by Thomas Locke
“If this thing is as big as I think it is, they’d be kissing your hand.”
Murray rubbed a rising welt on his thigh. He had eked out a win in the second game, grinding it down to a tie break, then pulling off two impossible shots. As he started to serve the third game, he realized his strength was waning. So he tried to take her out with a body shot. Shane not only avoided the blow but spun around and hammered his thigh with her racquet, then spent ten minutes apologizing, her expression telling him she knew exactly what he’d just tried to do. No way was he going to do business with that woman.
“I’ll think about it.”
Kevin drove up to the automatic gate, flashed his badge, and pulled into the lot. He turned off the motor, then sat where he was. “I want you to pay careful attention. ProTech is working with DOD on solving the artificial intelligence puzzle. Recent developments suggest the answer lies in interactive algorithms. What Trent Major showed me back there is miles beyond anything my team of highly paid specialists, working day and night for two years, have managed to develop.”
“You never thought it might be worth mentioning to legal counsel that you hold contracts with the federal government?”
“Your remit is commercial. Our DOD work is highly classified.”
The guy behind the wheel had undergone a seismic shift. Gone was the somewhat pudgy middle-aged corporate clone. In his place was a man who clipped off his words with scalpel sharpness and whose gaze suggested he would quite happily chop Murray Feinne off at the knees.
Murray said, “So offer Trent Major a job.”
“Won’t fly. He’s a UCSB student, the most liberal campus within the California university system. He’s got some exotic blend in his veins, Persian or Arab or something. We could spend years waiting for security clearance. And my team is fully aware of their remit. They have to be.”
“Which is?”
“Here’s a question for you, counselor. What could possibly require a guidance system that needs to respond to changes in its environment at lightning speed, with a time frame so limited it can’t revert back to its point of origin?”
“You’re talking self-guided missiles.”
“I’m talking directives you can’t possibly know about.”
“If I take them on as counsel, I’d be legally bound not to discuss anything that transpires within their operation.”
The top half of the steering wheel was solid burl. Kevin kneaded the wood so hard his knuckles whitened. “So field an offer from me to buy into their start-up company.”
“What?”
“I’ll pay your fees. The guy already knows I’m interested. I’ll front them capital. Me. Privately. Not my company.” Kevin reached for the handle, then turned back to give him another blast of arctic freeze. “Just make it happen. Are we clear on this? If you value ProTech as a client, you will call the lady and connect. And Murray? You are to phone me the instant you learn anything more about this guy’s work. Especially if you hear anything to do with cryptography or quantum computing.”
“But you just said—”
“Remember those words, Murray. Quantum computing. Anything to do with code breaking or cryptography.” He thumped his ring against the wheel in time to his words. “Your future with my group depends on it.”
10
Kevin Hanley feigned interest in the meeting that followed. Ninety-three minutes later he finally managed to shake Murray Feinne’s hand and see him out the front door. Murray tried to start another conversation about the two UCSB students and how they fit into Kevin’s other work. For the second time that day, Kevin was forced to show the attorney what he called his secret face. The one he normally covered with the bland mask that the outside world found comforting, safe, dismissible. Kevin had made a profession of letting the outside world write him off. He could see Murray was shaken by this sudden change. Normally Kevin would be angry with himself over revealing the hidden side. But right then he didn’t have time.
ProTech’s principal facility did indeed have a division that designed guidance systems, both for missiles and jets. That particular group was located in Florida. Kevin didn’t have anything to do with their work. The Santa Barbara division was supposedly focused on specialist applications of semiconductors. Kevin was listed as a senior vice president. But the majority of his work was done in a building that stood to the northwest of the ProTech campus. This particular building was not identified as being part of ProTech at all. A “For Sale” sign stood in the building’s front garden, just outside the perimeter fencing. The realtor’s number had a Washington area code but in fact was directed to an office at NSA headquarters.
Kevin entered the elevator and used his ID to access the restricted bottom level of their underground parking garage. At the back was a door marked “Supervisory Personnel Only.” It was one of those meaningless signs that nobody really saw. The door was grimy and smudged and everyone probably figured it was for janitorial supplies. Nobody spent a second longer in an underground garage than was absolutely necessary.
Kevin paused so that the camera hidden in the roof crevice could get a good look. The door clicked open. He let himself in. He walked to the room’s opposite side, where a scanner extended from its perch in the rear wall and took a reading of his retina. The steel door sighed open, revealing a long concrete corridor and a trio of electric carts. Kevin slipped behind the wheel and started off. The corridor was a quarter mile long. It was one of three underground entrances that ran to this building.
The entry on the other side was manned only by a pair of cameras and an electronic voice that ordered, “Identify.”
“Kevin Hanley.”
“Voice ID accepted.” The door clicked. “Welcome, Kevin Hanley.”
He climbed the stairs and entered the massive atrium. The ceiling was the building’s roof, six stories up. Since the building had no external windows, the atrium was designed to offer the technicians and residents a false sense of space and freedom. All the floors were rimmed by irregular-shaped balconies that faced inward and were rimmed by ferns and flowering shrubs. A kitchen and dining area lined one wall. There were pool tables and large-screen televisions with cordless headsets lying on empty sofas. Beyond a glass wall stood an array of exercise equipment. A lone woman sweated on a Stairmaster. Even without windows or visible clocks, the technicians and residents tended to hold to outside time. By seven that evening the lounge area would be packed.
He went through yet another ID check to enter the eastern lab. Nine years dealing with intel bureaucracy had left him immune to federal paranoia. Until that morning, however, he had assumed this particular lab was an utter waste of time.
He used the phone in the empty reception area. To his relief, the supervisor was both there and available. When Kevin said they needed to talk, Reese Clawson gave him the standard line of being tied up. Kevin begged because he had to.
To Kevin’s eye, Reese Clawson appeared so consumed by the flames of ambition that every ounce of other human emotions had long since melted away. She had been distilled down to an essence that left her only half alive. The government was filled with such types.
He drummed his fingers on the counter and went back over his conversation with Murray. He disliked having been forced to show as much of his hand as he had. But that couldn’t be helped now. What was crucial was that his disinformation had worked.
Kevin was absolutely not interested in algorithms for the gaming industry. Silicon Valley and Caltech were both full of hyper young brains expanding the world of gaming possibilities.
Kevin had just been blowing smoke in Murray’s face. What had him resisting the urge to pace the empty lobby was what had come up in his private conversation with Trent Major. The lies he had spun in the car were simply a means to force the lawyer to act.
Because they had to. Act. And fast.
The door leading back to the labs sighed open and the woman walked out. “Okay. I’m here.”
Kevin said to Ree
se Clawson, “We have a problem.”
11
Coma is a catch-all term,” Dor Jen said. She used the kit the nurse had supplied to extract several vials of blood. “In its most basic terms, comatose simply means that the patient shows no sign of interaction with the outside world.”
Which perfectly defined Brett’s condition, as far as Charlie was concerned. The guy had not shifted position or opened his eyes or changed his breathing patterns once in sixty hours and counting.
Dor Jen pointed with an empty vial to the laptop standing upon a table pulled up beside the bed. Brett’s body-feeds formed a series of disturbingly regular lines across the screen. “His brain stem controls heart and respiration. That is the baseline you see there. But activity within the upper lobes is virtually nil.”
Gabriella had taken up her station by the foot of the bed, giving Dor Jen and the nurse room to maneuver. “What could be causing this?”
“Certain severe viral attacks can cause comas. Meningitis is the most common form. Has Brett exhibited any flu-like symptoms?”
“No.”
“Viral meningitis is only transferred one way, through impure milk products. Has he eaten anywhere with a poor health record?”
“Since he returned from Rome, he left the clinic twice,” Gabriella replied. “Both times to eat in Campione village with some of the others.”
“Has anyone else become ill?”
“No.”
Dor Jen handed the nurse the last vial of Brett’s blood, extracted the needle, swabbed the vein, and applied a plaster. “Trauma to the head is the most common reason for a patient becoming comatose. Has Brett fallen? Slipped in the shower? Banged his head somewhere?”
“Not that we have been able to determine. The nurse said the same thing. We checked. Thoroughly.”
Dor Jen slipped her fingers behind Brett’s head and probed the base of his skull, then along the upper spine. “No sign of external trauma. Which leaves a possible metabolic cause. We need to analyze his blood for possible toxic substances. He doesn’t use drugs?”
“No.”
“Routine blood tests will scan for possible renal failure or severe liver damage.” She straightened and pulled off her latex gloves. “We also need to perform a CT scan and check for raised intracranial pressure. It’s possible an artery has burst inside his skull. If so, intracranial bleeding could interfere with normal brain activity. We could also perform a lumbar puncture and check his spinal fluid for any sign of infection.”
Charlie heard her doubt. “But you don’t think that’s the reason, do you.”
“Brett is young. He is in extremely good shape. He has not been in an accident or suffered a fall. He does not smoke or take drugs. There have been no warning signs that might point to a heightened risk of stroke or embolism.” Dor Jen addressed her words to the motionless man on the bed. “Can you arrange for CT and MRI scans?”
“Not without risking everything,” Charlie replied. “We would have to officially register Brett as a patient. We’re already under tight observation. I know this for a fact.”
“But we’ll do it,” Gabriella said. “Without a moment’s hesitation. If you think . . .”
“No.” Dor Jen spoke very slowly. “I don’t believe it will reveal anything of use to anyone. Most especially not to Brett.”
Charlie said, “Which leaves just one option.”
Dor Jen took a long breath. “I suppose I might as well begin.”
“You don’t understand. I didn’t ask you here to go hunting for this guy.” When all eyes in the room turned his way, Charlie finished, “That’s my job.”
“All I want,” Charlie said, “is everything you can give me on what to expect and how to make this happen.”
“We’ve only just started our research. It’s far too early to know anything for certain.”
“Listen to what she is saying,” Gabriella pleaded.
“But we don’t have time to wait until the process is perfected,” Charlie replied. “Do we.” When neither woman responded, Charlie went on, “What have you learned so far?”
“Almost nothing,” Dor Jen replied. “Brett helped us design a series of suggestions to project forward to the moment the patient expires. If we could determine a time of death before it actually happened, we could record this in advance. His work would take a huge step forward.”
Charlie supplied, “But this hasn’t been successful.”
“Not so far. We can’t seem to move forward temporally at all. We begin the trial. The instructions are received, but the observer remains stationary. Every time we have failed.”
Gabriella broke in with, “I dislike hearing you use that word. Failure. We have faced obstacles at every stage, and yet one by one they are overcome. You will do the same.”
Charlie was very glad to observe this moment and see the months of friction dissolve in Dor Jen’s simple question, “Would you take a look at our data?”
“Other than having Brett safely returned to us,” Gabriella replied, “there is nothing that would give me greater joy.”
Gabriella had spent the better part of six years researching the brain-wave patterns of people at prayer. Her studies had included Coptic monks in the western Sahara, Dominican priests, Orthodox monks, evangelical pastors. She sought to identify specific brain-wave patterns identified with deep prayer and meditative states. Then, in her sixth year, Gabriella made two discoveries that altered her life forever.
Multiple research studies had shown that if patients were played a pure tone in one ear and another tone minutely different in the other, they did not in fact hear two tones. Instead, the brain registered the sound as a wave. And the frequency of the wave depended upon the difference between the tones. The subject could then be given a name for this tone. And once they were brought to a restful state, they could be returned to that very same brain-wave pattern. Simply through suggestion.
But there were problems.
Higher brain frequencies were not simply one pattern. They were a combination of frequencies that moved in very complex order, forming this alternate awareness. Brain-wave patterns were notoriously complex and difficult to read. Scientists had spent decades trying to identify patterns associated with specific thoughts or emotions. They failed completely.
Which was where Brett Riffkind came in.
Brett had approached the issue from a totally different perspective. He rejected the notion that they needed to work with certainties. Black-and-white results were impossible, in his opinion, just like no two individuals had the same personality. In brain-wave analysis, Brett suggested, there was only grey. He applied a statistical concept called chaos theory, which states that some patterns in reality are simply too complex to predict a certain outcome. This was where Newtonian physics collided head-on with the quantum world. Newtonian physics demanded that for every action there was a predictable, measurable, equal, and opposite reaction.
Chaos theory said nuts to that.
Chaos theory was a series of algorithms designed to show the probability of outcomes. Weather forecasting, hurricane tracking, bird formations, all were examples of chaos theory applied to real-life situations.
From the analysis, Brett designed a series of harmonic frequencies that mirrored the probability of brain-wave patterns over a multitude of test cases. The result, when applied to trial subjects, was nothing less than astounding.
Gabriella and her team referred to their experimental state as ascents. Controlled, measurable separations of body and consciousness.
The problem was, word got out. It was inevitable. People felt threatened for any number of reasons.
Which was where Charlie came in. Charlie’s background was security, by way of some very hard knocks. But nothing, not a landmine in Anbar Province nor saving a UN special ambassador’s life in Darfur, prepared him for the first time he met Gabriella. The lady just plain knocked him out of the park, heart first.
Charlie knew Gabriella was gathering he
rself, readying all the arguments why they should not try this. And he knew as well as she did that they had no choice. He said to Dor Jen, “Here’s what I want you to do. Take Brett’s plans for the backward ascents.”
“But we haven’t even tried—”
“I know that.” Speaking calmly, showing all the patience he didn’t feel. “But you and Brett spent a lot of time working this through. So it’s as clear a direction as we can get right now.”
“Charlie.” Gabriella swallowed hard. “What if doing this is why Brett is gone?”
“You heard Jorge the same as me. Brett was aiming forward.”
“But what if moving against time in either direction creates an anomaly?” Dor Jen’s voice rose in time to her heightened fears. “What if—”
“How many times have you ascended and returned safely?”
Dor Jen blinked. “It’s not the same.”
“You’ve followed Brett’s instructions. You’ve ascended. You return. And no problems.”
Gabriella moaned, “I can’t lose you.”
“You won’t.”
“But why can’t—”
“Think of me as a test pilot. A good test pilot is crazy enough to love risks. It’s the law.” Charlie raised his hand to stifle further protests. “Something else is at work here. I’m going to find out what it is. And then I’m going to bring our boy back.”
12
Charlie stood on the front porch staring over the Chiasso Lake to the peaks beyond. Unlike the previous April, the weather this spring was almost perfect. The air held the incredible mix that was possible only here, in southern Switzerland. The sun carried the Mediterranean punch of heavy heat and low humidity. But the slightest breeze, so long as it came from the north or the west, held an alpine edge. Afternoons like these carried the incredible mix of fire and ice.
