A Wish the Heart Makes : Fornever in Blue Genes

by: Tigger

 

Chapter 2: Perchance to Dream - A Flashback

Matthew Sorenson roused to the sound of the designed-to-be- annoying electronic tones of his alarm clock. It took him a few moments and a couple of bone cracking stretches to recognize his surroundings - the special guest quarters at the Earth Federation Moon Installation. Slowly his sleep drowsed mind became clear, then he jumped out of bed to go to the attached bathroom, and nearly launched himself into the ceiling in the moon’s one-sixth earth gravity.

*No wonder my dream-self is half a foot shorter and fifty kilo’s lighter*, he thought as he barely avoided bouncing his head off the crown molding. *At least here I feel lighter and can move more easily. Too bad I’ll pay for it when I get back to Terra*.

Still bemusedly pleased over the feeling of his body weighing so much less, he began to shave and promptly felt his good mood evaporate. Shaving was much the same as always, a waste of time. The face in the mirror might have looked better with a beard covering part of it, but beards were incompatible with too many types of emergency equipment. So he saw all of what he had always thought of as his "Neanderthal" face. Heavy brow ridge. Massive jaw. Potato nose. He’d often joked with the rest of the project team that his wish-list face was a lot better looking than the one he wore now. Hell, in his wish list body he didn’t even have to shave. He’d told them that, too.

That unpleasant task complete, Matt decided against breakfast. He’d be back in earth-normal gravity all too soon, and didn’t need the extra calories. Besides, last night he’d come up with an idea he was just burning to try on the problem that had been vexing him, and a whole lot of other folks. Matt had been on the moon for the better part of three weeks trying to fix the installation’s computer systems. The systems’ controls were based on Matt’s early research into biocybernetic direct user interfaces, but something was corrupting any commands directed to the computer through the interface. The first level of backup systems had easily maintained the life support systems, but every operational aspect of the moon installation had been disrupted for more than a month.

The moon installation provided the earth with a clean, environmentally benign (at least benign for earth) source of refined metals, particularly steel, cobalt and the platinum group metals. Raw solar energy, unfiltered by an atmosphere, was collected over vast power farms near the base and then used to anaerobically refine the raw ore pulled from the meteor-pocked crust of the lunar landscape. The refined ingots of exceptionally high quality metals were then launched using a superconducting railgun to earth, where the pilotless transport drones would enter the atmosphere and parachute softly down for recovery and distribution.

Except that all of that, from power management to the aiming of the railgun, required the massive computing power of the main installation computer. Luna-based and then home company technicians and engineers had tried without success to rectify the problem all the while earthside manufacturers’ inventories of those scarce metals dwindled steadily, finally reaching the point where something simply *had* to be done.

That *something* had been to offer Matt an incredible amount of money to go to the moon and fix the problem, whatever it was. His initial reaction had been to decline the offer - the moon being a very harsh mistress, but the money he’d been promised had been unbelievable and something he could reinvest into his own company. Besides, there was something akin to pride of authorship at stake here. Matt had designed these systems, and to the best of his understanding, this type of failure was impossible. The bio-feedback systems built into these modern computers (another of Matt’s inventions) should have at least called for help before something like this could have happened. Matt would have denied it to his grave, but this had become personal, and he was going to find and fix the problem if it was the last thing he did on this earth . . .errr . . . moon.

However, thus far, Matt had not had any more success at isolating the problem than the company’s engineers had, but today, he wanted to try a new idea that occurred to him just before he’d fallen asleep. *Not that my idea is likely to amount to anything. It’s generally supposed that it is impossible for unapproved programming to attack the logic and inner workings of a QuantCha machine, but no one ever proved that. We just assumed that putting that much computing power into self protection and internal redundancy checks would preclude anything like those invasive attacks that often terrorized users of old Twentieth Century computers. Viruses they called them - like the disease carriers Bob and I fought. Something else, too,* he mused to himself, *what other name did they call those things? Trojan something . . . Trojan Worm? No, that isn’t it*.

He was still half muttering to himself when, forgetting the gravity again, Matt started to stride into the main operations room and instead ended up nearly bounding across the room into the wall. He was saved only by the quick action of one of the locals who managed to grab him, in flight, while holding his own body anchored to one of the panels.

"’Morning, Gerry, and thanks," Matt said sheepishly to the department head as he settled more sedately to the floor than he deserved. Then he handed a storage card to the frazzled looking engineer. "On that card is a program I wrote last night. I want you to do a cold start on the main system but boot it off that card instead of the operating system, okay?"

Too discouraged to feel hope anymore, the shorter man nodded. "Okay, just let me copy this into the main core and then . . . "

"NO!" Matt had yelled, bringing the man up short and drawing the attention of everyone else in the center. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. "But I don’t want to do it that way. That card is read-only, and I want to start the machine off that card directly from the card reader."

*He’s losing it*, Gerry thought glumly. *He’s designed the bloody thing, and he can’t tell us what’s wrong so he’s grasping at straws. Oh, well*. Putting his thoughts aside, he said, "All right, Matt. It will take a few moments."

The restart went smoothly enough and, moments later, sheets of plasfilm were spewing from the main printer into Matt’s hands. After asking for another restart, this time from the main core, Matt strode over to the troubleshooting console and called up a display and then sat down, looking back and forth between the display and the hard copy in his hand. "Dammit, that’s it. I don’t know how it was done, and I’m not sure I even believe it, but there it is."

"What?!?!" the now excited engineer asked, pushing in to look.

Matt pointed to two numbers, one on the plas-sheet and the other on the screen. "My program took a snapshot of what was in the core and how big it was without giving the core any warning. That," he said pointing to the plasfilm, "is what the snapshot says the size of the self protection program is in gigamegs, and that number," this time pointing to the screen, "is what the main computer is reporting as the program size."

"But . . . but . . . but, they’re different," Gerry protested.

"Aren’t they," Matthew agreed. "Somehow, someone has managed to do the impossible - they’ve infected a QuantCha machine with some type of computer virus or worm by attacking the computer at its weakest point - its self protection systems."

"Stars above. We got a maintenance update to the core software just a week or so before the problems started. I’m going to go reinstall the old system and see if that fixes the problem."

It didn’t. The virus in the self protection system had somehow protected itself. Matt had then used his snapshot program to study the rogue program as it disrupted the base operations. Finally, a solution had occurred to him.

"The code is relatively small and centralized, Gerry. The reason we can’t remove it from the core is because the vector isn’t just resident in the core. It hides in the biologic part of the user interface to control itself. Once you restart the system and connect the biological part of the user interface, you automatically reinfect the machine. Lord above, the virus infects the tissue that makes up the user interface. It really is like a bloody infection. Amazing."

"Well, that’s all well and good, Matt, and I’m sure it’s all very interesting, but I have a problem. I can’t operate that machine without the biological user interface. Only direct mind to computer linkages are complex enough to effectively interact with the machine," Gerry complained. "In other words, what the hell do we do next?"

Matt thought for a few moments, reviewing in his mind what he remembered of that design. He and Robert had been the ones who had finally managed to couple the human/computer direct interface via the biologic network, but a lot of that had been Bob’s work. Then, he had an idea. "I think I can, if I connect directly with the computer, biologically isolate that control system so that it can be excised, almost like surgery. You can then, while the control system is isolated and being removed, reset the system so that once the biologics heal, the system should be clean."

"It’s worth a try, Matt. You sure you can do that in a corrupted bio-network?"

"Only one way to find out. Get your people, Gerry, and let’s have a go at it."

Very quickly, the staff needed to remove the infected part of the biological interface and to reinstall the core operating software were on station.

Matt put on the helmet that connected his mind to the bio- network and felt the momentary disorientation as the sensors of the base-wide computer system began feeding his brain. Working quickly, he set up a biological program that would box in the section of the network hiding the virus while at the same time disconnecting the bio-network from the main computer. That way, the virus would not be able to "hide" elsewhere in the system.

He made one last quick check of his program, then took a deep breath. "Here goes, people," he warned, and then implemented the program.

Almost instantaneously, a bolt of shear, unadulterated electric agony knifed into his head. Screaming in pain, Matt tried to pull the helmet off his head, but his hands did not seem to move right and his fingers did not seem to be able to sense contact.

And then the world went utterly black.

 

~-----------~

 

The sudden light burned at his eyes and made his head pound. Matt tried to block the light with his hands, but found he could not move them. For a moment, he thought he was restrained, but then realized that not only could he not move his hands, he could not feel them, either. Nor any of his other extremities. He could barely seem to breathe.

"Easy, Dr. Sorenson," a quiet male voice ordered.

Matt’s eyes resisted opening, and he couldn’t seem to move his head to look up in the direction of the voice. "Whooo . . . where . . . ?" he managed to croak out.

A man of indeterminate years in a white lab coat with the still prevalent stethoscope moved into Matt’s line of sight. "My name is Dr. Castleton. You were injured during the attempt to restore the main base computers. Actually, you were attacked."

"A . . . tack . . . da?" Matt rasped out, turning the word into three distinct syllables.

"Attacked," the doctor affirmed. "Evidently, that little nasty was designed to protect itself by attacking anything connected to the network if it was itself attacked. You were connected and the electrical feedback it generated went coursing into your brain though the hundreds of electrodes in that helmet. Much like a sudden synaptic short circuit over the entire surface of your brain."

"Fix - ed?" Matt asked, still trying to force his mouth and tongue to obey his orders.

"Evidently. You won, at least, Doctor. Your little trap was well enough crafted that it still isolated the virus so it could be excised. Unfortunately, by isolating the main core as you did, you made it necessary that you remain connected. Anyway, main computer function is back, which is one reason you are awake again. I am using a bio-network on you right now to allow the main computer to assist you in communicating."

"What’s . . . wrong . . . with . . . me?"

"A very great deal, I’m afraid. Your brain was badly damaged. Basically, all nervous controls for the voluntary functions of your body have been cut off from your brain. You are only able to speak now because the computer is assisting you with that, and we don’t have the computing power necessary to do more than that for you. Worse, you medulla was also damaged. You are slowly losing involuntary muscle control. In short, in about a week, without the computer’s assistance, your heart will stop beating, your lungs will stop breathing and you will simply die."

"Nothing you can do here?"

The doctor shook his head. "We can keep you alive, help you to communicate, but that is about it. The nearest thing I could compare your condition to is an advanced case of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, or ALS. Your body is simply shutting down around what still is a working mind."

"Time enough to get to earth?" Matt got out, slowly getting the hang of communicating with the computer’s assistance.

"Yes, if we left now. They’d have to set up similar arrangements for you and you’d have to make the trip without support so we would sedate you to minimize the strain, but yes, you still have time to get to Earth."

"Need to link with my company. Robert West or Adam Jacobs. Now. Immediate priority."

Nodding, the doctor went off to make the necessary arrangements. A person in this condition deserved at least the solace of being in familiar surroundings with his friends.

 

~----------~

 

The connection had a fair amount of static, which screeched in Sorensen’s ears in a feedback squeal that was all too reminiscent of the attack that had so nearly killed him. Still, he knew that if he didn’t confirm what was in the wish file, they’d question it. The changes were pretty dramatic. But dammit, the risk was high in any event. He might as well get what he wanted. No more male pattern baldness. No more ducking to get through doorways. No more pot belly, with an end to the struggle between metabolism and appetite. And younger. That alone made the risk worthwhile.

"Bob, . . . you there?"

Long pause. "Yes, Matthew, what’s the problem?"

"Bad accident, maybe deliberate. Get details from Castleton."

"They’re coming in on the data link now. Oh my God!"

"Pretty bad," Sorenson agreed. "Need new body."

Even the transmission lag couldn’t account for the silence that followed. Finally, West spoke. "I assume you’re talking about THE Project."

"Yes."

"You know as well as I do how risky that is," West warned.

Sorenson’s mechanical voice sounded implacable, only the slow pace of the words telling of his struggle to communicate. "Try or . . . living death . . . until first power outage ends living part . . . for real."

"Very well. We have your GPD code on file. We’ll be ready."

"NO!" Sorenson said, even the flat tones conveying a sense of urgency. "Don’t want . . . this body. New code. Wish file."

"All right, Matt," came Robert’s placating voice, after another delay noticeably longer than what mere light speed limitations dictated. "I assume your wish-file is under bio- scan lock, just as all of ours are."

"You, Adam and Cat, touch . . . plate together . . . access file. Final password is "rebirth". Already genetic hex- code."

Sorenson’s words had seemed to come a bit easier, so Dr. West tried again to counsel caution. "You know the difficulties increase with more significant modifications to the current gene code."

"Do it!" Sorenson ordered, excitement breaking his concentration and thereby slurring his words. There was a long pause was on his end, as he tried to regain his strength after the effort to convey his determination through the tenuous link. "Want hair. Small waist. Better looking. Not tall anymore. Always felt like freak in this body. Other changes, too. Younger. Do it right this time. All in file."

"Those changes sound pretty radical. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Very sure, more besides. Been thinking about it for long time." The fatigue that Sorenson had been holding at bay by pure strength of will dragged at him like a creature from some deep sea. With his last energy he tried to make sure his words were clear as he said, "Do it, Robert, please. You’ll be surprised, but it’s what I’ve always wanted."

Dr. West’s answer went unheard as Sorenson slipped back into unconsciousness.

 

~------------~

 

Matt awoke momentarily, surprised to see a very worried Bob looking down at him. "Matt . . . I need to know. Are you sure you want to attempt something so drastic?"

The effort needed to speak seemed orders of magnitude harder than it had on the moon. Poor programming, his mind whispered. He finally forced his lips to respond, wishing he could smile away his friend’s obvious concern. "Dras-tic? Good. Short-er . . . Plenty . . . hair. Thin waist? New face. Not ugly freak. Dras-tic? Com-pared . . . to what, Bob? Do it! Gotta . . . look bet-ter . . . prove to . . . "

And then, he could speak no more.

Interlude: From a Dream Darkly

Matt came to suddenly, the dream that replayed his last moments of manhood still vivid in his mind. Reflexively, he brought his hands up to his eyes so that he could see them move; so he could *feel* them move, and two things became immediately apparent.

The hands in front of his eyes were the delicate, well formed hands of a young woman. That had NOT been a dream. The second anomaly was that his hands, or rather his wrists, were no longer unadorned.

Shiny metallic bands had been fitted tightly to his wrists. Matthew still found it almost impossible to use feminine pronouns and adjectives when thinking of him/herself. "I’ll just have to work on it," he/she thought. "I’m certainly a woman until *I* can figure out a way to change myself back."

Matt turned his attention back to his wrists. The bracelets seemed to be a single, seamlessly-smooth piece of metal, skin tight to the wrists. No clasp or catch was even visible. They were about four centimeters wide, (maybe an inch and a half), yet so thin that it was difficult to distinguish where metal ended and skin began. A quick inventory proved that his wristbands were not alone. Similar bands had been affixed to his ankles and thighs, and a matching belt gleamed around his incredibly slim waist.

These items were not intended as Matthew’s first feminine fashion statement, not that he would even dream of wearing them voluntarily. *Robert must have ordered them put on me after administering the hypo-spray sedative*, he mused when he finally realized what the bands were. These devices were actually the latest in medical restraint devices. A touch of a control, or even a single code word spoken aloud by an authorized voice, and the wrist bands would slam into the belt while the ankle and thigh bands would lock together.

Upon realizing that Matthew’s . . . makeover had not been his own idea or to his liking, Doctor West had evidently decided to take no chances that his patient and long time friend might do something rash.

"Well, might as well start getting ready for my first day as a female," Matthew muttered to himself. "I have a feeling this isn’t going to get any better by waiting."

Just then, a pretty, blonde haired nurse appeared. "I see you’re awake, dearie," she said with a smile. "Well, the doctor tells me you’re to have visitors soon, so let’s get you out of that bed and get you ready to meet the world, shall we?"

 

 

 

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