She settled into her duct-taped, bucket seat and stretched her legs until her feet met the wooden blocks taped to the pedals on the floor.
“Come on, Big Red!” she cheered as she turned the key. Big Red coughed, shuddered, lurched, and died. In her side mirror, Brie watched a cloud of blue smoke explode from the exhaust and roll across her yard, engulfing her newly emerged sweet peas and the scarlet blooms of her rhododendrons.
“Oh, Red. Why’d you do that? They didn’t do anything to you. Wake up, love. The world depends on us. It’s a beautiful day to give people smiles!”
Brie turned the key. Red shuddered, and woke. While the engine warmed and settled into its gravelly purr, Brie threw switches to bring power to the equipment in the rear. Finally, she tuned in her favorite FM station. Dulcimer, drum, and pipe tunes filled the truck. She swayed to the tunes and let out the clutch.
****
For the seventeenth time in a week, Marg decided to leave her workaholic husband. She stripped off her spike heels. She’d thought she could excite him with a little leather and lace fantasy over breakfast.
She’d been stupid. Only work held his attention. She pulled some slack into her fishnet stockings and knelt to wipe splattered egg from the floor. A brassy flash under the kitchen table caught her eye. She peered into the shadow of Alan’s chair. The shield-shaped lock of his briefcase reflected the kitchen lights.
She hoisted the bulging case to the table. The worn and ragged cowhide body strained. Its dry-leather stench made her nose wrinkle.
The case held the numbers and graphs that were more important than his wife. She tugged at the leather strap holding the case closed. It was locked.
She poked the three combo wheels until her birthday lined up. The lock held. She rolled her eyes. Of course it wouldn’t be her birthday.
Damn him and his briefcase. He kept secrets from her. She was sick of his secrets, of supporting his obsessions, his delusions of Nobel prizes.
She sat down at the table and lined up his birthday on the tiny wheels.
Nothing.
His work had seemed important to her ten years ago-more important than her happiness.
His mother’s birthday?
No. Damn him.
More important than children.
His father’s?
****
Alan closed the lab’s fireproof door and threw the dead bolt to secure the experiment space. When he had leased the unfinished office space, the manager had tried to sell him carpeting for the concrete floor, a suspended ceiling for the aluminum grid overhead, and wire and drywall for the room’s metal stud skeleton. Alan preferred to use his funding on more important things.
Morgan, his white, overeducated, grunge lab assistant stared out the full wall window opposite the door. Morgan was not an important thing. After two hundred grant proposals, only one flaky RD firm, LURC, was willing to risk money on Alan’s ideas. Unfortunately, Morgan was part of LURC’s deal.
The window was important. It was directly over Brieanna’s parking slot.
Morgan turned and flipped a dust-blond dreadlock away from his eyes. “You look like hell, Doctor Al,” he said.
“You haven’t washed your hair in years,” Alan said, venting his morning’s frustration. “You show up in a purple tee and baggy shorts, and you insult me?”
“Take a pill, Doctor Al!” Morgan held up his hands in mock defense. “Your clothes are always retro-spiff. I meant the bags under your eyes.”
Alan glanced at the coffee machine on top of a small refrigerator in the corner. The carafe was empty. “It’s five-fifty. Where’s my coffee?”
“Sorry, Doc. I forgot.” Morgan laughed. “When Brie gets here, I’ll buy you a double vanilla latte.”
The morning was bad and getting worse. First Marg had dressed up in leather and spikes and thrown herself over his eggs and toast in some tabloid romance makeover stunt. Then he’d left his briefcase home. Now Morgan, with his woo-woo credentials in nonliner phenomenology, was too damn happy and assuming Brieanna would arrive as usual-and the dry-land surf bum hadn’t bothered to make the coffee. “To hell with Brieanna Wolfe,” Alan snapped. “I want coffee now.”
“I’ll make it,” Morgan said. “It’ll be ready in a minute, but Brie’s is a lot better.”
“No air- headed, coffee-selling, ‘As if,’ earth muffin is going to screw up the most important study of my life! I’m going to finish this today, Morgan. Today!”
Morgan stared, mouth open, from behind his dreads.
Alan took a deep breath. To hide his embarrassment, he crossed the lab to a long folding table supporting two computer workstations separated by his dispatcher’s radio set. He dropped his keys in his jacket pocket and hung the coat over the back of his chair.
Alan took a breath. Stay objective. Don’t let him get to you, he told himself. To Morgan, he said, “She won’t make it.”
Morgan went to the coffee machine and stripped the top off a foil packet. “Anticipating results, Doc? Won’t your expectations influence the outcome?”
Ignoring Morgan, Alan settled into his chair and turned on his workstation. Cables climbed from the back of both workstations like red and green vines strangling the galvanized wall studs. The wires stretched in bellied arcs across the ceiling grid and down the opposite wall. There, another table supported LURC’s quantum computer, “Q.” At a glance, the million-dollar machine looked like a child’s pretend computer, a bright orange shoebox anchoring the descending cables.
Q could track a nearly infinite number of seemingly unrelated details from Alan’s city-wide sensor grid. Using Alan’s equations, Q could calculate the effect of each detail on all other details then provide a prediction of probable outcome for a predefined event. The predefined event was whether a certain airhead could put her truck in a certain parking slot at 7:30. Q could suggest adjustments to the interrelated minutiae of the causal matrix. Using the dispatch radio, Alan could order those adjustments made by teams of disciplined, stone-faced field agents.
When he heard the pop and hiss of the coffee machine, Alan turned away from his workstation. “Is Q ready?”
Morgan slipped a stained, green mug under the steaming stream in the carafe bay. “All quantum pairs have undefined, linked, super-symmetrical spin. Q’s copasetic. The sensor grid’s up and recording.” Morgan grinned and peered through tangled dreads. “Sorry I kinda’ pissed you off, Doc.”
Alan glared. “It isn’t you, personally,” he lied. “I just don’t like taking money from a shady RD firm that recruits nut cases for research in irrational sciences.”
“LURC studies luck. So do you. And the correct term for the mental status of us LURC research
ers is ‘paradigm free.’”
“I lied. It is you,” he said. “You and that coffee seller are wrecking my experiment and wrecking my marriage.”
“We are both pretty cute,” Morgan said.
Alan gripped the arms of his chair and took a deep breath. “No more practice.” He forced himself to speak with academic authority. “Today, we execute Brieanna’s special experiment, end her influence. I’m going to pay off LURC at one hundred to one and get rid of you.”
“Ouch.” The coffee machine dry-sputtered. “Please don’t throw me in the briar patch.” Morgan laughed.
“Morgan, if you can’t be ser-”
“Don’t jump me! You’re the one obsessing on Brie. You’re all caught up in how tomorrows should be. I live where I am and see what I see.”
Alan wanted to bash a clipboard into Morgan’s I’m a Zen kinda’ guy smile. “And your superior, paradigm free sight shows you what?”
“That we’re part of the system you want to measure.”
“Experimental controls exclude us.” Alan turned to his workstation. “Run diagnostics. I want to be ready by six-fifteen.”
“Your show, Doc.” Morgan handed Alan the green mug, then settled into the chair at his workstation.
The Buddha-boy got that right, Alan thought. My show. After years refining his equations, he had used hundreds of thousands of minutia sensors, seven supercomputers, and a random sample of two thousand commuters to build his model of the effects of human expectations on causal minutia.
Every day for twenty-four months, he used covert observation profiles to identify each subject’s optimum daily parking place. His extensive sensor network recorded minute environmental changes as the day’s commute unfolded. He plugged the sensor data and the subject’s failure rate into his equations.
After weeks crunching numbers, the computers plotted the subjects’ belief influence on their success or failure.
Of course, Brieanna never failed.
Her impossible, perfect record destroyed his hypothesis. She had to fail if he were going to measure the influence of her expectations on her outcomes. To force her failure, he needed to manipulate her environment and project outcomes in real-time.
He needed Q’s speed and his highly trained, environmental adjustment teams.
He smiled. He’d look great at the podium in Stockholm. He straightened his tie and turned on his radio. “Let’s do it,” he said.
“I got zeros, Doc,” Morgan said. “Q’s happy. Are your spooks ready to haunt?”
“They’re called adjustment teams.”
“Whatever.”
Adjustments had to perfectly mimic natural influences. If Brieanna suspected manipulation, her expectations would change, and her influence couldn’t be measured. Alan had personally trained the adjustment teams to act without creating suspicion.
Alan put on the dispatcher’s headset. “Check one?”
A deep voice answered from the headphones. “Power utilities covered.”
“Two?”
“Water and sewer, confirmed.”
“Three?” He continued until all teams confirmed readiness.
“For once, Morgan, your coffee is going to be late.”
Morgan laughed. “We got no number yet. She’s way off the right end of your graph. I’m thinking she’s like gravity. Her influence is simultaneous. It’s everywhere.”
Alan launched his interface software for Q. “You know better, Morgan. Gravity’s a spin two, vector gauge bozon. Everything’s quantifiable, Doctor Rat Hair.”
“Okay, not like gravity, but she’s a statistically stable point. Maybe the universe defines variations relative to her. It needs some reference point. Why not her?”
“That statement assumes consciousness on the part of the universe.”
“The universe is conscious.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“Are you conscious?”
“That’s a pointless, ridiculous question.”
“If you’re conscious and you’re part of the universe, the universe is, by definition, conscious.”
“Idiot.”
“That’s an ad hominem ethical, rhetorical fallacy. Do you have an actual counter argument?”
Alan shook his head. “By the numbers: we block her, do the analysis, and plot her influence. You disappear back into whatever grungy RD cave spit you out, and I accept the Nobel.” Alan poked his finger in the air at Morgan. “You got that, Mr. Paradigm Free?”
Morgan smiled and nodded. “Relax, Doc.” Studying his workstation, he said, “I’m on your program. Data feeds are go, and I got numbers for you.”
Alan’s monitor blossomed with calculations of probabilities for Brieanna’s successful arrival.
In his headphones a voice said, “Team three to base.”
Alan checked the digital clock on his screen and initialized his log file at 06:22:57:04. “Go ahead, team three.”
“Subject passing our checkpoint.”
“Status, Morgan?”
“Clocks are synched, sensors go,” Morgan said. “She’s early. Maybe she knows we’re trying to stop her.”
Alan ignored him. “Copy, team three. Computing probabilities.”
“Like Brie cares,” Morgan mumbled. Then, in mock horror, he said, “The big red truck is alive. It’s coming for us.”
“Shut up, Morgan.”
“I hope the men in black can stop it! Oh god!” Morgan’s cackle filled the lab.
Alan muted his microphone. “She’s moving, Morgan. You don’t get paid for color commentary. Monitor Q.”
“Q’ll answer your questions.” Morgan grinned mischievously. “You’re sure you’re asking the right questions?”
“Just give me simulations and predictions.”
“Simulations coming up now,” Morgan said.
On Alan’s screen, numbers flashed in two columns. Q did its magic. Minute details from all over the city poured into the box: barometric pressure at the airport; pavement temperatures on Burnside and Third; the disposition of the pregnant Dalmatian at the fire station on Northwest 23rd. Three hundred thousand sensors pumped data at light speed, and Q turned it into a mass of possibilities colliding, canceling, and occasionally amplifying one another into statistically significant probabilities. In pico-time, all the canceling and comparing resulted in a single number.
Brieanna Wolfe had an impossible 99.999 percent chance of parking success.
Alan frowned.
“There you go, Herr Doktor. Same as every day for two years,” Morgan chided. “Me and Q did our jobs according to spec and protocol. The parkin
g goddess cometh.”
Alan examined the column of suggested adjustments for Brie’s currently predicted path. He selected a solution and sent a message. “Team seven, release your mice on my mark.”
“Affirmative, base. All seven?”
“All seven.”
“On your mark.”
“Three, two, one, mark.”
“Mice away.”
****
From the dashboard, Valdez played with the swaying gold tassels hanging from the sun visor. A brown mouse ran into the road. Valdez batted at the window. Brie slowed to let the mouse cross. Checking her side mirror as she continued on, she saw the mouse scurry into the azalea bushes of a garden. “That was close, little guy. Look both ways next time.”
****
On Alan’s screen, new numbers appeared. The mice had changed her timing and ruined her probability of success. He turned to Morgan and grinned in triumph. “We did it! She’s got less than a one percent chance of hitting her slot on time.”
“A little early to call, don’t you think?” Morgan said. “I mean, Brie’s not even at the end of her street. A lot of stuff can shift the causal matrix-”
“Be as negative as you want. I have my number.”
“A number.”
“The number. And Morgan?” Alan spun to face his assistant.
“Doc?”
“You did a good job.”
“Don’t be too nice. You still might need to blame someone.”
Alan felt magnanimous. He laughed.
“Really, Doc. I know you don’t like it, but I think you should reconsider. We’re part of the system. So is Q.”
Jim Baen’s Universe Page 14
