Scopes smoothed back his cowlick with an automatic gesture. “We actually know very little. I believe that only one human has been exposed to it. There’s an incubation period of perhaps twenty-four to sixty hours, followed by almost instantaneous death through cerebral edema.”
“Is there a cure?”
“No.”
“Vaccine?”
“No.”
“Infectiousness?”
“Similar to the common cold. Perhaps even more so.”
Levine glanced down again at his cut hand. The blood was beginning to congeal around the broken shards of the ampule. There was no question they both had been infected.
“Any hope?” he asked at last.
“None,” Scopes replied.
There was a long silence.
“I’m sorry,” Scopes said finally, in a tone so low it was almost a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Charles. There was a time when I would never have thought to do that. I—” He stopped. “I guess I’ve just grown too used to winning.”
Levine stood up and cleaned his hand with the towel. “There isn’t time for recriminations. The pressing question is how we can prevent the virus in this room from destroying mankind.”
Scopes was silent.
“Brent?”
Scopes did not respond. Levine leaned toward him.
“Brent?” he asked quietly. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Scopes replied at last. “I guess I’m afraid of dying.”
Levine looked at him. “So am I,” he said at last. “But fear is a luxury we can’t afford right now. We’re wasting precious minutes. We must figure out a way to ... well, to sterilize the area. Completely. Do you understand?”
Scopes nodded, looking away.
Levine grasped his shoulder, shook him gently. “You’ve got to be with me on this, Brent, or it won’t work. This is your building. You’re going to have to do what’s necessary to make sure this virus stops with us.”
For a long moment, Scopes continued to look away. Then he turned toward Levine. “This room has a pressure seal, and is supplied with its own private air system,” he said, collecting himself. “The walls have been reinforced against terrorist attacks: fire, explosion, gas. That will make our job easier.”
A tone sounded, and then the face of Spencer Fairley appeared on the giant screen before them. “Sir, Jenkins from marketing is insisting on speaking with you,” the face said. “Apparently, the hospital consortium has abruptly canceled plans to begin transfusing PurBlood tomorrow morning. He wants to know what pressure you’ll be bringing to bear on their administrations.”
Scopes looked at Levine, his eyebrows raised. “Et tu, Brute? It appears friend Carson delivered his message after all.” He turned back to the image on the screen. “I’m not going to bring any pressure to bear. Tell Jenkins that the PurBlood release should be rolled back, pending further testing. There may be adverse long-term effects of which we weren’t aware.” He typed a series of commands. “I’m sending a Mount Dragon data file to GeneDyne Manchester. It’s incomplete, but it may show evidence of contamination in the PurBlood manufacturing process. Please follow up, make sure they examine it carefully.” He sighed heavily.
“Spencer, I want you to run a diagnostic on the Octagon’s containment system. Make sure the seals are all in place and functioning normally.”
Fairley nodded, then moved away from the screen. In a few moments, he returned.
“The system is fully operational,” he said. “Atmospheric regulators and all monitoring devices are showing normal readings.”
“Good,” Scopes said. “Now listen carefully. I want you to instruct Endicott to unseal the perimeter around the headquarters building, and to restore all communication with the remote sites. I will be broadcasting a message to headquarters employees. I want you to send a message to General Roger Harrington at the Pentagon, Ring E, Level Three, Section Seventeen, over a clear channel. Tell him that I am withdrawing the offer and that there will be no further negotiations.”
“Very well,” Fairley said. He paused, then looked more intently at the monitor. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked.
“No,” said Scopes. “Something terrible has happened. I need your absolute cooperation.”
Fairley nodded.
“There has been an accident inside the Octagon,” Scopes said. “A virus known as X-FLU II has been released into the air supply. Both Dr. Levine and I have been infected. This virus is one-hundred-percent fatal. There is no hope of recovery.”
Fairley’s face betrayed nothing.
“We cannot allow this virus to escape. Therefore, the Octagon must be sterilized.”
Fairley nodded again. “I understand, sir,” he said.
“I doubt you do. Dr. Levine and I are carrying the virus. It is multiplying in our bodies as we speak. You must, therefore, directly supervise our deaths.”
“Sir! How can I possibly—”
“Shut up and listen. If you don’t follow my instructions, billions will die. Including yourself.”
Fairley fell silent.
“I want you to scramble two helicopters,” Scopes said. “You’re to send one to GeneDyne Manchester, where it will pick up ten two-liter canisters of VXV-twelve.” He did a quick calculation. “The volume of this room is approximately thirty-two thousand cubic feet. So we’ll also need at least sixteen thousand cc’s of liquid 1,2 cyanophosphatol 6,6,6, trimethyloxylated mercuro-hexachloride. The second chopper can obtain the necessary supply from our Norfolk facility. It must be shipped in sealed glass beakers.”
Fairley looked up from a computer screen at his side. “Cyanophosphatol?”
“It’s a biological poison. A very, very effective biological poison. It will kill anything alive in this room. Although it’s stored in liquid form, it has a low vapor point and will rapidly evaporate, filling the room with a sterilizing gas.”
“Won’t it kill—?”
“Spencer, we’ll already be dead. That’s the point of the VXV canisters.”
Fairley licked his lips. “Mr. Scopes.” He swallowed. “You can’t ask me to ...” His voice dropped away.
Scopes looked at Fairley’s image on the immense screen. Beads of sweat had sprung up around the corners of his mouth, and his iron-gray hair, normally smoothly coiffed, was coming loose.
“Spencer, I’ve never needed your loyalty more than I do now,” Scopes continued quietly. “You must understand that I’m already a dead man. The greatest favor you can do for me now is not to let me die by X-FLU II. There’s no time to waste.”
“Yes, sir,” Fairley said, averting his eyes.
“You’re to have everything here within two hours. Let me know when both helicopters are safely on the pad.” Scopes punched a key, and the screen went black.
There was a heavy silence in the room. Then Scopes turned toward Levine. “Do you believe in life after death?” he asked.
Levine shook his head. “In Judaism, we believe it’s what we do in this life that matters. We achieve immortality through living a righteous life, and worshipping God. The children we leave behind are our immortality.”
“But you have no children, Charles.”
“I had always hoped to. I’ve tried to do good in other ways, not always with success.”
Scopes was silent. “I used to despise people who needed to believe in an afterlife,” he went on at last. “I thought it was a weakness. Now that the moment of reckoning is here, I wish I had spent more time convincing myself.” He looked down. “It would be nice to have some hope.”
Levine closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. Then he opened them suddenly. “Cypherspace,” he said simply.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve programmed other people from your past into the program. Why not program yourself? That way, you—or a part of you—could live on, perhaps even dispensing your wit and wisdom to all who cared to converse with you.”
Scopes laughed harshly. “I’m no
t that attractive a person, I’m afraid. As you well know.”
“Perhaps. But you’re certainly the most interesting.”
Scopes nodded. “Thank you for that.” He paused. “It’s an intriguing idea.”
“We have two hours to kill.”
Scopes smiled wanly. “All right, Charles. Why not? There’s one condition, however. You must put yourself into the program, as well. I’m not going back to Monhegan Island alone.”
Levine shook his head. “I’m no programmer, especially of something as complex as this.”
“That’s not a problem. I’ve written a character-generating algorithm. It uses various AI subroutines that ask questions, engage the user in brief conversations, do a few psychological tests. Then it creates a character and inserts it into the cypherspace world. I wrote it as a tool to help me people the island more efficiently, but it could work just as well for us.”
He looked questioningly at Levine.
“And perhaps then you’ll tell me why you chose to depict your summer house in ruins,” Levine replied.
“Perhaps,” said Scopes. “Let’s get to work.”
* * *
In the end, Levine chose to look like himself, with an ill-fitting dark suit, bald head, and uneven teeth. He turned slowly in front of the unblinking video camera in the Octagon. The feed from the camera would be scanned into several hundred hi-res images that together would make up the Levine figure that-would be taking up residence on Scopes’s virtual island. Over the last ninety minutes, the AI subroutine had asked him countless questions, ranging from early childhood memories to memorable teachers, personal philosophy, religion, and ethical beliefs. The subroutine had asked him to list the books he had read, and the magazines he had subscribed to during the different periods of his life. It posed mathematical problems to him; asked about his travels; his musical likes and dislikes; his memories of his wife. The subroutine had given him Rorschach tests and even insulted him and argued with him, perhaps to gauge his emotional reactions. The resulting data, Levine knew, would be used to supply the body of knowledge, emotions, and memories that his cyberspace character would possess.
“Now what?” Levine asked, sitting down again.
“Now we wait,” Scopes said, forcing a smile. He had undergone a similar process of interrogation. He typed several commands, then sat back in the couch as the supercomputer began to generate the two new characters for his cyberspace re-creation of Monhegan Island.
A silence fell onto the room. Levine realized that, if nothing else, the interrogation had kept him occupied, kept him from realizing that these were in fact the last minutes of his life. Now, a strange mix of emotions began to crowd in on him: memories, fears, things left undone. He turned toward Scopes.
“Brent,” he began.
There was a low tone, and Scopes reached over and pressed a button on the phone beside the couch. The patrician voice of Spencer Fairley sounded through the phone’s external speaker.
“The helicopters have arrived, sir,” he said. Scopes pulled the keyboard onto his lap and began typing. “I’m going to send this audio feed down to central security, as well as to the archives, just to make sure there are no troublesome questions later. Listen carefully, Spencer. In a few minutes, I’m going to give the order for this building to be evacuated and sealed. Only yourself, a security team, and a bioemergency team should remain. Once evacuation is complete, you must shut off the air-circulation system for the Octagon. You are then to pump all ten canisters of VXV into the air supply, and restart the system. I’m not exactly sure how long it will take to ...” He paused. “Perhaps you should wait fifteen minutes. Then, send the bioemergency team to the emergency pressure hatch in the Octagon’s roof. Have Endicott depressurize the hatch from security control, instruct the team to place the beakers of cyanophosphatol inside the hatchway, then seal and repressurize the outer hatch. Once the team is clear, have the inner hatch opened remotely from security control. The beakers will fall into the Octagon and break, dispersing the cyanophosphatol.”
He looked at the screen. “Are you following this, Spencer?”
There was a long pause. “Yes, sir.”
“Even after the cyanophosphatol does its work, there will still be live viruses in the room. Hiding in the corpses. So, as a final step, you must incinerate them. The heat will denature the cyanophosphatol as well. The fireproof shell of the Octagon will keep a fire in as well as it will keep a fire out. But you must be careful not to cause a premature explosion or a dirty, out-of-control fire that might spread the virus. A fast-acting, high-temperature incendiary such as phosphorus should be used first. When the bodies have completely burned, the rest of the room should be cleansed with a lower-temperature incendiary. A napalm derivative will do. Both will be available from the restricted laboratory supplies.”
Listening, Levine noted the methodical detachment with which Scopes described the procedure: the corpses, the bodies. Those are our corpses, he thought.
“The bioemergency team should then perform a standard hot-agent decontam on the rest of the building. Once that’s finished—” Scopes stopped short for moment. “Then I guess, Spencer, it’s up to the board of directors.”
There was a silence.
“Now, Spencer, please get my executor on the line,” Scopes said quietly.
A moment later, a rough, gravelly voice sounded through the speakerphone beside the table. “Alan Lipscomb here.”
“Alan, it’s Brent. Listen, there’s to be a bequest change. Still on the line, Spencer?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Spencer will be my witness. I want fifty million set aside to fund an endowment for the Institute for Advanced Neurocybernetics. I’ll provide Spencer with the details, and he’ll pass them on to you.”
“Very well.”
Scopes typed quickly for a few moments, then turned to Levine. “I’m sending Spencer instructions to transfer the entire cypherspace databank, along with the compiler and my notes on the C3 language, to the Institute for Advanced Neurocybernetics. In exchange for the endowment, I’m asking them to keep my virtual re-creation of Monhegan Island running in perpetuity, and to allow any serious student access to it.”
Levine nodded. “On permanent display. Fitting for so great a work of art.”
“But not only on display, Charles. I want them to add to it, extend the technology, improve the depth of the language and the tools. I suppose it’s something I’ve kept to myself far too long.” He smoothed down his cowlick absently. “Any last requests, Charles? My executor is very good at getting things done.”
“Just one,” Levine said evenly.
“And that is—?”
“I think you can guess.”
Scopes looked at him for a moment. “Yes, of course,” he said at last. He turned back to the speakerphone. “Spencer, are you still there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please tear up that patent renewal for X-RUST.”
“The renewal, sir?”
“Just do it. And stay on the line.” Scopes turned back to Levine, one eyebrow raised.
“Thank you,” Levine said.
Scopes nodded quietly. Then he reached for the phone and pressed a series of buttons. “Attention, headquarters staff,” he said into the mouthpiece. Levine heard the voice echoing from a hidden speaker and realized the message was being broadcast throughout the building.
“This is Brent Scopes speaking,” Scopes continued. “An emergency has arisen that requires the entire staff to vacate the premises. This is a temporary measure, and I assure you that nobody is in danger.” He paused. “Before you leave, however, I must inform you that an alteration is being made in the GeneDyne chain of command. You will learn the details shortly. But let me say now that I have enjoyed working with every one of you, and I wish you and GeneDyne the very best of luck in the future. Remember that the goals of science are our goals, as well: the advancement of knowledge, and the betterment of mankind. Never lose s
ight of them. And now, please proceed to the nearest exit.”
Finger on the switch hook, Scopes turned to Levine.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Levine nodded.
Scopes released the switch hook. “Spencer, you are to present all tapes of this event to the board next Monday morning. They must carry on according to the tenets of the GeneDyne charter. Now, please begin introducing the VXV gas. Yes. Yes, I know, Spencer. Thank you. Best of luck to you.”
Slowly, Scopes replaced the handset. Then he returned his hands to the keyboard.
“Let’s go,” he said.
There was a humming noise, and the lights dimmed. Suddenly, the huge octagonal office was transformed into the garret room of the ruined house on Monhegan Island. Gazing around, stunned, Levine realized that not just one, but each of the room’s eight walls was a vast display screen.
“Now you know why I chose the turret room,” Scopes said, laying the keyboard aside again.
Levine sat on the sofa, entranced. Outside the garret windows, he could clearly see the widow’s walk. The sun was just coming up over the ocean, the sea itself absorbing the colors of the sky. The seagulls wheeled around the boats in the harbor, crying excitedly as the lobstermen rolled barrels of redfish bait down the pier and onto their boats.
In a chair in the garret, a figure stirred, stood up, stretched. It was short and thin, with gangly limbs and thick glasses. An unrepentant cowlick stood like a black feather from the unruly mass of hair.
“Well, Charles,” it said. “Welcome to Monhegan Island.”
Levine watched as another figure on the far side of the garret—a bald man in an ill-fitting dark suit—nodded in return.
“Thank you,” it said, in a voice hauntingly familiar.
“Shall we wander into town?” the Scopes-figure said.
“Not just now,” the Levine-figure said. “I’d prefer to sit here and watch the boats go out.”
“Very good. Shall we play the Game while we wait?”
“Why not?” said Levine-figure. “We’ve got a lot of time to kill.”
Levine sat in the darkened Octagon, watching his newly created character with a wistful smile.
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