>From: kmrc@ellis.uchicago.edu (Melanie A. Miller)
Subject: STORY: DEUS EX > Chapter One, Pt. 1
Date: 17 Nov 91 19:04:06 GMT


				DEUS EX
				by Melanie Miller

			all rights reserved - copyright 1991



CHAPTER ONE (part one)

Memories make us what we are
June, 2003
	
	"Oh, God, not again."
	The words echoed off blank Clean Room tiles, back to an
irritated research technician staring at an old ENIO computer
terminal.  With mechanical glee, the monitor had decided to crash
during an experiment, replacing a graph of immunoassay reaction
times with red static.
	Why does the frigging thing always have to break down when
I'm using it, the tech wondered.  Morosely, he imagined little
electronic voices giggling to themselves:  "Let's see how we can
screw up Rich's assays today, hee, hee, hee.""
	A wonderful fantasy came into mind--one fist cocking back,
then punching forward to make a nice, satisfying hole in the
monitor screen.  A last, dying electronic scream as the obsolete
piece of junk went to that Computer Graveyard in the Sky. . .
	And then Kate would kill you.  Slowly.
	Nice dream, though, Rich mused as he started typing.  A
series of hot-key commands told the computer to run through a
series of diagnostics (recommended by the operator's manual, said
manual assuming that the monitor hadn't been through obsolescence,
near-junking, and reluctant rebirth in a basement lab).
Microscopic chip circuits opened and closed, something had to
work--
	The computer burped, and reddish static was replaced by
loud FCC snow.  Swearing under his breath, the tech gave up on
modern diagnostics and went back to the basics.  He whacked the
monitor on the side.
	Nothing.  It still looked like a broadcast from Mars.
	"Richard," said a tired voice behind him, "why do you have
to take out your aggressions on my equipment?  Don't you have a
computer at home you can beat?"
	"I only beat equipment when it misbehaves," he muttered.
	"Which means?"
	Rich closed his eyes and waited for the explosion.  Kate
was usually good-tempered, but the tension over the last few weeks
had eroded her patience.  And they needed the computers
desperately. . .  "That the monitor just went down again," he
admitted.
	Dr. Katherine Elliott turned from her own terminal,
frowning.  "That's the third time this month," she said crisply.
"I thought you said you'd fixed it."
	"I did.  Unfortunately, the monitor isn't staying fixed."
	"Wonderful," the project director muttered, rolling her
eyes at the smooth tile walls surrounding the computer bay.  Three
months until the project review, until they knew if the grant would
be funded--why couldn't the circuitry hold out for that long?
	"All right, we'll have to work around it," she finally
said, pushing her reading glasses up the bridge of her nose.  "Can
you patch the terminal into another monitor?"
	"I can try, Boss, but I can't promise it's going to run,"
Rich said, getting up to retrieve a beige toolbox.  "You know these
old ENIO workstations are right on the edge of total system
collapse.  I'm surprised they've held up this long, with the way
some of your grad students beat on them."  He paused, decided to
try one more time.  "Of course, if you'd let me buy some components
and upgrade the motherboards into this century--" he said
persuasively.
	"Rich, please stop bugging me about money," she said
mildly, shaking her head.  "I have none, and you know it."  The
National Institutes of Health had just committed their most recent
samurai action on federal research grants; with across-the-board
budget cuts, there was just enough funding left to cover salaries
and supplies.  Equipment was something that had to be scrounged on
an "as needed" basis.  "Otherwise, I would've bought new computers
a long time ago, and these things would've gotten a Viking funeral
on Lake Michigan," she finished.
	Rich snorted.  "If you'd give me the honor of setting them
on fire, I'd go along with that."
	"Be my guest--just get us a new computer system first.  And
while we're on the subject, don't even think about punching out
that screen."  She smiled at his suddenly guilty look.  "We need
every peripheral we can get."
	"Even the broken ones?"
	"Well, if you stop flapping your lips at me and fix the
monitor," she said sweetly, "it won't be broken anymore, will it?
Hint, hint?"
	The tech shook his head, grinning.  "You're a cruel woman,
Boss."
	"I know," Kate replied blandly.  "We dedicated project
directors are supposed to be cruel--it's in the union rules.  Now
shut up and fix the mother."
	Still grinning, Rich half-saluted and started to dismantle
the monitor.  He liked working for Kate Elliott--she was one of the
top cyberneurologists in the country and knew biotech from the
ground up.  Kate was also one of the more interesting project
directors on campus--she had an aberrant sense of humor and didn't
treat her research staff like cattle.  Which made working for
Project NAMSR (Neuroanatomical Memory Storage Research) a hell of a
lot easier than it could have been, considering the situation.
	While Lake Michigan University had a national reputation
for producing top-notch academics, it was not known as a haven for
research.  It ran a number of projects in the main
divisions--Physical, Social, and Biological Sciences--depending on
the type of political wind blowing out of Washington.  If a project
was popular, looked like it could produce good data, and would
bring in grant revenue (all three elements were important, in the
university's view), it was signed up.  If a project stumbled, it
was cut, surgically and clean.
	NAMSR was an exception, designed as an offshoot of the
university's prestigious Perlman Neurodevelopment Research Center.
Originally headed by Dr. Loren Chiles, the Center performed
in-depth research on the central nervous system, one of the last
real frontiers left in the human body.  Research perfomed in the
Center had discovered how much of the CNS operated; one major
achievement had been the isolation of neurochemicals linked to the
operation of memory in the brain.  At the beginning, NAMSR had been
set up as a program project, a sort of mini-Center, to study these
neurotransmitters with Chiles as principal investigator.
	The research broke down when the neurotransmitters proved
to be untraceable beyond a certain reaction point in the
hippocampus.  NAMSR wound up as the Center's white elephant for a
number of years--tolerated because of Chiles' funding clout, but
not taken seriously as a research entity.  It wasn't until Chiles
announced his plans to retire, nominating Kate Elliott as the new
director, that the project started attracting attention again.  It
was an unusual move for the older scientist (a signal of
encroaching senility, some of his less-successful colleagues
muttered); nominating a relatively young researcher to become
primary investigator seemed like funding suicide for the project.
But Chiles' influence and Kate's solid record as a neurobiologist
at MU-Children's Hospital had finally convinced the National
Institute of Neuroscience of her ability to handle a major project.
In due course, she was appointed director of Project NAMSR.
	Kate's first job had been to revamp the project's research
goals, aiming for a new five-year program project grant aftre the
current grant expired.  As stated in the revised proposal, the new
goals of the project were "to define the physiological processes by
which living sentient organisms record and store memory stimuli,
and determine methods of modifying this memory storage process for
use by silicon-compatible cybertnetics systems."  In layman's
terms, this meant that NAMSR intended to discover the physical
method by which human beings remembered the awesome amount of
information they gathered in a single lifetime--and, more
importantly, how all of this information was stored in a space the
size of the human skull.
	In effect, NAMSR was throwing down the gauntlet in the face
of neuroscience.  The creation of virtually unlimited memory space
had been a goal with cyberneticists for years, and the fact that an
ordinary brain could store more memories per cubic centimeter than
the most advanced supercomputer could per cubic meter  was
something that had infuriated cybertechs for years.  A computer had
a number of advantages over the brain--logical processing, random
access memory, and precision paradigms, but the organic brain still
maintained its storage superiority over any artificial system
devised, as well as the advantage of a limited self-repair
capability.  If these abilities could be combined in a single
package, it would mean a lightning jump into the next computer
generation--a cybernetics system based on an organic model,
combining the speed of silicon with the memory capabilities of
carbon.  The pluses were enormous--a computer with inherent
self-repair capabilities that didn't exist in artificial systems,
that could actually grow its own components and memory banks,
limited only by the programmer's need.  Some experts even
hypothesized that a semi-organic computer matrix was the logical
direction for artificial intelligence, arguing that the organic
component was necessary for self-consciousness.
	Unfortunately, there were still some problems to be
overcome; namely, filling some major gaps in medicine's
understanding of neurobiology.  While the fact that people could
remember things was self-evident, scientists still did not
understand the actual process by which a memory was recorded in the
brain's tissues.  The holographic paradigm of memory storage was
already accepted by most researchers, and 'hard wiring' experiments
had found structural changes that took place in the connections
between brain cells during memorization.  But the actual mechanism
that translated sensory stimuli into patterns that the brain could
store--the biological compiler--was still unknown.  This was
NAMSR's first set of goals--to determine how the brain translated
these stimuli into retrievable patterns that could be stored within
neural tissue.
	The next problem was to convert the system to silicon for
use by a mainframe.  Early attempts to create a completely organic
computer system had resulted in an unstable biochemical soup, and
the cries of outrage over scientists 'meddling in the realm of God'
had been deafening.  Further research had settled on a combination
of organic carbon and silicon elements in circuitry, creating the
first true bionics in history.  Privately, Kate hoped that the
similarity of electron placement between carbon and silicon atoms
would also serve as the bridge between natural and artificial
intelligence, allowing them to graft the storage capability of
modified brain cells directly into silicarbonon circuits.  But this
was honestly more of a hunch than anything they had demonstrated in
the lab--in the end, it was possible that the human memory system
simply could not function on an essentially artificial computer, no
matter how much silicarbonon was incorporated into its logic
boards.
	And how long would it take them to pull our funding if that
turned out to be the case, she wondered.  It would be supremely
ironic to unlock one of the greatest mysteries in the human body,
only to find that it didn't fit the requirements of a government
grant.
	Currently, the main focus was on tracing synaptic
connections in the hippocampus, a small part of the brain's limbic
system connected with short-term memory.  Certain biochemical
changes that occurred in this area of the brain during memory
experiments reinforced the view that the hippocampus was definitely
linked to memory storage.  But basic research was often compared to
the classic needle and haystack saw, and limbic research had been
going on for three years now.  All that time, all that effort, and
the hippocampus still hadn't revealed any of its secrets.
	If it had any secrets, Kate mused, suddenly bitter.  The
idea of unlocking the human memory was tantalizing on paper, but
fiendishly difficult to do in the lab.  There was an excellent
chance they were following a red herring with the hippocampus, and
would still be following it when the grant ended.  When that
happened, NAMSR would be facing NINS for competitive renewal of its
grant.  Without the achievement of their stated research goals, the
chances of funding became more and more remote.  Three strikes and
you're out, she mused sourly.  You overreached, Dr. Elliott, and
now we're going to punish you for it.  Goodbye NAMSR, LMU, and
fascinating neurological work.
	Goodbye research, hello private practice.  Oh, God.
	She closed her eyes, leaning back in the operator's chair.
Even with her eyes shut, she could still see the synapse vaguely
outlined against her lids.  You've been in front of a terminal too
long, she chided herself.  Take a break--that slide isn't going
anywhere.
	But  she couldn't stop working now--couldn't let herself
stop.  It had gone well beyond trying to save her job, into
personal territory.  The hours she spent on overtime were an
attempt to salvage the project that had slowly taken center stage
in her life.  NAMSR had become Kate's baby, the research team more
of a family than the scattered Elliott clan, and she was damned if
she was going to let the government take them away as a
budget-balancing measure.
	So get back to work, Elliott.  Wearily, she opened her
eyes, pushing up glasses that had slid to the tip of her nose.
	"You're doing it again, Boss."
	Sshe glanced at Rich.  "Pardon me?"
	"Your glasses," he repeated gently, hands still buried in
the dismantled monitor.  "I know the danger signs--whenever you're
on the brink of mental meltdown, your glasses start sliding up and
down."  His head tilted slightly, absurdly, making him look like a
quizzical Saint Bernard.  "I really don't mean to tell you your
job, but you're not helping anybody by staying here all the time,"
he continued.  "Why don't you go home?  Eat something, get some
rest, act like a normal human being for awhile."
	Kate sighed, one hand coming up to massage her neck.  Sleep
would be good.  "Since when did PIs become normal human beings?"
she asked, just to continue the needling.
	Rich rolled his eyes luridly.  "I said act, didn't I?" he
replied.  "It won't be easy, but the field of neurocybernetics will
manage to get through the night without you.  Go home."
	She smiled reluctantly at the blunt advice.  Rich had been
a senior research technican with NAMSR for seven years, and their
mutual respect for each other was well-known.  The banter was just
that--flippant words to cover that bone-deep, hard respect.  "Yeah,
yeah, and you'll wind up calling me in half an hour with some
horrible news about how the cell banks exploded," she chided.
	"I'm serious, Boss.
	"So am I."   The brashness ebbed slowly, turning weary.  "I
just keep hoping that if I look at this stuff long enough,
something's going to click," she said quietly.  "It's so damned. .
.frustrating.  All the parts to this project are functional on
their own, but we can't use them without the center, the memory
storage system.  Discover that, and everything would start to fall
into place."  She gestured towards the biolabs, towards rooms lined
with cell libraries generating endless lines of neurons for
combination with silicon wafers to produce that singular cybernetic
curiosity--silicarbonon.  "Without it, all the bits and pieces
we've discovered are useless by themselves, except as trivia."
	"There's no way you could call artificial neurons trivia,"
Rich replied.  "Those could easily be turned into brain implants,
or replace damaged nerve cells.  And you've given neuroanatomy a
whole new field to examine with the new deep-range scanning
programs.  We've done a hell of a lot of good work here, Boss, and
none of it is trivial."
	Kate glanced at him.  No anger there, only a need to
convince her, rebuild her confidence.  It must be scaring him to
see me like this, she realized hazily.  Elliott the Silicarbonon
Queen--tough as nails and twice as sharp--ready to crack.
	"I know, Rich," she said quietly.  "And I'm sorry.  I
didn't mean it like that--I'm just tired and talking crazy.  Time
for the PI to go home."  She checked her watch.  "You know the
drill--"
	"If anything happens, you'll be the first to know," he
assured her.  "We'll pipe data directly to your home terminal."
	She grunted, nodding, and started to shut down her
workstation.  Home.  It sounded like a fine idea.

	The small apartment on Kimbark and 58th Street was within
walking distance of the BRI building (rented specifically for that
option).  As she opened the door, Kate enjoyed the peculiar feeling
of peace she got from the apartment.  The Kimbark Building was over
sixty years old, red brick and mortar on the outside, old woodwork
and marble on the inside.  Typical Hyde Park structure built for
the illuminati that had built the University, now surrendered to
grad students and the occasional professor.  Cracked plaster walls
and an ancient molded ceiling trim added to the place's charm, but
it was Kate's collection of computer artifacts, knick-knacks,
masks, and the odd Chicago street sign that gave the place a
feeling of home.  After spending a day surrounded by clean room
decor and plastic monitors, it was nice to come home, pat the
horrible plaster lion perched by the door, and feel surrounded by
bits of herself.  Which probably means that I'm schizophrenic as
hell, she mused, tossing her purse on a chair and heading into the
kitchen.  A good therapist could probably have a field day with
this stuff.
	While she waited for the coffee, she watched the day's
messages on the answering machine.  Two were sales pitches, the
standard animated commercials fed by telemarketing computers into
unsuspecting vidphones every day.  The last message was from Dr.
Phillip Baumgarten, the director of the Perlman Center and Kate's
nominal superior.
	"Hi, Kate.  Um, I called your office, and one of your techs
said you'd gone home for the evening," he said, fidgeting slightly.
Kate had to smile at this--Phil once said that answering machines
were bad enough, but the nationwide installation of videophones
added insult to injury.  "I'm surprised--I thought you lived in
that dungeon you call a lab."
	Kate blinked, grinning at this.  "I wouldn't call it a lab
if you gave me some topside lab space, you twerp," she murmured to
the screen.
	The screen image ignored her.  "Well, um, if you get home
at a reasonable hour and you don't have company--what I mean is, if
you're not busy--oh, hell, just call me, okay?  I want to talk to
you about NAMSR's site visit."  A pause, while he glanced away,
trying to find a graceful way out of the call.  "Well, bye.  Call
me."
	She shook her head as she hit the REWIND button.  Phil had
first wandered into her life during internship year at the ULM
Medical Center, where they teamed up with another intern, Tim
Gideon, and became the ruling pranksters of the hospital.  After
residency, their paths diverged, Kate and Tim following the
research track through BRI's labs, and Phil getting involved in the
administration, eventually working his way up to the Center
Director's office.  As a friend, he was delightful.  As a comrade
in crime, he had a nimble, inventive mind.  As a budget-conscious
superior, well. . .
	He did the best he could, she reminded herself.  Phil was
constantly getting flak from the Division about NAMSR's
non-production, running the gauntlet for her in a way she had no
business to expect.  But a call could wait until morning--she
wasn't in the mood to be pumped for hopeful news.  Especially when
there wasn't any.
	Grabbing her sandwich and coffee, Kate settled on the couch
to review the day's notes, switching back and forth between the
datapad and a neurology journal.  An article on bionics caught her
attention briefly, news about crude polycarbon feedback devices,
myoelectric limbs.  She flipped back to the beginning, amused to
recognize one of the authors, a self-appointed expert in
neurocybernetics who was apparently fixated on the old "Six Million
Dollar Man' series.  Wonder what he'd say if he saw our stuff?
	One of the ironic things about the project, she mused, was
that they had blueprints for a semi-organic computer circuit ready
for production.  Immortalized neural cells had been combined with
thin sheaths of polysilicon to form simple axons, the hybrid
supported by a specialized nutrient flow channeled across the
silicon sheath.  Building silicarbon chips into artificial brain
structures, then, was simply a matter of using the organic model
and working from that to create the complex banks needed for memory
storage.  Until the process of translating stimuli into memories
was discovered, though, artificial brain structures were
effectively useless.  The circuitry alone could replace damaged
nerves in isolated cases (and the possibility of bionic nerve chips
was actually a subproject within the research), but they couldn't
generate the unique transformation of analog data into memory.
	Kate glanced down at the datapad again, absorbing the
information.  Standard information on the tests run during the day,
certain pieces falling into their places on the puzzle.  A coded
tagalong at the end of the datastream caught her eye--the code
meant an error in one of the experiments.  She scrolled down past
raw data, hitting the marked section.
	The notation read that there had been an error in one of
the memorization experiments.  Electrodes tapes to the skulls of
participating rats had picked up an analogous firing from the
anterior section of the hippocampus, very faint.  When the
experiment was repeated, the signals couldn't be recaptured.
Martin Singh, the post-doc in charge of the experiment,
hypothesized that the electrodes had malfunctioned and recommended
discarding the day's data.
	No, really, Martin, she thought sarcastically.  Of course
I'll discard it.
	Best to check it out first, though.  She tapped the
pad--obediently, it replayed a truncated graphic of an EEG tracing.
The small glitch appeared at two different areas, signalling an
interruption in the normal bioelectric flow of the rat's brain.
For some reason, the glitches--a small, finely waved
tracing--looked familiar to her.  She typed in a request for
amplification.
	NOT AVAILABLE.
	"Shit," she muttered under her breath.  She stood up and
took the datapad over to her desk, plugging it into her PC and
dumping data directly into the larger computer.  The PC hummed for
a moment, then displayed a more detailed picture of the double
glitch.  Here the waves were amplified, showing an odd waveform
where there should have been a smooth parabola.
	She punched for further enlargement.  The screen lurched
forward, focusing on the waveform.  What had been a brief series of
uneven scallops became more defined.
	Again.
	A series of waves followed by a spike, waves followed by
two spikes.  Waves, spike, spike, waves, spike.
	Kate gazed at the graphic, something nudging at the back of
her mind.  The pattern looked like something she had seen before,
niggling at her.  The question was--
	Of course.  The glitch vaguely resembled something she had
seen in a computer course from college--modulation/demodulation
waves used by a computer modem, the old telephone method for
computer transmission before the global cybernet of fiber-optics
had been established.  As telephone transmission was designed for
the analog human voice and computer transmission used digital
signals, some sort of conversion process was necessary--
	Some sort of conversion process.
	"Oh," she said involuntarily.  "Oh, my."
	It struck her with head-on force--translating digital
signals to analog, then back again.  Or vice versa.  Analog data
carried by the sensory neurons to the brain, converted to digital
through the one point in the brain where all signals were funneled,
the only logical source for an organic modem.
	The hippocampus.
	Kate leaned back carefully, keeping the rush inside.  Not
yet, not until they checked out the signal, found its source.
She'd scream when they pinpointed the waveform source in the
hippocampus, determined that it wasn't an electrode malfunction or
a rat tumor.  Which could only be done at the lab.
	She almost forgot to close the door on her way out.
	
	"YES!"
	Kate leaped out of the operator's chair, throwing her arms
around Rich to plant a loud kiss on his cheek.  "We've found it!"
she yelled jubilantly.
	"You bet your sweet ramchip," Rich yelled back.  They broke
apart to stare hungrily down at the monitor.  Flowing across the
screen was a steady stream of waves and spikes, computer-augmented
amplifications of a rat's EEG during a memory experiment.  "Jesus,
that's beautiful," he breathed reverently.
	"That's better than beautiful--that is direct conversion of
neural analog signals into digital patterns," Kate replied, her
attention locked on the monitor.  "Raw data, but readable by a
computer.  We can tap it, track it, and record it--exactly what
that rat was remembering at that moment."
	Rich nodded, suddenly uncomfortable.  "Yeah, we can tap it,
but we still don't know where the rat records that memory," he
reminded her.  "Or what it's a memory of, for that matter."
	"Which is the next step," Kate said intently, leaning over
to turn on another workstation outfitted with a holo projector.
Epiphany had continued on the way over to the lab, revelation
following revelation like a line of dominoes.  What had she
said--"There are so many parts to the project, all functional on
their own but useless without the center."  And now they finally
had the center.
	Her fingers flew across the keyboard, calling up an old
program.  Above the monitor, the holo stage sprouted a long model
of chained carbon molecules, every other atom in the chain flanked
by a set of two golden pinpoints.  "This is that anomalous
single-chain carbon molecule we found a few months ago."
	Rich nodded.  "The backbone for that weird neuron
microtubule," he agreed.
	"Right.  It only links up with other microtubules like it,
and the damn things crosshatch every major brain cell type we've
studied," Kate said.  "Each carbon molecule chained like this keeps
two valence electrons open in its outer shell.  Valence electrons
are used to link up with other electrons, but there are kept open.
Why?"
	The tech studied the hologram.  Pinpoints winked on and
off, turning around the chain like shackled stars.  "You don't
mean--"
	"I do mean," she said, catching his attention in her own
enthusaism.  "What if those electrons act as logic gates, each one
carrying a single byte of information?  What if you have a network
like this set up throught the entire brain, a three-dimensional
network that can shuttle information from nexus--" she typed, and
another chain appeared to cross the first chain, "--to nexus--."
	 Another chain.
	"--to nexus."
	Another.
	Rich shook his head, still staring at the microtubule
hologram.  "Jesus, Boss, I don't know.  I mean, it sounds
feasible," he said doubtfully.  "But how are the memories
organized?  If this is right, the brain has to use some kind of a
storage and retrieval system--God," he suddenly realized, "it
evolved its own ROM.  And we've got to crack that language?"
	"It can be done.  One way or another, we can work it out,"
Kate replied softly, her attention shifting between the stream of
data and the glittering chain.  "What we had to do was pinpoint the
method of memory conversion and storage first."  One finger tapped
the screen, then pointed towards the golden holo.  "We've got what
looks like a conversion process here, and the logical basis for
storage here."  And now she did turn away from the screen, her face
lit up with the uncomplicated eagerness of a child on Christmas
morning.  "All we have to do is find out where specific memories
are going, track the conversion process, and then we can decode the
program."  With some difficulty she paused, trying to sort out the
next hundred things to do.  "Scrap the relecephalon experiments.
We're going to need lots of computer time to rerun all the
hippocampus tapes, and someone in Comp Sci will have to write a
program that will screen for that signal.  If it showed up on one
tape, it may have shown up on others--I want to match what the rats
were doing to the signal."  She tried to keep up with her own
thoughts.  "I'm going to need, let's see, some atomic studies of
hippocampal tissue--get Bruce in Electron Microscopy to freeze all
carbon structures--and some background material on carbon atom
relationships in vivo."
	Rich had grabbed a datapad and was frantically scribbling
it all down.  "Oh, and get some three-dimensional frameworks of the
EM stuff made up," she added.
	"Holo or solid?"
	"Both.  I want something I can throw at the site reviewers.
Literally."  In her mind, she blessed her undergraduate biochem
instructor, the old goat, for making carbon/organic conbinations a
clasroom drill.  "I may wind up making a complete fool of myself on
this, but I think we're finally on the right track," she said.
	"Maybe," Rich said, suddenly grinning.  "If we are, a lot
of people are going to be in for a surprise."
	Meaning all of the researchers in Computer Science who
laughed up their sleeves at those idiots in BRI, trying to grow a
mainframe, if you can imagine it.  "Believe me, they've got it
coming," Kate said, her face lighting up with a lovely, feral look.
"And I'm going to love giving it to them."

	The next three months turned into a classic race against
time, big science versus human stamina.  Kate was willing to admit
that she was gambling NAMSR on an unproved theory, and the sheer
amount of data that had to be collected before she could even begin
to form an acceptable background for the microtubule storage system
was staggering.
	But  the whole process was unravelling so perfectly, she
thought, gazing at streams of monitored data.  Once the anterior
tip of the hippocampus had been marked as the demomod, the
conversion telltales began to show themselves to the electrodes,
flowing gracefully onto a mainframe-linked EEG monitor.  The carbon
chains in the microtubules followed suit, revealing themselves as
ever-shifting strands of biocircuitry, evolved to interact with
other strands throughout the brain in a meticulous symphony of
thought.
	In effect, the brain took up analog data from sensory
neurons, translated it to digital signals in the hippocampus, then
distributed the signals throughout the brain.  Bioelectrical bursts
of memory cascaded at other signals, releasing a stream of images,
sounds.  Wetware, she termed it, deliberately lifting the term from
old SF stories, countless scientific articles.  The soft machinery
that predated the computer and so eerily paralleled its inner
circuitry, its motherboards and ROM.  In retrospect, the similarity
wasn't surprising, for what was the computer but a poor imitation
of the brain?
	Armed with the new data, Kate prepared a revised grant
abstract detailing the new areas of research NAMSR had opened, and
mailed it out to the NINS review board.  With a little more luck,
they would have a solid body of work to present at the site visit,
a full example of the MS theory and wetware.  Construction of
silicarbon circuitry was already in progress, circuitry that could
be grafted into a small computer to form a primitive version of
their planned semiorganic mainframe.  Parallel to this, the CS
programming team had developed a program that could track and
record faint MS signals put out by the hippocampus, reproducing
them in the revamped mainframe as they would have existed in a
rat's brain.
	"Now, if we only knew what those signals meant, we're be in
terrific shape," Kate sighed.
	She had murmured the thought absently.  From the vantage
point of the main control board, she was watching NAMSR's hardware
team work on the project's auxiliary computer, now being used as a
guinea pig for the silicarbon circuitry.  The remark wasn't meant
to be a criticism, but the slim Indian standing next to her
stiffened perceptibly.  "Considering that we have only had seven
weeks to work on that problem, I believe our progress is
satisfactory," he said formally.
	"I'm not complaining, Nathan," she said, raising her hands
in a conciliatory manner.  "I know your team's been working
overtime, and your basic outlines look spectacular."  She sighed,
allowing her mind to go random for just a moment, an escape hatch
for stress.  "I just wish we had more time.  I want a working model
up and running by the site visit, and there's still do damned much
to do."
	"Tell me about it," he said, nodding once.  "I believe we
may have determined some of the main paradigms already, but we
still need to track their interaction paths and rates in the
muscine brain, and my techs are beginning to talk mutiny from the
workload."  Dr. Nathan Kundu's thin mouth quirked, the closest the
cyberneticist ever came to a smile.  "As it is, I am grateful that
we are only trying to determine the thought processes of a rat," he
said.  "I shudder to think of what you will be like when we begin
our research on humans."
	"If we don't get funded, you won't have to worry about it."
	That drew a thoughtful glance.  "Do you really believe that
we will not be funded, considering what we have achieved in the
past two months?" he asked.
	Kate shrugged.  "If this was a perfect world, and grants
were awarded simply on scientific merit, I wouldn't be worried,"
she said, turning away from the renovation.  "Unfortunately, we
live in the real world, and you know that a thousand ridiculous
things affect funding--who you know in Washington, what kind of
clout you can swing, even where you're doing the research."  She
started ticking items off on her fingers.  "We're associated with
LMU, so that's a point in our favor.  I've got some pull at NIH,
and Loren can swing a hell of a lot more if he bothers to crawl out
his retirement cave in the Everglades, but that doesn't guarantee a
thing anymore.  If Congress decides to cut research funding again,
if somebody comes up with a really spectacular project--hell, if
our benevolent president decides to piss somebody off again with
his highhanded attitude--we could be in trouble.  I won't know
which way it'll swing until after the site visit and the NINS
council meeting."  She shrugged again, burying her hands in the lab
coat's deep pockets.  "And if we don't get funded, BioSci is going
to pull this space out from under us before the rejection fax is
even cold," she finished heavily.
	"Surely they wouldn't do that," Kundu protested.  "They
would have to give us time--"
	"Time is one thing they don't give.  As they see it, we'd
be wasting valuable lab space.  I can hear what the Dean and his
collection of spitlickers would say--'Why prolong the inevitable?
Just pack them off to their various departments, and turn the space
back over to the Center.'"
	Before Kundu could respond, one of the grad students poked
his head into the control room.  "Dr. Elliott?  Dr. Baumgarten just
called--he wants to see you as soon as possible."
	Kate nodded, glancing back at Kundu.  "Speak of the devil.
. ."

	"They want you to come to Washington," Phil informed her.
	Kate blinked against the sudden invasion of news.
Suddenly, everything in the room caught at her attention--sunlight
streamed through pale beige blinds, the blond wood desk giving off
polished glow.  Shock protects you from the first attack of pain,
she remembered.  "A reverse site visit," she said blankly.
	"Yeah.  They're reshuffling the budget again, and since you
were reviewed less than three years ago. . ."  Phil let his voice
fade.
	"But we've come up with totally new information," she
flared, suddenly hating the calm professionalism that filled the
office.  Phil took his position as Center director very seriously,
so seriously that any sense of academic discovery was leached away
in the name of administrative efficiency.  "They have to come
here," she added, clutching her hands into the fabric of her chair.
 "We have all of the data loaded onto our mainframe, the models are
here, goddammit, and I can't pack them all up just to traipse out
to Washington--"
	"They're not expecting you to bring everything," Phil said,
trying to calm her down.  "I already spoke to our contact person at
NINS.  He said that the institute was strapped to the bone with
those asinine budget cuts, but that they still want to see the new
data.  All you have to do is put together a good presentation, some
nice sims of the circuitry, and give them a thorough briefing on
what you've found with the MS research."  He frowned a bit when the
news didn't immediately send her into fits of joy.  "He said it
looked promising," the director added.
	Kate sank back into her chair.  "Promising," she said
dully.  "God, doesn't that sound like a bureaucrat."
	"And doesn't that sound just like an ivory-tower
scientist," he replied, nettled.  "Dammit, I'm trying to put a good
spin on this, Kate.  I've got the Office of Research Services and
the Dean of BSD on my back, all screaming for your lab space."
	"Don't remind me."
	"And the only thing holding them off is the prospect of
NINS awarding you a major grant on the basis of this 'wetware'
theory of yours," he continued, ignoring her.  "So you could try to
be a little less sarcastic to me, and a little more helpful about
getting your work funded."
	Against her will, Kate could feel the anger draining away,
replaced by a reluctant contriteness.  God, I'm so tired of
fighting all the time.  "So I should shut up, go to Washington like
a good little girl, and give them my best song-and-dance, right?"
she said quietly.
	"Either that, or you could try showing them your legs," he
said, relieved that she wasn't going to fight.  "But I'd try the
song and dance first if I were you."
	"I'm crushed."
	"Don't be.  When they're visible, your legs are very nice.
I just don't think they'd have much of an effect--the NINS Board is
a bloodless bunch of eunuchs."  He gathered up a sheaf of faxes,
and Kate noticed the perfect manicure of his hands for the first
time.  Old Phil had certainly gained some polish, hadn't he, she
thought suddenly.  Fitting into the power structure perfectly, that
stereotypical iron hand right in the velvet glove.
	Oh, stop being bitchy.  He's trying to help.
	Kate looked up at him, remembering the year together in
their internship.  Phil's veering sense of humor, buried now
beneath the administrator's facade.  What happened, Phil?
	She finally nodded.  "I guess I have to go, then," she
murmured.  "Since I don't have much of a choice."
	"Not if you want the money."
	"And I do."  She stood up, the simple movement taking on a
stiffness.  "Did they give you a show time?"
	"Two weeks, kid."  He pushed the faxes across the desk.
She had to give him credit--somehow, he dredged up the courtesy to
look sheepish.  "Try to bring home the money."
	She nodded.  "I'll do my best."


>From: kmrc@ellis.uchicago.edu (Melanie A. Miller)
Subject: STORY: DEUS EX > Chapter One, Pt. 2
Date: 17 Nov 91 19:04:39 GMT


				DEUS EX



CHAPTER ONE (part two)


	The hum of the 747's quadjet engines traveled through the
seats, settling Kate deeper into her seat.  She gazed unseeing at
the window-framed cloudscape, reviewing the speech she had given
the team before her departure.  The formation of quiet, intense
faces, some of the best minds LMU had to offer, had elated and
depressed her at the same time.  They haunted her now on the plane,
the knowledge of all their combined work on the line with her
presentation.
	"We have put our best into this grant submission, and I
want you all to know how proud I am of the work you've done in the
past few months," she'd said, unaccustomed to the focused attention
from her team.  "We may be on the threshold of the next computer
generation with the data we have uncovered.  After this
presentation, NAMSR's going to have a good shot at decent funding,
decent salaries"--a cheer went up at this--"and appropriate access
to the mainframe.  No more hiding in the basement, taking computer
time whenever we can grab it.  NAMSR is going to be taken seriously
from now on, I promise you that."
	Good speech, Elliott.  You should have been a politician.
Or a used car salesman.
	By the time Kate's plane landed in Washington, the
remaining shreds of good will had vanished, replaced by a simple
carapace--to endure and perform, and to bring home the funding.
Even this shell was assaulted the minute she stepped out of the
airport, buffeted by an unexpected blast of humid air.  She
immediately regretted wearing a tailored suit that had been
comfortable in Chicago, but was now rapidly melting to her body.
	God, I hate coming here, she thought glumly, finally
flagging down a cab for the long ride to the suburbs.  Washington
in mid-August was one of the most uncomfortable spots in the
country--which probably went a long way towards explaining
governmental antics, she thought sardonically, watching busy
streets jerk past the taxi window.  The old car's cranky
air-conditioning did manage to soothe her nerves, but she was still
out of sorts when she arrived at the National Institutes of Health
complex.
	Oh, the hell with it, Elliott.  You're scared to death.
	The building where the review committee was scheduled to
meet did nothing to help matters.  Constructed in the late 1990's,
the C. Everett Koop Research Center had a 'neo-functional art'
motif firmly ingrained in its brass and wood entrance level.  In
other words, it was a handsomely appointed, expensively maintained
rat maze.  Wandering around the lobby and muttering about the
idiocy of government architects, Kate didn't notice the marine
walking up behind her.
	"Excuse me, ma'am--"
	Kate jumped and whirled around, just missing the man with a
swinging briefcase.  "Oh, God, I'm sorry," she said, flushing.
	The marine kept a straight face, but his eyes were
twinkling.  "Dr. Elliott?" he asked politely.  When she nodded, he
said, "I'm supposed to escort you to the conference room, ma'am.
If you'll follow me."
	He started down a tastefully beige hallway, giving her just
enough time to wonder why an guard had been sent for her.  She
finally decided to trail along, and found herself led through a
maze of corridors to the elevators which were, naturally, hidden
behind a huge bank of runaway greenery.  Kate rolled her eyes to
the ceiling in mute supplication.  Washington.
	After a silent nine-story ride, broken only by Kate's
peripheral examination of her unexpected guide, the doors opened
onto another beige hallway.  Turning around to thank him for his
assistance, she neatly snagged her left heel on the elevator's
threshold and stumbled out into a man's arms.
	"Now, what's a beautiful researcher like you doing in a
place like this," he said, looking down at her with a wicked smile.
	It took half a second, but Kate finally recognized him.
"Sam!" she yelled happily, staying in his embrace for a hug.  "God,
I didn't expect to see you here."
	"You know me," he said cheerfully.  "I keep popping up in
the weirdest places, and this place is about as weird as it can
get."  He turned her around, keeping his arm draped across her
shoulders.  "So why don't you come to Washington more often?"
	"Move it about 300 miles inland and I'll think about it,"
she replied.  Sam Jansen was an old friend from medical school.
The last she had heard, he had gone into neurological consulting
with NINS.  Federal work had been good to him, she thought, looking
him over--elegant suit, compact body, dark hair with just the right
amount of gray at the temples.  "It's good to see you, dear," she
continued, giving him another friendly squeeze.  "It'd be even
better if you could find somebody who knows why this nice young man
is following me around."
	"You're looking at him," he said, turning to the guard.
"Sergeant, I'll be escorting Dr. Elliott to the conference."
	"Yes, sir."  Executing a neat about-face, the marine
reentered the elevator.  As the doors closed, Sam turned back to
Kate, catching her raised eyebrows.
	"Would you like to tell me how you're involved in this,"
she began sweetly, "or should I just wait until I explode from
curiosity?"
	He couldn't help laughing.  "Somebody upstairs read your
new specs on NAMSR and got very interested," he offered by way of
explanation.  "I'm the only one they have who's even semi-familiar
with biotech, so they asked me to take over as contact person."
	"That I can understand.  But what's with the marine?"
	Sam reverted to an attitude she remembered from medical
school--an almost impossible combination of sly fatalism and
innocence.  "They think you're important, so they gave you priority
clearance and an armed guard," he offered.  "Consider it a
compliment."
	"I hardly consider a marine a compliment," Kate said dryly.
	"You should.  Do you know how much we pay those guys for
special duty?"
	"I don't have the faintest idea," she replied, hefting her
briefcase.  "But it's probably where my computer money's been
going."
	"Now, Kate, " Sam purred, "would we do that to you?"
	"In a minute.  Without hesitation."
	That got another laugh.  "You are really paranoid, you know
that?" he said cheerily.  "We could use you around here."
	"I'd rather eat boll weevils, but thanks for the offer,"
she said.  "In case I ever lose my mind and leave research, I'll
think of you first."  She immediately winced, realized what she had
said.
	Sam's smile grew a bit strained.  "Yes, do that," he said,
forcing a jovial note into his voice.  It was common knowledge on
the research circuit that Sam's first project for NINS
collapsed--some said, as a result of leaving too much in the hands
of his assistants in favor of dabbling in local politics.  Kate
hadn't intended to brush this sore spot, and tried to make up for
it by asking his opinion on her chances for another grant
extension.
	"Well, let's just say I can tell when there's money in the
air," he said, keeping his voice low as they walked through the
passageway.  "I've been hearing some great things about your work
in Chicago, and I can almost promise that your grant is going to be
picked up."
	Something about his attitude set off an alarm bell in her
head.  "Sam, that sounds great, and I'm not going to turn down
funding if it's offered to me," Kate said carefully, "but I'd like
to know who's supporting the project.  Armed guards and security
isn't really NINS's style."
	"So?"
	"So who's interested in the NAMSR specs?"
	Sam shrugged.  "Top people."
	Kate snorted.  "That covers everybody from an overambitious
senator to God," she said sardonically.  "Would you like to be a
little more specific?"
	For a moment, Sam looked distracted, his lips pursed while
he thought.  "Kate, all I really know is that a certain group read
your grant proposal, and are interested in seeing your
presentation," he said quietly, glancing at his watch.  "Which, by
the way, is in fifteen minutes, so if we can get underwayI"  Taking
her arm, he attempted to guide her down the corridor, and was
almost pulled off balance when Kate wouldn't move.
	"'A certain group' doesn't work, Sam," she said delicately,
retracting her arm.  "I want names."
	The consultant's smooth attitude cracked a bit, she noted.
"Come on, Kate," he murmured, glancing down the hall, "this isn't
the time to get stubborn.  Does it really matter who funds you, as
long as you get funded?"
	"If we're dealing with a source outside of NIH, you bet."
	He hesitated for a moment, then finally shook his head.
"All right.  If you really have to know, I'll tell you who I
think--and notice, I said think--it is."  He glanced around
casually.  "Rumor has it that your security clearance was requested
by SPD."
	"SPD?"  She frowned, trying to match the acronym up with an
organization, then blanched.  "Wait--the Special Projects
Division?"
	"Well, yes--"
	"They're military," she continued, rolling over his words.
"That's Defense, not NINS.  Why are they interested in NAMSR--who
told them about it?"
	"They've been sharing information on bionics with NINS for
years, and your project includes some bionic elements," said Sam.
"As for why they're interested, maybe they want a reliable
silicarbonon computer system for their new satellites.  Maybe they
just want to dump a few million so they can convince Congress that
they need a bigger budget next year.  How should I know?"  He fixed
her with a stern look.  "You said you wouldn't turn down funding if
it was offered to you."
	Kate blinked at the accusing tone.  "I wouldn't, if it came
from NINS or one of the other institutes," she said defensively.
"But Defense?  Jesus, Sam, you know all of the horror stories about
SPD--and no one even asked me about this.  As project director, I
think I have a right to be consulted in a situation like this--"
	"Will you please calm down?" Sam soothed, tugging on her
arm.  They started walking down the hall again, headed for a corner
conference room.  "Apparently they just want to compare what you're
doing to their own work," he said.  "They can't lift a project from
NINS without permission from everybody involved, including you.
They're just here for a look-see."
	"Swell, just what I need," she muttered, as they turned the
corner.  A number of people were milling around the conference room
door, among them a small group of military officers.  "An
audience."
	"You'll be fine," Sam whispered, just as he propelled her
towards the group.  "It's showtime."
	And heeeeeere's Katie, she thought.
	The presentation was the standard format--a brief
introduction, followed by an in-depth description of the most
recent advances NAMSR had made.  Kate launched into the
presentation with an energy she didn't feel, relying on her
memorized speech and desperation to carry her through.  As she
activated the holoscreen, she felt gratified to see interested
glances between the review team members.  At least nobody was
actively snoring.
	The Army officers also looked interested, particularly when
she outlined the smaller size of NAMSR's proposed cybernetics
system.  Mentally, she flickered back to Sam's comment about
satellites (missile bases?  SAC equipment?).  The cost of
maintaining an organic computer environment in space was too
prohibitive, even for the Defense budget, she mused.  Maybe they
really were just comparing notes for their bionics projects.  The
idea carried a surprising sense of relief with it, and she was able
to segue into the question and answer session feeling in control.
	The Q&A section of a site visit was always the most
difficult point--it was here that elements of a research project
were called into question, the scientist challenged by the review
team to defend every aspect of the research being performed.  Kate
managed to weather the inquiries about silicarbon circuitry and the
microtubule storage theory, countering an occasional broadside with
data from her laptop.  She had prepared herself appropriately--the
most radical theories were always the ones most open to attack, and
the concept of the brain following cybernetic models for memory
storage sounded outrageous at first.
	As an hour passed, the site visitors began to realize that
her data held up under analysis.  The questions grew more and more
vague, touching on the possibility of developing an artifical
intelligence from silicarbon circuity.  At that point, she
felt--knew--she had won.  Despite their best attempts, they
couldn't punch holes in the theory or in any of the projections.
NINS had to fund NAMSR now.
	"These are the outlines NAMSR will be following in the near
future, with your support," she concluded, turning from the
whiteboard to face her audience.  "Are there any more questions?"
	Seated among the military observers, an officer who hadn't
said a word during the session  raised his hand.  "Dr. Elliott, I'm
Major Arnold Barrie," he said quietly, in a rich baritone.  Kate
thought that he'd never raised his voice in his life--people would
automatically hush to hear him.  "Number one, I'd like to
congratulate you on the work you've done with NAMSR.  As far as I
can see, your MS theory seems sound, and your plans for a compact
hypersystem would be a breakthrough in cybernetics.  I'm sure that
NINS will be very interested in your future work with memory and
human data storage."  A sudden, iced glint in his eye belied the
pleasant smile.  "But right now, I'm more interested in the
circuitry for your neurocomputer.  Have you given any consideration
to other uses for it?"
	"We've come up with a few ideas," Kate said, more calmly
that she felt.  Deliberately, she turned back to the whiteboard and
uncapped a marker.  "We have plans to develop silicarbon circuitry
that can take the place of damaged or inoperative brain tissue,"
she said, beginning to sketch on the board.  "You can imagine what
this technique would mean to people with Alzheimer's Disease or
stroke victims--"
	"Very impressive, but what about other areas?" the major
interrupted, stopping her in mid-scribble.  "Not necessarily
medical, but dealing with human reactions.  This neurocomputer, you
say that it could have the memory capacity of a man, true?"
	"Correct."
	"And your current work is tracking and recording rat
memories, using a specialized set of EEG electrodes and tracking
equipment," he continued smoothly.  "Will you eventually be doing
this sort of research on human memories?"
	"Well, yes, but that's still a few years down the road.
We're trying to establish engram--memory pattern--parameters with
the rat model.  One that's done, we can begin research with the
higher apes, eventually working up to human memory."
	"One more question, if you please.  Once you develop your
parameters for recording these engrams, do you think this
neurcomputer could be programmed to generate a simulation of, let's
say, a human persona?"  He gestured obliquely.  "One with all the
emotional quirks and unique attitudes that a real person would
have?"
	Kate was silent for a moment.  "I suppose that could be
done," she said cautiously.  "I never thought of using the
mainframe in that exact way, but if you had the proper programming
and circuitry, and enough memory that could be pieced
together--yes, you could create an abstract of a persona."
	"What about an complete persona?"
	She looked blank.  "I don't understand."
	"Once you determine the storage patterns for human memory,"
Barrie asked, leaning forward, "and allowing for popular belief
that a man's personality and actions are based on experience--and
what is experience in the brain but stored memories--could you
record a man's memories and play them back?  Recreate a person in
computer simulation?"
	For a moment, Kate kept her eyes on the marker in her hand,
not sure what the officer had in mind.  "The human psyche is a very
delicate and complicated thing, Major," she explained carefully.
"I don't think you understand what you're asking.  We could
probably program a decent computer simulation of a personality, if
you wanted to see how it would react to certain situations.  But
duplicate a living human mind?"  She paused, thinking it over.
"I'll be honest with you--I don't know," she said.  "Theoretically,
NAMSR could do it if it had an appropriate program to track and
record memory patterns, not to mention a big enough mainframe with
a core of silicarbon synapses, but--"
	"How big of a mainframe would you need?" Barrie asked.
	She felt her lips start to tighten--the constant
interruptions were getting to be annoying.  "You're talking about
recreating a human persona through artificial memory storage," she
said, her tone clipped and precise.  "That would take trillions of
bytes, not to mention a mainframe that would have to be built to
revised NeuroNet specifications.  And this is all separate from the
storage program that you would have to develop to record and access
the information.  Even with the new data, we're months, maybe years
away from realizing everything you'd need for this kind of
simulation."
	"If the Department of Defense was willing to fund your
project, give it all the help it needed, how long would it take to
develop the system, circuitry and all?" the major pressed.
	Kate felt her jaw start to drop, and closed it with a snap.
"You want it built from scratch or from modified systems?" she
asked bluntly, trying to hide her shock at the blatant offer.
	"Whichever is faster."
	She thought rapidly, turning back to the whiteboard to
write equations.  "Using an existing NeuroNet 500 mainframe and
working with the data we already have, I'd say it would take eight
to twelve months to develop the proper circuitry, and about three
months to install it in the mainframe," she murmured, then looked
expectantly over her shoulder.  "That's with an expanded budget and
a full-time research team, of course."
	"Could you use the NeuroNet at LMU?" the major returned.
"The new one down the street from the Medical Center?"
	Kate blinked, wondering where Barrie had gotten his
information.  Inadvertantly she could feel herself growing
defensive.  "Well we'd need about half the system, and we'd have to
shut it down first to renovate," she said lightly.  "But I'm sure
the University would be more than happy to give the computer time
to us.  After all, it's only their most advanced system, and they
have hundreds of projects waiting in line for computer time, but if
we asked them nicely I'm sure they'd let us use their computer."
She gave the major a sweet smile.  "Of course, as soon as word got
out that we'd taken over the NeuroNet, half the hospital would be
at our door forming a lynch mob."
	"But you could use it," the major repeated patiently.
	Kate gave up, reining in the sarcasm.  "Yes, we could," she
said, just as patiently.  "But even if we could convince them to
shut down the computer for silicarbon adaptation, there's no way we
could get the necessary file space or computer time.  The
University would never lock off half the system for a single
project's use."
	Major Barrie nodded thoughtfully.  "I understand.  Well,
Dr. Elliott, NAMSR seems to be exactly what the Special Projects
Division is interested in supporting.  I'm satisfied with your
presentation, and I'm sure that my superiors will feel the same."
He started to replace various papers--one of which was the NINS
copy of the project abstract--in his briefcase.  "With your
permission, I'll begin the paperwork for your contract
immediately."
	Kate stared at the major, unaware that she had just dropped
her marker onto the carpet.  "You can't do that.  We're a NINS
project," she said, incredulous.  Her eyes roamed around the room,
finally stopping where the review team had quietly started to file
into the corridor.  The final nature of the meeting began to sink
in on her.  "I don't understand," she stammered.  "Dr. Hellman,
what's going on."
	The last member of the review team, a graying man with
glasses, turned back to her.  "We were going to let Major Barrie
explain it to you, Dr. Elliott," Hellman began apologetically, "but
since he's decided to jump the gun, I'll do it myself.  NAMSR has
produced some very interesting data, I admit, and we look forward
to future development."  He spread his hands, the picture of a
bureacrat faced with an impossible problem.  "But at the moment,
your theory still needs a great deal of investigation," he
continued, " and the review committee cannot condone the extension
of your PO1 grant while there are other projects with better
support for their hypotheses."
	Kate froze, her throat tightening painfully.  "In other
words, NAMSR is simply too radical for you to fund."
	Hellman looked uncomfortable.  "In other words, yes.  And
since the Department of Defense has already expressed an interest
in picking up the grant under its own auspices, we've decided to
release it to them."
	"With your permission," Major Barrie said, with an oddly
gentle smile.  "Of course, if you don't want our support--"
	"That's not it," Kate said harshly.  She glanced at
Hellman, then at Barrie.  "But I wasn't expecting this--release--so
soon.  I was under the impression that SPD was interested in NAMSR
because of the bionic elements, and that was all.  No one told me
that NINS was going to release the project."  She glared at them,
feeling suddenly, terribly unsure of everything.  "So would either
of you care to tell me when this decision was made?"
	"Approximately a week ago," the major replied, surprised.
"I thought you knew that?"
	She blinked, unable to speak for a moment.  A week.  They'd
known about it for a week.  Sam knew about this--he must have
known--and he didn't tell me anything.
	So this is betrayal, she thought, detached.  "No, I didn't
know that," she said, her face growing to match Barrie's cool
expression.  "I suppose no one thought it was important to tell me
until now."  With an effort, she regained control, the facade of
the ice queen sliding into place.  "I'd need some time to consider
your offer, Major.  I'm sure you understand."
	He nodded, courteous.  "Of course."
	"And it would help my decision if I knew what you were
planning to do with NAMSR."
	"We're not going to do anything," the major said smoothly.
"NAMSR will continue in its present line of research, headed by
yourself."  The calm mask was wrinkled by an upturning of the lips.
"I assure you, Dr. Elliott, I don't want to break up a winning
team," he continued. "Your goals of understanding human memory and
constructing a cybernetic paradigm are exactly what we want, and
your work will not be interfered with in any way.  However, I would
like to make one addition to your staff."
	"What sort of addition?"
	"One of our scientists, a cyberneticist who has been
working independently on bionic circuitry," the major said.  "He
won't be directly connected with your research group, so you won't
have to worry about strangers puttering around in you labs."  This
last item was delivered as if it was a tremendous compromise on
Barrie's part.
	"I'm not worried about people puttering in my labs, as much
as I'm worried about them puttering behind my back," Kate said, the
words ringed with ice.  "I'm sure the offer is well-meant, but we
don't need an addition to our staff."
	"I think you do," Barrie said.  The latent coldness she'd
sensed became evident, expanding into the gut-locking ice of
instinctive command.  "Dr. Elliott, you may not understand this,
but my department is willing to put a lot of backing into your
project," he stated.  "That backing will include financial support,
equipment, supplies, everything you need.  It will also include the
brainpower we think will be helpful.  Dr. Browning will be at your
disposal, of course, but I believe you'll find him to be a valuable
addition to your team."
	As Barrie judged the effect of his words, his voice shifted
to its previous timbre.  "Right now, I think it would be a good
idea if you thought the offer over," he said.  "When you've made
your decision, you can get in contact with me through Dr. Jansen.
But please remember--the sooner you make your decision, the sooner
you'll get your funding."  He smiled.  "Or your chance to start
looking elsewhere.  Good day."
	The major closed his briefcase with a snap and left,
followed by his entourage and Dr. Hellman.  Kate stared at the door
as it closed, cutting her off from the outside.  Like a knife, she
thought crazily, surgical extraction of the old lifestyle.  NINS
for SPD, and they never let her know--
	"You lied to me," she said, not turning around.  "Goddamn
it, Sam.  You lied to me."
	"I didn't lie, Kate.  I didn't know NINS was pulling out
for sure--"
	"You lied to me," she repeated, finally moving to face him.
The anger felt good--healthy, the only healthy thing about the
entire situation.  "You let me go through that whole presentation,
and you never told me we were going to be dropped," she said, the
even, cold tone carrying her anger better than an earsplitting
scream.  "Your friends must have thought I was some kind of trained
monkey, Dr. Jansen.  Jump through the hoops, get a reward, doesn't
matter from whom--"
	"Kate, that isn't what happened.  I knew if I told you
about NINS possibly dropping NAMSR, you'd be too pissed off to let
Barrie see the presentation," Sam said quietly, running a hand
through his hair.  "I'm sorry, I really am.  I did my best, but
they just didn't want you.  NAMSR hasn't come up with anything
solid for the last three years, and Taguchi out at USC needed a
grant for his neurometrics project.  Damn it, I begged, I
pleaded--I would've bent over backwards if I could move that far.
Nothing worked.  They didn't want to risk any more money on the
project, no matter what you found.  So I stuck my neck out and
checked around for another sponsor."  He gestured with soft, open
hands.  "When I heard that Special Projects was interested in
bionics, I suggested that Hellman approach them.  I know Barrie
seems like a cold bastard, but he's got a lot of clout in the
department, and he liked what NAMSR was doing."
	"You told Hellman to do that?" Kate said venomously,
ignoring his "look how you've repaid my goodness" attitude.  "Where
do you get off doing that without asking me, without even checking
to see if I wanted it--"
	"If I didn't, NINS was going to drop you completely," he
replied, his voice almost a whisper.  "No more money, no more
support, and no recommendations.  You would have been dead in the
water."  It was more his tone than his words that stopped her, a
tone that spoke of undeniable defeat--the special kind that only
Washington could think up, where not even the best of science could
win you a grant if all the pegs of clout and the good-old-boy
network weren't properly in place.  She'd known that kind of defeat
before, raged before it as unfair in the extreme.  But it was
inexorable, almost Nature-like in its blind indifference and
uncaring manipulation of people who only wanted to know the cosmic
Why and How.  Something had happened between the submission of the
grant and today--she'd probably never know what, exactly--and NAMSR
was out, to be replaced by any number of program projects around
the country, directed by hungry PIs eager to get their work funded.
	And she had to patch together what was left and what was
offered, make it into something the project could use.
	Moving silently, she sat down next to Sam, focused emptily
on the wood panel wall in front of him.  "Goddamn it Sam, you
could've told me," she murmured bitterly.
	"I only knew about the probability," he said, defending
himself.  "As far as I knew, they were supposed to make a final
decision right after your presentation.  There was still a slight
chance they'd pick you up, and I knew that Barrie would make an
offer if NINS wasn't interested.  One way or the other, you
would've been covered."
	"By Defense?  Oh, like that would make everything all
right?" she replied sarcastically.
	"At least you would still be working," he said stiffly.  "I
know how you feel about the military, but this is a chance to get
your work finished and get that mainframe on line."
	"Yeah, at the expense of the few principles I have left,"
Kate retorted.  She walked away from him, putting some necessary
distance between them.  "You know as well as I do that the military
has this bad habit of manipulating science into new and interesting
ways of killing people.  I don't want my life's work being turned
into a better missile tracking system.  And that is exactly what's
going to happen if I'm ordered around by someone like Barrie."
	"Oh, for Christ's sake, grow up," Sam flared.  "No one
likes dealing with that kind of shit, but most of us have to put up
with it if we want the money."  He stood up on the last word and
circled Kate, the slick consultant facade cracked by defensiveness.
"Let me tell you about the facts of life, research style.  You
walked into a sugar-coated situation when Dr. Chiles took you on,
then gave you the project after two years," he said angrily.  "You
don't know what it's like to fight for a major grant--all you've
ever had were piddly little RO1s and then NAMSR, which was handed
to you on a silver plate."
	"Fight?  What the hell do you think I was doing here
today?" she accused.  "Putting my reputation on the line for the
hell of it?"
	"No.  You were defending a project that somebody else
started," he replied.  "Face it, Elliott--you've never had to put a
PO1 together from the ground up, going anywhere you could to get
enough funding.  And when you start talking about a multi-million
dollar project, you're going to have to deal with types like Barrie
and SPD.  Yeah, maybe the conditions don't exactly appeal to your
high moral standards, maybe you'll have to play politics with
people you can't stand, but this," he made a sweeping movement to
include the complex, "is the real world, Kate.  If you want to do
science with government money, it comes with the territory."
	Kate leaned back, glaring at him.  "And what if I don't
like the territory?" she snapped.
	"Then you pack your bags, go back to Chicago, and forget
about research," Sam said.  "Simple as that."
	They stared at each other, two angry animals waiting for
the other to make a move.  Kate was the first to break eye contact,
to turn away.  She stopped when she got to the only window in the
room, a glass enclosure of the Washington skyline.  The cool glass
felt wonderful against her palms, a solid kind of reality she could
cling to, reassuring her that she hadn't suddenly stepped into the
Twilight Zone.  They did this behind my back was the dominant
thought, drowning out everything else.
	"I'm not trying to hurt you, Kate."
	She didn't answer.
	"I want you to keep your project.  That's why I set up the
meeting with Barrie."  Reluctantly, he crossed the space between
them.  Even more hesitantly, he took her by the shoulders, turned
her around.  To his relief, she moved, but wouldn't meet his eyes.
"But you're trying to control the situation, and you can't always
do that," he said, resisting an urge to shake her.  "Sometimes, you
have to compromise, meet the other guy halfway."
	She blinked, looking up.  "And I suppose this is one of
those times," she said quietly, her jaw set with an expression of
purest pain.  "I know that, Sam.  I think I knew it from the moment
I walked into the room."  The pain vanished, buried under a wave of
defensiveness.  "Jesus, I mean I how the game is played.  I'd
probably be willing to compromise if it was anybody else, but--"
	She paused, an image of Barrie's cold blue eyes swimming
into her mind.  Chilling.  "I don't like being surprised," she
finished lamely.  "And there's something about Barrie that scares
me.  I can't explain it any better than that."
	"If it makes you feel any better, he's not on my Top Ten
list, either."
	"So I noticed."  Frustrated, Kate got up and brushed past
the consultant, headed for the whiteboard.  "It's not even him so
much as who he represents," she said, staring at the circuitry
paths she'd drawn.  "Or what, in this case.  All the scare stories
I've heard about Defense, especially SPD.  Taking good projects and
mucking them up, turning beneficial discoveries into top secret
weapons."  She glanced over her shoulder.  "NAMSR is too good, too
important, to be perverted like that," she said pleadingly.  "I
won't--I can't--let it happen."
	"You don't have to," Sam said, with some irritation.  "No
matter what happens, you are still project director, and you have
the control over day-to-day activities."  His voice dropped into a
conspiratorial tone.  "Take the offer.  Keep NAMSR running, and let
Barrie put one of his men on the staff.  You'll know who he is,
obviously, so while he's keeping an eye on the project, you can
keep an eye on him."
	Kate made a disgusted noise.  "I don't want to have to keep
an eye on anybody."
	"It won't be that hard, believe me.  All you have to do is
make sure he works on bits and pieces, never really gets a good
overview of the project."
	"He's going to want access to our records."
	"You can fix that, too," Sam reassured her.  "I know you
have some computer geniuses on your staff."
	"Kundu and Michaels," she said.  "What about them?"
	"Have them write a computer program, a good one, that uses
a double book entry format," he explained, keeping his voice low.
"You put standard data on one set, nothing spectacular.  Give
Barrie's man access to it, and keep the other one for important
data.  That way, the man will have something that seems legitimate,
and is basic bullshit.  Everybody will be happy, and later on, you
can give the real data to Barrie at your own discretion.  If you
don't think he can be trusted, well," he shrugged, looking
fatalistic, "the project didn't pan out.  It happens."
	Kate cocked her head to one side, looking at him
critically.  "You've been working for these people too long, Sam,"
she finally said.  "You sound just as sneaky as they do."
	"I'll take that as a compliment, and none of your lip," he
said, smiling slightly.  "So how about it?  Do I give Barrie the
go-ahead?"
	As well as she could, Kate considered the plan he was
offering.  She understood enough about the applied science game,
and how it picked its players.  Sam was right about NAMSR's
chances--no private agency in its right mind would accept the
project without more proof about MS theory.  The only place for the
project was Defense, and as much as she hated to admit it, putting
up with Barrie was better than shutting down completely.
	Still feeling doubtful, she nodded.  "All right.  Tell the
major I accept," she said, hearing her earlier words echo in her
mind.  "I don't have much choice, do I?"
	"Not really," Sam agreed, "but it won't be as bad as you
think.  Barrie can be a jerk, but he won't bother you as long as
you seem to be on track.  Keep a little security in your system,
and you'll be okay."
	"I never needed security before," she said, a little
wistfully.
	"Well, now you're in the national defense business, so
welcome to military rigidity," Sam said, glancing at his watch.
"Speaking of, I think I can still catch up with Barrie, so if you
don't mind?"
	"Go, go."
	At the door, Sam paused.  "Listen, you look like you could
use some food.  After I track down Major Brass Balls, how would you
like to have dinner with me?"
	"I could use a stiff drink more than anything," she said
heavily, "but dinner sounds great."
	"Good.  I'll pick you up at seven."  A quick smile, and he
was gone.
	Alone, Kate turned back to the whiteboard, examining the
symbols she'd drawn earlier.  Something about about Sam's attitude
(maybe his new, hard-sell aspect) was vaguely disturbing.  She
didn't really like the bureaucrat that had grown out of the
easygoing med student she remembered.  Shaking her head, Kate
started to shovel papers back into her briefcase.  I've been
railroaded, and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.  But as
long as I'm project director, she swore to herself, NAMSR is going
to be under my control.  Not Barrie's.
	So the major wanted to have his man on the staff.
Fine--she could handle that.  If necessary, she could play watchdog
very well--maybe even better than Sam thought.  But if there's one
sign of a takeover, misuse of the data, anything, the Special
Projects Division is going to find out that this watchdog has
teeth.  And bites.

>From: kmrc@ellis.uchicago.edu (Melanie A. Miller)
Subject: STORY:  DEUS EX > Chapter Two
Date: 15 Nov 91 17:58:54 GMT

DEUS EX - Chapter Two (and I'm going to try sending it in one
piece)

	NAMSR's transition from NINS to Defense funding was as
orderly as could be expected, considering the circumstances.  Kate
had returned to LMU with the news, expecting cries of outrage.
Instead, she was greeted as a hero by BSD administration and a
relieved Phil Baumgarten.  As he had explained, "Administration
doesn't particularly care where your funding comes from, as long as
they get an extra 60% as indirect costs."
	"Scientific slumlords," Kate grumbled.
	"This much is true.  But I wouldn't complain--all of a
sudden, lab space is opening up, and they're talking about moving
NAMSR up to ground level.  You'd actually have windows for once."
	Kate shook her head.  It would sound superstitious to
anyone else, she knew--but NAMSR was born below the earth, and it
would stay there as long as she was in charge of the project.  "The
windows in this building have a bad habit of falling out when you
lean against them," she said with a smile.  "I think we'll stay in
the basement."
	She had a slightly tougher time with the NAMSR research
team.  The more liberal elements of the team muttered about
military interference for awhile, but settled down when the first
gift from SPD--a bank of new Artemis workstations and a dedicated
microcomputer--arrived.  With the new equipment in place, they got
down to the problem of tracking memory storage in the brain and
constructing silicarbon circuitry that could mimic the process.
	A busy, almost insanely hectic year went by between the
signing of the SPD contract and the final work on the revamped
wetware mainframe.  By the middle of September, 2004, the
modification of the UC NeuroNet 500 mainframe from standard
circuitry to silicarbon was on the verge of being completed, almost
a month ahead of schedule.  What cut down on the construction time
was the integration of circuits already present in the mainframe as
crossover channels for the electrolyte support system that had to
be installed for the new circuitry--the carbon component, suspended
in a silicon matrix, needed to be 'fed' with a high-pressure
electrolyte solution.  Additional circuitry paths were rerouted and
used as direct control links between the mainframe building and the
laboratory at BRI.
	Even with the new circuitry constructed and ready to go,
none of it would have been installed if, quite conveniently, a
downtown NeuroNet mainframe hadn't opened its system to the
University at prices that made the administration weep in joy.
Also quite conveniently, the University's NeuroNet was immediately
declared 'inoperative', and NAMSR was awarded a special grant to
modify the mainframe's circuitry with experimental networks that
they had developed 'with the University's knowledge.'  In short,
NAMSR was neatly given full use of the NeuroNet's computer
facilities without inciting half the campus to riot over the
unfairness of it all.
	Or, as one of the more cynical research assistants
observed, "What the campus doesn't know about, they can't bitch
about."
	As promised, Major Barrie had almost no contact with the
project, other than his initial visit.  At that time, he'd
suggested that while the silicarbonon problems was being hammered
out, the NAMSR computer staff could focus their energies on writing
a program that would track and record human memoria.
	Kate conceded graciously, and assigned her resident
software experts to the task.  On a quieter note, she also had them
write a program that would store NAMSR data on a sophisticated
double set system.  Her personal code would access the project's
current work; any other code would be shunted into an special data
bank, releasing edited information about NAMSR's activities.  The
everyday work was put on a different system for staff use, but any
vital data had to be accessed through Kate's office, giving her
tacit--and total--control over the project.
	It was a good system, and once the silicarbon had been
installed, nobody had questioned any of their progress reports.
Probably because the in-house spy was doing such a good job keeping
Washington informed, Kate mused, looking through her office window
at the room directly across from hers.  The NAMSR complex filled a
rectangular space in the hospital's first subbasement, with the
main labs taking up three-fourths of the rectangle.  The rest was
sectioned into an H-form, with the main entrance at the middle of
the crossbar and offices lining the arms of the H.  Kate had a
large corner office, and had deliberately assigned the office
across from hers to the cybertech from Washington.  Framed within
the opposite window was a tall, rumpled figure, hunched over a
terminal as if someone was going to take it away from him.
	Dr. Jonathan Browning had arrived in Chicago one week after
the project contract was signed.  After puttering about with the
circuitry records for a day or two, he had asked, rather
diffidently, to see some of the work being done on the silicon
matrix.  Kate shrugged and passed him on to Kundu and Dr. Tina
Michaels, the PIs in charge of the circuitry research.  After an
hour, both of them had appeared in Kate's office, shaking, and
reported that Browning had an uncanny grasp of the construction
principles behind their wetware blueprints.
	"He looked at the printouts for two minutes, tops," Tina
said in a raw, controlled voice, "and gave us a formula for
suspending organic carbon chains within a microthin silicon sheath.
I mean, boom, out of midair--the cellular biochem angle didn't even
faze him.  Then he started writing equations for integrating the
support leads within the matrix."
	"If he's right, this is going to put us months ahead of
schedule," Nathan commented.  "And I don't have to mention that
anyone who could solve a problem like that in his head could
probably crack the our double entry program while brushing his
teeth.  On a bad morning."
	Kate took the news in stride.  She decided to capitalize on
Browning's enchantment with the circuitry design, channelling him
directly into basic wetware research and filling any spare time
with a crossover into the parallel brainmapping project..  It was a
deliberate maneuver--with all the hurdles facing the research team
on the final installation checks, Browning wouldn't have enough
time to figure out the standard computer layout, much less muck
about with the files.
	Not that he ever seemed interested, she thought, observing
as he furiously typed instructions into the terminal.  Browning had
the classic cybertech's proverbial one-track mind--laser-focused,
almost obsessive, and impossible to distract--and all he was
concerned about at the moment were the final modifications for the
NeuroNet.  Once he finished those, she figured, he could always be
unleased as a troubleshooter on the Personality Simulation Program.
	Much to her surprise, Browning hadn't turned out to be a
bad sort.  When he first arrived at the labs, dragging a trunkload
of diskettes and computer journals, Kate had the entire staff
placed on alert--Dr. Browning was a direct representative of the
Special Projects Division, and as such was not to be trusted with
the smallest scrap of gossip without her direct approval.  But
Browning turned out to be quiet, intelligent, and only mildly
introverted, which was normal behavior for people whose main social
interaction was with computers.  Granted, he was working for
Defense, so he was probably sending Washington detailed reports on
anything he saw (which didn't include a complete overview of the
refurbished mainframe; brilliant or not, he was only allowed to
work on isolated wetware structures, and then with close
supervision by Kundu or Michaels).  But NAMSR had employed a number
of cybertechs who were thoroughly obnoxious about their brilliance,
so Kate appreciated Browning's quiet attitude in getting the
modified computer up and running.  No matter who was paying him.
	Some spy he turned out to be, she mused, glancing across
the hall.  I expected James Bond, and they sent me Dr. Science.
Whoever, whatever he was, Browning was a useful addition to the
NAMSR staff, and Kate was willing to overlook the more annoying
parts of his background as long as he kept the project ahead of
schedule.  The primary circuitry was already in place, and the
secondary equipment was due to be installed within the week.
	Maybe I should start him on the PS problems now, she
thought, keep that agile little mind busy.  As she watched,
Browning looked up from the monitor, his eyes glazed over as the
mind behind them rooted through circuitry problems.  Finally, he
nodded in satisfaction at something, then typed in a command.  As
the computer recorded the data, he glanced in her direction, and
performed a neat double-take when he saw her gazing back.
	Trying to cover her scrutiny, Kate gave him a friendly
smile.  It was obvious that Browning wasn't used to having anyone
smile at him, and he flushed, tentatively smiling back at her.
Something must have flashed through his mind, because he mouthed,
"Can I talk to you?"
	"Sure," Kate shrugged, mouthing it distinctly so that he
could understand.  "Come on over."
	With a minimum amount of fluidity (along with the social
skills of an adolescent, Browning seemed to retain the body of one,
with long, gangling limbs on a deceptively compact frame), he
navigated through the corridor to her door.
	"Um, hello," he mumbled, hanging back at the doorjamb.
"Um, I wanted to talk to you about the circuitry."
	She waved him in to a seat.  "Any problems?"
	"Oh, no, no, nothing like that," he assured her quickly.
"In fact, we're pretty well finished with the installation
preliminaries, and I'd like to get to work on the artificial limbic
system equations next."  Suddenly, he stopped himself, a quizzical
expression on his face.  "That is, if you don't have any other work
for me," he said, as if he was overstepping his bounds by
suggesting tasks.
	"I think your own schedule is working out fine," Kate
answered dryly.  "Actually, I think it would be great if you
started working on PerSim.  Tina's already laid some of the
groundwork for the limbic equations, but I think she's more
interested in working on the learning input.  If you want the job,
it's yours."
	He didn't smile, but a glow of relief lit up his face.
"Thank you, Dr. Elliott," he said, looking at her with a sober
expression that probably was the nearest thing he got to
cheerfulness.  He got up from his seat, then hesitated. "You know,
I really didn't have a chance to say this earlier, but I wanted to
tell you how happy I am to work with you on this project," he said
earnestly.  "I know you don't like me--the idea of me, anyway.  I
wouldn't like it either, if somebody walked into my project and
started telling me who I had to hire."  Kate was amazed to see him
blush faintly, as he continued.  "But I think you should know that
I volunteered for this assignment," he said.  "I did my Ph.D. work
on cybernetics circuitry much like NAMSR's, and getting the chance
to work with it again has been the high point of my life.  I want
to thank you for giving me that chance."
	"Oh.  Um, well," Kate mumbled, nonplussed by his obvious
sincerity.  "You're welcome, I guess."  Studying him, she allowed
herself to lower her guard for a moment.  "I have to admit, I
wasn't happy about your joining the staff in the beginning," she
said.
	"I could tell."
	"Yes, well," she continued uncomfortably, "I didn't like
the idea of having somebody I didn't personally choose on the
project, as I'm sure you understand.  But your contribution to the
wetware has been incredible.  So incredible, in fact, that I find
myself grateful you were sent here."
	"Even though I was sent by the military," Browning finished
for her.  "For your information, I understand your reservations,
and I happen to agree with them.  Being forced to take someone onto
your staff, particularly by SPD, can be incredibly unnerving.  I
can imagine how you must feel."
	Kate raised her eyebrows, somewhat taken aback by this
statement of solidarity.  "You're very--sympathetic, Dr. Browning,"
she said blandly.  "It sounds like you've been in this position
before."
	"I have," Browning said.  His voice lost its diffident
tone, became stronger, more assured.  "I didn't like it then, and I
don't like it now.  That's why I happen to be on your side, no
matter who signs my paycheck.  And whether you believe it or now,
the most important thing to me right now is getting through the
final mod checks and setting up PerSim, not reporting to
Washington."  He leaned closer to Kate, the tension crawling off
his body in silent waves.  "This project is going to be the biggest
thing in cybernetics since UNIVAC, the biggest thing in computing
since the abacus.  And I want--no, I need--to be a part of it ."
	He was leaning over her desk, no longer the awkward
computer engineer but a passionate lover of the silicon medium,
professing his adoration for her project.  Kate felt an unexpected
warmth for this thin, rumpled man, the only person beside herself
who ever held such a deep belief in NAMSR.  "I'd say you're a big
part of it right now, Dr. Browning," she said, confused by her own
reaction.
	Her words broke the brief contact.  Suddenly aware of his
position, Browning jerked back to his own seat in embarrassment.
"Sorry," he muttered.  The invisible barrier slid back into place,
sealing him inside his own monomania.  "I get carried away,
sometimes."
	"That's something we have in common," she finally said.
"NAMSR sweeps us both off our feet."  She withdrew into her own
shell, that of the concerned project director.  "Thank you for your
candor, Dr. Browning.  I'll keep it in mind."
	Nodding, he got up and headed for the door.
	"Of course, this doesn't mean that I trust you."
	He turned, framed by the doorway, and gave her a sober
look.  "Somehow, I didn't think you would, Dr. Elliott."
	"Jon, you've been working here for close to a year.  Please
call me Kate.  Only irate deans call me Dr. Elliott."
	He nodded, almost hesitantly.  "Kate."
	"That's better," she said, her expression matching his.
"Now, why don't you go back to work?  We still have to get that
computer up and running, you know."
	His face took on a thoughtful cast, balanced at the edge of
amusement.  "Yes, ma'am."
	Once he was gone, Kate switched on her terminal and went
back to her own work, unaware that she was smiling.  Confrontations
always made her feel better.

	By the beginning of October, the final modifications were
microsoldered and 'healed' into place, and the refurbished NeuroNet
was ready to go on-line again with the first operational
semi-organic mainframe in the history of cybernetics.  The sifted
few of the Computer Science Department had announced that they
would like to be on hand for the ceremony, even though the project
wasn't technically under the University's supervision.  This sudden
interest in the project was a result of NAMSR's new clout, the
rumor of which had spread discretely across the academic side of
the campus, and a number of hardcore engineering professors who had
heard about the 'half-alive' mainframe wanted to see firsthand what
some crazy neurobiologist had cooked up in the basement of BRI.
	The only obstacle in the way of their curiosity was the
Special Projects Division, which wouldn't allow anyone but team
members to be present at the installation of the NeuroNet.  It was
SPD's project, as their argument went, no matter where the physical
location of the project was, and they could not allow unauthorized
personnel to be present for security reasons.  It took a great deal
of connection dancing and some smooth huckstering on the part of
Sam Jansen to convince Barrie and SPD that allowing two star
professors to attend the ceremony would be a wise political move.
After all, SPD owned the project, but the University owned the
property and the mainframe, and it would be extremely difficult, as
well as expensive and silly, to unhook the entire mainframe base
and move it, when a simple compromise on both sides would make
everyone happy, etcetera, etcetera.
	With some argument, the compromise was made, and on October
11, despite a squalling rain sweeping over Lake Michigan, the
observers from SPD and the professors from the CompSci Department
filed somewhat soppily into Gray Hall, which housed the mainframe
and its support facilities.  The cavernous structure, named after a
president of the University,  was situated on the corner of 58th
and Ellis, three blocks down from BRI--an intentional distance from
the main campus to keep the building out of sight from prospective
students and visiting faculty.  The Administration Building was bad
enough in its deviation from the campus's Gothic theme--Gray Hall,
with its black steel walls and tinted slit windows contained by an
outer ring of office/control rooms, was considered to be atrocious.
	How the adminstration felt about the hall's appearance,
however, was completely opposite from the support staff, which now
included the NAMSR cyberengineers.  From first sight, they fell in
love with the building--its state-of-the-art temperature control
system, fiber optics communication channels, and huge battacitors
that reached two hundred feet below ground to protect the mainframe
against data-destroying power surges.  The building was built for
computers, not humans, and the staff felt an empathy with the
building design.  Right down to the oval shape, Gray Hall was a
protective shell for their computer, and they tended it as
carefully as they would an expectant mother.
	Led by hastily drafted research assistants, the visitors
were ushered through the heart of the womb into the Data Center, an
amber Perspex bubble on the side of the mainframe's outer
containment tank.  The Data Center was the brain node for the
mainframe, where technicians monitored and regulated the internal
processes of the computer along with its organic and electrical
support systems.
	The center of all this attention was the NeuroNet
mainframe, a compact mass of silicarbon circuitry slightly larger
than a microwave oven.  Physically, the collection of wetware
looked more like a mysterious, crenulated organ taken from the body
of a giant than a creation surpassing any data recording system in
the history of cybernetics.  Instead of relying on liquid
hydrogen-based bubble memory or the older method of
microminiaturized magnetic tape, this mainframe had been
constructed as a mimicry of the human brain5, molecularly storing
its data on immortalized neural carbon chains sheathed by silicon.
The containment structure, a smooth-skinned tank of Perspex and
brushed steel three meters high and five meters wide, made the
system look larger, suspending the mainframe in a semi-liquid
chemical bath.  This bath acted as intermediary between the
artificial and organic components of the circuitry, insulating the
microthin silicon sheaths while 'feeding' the carbon chains within,
balancing electrolytes so that pulses of information would flow
evenly along the circuitry without loss of signal strength.  All in
all, the mainframe was a technologically exquisite mimicry of the
human brain's memory functions, brought up to a highly magnified
size.
	Kate, Tina Michaels, and Browning waited quietly in a
corner of the bubble, letting the visitors get their first good
look at the mainframe.  Finally, the project director stepped
forward to make introductions.  "It's amazing, isn't it?" she asked
softly.
	The two professors and one SPD observer jumped.  "Ah, Dr.
Elliott," one of them, a Professor Simages,  turned to her and
exclaimed.  "You're here after all."  He was a tall, narrow man,
with grey shreds of hair plastered the the sides of his skull.
Here and there, a wisp had broken loose, giving his head a number
of antennae.  "Yes, it is amazing.  An unusual combination of our
sciences, eh?"  He chuckled in an avuncular way, making her feel
like a little girl who had received a pat on the head.  "But the
important question about your new computer is, will it work?"
	"We have complete confidence in the mainframe, Dr.
Simages," said a slender man who hadn't been startled by Kate's
entrance.  One of SPD's people, she remembered, name of Harmonn.
"Our tests indicate that the CS circuitry will function precisely
within its design parameters," he said in a bland little voice.
	"Your tests," snorted the other professor, drawing bushy
eyebrows together in an impressive scowl.  "Your tests don't tell
us anything, Mr. Harmonn.  You won't even let us look at the
blasted things, so how do we know this bastardized hybrid," he
nodded in the direction of the tank, "will do anything but float
there and sparkle?"
	Before Kate could say anything, Browning grated, "I suppose
the best way to do that would be to turn it on."
	Bushy Brows skimmed right over the challenge in Browning's
voice and laughed.  "Good for you, boy," he said, clapping Browning
on the shoulder.  "Let's get this fiasco over with, so we can all
go back to some real work."
	Kate fought to keep her temper--and tongue--under control.
Bushy Brows was one of the leading researchers in bubble memory--it
was natural that he was concerned with how well the CS mainframe
would function.  "Dr. Wallace, If you aren't here to see real work,
then I don't see why you raised such a fuss about attending," she
said, each word sweetly iced.  "Especially as NAMSR is only
affiliated with the University, and not actually a part of its
research administration."
	"Which means that your attendance here is a privilege and
not a right," Harmonn added.
	"Privilege?"  Wallace bellowed, leaning closer to the
slight SPD officer.  "Do you seriously think I consider being
present at this waste of time to be a privilege?"
	"Considering what efforts you were making to get in here
tonight, I believe you think it's a necessity," was the cool reply
from Harmonn.  "Perhaps you're worried about NAMSR's impact on your
own work."
	He paused, allowing himself a smile.  "Seriously worried."

	Kate sighed inwardly, stepping between the men before
Wallace had a chance to explode.  "Dr. Wallace," she said in her
most placating tone, "has his own reasons for being present, and
I'm pleased that he decided to join us here tonight."  She flashed
a brilliant smile, eliciting a grunt from the professor.  "And I
think the best way to answer his legitimate questions would be to
get on with the activation," she continued, managing to guide the
grumbling man and the others to seats in the back of the bubble.
Still maintaining the smile, she turned back to the main terminal
and took the seat beside Browning.
	"Laid it on a little thick, didn't we?" he murmured out of
the corner of his mouth.
	"If it gets him to shut up, don't knock it," she said,
hissing through her smile.  Tina, already seated, began to type in
initialization commands, while Browning monitored the
electrochemical power being fed to the mainframe.
	Kate started to explain the procedure over her shoulder as
they worked  "We're cheating a bit for this demonstration," she
said over the bubbling hum of the support system, directing their
attention to the main monitor.  A graphic of a three-dimensional
grid--the amount of free memory in the mainframe--was on the
screen.  "Normally, that display would mean that the memory
processors were completely unformatted--tabula rasa, as it were,"
she said.  "Considering the unusual properties of the circuitry, we
decided to preformat it with a language that Dr. Browning has been
working on, based on second-generation artificial intelligence
languages."
	"I call it ORGON," Browning said, after a nudge.  "It's
basically a two-mode language.  One half is based on Pascal, acting
as an translator for incoming computer languages, and the other
half takes the transposed language and turns it into specialized
signals for reception and storage on the carbon chains."
	"Which means that the mainframe will be able to accept data
in most computer languages, while maintaining its own discrete
language for internal procedures," Kate finished, her eyes on the
smaller monitors.  "It also means that the mainframe is holding
data at the moment, Dr. Wallace."
	"Holding a language doesn't impress me, Dr. Elliot," was
the reply.  "Any microcomputer can do that."
	Kate nodded politely, but felt her earlier expression
replaced by a decidedly unscientific grin.  She glanced at
Browning, who nodded, then typed in a command to run an information
dump program.
	Deep within the circuitry, requests were made, links forged
to outside lines probing along a computer net.  At the halfway
point, the probe was met with its equivalent, and data began to
flow.
	The grid on the monitor blazed into life.  As they watched,
the lowest left space on the grid began to flicker.  Pixel by
pixel, the space filled with green light, representing the amount
of memory being stored in the databanks.  Almost unconsciously,
Kate looked up through the tank wall, to the mainframe.  As data
poured through its neural pathways, the mass began to sparkle,
reflecting back millions of tiny electronic connections being made
within the silicon sheaths.  It's beautiful, she thought intently.
Doubly so, because it wasn't a dream any longer.
	"Data transfer complete," Browning announced ten minutes
later, tapping buttons to record the reading.  He turned back to
the visitors, anticipating what their reaction would be to his next
words.  "We are now holding the entirety of the University's
downtown NeuroNet data at 10% of our capacity," he said.
	Dr.  Wallace lurched to his feet in disbelief.
"Impossible," he growled, moving to Browning's side so that he
could examine the readouts for himself.  After a moment, he shook
his head.  "This can't be right," he muttered.  "We're talking
three gigabytes of information stored inI"  His voice faltered as
he gazed up at the computer.  "Ten percent of your mainframe."
	"And we do have all of the information," Browning said.
"If you'd care to access one of your files, Dr. Wallace, please
feel free."
	Wallace glared at Browning, then sat at the terminal and
entered one of his project passwords.  Immediately, the screen
filled with a Physical Sciences Division data entry screen,
identifying the project as Wallace's.  The professor stared at the
screen for a moment, a flush creeping up his neck, then typed in a
page scroll command.  Line by line, the data began to move upward,
revealing more information.  From what Kate could see, the data had
to do with hyperextension of bubble memory components.  She had to
stifle a laugh.
	Unfortunately, Wallace heard her snort, and turned livid.
He stood up from the terminal as if moving away from something
diseased, wiping his hands on his pants.  He gained enough control
over himself to rasp, "You may be assured that the President's
Office will hear of this," and stalked out, followed by the
flustered Dr. Simanges.
	Harmon came forward, one thin eyebrow raised in curiosity.
"Your colleague is excitable," he commented.  "What did he mean by
that comment about the President's office?"
	"I think  he was a little shocked to see one of his
projects on our computer," she said.  "I managed to cut a deal with
the University Computing Organization--they'd lend us their data
for the activation experiment as long as I erased it as soon as the
mainframe's capacity had been proven--but he didn't know that."
She laughed slightly.  "Probably thought I hacked his codewords on
purpose."

	After additional tests, the NeuroNet's new wetware memory
core was pronounced to be fully operational.  While the cybertechs
had been working on the silicarbon circuitry, NAMSR's software
artists had been laying groundwork for the PerSim program,
brainmapping with the resident neurobiologists for a application
that would track and record memory patterns.  Using modified
electrodes to pick up the relatively weak electrical signals, they
had been able to transfer fragmentary memoriae from rats, then from
rhesus monkeys into the auxiliary computer, where the encoding
process of a primate brain could be broken down and studied.  Two
months after the NeuroNet went on-line again, the software people
announced that they were ready to attempt human memoriae
transferrence.
	Michaels' team had designed a set of parameters that would
record and integrate basic heuristic algorithms representing
different areas of memory into a simplified engram.  The engram,
named in honor of Dr. Karl Lashley's memory experiments, was the
unified collection of memory patterns--the sum of a person's life
experience--that provided the basis for a human persona.
	In this case, the engram would be a deliberately piecemeal
construction.  Every member of the software team underwent a
'tapping' process, consciously remembering a specific event in
their lives while modified electrodes scanned their
electroencephalographic signature, matching memorization activity
to brainmapped areas.  The memories of love and hate, fear, sorrow,
the special and ordinary events of a single day would be coded
together in a single engram, and the software team would attempt to
generate a persona from it.
	Much to their surprise, it worked.  The result was
codenamed 'Harlequin; as a computerized persona, Harlequin was
childish, idiotic, and understandably schizophrenic (after all, it
had over twenty-five emotional 'parents').  It refused to answer
certain questions, suffered from incompatible viewpoints, and could
only be accessed for short periods of time before it went
catatonic.  From a purely scientific viewpoint, however, Harlequin
was a raging success, NAMSR's first proof that a persona could be
generated from engrams stored on the mainframe.
	"Obviously, the next step is to recreate an functional
persona," Browning said during a celebratory staff meeting.  As
usual, he wasn't smiling, but his excitement was almost palpable in
the crowded conference room.  "Harlequin's engram is fundamentally
unstable because its memoriae are from a number of people, and some
of the memoria are obviously incompatible with each other.  If we
want to generate a stable engram we're going to need homogenous
memoriae, preferably from a single person.  I suggest that we push
the tap experiments ahead of schedule and start looking for
volunteers."
	Before Kate could reply, Tina shook her head.  "I'd really
prefer to wait on that until we have some hard copy on the stress
parameters," she said.  "We used a hell of a lot of energy to get
Harlequin up and running, and I don't want to blow out a cell bank
if we do a full transfer."
	"I understand that, but there's no reason why we can't
start lining up research subjects while we're waiting for the
results," he replied eagerly.  Browning had a new light in his
eyes, and his sense of triumph was overriding any sense of caution.
"I mean, my God, we've managed to create a functioning artificial
persona.  This is something that the AI researchers have been
dreaming about for years!"  Carefully, as if he was handling
religious relics, he slid a set of printouts from a folder in front
of him, arranging them in chronological order.  "The patterns we
tracked matched the original brainmapped projections for neural
activity," he said, pointing out the data, "bit for bit, down to
the last microvolt.  We know that the electrodes and the program
are working, so let's go to the next step and do some real
research."   	
	"This is real research," Kate said in mild reproof.  "We
need to start out slow, give the mainframe a chance to prove itself
before we transfer an entire persona."  She shrugged slightly.  "If
the NeuroNet can handle an entire persona, that is.  I mean,
Harlequin was good, but he--"
	"She," interjected Tina.
	"It," said Kate, firmly, "was still an artificial
construct.  A lot of fun to talk to, but you wouldn't want to live
with it."  She tapped the program printouts in front of Browning.
"You keep forgetting," she added, "that we purposely limited the
amount of input, so as not to strain the circuitry.  I'm still not
sure if the mainframe has enough memory stability to process over a
teraK of information."
	"Of course it does," Browning argued, and a few of the
cybertechs murmured assent.  "We built it specifically to handle
large amounts of information, remember?"  He accented his words
with a jab at the printouts.  "Every circuit in the computer is
flexible enough to process a real engram without any trouble," he
stated.
	Before she could answer, a voice from the end of the table
said, "No trouble for the circuitry, perhaps, but what about the
volunteer?"
	Startled, Kate and Browning turned to the man who had
spoken--Rich Ticotin, a staff neurologist and member of the
software team. "In your rush to start experimenting," Ticotin
continued in a quiet tone, "you're overlooking one very important
fact--we still have no data on how a human being would react to
having his memory patterns tapped."
	"We all went through it," Browning objected.  "Nothing
happened to us, so why should it be different for a volunteer?"
	"Because they wouldn't be going through a partial tap,"
Ticotin said patiently.  "The tap isn't a passive procedure like an
EEG--our dermatrodes have to electronically interact with the
brainwaves in order to pick up an engram."  Flipping a printout to
its blank side, he sketched how the electrodes, using a radar-like
system, bounced 'blank' signals through the brain in order to pick
up the patterned echoes.  "Anyone who underwent a full tap would,
in effect, be exposing their neural tissue to the mainframe's
capacitors," he stated, sliding the sketch across to Browning.
"All we'd need is the tiniest volt surge, and we're talking crisped
synapses.  Irreverable brain damage."
	"That's practically impossible, and you know it," Browning
said impatiently.  "The mainframe capacitors have state-of-the-art
surge protection.  Even if, by some freak accident a volt surge
happened, there are at least four points along the dermatrode
connection where the surge could be damped out before reaching the
subject."
	"I'm well aware of the equipment's failsafes, Dr.
Browning," Ticotin said, maintaining the same pleasant tone.  His
eyes, however, had become black ice.  "However, I do think that we
should do some more beta testing on the program before we perform a
full tap.  And as for your comment that nothing happen to any of
us, that's not quite true," he continued.  "During the medical
scans, three people reported a slight headache and some dizziness
after the procedure."  He shrugged.  "Naturally, I examined them
more thoroughly.  Apart from one case of hay fever, all three had
felt fine before the experiment, which make me suspect that the
symptoms was a result of the tap."
	"Why wasn't I informed of this earlier?" Kate asked
sharply.
	"I was going to bring it up in the meeting," Ticotin
informed her.  "The headaches cleared up with some aspirin and a
nap, and there weren't any other complications.  I'd have to review
the EEGs in depth, but my guess is that the procedure puts some
kind of stress on the neurons, which the brain translated as pain."
	"I cannot believe what I'm hearing," Browning said,
incredulous.  "A few people get a headache, a mild one that
could've been caused by anything, and you're blaming it on the
tap?"
	"I'm not blaming it on anything," Ticotin replied calmly,
staring down the younger man.  "All I'm saying is that we should do
more testing, preferably with animals, before we subject a human
volunteer to a full tap.  Unless you have some burning desire to
watch a kid suffer a stroke during the procedure, that is."
	Uncomfortable under the sudden scrutiny of the research
team, Browning turned to Kate for help.  "What do you have to say
about this?" he said, almost accusingly.
	"I have to agree with Rich," said Kate, spreading her hands
in a gesture of assent.  "I'd like to know more about the procedure
from a medical angle before we start experimenting with humans,
especially if the tap is showing side effects.  The whole purpose
behind this project is to help people, not to find new and
interesting ways to kill them."
	"I know that," Browning said irritatedly.  A strange
expression, like shame battling with anger, flashed across his face
as he gazed around the table.  "I just don't--I don't want this
angle of the project given up without further research," he
finished.
	"No one said we were going to give it up," Kate replied
calmly, trying not to react to his odd behavior.  "PerSim is still
a major goal on the contract, and we can't give it up without
calling down the wrath of Washington--you know that.  But let's do
some testing, find out exactly what we've got here before we wind
up frying some poor student's brain by accident," she added.
"Agreed?"
	Shuffling through the last of the printouts, Browning
nodded reluctantly.  "I suppose that's best," he admitted.
	"Good.  And with that, people, let's wrap up this meeting.
Back to the salt mines."  On the way out, she collared Browning.
"My office.  Five minutes."
	
	"Would you like to tell me what you were doing out there,
Jon?"  Kate asked.  Both of them were ensconced in Kate's office, a
pot of tea and two cups perched uneasily on the desk.  	"What do
you mean?" he said suspiciously.
	"For a man who supposedly has NAMSR's best interests at
heart, you're doing a great job of trying to get us into trouble."
	"What trouble?" he said, honestly upset.  "I suggested we
start doing human taps--"
	"Suggested?" Kate said, raising both eyebrows in
exaggerated disbelief.  "If that's what you call suggesting, I'd
hate to be around when you demand something--you probably throw
furniture."
	"--and the suggestion was turned down," he continued,
ignoring her jibe.  "I have a right to offer my opinion in these
meetings, don't I?"
	"Of course you do," she said impatiently.  "But when you
start harping on something that everyone agrees might be dangerous,
it makes you look a little bloodthirsty."
	Browning sighed, tilting his head back in the chair.  "I
suppose it would look like that to you," he said, addressing his
words to the ceiling, the overhead fluorescents giving his
complexion an odd, pale glow.  "After all, I'm the Washington spy,
and everybody knows it.  Barrie's mole is supposed to be a hardcase
when it comes to the project, right?"  The bitterness in his voice
was surprising.
	"I'm not saying you're a hardcase," Kate said carefully.
"But you're behaving like you have some kind of private agenda with
this project."  You, or somebody else, she didn't add.
	"Right, we're back to that," Browning said, slowly easing
himself into an upright position, "'Keep an eye on Browning, he
might be dangerous.'  You know, I really wish I knew how I could
earn your trust, because I am getting very tired of this whole
situation."   His usual blank expression started kaleidoscoping
through pique to irritation, into outright anger.  "It's pretty
obvious that I'm being monitored very carefully in the lab," he
said resentfully.  "I've been here for a year, and no one wants to
talk shop with me.  You won't give me access to the complete
circuitry blueprints.  Any work I do has to be piecemeal, and
usually under Tina's supervision."  He waved his arms through the
air, short, simple gestures pantomiming frustration.  "No matter
what I do for the project, you people won't trust me because I was
sent here by SPD, so you're hamstringing me," he finished, the
facade now fully defiant.  "And I can't do anything about it,
because if I complain to Washington, SPD is going to steamroll over
all of our work."
	"And you don't want that?" she asked coolly.
	"Of course I don't," Browning flung back, surging to his
feet.  The few meters between them was quickly breached as he
leaned over her desk, the avenging cybernetic angel moving to
wrestle with a nonbeliever.  "Kate, what do I have to do to
convince you that I'm on your side?  Get 'NAMSR' branded on my
chest?  Quit SPD, move into the lab, what?  Tell me what I have to
do and I'll do it, but for God's sake stop shutting me out!"
	Before she could respond, the door creaked slightly.
Startled, both of them glanced over to see it opened by Rich
Ticotin.  From the expression on his face, it was clear that he'd
heard the last exchange and deliberately stepped in without
knocking.  "Sorry to interrupt you, Kate," he said, throwing a
blunt look at Browning that said he wasn't sorry at all.  "But we
need to talk when you get a chance."
	Browning caught the message.  Sullenly, he straightened up
from the desk, jamming his hands into lab coat pockets.  "You might
as well talk to her now," he said ungraciously, "since she doesn't
want to listen to me."  Turning to Kate, he gave her what she could
only interpret as a warning glance, and left.
	Kate maintained a blank expression until Ticotin shut the
door, then sighed in relief.  "I thought people like you were
supposed to wear shining armor," she commented.
	"It's in the shop--I have to make do with a lab coat," he
quipped, turning back to her with eyebrows raised.  "So what was
that all about?"
	"Oh, we were having a little discussion about NAMSR," she
answered, pulling a sour face.  "Dr. Browning was protesting his
innocence once again."
	"Methinks the man doth protest too much."
	"It's not the protesting that bothers me as much as his
attitude," she replied dryly.  "Up until last week, he was his
normal introverted self, but now that we've done some preliminary
research on the tapping procedure, he refuses to work on anything
else.  He's gotten completely obsessed with it."
	The older scientist made a disgusted noise.  "That's
putting it a little too nicely," he said bluntly.  "I'd call it
monomania.  If you ask me, I think he'd jump at the chance to do a
complete memory tap, and to hell with what might happen to the
volunteer."
	"Well, he's not going to get that chance," Kate said
shortly.  "I don't care what Browning says, and I most decidedly
don't care what SPD says.  As long as I'm project director, NAMSR
will not engage in human engram taps until I have conclusive proof
that there are no serious side effects from the procedure."
	Ticotin studied her intently, then nodded.  "You cannot,"
he slowly said, "imagine how much that relieves me."
	Kate flicked him a brief glance, and snorted.  "You should
try it from this end," she suggested acerbically.  "I just came to
that conclusion, and it scares the living hell out of me, because I
might actually have to lay the project on the line to save
somebody's life."  She began to play with her glasses absently,
toying with the earpieces.  "I don't like any of this, I really
don't.  Browning's campaigning for full taps, SPD making a special
point of including that on the project contract--with the heat I'm
getting, I'm starting to wonder why persona simulation is such a
big deal to these people."
	"I started wondering about that a few weeks ago," Tictotin
commented, pulling out a minipad from his lab coat pocket.  He held
it up fractionally enough for the light sensors to draw enough
energy, then flicked it on, scanning down the liquid quartz page.
"Can't say I particularly like what I came up with."
	"Oh.  Were you planning on sharing this with me, or was I
supposed to wait for a divine revelation?"
	"Just wanted to make sure which side you were on," Ticotin
replied, allowing himself a small, crafty smile.  "I did some
theorizing with the data, blue sky stuff, and came up with some
interesting scenarios.  This may not be the same thing behind SPD's
interest--at least, I hope it isn't--but it's something for us to
think about,"  The neurologist stood up, pushing his chair around
the desk so that they could sit side by side over the small screen.
With delicate motions, his fingers tapped at the keypad, calling up
a tight block of writing.  "Now, if we subject a volunteer to a
full tap, we're completely duplicating his or her engram onto the
mainframe," he started, referring to the notes on the screen.  "If
we access this engram through PerSim, we're creating a
computer-generated copy of that person's persona, right?"
	"Well, basically, yes," Kate said, straining to read the
small type.  "The computer would have a template of that person's
memory patterns, and the template could be used as an a indicator
of personality patterns."  She made a shrugging gesture with her
hands, lost.  "But that's no big deal," she said.  "It's the
original idea behind PerSim."
	"Carry the situation further," Ticotin continued.  "Let's
say that we provide the computer persona with wide-band sensory
input, the ability to learn from its mistakes, and enough lateral
memory to store everything it learns.  What would you have?"
	Glancing again at the notes, Kate clucked her tongue,
thinking.  "This is crazy,"  she said dubiously, "but it sounds
like you're talking about an artificial intelligence."
	"How about a high-level AI with the capacity for
consciousness," Ticotin said.  "This AI could develop its persona
independently of the original memory donor, learning as it goes and
adding its own experiences to memory.  Given enough time, the
donor's persona and the computer's persona would split apart," he
pantomimed a shape breaking, the halves moving away from each
other, "creating two separate entities."
	The full magnitude of the idea settled on her.  "Let me get
this straight," she muttered, trying to line up the pieces of
Ticotin's theory in some logical kind of order.  "Are you actually
telling me that this program could give a computer the ability to
become sentient?"
	"In a limited sense, yes.  A system using NAMSR's circuitry
and donated memories would, in time, develop a personality
independent from that of the donor," he said.  "Given enough
leeway, the sentience would follow as the computer built up
experience in its persona, much like a human child.  Right now,
there are certain finite limits in stimuli input that would act as
a restrictor on the computer's consciousness, keeping it somewhere
around the level of a five-year-old.  Strictly a technological
problem--we can't make equipment that can match the input ports of
the five senses, and even PerSim is hopelessly crude compared to a
real human persona.
	"Now, take it one step further.  We know that personae are
partially based on memory, as well as the organic processes going
on in the brain, and we've established that memories can be
recorded onto our system--a system, I may add, which duplicates
those organic processes.  I've already described the possibility of
creating a sentient computer system using NAMSR circuitry, and
that's frightening in itself.  So let's consider a really
terrifying possibility--what would happen if a tap volunteer had
his engram recorded onto the computer, and died during the
procedure?"
	Kate was rocking slightly in her chair, still trying to
digest his earlier suggestion.  "I don't know," she finally
admitted.  "If the engram had been properly recorded, nothing could
touch it once it was inside the system.  We might lose some data if
the subject died before his memoriae were completely translated,
but that's the only problem I can think of.  What are you
suggesting?"
	"Metaphysics, Kate.  Nothing I can prove, only things I can
hypothesize," he said heavily.  "I just have to wonder what would
happen to that living mind if it was caught in a tap loop.  And
suddenly didn't have a body anymore."
	Kate regarded him for a moment in silence.  A mind,
spinning free--  "Do you think that's what SPD wants to find out?"
she said, her voice quiet.
	"It's possible," he rumbled.  "It occurred to me that death
during the tap might do something interesting to the recorded
memoriae, maybe even to the persona.  And if it occurred to me, you
can rest assured it occurred to SPD.  And Browning."
	She nodded, forcing herself to ask the next logical
question:  "So do you think they want someone to die during a tap?
And Browning's pushing it for SPD?"
	For a moment, the other scientist looked thoughtful.  "I
don't know," Ticotin admitted.  "Browning's the wild card in all of
this.  He's dangerous in his own way,  but I don't believe he's
part of whatever SPD may be planning.  It's entirely possible he's
telling you the truth--or part of it, anyway.  Of course, he
wouldn't mention if if he had his own plans for PerSim."
	"Marvelous," Kate muttered, not wanting to hear her own
suspicions echoed.  "Everyone seems to have their own little plans
for NAMSR.  Not only do I get to deal with the Pentagon's
thinktank, but I have a certified mad scientist in my own back
yard."
	"That might not be a bad thing," Ticotin offered.  "If you
do it right, you may be able to play them against each other.  If
Browning's so determined to prove his loyalty, take him up on it.
Use it--use him."
	Everything he said seemed to be an echo of what Sam had
told her so many months ago, Kate thought--find ways to manipulate
the system in order to safeguard NAMSR.  The eternal dance of
politics extending into research, the one place where it shouldn't
exist.
	I specifically went into research to get away from hospital
politics, and I wind up running into a whole new style, she mused.
What a life.  "Okay, I see your point," she told Ticotin, sighing.
"And I'll admit you're right.  So what am I supposed to do now?"
	Ticotin shrugged.  "That's where I have to pack up my
crystal ball," he said.  "I don't have the mindset for dealing with
something like this."
	"And I do?"
	"You must have--you wouldn't have been able to keep this
project together otherwise."  He raised his hands at her sudden
frown.  "What I'm trying to say is, you're tough-minded and you're
willing to do whatever it takes to keep NAMSR on an even keel.  And
I'll back you up on whatever you decide, if that's any help."
	She thought for a moment.  "It is," she said finally.
"Now, all I have to do is decide what the hell I'm going to do."


>From: kmrc@ellis.uchicago.edu (Melanie A. Miller)
Subject: STORY: DEUS EX > Chapter Three, Pt. 1
Date: 17 Nov 91 19:35:03 GMT


				DEUS EX


CHAPTER THREE (part one)

	Later that evening, Kate was deep within a review of the
'Harlequin' stability data when her phone rang.  Not bothering to
look at the telescreen, she flicked the ANSWER switch, leaving on
the video privacy filter that blanked out her own image to the
caller.
	"NAMSR, director's office," she recited absently.
	"Kate, m'girl," said an irrepressibly cheerful voice, "I
know you're hiding behind that silly graphic, so you might as well
shut it off."
	"Why?" she drawled, still examining the screen.
	"Beacause you're about to get an invitation for a
late-night dinner at Piccolo Mondo, so stop being a smartass and
turn off the filter."
	"Sounds interesting, but don't you think you should
introduce yourself first?"
	The featureless voice snorted.  "Maybe if you'd answer your
own calls instead of making people stare at a really bad picture of
mating amoebas, you'd know who this is."
	"It's a paisley pattern, and I already know who this is,"
she said, reaching over to cut off the privacy switch.  The
telescreen on her right fuzzed for a moment, bright static abruptly
resolving into a man's face.  "The only person who ever invites me
out at weird hours for food, and does it with a particularly
annoying nasal twang," she continued, "is one Timothy L. Gideon,
the eccentric pride and joy of Billings Hospital's neurosurgical
service."
	"I'll take that as a compliment, so don't get smart," he
said, glaring like an Old Testament prophet into the vid pickup.
Unfortunately, his auburn eyelashes and eyebrows were completely
wrong for a true glower, making him look more like an offended
accountant.  "Otherwise, I'll make you pay for your own dinner."
	"Since when have you ever paid for my meal, you gonif?"
	"I defer to the last wishes of the Equal Rights Amendment,
may it rest in peace," he said facetiously.  "And don't abuse my
heritage.  You know how I feel about Gentiles using the mother
tongue."
	"Gideon, my pet, you're Episcopalian."
	"Episcopalians are often the best kind of Jews," he said,
waggling his eyebrows.  "But seriously, how about we blow this
place and get some decent Italian food?"
	Kate glanced at the papers and datapads stacked on her
desk, judged the amount of work she'd done that evening.  "Oh, what
the hell--I've been a good girl," she muttered half to herself,
making a quick decision.  "Okay.  I'll meet you at Mondo's in ten
minutes," as one hand reached to hit the SAVE button on her
keyboard.  "Just let me get my coat--"
	"No, no, my favorite lab rat," he stopped her.  "You'll
have to come over here first.  I'm still on duty for the next half
hour."
	Her mouth twisting to hide a grin, Kate leaned back in the
big chair, letting her glasses slide to the tip of her nose for an
austere look.  "And what am I supposed to do for the next half hour
while you're busy performing your medical marvels?" she asked
dryly.
	"How about cleaning the on-call room?" he suggested
	Automatically, she made a face.  "Thank you, no,"  she shot
back. "I interned there, remember?  And I'm not up to discovering
new forms of life behind that bunk bed."
	"Well, we could always start one on top of it."
	"Tim, why must you always sound like a seventeen-year-old
with a hard-on?" she said, laughing.
	"Congenital defect.  What can I say?" he replied,
unrepentant.  "Anyway, it's a quiet night, I'm finished with all my
cases, and I'm almost hungry enough to eat cafeteria food, which
shows you how desperate I am.  Why don't you come over here, help
me waste a half hour, then we'll hit Mondo's for some decent grub."
	"I'll meet you on the floor in fifteen minutes.  See you
then."  As the screen blanked out, Kate punched an exit command
into her terminal and grabbed her coat, still smiling.  Tim Gideon
had gravitated into her life during residency at Billings with the
force of a black hole, batting her out of the classic first year
resident's slump with his depraved sense of humor.  Their
friendship, begun on rounds and late-night bull sessions in the
on-call room, was clinched for life when they smuggled a leprous
penis and scrotum out of Pathology and had it sent up to the SICU
nurse's station--home of the most tight-assed nurses in the
hospital--labeled as a "Do-It-Yourself Stress Reliever."  This
antic had them were permantly barred from Pathology and voted Most
Likely To Incur A Malpractice Suit Before Age Thirty by their
admiring colleagues.
	As well as being a good friend and compatriot in
M*A*S*H-style humor, Tim was also on NAMSR's unofficial 'advisory
committee', a loosely connected group of neurological specialists
that served as Kate's backup think tank.  Cutting through Abbott
Hall,  Kate mentally reviewed the events of the day as she wound
her way through the labyrinthine complex.  As well as looking
forward to a nice, relaxing dinner with Tim,