Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  “Q says a fo­rest gre­en Ford Ex­p­lo­rer full of kids will ar­ri­ve for fa­mily co­un­se­ling just be­fo­re Bri­e­an­na.”

  “Look aga­in, Doc.”

  Alan tur­ned. The num­ber that had be­en less than one was ri­sing ra­pidly.

  “Damn!” He tap­ped his scre­en li­ke it was an ana­log ga­uge and vib­ra­ti­on wo­uld free its sticky po­in­ter. “Her suc­cess pro­ba­bi­lity’s ri­sing.” Fran­tic, Alan whe­eled on Mor­gan. “What’d you do?”

  Morgan pus­hed a dre­ad­lock out of his eyes. “Told you you’d ne­ed me.”

  “Check the fe­eds!”

  “Won’t help.” Mor­gan let lo­se a mad sci­en­tist’s ma­ni­acal la­ugh. “She’s the par­king god­dess of ur­ban le­gend.” He lo­we­red his vo­ice dra­ma­ti­cal­ly, lif­ted his arm, and po­in­ted at Alan. “She’s co­ming for you!”

  Alan tur­ned on his as­sis­tant, “If you can’t be pro­fes­si­onal, get out!”

  Morgan frow­ned. “Sorry, Doc. Chec­king fe­eds.” Mor­gan ho­ve­red over Q, to­uc­hing each cab­le with ri­tu­al pre­ci­si­on.

  Confused, Alan wat­c­hed the num­ber con­ti­nue to ri­se. He swi­ve­led his cha­ir. “Mor­gan?”

  “Q’s happy with the uni­ver­se.” He cros­sed from Q to his wor­k­s­ta­ti­on. “So am I, by the way.”

  “Don’t gi­ve me at­ti­tu­de, just gi­ve me a new si­mu­la­ti­on.”

  Alan swi­ve­led back to his scre­en. He didn’t un­der­s­tand what had hap­pe­ned. Q had gi­ven them the an­s­wer. He re­le­ased the adj­us­t­ment. The mi­ce shif­ted the ca­usal mat­rix and chan­ged her ar­ri­val ti­me. It all wor­ked, but it only wor­ked for a mo­ment.

  For the pro­ba­bi­lity of suc­cess to ri­se so fast and so far, her in­f­lu­en­ce wo­uld ha­ve had to be…

  No.

  Impossible.

  That was many or­ders of mag­ni­tu­de be­yond the in­f­lu­en­ce of any ot­her su­bj­ect.

  Brieanna’s num­ber pas­sed 80 per­cent and con­ti­nu­ed to ri­se.

  ****

  Marguerite, still in lin­ge­rie, fi­nis­hed her cof­fee. She co­uldn’t ke­ep her eyes off the bri­ef­ca­se full of sec­rets on her kit­c­hen tab­le, nor co­uld she get it open.

  God! Even when he was go­ne, his work ma­de her mi­se­rab­le. Hadn’t she had fri­ends at Li­ver­mo­re too? Hadn’t she war­ned him abo­ut how he so­un­ded? Did he ca­re? No! He ar­gu­ed fun­ding po­licy in pub­lic and got them exi­led. He only ca­red abo­ut be­ing right. She co­uldn’t be­li­eve she’d sup­por­ted him whi­le he wro­te tho­se stu­pid grant pro­po­sals. She had tho­ught the ob­ses­si­on wo­uld pass, that he’d set­tle in­to a te­ac­hing job at so­me com­mu­nity col­le­ge. How co­uld she ha­ve known LURC wo­uld be stu­pid eno­ugh to gi­ve him mo­ney?

  He tho­ught she didn’t un­der­s­tand his work. She un­der­s­to­od. She un­der­s­to­od that the pro­ba­bi­lity of get­ting spon­ta­ne­ity out of Alan Dic­k­son was ze­ro.

  Staring at his bag only fu­eled her an­ger. It was so dam­ned im­por­tant, and he’d left it un­der the tab­le. He’d bla­me her. He’d say, “You put on that ge­tup and at­tac­ked me.” Well, screw him. She’d put the ca­se back in the clo­set. She’d bury it un­der swe­aters and let him think he mis­sed it.

  She grab­bed the ca­se. Un­der her as­sa­ult, the aged han­d­le bro­ke. The ca­se fell to the ti­le flo­or. A se­am split. Pho­tog­raphs and pla­ne tic­kets spil­led on­to the flo­or.

  She sta­red. The pho­tog­raphs we­re of a very yo­ung, very blond wo­man. Long, silky ha­ir cas­ca­ded over her bro­ad back and te­ased the cur­ve of her yo­ung re­ar. Her tu­be top ba­rely co­ve­red bre­asts gra­vity hadn’t to­uc­hed. The girl co­uldn’t ha­ve be­en mo­re than twenty.

  In one pic­tu­re, she was be­si­de a red truck in a sunny spring yard full of bud­ding rho­do­den­d­rons. She was bent over pic­king up a yel­low cat. Short shorts ro­de up her too-smo­oth bac­k­si­de. In anot­her shot, she was pus­hing her long ha­ir up over her he­ad and smi­ling li­ke so­me vi­xen from a sham­poo com­mer­ci­al.

  The tic­ket jac­kets sho­wed tan­ned wo­men in grass skirts un­du­la­ting un­der palm tre­es.

  Marg pic­ked up a pho­to that had lan­ded fa­ce down. The blond was sun­bat­hing. Top­less!

  “Alan Dic­k­son, you son of a bitch!”

  Marguerite sco­oped up the pic­tu­res and tic­kets, dug her trench co­at from the clo­set, wrap­ped it over her lin­ge­rie, and stor­med thro­ugh co­ol mor­ning air to the curb and her lit­tle whi­te Hon­da hat­c­h­back.

  ****

  Searching for so­lu­ti­ons, Alan or­ga­ni­zed his tho­ughts out lo­ud. “I ha­ve eig­h­ty-se­ven adj­us­t­ment te­ams. The sen­sors are fi­ne. I de­sig­ned the ex­pe­ri­ment myself.” He tug­ged on his star­c­hed cuffs. “We’re get­ting go­od, re­al-ti­me da­ta.”

  “That’s the prob­lem, Doc,” Mor­gan sa­id. “Q me­asu­res he­re and now. He’s do­ing what you told him, but you think the ca­usal mat­rix exists in uni­di­rec­ti­onal, li­ne­ar ti­me.”

  “Your po­int?”

  “The ti­me vec­tor go­es for­ward and bac­k­ward. Yo­ur adj­us­t­ments cre­ate a ca­usal rip­ple, but the uni­ver­se has al­re­ady set its own adj­us­t­ment can­ce­ling adj­us­t­ments in mo­ti­on; so, the num­ber ri­ses im­me­di­ately. Yo­ur adj­us­t­ments are re­adj­us­ted be­fo­re Q thinks of them.”

  “The uni­ver­se can’t an­ti­ci­pa­te com­p­lex fu­tu­re po­ten­ti­als.”

  “Why not? You think you can.”

  “That’s dif­fe­rent.”

  Morgan la­ug­hed. “Oh,” he sa­id. “That ex­p­la­ins ever­y­t­hing.”

  “We ha­ve work to do.”

  “Q, you, Brie, me; we’re all in­si­de this uni­ver­se, not out­si­de wat­c­hing. Ever­y­w­he­re, every when, and ever­yo­ne are part of the system.”

  “I’m go­ing to ma­ke se­ve­ral adj­us­t­ments at on­ce.”

  “Let it go, Doc. You can’t pre­dict the rip­ples. Don’t ma­ke things wor­se.”

  Alan re­ac­hed for the mic­rop­ho­ne tog­gle.

  ****

  A teat- worn be­ag­le and three pups bol­ted in­to the stre­et. “Whoa, Big Red!” Brie stom­ped the bra­kes to ke­ep from flat­te­ning them. A man in a dark trench co­at and sil­ve­red glas­ses slip­ped in­to the bus­hes whe­re the dogs had ap­pe­ared. “Fi­gu­res,” she sa­id to Val­dez. “The­re’s a perv in the­ir bus­hes. I won’t run in this park on we­ekends.”

  When the last pup was cle­ar, she pul­led for­ward. At the next in­ter­sec­ti­on, the traf­fic light was out. In fact, as far as she co­uld see down the stre­et, all the traf­fic lights we­re out. She chec­ked both ways and ven­tu­red ac­ross.

  A whi­te hat­c­h­back zip­ped in front of her, nar­rowly mis­sing her bum­per.

  Big Red lur­c­hed. Val­dez sa­id, “Mro­wer.”

  “I gu­ess so­me pe­op­le ha­ve very im­por­tant things to do this mor­ning,” she sa­id.

  ****

  “Not eno­ugh!” Alan pres­sed lo­ose ha­ir over his bald spot. He to­re at his sle­eves. The num­ber he­aded up aga­in. “Get my bri­ef­ca­se! I ne­ed my se­con­dary ca­usal re­la­ti­on­s­hip tab­les.”

  “Where is it, Doc?”

  Alan scan­ned the lab. Co­ol swe­at bro­ke out on his fo­re­he­ad. He re­mem­be­red bre­ak­fast, set­ting the ca­se be­si­de his cha­ir, Marg thro­wing her­self spre­ad-eag­le over the tab­le and sa­ying filthy things. “No,” he whis­pe­red.

  “Where?” Mor­gan as­ked.

  “I left it ho­me.” Alan clo­sed his eyes, tri­ed to vi­su­ali­ze the num­bers and cor­res­pon­ding ac­ti­ons on the se­con­dary tab­les.

  �
�We can’t just ma­ke ran­dom adj­us­t­ments, Doc. The re­sults are un­p­re­dic­tab­le. So­me­one might get hurt.”

  “Most adj­us­t­ment rip­ples are self-can­ce­ling.”

  “Most. Not all. Yo­ur own pro­to­cols say we shut down if so­met­hing li­ke this hap­pens.”

  Morgan was right. An adj­us­t­ment might rip­ple thro­ugh the mat­rix and am­p­lify in­to a ca­tas­t­rop­he. He co­uldn’t risk the da­ma­ge ran­dom ma­ni­pu­la­ti­ons might ca­use.

  Or co­uld he?

  He cal­led his te­ams. “Se­ven?”

  “Monitoring, ba­se. What do you ne­ed?”

  “Status on the mi­ce.”

  “She al­most hit one. One’s in the se­wers. Bo­ok­s­to­re cat has one. Two di­sap­pe­ared. One went back in the ca­ge. He’s eating a lef­to­ver pel­let. One’s un­der a bush by the curb.”

  “Kill one.”

  “Doc!” Mor­gan pro­tes­ted. “That’s just me­an. It’s not in the pro­to­cols. Don’t mess with-”

  Alan wa­ved Mor­gan to si­len­ce.

  “Mouse in the ca­ge is de­ad,” Se­ven sa­id.

  “Bad kar­ma,” Mor­gan sa­id. “Very bad. Wo­uldn’t want to be you when the uni­ver­se sends out that bill.”

  Alan mu­ted his mic­rop­ho­ne and stu­di­ed the num­bers on his scre­en. Bri­e­an­na’s pro­ba­bi­lity of suc­cess dip­ped then ro­se to ne­arly 100.

  “It do­esn’t ma­ke sen­se,” Alan sa­id. “She was past te­am se­ven, and the mo­use de­ath ca­used a dip. The rip­ple of an event that sho­uld ha­ve be­en be­hind her had af­fec­ted her po­ten­ti­al-even if only for a mo­ment.”

  “Doctor Dic­k­son.” The go­od hu­mor was go­ne from Mor­gan’s vo­ice. “This who­le thing is cru­ising left of cen­ter.”

  “Whole thing,” Alan ec­ho­ed. In his mind, the uni­ver­se twis­ted, dis­sol­ved, then re­bu­ilt it­self with new cla­rity. He jum­ped up and lo­oked out the win­dow. Be­low, a small gro­up wa­ited for Bri­e­an­na’s cof­fee. “Mor­gan, ha­ve you had yo­ur cof­fee?”

  “You know I buy from Brie. I can’t sto­mach the ca­mel-”

  “Get out!” Rig­h­te­o­us, whi­te fi­re fil­led Alan’s mind. He grab­bed Mor­gan’s cha­ir and rol­led him to­ward the do­or. “Get ever­yo­ne in this bu­il­ding a cup of cof­fee.”

  “Killing mi­ce not eno­ugh?” Mor­gan jum­ped up and fa­ced Alan. “You want to ste­al Brie’s bu­si­ness?”

  “Morgan, you’re right. I was in­si­de the box. I mis­sed a con­t­rol! She isn’t iso­la­ted.”

  Morgan squ­in­ted from be­hind his dre­ads.

  “Customers ac­co­unt for the strength of her ef­fect. They ex­pect her to be in that slot at se­ven-thirty. They am­p­lify her in­f­lu­en­ce. Eli­mi­na­te them, and she’s alo­ne.” Alan ope­ned the lab do­or and pus­hed him. “Go! Do!”

  “The pro­to­cols! The­re’s no cof­fee in the pro­to­cols! You can’t pre­dict-”

  “Giving pe­op­le free cof­fee is go­od kar­ma! Q will re­cord ever­y­t­hing. We’ll do the anal­y­sis af­ter we stop her!” Alan tho­ught he was go­ing to ex­p­lo­de. He scre­amed at Mor­gan. “Go!”

  Morgan he­aded out.

  Alan cal­led te­ams 85 thro­ugh 87. “Get cof­fee! A lot of cof­fee. Re­port to the Le­eman bu­il­ding. Ke­ep brin­ging cof­fee un­til every per­son in the bu­il­ding has a cup. Mo­ve it!”

  All three te­ams ac­k­now­led­ged with a crisp “Yes, sir!”

  ****

  At 7:10, Mor­gan en­te­red the lab, bre­at­h­less. He po­ured a pa­per cup full of black cof­fee in­to Alan’s mug. “Last cup,” he sa­id. “Ever­yo­ne has so­me, and you owe Java-Ro­ast fo­ur hun­d­red twen­ty-two dol­lars.”

  Alan sta­red at his num­bers. “Be­at that, Bri­e­an­na!”

  “What?”

  “We ha­ve a stab­le out­co­me. The­re’s an EMT ve­hic­le in her slot. It’ll stay for two ho­urs.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  Alan spun in his cha­ir, spil­ling cof­fee on Mor­gan’s pur­p­le shirt. “Q gi­ves her al­most ze­ro chan­ce. Tho­se EMTs are te­ac­hing CPR to the web ge­eks down the hall.”

  “Fifty bucks and two al­mond-va­nil­la lat­tes.”

  Alan la­ug­hed. “You’re on!”

  Morgan flip­ped dre­ad­locks over his sho­ul­der and smi­led.

  The smi­le ma­de Alan ner­vo­us. He chec­ked his scre­en. The num­ber that had be­en ste­ady at prac­ti­cal­ly 0 was ri­sing. The right si­de of the de­ci­mal was a blur. “How the hell?”

  “She’s a for­ce of na­tu­re, Doc. Me­asu­ring her in­f­lu­en­ce is li­ke trying to trap the po­si­ti­on of an elec­t­ron. The har­der you try, the cra­zi­er things get.”

  “This isn’t a qu­an­tum ef­fect. She’s an air-he­aded cof­fee ven­dor.”

  “Not ever­y­t­hing ma­kes sen­se wit­hin our li­mi­ted per­s­pec­ti­ves.” Mor­gan pat­ted Alan on the back. “Be­fo­re I le­ar­ned to surf re­ality wa­ves, I was li­ke you. I tho­ught I co­uld fi­gu­re it all out, na­il it all down.”

  “Don’t pat­ro­ni­ze me.” Alan spo­ke in low to­nes. “Get back on yo­ur mac­hi­ne. We ne­ed this da­ta po­int, and by God, I’ll ha­ve it.”

  “You won’t get what you want. Brie’s a spo­oky con­s­tant.”

  Alan’s pul­se po­un­ded aga­inst his tight tie. What if Mor­gan was right? He pul­led at the knot then chec­ked out the win­dow. The EMT truck was still the­re. He sig­hed and sat down. He had a mo­ment be­fo­re the ri­sing pro­ba­bi­lity wo­uld re­qu­ire the EMTs to le­ave.

  He had to get Brie’s num­ber. If he didn’t, he’d be la­be­led a fa­ilu­re by every le­gi­ti­ma­te re­se­arch fa­ci­lity in the world, he’d spend his li­fe wor­king with idi­ots li­ke Mor­gan, and he’d lo­se Marg.

  A chill sho­ok him. He had no cho­ice. He tog­gled the mic­rop­ho­ne. “For­ty-se­ven, bre­ak the wa­ter ma­ins! All te­ams-”

  Morgan le­apt from his cha­ir, do­ve ac­ross Alan’s wor­k­s­ta­ti­on, and mu­ted the mic­rop­ho­ne. “The rip­ples co­uld screw the who­le city. Hell, the who­le co­untry! May­be the world!”

  “Get off my desk!”

  Morgan plan­ted him­self bet­we­en Alan and the con­so­le. “If she’s a con­s­tant, the rip­ples won’t to­uch her, but they ha­ve to go so­mew­he­re. You don’t know what’ll hap­pen.”

  “Get out of my way!” Alan tri­ed to push Mor­gan asi­de, but the yo­un­ger man was too strong. “Chill, Doc. She’s un­s­top­pab­le. She’s a sta­tis­ti­cal su­per­he­ro.”

  “You’re in­sa­ne!” Alan pus­hed hard, but Mor­gan held fast. Alan col­lap­sed back in­to his cha­ir, sud­denly reg­ret­ting ye­ars of let­ting Marg go to the gym alo­ne.

  Morgan swi­ve­led Alan away from his wor­k­s­ta­ti­on. “He­ar me out, Doc.”

  “You’re fi­red.”

  “You pro­ved she’s a ne­ga­ti­ve re­sult. She’s an ano­maly. Log it and let it go.”

  “My con­t­ract says I com­p­le­te the mo­del or pay back the fun­ding.”

  “You think I’d work for a com­pany that al­lo­wed in­den­tu­red ser­vi­tu­de? That ser­vi­ce cla­use only ma­kes su­re you be­li­eve com­p­le­tely in what you’re do­ing. You ful­fil­led the con­t­ract. LURC has mo­re use­ful da­ta than they dre­amed pos­sib­le.”

  Alan con­si­de­red. Mor­gan might be­li­eve what he was sa­ying. He se­emed sin­ce­re. But he was a LURC em­p­lo­yee.

  Alan re­la­xed his sho­ul­ders and drop­ped his hands to his lap. “Of co­ur­se,” he sa­id qu­i­etly. “You’re right.” He lo­oked up. “I’m okay. Let me up.”

  Morgan step­ped back. Alan sto­od, put a hand on Mor­gan’s sho­ul­der, and sa­id, “Fifty and two lat­tes.”

  Confu
sed, Mor­gan sta­red.

  “The bet,” Alan sa­id, ta­king Mor­gan’s el­bow and le­ading him to the do­or. “One out­li­er do­esn’t in­va­li­da­te the study.” Alan un­bol­ted and ope­ned the do­or. He smi­led as they pas­sed in­to the hal­lway. “I sup­po­se,” he sa­id. The do­or clo­sed be­hind them. “We’ll ha­ve to ac­cept the No­bel to­get­her.”

  Morgan la­ug­hed. “No way, Doc. I ha­te flying.”

  Alan chuc­k­led and pat­ted his pants poc­kets. “My wal­let,” he sa­id. “I’ll get my co­at.”

  Alan ope­ned the do­or, step­ped in­to the lab, slam­med the do­or, and threw the bolt.

  “Doc!” Mor­gan scre­amed from the hal­lway. “No!”

  Alan cal­led back. “I’m not ris­king my fu­tu­re on a LURC em­p­lo­yee’s word that the­ir law­yers are et­hi­cal.”

  Morgan’s muf­fled words ca­me thro­ugh the do­or. “She’s a stab­le sta­tis­ti­cal ano­maly in cha­os. You can get the No­bel for just dis­co­ve­ring her, but you can’t stop her. Don’t screw yo­ur­self. Don’t hurt her!” Mor­gan po­un­ded on the do­or. “Doc! Ple­ase! Don’t hurt her!”

  Alan went to his wor­k­s­ta­ti­on and cal­led his te­ams. “Ele­ven, light the mat­c­hes. Twel­ve, open the ho­ses. Thir­te­en, hit…” He went thro­ugh his list li­ke a mac­hi­ne. Each adj­us­t­ment for­ced the pro­ba­bi­lity clo­ser to ze­ro.

  Then, af­ter each drop, no mat­ter how de­ep, the num­ber ro­se.

  At 7:25, he re­ali­zed he had to dri­ve the pro­ba­bi­lity so low it co­uldn’t ri­se abo­ve one be­fo­re 7:30. Fran­ti­cal­ly, he cal­led out adj­us­t­ments.

  Morgan po­un­ded on the do­or.

  ****

  Brie swer­ved, just mis­sing a shuf­fling old wo­man in a pink run­ning su­it. In the back of the truck, Bes­sie spit out a plas­tic jug of milk. It split. Brie twis­ted in her se­at to lo­ok. Val­dez he­aded for the tre­at. Brie tur­ned back to the stre­et. A fi­re­man pul­led a ho­se ac­ross the ro­ad to­ward a bur­ning bo­at and tra­iler. She stom­ped both fe­et down on the bra­ke pe­dal.