by Peter Tylee
He lowered his goggles. “Oh Kat. What’ve you done?”
She looked at him guiltily and came purring to brush against his leg, supremely proud of herself for snaring his attention.
“Oh God, what a mess.” Hans scratched Kat behind her ears. “You know you’re not allowed to piss inside, right?”
She purred louder.
“Okay, let me clean up and then I’ll play with you a little.” He used a sponge to soak up the yellow puddle and rinsed the foul stickiness off his hands with soap and, when that didn’t remove the smell, a mild acid. The big bags of trash made a disgusting tacky sound when he peeled the plastic from his linoleum floor.
He slipped into his sandshoes, which he always kept beside the door. With laces tucked inside, he used them as a pair of outdoor slippers. My God that’s gross,he thought, holding a paper towel under the bags to stop the sour fluids seeping through and dripping onto his carpet. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, gagging.
Kat looked at him innocently, sitting delicately on the couch like a grand lady.
Hans skipped down the stairs two at a time, hoping to rid himself of his stench-bombs as quickly as possible. His main concern was the neighbours; he didn’t want them to know whose trash would be spoiling in the sun all day Sunday. He felt guilty enough without hearing them complain.
He tossed the bags onto the cleft of bricks at the front of his building with an explosive sigh of relief, staggering back to gulp fresh air. So he was too distracted to notice two men approaching from his left.
Their words, English words, startled him. “Excuse me; may we have a few minutes of your time?”
Fear illuminated him as his eyes darted over them. One was dark skinned and heavy-set, wearing neat casual clothes. His shirt was burgundy and his trousers dark blue, reminding Hans of the bouncers who worked in the red-light district. The other was a Caucasian, slightly taller and wearing an outfit that would look natural at a funeral.
He didn’t need to think, he’d become so preconditioned to fleeing that it had become instinct. His fast-twitch fibres contorted with a surge of adrenaline and he sprinted in the opposite direction, dismayed to see the men chasing him when he risked a glimpse over his shoulder.
Focus.Hans worked his body hard, pumping his arms and legs to full speed. His toes, curling into tight fists to keep his loose sandshoes from flying off his feet, slowed him down. So, desperate to put distance between himself and death’s advocates, he added an extra kick to each leg and shed the burden of shoes. Grinding his toes into the paved street, he lowered his head, summoned his desire to live, and sprinted.
He looked again. The podgy man had abandoned the chase, pulling to a halt and gripping his hamstring with a wince of pain. But the man dressed in black was closing the gap. Hans made eye contact and what he saw filled him with dread: unadulterated determination. He had the pure clarity of purpose that people could only get when they were willing to self-sacrifice for their goal.
Hans drew an extra-deep breath and swerved to slice down another street. His lungs felt as if they were on fire and already his thighs were becoming numb, but he forked more adrenaline into the furnace and kept up the pace. The sudden onset of terror left his mind fragmented and incoherent. Part of him was entertained by how fast he could run and enjoyed the rush of breeze through his hair. Another part giggled at the thought of running barefoot through the park, drunk on the influx of endorphins.
He was still selecting the best path to take when his pursuer kicked his legs out from beneath him and his flight to freedom came to an abrupt end as he split his chin on the pavement. An instant later, someone heavy slammed on top of him. His flexible ribs absorbed the impact, compressing his heart between sternum and spine and sending him dangerously close to cardiac arrhythmia. The world faded and all he could hear was the ringing in his ears. When his vision cleared and he’d collected his thoughts, he was supine and the pain had nestled in his chin and at the back of his neck. Both men were standing over him, their breathing laboured.
“That was a little rough don’t you think?” It was the black man. He’d doubled over and was clutching his midriff. “You might’ve damaged him. Are you even sure it’s Hans?”
The white man looked uncertain. “Yeah, I think so.”
“You think?”
He shrugged. “His hair’s longer and he didn’t have stubble in the photo, but the facial structure’s the same. Look, you see his chin?”
“I see it’s split open, yeah.”
The man who’d floored him extended a hand. “Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Hans refused to accept it and struggled to a sitting position alone. “Aren’t you going to finish the job?”
“I’m not here to kill you, I’m here to help.”
Hans laughed, dabbing his chin with a sleeve. “I see.”
“No really, I’m Dan Sutherland and this is my… my partner, Simon West.”
He didn’t see the look they exchanged; he was too busy preparing himself for a bullet between the eyes.
“You’re Hans van der Berg, right?”
“No.”
Dan hesitated while reassessing the man’s facial features, but wound up even more convinced he had the right person. “Come on, don’t make me steal your wallet to prove a point.”
“I do not carry identification,” Hans said, telling the truth. Many people had stopped carrying wallets since microchips served most purposes. Besides, he’d only expected to take out the trash and he didn’t need identification for that.
“So you’re not Hans?” Simon asked, feeling like an oaf for letting Dan overreact. He didn’t think his friend’s emotional condition was up to making rational decisions.
What the hell, they’re going to kill me anyway.Hans shook his head. “No, I’m Hans. But it’s van deBerg, not van der Berg. You make me sound German when you say it like that.”
“Sorry.” Dan chalked it up to his Australian accent. He often said an ‘r’ where there should be none and dropped the ‘r’ from words that needed them. Instead of ‘Australia’, he said ‘Us-tray-lee-yar’, and instead of ‘chair’, he said ‘cheah’.
“So, now you know who I am.” Hans felt the onset of a headache radiating from his jarred neck. “Do you now tell me why you knocked me to the ground?”
“I’m after information about Lars Olssen,” Dan replied in a low voice, offering his hand a second time. “I was the detective assigned to investigate his assassination.”
“Ah, an Australian. That explains why you are so clumsy.” Hans wiggled his jaw, working feeling back to his mandible. “And also why you did not shoot me when I run, which I suppose I should count a blessing.” He accepted Dan’s offered hand and pulled himself to his feet. “Now, I have heard of slow investigations, but this is ridiculous, do you not think?”
“I was distracted for eleven months.”
“Really? Doing what?”
He answered evenly and without emotion. “They killed my wife.”
Hans’s amused smirk vanished and a stern expression replaced it. “We should not talk here, it is not safe.” He waved down the street. “Come, we can talk inside.”
That signalled the end of the conversation until they were standing in his apartment and Hans had bolted the last lock on his door. He smiled at them as a cannibal might smile at his meal.
“What’s so amusing?” Dan asked, ready to reach for his Colt if the need arose.
“It has been a while since I have entertained guests.” He swept a hand around the mess in his apartment. Piles of magazines were scattered across the coffee table and Kat chose that moment to jump on top of them. She skidded across the glossy surface and sent the stack crashing to the floor. “That is Kat.”
“Oh, how original.” Dan said, coldly observing the squalor and trying to remember when he’d last had a tetanus shot.
“Excuse me a moment.” He jutted his chin at the bathroom before ducking from sight, pre
sumably to dress his wound.
Simon sniffed the air and looked pained. “Oh man, what’s… what’s that smell?”
Dan shrugged, equally offended by the odour: a combination of burnt silicon and cat pee that smothered the air as a caustic, resin-like vapour.
“Oh, watch your step!” Hans warned, poking his head back into the room and pointing. Simon had backed into the kitchen to escape the fumes only to tread in a sticky patch that Hans hadn’t yet cleaned.
Simon lifted his shoe to the unwholesome sound of sticky linoleum. “Oh… oh man… that’s piss man!”
“Sorry,” Hans said. “Kat had an accident.”
And she’s about to have another.Simon glared at the beady-eyed animal.
“You use the cloth to wipe your shoe. I do not want it to spread.”
Simon complied reluctantly, even more grossed out when he picked up the soiled cloth and the stench of urine suffocated him.
“So what can you tell me about Lars Olssen?” Dan asked, forever feeling the pressure of passing time.
Hans emerged with a thin white tape covering the split on his chin and a fast-acting painkiller taming his headache. “He was a colleague and close associate. When we got drunk together, I would go so far as to say he was my friend. Why? Tell me what happens with his case.”
“Uh, that’s not the way it works…”
“But today I think it is,” Hans replied, occasionally struggling to think of the correct English word. “You have no authority here. You have no papers. You do not come through proper channels. You turn up on my doorstep and expect me to answer questions. You are a tourist here. You are an Australian cop far out of his league. So if you want my help, you will answer me. Now, what happens with the case?”
“Nothing.” Dan had already decided to tell the truth. He expected the same in return so it was fair to be honest. “I’m not a detective anymore. I haven’t been on active duty since my wife was murdered. But I know PortaNet had Lars killed, and I know PortaNet commissioned my wife’s death to throw me off the case. What I want to know is why they’d take those risks.”
“And you suspect his research got him in trouble?” Hans asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh man, this is gross.” Simon grumbled from the kitchen, making his urine situation worse by the minute.
They both ignored him.
“And you think because he was a colleague of me that I will know what he discovered?”
Dan nodded.
“How much do you know about quantum physics?”
“Nothing.”
Nothing?he thought in startled bewilderment. Oh dear.Hans hated dumbing down his work. “Okay, do you know about quarks, or more specifically anti-quarks?” He waited while Dan shook his head. “No? Do you not even know what a quark is?”
Dan looked briefly ashamed, as if he were back in school and he’d been unable to answer his teacher’s simple question. “No.”
“A quark is a subatomic particle, but I will spare you the details.” A shudder swept through Han’s mind. “Do you at least know how the portals work?”
Dan drew another blank and covered his ignorance with sarcasm. “Sure, you step in, press a few buttons, and hey-presto – you’re there.”
Hans tutted disgustedly, slapped a hand to his forehead, and waved Dan to the couch. “Sit, sit.” He searched for a scrap of paper and, when he found none, tore the centre from a magazine. “A scientist, Damien Richards, discovered the shortest path between two points” – he scribbled a dot randomly on the paper and another about twenty centimetres away – “is not a straight line.”
“No, you fold the paper,” Dan added from the couch. “I’ve seen this demonstration before.”
“Humour me, would you?” Hans folded the paper and poked his pencil through the two points. “Once you have folded space, the two points exist together. Then it is a simple case of matter transfer and you unfold space again. The specifics would go over your head I am sure. Let us just say that it was very hard to do.”
Dan wondered whether the lecture was heading anywhere pertinent to his investigation.
“Now think about the fold. Do you know how it is done?”
“Maybe you should assume I don’t instead of always asking me,” Dan said, getting cross.
“Well, this paper is inaccurate… you must extrapolate to three dimensions. But the basic principle is to very intensify gravity.”
Dan frowned. “How ‘very’?”
“Enough for both ends of the wormhole to be classed a Type 7 Quantum Singularity.”
“That’s a black hole, right?” Simon asked. He was finished cleaning the piss from his hands and shoes, and came to sit next to Dan, fascinated by the lecture.
“Yes.”
“What’s a wormhole?” Dan wondered how Simon knew what a Type 7 Quantum Singularity was.
“It is a cute but inaccurate description of any fissure in normal space capable of matter transfer.”
Dan’s head was starting to hurt with the barrage of new concepts.
But Hans was just getting started; he loved talking about his favourite subject. Even if I must dumb it down.“Scientist Damien Richards found a way to very intensify gravity and fold space between two points. Then he found a way to transfer matter from one side to the other without crushing it with the gravitational field.”
“Hey, isn’t it dangerous to run around creating black holes?” Simon asked with a frown, remembering an astronomy lesson from high school.
“Uh, yes and no. Yes, but not for the reason you think.” Hans held up a finger, asking them to be patient and wait. He ducked into his second bedroom and returned with a fresh waft of burnt silicon and a metallic white container, which looked like a cross between a lunchbox, a toolbox and a first aid kit, except with a power cable. He set it on the carpet and gingerly undid the latches before cracking the lid. Misty white fumes spewed out and both men pulled their feet away.
“It is safe,” Hans assured them. In a manner of speaking.“It is only liquid nitrogen.” Next, he fetched a pair of tongues and slipped his hand into a rubber glove for splash protection. He dipped the tongues into the liquid nitrogen and felt around for something, wearing a visor of concentration. “Here!” He latched onto something and pulled it free, holding it up for inspection. When the fumes cleared, they leaned closer and saw a tiny white rock. But, as they watched, it began to melt, quickly turning into a thick white paste at room temperature. “This is what Damien Richards invented to make it all possible.”
“What is it?” Simon asked, blandly unimpressed. Dan was too busy studying the almost-fluorescent paste to speak.
“PortaNet calls it SuperFlex. Have you ever down in a portal looked?” The more excited he became, the more his English deteriorated. “This is the white circle. This keeps from spreading the synthetic black hole and stops passengers from crush. This stops the gravitational fields from consuming the planet!”
“Like a black hole would.”
“Yes.” Hans dipped the tongues back into the nitrogen and banged them against the side to remove the resolidified paste before sealing the lid and peeling the glove from his hand. He was sweaty and the rubber stuck to his skin as if by suction. It yielded suddenly with a nerve-jolting slap.
Dan was eager to prove he was clever too. “Which is why they made it illegal to open the portals, right?”
“Exactly. And why portals stop work if the seal is broken, and why only certified technicians can reactivate them. The reactivation scanner works on a rotating frequency timed with the supercomputer of PortaNet. They do not want anyone to get a portal online after someone has tampered with it. Additionally, a registration computer checks regularly the status of every portal. If it detects a problem, it removes the portal from the grid and a technician must manually reset the portal andthe registration computer.”
“Sounds like they’re paranoid,” Simon interjected. “And for good reason. There’s always one loon who wants to see
what’s inside and will probably damage the white circle thingy and bugger up the solar system with a runaway black hole.”
“Um… yes.” Hans smiled awkwardly.
“Where exactly did you get your sample?” Dan asked, rather tactlessly Simon thought.
“Lars Olssen shared some with me.” Hans looked grave. “Which brings me to why PortaNet had him killed. You see, this matter is volatile. Its atomic structure is very weak and in large quantities has the potential to collapse.” He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in.
But they didn’t.
“Yeah?” Dan prompted. So?
“That means the protons, neutrons and electrons in the atoms collapse into subatomic particles, such as quarks. Then they fold into even smaller particles.”
Simon and Dan waited patiently for the punch line.
God, don’t you know anything?“So when that happens, it amplifies gravity in the surrounding atoms and they too begin to collapse. It starts a chain reaction that ends in a black hole.” Hans held up his hands to forestall their exclamations. “But, by my calculations, you must have 500 tons for 0.01 probabilities of that to happen per thousand years.”
“Then it’s stable?” Simon was getting confused.
Hans shrugged. “Not as stable as inert gas. Not as stable as uranium. But stable enough to use safely.”
“Then why-”
“However,” Hans silenced him with his vigour. “There is a by-product of the manufacture process that is as unstable as a hydrogen balloon balanced on a burning match. PortaNet neglects to mention this to anybody, including the WEF and world governments. If they had, they never would have permission to build portals. With just one kilogram you will have one percent chance of a black hole every year.”
Dan’s eyes popped wide. “Okay, that explains why PortaNet’s willing to kill people. I don’t imagine they want this secret going public.”
“Correct.” Hans squatted and gently scratched Kat under her chin. “Lars became curious about SuperFlex, the miracle substance of PortaNet.” He tapped the side of his box with his tongues. “He reverse-engineered the manufacture process in his lab in Stockholm and discovered all this. He asked me to verify his findings before publication, so I went there and looked for myself. Every 100 grams of SuperFlex creates 500 grams of waste material.” He correctly read their alarmed expressions. “Yes, I know. Bad news.”
