Nanotech Page 4

Had I been thorough enough to kill them all? I had a moment of panic. Tomorrow, I thought, I will sterilize his apartment. Somehow, I didn't even think of Bernard.

  When Gail came in the door, I was asleep on the couch. I came to, groggy, and she looked down at me.

  "You feeling okay?" she asked, perching on the edge of the couch. I nodded.

  "What are you planning for dinner?" My mouth didn't work properly. The words were mushy. She felt my forehead.

  "Edward, you have a fever," she said. "A very high fever."

  I stumbled into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Gail was close behind me. "What is it?" she asked.

  There were lines under my collar, around my neck. White lines, like freeways. They had already been in me a long time, days.

  "Damp palms," I said. So obvious.

  I think we nearly died. I struggled at first, but in minutes I was too weak to move. Gail was just as sick within an hour.

  I lay on the carpet in the living room, drenched in sweat. Gail lay on the couch, her face the color of talcum, eyes closed, like a corpse in an embalming parlor. For a time I thought she was dead. Sick as I was, I raged—hated, felt tremendous guilt at my weakness, my slowness to understand all the possibilities. Then I no longer cared. I was too weak to blink, so I closed my eyes and waited.

  There was a rhythm in my arms, my legs. With each pulse of blood, a kind of sound welled up within me, like an orchestra thousands strong, but not playing in unison; playing whole seasons of symphonies at once. Music in the blood. The sound became harsher, but more coordinated, wave-trains finally canceling into silence, then separating into harmonic beats.

  The beats seemed to melt into me, into the sound of my own heart.

  First, they subdued our immune responses. The war—and it was a war, on a scale never before known on Earth, with trillions of combatants—lasted perhaps two days.

  By the time I regained enough strength to get to the kitchen faucet, I could feel them working on my brain, trying to crack the code and find the god within the protoplasm. I drank until I was sick, then drank more moderately and took a glass to Gail. She sipped at it. Her lips were cracked, her eyes bloodshot and ringed with yellowish crumbs. There was some color in her skin. Minutes later, we were eating feebly in the kitchen.

  "What in the hell is happening?" was the first thing she asked. I didn't have the strength to explain. I peeled an orange and shared it with her. "We should call a doctor," she said. But I knew we wouldn't. I was already receiving messages; it was becoming apparent that any sensation of freedom we experienced was illusory.

  The messages were simple at first. Memories of commands, rather than the commands themselves, manifested themselves in my thoughts. We were not to leave the apartment—a concept which seemed quite abstract to those in control, even if undesirable—and we were not to have contact with others. We would be allowed to eat certain foods and drink tap water for the time being.

  With the subsidence of the fevers, the transformations were quick and drastic. Almost simultaneously, Gail and I were immobilized. She was sitting at the table, I was kneeling on floor. I was able barely to see her in the corner of my eye.

  Her arm developed pronounced ridges.

  They had learned inside Vergil; their tactics within the two of us were very different. I itched all over for about two hours—two hours in hell—before they made the breakthrough and found me. The effort of ages on their timescale paid off and they communicated smoothly and directly with this great, clumsy intelligence who had once controlled their universe.

  They were not cruel. When the concept of discomfort and its undesirability was made clear, they worked to alleviate it. They worked too effectively. For another hour, I was in a sea of bliss, out of all contact with them.

  With dawn the next day, they gave us freedom to move again; specifically, to go to the bathroom. There were certain waste products they could not deal with. I voided those—my urine was purple—and Gail followed suit. We looked at each other vacantly in the bathroom. Then she managed a slight smile. "Are they talking to you?" she asked. I nodded. "Then I'm not crazy."

  For the next twelve hours, control seemed to loosen on some levels. I suspect there was another kind of war going on in me. Gail was capable of limited motion, but no more.

  When full control resumed, we were instructed to hold each other. We did not hesitate.

  "Eddie . . ." she whispered. My name was the last sound I ever heard from outside.

  Standing, we grew together. In hours, our legs expanded and spread out. Then extensions grew to the windows to take sunlight, and to the kitchen to take water from the sink. Filaments soon reached to all corners of the room, stripping paint and plaster from the walls, fabric and stuffing from the furniture.

  By the next dawn, the transformation was complete.

  I no longer have any clear view of what we look like. I suspect we resemble cells—large, flat, and filamented cells, draped purposefully across most of the apartment. The great shall mimic the small.

  Our intelligence fluctuates daily as we are absorbed into the minds within. Each day, out individuality declines. We are, indeed, great clumsy dinosaurs. Our memories have been taken over by billions of them, and our personalities have been spread through the transformed blood.

  Soon there will be no need for centralization.

  Already the plumbing has been invaded. People throughout the building are undergoing transformation.

  Within the old time frame of weeks, we will reach the lakes, rivers, and seas in force.

  I can barely begin to guess the results. Every square inch of the planet will teem with thought. Years from now, perhaps much sooner, they will subdue their own individuality—what there is of it.

  New creatures will come, then. The immensity of their capacity for thought will be inconceivable.

  All my hatred and fear is gone now.

  I leave them—us—with only one question.

  How many times has this happened, elsewhere? Travelers never came through space to visit the Earth. They had no need.

  They had found universes in grains of sand.

  MARGIN OF ERROR

  Nancy Kress

  Born in Buffalo, New York, Nancy Kress now lives in Brockport, New York. She began selling her elegant and incisive stories in the mid-seventies, and has since become a frequent contributor to Asimov's Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Omni, and elsewhere. Her books include the novels The Prince Of Morning Bells, The Golden Glove, The White Pipes, An Alien Light, and Brain Rose, the collection Trinity And Other Stories, the novel version of her Hugo and Nebula-winning story, Beggars in Spain, and a sequel, Beggars and Choosers. Her most recent books include a new collection, The Aliens of Earth, and a new novel, Oaths & Miracles. She has also won a Nebula Award for her story "Out of All Them Bright Stars."

  In the chilling little story that follows, she reaffirms the truth of that old saying about revenge. It is a dish best served cold.

  Paula came back in a blaze of glory, her institute uniform with its pseudomilitary medals crisp and bright, her spine straight as an engineered diamond-fiber rod, I heard her heels clicking on the sidewalk and I looked up from the bottom porch step, a child on my lap. Paula's face was genemod now, the blemishes gone, the skin fine-pored, the cheekbones chiseled under green eyes. But I would have known that face anywhere. No matter what she did to it.

  "Karen?" Her voice held disbelief.

  "Paula," I said.

  "Karen?" This time I didn't answer. The child, my oldest, twisted in my arms to eye the visitor.

  It was the kind of neighborhood where women sat all morning on porches or stoops, watching children play on the sidewalk. Steps sagged; paint peeled; small front lawns were scraped bare by feet and tricycles and plastic wading pools. Women lived a few doors down from their mothers, both of them growing heavier every year. There were few men. The ones there were didn't seem to stay long.

  I said, "Ho
w did you find me?"

  "It wasn't hard," Paula said, and I knew she didn't understand my smile. Of course it wasn't hard. I had never intended it should be. This was undoubtedly the first time in nearly five years that Paula had looked.

  She lowered her perfect body onto the porch steps. My little girl, Lollie, gazed at her from my lap. Then Lollie opened her cupped hands and smiled. "See my frog, lady?"

  "Very nice," Paula said. She was trying hard to hide her contempt, but I could see it. For the sad imprisoned frog, for Lollie's dirty face, for the worn yard, for the way I looked.

  "Karen," Paula said, "I'm here because there's a problem. With the project. More specifically with the initial formulas, we think. With a portion of the nanoassembler code from five years ago, when you were . . . still with us."

  "A problem," I repeated. Inside the house, a baby wailed. "Just a minute."

  I set Lollie down and went inside. Lori cried in her crib. Her diaper reeked. I put a pacifier in her mouth and cradled her in my left arm. With the right arm I scooped Timmy from his crib. When he didn't wake, I jostled him a little. I carried both babies back to the porch, deposited Timmy in the portacrib, and sat down next to Paula.

  "Lollie, go get me a diaper, honey. And wipes. You can carry your frog inside to get them."

  Lollie went; she's a sweet-natured kid. Paula stared incredulously at the twins. I unwrapped Lori's diaper and Paula grimaced and slid father away.

  "Karen . . . are you listening to me? This is important!"

  "I'm listening."

  "The nanocomputer instructions are off, somehow. The major results check out, obviously . . ." Obviously. The media had spent five years exclaiming over the major results. ". . . but there are some odd foldings in the proteins of the twelfth-generation nanoassemblers." Twelfth generation. The nanocomputer attached to each assembler replicates itself every six months. That was one of the project's checks and balances on the margin of error. It had been five and a half years. Twelfth generation was about right.

  "Also," Paula continued, and I heard the strain in her voice, "there are some unforeseen macrolevel developments. We're not sure yet that they're tied to the nanocomputer protein folds. What we're trying to do now is cover all the variables."

  "You must be working on fairly remote variables if you're reduced to asking me."

  "Well, yes, we are. Karen, do you have to do that now?"

  "Yes." I scraped the shit off Lori with one edge of the soiled diaper. Lollie danced out of the house with a clean one. She sat beside me, whispering to her frog. Paula said, "What I need . . . what the project needs . . ."

  I said, "Do you remember the summer we collected frogs? We were maybe eight and ten. You'd become fascinated reading about that experiment where they threw a frog in boiling water but it jumped out, and then they put a frog in cool water and gradually increased the temperature to boiling until the stupid frog just sat there and died. Remember?"

  "Karen . . ."

  "I collected sixteen frogs for you, and when I found out what you were going to do with them, I cried and tried to let them go. But you boiled eight of them anyway. The other right were controls. I'll give you that—proper scientific method. To reduce the margin of error, you said."

  "Karen . . . we were just kids . . ."

  I put the clean diaper on Lori. "Not all kids behave like that. Lollie doesn't. But you wouldn't know that, would you? Nobody in your set has children. You should have had a baby, Paula." She barely hid her shudder. But then, most of the people we knew felt the same way. She said, "What the project needs is for you to come back and work on the same small area you did originally. Looking for something—anything—you might have missed in the proteincoded instructions to successive generations of nanoassemblers."

  "No," I said.

  "It's not really a matter of choice. The macrolevel problems—I'll be frank, Karen. It looks like a new form of cancer. Unregulated replication of some very weird cells."

  "So take the cellular nanomachinery out." I crumpled the stinking diaper and set it out of the baby's reach. Closer to Paula.

  "You know we can't do that! The project's irreversible!"

  "Many things are irreversible," I said. Lori started to fuss. I picked her up, opened my blouse, and gave her the breast. She sucked greedily. Paula glanced away. She has had nanomachinery in her perfect body, making it perfect, for five years now. Her breasts will never look swollen, blue-veined, sagging.

  "Karen, listen . . ."

  "No . . . you listen," I said quietly. "Eight years ago you convinced Zweigler I was only a minor member of the research team, included only because I was your sister. I've always wondered, by the way, how you did that—were you sleeping with him, too? Seven years ago you got me shunted off into the minor area of the project's effect on female gametes—which nobody cared about because it was already clear there was no way around sterility as a side effect. Nobody thought it was too high a price for a perfect, self-repairing body, did they? Except me." Paula didn't answer. Lollie carried her frog to the wading pool and set it carefully in the water. I said, "I didn't mind working on female gametes, even if it was a backwater, even if you got star billing. I was used to it, after all. As kids, you were always the cowboy; I got to be the horse. You were the astronaut, I was the alien you conquered. Remember? One Christmas you used up all the chemicals in your first chemistry set and then stole mine."

  "I don't think trivial childhood incidents matter in . . ."

  "Of course you don't. And I never minded. But I did mind when five years ago you made copies of all my notes and presented them as yours, while I was so sick during my pregnancy with Lollie. You claimed my work. Stole it. Just like the chemistry set. And then you eased me off the project."

  "What you did was so minor . . ."

  "If it was so minor, why are you here asking for my help now? And why would you imagine for half a second I'd give it to you?" She stared at me, calculating. I stared back coolly. Paula wasn't used to me cool. I'd always been the excitable one. Excitable, flighty, unstable—that's what she told Zweigler. A security risk.

  Timmy fussed in his portacrib. I stood up, still nursing Lori, and scooped him up with my free arm. Back on the steps, I juggled Timmy to lie across Lori on my lap, pulled back my blouse, and gave him the other breast. This time Paula didn't permit herself a grimace.

  She said, "Karen, what I did was wrong. I know that now. But for the sake of the project, not for me, you have to . . ."

  "You are the project. You have been from the first moment you grabbed the headlines away from Zweigler and the others who gave their life to that work. 'Lovely Young Scientist Injects Self with Perfect-Cell Drug!' 'No Sacrifice Too Great to Circumvent FDA Shortsightedness, Heroic Researcher Declares.' "

  Paula said flatly, "You jealous. You're obscure and I'm famous. You're a mess and I'm beautiful. You're . . ."

  "A milk cow? While you're a brilliant researcher? Then solve your own research problems."

  "This was your area . . ."

  "Oh, Paula, they were all my areas. I did more of the basic research than you did, and you know it. But you knew how to position yourself with Zweigler, to present key findings at key moments, to cultivate the right connections. And, of course, I was still under the delusion we were partners. I just didn't realize it was a barracuda partnering a goldfish."

  From the wading pool Lollie watched us with big eyes. "Mommy . . ."

  "It's okay, honey. Mommy's not mad at you. Look, better catch your frog—he's hopping away."

  She shrieked happily and dove for the frog. Paula said softly, "I had no idea you were so angry after all this time. You've changed, Karen."

  "But I'm not angry. Not any more. And you never knew what I was like before. You never bothered to know."

  "I knew you never wanted a scientific life. Not the way I did. You always wanted kids. Wanted . . . this." She waved her arm around the shabby yard. David left eighteen months ago. He sends money. It's ne
ver enough.

  "I wanted a scientific establishment that would let me have both. And I wanted credit for my work. I wanted what was mine. How did you do it, Paula—end up with what was yours and what was mine, too?"

  "Because you were distracted by baby shit and frogs!" Paula yelled, and I saw how scared she really was. Paula didn't make admissions like that. A tactical error. I watched her stab desperately for a way to retain the advantage. A way to seize the offensive. I seized it first. "You should have left David alone. You already had Zweigler; you should have left me David. Our marriage was never the same after that."

  She said, "I'm dying, Karen."

  I turned my head from the nursing babies to look at her.

  "It's true. My cellular machinery is running wild. The nanoassemblers are creating weird structures, destructive enzymes. For five years they replicated perfectly and now . . . For five years it all performed exactly as it was programmed to . . ."

  I said, "It still does."

  Paula sat very still. Lori had fallen asleep. I juggled her into the portacrib and nestled Timmy more comfortably on my lap. Lollie chased her frog around the wading pool. I squinted to see if Lollie's lips were blue.

  Paula choked out, "You programmed the assembler machinery in the ovaries to . . ."

  "Nobody much cares about women's ovaries. Only fourteen percent of college-educated women want to muck up their lives with kids. Recent survey result. Less than one percent margin of error."

  ". . . you actually sabotaged . . . hundreds of women have been injected by now, maybe thousands . . ."

  "Oh, there's a reverser enzyme," I said. "Completely effective if you take it before the twelfth-generation replication. You're the only person that's been injected that long. I just discovered the reverser a few months ago, tinkering with my old notes for something to do in what your friends probably call my idle domestic prison. That's provable, incidentally. All my notes are computer-dated."

  Paula whispered, "Scientists don't do this . . ."