“You did what?” asked the principal investigator, his eyes magnified by the smudged lenses of his reading glasses. A flash of panic went through me.
It had seemed such a good idea a few minutes ago, a way to break the scientific stalemate that threatened our funding. Perish felt a lot closer than publish at this point in our research. Adios minimum wage job.
“I inhaled the liquid flip-flops,” I said quietly, holding up the empty tube. My nostrils still tickled from sniffing in the cool scentless vapor. He grabbed the clear plastic contraption.
“Why in the world did you do that?” he asked, his voice trailing up in squeaky panic. It was time to talk him down yet again from the verge of meltdown. Brilliant but unstable, always needing reassurance and about as risk-taking as a slug, like the one dissected under the microscope in front of us. Apylsia was known for having large easy-to-study neurons. My lowly lab job cutting up the little buggers proved that every day.
“Because we need to know what’s going on. Creating a biological computer inside of a sea slug, waiting for the DNA digital circuitry to function and then looking for results is too slow,” I said, using the same persuasive voice that had gotten me this research job in the first place. His shell
shocked face told me it hadn't worked this time.
He looked closer at the hand-scrawled label on the side of the inhaler. “You better sit down,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder.
He immediately withdrew, as if burned. Or afraid. I sat in the nearest stool, curious, and looked up at him, my eyebrows raised. Time for him to convince me.
“You inhaled sample 2014-B5?” he asked, showing me the label side of the inhaler. The writing was upside down but the answer was obvious.
“Yes, why does that matter?” I asked, frowning for the first time. I sensed the beginning of another boring lecture, most of it bound to be way over my head as usual.
“Well, this is the batch that I brewed up with the mitochondrial speed mods,” he explained, as if I understood his biological esoterica. I suddenly realized that I did.
“Oh my God, you’ve done it,” I exclaimed, my brain buzzing with blistering logic. “You’ve managed to tie the speed of the Krebs cycle in the mitochrondrion to the slow DNA replication of the Turing machine built out of acid base flip-flops.”
His jaw dropped in surprise. “Yes, that’s it exactly. How did you know?” He covered his mouth in horror.
I touched my feverish forehead and envisioned the cells of my brain being overlaid with a digital blanket of wet circuitry. I grabbed the plastic inhaler as it dropped from his shaking hand and looked at it, surprised at my faster reflexes.
“Because it’s obvious to me. At least now it is,” I said, looking up at him. “Intelligent cancer, that’s what I have. I can sense it working in my body. Neurons being reprogrammed in high speed, the Turing machines built from my DNA transcription powered by ATP conversion. I’m
being rebuilt in real time by a self-programming organic digital device that is reading my DNA, correcting things, modifying things…”
I felt other changes. My breathing became easier. I removed the glasses I’d had since ten, when squinting at an eye chart proved I was nearsighted. No longer needed.
“What have we done?” he asked, his voice quavering in fear. I smiled at him.
“Immortality,” I answered.
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