Ten people, maybe twelve, already populated Quinton's list of guaranteed survivors. That would probably exhaust the supply. And what about himself and the others? He had no close friends on campus, but if there were any reagent left over, he'd distribute it to as many students as possible.
And he'd have to reserve some for himself or take his chances. He would make that decision later. First thing to do was to protect the leadership. This DCC takeover was a test, a challenge. That's the best way to look at it, he thought. Nobody will be able to say that I didn't do what's right for the university and the city.
He counted the floors until he reached the third. A faint sliver of light escaped from underneath the door. The lights had not yet fully discharged, although they would be extremely dim.
The hinges of this door didn't squeak like the other. Quinton nudged it open, peering into the corridor.
Nobody. The dusky hall was empty.
Quinton tiptoed down the hall to the door leading to his section of the lab. His familiarity with the keypad enabled him to punch the code without even having to look. The bolt slid away and the door snapped open, sounding like a rifle shot. Quinton flinched, then peered inside. The room was completely dark except for a trifling amount of light streaming through the open doorway.
Slipping inside, Quinton closed the door. He didn't have to turn on his flashlight to find his locker, which stood in a corner along with four others. Feeling his way along the wall, he at last touched the cold metal of the locker. He dropped to his knees and felt for the combination lock.
The locker door swung open.
Astonished, Quinton used his shirt to dim the flashlight and switched it on. Someone had pried open his locker. His lab notebooks were missing.
"Nice one, Mark,” muttered Quinton. “You won that round. But good luck trying to decipher my notes.” Quinton allowed himself a laugh as he imagined what Mark's face would look like when he discovered his theft would do no good.
Without his notes, Quinton would have to guess on dosages. But he felt confident he could get it right.
Quinton shut off the flashlight and crept over to the supply cabinet. He knew where the reagent would be. Using a dimmed beam he saw it at once and grabbed it.
A sense of relief shot through his body. Even though he knew it would be there, he felt a release of tension once the bottle was in his hands.
Quickly he sorted through some of the other chemicals. He grabbed six others. Decoys. If he were stopped, then nobody would attach particular importance to the vital substance.
As he stowed the chemicals in a plastic bag, he heard the lab door open. He shut off his flashlight and dived beneath the lab bench as a beam of light swept across the room.
"I know you're in here,” said Mark. “So you can come on out.” He took a step and paused. “Come on, Quinton. You can't hide in here. I'm going to find you. Why don't you show yourself? What are you afraid of?"
Quinton stashed the chemicals under a sink and scooted down the aisle. The beam of light swung in his direction.
"I hear you,” said Mark.
Quinton rose from behind the bench, twenty feet from the sink. “What do you want?” he asked.
The flashlight beam shined briefly in his face. Then Mark lowered it. “What are you doing here?"
"You're wondering how I got in the building, aren't you?"
"I assume,” said Mark, “you came in the front door, like I did."
"Stop pretending you're not looking for me.” Quinton's voice wasn't as steady as he'd hoped.
"Okay, I'm looking for you,” said Mark. “I admit it. You know something. Something about what's going to happen."
"I don't know any more than you do.” Quinton slowly stepped around the bench and toward the door.
Mark moved to block him. “I think you do. The minute Timms said something about DNA inactivation, your expression changed. That's what you're working on in the lab, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's what I'm working on. So? I was amazed at the coincidence."
"Sure,” said Mark. “But you looked like you stayed amazed for an awfully long time. Amazed, and something else too. Troubled, I'd say."
Quinton had gotten about ten feet from the door. Mark's beam shined on his chest. Quinton couldn't make out Mark's face, but he could sense the tension in his voice and in his stance. Quinton increased his grip on his heavy flashlight. Could he really bring himself to hit somebody with it? Hard enough to hurt him? Quinton recalled his childhood and the way he was raised—chess, chemistry sets, books, and piano lessons; unlike most of his classmates, Quinton had never been interested in football or wrestling.
Then he saw the knife. A stray beam caught a wicked-looking knife strapped to one of Mark's belt loops. The glinting blade, showing through the straps of the sheath, was enormous—a hunting knife, with a blood groove.
Quinton tensed. But he noticed that Mark's free hand did not seem to be anywhere near the hilt.
Footsteps in the hallways caused them both to spin toward the door. It opened authoritatively.
"What's going on in here?"
Mark's flashlight illuminated the face of Professor Timms. Quinton felt a flood of relief.
Mark said, “We were just talking."
"Come out into the hallway,” said Timms. “Both of you."
Although the corridor lights glowed dully, Quinton could see Timms and Mark. Quinton moved closer to Timms, facing the professor; Quinton's back was to the wall. Mark flicked off his flashlight and stood sullenly beside the lab door.
"What was the argument about?” asked Timms impatiently. When he didn't get an immediate answer, he said, “Now is not the time to be playing childish games."
"I'll tell you in private,” said Quinton.
"Okay,” said Timms.
Mark stirred. “Now wait a minute. This thing involves everybody. And he knows something.” Mark took a step toward Quinton.
"He stole my lab notebooks,” said Quinton, looking at Timms. “But he can't read them."
"Look out!” cried Timms.
The professor shoved Quinton to the floor. Quinton hit the tiles hard, then heard a buzz-ing sound that lasted a few seconds. Quickly he rose to his hands and knees. An acrid smell hung in the air.
Quinton looked around. Mark lay on his back; Timms stood over him holding a gun in his right hand. Quinton scrambled to his feet. “What happened?"
Timms didn't answer. Quinton stepped over to Mark and got down on one knee for a closer look. In the dim light he could barely make out Mark's eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling. Wisps of smoke escaped from his ears.
For once Timms seemed to be rattled. “Is he . . . is he dead?"
Quinton felt for a carotid pulse. Nothing. “Yes.” He noticed that the hunting knife remained snugly in its holder.
Quinton rose and faced Timms. For the first time it dawned on him that he was two inches taller than the professor. If someone had asked him earlier, Quinton would have said that he was shorter than Timms.
"What did you do?” asked Quinton. He gestured toward the gun. “What is that thing?"
Timms's reverie broke suddenly. He stashed the weapon in his pocket and put a strong hand on Quinton's back. “Things are spinning out of control. Let's go to my office. We need to make plans."
Quinton sat in Professor Timms's expansive, well-lit office. Somehow the chairman had managed to commandeer sufficient power to keep the lamps shining. And to circulate the air, which did not smell stale, as it did in the rest of the building.
From behind his gigantic desk, Timms stared at Quinton. “What was the fight about?"
"We weren't fighting. What makes you think we were?"
Timms frowned. “I know you two have been at each other's throats since you came into my lab. Don't try to snow me, Quinton. I've got a lot of people working for me, but not so many that I don't know what's going on. You two were my most competitive students."
Quinton still couldn't quite believe t
hat Mark was gone. “What was that gun you fired? Was it a Taser?"
"Sort of. That's not important. What's important is—"
"Mark's dead. I can't say I liked him very much, but you killed him."
"He lunged at you. He would have killed you. You saw the knife."
"It was still sheathed."
"His hand went to the handle. I had to act fast. The gun is just a prototype; it doesn't have any kind of control. I didn't think it would kill him."
"Where did you get it?"
Timms waved a hand. “Research I did some years ago. For the military. Back when I was struggling to get funds. We all take on projects sometimes just for the grant money. The army wanted a weapon to overstimulate an enemy's nervous system and incapacitate him. We developed a microwave emitter that set up seizure-inducing oscillations in the brain."
"You weren't supposed to keep a prototype, were you? You held it back."
Timms expression hardened. “We're all competitive to a certain extent. We're all looking for an advantage. You never know when something like this weapon could be useful. Necessary, even."
"You were sandbagging at the meeting, too, weren't you?” A surge of emotion swept over Quinton. He couldn't define what it was—a mixture of excitement and fear. “I think Rebbin suspected something. She told me that you knew more than she did."
"You know how modest Sandra can be."
Quinton kept staring at the professor. Timms had completely regained his composure. But you're lying, thought Quinton.
"Okay,” said Timms. “Let's stop playing mind games.” He rose and walked to a cabinet. Opening a door, he lifted a bottle and examined the label. “Pour you a drink? Good scotch."
Quinton shook his head.
Timms set a shot glass on his desk and poured until it was half full. “Sure you don't want any?"
"What are you holding back?"
Timms put away the bottle and returned to his chair. “I palmed a few pages of the printout when I was collecting them and folding the ones that had been torn."
"What did they say?"
"Speculation, mostly. According to Chicago, DCC's plan is to use dispersion agents. Like the rainmakers, I guess, who use condensation nuclei. They'll drift with the wind, scattering the inactivation compounds."
"What will it inactivate? How much time do we have?"
"We might have already run out of time. I've got to hand it to DCC, it knew what it was doing. The plan is to target certain brainstem neurons that are responsible for controlling respiration. Keeps them from making a certain protein, an ion pump, which maintains the electrical gradient. No gradient, no activity. The neurons slowly run down."
"You quit breathing?"
Timms nodded. “You can keep yourself alive for a while by forcing air into your lungs. But you need these neurons to make breathing automatic. They monitor oxygen levels and adjust the rate accordingly. Respiration is usually not conscious—you don't have to think about it. But without these neurons, you do have to think about it."
"Which means,” said Quinton, “when you go to sleep . . ."
"You die. Victims will feel tired, get short of breath. They'll probably lie down and rest. Then they'll fall asleep. They won't know they're running out of oxygen because the neurons that monitor the oxygen levels are shutting down. Nobody will know what's happening until the next morning—when about one out of every two people will have expired. It's clever and painless."
"Clever?"
Timms shrugged. “You've got to admit that it has a certain kind of brilliance.” He stared at Quinton. “The real question is, what are we going to do about it?"
"You withheld this information to prevent panic? Or for some other reason? To gain an advantage over the competition, perhaps."
"I don't have to explain myself to you.” Timms sipped his drink. “Now is not the time for philosophy or psychology."
Quinton thought about Mark. Saw the body in his mind's eye. Then a flash of insight struck. He opened his mouth, ready to speak. But he held back.
"Yes?” said Timms. “Something you want to say?"
And I ought to say it, thought Quinton. But he wondered if the gun was still in Timms's pocket.
Timms leaned forward. “You've got an idea, Quinton? Let's hear it."
"Mark didn't steal my lab notebooks. You did.” A brief flush came over the professor's face, telling Quinton he was right. “At first I was sure it was Mark, but now that I think about it, that doesn't really make much sense. Mark had already been looking over my shoulder; he would have known that I write my notes in code. It's not a simple one either. Vigenere cipher. Mark knew that stealing my notebooks wouldn't have been useful, but you didn't.” Quinton paused. He felt short of breath. “That means you murdered him when you realized I would find out Mark didn't take them."
The professor's expression went cold and hard, but his poise quickly returned. “He really did lunge for you, Quinton. He didn't reach for his knife, but I thought that's what he was planning to do."
Quinton watched him closely. The professor's hand crept toward his pocket. “You can threaten me, but you can't kill me,” said Quinton. “I know something you don't."
Timms smiled. Quinton was amazed that the professor's smile seemed fluid and relaxed. “You have a point. But some of the other people in my lab are anxious to replicate and extend your discovery. You have made a discovery, haven't you, Quinton?"
"I won't tell you,” said Quinton.
"Why not? You want half of the people in this community to die?"
"You couldn't save them. Even if you wanted to—which I doubt."
Timms leaned back. “Not enough material? I figured there was a reason you didn't say anything at the meeting. Well, maybe we can scrounge up some more somewhere."
"No, it's a special order,” said Quinton. “You'd only protect yourself. And some of your goons."
"Goons?” Timms looked genuinely surprised. “These people are scientists, they have doctorates—"
"Doesn't matter. What you're doing isn't right. And what you've already done isn't right. I don't care how smart you are."
"And what about yourself? You're prepared to roll the dice?"
Quinton nodded.
Timms shook his head. “Come on, Quinton. You're as competitive as anyone, including me. We're both competitive, and that's why we have so much success whereas others fail. I promise that you'll be one of those we protect."
"No."
"I can't believe you've gone so soft. You're smart enough to know that there will always be winners and losers. And it's better to win than lose."
"That's true. Winning is always better. But I guess I'm a lot more different from you than I thought. Where we disagree is on the definition of ‘winning.’”
Timms frowned. “I think you'll tell us what we want to know, though we might have to do a little bit of persuading.” He reached for the intercom. “Believe me, Quinton, I hate to do it, but we're fighting the clock on this one. You leave me no alternative."
Quinton aimed and threw his flashlight. Timms saw it coming and ducked. The heavy cylinder bounced off his shoulder, but Quinton heard the thud of metal against bone. The flashlight had struck the professor's clavicle.
Racing out of the room, Quinton was suddenly blinded in the dimness of the hallway. His night vision was gone—his eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the professor's office.
But Quinton had walked these hallways day and night for a long time. He bumped into the wall a few times but still reached the stairs quickly. Just as he was racing down the steps he heard the heavy footfalls of pursuers.
Quinton stayed in the lead, finding the exit at the unloading dock and then sprinting up the ramp. He raced across campus, able to stay the course using starlight and the stray light of the flashlights of the people running after him. He won the race to the dorm.
With burning lungs and aching legs he galloped up the stairs. After he reached his room he yanked the dead
bolt, clasped the chain, and pushed his dresser against the door for good measure. Then he collapsed.
As he lay on the floor in the pitch-black room, he heard thumps and scratches on the metal door. They'll have to wait until after the sun rises to use power tools, thought Quinton. And by then it might be too late.
Quinton drew deep breaths. Shoulders, chest, abdomen rose and fell. Was he out of breath because of the unaccustomed exercise? Or was he one of the victims?
Maybe they'll find the chemicals under the sink, he thought. But probably not. And even if they did, they wouldn't know which one to use or how. “For once,” he muttered, “the playing field is level. Too bad for you, Professor Timms."
He closed his eyes. His breathing softened, his thoughts drifted. If it's going to happen, he figured, he should just accept it.
What would Timms do if both he and Quinton survived? How would Timms treat Quinton? What would he say, what would he do? And how could Quinton ever look at Timms again and not think of him as a cold-blooded killer?
But Quinton decided to worry about that later—if, that is, he had a later. His last thought was, what exactly is my definition of winning?
* * * *
Clouds thickened during the early morning hours. By dawn a light rain fell on campus. The dark skies promised a wet, cloudy day. Lights would be dim all day and go out early in the evening.
The gentle rain unleashed fresh scents. Shoots of grass poked up between cracks in the ubiquitous concrete.
Quinton opened his eyes. Light filtered through the curtains. Rain beat a soft tattoo on his window.
"I made it!” he cried.
He rose and looked out of the window. The campus appeared active, lots of people walking about. Many of them carried umbrellas.
Quinton listened at his door. Silence. He moved the dresser and unchained and unbolted the door. He peeked outside. Nothing. But dents and scratches covered the front of the door.
He looked for his flashlight, then remembered what he'd done with it. A twinge of regret came over him. He wondered if he should have tried to escape without hitting the professor.
Curiosity wouldn't let him stay in his room. He came out and started down the stairs. He met two sleepy grad students on the stairwell.
Analog SFF, September 2010 Page 18
