Continuance (4 page)

He scrolled
through the document on his table’s embedded photoscreen and read in a broken
monotone. “Students will use analytical and computational tools to document
individually definitive biological patterns and study applied methods for their
subsequent…”

“Thank you,”
Professor Fairchild broke in. “Or in plain English, you’ll be learning how to
create an exact blueprint of yourself. A blueprint that captures every aspect
of who you are. Your physical body. Your knowledge and skills. Your experiences
and memories. Everything.”

She gestured at
the text hovering in front of the volunteer. “If you take anything from the
syllabus version, I’d recommend you focus on two key words: ‘Individually
definitive.’ Now, what do we mean by that? There are many biological patterns
in each of us that might be considered unique.” She held up an index finger. “Fingerprints,
for example. With an accurate fingerprint, we can identify anyone in the world.
But even though your fingerprints can
tell
us who you are, we wouldn’t
say your fingerprints
define
who you are, would we?” She raised an
eyebrow. “So individually
unique
is not the same as individually
definitive
.
In this class, we’re interested in those patterns of information which not only
describe
us, but which also
define
us.” She let her gaze pan the
class for a moment. “Can anyone tell me what they are?”

“DNA?” offered an
auburn-haired girl sitting at the table next to them.

“DNA, yes. Your
complete genome. But that’s…”

As Professor
Fairchild continued, Stuart nudged Jason, nodding toward the girl who had
answered the question.
What about her? She’s not bad,
the look said. If
he hadn’t already known this introductory material backward and forward, he
might have responded with his own look for,
Shut up and pay attention
.
But the distraction was welcome, so he gave the girl an appraising glance. She
had tan skin, with auburn hair swept over to cascade down a shoulder. The
overall effect was a sort of understated attractiveness that, along with her presence
here, meant she was just the type of girl he’d be interested in. So he offered
Stuart a disinterested shrug and turned his attention back to the lecture.

“…skills, and
ultimately, what we call personality,” Professor Fairchild was saying. “If we could
create an accurate map of every neuron in your brain, along with every one of
the connections that neuron has with other neurons, we would have documented
you
.
We call such a detailed map of the brain a
neuromap
.

“And there you
have them – our two individually definitive patterns of information. The genome
and the neuromap. Your own personal blueprint.

“Fortunately, genomes
are easy to work with, as you’ll see later on today. On the other hand, the
neuromap is a little more challenging, for two reasons. One: whereas your
genome consists of only a few million base pairs of DNA, your neuromap consists
of about a hundred billion neurons and a hundred
trillion
synaptic
connections – seven orders of magnitude more complex than the genome.”

A few murmurs rose
around the classroom.

“If you find
this intimidating,” Professor Fairchild said, “consider the fact that by the
end of this semester, each of you will be expected to identify all the genetic
markers for any of several hundred physical traits, to be able to model…”

“Told you she
was a ball buster,” Stuart whispered, leaning close. He slipped his hands
underneath the table and cupped them over his groin in a meaningful gesture,
putting a pained look on his face. Jason couldn’t help chuckling under his
breath.

The
auburn-haired girl must have been a lip reader, because she pierced Stuart with
a glare. Her brows furrowed in disapproval as she let her gaze linger, and he responded
by holding up his hands in mock surrender. Jason allowed himself to smile at
Stuart’s gaffe – typical of him – but then she shifted her glare from Stuart to
him. Frost radiated from her pale blue eyes, and Jason felt his smile vanish.

Someone on the other
side of the room raised a hand. “Professor, you said there were two reasons
neuromaps are difficult to work with. What’s the other one?”

“Right,”
Professor Fairchild said. “The other reason is simple. Neurons are small, and
most of them are deep inside your brain. We do have scanning devices with the
penetration and resolution required to create an accurate neuromap – gamma ray
laser encephalographs, the older nano-MRIs – but they also have the unfortunate
side effect of destroying the neurons they document. So while you might be able
to make a neuromap of yourself once, don’t be surprised when you’re dead after
it’s done.”

Laughter erupted
around the room, but fell silent as soon as the students realized she might not
have meant it as a joke.

As the room
quieted, Professor Fairchild paused, surveying the class. A few students still
wore attentive expressions, but others stared at their photoscreens or the
dimmed view of the campus through the front wall. Or in Stuart’s case, Ivory’s
legs.
She
seemed to be one of the few still paying attention.

Professor
Fairchild clasped her hands in front of her. “I think that’s probably enough
theory for today. Let’s move on to something a little more hands-on, shall we?”

“Finally,”
Stuart whispered with a yawn.

“You may have
noticed the sub-dermal scanners at each of your tables.” The professor gestured
to the microscope-slash-coffee-maker device in the center of the table nearest
her. “When I was in school – the dark ages to all of you – we went through an
exercise in biology class that involved pricking our fingers to determine our
own blood type. Today, I won’t be asking you to draw any blood, but you
will
be doing the modern equivalent – sequencing your own genomes.

“One of my
assistants will be around to each of your tables to help you get started with
the scanners. In the meantime, I understand several of you will be interning in
the Chariot lab.

Jason’s pulse
quickened.
Here we go.

“May I see the
following students over here, please?” She pointed to one of the few remaining
empty tables near the edge of the room. The classroom filled with the low buzz
of conversation as students turned their attention to the project at hand, and
Professor Fairchild raised her voice, reading from a list on her AP.

“Jason Day.”

Jason already
had his AP and pack ready. Trying to take his time, he walked over and took a
seat at the table beside Professor Fairchild.

“Stuart
Gallihugh.”

Stuart made his
way over as well. With a glance over his shoulder, he sat next to Jason,
leaning over to whisper. “Did you catch that nut case over there?” He nodded
toward the girl with the frosty stare. “I thought she was about to pull out a
broomstick and beat me like a…”

“And Chaela
Laurensen,” Professor Fairchild finished.

“…dirty rug,”
Stuart’s voice trailed off, and Jason heard a long sigh as the young woman with
the auburn hair and pale blue eyes came over to join them. Thankfully, her navy
shorts and short-sleeved top were snug enough to rule out the likelihood she
carried any concealed broomsticks. She didn’t ignore them exactly, but Chaela’s
eyes still managed to avoid him and Stuart as she took her seat at the table.

“Since the three
of you will make up my mapping and analysis team in the Chariot lab,” Dr.
Fairchild said, “I thought it would be a good idea for you to work together in
here this semester.”

Jason studied
the professor as she eyed each of them in turn. Her textured business suit, the
delicate gold necklace, a late-model AP – up close, the details reinforced
Jason’s impression of crisp professionalism.

“You already
know from your internship applications that Chariot is aimed at solving the
problem I described earlier,” she said. “The heart of our project is a new technology
which can, in theory, create a neuromap of a living subject
without
causing any damage. Cold-field HARmonic IOn Tomography – Chariot. I’ll need each
of you to review this lab ops manual and familiarize yourselves with it.” With
a slide of her hand, she sent a document from her AP to each of their embedded
workstations.

“So we might
have the chance to create the first real neuromaps, then?” Stuart asked.

“Not exactly,”
the professor said. “There are plenty of neuromaps, but because of the imaging
problem, the only complete ones are from people who opted for stasis upon death.”

“But aren’t
those in some secret government database somewhere?” Jason asked, though he
already knew the answer
.
“No one’s allowed access, right?”

“No one but us.”
Dr. Fairchild gave him barest hint of a smile, more a sparkle in her eyes than
a curve of her mouth. “You’re right. Since the Moratorium Act, those neuromaps
have been restricted to prevent unauthorized continuance. By law, they’re kept
in a secure DIA database called Arkive. But the Chariot project’s been granted
an exemption to that restriction, and we’ll be using Arkive data to calibrate
the imaging device.”

Jason felt a
grin spread across his face. Sanctioned access to Arkive – something Alex and Chrysalis
could never match.
A joyride on autonav.

“Of course, this
will all be done under strict security protocols,” Dr. Fairchild said.

Jason’s grin
slipped a little. Strict security protocols? He’d planned for data monitoring
and oversight – audits and the like, but this sounded like something else
entirely.

The professor
gestured toward the door behind them. A man in a dark suit stood just inside,
arms crossed. Jason hadn’t noticed him come in. At Dr. Fairchild’s prompt, he
unfolded from his place by the door – a motionless gargoyle coming to life. As
he approached, he swept eyes hidden behind dark smartglasses across Jason and
the others in slow, systematic arcs. The glasses looked more rugged than
Jason’s Ray Bans, with thick angular frames packed with photonics and sensors. The
effect reminded Jason of an insect, or…a spider
. A DIA Agent.

No.

Dr. Fairchild
spoke. “Everyone, I’d like to introduce Agent Lindsay Grieves.”

It was midmorning by the time
class let out, and Jason left the Novella building in a daze. Shoving his smartglasses
on, he called up some music, cranking the volume with an annoyed flick of his
finger at the visual overlay. The song had been old even when he first heard
it, and usually brightened his mood. But not today.

It’s all the
same. Only the names will change.

Every day it
seems we’re wasting away.

He strode around slower students,
shaking his head to himself every few yards as he wrestled with this new complication.
The project files – including the ones he’d hacked – hadn’t mentioned thing one
about direct DIA oversight. Worse, the spiders would have a security presence
monitoring access to the lab. Full time, 24/7. The energizing certainty he’d
felt just that morning had disintegrated the minute that agent, Grieves, had
walked through the door.

Too close. Too
close.
Even
the thought felt confused.
Too close to the spiders to risk going on? Or too
close to Arkive and Michelle to turn back now?
He didn’t know.

With a start, Jason looked up,
surprised to find himself standing still in front of a bronze statue. Rising
ten feet from a marble pedestal and ringed by a circular bench, it depicted a
young woman in a floor-length formal gown, her head tilted to one side over the
violin she cradled in her left hand. Her right hand was frozen in the act of
drawing a bow across the strings, the expression on her face implying a single,
emotion-filled note. Whether it was sad or serene was impossible to say. Sunlight
played off the burnished highlights in her flowing bronze hair.

Letting his eyes drift down, he stared
at the empty bench encircling the pedestal, thinking about what Alex had said
earlier.
Inside or outside, if you get caught, it doesn’t matter.
The
prospect left a tense, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. But in the
end, having the spiders around changed nothing
.

I’ll just have
to be a very clever fly.

2012

Michelle Baxter sat on a circular
bench, the bronze statue on the pedestal behind her casting the long shadow of
a violinist on the grass in the morning sun. This early on a Saturday, she had
the bench to herself, sharing it only with her cello case, a black and bulky thing
standing beside her like a deformed monolith. A pleasant spring breeze carried
the fresh scent of grass cuttings, and though the temperature outside was
perfect, she sat with her arms crossed as though warding off a chill.

Dressed in a formal black concert
dress and heels, she did her best to ignore the group of several students in
similar clothing milling around beside the parking lot curb not far away.
Instead, she alternated her attention between the ground by her feet and
nothing in particular, trying to look as though she chose to sit apart and
alone for her own very important reasons. Even though she resisted making any
overt glances, one member of the group in particular kept her attention. Tall,
with brown wavy hair, Keith wore his smile as easily as his suit and tie, joking
with one of his friends. By all appearances he was oblivious to her presence.