the kitchen and the dining table, decorated not with live greens (who had those any more?) but with patterned napkins and an electronic "candle" she'd fabbed on the non-food-grade printer.
Sniffing, Benny's eyebrow rose in skepticism. It was far more redolent fare than the usual nutrient bars the printer coughed out.
He thrust the little picture book at her, running his fingertip over the image of Santa landing his sleigh near a red-and-white-striped pole. "What's this white stuff? Ash?" Jackie smiled. "It's snow."
Benny squinted at the pages.
"Remember we talked about snow? It's like rain... only it's ice, fluffy ice. It accumulates, so the ground's white...." Benny's expression grew more and more disbelieving. Santa Claus, he'd accepted. But snow? "We used to have it at the North Pole."
Benny wrinkled his nose. "In the Arc—Arctic Ocean?"
Sighing, Jackie nodded. As Benny returned to the book, she checked the printer cartridges' statuses. She'd had to go custom, buying printer chemicals on the black market. She couldn't have afforded this meal using corporate-controlled, patented recipes. She'd done her best to match her printer supplies, guessing at some of the molecular combinations to approximate her grandmother's meal. But she wasn't a food scientist, or a culinary inventor at a big conglomerate. Shivering as she recalled negotiating with the underground sellers, she reassured herself she'd been careful. She hadn't downloaded any recipes or wiki templates off the pirate sites. She hoped dinner would taste good, that Benny would enjoy the treats she'd grown up eating so he could have a taste of her childhood, before the heat, the storms, and the failed harvests—despite all the genetic modification of crops, the relocation of planting further and further north, and other efforts put forth by global agribusiness. Finally humanity had found other solutions.
Holding the edge of the humming printer, Jackie leaned over and saw the last glaze squirting onto the top of the pie.
"Benny?" Jackie's voice trembled, this time with familiar holiday anticipation. She swallowed hard. "Put your book down. It's time to sit at the table."
Benny sat in the dining chair.
Jackie grabbed some towels and carried the warm pie to the table, nestling it in the center of the other dishes.
"How do you eat it?"
Laughing, Jackie leaned over and scooped a steaming piece of pie onto Benny's plate. He tentatively jabbed his fork into the cinnamon speckled filling. He sniffed the forkful, then dropped it into the plate.
"Please try it," Jackie entreated. "For me? A present. I went to a lot of effort."
Benny stared at the pie as if it were medicine.
The door rattled, pounded against its frame.
Jackie and Benny jumped. Benny's eyes widened. Santa didn't knock.
"Culinary Enforcement Division!"
The food cops.
"Open up!"
Jackie stared at the door. She'd been so careful! But they were extra-vigilant for the holidays.
"We have you on suspicion of nutritional copyright violation!"
Benny squeaked. Jackie half-rose from the chair.
"Open up!" a cop bellowed.
Jackie reached for the pie.
The door erupted and black armored bodies rushed in.
"Put the food down!" The shout came muffled from behind a facemask.
Her fingers curved around the plate.
"Down, down, down!"
Benny sobbed. "Mom! Mom!"
"It's okay—"
Then she was falling, the pie sliding between her hands. She landed hard, under a heavy body. The pie exploded across the floor.
"Secure the evidence!"
Kneeing her back, the cop growled, "People like you keep me from my holiday."
Jackie sobbed. All she'd wanted was for Benny to have a holiday memory like she had. If he couldn't have one once-a-year, he'd at least have a once-in-a-lifetime holiday meal.
"Mom!" Benny pulled the fork between his quivering lips. "I tried it for you. It was— good!"
As the cop cuffed her, Jackie smiled through her tears at Benny. Maybe he wouldn't let this be a once-in-a-lifetime.
* * *
Racing Prejudice
John Frye III | 865 words
I secluded myself before the race started; the stadium had enough anti-AI sentiment without my presence. Boos greeted my entrance, redoubling when the crowd saw I had refused my uniform, pinning the bib directly to my un-pigmented fibroplastic exterior. The other athletes were loosening their muscles with exaggerated motions. I also prepared my muscles—while I remained perfectly still. I would not disguise my nonhumanity with clothes, color, or phony gestures. The first human runners to need artificial legs did not waste their time with toes. My body was cleared by the IOC; that should be enough for the rest of mankind.
My relevant physical parts were all human tissue, grown from elite donors, regularly shown to not exceed the performance range expected of top athletes. I'd built this body from cells and scaffolds, then executed the demanding two-year training regimen required to earn my place in lane five of the men's fourhundred-meter sprint in the 2092 Olympics. Today was the last step of my dream of becoming the best runner in history.
I took my position, paused, then sprang forward when the light flashed.
The four-hundred-meter race cannot be won by sprinting full gasp from the start. You must know your opponents, their pace and kick. Then you must be faster for longer. Felix Mendoza in lane four, starting 7.76 meters behind me, was one of only three men to break forty-two seconds.
My best time was forty-one flat.
My initial pace put me about third for the first half of the race. All was going smoothly when Mendoza drew along side me, four meters ahead of where he should be. I ignored him; his overeagerness was not my problem.
I began my kick at 220 meters in the track's second turn. My legs pumped harder, my chest heaved, I earned each step.
At 250 meters, Mendoza was one meter ahead. I should be faster than him, but the smaller turn radius of his lane caused him to pull away.
At three hundred meters, the track straightened out, Mendoza 1.5 meters ahead, the finish line in sight.
At 320 meters, he was 1.6 meters ahead. He shouldn't have been able to manage this pace.
I began to doubt. What if Mendoza had been juicing? With everyone focused on me, the reverse cyborg who lowered itself to compete with humans, could some anti-AI faction within the IOC have ignored his drug tests? They stripped me raw searching for an excuse to disqualify me; would they circumvent their own regulations to ensure my defeat?
350 meters. Mendoza was a full two meters ahead. The others lagged behind, though Borg in lane two was making it less of a runaway. Mendoza had to be juiced to go so fast. Maybe Borg was too. Sacred rules were broken so that I, the rogue AI with the unnatural grey skin and stolen human muscles, would lose.
Unless I went faster.
I projected Mendoza's finish time, calculated the speed necessary to edge him out. My new pace was faster than the one-hundredmeter sprinters, faster than the fastest human ever recorded. The gap between Mendoza and me began to close.
Four steps later I realized my mistake. Mendoza's stride had become ragged; his pace had been a bluff. His adrenaline was gone; he'd stagger across the finish line after the others had passed. But that wasn't my problem.
My problem was my human leg muscles were betraying me. I had pushed them beyond the limits they could endure. Microtears formed in the striations, ripping larger with every step. If I were human, I might have screamed in agony. I had to drastically reduce my pace to prevent further ruptures.
With twenty meters left, I saw Borg passing me, and knew I had lost. I did salvage a third place finish. Mendoza collapsed over the line behind me, just fast enough to finish off the podium.
I walked over to help him up. When he saw my impassive grey face looming above him, his gasping turned into giddy laughter. His body's need for oxygen soon choked off his mirth, and he coughed as he accepted my hand. "We beat you," he said between breaths.
I still did not understand. "Why did you time your break so soon?
You knew you could not win."
"But I knew you wouldn't either," he said, recovered enough to grin. "I knew there was some strategy that could defeat the racing machine you've built yourself into—and I was right." He laughed again, yet the sound bore no mockery or contempt. "You made a rookie mistake, that's all. Everyone does when they start racing. Don't worry, you'll learn." He picked himself up and waved to the cheering crowd. As he walked away, he said over his shoulder, "See you on the track."
A rookie mistake. My detractors will be pleased. There would be no more talk of the "robot dressed in flesh," the "soulless sprinting machine." Instead I'll be ridiculed, a one-off joke on the talk shows, forgotten in a week. Humans are fickle like that.
I, on the other hand, have four more years to dwell on the events of today; four more years to plan my next race. When that day comes, the crowds might laugh, or boo. But when I finally win, maybe, just maybe, they will cheer.
* * *
Technological Plateau
Michael Turton | 4317 words
Christian Jensen scratched his pale cheek and studied the game path. He had done fifteen years of ecological engineering evaluation in the planetary survey and Contact business, four or five worlds a year, and had never seen a game path so large or so well-trodden as the gigantic highways slashing through the forest here on Sulla IV. Must be those monster eight-segmented grazers the air survey had imaged, ploughing through the forest like armored vehicles, he decided. That makes it an eightfold path, he thought, chortling softly to himself. The game trail cut through what he couldn't help thinking of as a jungle, although its riotous flora contained no Earth organisms. Still, the sessile, bushlike near-plants were predominantly green, though shot through with rainbows of other colors, mostly purples and reds. They came in a fantastic array of shapes, some suggesting familiar trees and bushes, others looking like pyramids, propellers, or conical hats. Fortunately for their survey work, the game path offered an excellent cross-section of the plateau's ecology, wide enough that their agrav 'bots could follow them with ease.
Analog Science Fiction and Fact - Jan-Feb 2014 Page 29
