Elaine bit her tongue to keep any of a dozen retorts from snapping forth. Finally, she just turned away and stormed out of the office, her hands balled into fists.
She left the McLennan Laboratories and sat alone on the metal park bench on the grass outside. Her mind churned, unsure of what to do. The U.S. military is funding research at the University of Toronto. The public needs to know. But what I can do? Should I even be involved? She thought about Professor Takayoshi, and Ibrahim Zaher, and the Saudi atrocities in Yemen. The only access to Takayoshi’s research is the standalone computer in his office. Someone wanted it badly enough to break in . . . and to kill.
Elaine took a deep breath and stood, her mind made up. She walked over to the Lash Miller Chemical Labs and went inside to look for someone.
“Yegor!”
“Hallo, Elaine,” said Yegor Wiśniewski.
“I need your help.”
“Hokay.”
“Do you know how to pick locks?”
“Ya.”
“Okay. Uh . . . may I ask where you learned?”
“Sure. Da Terrorist’s Handbook. I got it off de Dark Web.”
“And?”
“Vell, de best ting is Army issue lockpicks. But I do not have deez . . . yet. Instead, you can use perhaps dental tools, aluminum can, steef metal vire, a credeet caard—”
“Got it. Yegor, can you teach me?” She told him about Corey and Professor Takayoshi, and how their work was funded by an agency supporting the U.S. military.
Yegor looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I vill not teach you how to pick locks.”
“Why not?” Elaine asked, annoyed.
Yegor reached into a pocket of his Belgian army jacket and pulled something out. “Because I have copy of janitor’s key.”
“How did you get—” Elaine shook her head. “Oh, never mind.”
Elaine returned to the McLennan Physical Laboratories that night. She took the elevator to the eighth floor of Burton Tower and went directly to Professor Takayoshi’s office. Is this really such a good idea? She shook away the momentary hesitation, slid Yegor’s copy of the janitor’s key into the lock, and opened the door. Taking a deep breath, she entered the office and closed the door behind her. Activating the flashlight function on her phone, she swept the beam over the mounds of papers, journals, and books strewn about the room. It was obviously a waste of time to try and sift through the mess. Whatever answers there are, they’ve got to be on his computer.
She booted Takayoshi’s ancient PC from a USB stick provided by Yegor with a program that exploited a security flaw in Windows NT to decipher the password. It took several minutes, but she finally got in. Scanning the contents of the hard drive, she found in the “Conference Papers” folder a file called “CAP_Mockery” and opened it:
A MOCKERY OF TIME
Stadtmauer, C.J., Takayoshi, M.K.
Department of Physics, University of Toronto
It was a draft manuscript for an upcoming conference of the Canadian Association of Physicists. Elaine smiled at the title, knowing it would not survive peer review. But as she read the document, her amusement changed to fascination, and then, to wonder.
. . . The orthodox quantum theory is a linear approximation of a more adequate nonlinear model. This work is based on the introduction of such nonlinear terms to the standard equations of quantum mechanics.
Consider, for example, the nonlinear Hamiltonian function, derived independently by S. Weinberg of the University of Texas (Austin)[9] and C. Stadtmauer of the University of Toronto. The nonlinear contributions of the kind indicated in (42) may exist in nature. Maxwell’s equations allow for two valid solution sets. One describes an electromagnetic wave propagating from a moving electric charge for t≥0, while the other describes waves converging on the particle for t<0. The latter are known as the advanced wave solutions.
The advanced solutions of Maxwell’s equations would provide a mechanism for the possibility that our minds can influence the past. It is common knowledge that neurons in the human brain transmit electrochemical impulses . . .
She blinked in amazement. Was the past not supposed to be permanent and unchangeable? We can regret, but never change, the decisions we’ve made—or can we?
. . . In a series of experiments conducted at the University of Toronto, a radioactive decay counter was used to produce a sequence of positive and negative random numbers that were unobserved at the time of generation. Several days later, a group of volunteers was asked to mentally influence the statistics of these numbers to favour the output of positive values. In every case, subsequent analyses revealed a minimum 2-sigma correlation between the actions of the volunteers and the statistical bias in the data. Particularly noteworthy was a 5-sigma correlation resulting from the action of ElCa, a 23-year-old female volunteer in the University of Toronto experiments [Note: 5-sigma outlier requires secondary verification. Identifying information to be redacted in published paper].
A chill went down Elaine’s spine as she recognized the reference to herself and its disturbing implications. Corey’s strange behaviour suddenly made terrible sense. She took a deep breath and skipped to the end of the paper.
. . . The nonlinear terms can lead to causal anomalies of the Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen (EPR) type[3]. Furthermore, since the correspondence principle states that classical and quantum predictions should agree in the limit of large quantum numbers n, these results may also apply to the macroworld. It is therefore possible that our own minds may be able to influence things that have already happened. Present actions may only appear not to have influenced past actions because the past has already taken into account what we are doing. The common wisdom that the past cannot be altered by the present may therefore be a fallacy, a mere projection of our own temporal asymmetry.
Acknowledgements
This research was supported by the Natural Sciences and Engineering Research Council (NSERC) and the Division of High Energy Physics of the United States Department of Energy (DOE).
The door flew open.
Elaine whirled.
A man of medium height burst into the room. The intruder lunged at her, knocking the phone from her hand. It landed on the floor, its screen cracked.
“Elaine Carrington,” Bill O’Leary sneered. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” Elaine’s surprise and fear hardened into resolve. “But I have a pretty good idea already.”
“Oh, you do, eh?”
“Uh, huh. Tell me, Bill. Did Mel get that postdoc at TRIUMF?”
“Not yet.” He stood between her and the door.
“But you don’t expect her not to, right?” The puzzle was coming together. “After all, she’s your wife, so she’s obviously the best person for the job.” Elaine’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “I’ll bet you’ve even bought a house in Vancouver already. It’s a sure thing.”
“TRIUMF. Don’t you just love these cool acronyms?” Bill laughed, closing the door behind him. “Is that how you feel, Elaine? Triumphant? You’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you?”
“Maybe.” Her fingers grazed a hardcover book on the desk behind her.
“Just maybe? What, are you stupid or something?” Bill snapped his fingers. “Oh, I get it. This must be the part of the movie where the good guy—or girl—confronts the bad guy, and the bad guy spills the beans on everything.” He stepped closer. “Do you think I’m a bad guy?”
“Absolutely.” Elaine nodded at the computer screen. “This is what you were after. Takayoshi’s work . . . and Corey’s. You wanted to wipe their files, slow them down just enough so Mel could publish her work on nonlinear quantum mechanics first.” Her fingers closed on the book. “Except it wasn’t entirely her work, was it Bill?”
“Shut up. You don’t kno
w anything.”
“Corey’s emails were helpful but incomplete, so you still needed Takayoshi’s files. But you didn’t get very far, did you? Takayoshi was working late. Surprised you. So, being the big man that you are—”
“Shut up!” He pulled something out from under his windbreaker.
Elaine gasped. She didn’t need Yegor to tell her the .38-calibre pistol was no toy. “Oh my God, Bill! What the hell are you doing with a gun?” She forced herself to speak calmly. “Are you crazy?” She looked into his eyes, and gulped.
Bill O’Leary was crazy.
Got to keep talking—stall him until I figure something out. “You panicked. Fled when you realized you’d killed him. Didn’t touch the computer. I’m surprised at you, Bill. It took you this long to come back and finish the job?”
He waved the gun erratically, his eyes wide and face pale.
He doesn’t know what to do, Elaine thought. Maybe I can use that. “If you shoot, someone will hear,” Elaine warned. “The cops will be here in no time.”
Bill howled maniacally, his eyes snapping in to focus on her. “My dear Elaine, there is nobody in the building at this hour. Even those extraordinarily low IQ cleaning ladies are gone. The only person who ever came in here was Takayoshi.”
The hardcover book was now in her hand. She threw it.
Bill raised his arms to shield his face.
She launched herself off the desk and slammed him into the wall, trying to pin his arms and grapple for the gun.
A shot rang out. Elaine fell to the floor.
Bill trembled and panted like a rabid dog. “Oh, my God! Elaine, you feckless cunt! Look what you made me do. Look what you made me do!”
Elaine lay on the floor, clutching her abdomen, pain radiating out from her belly. Warm blood seeped through her fingers. If only I hadn’t been so stupid. If only I’d just copied the files and read them later instead of sticking around. If only I’d told someone where I was.
If only I’d asked Yegor to come with me.
Her fragmented and agonized thoughts drifted to Takayoshi’s theories. One chance . . . If I concentrated hard enough . . . is it possible?
But there was a problem: the Butterfly Effect was against her. The smallest fluctuations in initial conditions could cause wild and unpredictable results. Even if she wasn’t injured, she doubted her concentration could be so total as to guarantee the outcome she needed.
But she had to try.
Elaine squeezed her eyes shut and tried to concentrate all her remaining strength into focussing her thoughts—
—of Yegor, of bombs, of Yegor, of The Terrorist Handbook, of Yegor, of lockpicks, of Yegor, of spitballs—
—the superposition of states collapsed, and then . . .
. . . The hardcover book was now in her hand. She threw it.
Bill O’Leary raised his arms to shield his face.
Elaine launched herself off the desk and slammed him into the wall. Frantically, she tried to pin his arms and take the gun away, but Bill was too strong. The barrel of the gun was pressed against her chest.
“Attention! Put down your weapon, release your hostage, and come out peacefully.”
He froze. The voice on the megaphone spoke again.
“You are surrounded. This floor has been sealed off. Release your hostage now, and surrender yourself peacefully.”
“Bill,” Elaine said, “the cops are here. Just give up. Turn yourself in.”
“No!” Bill roared with rage. He started to squeeze the trigger. Elaine elbowed him in the solar plexus, and as he doubled over she broke free and ran into the hall.
“Get out of the way!” a voice ordered.
Several dark figures with MP5A3 sub-machine guns, Kevlar body armour, and face shields were stationed at both ends of the hall.
“Get down, now!” A tactical officer of the Toronto Police Service Emergency Task Force sprang from her crouched position.
A shot rang out.
Elaine felt two impacts. The first was the bullet going into her back. The second was the tactical officer, pushing her out of the way a split second too late.
Elaine’s body twisted around roughly as she and the cop went down together. From that vantage point, Elaine saw two more black forms spring from their cover positions and converge on the office. She saw Bill trained his gun on one of them.
The other cop fired first. Dark liquid erupted from Bill O’Leary’s chest.
For a split second, he stood there like a puppet with its strings cut.
Then, as if in slow motion, he collapsed to the floor. Beside his head lay a red baseball cap and an orange-brown toupée. Elaine had no idea Bill was bald.
An officer spoke into her radio. “Medical emergency. We need paramedics up here, stat. We have two casualties, repeat two casualties . . .”
The cop who shot Bill went to the body and put two fingers on his carotid artery. She shook her head.
Elaine was still conscious when the paramedics wheeled her out on a stretcher to the waiting ambulance. As she and her rescuers left the McLennan Laboratories building, Elaine noticed a group of reporters and onlookers outside the main entrance. She turned her head and recognized a local crime blogger, an infamous lawyer—and a young woman with long, curly light brown hair.
Maria Alighieri.
Elaine wanted to say something, to thank her for saving her life. Maria must have been the one who had called the police. But her gratitude was tinged with guilt. The only reason she works so late is because those idiots won’t leave her alone during the day. But Elaine had never done enough to help her. She had never done enough.
Once she was aboard the ambulance, the doors slammed shut, the siren sounded, and the vehicle moved. One of the paramedics gave Elaine an injection.
When Elaine woke up, she was momentarily confused by the fact she was not in her apartment. Her hands probed the bed, and she was surprised to feel a metal rail along the side. Slowly, the antiseptic features of the hospital room came into focus.
“Hey, hey. It’s all right.”
She turned to the speaker. “Derek?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” Derek Tsai smiled. “Surprised?”
“How . . . why?”
“I had to see you. See if you’re okay, and also . . .” he sighed. “And also to say . . . I’m sorry. I have a drinking problem. I know that now. But I’m getting help. I’m seeing a counsellor, going to a therapy group. I’m going to beat this, Elaine. I swear.”
“I believe you, Derek.”
He nodded gratefully. “The doctors tell me you’re going to be fine. They took the bullet out, and the wound is healing. They say you’ll be out of here really soon.” He handed her a tablet. “Hey, have a look. The story’s out already. It’s the talk of the town.”
Elaine took the device. “Police Shoot Suspect in U. of T. Murder” proclaimed TheGlobeAndMail.com. “Armed Standoff at U. of T. Tied to Military Funded Research” was TheStar.com’s lead story. TheVarsity.ca, the University of Toronto’s official student newspaper since 1880, had a brief report after a feature article on lap dancing in Tibet.
She groaned. “How much trouble am I in?”
“You don’t want to know.” He put the tablet away. “So, what are you going to do after you get outta here?”
Elaine frowned and her shoulders tightened. “I’m quitting the Physics Department, and then I’m going to work with Maria Alighieri and Ibrahim Zaher to file formal complaints with the University Ombudsperson. After that, I don’t know.”
Derek fidgeted. “Do you want to maybe, like . . . do something with me?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Well, after all the hospital slop they’ll be feeding you, I’ll bet you could really go for a nice meal. How about
dinner?”
“That sounds nice,” Elaine said. “Where would you like to go?”
“How about Mövenpick Marché?”
It took an effort for Elaine to hide her disappointment. She sighed heavily, sinking back into the hospital bed. “Sure, that sounds . . . fine.”
Derek smiled. “I love you, Elaine.”
“I know.”
His lips met hers, and then . . .
Author’s Notes to My Younger Self: An important life lesson that I would tell my younger self is to have the courage to speak up. If there is something you want, you must ask for it. If you are unhappy, you must not keep it to yourself. If something is wrong, you must say something. And if something is right, you should speak up, too.
The Sabhu My Destination
Maurice Broaddus
STAGE ONE: Relaxation
Walking down the basement steps, fear filled me since I rarely went down them even when my father wasn’t home. Richard Pryor’s That Nigga’s Crazy blared from the speakers. Lamont Little, Sr., my father, spun a stack of vinyl records—Gil-Scott Herron, Last Poets, James Brown, Isaac Hayes—the way some people ate chicken and mashed potatoes for comfort. In the corner, he and my mother huddled together, wearing matching dashikis, swathed by shadows; cigarette smoke curled around them. My father surrounded himself with his books, Malcolm X, James Baldwin, Maulana Karenga. Only when he was reading did he seem at anything resembling peace.
My family was well-practiced in the calculus of colour. My mother held his hand, her skin so fair in comparison. Though Lamont Sr.’s father was white, my father was the darkest in his family. So grandfather would always take my uncle to baseball games because he was light enough to pass. Though my mother was from Canton, Mississippi, she was the lightest in her family. No one ever spoke of her father. I favoured her. Most of the kids in the neighbourhood made fun of me for being too white.
“Who is that?” I pointed to a new poster which hung on the wall. A man clad in a leather jacket ensconced in a wicker throne holding a gun in one hand and a spear in the other.
Seasons Between Us Page 29
