Analog SFF, September 2010 (24 page)

Timms shrugged. “You've got to admit that it has a certain kind of brilliance.” He stared at Quinton. “The real question is, what are we going to do about it?"

"You withheld this information to prevent panic? Or for some other reason? To gain an advantage over the competition, perhaps."

"I don't have to explain myself to you.” Timms sipped his drink. “Now is not the time for philosophy or psychology."

Quinton thought about Mark. Saw the body in his mind's eye. Then a flash of insight struck. He opened his mouth, ready to speak. But he held back.

"Yes?” said Timms. “Something you want to say?"

And I ought to say it, thought Quinton. But he wondered if the gun was still in Timms's pocket.

Timms leaned forward. “You've got an idea, Quinton? Let's hear it."

"Mark didn't steal my lab notebooks. You did.” A brief flush came over the professor's face, telling Quinton he was right. “At first I was sure it was Mark, but now that I think about it, that doesn't really make much sense. Mark had already been looking over my shoulder; he would have known that I write my notes in code. It's not a simple one either. Vigenere cipher. Mark knew that stealing my notebooks wouldn't have been useful, but you didn't.” Quinton paused. He felt short of breath. “That means you murdered him when you realized I would find out Mark didn't take them."

The professor's expression went cold and hard, but his poise quickly returned. “He really did lunge for you, Quinton. He didn't reach for his knife, but I thought that's what he was planning to do."

Quinton watched him closely. The professor's hand crept toward his pocket. “You can threaten me, but you can't kill me,” said Quinton. “I know something you don't."

Timms smiled. Quinton was amazed that the professor's smile seemed fluid and relaxed. “You have a point. But some of the other people in my lab are anxious to replicate and extend your discovery. You
have
made a discovery, haven't you, Quinton?"

"I won't tell you,” said Quinton.

"Why not? You want half of the people in this community to die?"

"You couldn't save them. Even if you wanted to—which I doubt."

Timms leaned back. “Not enough material? I figured there was a reason you didn't say anything at the meeting. Well, maybe we can scrounge up some more somewhere."

"No, it's a special order,” said Quinton. “You'd only protect yourself. And some of your goons."

"Goons?” Timms looked genuinely surprised. “These people are scientists, they have doctorates—"

"Doesn't matter. What you're doing isn't right. And what you've already done isn't right. I don't care how smart you are."

"And what about yourself? You're prepared to roll the dice?"

Quinton nodded.

Timms shook his head. “Come on, Quinton. You're as competitive as anyone, including me. We're both competitive, and that's why we have so much success whereas others fail. I promise that you'll be one of those we protect."

"No."

"I can't believe you've gone so soft. You're smart enough to know that there will always be winners and losers. And it's better to win than lose."

"That's true. Winning is always better. But I guess I'm a lot more different from you than I thought. Where we disagree is on the definition of ‘winning.’”

Timms frowned. “I think you'll tell us what we want to know, though we might have to do a little bit of persuading.” He reached for the intercom. “Believe me, Quinton, I hate to do it, but we're fighting the clock on this one. You leave me no alternative."

Quinton aimed and threw his flashlight. Timms saw it coming and ducked. The heavy cylinder bounced off his shoulder, but Quinton heard the thud of metal against bone. The flashlight had struck the professor's clavicle.

Racing out of the room, Quinton was suddenly blinded in the dimness of the hallway. His night vision was gone—his eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the professor's office.

But Quinton had walked these hallways day and night for a long time. He bumped into the wall a few times but still reached the stairs quickly. Just as he was racing down the steps he heard the heavy footfalls of pursuers.

Quinton stayed in the lead, finding the exit at the unloading dock and then sprinting up the ramp. He raced across campus, able to stay the course using starlight and the stray light of the flashlights of the people running after him. He won the race to the dorm.

With burning lungs and aching legs he galloped up the stairs. After he reached his room he yanked the deadbolt, clasped the chain, and pushed his dresser against the door for good measure. Then he collapsed.

As he lay on the floor in the pitch-black room, he heard thumps and scratches on the metal door. They'll have to wait until after the sun rises to use power tools, thought Quinton. And by then it might be too late.

Quinton drew deep breaths. Shoulders, chest, abdomen rose and fell. Was he out of breath because of the unaccustomed exercise? Or was he one of the victims?

Maybe they'll find the chemicals under the sink, he thought. But probably not. And even if they did, they wouldn't know which one to use or how. “For once,” he muttered, “the playing field is level. Too bad for you, Professor Timms."

He closed his eyes. His breathing softened, his thoughts drifted. If it's going to happen, he figured, he should just accept it.

What would Timms do if both he and Quinton survived? How would Timms treat Quinton? What would he say, what would he do? And how could Quinton ever look at Timms again and not think of him as a cold-blooded killer?

But Quinton decided to worry about that later—if, that is, he had a later. His last thought was, what exactly
is
my definition of winning?

Clouds thickened during the early morning hours. By dawn a light rain fell on campus. The dark skies promised a wet, cloudy day. Lights would be dim all day and go out early in the evening.

The gentle rain unleashed fresh scents. Shoots of grass poked up between cracks in the ubiquitous concrete.

Quinton opened his eyes. Light filtered through the curtains. Rain beat a soft tattoo on his window.

"I made it!” he cried.

He rose and looked out of the window. The campus appeared active, lots of people walking about. Many of them carried umbrellas.

Quinton listened at his door. Silence. He moved the dresser and unchained and unbolted the door. He peeked outside. Nothing. But dents and scratches covered the front of the door.

He looked for his flashlight, then remembered what he'd done with it. A twinge of regret came over him. He wondered if he should have tried to escape without hitting the professor.

Curiosity wouldn't let him stay in his room. He came out and started down the stairs. He met two sleepy grad students on the stairwell.

"What's the news?” he asked.

They shrugged. Apparently, they knew nothing about what had happened last night.

Quinton stepped out into the misty weather. No one who passed by him seemed especially alarmed or affected.

Maybe DCC hasn't released the toxins, he thought.

He wandered to the biology building. A postdoc he knew slightly went inside. He followed cautiously.

The first person he met was emeritus Professor Grange. He was carrying a plastic bag and striding rapidly down the hall when he saw Quinton. He stopped and stared, saying, “I wondered when you would show up."

"What happened?"

"It's all over the radio. I heard just a few minutes ago. They've finally taken down DCC and its zombies. We're in the process of reestablishing an Internet connection."

"DCC didn't have time to carry out its plan?"

Grange muttered an expletive. “It was carrying out its plan, all right. It just wasn't what we thought."

Four men appeared in the hall carrying a covered stretcher. Professor Grange and Quinton made way for them to pass.

"My God,” said Quinton. “How many?"

"Just a few.” He watched the men carry away the body. “That was Borden. Borden Timms."

"What—"

"He's been stabbed.” Grange looked at Quinton. “I understand you and he and some of his friends had a set-to last night."

"I didn't kill him!"

"I know you didn't,” said Grange, gently. “I heard what happened. I'm sketchy on the details, but I think I've got the general idea.” He reached into the bag and pulled out Timms's gun. “He was clutching this in his hand. Apparently, he threatened somebody with it. Somebody who was a little faster than he was."

"His shoulder,” mumbled Quinton. “Slow on the draw, I bet."

"How's that?"

Quinton shook his head. “Never mind. What did you mean when you said DCC's plan wasn't what we thought?"

"That genocide or whatever you want to call it. It was a lot of nonsense. DCC was never going to do anything like that. But that's what it wanted us to
think
. It encouraged the rumor, spread it around, and leaked news of all kinds of schemes with which it would carry it out."

"Why would it do something like that?"

"That,” said Grange, “is going to be the subject of a lot of research and debate over the coming years.” He closed the bag and wrapped it up tightly. “Once the police get on their feet again, I'll let them dispose of this properly. In the meantime, Sandra Rebbin and I are getting the labs safely up and running again. Regular electric power will be restored soon, or so the city tells me."

Quinton followed him.

"Professor,” said Quinton, “what really happened? Do you have a theory about DCC? What was the goal?"

"I'm not sure.” Grange paused. “But maybe it was genuinely concerned about civilization—we're facing a lot of problems, you know—and perhaps it wanted to encourage a reduction in population the old-fashioned way. Set up a situation in which people would fight it out. Red in tooth and claw."

"Maybe,” said Quinton. “But I have another idea. Maybe DCC learned only too well from its human programmers."

"What do you mean?"

"Holding back—sandbagging. It didn't reveal its true plan. It held back—on those who usually do the same."

"With the goal . . . ?"

Quinton shrugged. “Maybe it thought the best way to deal with overpopulation was to get rid of the people with the least tendency to cooperate. People who try to gain an edge by withholding important information. If it could fool them, somehow get them to eliminate each other—"

"Interesting theory,” said Grange, “but far too complicated for a machine. How would such a plan work? I think the simplest theory is the best, and that's the theory of evolution. That's what must have guided DCC. It believed that the strong would kill the weak, increasing society's fitness . . ."

But Quinton wasn't listening. He'd seen a couple of postdocs struggling to move a crate and stopped to lend them a hand.

Copyright © 2010 Kyle Kirkland

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Are you sure this
didn't
happen?

Consider a journey of eight miles. One could walk it in less than an afternoon; in a carriage, it would take an hour, or one could conquer the distance in one of Stevenson's steam trains in fifteen minutes or less. Set two towers eight miles apart, and a signal may be transmitted by flashing mirrors in less time than modern science is able to measure. Eight miles is not all that it used to be, yet seek to travel eight miles straight up and you come to a frontier more remote than the peaks of Tibet's mountains or the depths of Africa's jungles. It is a frontier that can kill.

My journey of eight miles began in London, in the spring of 1840. At that time I was the owner and operator of a hot air balloon. It was reliable, robust, and easy to fly, and I provided flights to amuse the jaded and idle rich. It was a fickle income, but when I had clients, they paid well for novelty.

Lord Cedric Gainsley was certainly rich, and when his card arrived I assumed that he wished to hire my balloon to impress some friends with a flight above London. I kept it packed aboard a waggon to launch from wherever the clients wished. Its open wicker car could carry six adults; indeed, the idea of six people of mixed sexes packed in close proximity seemed to add to the allure of a balloon flight.

My first moments in Gainsley's London rooms told me that he was no ordinary client. The walls of the parlour were decorated by maps alternating with sketches of mountain peaks and ruins. The butler showed me into a drawing room completely lined with books. This was nothing unusual, for many gentlemen bought identical collections of worthy books to display to visitors. At that time it was also fashionable to collect, so Gainsley collected. In and on display cases were preserved insects, fossil shells, mineral crystals, old astronomical instruments, clocks dating back to the fourteenth century, lamps from the Roman Empire, and coins from ancient Greece. Seven species of fox were represented by stuffed specimens.

As I began to look through Gainsley's library, however, I realised that many books had been heavily used, to the point of being grubby. They were mainly concerned with the natural sciences.

"Does geology interest you?"

I turned to see a tall man of perhaps forty handing a top hat to the butler. He wore a black tailcoat with a fashionably narrow waist, but was just slightly unkempt. A rich man who did not want to draw attention to himself might look that way.

"Geology—you mean the books?"

"Yes, they made me rich. I learned to tell when minerals were present, in places where other men saw only wilderness."

The butler cleared his throat.

"Lord Cedric Gainsley, may I introduce Mr. Harold Parkes,” he improvised, not entirely sure of the protocol when the baron had opened the conversation first.

"Thank you, Stuart. Now have Miss Angelica ready and waiting for my summons."

"Very good, my lord."

Once we were alone, Gainsley waved at a crystal brandy decanter and told me to make myself at home. He paced before the fireplace as I poured myself a glass, and showed no interest in a drink for himself. I took a sip. It was very good—far better than I was used to.