Asimov's SF, June 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Did you like her?” Dee asked.

  Simon thrust his hands into his pockets to still their trembling. “I—I respected her greatly, Commander Dee."

  “What about the others?"

  “Are you asking if I liked them, or respected them?"

  “Both. I'm sorry to disturb you with these questions, when you've surely answered them before."

  You know I have not, Simon thought. When they questioned him five months ago, the police had merely requested an accounting of his activities for every night the murderer struck. No one had asked Simon about personal matters, nor had they requested his opinion of his fellow students’ abilities. He suspected the Provost had used his political influence to shield the students, and thus protected the University against further scandal.

  But Dee was evidently waiting for some kind of response. “I knew them all,” Simon said. “In some cases, I knew more than I liked. It's a large university, but a small department—the graduate department, that is."

  Dee nodded. “The Queen's Constabulary is much like that."

  Simon's pulse jumped, and he had to suppress a start. The Queen's Constabulary of Éireann did not normally concern itself with anything outside royal affairs. But with Maeve being Lord Kiley's daughter, the matter had become one for a higher authority.

  “You look unsettled, Mr. Madoc."

  Simon rubbed his hand over his face. “Of course I am unsettled, Commander. You bring me distressing news. Very distressing."

  “Understood. Come, let us keep walking."

  He motioned toward the path. After a moment's hesitation, Simon shrugged and set off down the path. Dee kept pace with him with long easy strides. He seemed unsurprised by Simon's outburst, nor did he seem impatient to ask more questions. “I've read about the new research in mathematics,” he said. “Some of the newer theories, those from Lîvod and Estonia, are quite intriguing, if somewhat whimsical."

  This time, Simon guessed that the abrupt shifts in conversation were deliberate. “You mean the theory of colors and numbers?"

  “Yes, those. But also the ones concerning electrical properties of certain equations."

  Surprisingly, Dee seemed well informed about the current theories, even about the exotic corner of number theory Simon had chosen for his doctoral thesis.

  “How numbers affect the dreams,” Dee said. “Is that a fair description?"

  “Not quite,” Simon said. “My theory depends upon the concept that numbers have both abstract and tangible qualities. That is, we use numbers to measure and quantify, but we also use them to express theories completely divorced from the physical realm. I believe we might take that concept one more step—that numbers have a spiritual quality as well."

  “Some might call that numerology."

  Dee spoke politely enough, but Simon's face immediately heated up. “How would you know?"

  “Because I studied mathematics myself. I never completed my degree, which I sometimes regret. However, I read the journals still."

  So the detective was a failed mathematician. That would explain much. “My apologies, Commander Dee,” he said, somewhat stiffly. “I've had many arguments about my thesis. I've become somewhat sensitive on the topic."

  Dee shrugged. “We all have our prickly moments. I understand your sister also intended to study mathematics at Awveline University. I spoke with your advisor, Professor Oswalt, this morning, and he mentioned her name. He said she had begun work on prime numbers before the illness overtook her."

  “What does that have to do with your investigation, Commander?"

  “Nothing, Mr. Madoc. I was merely expressing my sympathy, however clumsily."

  They had reached the next bridge. One of the main boulevards crossed the Blackwater here, leading into the city's financial district. Simon stopped and faced Dee. “Have you any more questions, Commander?"

  Dee tilted his head and studied Simon a moment before answering. “None for today, Mr. Madoc. The official investigation begins tomorrow after Doctor O'Neill makes his announcement. I'll send someone by your quarters to take your formal statement.” He smiled, and this time it seemed genuine. “I thank you, Mr. Madoc, for your company and your patience."

  He held out his hand. Simon shook it, noting the strength in his grip. “Good day then, Commander."

  “Good day to you, Mr. Madoc."

  Dee turned to the bridge walkway and soon blended into the crowd of clerks and messengers. Simon lingered a moment longer by the river banks, taking in for the first time the sunlight upon the autumn leaves, shimmering like so many raindrops. His gaze returned to the river and he shuddered. Douglas Kerr's body had been discovered not far from this bridge, his throat slashed and his face hacked into a purpled bloody mass.

  Before the University had recovered, other murders had followed. Harry Sullivan. Agnes Doyle. Timothy Morgan. All of them graduate students—three in the mathematics department. The newspapers had focused immediately on that fact. They dwelt in loving detail upon university politics, the youth of the victims, and any irregularities in their past. That the murderer had mutilated his victims with a knife only heightened the titillation.

  A madman, said the newspapers.

  Surely not one of us, said the Provost, thinking first of his reputation, so entwined with the University's.

  The police had made no public statements, preferring to ask their questions in private. In the end they had run out of questions, and the cases remained on hold.

  Until now.

  Simon glanced up. Above the city, the skies arced clear and blue, empty of balloons for the moment. Then he glimpsed a speck moving across the brilliant sky—the red balloon from earlier, floating higher and higher toward the sky's limit.

  * * * *

  He arrived at the mathematics quadrant just moments before the clock tower struck the hour. Cursing his lateness, he ran up the steps and into the lecture hall. A quick scan of the room showed him that Emmett and Susan had saved him a seat near the back. He sidled along the row and sank into the chair between them.

  “Late,” Emmett murmured.

  “Within reasonable deviation,” Simon replied.

  Susan shook her head. “Certain combinations do prove to be predictable."

  Simon managed a smile at the familiar exchange, which had hardly varied over the four years they had known one another. Susan, dark and neat and practical. Emmett, tall and fair and angular, his looks so much like Simon's that many mistook them for brothers.

  “How was Gwyn?” Emmett asked.

  “The same. Always the same."

  Emmett glanced around the room, then leaned close. “A detective came by the library this morning. A man named Dee. I told him where he might find you. I hope that was right."

  Simon made a show of arranging his pens and books before saying, “He's with the police, Emmett. Of course you did right."

  He ought to tell them about Maeve, in spite of Dee's orders, but he could not think how to phrase it without sounding trite. Hello, did you hear? Maeve died last night. Murdered by a lunatic.

  A door rattled at the front of the lecture hall. Professor Oswalt stalked through to his podium, his arms filled with books and papers, his white hair floating in an unruly halo. The next moment, a side door banged open. Seán Blake, a third year graduate student, darted through and made for an empty seat behind Simon. Papers spilled from his books, and he had a hurried, disheveled look.

  “Ne'er a cab to be found,” he commented with a grin.

  Simon shrugged, aware of Emmett's sidelong glance and how Susan had pursed her lips in obvious distaste. Blake ordinarily did not speak to them, except in passing before exams. He was a student of the fringes, dabbling at his studies in between gambling and other questionable pursuits. His family had little money, and Simon often wondered how he could afford to stay at University.

  Now Blake leaned over his desk, between Emmett and Simon. “No luck today,” he whispered to them. “But I can try again tomor
row. Will that do?"

  His breath smelled sour, as though he'd been drinking already. Emmett shuddered and looked away determinedly. Simon turned around. “What are you talking about?"

  Blake smirked. “Oh, so we're the chaste and pure today. I thought you two might not dare—"

  He broke off, and Simon was suddenly aware of a thick silence around them. Professor Oswalt was gazing fixedly at them. “My apologies for being tardy,” he said. “Please do not let it overset you, Mr. Madoc, Mr. Blake."

  Simon bent over his desk, his face hot. Blake muttered something unintelligible, but resumed his seat. Oswalt nodded. “Today's lecture,” he rapped out. “Electrical impulses and higher-order numbers. Mathematics? Numerology? Or gin-fantasy?"

  Someone in the back row barked out a laugh, just as quickly smothered. Oswalt gazed steadily at the culprit, one eyebrow lifted. “Perhaps someone experimented with these theorems last night,” he said dryly. “Indeed, that might explain your appearance, Mr. Blake."

  Emmett coughed. Susan, more discreet, covered her smile with her hand. The rest of the students settled into quiet, and with a last glance around the hall, Professor Oswalt launched into the day's lecture.

  * * * *

  The first incident took place during the winter holidays, shortly after their nineteenth birthday. Simon had attended his first semester at University, taking advanced classes; Gwyn had elected to remain with their aunt and uncle, pursuing her private research. When he arrived home from the train station, Simon learned that Gwyn had gone out walking in the gardens. She had left word for him to meet her there.

  Footprints led him through the gardens and topiary, past the sunken garden with its pool lying silvery and quiescent beneath the gray skies. Once or twice, he thought he saw a flickering movement between the evergreen shrubs, but when he called out Gwyn's name, no one answered.

  He found her, at last, huddled under a thorn bush near the gamekeeper's old hut. She was barefoot, dressed only in a thin shift. The tatters from her winter frock hung from one of the bushes.

  Simon knelt beside his sister. “Gwyn? Gywn, what happened?"

  Gwyn looked around vaguely. She must have been here for hours, Simon thought. Her skin was red, her lips chapped, and tears gleamed in her eyes. “It was a number, Simon. I followed it...."

  Her voice trailed off, and she frowned, as though confused.

  Simon touched her arm gently. “Gwyn,” he said softly. “Did someone hurt you?"

  Her eyes went wide and blank. Her mouth worked, as though she would speak. Then she screamed.

  * * * *

  I was a coward. I said I was fetching my uncle, but I was really running away.

  Simon tapped his pencil against his palm in an irregular rhythm. A blank sheet of paper faced him, one edge faintly darkened where he'd rubbed his thumb absentmindedly. Unable to face ordinary conversation with Emmett and Susan, he'd sequestered himself in the library, leaving only to take supper at a nearby tavern. Now the mutton lay heavily in his stomach, and the over-cooked vegetables had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

  Maeve was dead. The phrase echoed inside his head. Strange, he still could not quite take in that she was gone.

  He glanced out the window. A harvest moon hung low in the sky, its orange disc sharply drawn against the black night. He and his uncle had called the doctors that same day; within a week, they had removed Gwyn to the hospital in Awveline City.

  Only the best for her, he thought now. The best drugs. The best treatment—

  The floorboards creaked behind him. Simon twisted around to see Emmett Moore standing quite close.

  “Why didn't you tell me about Maeve?” Emmett said harshly.

  Simon hesitated, not certain how to reply. Emmett must have mistaken his silence for a refusal to answer, because his mouth twitched into a grimace. “Confused, Simon? That's not like you."

  “No, I—"

  “That's why that detective wanted you, isn't it? He told you about Maeve Kiley."

  “He did. He asked me not to say anything until tomorrow. Who told you?"

  “Her sister.” Emmett pressed both hands against his cheeks, as though to suppress an ache. “I thought it peculiar when I heard about O'Neill's assembly tomorrow,” he said in a muffled voice. “Even when I didn't see Maeve at her afternoon lectures, I didn't think anything amiss. I knew she was spending extra time with her advisors, and that I'd see her at supper. It wasn't until she didn't show that I—"

  His voice broke. Simon started to speak, but Emmett waved for him to stay silent. He soon mastered himself. “I went to her rooms. Her sister was there with a crowd of servants, packing Maeve's belongings. She told me what happened."

  Simon touched Emmett's arm and felt him trembling beneath the apparent control. “Emmett, I'm sorry."

  His friend drew a shuddering breath. “Thank you. Whatever that means. I was so angry. Not with you. With—"

  “I understand,” Simon said softly. “Come. It's nearly ten. We'll go back to my rooms for coffee."

  Emmett wiped away his tears. “I would like that."

  Outside, the wind had picked up, and clouds raced across the moon's face. Simon and Emmett buttoned their overcoats and turned up their collars before venturing from the portico's shelter.

  Emmett shivered. “Last week I boiled in the lecture halls."

  “It's the turning point of seasons,” Simon said. The sound of the wind sifting through leaves recalled Gwyn's voice, reciting her numbers, and he had the unsettling impression of memories blurring together, like photographs of dancers whirling across the stage. He shook his head to dispel the sensation.

  They set a fast pace across the empty green, while leaves whirled and danced about them. Few students were about at this hour, and the buildings loomed against the night sky. Simon could taste rain in the air. Soon frost would silver the pathways, the winds would strip the trees completely, and the world would become like an ink sketch, with sharp black lines and shades of gray.

  A harder gust of wind caught him full in the face. Simon ducked his head, blinking away tears. Ahead, he heard Emmett's footsteps slow, then come to a stop.

  “Simon."

  Simon looked up to see Emmett pointing toward a spot farther ahead. Squinting against the wind, he made out a dark mass sprawled upon the brick walkway. Whatever it was lay motionless, except for a fluttering edge of cloth, as though a blanket or cloak had worked loose from the body's weight.

  His skin prickled. We don't know it's a body.

  Emmett took hold of Simon's hand. “Come on. We have to see."

  Together they approached the thing. No, a man. Simon could make out the head, resting on the grass. One arm was invisible beneath the cloak, the other extended, as though reaching for something in the last moments of life.

  Emmett knelt and pulled back the cloak, exposing the face. “It's Colin Rees."

  Simon couldn't make sense out of his words at first. Colin? Dead? Numb with disbelief, he knelt beside Emmett and touched Colin's face, which looked white and stark beneath the strong moonlight. Blood trickled from the slack mouth, painting a black trail over Colin's cheek and onto his collar. Simon jerked back his hand.

  “We'll have to contact Commander Dee,” Emmett said.

  “Shouldn't we call a doctor first?"

  “He's dead, Simon. He's past any doctor's help."

  Emmett's voice sounded muffled and strange. The wind, Simon thought, or was it the pounding in his temples that distorted his friend's voice? He stumbled to his feet, then fell down, sprawling to avoid Colin's body.

  “Simon, what's wrong?"

  “Nothing. I—"

  Emmett gripped his arm and pulled him upright. “It's the body,” he said. “You're faint because of seeing the body."

  Simon shook his head. “I don't know.” He gulped down a lungful of cold air. Another. He was about to say he felt better, when he saw a shadow among the trees, not ten feet away. At first, he thought it was just bra
nches, swaying in the wind, but then the moon broke through the clouds, and he distinctly saw the figure of a man.

  “Emmett, look,” he whispered.

  Emmett straightened up. “What do you see?"

  The stranger turned and ran.

  “Stop!” Simon shouted. He sprinted after the man, ignoring Emmett's shout. The man dove in the alley between two nearby dormitories. Before Simon could follow the stranger down the alley, Emmett overtook Simon, and yanked him to the ground.

  “Are you mad?” Emmett wheezed, falling to his knees beside Simon. “What were you doing?"

  “Didn't you see him?” A cramp took hold of Simon. He doubled over, retching.

  “Who? I see that you're sick. Here, let me wipe your face.” Emmett took out a handkerchief and cleaned the mud and vomit from Simon's face.

  Simon pushed Emmett's hand away. “There. Can't you see him? There!"

  He pointed frantically toward the dormitories. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the alley, plainly showing the man at the far end, but just as Emmett turned around, the stranger vanished around the corner.

  * * * *

  “Tell me where you spent the afternoon, Mr. Madoc."

  Simon pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Hours had passed since he and Emmett had tracked down the night sentries and led them to Colin's body. By now he wished only for the solitude of his rooms.

  “I was in the library,” he said, “writing up notes from Professor Oswalt's lecture. I—how much do you want to hear?"

  “Everything. Do not worry about boring us, Mr. Madoc."

  “Yes. I see. Well then.” Simon massaged his face again. He could still smell the blood and vomit on his skin. “I spent some hours writing my notes. Around seven o'clock I went out for dinner, then went directly back to the library. May I have more water?"

  Dee signaled the nearest uniformed policeman, who refilled Simon's glass. Simon drank half the water in one swallow, grimacing at its metallic taste. Dee waited patiently until Simon set the glass down.

  “You attended Professor Oswalt's lecture after we parted,” he continued. “Is that correct?"

  “Yes. Emmett Moore can tell you that I was there. Susan Liddell can as well—"