Analog SFF, April 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  John Kiradi had just finished crossing 116th street at Amsterdam Avenue when he won the Nobel Prize.

  A moment before, he was returning to his Pupin Hall office at Columbia University from having eaten lunch at V&T Pizzeria, a few blocks to the south. Suddenly, he found himself standing at a lectern in Stockholm, about to address an auditorium full of people.

  His clothing felt different, and he looked down to see himself dressed in white tie and tails. A heavy round gold medal hung on a ribbon around his neck. He lifted the medal and studied it; the familiar profile of Alfred Nobel glinted in the light.

  "Ah...” he said. Everyone stared intently at him, waiting for his next words. Confused, he tried to recall the last few minutes. Wasn't I just at Columbia?

  But this room felt all too real. He rubbed his sweaty palms along the rough wood of the lectern. He smelled the humid air, tasted the dryness in his mouth. And then it all came back to him, in a sudden flash of memory. Kiradi remembered everything; his research had gone much more quickly than he had anticipated, and the Nobel Committee had taken note almost immediately. He was really here, in Stockholm, accepting the Nobel Prize in physics. He smiled, looked down at his notes, and began to give the speech he had labored two weeks in perfecting.

  John Kiradi was the happiest he had ever been in his entire life.

  * * * *

  Trevor watched John Kiradi fall over, sprawled at the corner of 116th street and Amsterdam Avenue, his hazel eyes staring into space. Trevor tucked the device out of sight, and with a twinge of sadness, walked away from the New York City lunch crowd that was just now noticing the obviously ill man. One down, he thought. Two more to go.

  Arthur hated hospitals.

  He hated the antiseptic smell that permeated the corridors. He hated the fluorescent lighting that turned people's faces pale as he walked past them to the elevators. He hated the claustrophobia he got in patient's rooms.

  But Rachel Rotstein, head of the FBI's Special Investigations unit, had sent Arthur to New York City to assist the police with an investigation so secret that she wouldn't give him details before he left. Arthur would have preferred it if his boss had referred the case to the New York bureau, but she had said they needed his expertise for this matter. So it fell on Arthur's shoulders. Lucky him.

  The elevator rattled open on his floor. Arthur found the nurses’ station and was directed to a room being guarded by two police officers. As he approached, he flipped open his worn leather case and showed them his badge.

  "Arthur Valiquette, FBI."

  One of the officers nodded. “Detective Jerry Bancroft is expecting you,” she said, pointing to the end of the hall. “He's in the lounge."

  He found Bancroft sitting in a molded plastic chair, reading The New York Times. Arthur studied the man; husky but not fat, hair and mustache definitely salt and pepper in coloring, well-tailored suit but not expensive.

  Arthur extended his hand. “Arthur Valiquette,” he said.

  "Jerry Bancroft,” the other man replied, his voice deep and authoritative. “Call me Jerry."

  "I'm Arthur.” Arthur felt underdressed in his off-the-rack suit, already rumpled from the Amtrak train ride. Not that he cared, but he knew comparisons would be made.

  "I appreciate your coming all the way from Washington to help us out,” Jerry said.

  "You're welcome. But may I speak frankly?"

  Jerry eyed him curiously. “Certainly."

  "I'm a little surprised that One Police Plaza let you request help from the Feds."

  Jerry shrugged. “Yeah, well, not all of us believe in turf wars, especially not me. I believe in whatever will help me solve a case."

  Arthur nodded. “Ah, an enlightened attitude."

  "Thanks. So have you been briefed yet?"

  Arthur shook his head. “Nope. I was told that the detective in charge wanted to talk to me in person. I take it that's you?"

  Jerry nodded. “That's me."

  "So what's going on that you needed to pull me away from Washington?"

  Jerry looked grim. “We've been trying to play this case as close to the vest as possible. The tabloids still haven't picked up on it, but it's only a matter of time. When they do, it'll be all they'll talk about twenty-four/seven."

  "What's a matter of time?"

  "Chum for the conspiracy nuts.” Jerry sighed. “Come on, I'll show you."

  Arthur followed Jerry back to the door being guarded by the two police officers. They entered the room and stopped just inside. A black man lay on one of the two beds. From the gray in his tightly curled hair, Arthur guessed the man was in his mid forties. Next to him a monitor beeped softly every few seconds, and an IV stand stood with a tube leading into his arm.

  "Meet John Kiradi,” Jerry said softly.

  Arthur walked over to the edge of the bed. Kiradi stared at the ceiling, his mouth fixed in a wide smile. Every few seconds he would blink.

  "Hello?” Arthur said. He waved his hand in front of Kiradi's face, to no response.

  He looked up at Jerry. “So, what's his story? Catatonia? Coma?"

  "Sort of. According to the doctors who've examined him, however, it's not like any other coma they've ever seen."

  Arthur's expression darkened. He now knew he'd be in this hated building more than once. “Explain."

  "I'm not really the expert here, Arthur. But from what I understand, his EKG—is that right?"

  "EEG, if you're talking about brain waves,” Arthur said. “Electroencephalogram. The EKG is for hearts."

  "Yeah, that. Well, his EEG is normal, and the doctors are puzzled."

  "What do you mean, ‘normal'?"

  "Do you know anything about brain waves?"

  "My background is mostly in physics, with a little psychology thrown in,” Arthur said, and then he smiled. “I leave brain waves for the ESP division."

  Jerry gave him a look that said he wasn't sure how serious this federal agent was. Arthur wasn't going to elaborate.

  "Well, let me explain it the way the doctor explained it to me.” The detective pulled out a little dog-eared notebook from a back pocket, turned back a few pages, and cleared his throat.

  "The EEG of a typical coma patient is apparently different from that of someone who is awake. According to the doctor, Kiradi's EEG shows high activity. Normally, an awake person experiences alpha waves and beta waves, with beta representing a more active mind. When asleep, the brain experiences delta waves. Finally, there's something called theta waves which are usually only experienced in moments between waking and sleeping.” Jerry looked up. “With me so far?"

  "Yeah, but it seems rather simplistic."

  Jerry rolled his eyes. “Simple for you, maybe. Anyway, if Kiradi were in a normal coma, he'd be experiencing only theta waves and delta waves. But in fact, he's exhibiting the brain wave pattern of someone who is awake for sixteen hours out of every day and asleep for the other eight."

  "So, alphas and betas for sixteen hours, with deltas the rest of the time?"

  "You catch on quick."

  "So his brain activity is normal. Isn't that good?"

  "It would be good if he were responding to the world around him. But he's not. In fact, there's no explanation at all for why Kiradi is in a coma. According to the doctors who have examined him, he should be up and awake."

  "Okay, so why call me in?"

  "Two reasons. First of all, Kiradi's not the only one displaying these symptoms. Come with me."

  Arthur followed Jerry to the next room over, which was occupied by a blonde woman in the same condition. “This is Karen Daugherty, third-grade teacher. And in the next room is Sylvester Chang, a freelance illustrator. Same symptoms, down to the active EEGs."

  "Holy shit.” Arthur peered at the woman, studying her face, as Jerry stood by passively. He checked her eyes; the pupils seemed rather large given the lighting in the room.

  "Common denominators?” Arthur asked.

  Jerry replied, “Nothing obviou
s. Different jobs, different medical histories—"

  "Is it a disease? Some sort of mutated virus?"

  "If it is, we're all in trouble,” Jerry said. “But they haven't found anything to indicate a disease. And even if it were—well, you know the old saying? Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence—"

  "—three times, enemy action,” Arthur concluded.

  "Exactly."

  Arthur looked at Daugherty's soft features. She seemed at peace, but—"Do you mind if we go back to the lounge? Talking in front of her is creeping me out."

  "Sure.” They took seats in the lounge, and then Arthur asked, “So what's the second reason why you called me in?"

  "Well, it's like this. With the first two victims, we had nothing that connected them except their neighborhood. They both live in Morningside Heights. But Kiradi—well, he's a scientist working on virtual reality. We thought that might be significant."

  Arthur raised his eyebrows. “That is significant. Where does he work?"

  "Columbia. Pupin Hall."

  "Physics,” Arthur said with sudden understanding. “My specialty. I'm starting to get an idea of why you requested help."

  "Good,” Jerry said. “Dr. Kiradi works on a project called TTA, for Things That Aren't."

  "You're kidding. They actually named it that?"

  Jerry shrugged. “It's a university, they can name things whatever they want, I suppose. From what we've learned, it's devoted to improving virtual reality. Given these bizarre comas, it seemed likely that Kiradi's research was involved. And if that's the case—"

  "—then it makes sense to have someone who can talk science with the other researchers. Got any names?"

  Jerry opened his notebook again. “Kiradi worked with three other scientists: Trevor Bingham, Rod Carnegay, and Samuel Lansky."

  Arthur shook his head. “Never heard of any of them. I thought the Ivies always had Nobel winners working for them. Which one's the head of the project?"

  "Lansky."

  "Have you spoken to him yet?"

  "Nope. I was waiting for you."

  Arthur stood up. “Well, first let me hit the Internet and do a little research before we head uptown. When we meet Dr. Lansky, I'm going to go talk to him, scientist to scientist. Maybe he'll open up and tell me something he wouldn't tell a cop."

  * * * *

  Trevor Bingham walked aimlessly, unconsciously avoiding Columbia University, his eyes focusing just enough to prevent walking into streetlamps or people.

  He had one hand tucked in his right-hand jacket pocket, his fingers running over the smooth, angled device.

  John Kiradi hadn't meant anyone harm, but his efforts were what mattered. And Rod Carnegay might be a fool, but he was a conscientious one. Still, it was amazing any of them accomplished anything under that self-important Lansky. John had been almost too easy to eliminate. Trevor was glad he had tested the inducer beforehand, just to make sure it would work properly. According to the readouts, John was trapped in a perfect fantasy moment for himself, a “reality” he would never want to question at the risk of losing it.

  While he didn't wish either Kiradi or Carnegay ill, he wouldn't mind submitting Lansky to something unrelenting. It was just the matter of a few adjustments, he could do it. And then he would stop, his work accomplished.

  Finally, he slowed and checked his watch. He'd find Carnegay away from the lab. Lansky could wait. Trevor knew he needed to pace himself.

  * * * *

  It was a bright, sunny day, with only a few wispy white clouds hanging in the blue sky. Jerry drove the two of them uptown to Columbia in an unmarked cruiser and somehow managed to find a parking space on 120th Street, a short walk to Pupin Hall.

  "So, what sort of special investigations do you normally do?” Jerry said, clearly making an effort to get to know the agent.

  "High-tech applications of common items, figuring out how the next whacko will turn a stick of Silly Putty into C4,” Arthur said casually. He liked Jerry, but the last thing he wanted to do was give him too much information on the real work of the Special Investigations division. The detective would either laugh in his face or demand to know more, and he wasn't cleared for it.

  "Sounds a little dull,” Jerry said.

  Arthur nodded, willing to let Jerry believe that. “Nothing like this, which I like,” Arthur said, gesturing around him. “The job is usually pretty dry despite the nice title. What's happening is on the streets."

  Jerry shrugged. They walked past a pair of attractive young women, and Arthur swiveled his head to watch them walk by. “Nice coeds around here."

  Jerry shook his head. “You know, you need to get out of the lab. No one calls them coeds anymore. Anyway, yeah, never a dull moment in New York,” he said with a touch of sarcasm. “Robberies, muggings, people acting like the world owes them something. Nothing dry about street crime."

  Arthur smiled. “I get it. Grass is always greener, that sort of thing. Then you must find this case diverting?"

  Jerry bit his lip. “Diverting isn't the word I'd use. I'm terrified this thing goes wide—or worse, goes public."

  "Makes sense. Hey, while I'm here, any chance you can score us Rangers tickets?"

  "Doubt it. Hockey season ended last month."

  "Damn.” They lapsed into a not entirely comfortable silence.

  Within minutes they were inside the building, then at the door to the laboratory. Arthur looked at Jerry. “You remember your cues?"

  "Yep. Instead of good cop-bad cop, we're playing smart cop-dumb cop. All set."

  Arthur knocked on the door, and a balding man in a white lab coat opened it a crack. He gave Arthur a wary glance, then looked at Jerry. “Are you the police who called?"

  "Yes,” Jerry said, flashing his badge. “I'm Detective Bancroft and this is Agent Valiquette. Are you Dr. Lansky?"

  "Yes,” the scientist said. He opened the door a little wider, and Arthur and Jerry entered the lab.

  "Thanks for seeing us on such short notice,” Jerry said.

  "You're welcome. I was sorry to hear about John's coma. How's he doing?"

  "Still the same,” Jerry replied. “Wish I had better news."

  Arthur walked over to a large television monitor that sat on top of a metal box with flashing lights. He reached out for what looked like a helmet made out of four metal strips shaped into a hemisphere.

  Lansky walked over to Arthur and placed his hands on the helmet. “Please be careful, Agent. That's valuable equipment."

  Arthur let go, and Lansky put the helmet down. “Sorry,” Arthur said.

  Lansky nodded. “So why is it that the police and FBI are interested in our research?"

  Arthur and Jerry exchanged a glance. “Well,” Jerry said, “we're investigating what happened to Dr. Kiradi."

  "And you think his research here had something to do with his condition?"

  "Well, yes,” Arthur said. “He's catatonic and yet showing normal brain function. It doesn't take a genius to wonder if his work in VR might be responsible."

  Lansky frowned. “What exactly do you suspect us of?"

  "Nothing, Doctor,” Arthur said. “After all, accidents happen. But we do have to cover all bases."

  Jerry nodded. “We're looking into the possibility that something Kiradi was working on might have led to their condition."

  "Their?” Lansky asked.

  "His,” Jerry said quickly. "His condition."

  Lansky shook his head. “I don't see how,” he said. “What exactly do you know about virtual reality?"

  "I don't know much, but Agent Valiquette here's an expert,” Jerry said, pointing a thumb at Arthur.

  Lansky turned to Arthur. “Really?” he asked with a hint of doubt.

  "Sort of,” Arthur replied with a glance to Jerry. “I've got two degrees in physics. Caltech and UC Irvine."

  Both Lansky and Jerry looked surprised to learn this. Arthur shrugged. “So I can probably grok your project,” he said.

&n
bsp; "Well,” Lansky said, “virtual reality isn't just physics. It's more like applied engineering."

  "So tell us about it,” Arthur said. “What exactly are you doing here?"

  "I told you. Studying virtual reality. You know—body suits, data gloves, simulators, things like that."

  "I don't know,” Jerry said. “Could you explain?"

  "What's to explain?” Lansky asked as if he was addressing a freshman. “We build a room with screens and speakers, and you go inside to experience being somewhere else. In essence, it's just a fancy simulator. But it's limited."

  Arthur nodded. “Sight and sound only."

  "Well, yes. Although for tactile sensation, you'd put on a glove or even a full body suit."

  Jerry raised his eyebrows. “That could prove interesting."

  Lansky seemed to miss any implications. “One day, perhaps, it will. But as far as I'm concerned, it's still clumsy. There's no way to create virtual smell or taste, for example."

  "They do it on Star Trek,” Jerry said.

  Lansky's expression changed to one of distaste. “The so-called holodeck. Yes. Only they claimed to do it with electromagnetic force fields and other such gobbledygook."

  "Gobbledygook?” Arthur asked with a smile. “That a technical term?"

  The scientist ignored the crack. “The fact is that their scientific explanations for how the holodeck technology worked were spurious,” Lansky said. “You can't create such an immersive experience, no matter how sophisticated the method you use."

  "Not even with IMVR?"

  The color drained from Lansky's face. “Where did you hear that term?"

  "I found it on a website devoted to VR research,” Arthur said. “It's apparently a term you came up with."

  "Oh.” He gave Arthur a half smile. “Well, IMVR is rather primitive. Most of my comments have been purely speculative."

  "Pardon me,” Jerry said, hitting his cue, “but I've never heard of this. What's IMVR?"

  Lansky glanced at Arthur and then turned to Jerry. “The acronym stands for ‘interior method virtual reality.’ If we could ever get it to work, it would be a way of bypassing the sensory organs and sending the virtual sensations directly into the brain."