immediate, increased, activity in his
adrenaline gland.
Already? Already! It was too soon. Couldn’t be!
Within a blink of an eye his fingers turned into a swirled
flurry of clicks, when a line of programs was replaced by another, very long
and secret line. One after the other frames were separated from the giant
screen, giving a space to another, secret, hidden frame.
Wow.
There.
In Australia, Taiwan, India, England, Argentina, Pakistan,
Israel, more than half the US states, most parts of Germany, France, New
Zealand, Colombia, the Fiji Islands, Luxembourg, Italy, Greece and Turkey, millions
of little ants woke up, looked right and left, and began to pull from their
holes hidden treasures.
Zomy's screen broke into new life.
Lines started running, dropping down the screen, down and
down. Trim, green lines. Occasionally replaced parts are yellow, sick lines,
but the majority were green. Zomy snapped a few more times, and the lines
jumped ahead, a few miles below.
Things happened.
Zomy looked at the screen anxiously. More and more yellow
lines began to appear instead of the green. His frowns came regularly, some
worried, some curious. These were the last millions of lines of code, so that
he knew, and they turned yellow too fast. He leaned back in his chair, letting
the program fulfill its goal, second after second, day after day. Despite the
air conditioning, a tear of sweat formed on his forehead, trickling down.
Not every person looks at his own death, he thought. Not
every day.
Then the program stopped. One line, red, stopped the entire
process. He looked at it, again and again, read the text but did not understand
it. Frustration finally overcame him, and he pressed the intercom button.
"Lia, come in here."
An hour later, he lay on the stretcher in the clinic, while
Lia, wearing a doctor's coat, screened the computer printouts. Dozens of pages
were on the floor, in a neat stack designed for shredding.
"Hmm ..." Lia uttered suddenly, an unseen voice.
"What?"
"Hmm ..." she continued, smiling at him suddenly,
squinting.
"What?"
"Take off your shirt."
"What?" This time louder, puzzled.
"Take off your shirt, I want to see what nearly killed
you when you were 15."
"Nothing nearly killed me at 15," he muttered
angrily, but took off his shirt. Lia looked at him again, with a clearly
non-medical look. How thin he was. Thin but cute, light-skinned with matted
chest hair, cute as only innocent people can to be. Anyway, the doctor in her
was back in control, not interested in his chest.
She felt his belly, on the right, dropping down below.
"Take off your trousers," she ordered. And he
obeyed. "That's it," she said. And she stopped, slightly below the
underwear line.
Her long-fingered hand slid further down and down, down the
right-side of his belly. Down, down, feeling any flap of skin, each passing
hair. She went down more, sliding under, little by little, under his underwear.
Then stopped.
"Here it is."
"Here's what?" He got mad.
"You had an appendectomy when you were 15, that's
what."
"I did?"
There was nothing like this. He was sure there was nothing
like this! But then he remembered. Sometime in the closed room with Rabbi
Eligad, he remembered a terrible stomach ache, the kind which slashes you like
a sword from the inside. He remembered a whirlwind of faces, colors, he
remembered white lights, and then a long sleep...
It was so long ago…so much had passed since…and he
remembered lying in the room, dull pain in his right-side stomach, and the
angel giving him juice and butter cookies.
"I've never had a surgery, Lia," he murmured.
"But that's the scar there," and she guided his
finger to the small change in the skin texture, no more than an hair’s breadth
of an old scab, no more than an inch long. "And it was an excellent
surgery, you can hardly feel it. Who was your surgeon, can you remember? "
"No," he lied.
"Anyway, that's what almost killed you at 15. The
genosimulation was not wrong.
adrenaline gland.
Already? Already! It was too soon. Couldn’t be!
Within a blink of an eye his fingers turned into a swirled
flurry of clicks, when a line of programs was replaced by another, very long
and secret line. One after the other frames were separated from the giant
screen, giving a space to another, secret, hidden frame.
Wow.
There.
In Australia, Taiwan, India, England, Argentina, Pakistan,
Israel, more than half the US states, most parts of Germany, France, New
Zealand, Colombia, the Fiji Islands, Luxembourg, Italy, Greece and Turkey, millions
of little ants woke up, looked right and left, and began to pull from their
holes hidden treasures.
Zomy's screen broke into new life.
Lines started running, dropping down the screen, down and
down. Trim, green lines. Occasionally replaced parts are yellow, sick lines,
but the majority were green. Zomy snapped a few more times, and the lines
jumped ahead, a few miles below.
Things happened.
Zomy looked at the screen anxiously. More and more yellow
lines began to appear instead of the green. His frowns came regularly, some
worried, some curious. These were the last millions of lines of code, so that
he knew, and they turned yellow too fast. He leaned back in his chair, letting
the program fulfill its goal, second after second, day after day. Despite the
air conditioning, a tear of sweat formed on his forehead, trickling down.
Not every person looks at his own death, he thought. Not
every day.
Then the program stopped. One line, red, stopped the entire
process. He looked at it, again and again, read the text but did not understand
it. Frustration finally overcame him, and he pressed the intercom button.
"Lia, come in here."
An hour later, he lay on the stretcher in the clinic, while
Lia, wearing a doctor's coat, screened the computer printouts. Dozens of pages
were on the floor, in a neat stack designed for shredding.
"Hmm ..." Lia uttered suddenly, an unseen voice.
"What?"
"Hmm ..." she continued, smiling at him suddenly,
squinting.
"What?"
"Take off your shirt."
"What?" This time louder, puzzled.
"Take off your shirt, I want to see what nearly killed
you when you were 15."
"Nothing nearly killed me at 15," he muttered
angrily, but took off his shirt. Lia looked at him again, with a clearly
non-medical look. How thin he was. Thin but cute, light-skinned with matted
chest hair, cute as only innocent people can to be. Anyway, the doctor in her
was back in control, not interested in his chest.
She felt his belly, on the right, dropping down below.
"Take off your trousers," she ordered. And he
obeyed. "That's it," she said. And she stopped, slightly below the
underwear line.
Her long-fingered hand slid further down and down, down the
right-side of his belly. Down, down, feeling any flap of skin, each passing
hair. She went down more, sliding under, little by little, under his underwear.
Then stopped.
"Here it is."
"Here's what?" He got mad.
"You had an appendectomy when you were 15, that's
what."
"I did?"
There was nothing like this. He was sure there was nothing
like this! But then he remembered. Sometime in the closed room with Rabbi
Eligad, he remembered a terrible stomach ache, the kind which slashes you like
a sword from the inside. He remembered a whirlwind of faces, colors, he
remembered white lights, and then a long sleep...
It was so long ago…so much had passed since…and he
remembered lying in the room, dull pain in his right-side stomach, and the
angel giving him juice and butter cookies.
"I've never had a surgery, Lia," he murmured.
"But that's the scar there," and she guided his
finger to the small change in the skin texture, no more than an hair’s breadth
of an old scab, no more than an inch long. "And it was an excellent
surgery, you can hardly feel it. Who was your surgeon, can you remember? "
"No," he lied.
"Anyway, that's what almost killed you at 15. The
genosimulation was not wrong.
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