by B K Brain
The answer came immediately.
Stephanie looked over, spotted Eddie, and smiled. Not a huge smile. There were no teeth involved. It was faint, yet genuine. Like an I’m sorry and a little sad smile. Not what Eddie expected at all. There was kindness in that expression. Not an ounce of judgment or hesitation. She held eye contact for ten full seconds as she passed by. Eddie smiled back.
Damn it.
Maybe her mother had been right all along. Maybe Eddie just needed to try harder.
It made no difference what she’d seen on Thatcher’s desk, or what she’d likely see again somewhere else. Hell, she might as well spot the Easter Bunny playing pick-up sticks with Donald Trump. It didn’t matter. All of it, every last fantasy, had been her imagination, twisted hallucinations of the chemically imbalanced. Just like the voices.
She had to get better. Because she was sick of this shit.
Eddie watched Stephanie walk away, determined not to hear or see any more weirdness. Better days were ahead; she could feel it.
She suddenly realized she hated someone named Vice Dickhead.
And, strangely enough, Morgan Freeman.
3
Sam’s experiment was not one, but two very different computers working hand-in-hand.
The first was a standard, albeit very powerful, computer that operated just like retail units that could be found on desktops around the world. Processors fixed to a motherboard, utilizing both random access memory and hard drives to calculate binary code. Ones and zeroes, the language of operating systems, video games, cell phones, and every other gadget a tech-savvy public could desire.
The second was a quantum computer, a machine that utilized the quantum bit, or qubit, for calculations. Five hundred and twelve of them, actually.
Sam’s qubits weren’t protons or electrons like the particles normally used. His were Gravitons, the force carriers of gravity. The discovery of such a particle would’ve been enough to earn a Nobel Prize, and under normal circumstances he would’ve been happy with such accolades. But where he now stood was about as far from normal as one could get. And anyway, he hadn’t devoted his life to science for recognition or glory. He wanted something more.
The respect would come, the fame and everything that went with it, but first he would complete his experiment, and in so doing, change the world.
The initial tests with the Graviton suggested something astounding. Given the proper conditions he could force the universe’s hand, just like in the double slit experiment. Convey expectations to the Graviton, make it believe what he told it to believe, and reality would answer in kind. Amazingly, a simulation would no longer be just a simulation. The ramifications were mind-boggling. Einstein’s action at a distance had gone from spooky to utterly incomprehensible. Was this how God created the universe?
It seemed the Graviton represented a direct line of communication to the fabric of spacetime. Tell the cosmos what you observe and you get precisely that. Reality, as Sam had always theorized, was governed by observation, ruled by the simple act of looking. Believing was seeing, and now he could prove it.
The standard computer ran the simulation. The quantum computer was then asked to make a calculation based on simulated data collected by the detectors. At that moment fantasy became reality, right there in the lab. Space bent in upon itself, creating a miniature black hole, identical to the one described in the simulation.
That’s how it all began in Chicago, when two chairs, some office supplies, and a Labrador Retriever all found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one was more surprised than poor old Maurice, the first living thing to ever cross an event horizon.
One small yipe for dog, one giant leap for mankind.
Expectations had become reality via the magic of the Graviton.
And now Sam planned to do it again. Only this time wouldn’t be just for them. This time would be for the whole world to witness.
But first things first.
The private laboratory where they’d moved hadn’t been in use for nearly a year, since a colleague, Dr. Mark Forester, moved to a larger and more up-to-date facility. The backup generators were still on site, but hadn’t been run for quite some time. Sam wouldn’t risk mainline power from the local electric company. That would attract too much attention. The generators would have to be enough.
A security system, surveillance cameras and motion sensors at every entrance, were still in place and would only need to be re-booted.
The building sat in the middle of two thousand acres of forested land, fifteen miles southwest of Uniontown, a small community in rural Pennsylvania. Sam didn’t expect any visitors, at least until investigators figured out where they’d moved the experiment. How long until they were discovered? Weeks? Days?
He wiped sweat from his eyes, turned to Leon. “Hand me that pair of plyers, would you?”
His partner passed him the tool, and then huffed. “I can’t believe we actually did this. I just-”
“Everything will be fine. I promise.”
“You always say that, Sam.”
“And I’m always right, if you remember.”
“This isn’t college. It’s not like sneaking girls into the chem lab at midnight, okay? This is serious.”
“I know.” A pause. Then a smile. “That was a fun night, wasn’t it?”
“Sure. Right up until Professor Bishop caught us playing strip poker at his desk.”
Sam laughed. “Ah, good times.” He then got back to detaching a panel at the generator. With it free, he peered inside. Electrical looked okay; the motor appeared to be in great shape. That was fortunate, considering they had three more to check before lunch. This afternoon was reserved for getting the control room up and running, and the security system.
Fully aware the clock was ticking, Sam and Leon took off down a corridor to the next generator. They could waste time being tired later.
A chime from Sam’s cell, an incoming text. He slipped the phone out of a back pocket.
THEY ARE MONITORING MEDIA OUTLETS. IF YOU TRY TO GO PUBLIC THEY’LL KNOW.
Shit.
AND TURN ON YOUR TELEVISION.
They jogged for the central control room, where Leon had hooked up a TV to rabbit-ear antennas earlier that morning. Only one channel came in clearly, a local ABC affiliate. It was enough.
The men watched the news in disbelief. A grainy video showed the broken remains of a tall building, the Norritech research facility in Chicago, ablaze. A huge explosion had decimated the entire west wall. What remained of the second and third floors raged with orange flames. More than fifty workers were presumed trapped in the rubble, or dead. The cause of the tragedy was yet unknown, the news anchor explained.
“They killed them,” Sam said. “Paul, Bonnie, Sarah, Kevin. They’re all gone.”
“You don’t know that.” Leon’s hands had begun to shake. “Maybe it really was an accident. We can’t assume anything.”
Sam turned with a cold glare. “Don’t be so naive. The government wants what we have. They’ll do anything to get it.” He was positive there’d be no survivors, at least none who’d known anything about the experiment.
The televised horror played on. The main laboratory was like an image from Dresden after the firebombing. “They’ll be coming for us next.” Of course they would. He and Leon were now threats to national security, just like all the employees at Norritech. His friends.
“We have to call Sharon,” Leon said, his eyes full of tears. “We need to see if she’s okay.”
“I’m sure they’ve already gotten to her.”
“She was helping us! We have to warn her!”
“She’s on her own now.”
“Fuck you, Sam. I’m out.”
“If you leave now, you’re dead too. You knew that when we left Chicago.”
Leon knew. He was scared, that’s all. He wouldn’t be going anywhere because there was nowhere to go. He hung his head, wiped away tears. “What are we g
oing to do?”
“We have to tell people,” Sam said. “It’s the only thing that’ll keep us alive now.”
“But if they’re monitoring the news outlets, how can we do that?”
Sam had been considering his options for days. He knew someone that might be able to help, someone with the right resources - at least he hoped so. David Sandoval, producer of a science program on TechNet. He’d interviewed Sam for an episode four years ago. A segment on quantum theory, if memory served. He seemed like a good guy at the time, and smart too. Sam hoped to God the show was still on the air. It’d been years since he’d had time for television.
“I might know a guy,” he said.
They’d need to move quickly, yet very carefully. This was the government, for God’s sake. You couldn’t trust them, not when their actions could be justified, or in cases such as this, kept hidden.
The name of the show came to mind, a name that suddenly seemed appropriate. Squaring the Circle.
Trying to achieve the impossible. At this point getting the word out without getting caught seemed very much like an impossible task.
But then again, maybe not. He did have the computer, after all.
4
Everything takes its turn. There are no exceptions.
Eddie wondered when things turned for her mother. She tried to remember a specific situation, a particular point when Mom stopped seeing truth and started preferring lies. Of course there was no way to recall such a thing. Decay is gradual, in defiance of fingers and the points of pins. The worst, like the endurance of a tree, always takes its sweet time.
Mom had gotten very good at ignoring the solitary girl hunkered down across that dining room table. She had no interest in what fidgeted beneath, in the twisting of a napkin and the stuttering of knees. She had no interest in seeing the real Eddie. Her attention was on someone named Edith Ann, the daughter she never had. The one that didn’t embarrass her. The pretend girl.
“Eat up your pasta salad, Edith Ann,” Mom said before smiling at Mrs. Bettleman, the woman to her right. “Pasta salad is her favorite.”
Peanut butter and jelly was her favorite.
The Bettleman lady and her husband had been there for about an hour, talking with big, exaggerated voices. Too damned loud. And they laughed too much.
“Your mother tells me you’re a reader,” the Mrs. said.
Eddie stabbed a hunk of roast beef with her fork. Lifted it away from the plate, looked at it. Set it back down. “I read.”
The Mr. worked with Dad at the garage. He had a thick, unruly beard. His fingernails were packed full of grease. “I always liked Koontz. Have you ever read him?” Actually, he looked kind of homeless.
Eddie’s vision snapped back to her lap. “No.”
“Edith Ann likes romances,” Mom said.
She hated romance novels almost as much as she hated her mother saying she liked them. “I do not read romance.”
“What about that box of books I purchased for you, hmm? Those are all Harlequins. Every last one.”
“They’re still in the box, if you hadn’t noticed.”
The Mr. scratched at a hairy cheek. “I can’t say I ever read a romance.”
Mom raised an eyebrow. “I’m positive I’ve seen you reading those books.” She was quite proud of the statement. That was clear from the emphasis she’d placed on the bullshit words within it. The optimal stinkers being books, reading, and worst of all, positive. All steaming heaps of craptastic dookie. Lies. Someone needed to call her on it. Right now.
Eddie pounded a fist on the table. Her plate slid forward, knocking over a glass. Iced tea spilled into a bowl of mashed potatoes. “You only see what you want to see!”
“Edith Ann. Contain yourself.”
“Lies! Stop telling lies!”
Mom’s face went the color of sunburns. “Stop this right now.” The color of poison ivy rashes. “This is ridiculous.” The color of mad.
“Romance is for you, not me. You can take that box and suck it, Mother.”
“Edith Ann.”
Dad, who’d been quietly chewing, said, “That’s enough. You need to apologize.”
Eddie screamed, “NO!” She pushed away from the table, dumping her chair to the carpet.
“I’m sorry,” Mom said to her guests. Guests were more important than family, obviously. In case they didn’t hear, she said it again. “So sorry.”
Every eye in the room focused on Eddie. Leering. Judging her over pasta and fifty shades of horseshit. Mom was the liar, not her. Not her.
Eddie looked down and realized she was still gripping a fork. Tears streamed over her cheeks. Hands shook uncontrollably. Rachel should’ve been home by now.
Your meds aren’t working, Ed.
“I didn’t see the shadow,” she said, most assuredly out loud. “I didn’t see him.”
Dad was on his feet now. Mom too. The color of mad was also the color of blame. But this was not her fault. The conversation had taken its turn, that’s all. Just like everything else.
“You will calm down, Edith Ann,” Mom said.
A deep breath. A lingering pause. Calm, yes. “My name is Eddie.” That was the last thing - the only thing, really - that needed to be said. Eddie turned and walked out, but not before stabbing the fork into the wall right above the light switch.
What her mother screamed might’ve been an actual word, but it was hard to tell.
5
Her name was Sharon Lafferty. She had a fancy apartment downtown, one of those well-to-do upper floor places, high above the begging filth of the city. Her neighbors were lawyers and plastic surgeons and CEO’s with rare paintings on the walls and Italian cars in the garage. Her tastes weren’t quite as exclusive as the douche bags around her (she drove a Mercedes, not a Ferrari) but goddamn, it was a hell of an apartment.
Sharon was the sister of Sam Jacobson’s ex-wife. She (Nancy) hadn’t had contact with Jacobson since the divorce. Director Garret wouldn’t have suspected the doctor and his rich, one-time sister-in-law still spoke. Not until he realized that’s where the texts from Chicago were going.
Her money had come from pharmaceuticals, experimental medications for unpronounceable diseases and fatal conditions. Dope for the dying.
Garret ran a finger down a bank statement he’d found on the kitchen counter, next to a plate of sugar cookies. Profits were up, at least for the owner of the company. The cookies looked good.
He walked toward the living room, scanning his surroundings. He stopped at the coffee table, put hands on his hips, and grinned. Sharon apparently had some experience with non-prescription drugs as well.
Two overstuffed bags of white powder sat next to a gathering of razor blades and little chrome tubes, scattered across the ivory-speckled surface of a brass serving platter.
Quietly, Garret laughed. There was enough cocaine on that platter to make a cattle drive look like the Kentucky Derby.
A little medicinal blow for what ails you, Sharon?
A ring of keys rattled at the front door.
He slipped into a dark hallway, easing out the pistol, checking the silencer, clicking over the safety. Flat against a wall he waited for the usual sounds.
The deadlock. The click of a door opening, closing. Footsteps over tile and carpet. The low mumbles of one who thinks they’re alone. The refrigerator, a clank of glass.
Sharon rounded a corner, kicked off her shoes. Walked to the living room. She freed a twisted mess of graying hair, letting it fall down over narrow shoulders.
Makeup didn’t do much to hide the wrinkles down her cheeks, nor did it cover the squint creases at her eyes. It only served as a slight distraction, the transparent camouflage of an older woman.
Sharon showed no signs of surgical enhancement. No lifts, no tucks, no Botox or silicone inflations. She was aging the way God and gravity intended - naturally. Some might’ve even said gracefully, but not Garret. There was nothing graceful about a sixty-year-old chick pop
pin’ a squat to snort some lines.
He stepped out of the shadows. “I admire you for buying in bulk, Sharon. You’re quite the frugal junkie.”
Sharon screamed as she leapt back, her knee catching the platter and dumping its contents to the carpet. She staggered, her mouth gaping.
“Who the fuck are you?” she said. “What are you doing in my house?”
Garret aimed the pistol. “Have a seat. We’re going to have a conversation.”
“What do you want?”
“Please. Sit.”
She sat. He took a chair across from her. One of the bags had come open in the tumble. A big patch of snow, like Christmas.
“That’s not mine,” she said pointing. “I don’t-”
“I’m not here about your drugs. I’d like to discuss Dr. Jacobson.”
“What? Sam? What about him?”
“You’ve been playing phone tag, relaying text messages for him.”
“No. I haven’t spoken with him in years.” She looked to her purse. “Check my cell if you don’t believe me.”
“We already have. Not the one in your purse, though. The one we found in your car. The phone he sent you after he stole property from the United States government.”
“Jesus,” she said. “Look, I don’t know anything about crimes he might’ve been involved in. He just told me he was in trouble. He said some bad people were after him. I swear that’s all I know.”
Garret grinned. “He wasn’t lying. We are bad people.” He leveled the gun at her face.
“I’ll cooperate with your investigation, okay? You don’t need to keep pointing that thing.”
“Save me some time and tell me where he is.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Who else knows about the experiment?”
“I have no idea. I told you I don’t know anything.”
This was going nowhere. Oh well, he didn’t need anything from her anyway. He had the cell, which meant he now had Jacobson’s number. He’d have a location as soon as the doctor used the phone. Couldn’t have been simpler.