The Day of the Double Helix
by Corwyn Green
(1997)
(Dedicated to Kilgore Trout, the character in Kurt Vonnegut's novels)
Storveld was a scientist.
He knew he was a scientist because he was logical, curious about the universe, had a talent for mathematical thinking and preferred contemplation to action.
He knew he had those qualities and talents because it was in his DNA to have those qualities and talents.
He knew what was in his DNA because it had been analyzed and the analysis posted on the Internet.
Everyone’s DNA analysis was posted on the Internet.
Storveld’s parents knew what was in his DNA before he had been born. All parents were required by law to know their children’s DNA. They were tested on it, and could only keep their child if they passed.
The law existed because everyone believed that a government-run child-rearing facility which took a child’s genetic needs into consideration could raise a child better than parents who actively refused to find out. So if parents refused, or failed their test, the child was taken away.
Of course, there were non-conformists who didn’t like mandatary DNA testing, but they were a minority. The media consistently portrayed them either as heartless people, who didn’t want children to get what they needed, or as misguided fools who’d hurt a child so they could act out their prehistoric fantasies of parental love. No one believed them when they said they loved their children.
Storveld’s parents weren’t non-conformists and believed that DNA testing was for the best. They also loved Storveld and wanted to be the best parents they could. So when they were tested on Storveld’s genetics, they got every question right. Everyone told them what a pity it was that all parents weren’t like them.
If Storveld’s parents had hoped for an artist or an athlete, they didn’t show it. They only did things that would help Storveld—being the person his DNA said he was—reach his full potential.
When they talked to him, they talked logically, not poetically. They bought building blocks and curious puzzling things instead of teddy bears and children’s television channels. Whenever his parents ran across an interesting scientific fact on the Internet, they called him over and showed it to him.
Then Storveld went to school. His principal was a pioneer: it was a robot in charge of human children. It wanted to be better at its job than a human while showing that a robot can care about human just as much as another human can. A human had no choice but to let a computer program match each child’s DNA to one of the pre-determined curriculums. But the robot could evaluate all the classed related to each child’s DNA, making certain that every single class was the best class at the best time for each child.
When it saw that Storveld was a talented scientist, it tried extra hard to help him reach his full potential.
In high school, Storveld’s guidance counselor brought up his DNA page on her computer, then had her computer come up with a list of science-oriented colleges.
His DNA and education made him perfect for any one of them, but it was the guidance counselor’s job to offer some human help. "How about NCU," she said "Sir Berentein the Martian-born geologist teaches there, and they got the most up to date computers." Storveld already knew that from the computer’s list.
"What about MIT?" Storveld asked, "they have great computers, purple walls in their dorm rooms, and an apple tree descended from the one that dropped an apple on Newton’s head."
The guidance counselor was horrified. "But you know MIT is the base of operations for Lucas’s group of hackers. There are rumors of ammunition hoards on campus and preparations of a small war!"
"Nevertheless..." Storveld began.
"How about MPU? They have the best chemistry labs, and a great campus situated in a rural area. Perfect for hiking, relaxation, or contemplation. If you want a stimulating environment, MPU is much better than purple walls."
Storveld still applied to MIT. But by that time, Lucas and his hackers were in control, even if no one admitted that they were anything more than students. They read Storveld’s DNA file, including the parts unaccessible to the general public: they were hackers. Then they had the dean reject Storveld’s application: according to Storveld’s DNA, there was no way Lucas could use him in his plan for global domination.
Storveld felt that one college was, ultimately, as good as another, so he ended up going to the one nearest him. He did all the things college students did, pulled all-nighters, burn himself out protesting lost causes, read Kurt Vonnegut, drank coffee, drank beer, faced the fact of a nine to five job, and learned that High School had been the best time of his life even thought he didn’t know it at the time.
He graduated near the bottom of his class, having almost flunked out entirely. Upon graduating he was instantly hired by a large, prestigious plastics company to do important, highly-paid work.
This wasn’t a due fluke of nature or a bad deus ex machina. Storveld’s DNA page said he was a brilliant scientist, while the other guys were merely talented. It also said he would do better at actual work than at academic study. The plastics company had simply done what made most sense to it.
Storveld’s first job was to study the merits, faults, possible uses, and possible hazards of a new material, uncreatively dubbed Newmat, which seemed to be a possible replacement for plastic. Depending on what Storveld discovered, his company would switch from making plastic to making Newmat, continue making plastic while incorporating Newmat in its machinery, or avoid Newmat entirely while trying to trick it’s competitors into using it.
Although Storveld’s company was made up of humans and human-made robots, it wasn’t even remotely human. It did all the things a living organism did, but without a body. It had needs, ups and downs, but it was it was without emotion.
Storveld didn’t really want plastic replaced. Plastic had become part of human culture, art, and traditions. It had long since ceased being "modern" and had become "tried and true". But the company demanded that only the best be used, and Storveld had to serve it’s needs to serve his own.
The company gave Storveld a lab, which came with human and mechanical scientists for Storveld’s use in his company’s service. Neither his DNA nor his education had prepared him to be a leader. Of course, the company knew his DNA and education, so it provided him with two advisors.
With so many human and mechanical resources, Storveld had no trouble doing what the company asked of him, and found that Newmat could not replace plastic, but it could be used in some ways to make machinery more efficient.
So Storveld’s company paid a robotics company to create and design these more efficient machines. Other companies noticed that Storveld’s company had replaced it’s machines, as they didn’t want to be left behind too long, they too obtained machines that were made with Newmat parts.
At first, all went well. Then things went not so well. Then everything went to hell.
Newmat had warped, cracked, or disintegrated within the machines that depended on it. Those companies that hadn’t yet discarded their "obsolete" non-Newmat machinery put it back and went on working. Some were rich enough that replacing all their machines—twice—barely dented their budget. But most weren’t so lucky.
Storveld’s company couldn’t afford to replace all its machines again, so it limped on while it could with machinery crippled by disintegrating Newmat. It was obvious that the company was doomed if it couldn’t discover and fix whatever was going wrong, so all it’s resources were directed to that purpose: the company gave everything it had to Storveld’s lab, and put it’s fate in his hands.
Storveld used his advisors to tell him how to use his scientists, who used the inanimate machinery, which found that Newmat was disintegrating because it reacted with nitrogen, the gas that Earth’s atmosphere was mostly made of.
This hadn’t been noticed before because Nitrogen wasn’t reacting with Newmat chemically, but physically. N2 gas was the perfect size and shape to fit into Newmat’s pores. When Newmat experienced pressure or temperature change, which machine parts did, the pores changed size and shape, which drove the nitrogen either out of it or deeper in. In the latter case, the nitrogen accumulated, warping or splitting the Newmat, much like water splits concrete.
Storveld requested more funding to find a way to prevent nitrogen from getting into Newmat’s pores. But there was no more funding. The company was bankrupt. The living things in it’s service were released and the material things were eaten up by other companies.
No one held the Newmat disaster against Storveld. If he couldn’t predict that Newmat would react with nitrogen, than no one else could have. If he couldn’t realize what was wrong and fix it using only the time an resources available to him, why then, a less talented person couldn’t even have discovered what had gone wrong!
No one could think any other way: it said plainly and indisputably on his DNA page that Storveld was one of the best.
Many of Storveld’s co-workers couldn’t find jobs. So many companies had been hurt by the Newmat episode that there were more workers than jobs at this time. But Storveld got a job with the first company—another plastics manufacturer—that he approached.
He had applied for a position as a lab assistant, but he was put in charge again. His employers insisted that they couldn’t waste him as a mere assistant.
This time, Storveld’s lab developed new molecular structures. Someone else tested them. After a year of stability, Storveld decided it was time to get married.
He moved from his studio apartment into something large enough to start a family in. Then he went to the marriage center of the Internet and identified himself. While the computer played matchmaker, it let him view advice on having and maintaining relationships. Finally, it presented compatible DNA pages to Storveld, twenty pages at a time. After examining many DNA pages, he found one he liked most and e-mailed the woman that it represented. She e-mailed him back and said she wasn’t looking for marriage at this point in her life. Obviously, she had looked at his DNA and decided she wasn’t interested. The next woman he e-mailed accepted, and Storveld dated her, first on virtual cites on the Internet and then in person, but they just didn’t seem to use the same words to mean the same things.
Storveld ended up marrying his third choice. She was a scientist, like him. She had a high forehead and smooth face. Soon after she moved in with him, she covered every available horizontal surface with plants. She was most often seen wearing flowing green dresses and silver jewelry that had a crescent moon motif. She moved with a slow, restrained grace. She was quiet, serene as a cumulus cloud.
She often spoke to him about the glories of the universe, the stately drama that the stars played out through spans of time unimaginable, the twists of space-time that made existence possible. She could muse for hours about a flower-petal or a pencil shaving, tracing it’s existence back though time, to the plant it came from, to the dirt, to the magma, all the way back to the Big Bang, and the journey was never the same twice.
Storveld supposed he loved her.
One day the elevators in Storveld’s apartment were down and his wife was walking down the stairs, when she tripped over her long green dress and fell. The landing broke her neck.
Storveld missed his wife’s company and her body. He regretted her untimely death. But he didn’t cry. He didn’t even change his daily routine.
His unconcern worried him, so he didn’t look for another wife. A woman deserved a man who’d love her, not someone who could do with or without her equally well! Storveld decided that even if a woman looking for marriage e-mailed him, he wouldn’t respond.
He forgot to water his wife’s plants and they died.
After a few years of designing plastic molecules, Storveld told his boss that he knew what was wrong with Newmat and would like to work on fixing it. His boss agreed, but told Storveld that he’d have to do it on his own time and pay for the supplies. If Storveld succeeded, the company would reimburse him for the supplies and work, and then pay some additional money for the secret.
The boss was surprised when Storveld didn’t accept her proposition. She thought all scientists were confident, if not fanatical, about their ideas and so responded to a "if you succeed" as if it was a "yes". She thought she had been very clever, making sure she wouldn’t loose anything if Storveld failed but would gain everything if he succeeded. She was surprised that Storveld wouldn’t take a chance.
But Storveld interested in pursuing his scientific idea, he just thought working with Newmat instead of plastic would relieve some of his boredom. He didn’t want to work with both materials, especially if he was risking losing money on Newmat. So he dropped the idea. The world would have to do without Newmat until someone else took it up.
One day, Storveld checked his e-mail and found a summons from the Main Clinic.
The Main Clinic was humanity’s largest and most recent effort to heal itself. Besides taking up the most space of any hospital, it had everything from surgery to psychology. It now ordered Storveld to report to it’s DNA center.
Once there, Storveld was directed to a door with a name plate that read "Dr. Terrel D. Smith, genetics and computer specialist". The door opened into a generic office room, with one plant, one picture of a plant, and one shuttered window. The room was occupied by a pretty smiling blonde. Her smile was such a genuine, exuberant thing that it could only have been a habitually worn mask, but Storveld just thought he liked it.
The girl cheerfully identified herself as "Caroline, but you can call me Rollie" and told him that Dr. Terrel would be here shortly to tell him how the mixup happened. Oh, had no one told him about the mixup? She thought the letter had explained it all... No? Well, has he ever felt bored, disinterested, as if he were living someone else’s life? That’s because he has. The DNA file on the Internet that had been attributed to him, she said, was wrong.
How wrong? She continued to look cheerful and told him that his real DNA clearly labeled him as a violent criminal. But not to worry, she cheerfully added, since he hadn’t actually committed any crimes, he was clearly not a criminal, whatever his DNA said. He must believe that, she said.
Then Dr. Terrel Smith entered and explained that what happened was a typo. Either someone typed something wrong or a computer misunderstood someone’s dictation, but Storveld’s record had been confused with a man named Starvold. Starvold—the genetic scientist—had been aborted before birth by parents who had thought he was a criminal. Storveld—the genetic criminal—should have been aborted, but had grown up to believe he was a scientist.
It was too late to abort Storveld, and no one could simply kill a man who has done nothing wrong, so the Clinic offered him free counseling services. They gave him the services for free because it was their fault, Dr. Terrel said, not because they were afraid of him turning criminal. A life-time of training could not be done over, he said, but a half hour every week with a psychiatrist would help him discover and deal with his true genetic make up. They’d even let him choose his psychiatrist. He could work with "Rollie here" if he wanted to, or a man his own age perhaps?
Storveld refused. He didn’t like the idea of going to a psychiatrist every week, and he wanted to avoid anything he associated with the Main Clinic.
So the Main Clinic sterilized him to prevent him from spreading his genes and sent him back out into society.
Storveld went back to his apartment and plastics company. His company considered his new genetic map, his history of mediocre work, and the Main Clinic’s threat that it would sue if Storveld was fired without a reason. Then it acted in it’s own best interest.
Storveld was demoted and transferred to another lab, one in which he did not have access to influential computer programs or materials more hazardous than diluted HCl. He was made an assistant this time.
Storveld liked that. He found his job a lot less stressful now that he was told what to do, instead of being forced to tell people what to do.
He was also happy that he continued getting as much money as he used to. Storveld thought that this was a harmless oversight and didn’t report it.
It wasn’t an oversight, of course, it was an expression of fear.
People prepared to forget about this mistake like they forgot about car crashes, economic upsets, and company downsizing. Life goes on.
But the media didn’t see it that way. There was no war on Earth, and the on-going alien invasion has been a stalemate for a generation. Genetics had eliminated murder, theft, and all forms of nastiness except the casual cruelty that, DNA specialists said, was intrinsic to the human race. When Storveld’s story leaked out, the media had been discussing rude customers who thought "customers are always right" must, by definition, include the very physical laws of the universe. This was a mistake on the media’s part, since the customers under discussion simply deleted their e-mailed newspapers unread and stopped buying news-only television channels.
Storveld’s story gave the media the break it was looking for. It didn’t take them long to report the facts. Then they were left a lot of time with nothing to say.
They wanted to interview Storveld, but Storveld refused to be interviewed for the same reason he had refused the Main Clinic’s offer of counseling. He wanted to go on with his life, not dwell on his DNA.
So the media killed time by debating:
How could a genetic criminal be a productive member of society? What about the aborted Starvold, the brilliant scientist the world has lost because of a mixup? Should abortions of probable criminals be made illegal again? Is the death of a few latent criminals—like Storveld—a better alternative to letting all criminals run loose, putting random innocents at risk? Should people go back to living in fear, afraid to sleep in their bedrooms because of the criminals running loose, just so some people with criminal DNA like Storveld could have their chance to live normal lives?
People found the media interesting again. They looked at the available arguments and choose ones they liked.
One side argued that people must abolish the fiendish DNA testing project, that people have lived without it, that it’s better to take the risks of encountering a criminal than risk losing more people like the scientist Starvold and the untalented but decent Storveld.
The other side insisted that the DNA testing was an aspect of technological progress, of man controlling evolution rather than evolution controlling him, that reverting to a society that bred random criminals was a terrifying step back.
Each side defended it’s ideas with words and statistics. Each side insisted that the that other side’s words and statistics were biased.
There was a third side. They were convinced that one solution was as good as another. They believed that the winner would be determined, as usual, by money and power, enabling Darwinism—not Right—to triumph again. But they did not put their feelings into words (What’s the use? Whoever won, innocents would die) so they didn’t influence politics at all.
Lucas, who was now a permanent member of MIT’s faculty, saw the chance he had been looking for. He had one of his hackers tell the press something everyone wanted to hear: there was an ideal answer, a way DNA testing can continue while ensuring no mistakes were ever made. Lucas’ spokesperson said he could make certain that computer mistakes never happen.
The speaker was one of Lucas’ favorites: a robot that looked like a cross between Isaac Asimov and Albert Einstein. Lucas had used a computer to create three dimensional images of Asimov and Einstein, and then had the computer average the two. He build the robot to look as much like the computer generated average as he could. Them he programmed it to be good at public relations, be better at public relations, and to worship it’s creator.
Now the computer generated average was seen on every holovision screen, on everything with Internet access, on every newspaper’s moving picture. "I could not tell you how we will do this, it would be so technical it would sound like so much technobabble," said the computer-generated average, "but we can eliminate all computer mistakes. Give me a chance to help you. Test me. Start by letting me take over the responsibility of a non-essential computer system."
The robot could not deny being created in MIT, but it denied that it was made and sent by Lucas. It said it was an AI, a machine with intelligence and spirit, equal to any non-synthetic life form. Lucas had programmed it to say that.
This was a solution acceptable to all three sides. The third side, which hadn’t believed an ideal solution was possible, was the first to support everything the computer-generated average said. But the rest of the voting public remembered Lucas’ other attempts at global domination, and very few of them trusted the robot from MIT enough to give it control.
The younger generation didn’t remember Lucas. Some careful P.R. from the robot made the younger generation think that associating MIT with Lucas was a form of prejudice that needed to be overcome.
The robot withdrew from the media, but not before giving the impression that it was setting out to work quietly at overcoming the irrational prejudices that prevent it from helping all of humankind.
Lucas transferred his brain into a the robot’s body and waited for the children to reach voting age.
But the alien invasion was still a stalemate. No celebrities were dying, and thanks to modern medicine, no one as rich as a celebrity could got any diseases worse than the still-uncured common cold. Storveld was still more interesting than the sniffles, so the media returned to him again.
Up till now, he’s managed to evade all the media’s attempts to interview him. But no one is uncorruptible, except perhaps a religions fanatic terrified of Divine Wrath, and the media knew that. Eventually, one of news networks outbid the others and offered him a sum of money so large that Storveld had to agree to an interview.
*It's not the end of the story yet. Click here to turn the page and read on...*
Last modified: Nov 27, 1997
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