The Fourth Law

by Paul Stein

  “Well, if you want to help, maybe you can explain how my cousin was able to hack his way past our security protocols on the IBM mainframe. This isn’t some simplified network that a novice could hack, let alone my incompetent cousin. Quantum has a massive firewall in place.”

  “I haven’t been able to access the mainframe yet,” Sal replied. “My first priority was to investigate the extent to which your work station was compromised. The only thing I can tell you so far is that the last person to access this machine used the password. Since I obviously don’t know the password, I’ve been searching the backdoor.”

  “Wait a second…you’re telling me whoever was in here also had my password?” Conrad asked incredulously. “That’s impossible. I’m the only one that knows the password.”

  “Well, then…good news,” Sal replied sarcastically. “Like I said, the last person to get into the files of your work station had access through the normal interface protocol. That means you were the last one to access your machine—about ten-fifteen last night, according to the internal clock.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I wasn’t in the lab last night…and none of my colleagues or graduate students has the access code. So where does that leave us?” he asked, trying to comprehend how anyone could have identified amerigodevina as the proper password.

  “If you’ll allow me to search your system directory,” Sal answered, watching the screen come alive as Conrad opened his files, “maybe I can discover the answer to your question. If the hacker’s as sharp as the guys who planned the breach, my guess is they knew their way around your system without needing the password. There are guys out there that could manage this.”

  “Okay, give me a minute to check my files…then you’re free to do whatever’s necessary,” Conrad replied, punching the keyboard. He drilled down to a file in the subdirectory entitled SUT, opened it, and slumped forward in his seat. The super unified theorem files normally contained in this directory were missing. His face became ashen, his hands trembled, and a groan emitted from under his breath. In a frenzy, he tried to access the mainframe for the backup files. He froze in panic as a startling realization hit him like a thunderbolt.

  “Nooo!” he shrieked. “Where are my files? He’s taken my files!”

  Everyone in the room turned, startled by the raging scientist’s angst and loss of composure.

  Lieutenant Morris rushed to his side, fearing he might need restraint. “Easy, Dr. Conrad…I’m sure there’s an explanation. Let Sal back in there. Give us the password so he can see what happened. He’ll find something…I promise you.”

  Conrad stood awkwardly after scribbling his password on the notepad next to his desk. He was shaking his head, mumbling softly to himself: “I’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch…I’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch…” Finally, he slumped onto the leather sofa at the center of the office, burying his face in his hands, totally dejected.

  “Dr. Conrad, is there something we can do for you?” Morris asked, looking for anything that might quell his despair.

  “Yes,” Conrad replied, without lifting his face from his hands. “You can bring me Ryan Marshall’s head on a silver platter.”

  “Holloway,” he snapped, answering the call. His PDA phone scrambled the transmission to protect his voice from identification and prevent tracing the call. “A mite eager, are we?” he asked, recognizing the caller’s incoming number from the Quantum Building.

  “Just wanted to confirm you’ve received the data and that everything is in order,” the caller said. “You assured me no one would be hurt. Apparently, you overestimated your men getting safely out of the building. Any more surprises I need to know about?”

  “Don’t lecture me,” Holloway spit back. “It’s none of your concern. I’ve already handled it. Why are you calling?”

  “I want to know when to expect my money,” the man replied. “The death of the security guard changes everything. Under the circumstances…I’ll expect your full payment immediately.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you expect. You’ll get your thirty pieces of silver as soon as I verify that the contraption you sold me works this time…not a moment before. Is that clear enough for you, or do you need more forceful convincing?” The threat sounded much more menacing through the scrambled, computer-generated voice.

  “Threaten all you like, Mr. Holloway,” the man replied. “You seem to forget, however, that I can identify you as the mastermind of this crime. You would be wise not to bully me, sir. That would be foolish.”

  “I do not repeat myself,” Holloway replied, infuriated by the caller’s insolence. “Our terms have not changed a whit. And for your edification, Doctor, no one has ever threatened me and lived to tell the tale.”

  The phone line went dead.

  SIX

  JARROD CONRAD had hurried from the Quantum Building in the early morning hours following the burglary of his office. He was exhausted but too amped up to sleep, an overdose of adrenaline still coursed through his system. He was stunned by his cousin’s audacity in actually stealing the equations he had spent his career developing. He knew that Ryan was no stranger to vindictiveness, but he never thought in his wildest dreams he had the balls to actually break the law. It was clear he had grossly underestimated his cousin’s resolve—he meant to settle the score for losing his wife, after all. Jarrod thought the divorce from Sarah had finally broken his spirit; there had been no hint of retaliation after the New York City scam. This misjudgment aside, he would now have to deal with the consequences of Ryan’s foolhardy actions. The renewed escalation of their embittered rivalry would not go unchallenged.

  Jarrod wasn’t at all worried about losing his research data. He had every theorem, equation, and technical drawing for his gravity research backed up on multiple computers for just such a contingency; he was never comfortable keeping all his data in one basket. What did bother him was that his antigravity equations were in the hands of another engineer prior to the publication of his breakthrough discovery. Anyone involved at this level of corporate espionage was unscrupulous enough to capitalize on the discovery, without hesitation. This, he could not abide.

  Jarrod was relieved he had the foresight to imagine this worstcase scenario. He never kept all the information for the machine in one location; the construction design was kept separate from the operational equations. Neither were the schematics kept on the same computer with the equations to produce a flow of gravitrons. And, finally, the system equations triggered a termination sequence for anyone who tried to use them without his personal laptop computer. Niles Penburton was the only other person who knew where everything was stored.

  Any proficient researcher could easily build the device from his schematics, right down to the detail of the microwave dish required to focus the gravitron beam. But without the laptop to synchronize the current with the nuclear core, the machine couldn’t levitate a walnut. Not even Niles knew about this little detail. These built-in safeguards should protect his invention until he uncovered what Ryan had planned for the machine.

  Jarrod imagined his cousin was feeling pretty smug after pilfering his research, but Ryan had another thing in store if he thought this was the end of anything. The fool just doesn’t get it. He can’t beat me.

  Following the questioning from Detective Morris, Jarrod immediately returned to his home at the campus and retrieved the data backup he kept on his personal computer. Even though he was confident the IBM laptop was secure in the hidden wall-safe, he was in no position to take anything for granted. The laptop didn’t have the computing power of the Quantum mainframe, but it did have sufficient memory to store the various complex equations to make the gravity machine functional.

  Thankfully, the laptop was secure. No one had been in his house. He would simply upload this data back at the lab and continue to complete his research for publication before Ryan could capitalize on his discovery. There was no possible way anyone could operate the machine without the critical information t
hat he still possessed. Whoever Ryan was working with would be pissed when they discovered that the information they robbed was incomplete. The laptop equations were still the key to operating his antigravity device, and the stolen data didn’t even hint that something else was needed.

  Screw Ryan, Jarrod thought. I’d love to see the bastard’s face when he realizes he doesn’t have squat. This isn’t over by a long shot, Cuz.

  SEVEN

  TAOS, NEW MEXICO

  06:00 HOURS

  RYAN MARSHALL sat in his work truck overlooking the yawning canyon below. This was his favorite time of day—visualizing the day ahead while sipping coffee from his ever-present turquoise-colored thermos. Living from motels along the road didn’t always accommodate his daily caffeine fix; a top priority when starting a new job was to scope out a cantina that served the strongest cup of java. When home in Bernalillo, he used a Delonghi espresso maker to craft the perfect cup, but today his coffee came fresh from the diner in Pilar, a small town near the Rio Grande Gorge. Pilar was a Mecca to thrill-seeking white-water rafters who coveted the class-four water in this part of the gorge.

  Alone in the early morning, Ryan would meditate and pray about the coming day. He visualized each element of the task ahead, evaluating the equipment and personnel at hand, trusting his intuition to discern potential problems. Ryan Marshall loved his job. He was widely recognized as one of the premier crane contractors in America. I couldn’t have done any of this without you, Grandpa, he thought, remembering Rusty, his beloved mentor.

  Ryan looked across the canyon and could just barely make out the job site. The sun was peeking over the eastern rim of the gorge. The emerging sunlight sparkled off the dew layering the canyon from the night before. The rush of the mighty Rio Grande was barely audible from his vantage point, the river bottom ever deepening as the water plowed inexorably toward the Mexican border. The centuries-old Piñon trees stood like dutiful sentinels protecting the enormous canyon.

  Ryan often daydreamed about what it was like before the first settlers arrived. What an awesome and terrible period of American history.

  If the Piñons could tell a story, he knew the trees would bear witness to the hedonistic conquest of the Spanish Conquistadores, who first occupied the Land of Enchantment in 1540. The King of Spain had commissioned General Francisco Vasquez de Coronado to discover the fabled Seven Cities of Cibola that were rumored to be found in this area of North America. This region became the Southwestern United States, and was occupied by peace-loving Native American Indians who were easily subjugated by the Spanish soldiers.

  The Spanish Conquistadors considered the Navajo and Hopi Indians savage and pagan. The Spanish government decreed that the Encomienda system should be established in the New World. Encomienda—similar to the Medieval feudal system—came to signify the oppression and exploitation of the American Indians, although the original intent was to indoctrinate them in the Catholic faith. The system was totally abused, however, as the Conquistadors were thousands of miles from Spain and behaved as they saw fit. The natives were abused, oppressed, exploited, ill-treated, and decimated by the Spanish Conquistadors. The Indians lost their freedom, their rights, their culture, and their religion. The Spanish Conquistadors were feared and hated because of this treatment; the very name Conquistador still conveys these terrible impressions among the Native American Indians of the Southwest.

  General Coronado never found Cibola or the riches he was dispatched to bring back to Spain. He found no cities of gold, no El Dorado, yet his expedition had acquainted the Spanish with the Indian pueblos and opened the Southwest. Coronado had established one of the first places in North America to be inhabited, but the very last to be civilized.

  A sudden radio transmission rousted Ryan’s attention. “Morning, boss, this is Corky,” squawked the radio in his Superduty truck. “What’s your twenty?” he asked, meaning “10-20,” the abbreviated radio-speak for “location.”

  “Good morning, Corky,” Ryan replied, snapping back from his reverie. “I’m on the south rim of the canyon about even with the top of the tower, looking things over; you know the routine,” he said, taking another sip of coffee. “Confirm you’ve rigged the crane for Big Mo’s arrival.” Ryan lifted his binoculars to take a closer look at something that had just caught his attention. “I want us waiting for Apache Steel…not the other way around.”

  “Ten-four, understood,” Corky Chalmers promptly replied.

  Corky had worked with Ryan for only the past couple of years and was considered a relative newcomer to the high-steel industry. By comparison, some of the Navajos had been working with Ryan for over twenty years, coming from families with several generations in the high-steel business. But Corky’s special aptitude for coordinating complex lifts had been early recognized by Ryan Marshall. He had progressed quickly to foreman, leading one of several teams that were deployed through Marshall’s business: Levitation Solutions, Inc.

  “Who checked the counterbalance stays?” Ryan asked, as he continued to hold the binoculars steady to the bridge of his nose. “Something doesn’t look right. It appears the tower is leaning slightly to the northeast. Are you sure this sucker’s plumb?”

  “Well, if we’re out of wack, she’s been like that all week,” Corky replied, surprised by the question. “I haven’t heard anything from Martin or Artie; they’ve shared time in the bird’s nest. I’ll check if they noticed any swayback.”

  Ryan was normally a no-nonsense man who wasn’t easily flummoxed, but was also a fastidious worrywart when it came to the safety of his men. In over twenty years in the high-steel business, his company had never suffered a fatality, an un-paralleled achievement in this very dangerous profession.

  “Okay, check it out before we load the tower this morning. I’m heading back; should be there in about twenty minutes,” Ryan said.

  “Ten-four, see you in a few. We’ll be ready when you arrive.”

  Ryan Marshall was a big man at six-foot-five, weighing over 250 pounds. It was easy to see he inherited his prodigious size from his Italian grandfather, Amerigo. Ryan was raised in traditional blue-collar Catholic fashion, made just average grades despite extraordinary effort, and became politically very conservative. He was an attractive man with an angular face, a strong, dominating jaw, and light brown hair. Although he had a chiseled look, his face radiated warmth and his gentle hazel eyes could make women swoon. He was a naturally gifted athlete and played tight end for the New Mexico Lobos, finishing as an All-American. NFL scouts thought he had the size and talent to play professional ball, but he declined all offers. Instead, he started a construction company after graduating from UNM with a degree in mechanical engineering.

  Ryan Marshall’s upbringing was anything but normal. He was raised in Albuquerque by Chance and Regina Marshall. His father was an investment banker whose business acumen was beyond compare. Many small businessmen held Chance in high regard for making them loans when other bankers would not take the risk. He was also active in the Chamber of Commerce, Knights of Columbus, and the church. He was a devout Catholic who served as an elder and church treasurer. Most everyone spoke kindly of Chance Marshall.

  But while everyone knew Ryan’s father as an accomplished businessman, very few also knew that he was weak-willed when dealing with his wife, the overbearing and argumentative Regina Marshall. To the community, he only appeared the consummate provider— the Marshalls lived in a coveted home at the Albuquerque Country Club, furnished exactly as Regina specified. There was nothing too good for her taste, and Chance made sure he precisely accommodated her every wish.

  Unfortunately, this submissive behavior didn’t bode well for developing a strong relationship with his only son. Being raised in an Italian Catholic family, Ryan observed that other, similar households were dominated by the man of the house. His father’s inability to stand up to Regina’s uncompromising behavior caused Ryan’s respect for his father to slowly erode, which became more obvious as he approache
d adulthood. Ryan’s inability to reconcile his feeling for his parents became a heavy cross that had weighed upon him throughout his life.

  Ryan was born a man’s man. Lacking a suitable role model at home caused him to emulate both his grandfathers. He spent summer vacations in Northern New Mexico with his roughneck grandfather, Rusty Marshall, learning the intricacies of logging and how to operate heavy equipment. At home in Albuquerque, he spent his time with his Italian grandfather, Amerigo Metatucci, learning the gas distribution business and other manly pursuits—hunting and fishing being his favorites. Ryan had no interest in banking or the country club lifestyle that were his father’s stock in trade.

  Ryan Marshall became a high-steel crane operator and early on cemented his reputation as one of the best in the business. He loved levitating huge pieces of iron that seemed nearly impossible to move. The iron skeletons he shaped became magnificent buildings, incredible bridges, and structures with character and beauty. The mighty steel framework he erected formed works of art high above the horizon.

  Every spare moment Ryan wasn’t supervising a job, he doggedly chased his life’s true passion: a frictionless crane that could levitate infinite weight. He was obsessed with gravity’s universal influence and became an expert at levitating large objects. The art of moving immense weight, he learned, was simply a matter of strategic placement of pulleys; it was almost magical in its simplicity. He became an erection foreman for Manitowoc Crane Company and traveled extensively, perfecting his craft. After several years with Manitowoc, he eventually borrowed start-up capital from his father-in-law, Alfonse Coscarelli, to begin Levitation Solutions, Inc. with his wife, Sarah. Together they grew the business into a multinational corporation.