Quantum Storms - Aaron Seven

by Dennis Chamberland

  "It is the real time catalogue of recorded solar neutrinos coming in from the Neutrino Observatory near Sudbury, Canada," Desmond replied.

  "I can see that," Seven responded testily. "But can you tell me why this table is extrapolated this way? This data is all out of phase. And if this data is out of phase, then it is all suspect, particularly in the downrange capacity to predict."

  There was an uncomfortable pause.

  "That predictive process was established by our Senior Stellar Atmospheric Dynamic Specialist," Desmond offered in a voice barely audible over the room sounds. "And I can assure you it was verified and validated by a panel of qualified peer reviewers."

  Seven's eyes narrowed as he looked slowly back to Desmond.

  "Since this whole theory was considered pop nonsense not that long ago, just who would I count among my peers? But to keep things simple, who is the one here I’ll be engaging in the debate?" he asked coldly.

  Desmond's eyes dropped to the top of the table then rose back to Seven. His face read part desperation, part anger, at guessing what might soon follow. "Our Senior Stellar Atmospheric Dynamic Specialist is here this morning. Her name is Dr. Karen Dartmouth. Perhaps you have met," he ended in biting sarcasm.

  Seven's eyes floated slowly around the table back to Karen. In passing, he could see Serea bravely choking back a guffaw. "Your data’s fine, Karen," Seven said bluntly, "but your application and matrix are hosed. That means any predictive validity is equally hosed. Comprehendo, seniorita?"

  "You don't know what you’re talking about, Aaron," she snapped back. "You’ve been out of this business too long. There’ve been advances you’re not aware of. Your grip of modern stellar dynamics is about as good as your retention of basic Spanish."

  "And where do you suddenly find your expertise, Karen?" Seven said viciously. "In the pages of your doctoral thesis that I wrote for you? Or in the pages of the Nature article your latest ex-husband wrote for you?"

  "Aaron!" Desmond barked uncharacteristically. "You haven't even seen her evidence. I hardly think this is the forum to be airing personal differences. I had hoped it would not…"

  "I have examined the evidence, Dr. Desmond," Seven replied, his voice lowered as his eyes scanned the screens all around the room. "It’s difficult to believe that no one - not one individual in this room - has seen it. Please freeze all the screens, right now!"

  As the displays ceased their movement on the screens, he pointed to the first screen he had frozen in place. "Here is your prime data matrix. Column six is your table of standard deviations and column seven features the rather unusual, if not statistically suspicious, determination of error stated as an independent additive Gaussian standard error of estimate."

  Seven swung around and looked his ex-fiancée dead in the eye. "Please, give us a break here, Karen." He turned back to the screen before him. "Then column seven continues the mathematical sleight of hand by a forced linear interpolation and normalization of the probability of error data, which after only a cursory examination of the data stream yields impossible numbers in column eight. Who programmed this table?"

  "I did,” said a young man seated beside Karen, raising his hand sheepishly. He appeared to be still in his teens - another one of Desmond's prodigies that he seemed to collect like baseball cards, as Seven himself had been in his earlier years.

  "And what is your name?" Seven asked the young man sharply.

  "Er.. Leighter, sir, Karl Leighter," he said in a subdued and obviously intimidated voice.

  "She gave you the mathematical models and you programmed them, am I correct?" Seven grilled.

  "Yes."

  "Aaron, please, this isn’t exactly the People's Court," Karen said hotly, followed by titters of quiet laughter around the table.

  "Can you display the code for column seven?" he asked Leighter without a pause.

  Leighter sat up to his keyboard, hammered out a few codes and in seconds asked, "Where do you want it?"

  "There," Seven replied pointing to a blank screen. Instantly an image of lines of programming data flashed on the wall. Seven studied it for two minutes then turned to Desmond. "Do you want the long version or the short story?" he asked his mentor whose face was flushed red.

  "I want details and facts, Seven," Desmond replied in a dry, even voice, "not emotion and certainly not ill-timed and misplaced retribution."

  "Lines 1235 through 1400 - Karl, what are they for?" Seven asked relentlessly.

  "They adjust the value of column seven in the matrix," he replied instantly.

  "How do they adjust it and why?"

  "Well, Dr. Dartmouth calls them correlative coefficients. She has me change line 1333 each day to match the incoming data stream."

  "And wait - let me guess - at the beginning of this process, she also ordered you to write an algorithm to match a value set she gave you, which was also supposed to match the incoming data stream, right?"

  Leighter just nodded, still obviously intimidated.

  "Yes, exactly. This is called a SWAG factor, my friends. Does anyone remember what SWAG represents?"

  Leighter raised his hand as if in a classroom.

  "Yes, Karl, go ahead," Seven replied, his eyes shifting back and forth to the faces of the individuals at the table to whom he had not yet been formally introduced.

  "It’s an acronym that stands for Scientific Wild Ass Guess."

  "Yes - you input a new SWAG each day so that the error conveniently matches the theoretical dynamic."

  "Well, I don't - I just follow her instructions," Karl said defensively.

  "Why do you give him that instruction every day, Karen?" Seven drilled, seating himself on the edge of the highly polished table.

  "Aaron, you never change, do you?" she replied with a smirk. "You’re an insufferable, pompous ass. You have no idea what you’re talking about."

  "Explain it so that we can all understand it, Karen, and so that we can be done with this," Desmond asked quietly, barely maintaining a measure of control. All eyes shifted back to Karen who suddenly looked struck with the enormity of her task.

  "Well, it’s not exactly the simplest thing to explain right off the cuff," she said, clearing her throat and sitting straight in her chair. “It is, after all, quantum theory.”

  "It just so happens that you have the core of mankind's brain trust sitting at a table all around you," Seven said, in control. "Give us poor old public school graduates half a chance, will ya?"

  "Hmp…" she snorted. "Ok then. A significant impediment to applying Monte Carlo methods to the computation of physically important systems is the efficient decorrelation of data generated by Markov chains "on-the-fly" and in parallel for the extremely large amount of sampling required to achieve convergence of a given estimator," she said in her best, rapid fire scienglish. "Here, I’ve described programmatically an algorithm, the Dynamic Distributable Decorrelation Algorithm, that eliminates this difficulty by calculating efficiently the true statistical error of an expectation value obtained from serially correlated data. DDDA is an improvement on the Flyvbjerg-Petersen renormalization group method, but allowing the statistical error to be evaluated ‘on-the-fly’.”

  "… Wait, wait, wait… there’s no way - no way – you’ve done that in this application," Karl interrupted. "Aren't you forgetting that this kind of "on-the-fly" DDDA determination of statistical quantities only and exclusively allows dynamic termination of Monte Carlo calculations once a specified level of convergence is attained? That step is completely missing from your algorithm - in fact you’ve replaced it altogether with a single correlate. The algorithm, in place and working in the body of the subroutine, is not just highly desirable but, in fact, essential. As you must know, these kinds of Quantum Monte Carlo calculations, where the desired accuracy might be attainable in the body of a program analysis, would require days to compute. And, in any post analysis, one might require months to be certain that the desired accuracy is attained. That depth of programming just
isn't there! You’re simply injecting a number where the algorithm should be working its magic! Isn't this just so obvious to everyone?" Leighter asked with a surprised enlightenment as his eyes swept the table, met by exclusively blank stares all around.

  "SWAG, Karen, plain and simple," Seven said sliding back onto his feet and standing. "Our boy Karl just said it so clearly that even the janitor could understand it. SWAG. Hell, every refuse collector in America will be laughing their butts off about this tomorrow."

  "How does he know anything about my model?" Karen sneered, shooting a withering glance at Leighter who stared back, his young features locked in fear. "He’s my employee. I hired him and he’s only a programming geek, for God's sake!"

  "With a second in statistical analysis," Serea added evenly, looking over to Leighter with a flat smile. “And you didn’t hire Karl, I did.”

  "So, what exactly is your point here, Aaron?" Karen spat, her face lined with rage and hatred. "Do you really think you can threaten my model with just a cursory glance? You can’t even begin to guess what I’ve done to improve and dramatically change your simple model since you left the scientific community disgraced and in handcuffs!"

  "My point is on that screen right over there," Seven replied to all, pointing to the last monitor in a sequence on the wall. All eyes shifted to where his finger pointed. "There’s the end result of Dr. Dartmouth's models - the end game - the estimate of the time when the sun kills every living organism on the surface of this planet. And what, according to this table, is your model's estimate of the day - the hour - when it goes critical and all life on earth ceases, as we know it?" he asked her relentlessly.

  "Eighteen months, give or take," she replied with a defensive quiver in her voice. "It’s right there on the table for everyone to see. It’s been there all along, since day one."

  "Incorrect, my former sweet - we have less than six months. If you’ll take out your SWAG, you’ll see that your stellar hybrid theory isn’t just wrong, but terribly wrong. Your SWAG conveniently covers your blunder and your butt today, but when the neutrino flux shifts into the non-linear phase, your model will be seen for the rubbish it is and we’ll have less than a week's notice. You sacrificed everyone’s safety just to cover your incompetence and try to look good."

  "He's lying!" she snapped directly to Desmond, tears now streaming down her face. "He just wants to destroy me, that's all that's going on here. He’s just jealous that I used his crude model to build this elegant mathematical system! But I’ve built on it with nothing but my raw genius and I made it better! He just wants the glory for my brilliant work!"

  Desmond looked back to Seven and calmly asked, “How confident are you of the six months?"

  "Very. I can assure you that my first-look calculations are correct, give or take several weeks," Seven replied.

  "And how confident are you that Dr. Dartmouth was altering the data?"

  "Unfortunately, it’s painfully obvious."

  "Could you prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt to a jury of your peers?"

  Seven looked to young Karl Leighter whose face was ashen grey. "I believe I already have," he replied coldly.

  "How long until you can give me your best estimate?"

  "I can give you a quick summary in two hours, with young Karl's help," Seven responded. "But it’ll take two days for the program to refine the final projection."

  Desmond fell silent and looked at the now openly weeping Karen Dartmouth sitting near the end of the table. "Dr. Dartmouth, you are hereby relieved of your duties with this project."

  Karen stood up and pointed her finger at Desmond. "Perhaps I am. But I’m walking right out of here to the nearest news service and laying it all out for them. They have a right to know what’s about to happen. They also have a right to know that the world's greatest minds are being led about by a violent, convicted felon."

  Desmond looked beyond her to a large shadow standing by the door. "Commander, take Dr. Dartmouth into protective custody and turn her over to the United States Secret Service at the first opportunity."

  Then he looked at Seven sternly. "I want that summary report on my desk in two hours in a language I can clarify to your average fifth grader or run of the mill politician. Let me know as soon as you have a timeframe for the completion of the full report. I have a lot of explaining to do to the President and whoever else wants to listen. After that, I'll send out a copy to the internal network and the rest of you can pick it up," Desmond said to those assembled around the table. "If Dr. Seven is correct, our timetables have all been obliterated and we have much less of an edge on extinction than any of us has ever dreamed. If, or when, Aaron and Karl verify the new model, we will move out accordingly. Nobody but nobody leaves this complex until I say so. Lock it down, every door, every access in or our. All leaves are hereby cancelled until we can figure out where the hell we are. And stay off the phones, for heavens sake."

  With that, Desmond delivered a hot, stern look at Seven, then turned his head and shot the same unyielding look across the broad, shiny table to Serea. He then rose to his feet and left the room in a hurry.

  7

  Seven spent the next eight hours cooped up with Karl Leighter in a windowless, dark programming cube that was just barely large enough for two chairs jammed up against Leighter's computer. Karl Leighter turned out to be a typical, early 20’s computer nerd and dressed the part. He also spoke an peculiar but stylish English forged from some European youth hostel or Silicone Valley subculture. But he was filled with enthusiastic energy, an odd but confident sense of personal destiny and a constant laugh.

  His clothes were at least two sizes too large, his dark hair long and foppish. His light brown eyes seemed to glow intently behind a set of bushy, dark brown eyebrows, and his tanned face reflected a handsome appearance, two days unshaven but strongly set behind an infectious and invariable smile.

  After less than two hours, they managed to deliver the first best estimate based on Seven's use of his original, unaltered model. It predicted that the sun would begin to significantly threaten all life on earth in just five months and three weeks. For the next six hours, they worked to reprogram from scratch the detailed model which had previously required months of effort by Karen Dartmouth's team. When it was completed and running, the program determined the final, refined answer would be available in 39.2 hours.

  As Seven finally gave it up for the day, he bid farewell to young and energetic Leighter who remained at his desk to continue other tasks on his machine, obviously a silicone junkie. As Seven opened the door to the cube to step into the hall, he immediately saw that the Commander was waiting for him outside. For a long minute, they just stared at one another. Seven had the distinct impression he was either being sized up or x-rayed.

  "I’ll show you to your quarters," the Commander finally said with no trace of smile, standing before Seven, arms folded, Gargoyle sunglasses still covering his eyes, Grecian sailor hat still perched above his bearded face.

  "You wanna lead or shall I?" Seven finally asked, uncomfortable at the Commander's motionless stare.

  The Commander turned slowly and began a long, winding walk down one hallway that branched into another and then another. As Seven dutifully and silently followed, they ended up at the door of an elevator. The Commander pushed the up button and they stood together silently waiting for the car.

  Uncomfortable at the silence, Seven finally asked with a heavy trace of cynicism, "Having a nice evening?"

  The Commander turned and looked in his direction, then away. With the sunglasses it was impossible to tell exactly at what he was looking.

  "About Karen Dartmouth," Seven asked, still trying to coax a conversation out of the Commander. "I suppose she behaved all the way to the Secret Service Agents, right? I mean, you didn't have to kill her or, like, pull her arms out of their sockets or beat her senseless or anything like that?"

  Again, the Commander turned and stared back at him with an expressionless face
and said nothing. Finally the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside.

  More silence.

  "Ok, Commander," Seven tried one more time. "Pulling her arms out of their sockets wasn’t what I really meant to say. What I was trying to say was if she started to struggle on the way to the secret police, then perhaps you may have had to bludgeon her into submission with one of her extremities. I mean, pulling her arms out of their sockets would be pretty much considered somewhat rude right here in Dr. Desmond's little science cave, don't you think?"

  If the Commander even heard him remained a mystery. His face never flinched, nor did he turn and look at Seven.

  Seven finally sighed and leaned his head back against the wall of the elevator as it raced upward. "Well then, it was quite the shock to see her sitting there in charge of my own model after having accused me in front of every important scientist in the known universe of being a convicted felon - which was, by the way, quite accurate but entirely her fault! And, oh, Mr. Commander, or whatever the hell your name is, she has no business discussing my handcuffs - actually, they were her’s - or any other part of our former personal relationship in front of a room full of total strangers; what d’ya think?"

  With that comment, the elevator stopped and the front door opened. The Commander stuck his hand on the sliding edge of the door to hold it. Then he turned to look Seven in the eye. With his front forefinger he pulled his sunglasses down to reveal his dark eyes and replied with a slight yet sincere smile, "You don't want to know what I think, Dr. Seven! Now, please come with me. By the way, the name’s Blake, Joseph Blake. But you can call me Commander."

  Seven laughed loudly and with mock relief. "I was beginning to think you were assigned to kill me."

  With that, the Commander’s gaze took on a serious edge once again, leaving the question hanging in the air like a pregnant albatross.