by Thomas Locke
Kevin said, “My team is working on a specific application of quantum computing. Quantum computing occupies a totally different universe from anything we know in today’s world. Okay, yes, someday there might be a quantum laptop in every home. But that is a generation away. Maybe never. Even then, it probably means having a central computer linked to home terminals. But that probably won’t work either.” He knew he wasn’t making sense, but that was the trouble with trying to explain the concept to somebody without the math. “Look. First of all, quantum computers already exist. But there are problems in lifting them beyond a very small number of operational units, called qubits. Huge problems. And there are other problems related to linking the computational functions to the definable world. The world we call reality.”
“So while quantum computers might operate at near light speed, the difficulty is in the readout.”
“Well, yes. In a way.”
Speaking of readouts, this woman was utterly impossible to gauge. She was even more attractive close up like this, the two of them standing within touching distance, separated by the curve of the empty reception desk. Talking in near whispers, keeping secrets inside an empty room. Reese Clawson’s face held the frigid splendor of a Nordic goddess, utterly composed, full of a passion that defied mere human desires.
Kevin said, “Quantum computations are almost immediate. Some say the answers exist the same instant that the question is asked. But if you grow the quantum computer beyond a certain point, their ability to compute is marred by what we call interference.”
“You grow the computer?”
“Right. Quantum computers operate at the sub-molecular level. We grow their structure in a chemical bath. Our work has been with a type of complex carbon structure called prions. We thought we were the only ones operating in that field.”
“But this—” She caught herself just as she started to say the word kid. And smiled. Her entire face was subtly transformed, from frost maiden to vixen. Then the smile vanished. Leaving only a sultry residue at the pit of Kevin’s gut. “This researcher at UCSB shows up, working on the same structure.”
“Yes.”
“Right under your nose. And you’ve missed him.”
“Totally. He came to us today talking about an algorithm for the gaming industry. It was only when I asked a simple question, as in, what are you doing otherwise, that I learned what his doctoral research was on.”
“He’s working on the same issues as you.”
“Trent Major is miles beyond our work.” Kevin swiped his face with both hands. “His three-minute overview basically knocked me into next week.”
Reese said slowly, “So the crucial problem you’re facing is how you’ve missed him until now, when he apparently pops up out of nowhere.”
“Exactly.”
“Unless, of course, there is another group out there somewhere. In which case you’ve caught a major break. Because this Trent guy could lead you straight to them. But only if we act fast.” She stared up at the camera plugged into the corner opposite her. “Did you tell him who you worked for?”
Kevin felt the tendrils of panic begin to ease. She got it after all. “Not a chance.”
“Keep it that way.”
“Don’t worry.” He found himself growing uncomfortable under the intensity of her gaze. Kevin wondered if this was how bacteria felt, trapped on a lab slide beneath the glare of a microscope. “What?”
“How do you know the whole thing wasn’t a setup?” she asked. “What if he arrived for that meeting clued in to who you are?”
“Why go to all that trouble to identify my lawyer and pitch him the idea?”
“Is that common knowledge, this attorney working for the games industry?”
“Murray never spoke about it personally. But LA is one giant fishbowl.”
“Still, it’s worth considering.”
“I’m telling you, those kids know nothing about me.”
“They’re researchers, not kids,” she corrected, giving another flash of that smile. “Can you keep an eye on him without drawing attention our way?”
“No problem.” Kevin related his offer to acquire a share of Trent Major’s new company.
Reese nodded approval and headed for the door. “I’ll arrange checks on the woman as well. What’s her name?”
“Shane Schearer. How long—”
“I caught the urgency, Kevin. I’ll be in touch.”
16
Charlie’s ascent began normally enough. Gabriella’s voice remained steady, a constant metronome counting him through the various mental stages and finally extending his awareness beyond his physical body.
Charlie did as she instructed, hovering there in the room. Always before he had exited his physical form with the objective already in mind. This time, he drifted balloon-like just above his bed and forced himself to look beyond Gabriella and her magnetic appeal. The room vibrated to the emotional turbulence that surrounded him. All attention in the villa was directed their way. Silent, somber, expectant, tense. Everywhere except through the wall beyond Gabriella, the room that held Brett. In that chamber, there was nothing. Charlie studied the wall without reaching out and sensed only a vacuum.
Not a good sign.
Even so, he was fascinated by this extension of his senses. He had never experienced anything like this before. Charlie wondered if this was what happened when the ascender was invited to pause and take stock without taking aim. He needed to discuss this upon his return.
“At my count, you will extend yourself back in time. You will transit to the point at which Brett Riffkind entered into whatever caused his current state.” Gabriella was forcing herself to speak in a flat, unemotional tone. Charlie could sense her tension radiating beneath the surface, however. “You will remain in complete control and in total safety at all times. If there is any sign of discomfort or distress or risk, you will return immediately and end the ascent. I will begin the count now, from five to one. At one, you will arrive at that point. Five, four, three, two, one. You have arrived.”
The only problem was, he hadn’t.
Charlie had only shifted to the room next door. The transition was as straightforward as any he had experienced. What the team referred to as interference, when multiple avenues opened in a storm of images, did not occur. Instead, he had a very clear sense of standing at the foot of Brett’s bed. Otherwise, the room was empty. The sense of tension and worry that Charlie had felt emanating from the rest of the villa was gone.
Then he heard another voice.
The shock was so great, Charlie felt his powers of observation waver. This had never happened. It took him what seemed like forever to realize that he knew who was speaking.
Jorge said, “You will now extend yourself outward. Go forward to your next ascent. Address yourself. Give yourself a clear signal that a communication has passed between you.”
Charlie realized he had shifted back to three days ago. The transition had been so simple, so straightforward, he had not even known it had happened.
But there was no question of this having occurred, not with Jorge saying, “You will now return to the here and the now.”
Only, Charlie remained exactly where he was. Observing the still figure upon the bed.
Then it happened.
17
Charlie was certain the moment Brett’s disembodied form returned to the parlor. He could not actually see the other ascender. But the man’s presence was unmistakable. It was as though Charlie could smell Brett. A fragrance that was as distinct as the man’s voice, or his physical image. Brett was there.
Charlie wondered if he could communicate in some way. He started to move over. He wanted to at least try to make his presence known.
Then he froze.
What if he was the one who had caused Brett to vanish? What if the physicist was so shocked by the sudden arrival of another ascender that it caused him to lose focus?
Charlie remained where he was.
>
He heard Jorge say, “You have returned to the ascent chamber. I will now begin the count bringing you out of ascent mode.”
It was the standard routine Gabriella had worked out with the other team members. The beginning and the ending of every ascent used precisely the same words. There was a reassuring constancy to hearing the terms. It always reminded Charlie of his military days and the homing signal his teams heard when returning from free-fire zones. It was the moment he could breathe safely, knowing they had escaped from danger once again.
Only this time, things did not go according to plan.
The room’s opposite side vanished.
The image was so vivid, Charlie wondered if perhaps it had actually taken place on the physical realm. But then Jorge began counting down in his neutral tone. And Charlie knew that whatever it was that was happening, it was restricted to this ill-defined realm.
An emotion reached out. The term was not meant to fit what Charlie experienced, but there was nothing else to describe it. Emotion certainly played a role in the new force that entered the room. Charlie knew it was directed at Brett and not at him. Even so, the lure was enormous. He felt himself being drawn forward. Called by what sounded like Brett’s own voice. Only it wasn’t Brett. Even as Charlie found himself losing contact with Jorge’s droning chant, he knew what tugged at him was not Brett, but some sort of construct. A myth. A lie in the form of a raging cyclone.
The furious energies fashioned themselves around a voice that imitated Brett. The lure carried a cyclone of rushing force, a vortex that mawed open, revealing a myriad of dark and lonely halls. Branching and opening and weaving. It was like Charlie could look into the formation of dozens of tornadoes. All sucking and weaving. All dark. One force, one emotion, mimicking Brett’s voice and calling him to enter the maelstrom.
The driving force, the lure sucking him forward, was guilt.
Charlie was drawn by a torrential recollection of all his misdeeds. All his selfish acts. All his failures. Pulling him into the maelstrom.
The intensity was so great, Charlie almost missed the voice calling him home.
Gabriella said, “You will return now to the chamber. You remain safe and in total control.”
The words were almost sucked away by the maelstrom. Charlie could sense Gabriella’s voice being frayed around the edges. Then the voice strengthened. And Charlie returned.
18
The driver assigned to take Shane and Trent to LA was named Manuel. He waited beside a gleaming black Town Car as Shane emerged from the business school. There were a thousand of these limos clogging the LA arteries. A million. Still, Shane found herself wanting to giggle like a teen going to the prom. She covered it by saying, “Aw, I was hoping Murray would spring for a Rolls.”
A cluster of her fellow students watched the driver usher Shane into the rear seat, then pull smoothly away from the curb. The cyclists parted like minnows making way for a predator. Shane was dressed in the only business suit she owned, a dark off-the-rack Versace from the Bakersfield discount mall. She had last worn it for a meeting with a court-appointed lawyer handling her sister’s most recent mishaps. Billie was not a bad girl. She simply invited trouble. Shane’s sister was a magnet for problems that were never her fault.
Shane brushed those thoughts away. Billie wasn’t here. Shane was. End of story.
The physics building was attached by a second-story walkover to the newer engineering school. Situated next to the gleaming new structure, the physics department looked like a dowdy old aunt. Shane didn’t wait for the driver to come around and open her door. That was only fun in front of the business-school types who took such pleasure in putting her down. She bounded from the car, saying over her shoulder, “Five minutes.”
Trent’s office was on the third floor, a typical postgrad cubbyhole crammed with books and computer gear and lab printouts. The walls were scarred and blanketed with more paper. The door was open, and Shane could observe Trent talking with an attractive undergrad bent in close enough for Trent to drown in her perfume. Shane could smell the girl from the hallway. Spurred by the young woman’s obvious flirtation, Shane stood by the side wall and for the first time saw beyond the oddity of how she and Trent had met.
Trent was dressed in what would pass for a student’s idea of formal—ironed denims, stock navy jacket, white oxford shirt with a slightly frayed collar. Shoes old but polished. Clearly the guy had made an effort for today. The student was seated in the room’s only other chair. Shane wondered idly if the young woman thought Trent had gone to all that trouble on her account.
His desk was jammed against the side wall, and the student’s chair was pulled around beside Trent’s. Her skirt was hiked up to mid-thigh and her dark hair shadowed the textbook on the table between them. Shane resisted the urge to walk into their space. She had spent half the night worrying over what it meant to take this guy on as partner. His online records had revealed almost nothing, except that everything he had told her checked out. Now she was feeling jealous? She stayed where she was.
The student frowned at something Trent said, gathered up her books, and steamed out, casting Shane a tight glance as she passed. Then Trent spotted her and said, “Shane! You’re early.”
The student punched at the linoleum flooring with her clogs. “Yeah, Shane. Give us a break, why don’t you.” Then she turned a corner and was gone.
Shane said, “Actually, I’m right on time.”
“Which means I’m running late. Sorry.” Trent scrambled through the papers on his desk and came up with an elongated notepad. “You won’t believe . . .”
Then Trent looked behind her, and went away.
That was how it appeared to Shane, standing now in his doorway, staring into his windowless office that could have used a cleaning crew and a bulldozer. One moment Trent appeared genuinely excited to see her. The next, and the guy was just gone. The body remained. But the light in his face was snuffed out.
“You’re here. Good.” A man brushed past Shane without glancing her way.
Beach freak was Shane’s first impression. She had seen enough of them. Santa Barbara was a haven for deadbeats who hit on the tourists and slept under the palms. The guy wore a tattered surfer shirt, slaps, three days’ growth, wild grey hair, ultra-dark Ray-Bans. Apparently Trent’s windowless cubbyhole was too bright for this dude.
“Got something for you.” The guy dumped a pile of papers on Trent’s desk. A few slipped onto the floor. The guy either did not notice or did not care.
Trent stood by the rear wall. Watching without seeing. “When are they due?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Which means you’ve been sitting on them for a week.”
The guy was already shuffling toward the door. “Forgot.”
Shane entered the office and bent over and picked up the papers. She realized she was holding exams. She set them back on the pile on Trent’s desk.
The guy entered the hallway, then turned around. “Oh. My journal article. They need it. Get it done.”
Shane waited until the guy’s sandals slapped their way down the hall to say, “In the business school, a prof using a grad assistant to grade exams is a firing offense.”
Trent picked at a blister on his hand. “Lucky you.”
“And you’re writing his journal articles. Will your name be on it?”
Trent continued to probe the blister.
Shane finished the thought. “That guy is responsible for approving your doctoral thesis. And he’s holding that over you like a Damocles sword. You do his work while he trips away on his next little pipe dream.”
“Actually,” Trent said, “the professor has developed a taste for prescription drugs.”
“You’re dying in here.” Shane walked over and grabbed him by the arm. “Come on, sport. Your limo awaits.”
Trent remained silent and withdrawn. He held a steno pad in his hands, the pages filled with calculations. He flipped through them from time to time
, then stared out the side window. Shane had no idea what Trent Major was like under normal circumstances. Maybe the guy was lacking the social gene. So she held herself in check until they left Santa Barbara on the 101 and took the curve around Rincon Point, then she asked, “You think maybe you could set your problems aside for thirty seconds?”
“Sorry.”
“I know things are rough. But the UCSB physics building has disappeared into the sea mist outside our rear window. And we’ve got something pretty awesome in the works.”
Trent set his steno pad on the seat between them. “You’re right.”
“Sure I am.” She indicated the ocean gleaming a hundred feet beyond the window. “Blink and it’s gone. Sort of like life.”
He kept shooting glances at the notes he had made. “It happened again.”
She needed a minute to understand. “You got another . . .”
“Image. Yes.”
“When?”
“An hour before dawn.”
She pointed at the pad. “Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“It looks, well, complicated.”
“It is. Extremely.”
“Are you sure you got it down right?”
“Yes. I have an eidetic memory.”
“You mean, like, photographic?”
“That’s the street name. The correct description of eidetic memory is, a clinician shows the test subject a sheet filled with dots. The dots are in a computer-generated random pattern, usually set in perpendicular and horizontal lines, but not always. The subject has twenty seconds to study the page. Then the sheet is taken away and another is given, this one also covered with dots. But the random pattern is different. Then the subject is given a blank sheet of paper and told to set out all the dots that are on the first page but not the other.”
