The lecture hall was pleasantly warm. Behind Thaddeus Fitch, busily writing on the chalkboard, pencils scratched earnestly in spiral notebooks, fluorescent lights hummed, and feet shuffled. A Beach Boys tune wafted in through open windows from the quad.
Or so, in any case, the professor imagined the lecture hall. Chittering, muttering students squirming in their seats this morning drowned out the customary sounds. Or what he thought he remembered to be the customary sounds...
Chalk squeaked as Thaddeus, with more energy than artistry, began sketching a stick-figure quadruped. “I'll explain this cat momentarily, class.” Shrodinger's thought-experiment cat. Today's Introduction to Physics lecture introduced the counterintuitive topic of quantum mechanics. “Recall from your reading that the behavior of atoms and their constituent parts cannot be fully described by such conventional characteristics as position and momentum. More precisely, how we think about those descriptive terms must change.” He continued drawing as he spoke, the cube in which he was attempting to enclose the cat somewhat out of perspective. He winced as the chalk snapped, its tip caught by the hole that should not be there. Should it?
“In classical physics, we can, with sufficient care and expense, measure to arbitrary precision the position and momentum of any particle. At sufficiently tiny scales, however, nature does not behave as we expect. Instead, in those infinitesimal domains, we discover that certain parameters exhibit heretofore imperceptible granularity or lumpiness—what physicists call quantization. Further, we cannot measure at quantum scales without influencing whatever is being measured. The math is inappropriate for"—beyond—"this class, but a consequence of quantization is that we cannot have absolute knowledge of subatomic particles."
His crude diagram complete, Thaddeus pivoted to face the packed auditorium. “If we know an electron's position quite exactly, we can know little about its momentum. If we know its momentum, we can tell little about where it is. We are reduced to probabilistic descriptions of where the particle may be, and where it may be going.” Doggedly, he ignored the arm waving from the second tier of seats. “But can this uncertainty manifest itself in the macroscopic world we experience? That is what Erwin Shrodinger set out to consider...."
“Professor.” Young Mr. McDowell's tone, although respectful, was quite insistent. The sophomore stood to emphasize his seriousness. “We—the class, that is—we feel we should discuss yesterday's events."
A flood of ... memories? ... displaced whatever the student said next. A near-miss handgun attack. A flung knife by chance impaling a pigeon inopportunely availing itself of the open window. A hurtling hand grenade vanished in mid-arc.
Thaddeus shook himself by the mental lapels. Nonsense. Pointing at the board, he continued. “Returning to today's subject, Dr. Shrodinger devised a thought experiment to illustrate quantum uncertainty. My cartoon reveals the inside of the box, but imagine that its walls are quite opaque, quite impenetrable.” Beside the stick-figure cat, he drew a tiny square. “This mechanism contains a bit of radioactive material. Detection of a single radioactive decay,” and he tapped the board once with his chalk stump, “releases poisonous gas."
He was explaining a decay event as a particle's spontaneous emission from an atomic nucleus—a manifestation of positional uncertainty—when murmurs of protestation stopped him. Hairs rose on the nape of his neck. In the otherwise jammed hall, one cluster of seats remained unoccupied. It was where something had happened.
Only it couldn't have.
Mr. McDowell was still, or once again, on his feet. He followed Thaddeus’ gaze to the empty few chairs. “We don't understand abouthimeither, sir. The ... intruder."
Heads nodded. Voices rang out in agreement. A hundred pairs of eyes beseeched Thaddeus. He relented. “My unborn grandson, you mean. It's impossible, you know."
“But professor..."
With outstretched arm and firm voice, Thaddeus interrupted. “You know what you saw, you were going to insist. What you, and your colleagues in later sections of the class, all saw. Or what, rather, you've now convinced yourselves you saw, after repeated retellings of the tale.” He lowered his arm and voice. “Surely there is a simpler explanation than the impossible.
“A time-travel lecture, illustrated with the grandfather paradox, in a hot, stuffy classroom. A passing car backfires. A guest audits the lecture, someone with red hair like mine. Thrill-seeking students attend later sections of the lecture, and their rumor-fed expectations stoke our own fevered imaginations."
Thaddeus took a deep breath. “What I, too, admit to remembering did not happen. It cannot have happened. This can only have been an instance of mass hysteria."
“Like UFO sightings,” someone called out.
“Or the Salem witch trials,” Thaddeus agreed. Better a moment of soft-headed gullibility than to deny causality. Not that he cared for either of his options...
Young McDowell persisted. “Professor, the blackboard has a bullet hole. And how do you explain that the attacks stopped? They ended—you ended them—when you announced you would never have children."
Thaddeus braced himself against his lectern. “A hole was surely in the board all along, unnoticed until the suggestive backfire. And our visitor likely vanished by no more mysterious a means than,” and he gestured to the rear of the auditorium, “that rear exit door.” Still, his memory insisted his doppelganger had disappeared—to the future?—from beneath a pile-up of angry students. “Would you choose to re-experience our welcome?"
That drew nervous giggles.
“Ladies and gentlemen, yesterday we spoke about cause and effect. Now you claim that my grandson traveled through time to kill me, and that I defeated his attack by my declaration I would have no children.
“If so, no grandson ever traveled back to cause my decision. Will I still make that decision? Might I now have children?” Doubts blossomed on their faces, and he hammered the figurative nail into the metaphorical coffin. “How, if I halted the attacks by deciding never to have children, can you remember my grandson?"
Whispering stopped as Thaddeus rapped the oaken lectern. “Back to Shrodinger's cat. Has an electron, its exact position uncertain, chanced to manifest itself outside an atomic nucleus? That is, has a radioactive decay occurred to cause release of the poisonous gas? Remember, we cannot see inside the box. Class?"
Confusion returned, but of a more academic nature than the controversy just concluded. (Concluded, mocked some corner of Thaddeus’ thoughts, or simply set aside?)
“A show of hands, please. Who thinks the cat is alive?” A few hands rose tentatively. “And who thinks the cat is dead?” More hands. “Not everyone expressed an opinion. Do the rest of you imagine it's a vampire cat—the undead?"
The chuckle was overlong and overloud. He wasn't the only one still on edge. “In the closed system of the sealed box, we cannot know the cat's status. Neither living nor dead is the correct answer—at least by the formalism of quantum mechanics. There is only probability until the box is opened and an outcome observed. Until then, all possible outcomes are said by physicists to be in superposition."
A familiar arm waggled. Thaddeus managed not to sigh. “Yes, Mr. McDowell."
“But what does it mean?"
“The math of quantum mechanics is crisp, beautiful, and wonderfully predictive. What is not clear,” what not even Albert Einstein could discern, “is the physical meaning of that mathematical formalism. Some argue that to ask the question is impermissible. Some assert that the realm of quantum mechanics is so removed from our senses we're unequipped to judge.” That, of course, was why Shrodinger devised the cat in the box. A cat is not a subatomic particle....
Why did his mind keep wandering?
“There are several interpretations, all unprovable, of the mathematical formalism. Living or dead: To have but one outcome when the box is opened is unaesthetically asymmetric. Hence, one theory has it that both outcomes occur—which implies the spawning of another universe. Mor
e generally, whenever an uncertainty at the quantum level must resolve itself into a particular result, the universe itself must split into many, one to instantiate each possible outcome. If we, the occupants of one universe, unseal the box to let loose a live cat, in another universe, the occupants must encounter a dead feline."
More murmuring. This time Thaddeus let bewilderment run its course. As young minds grappled with countless myriads of branching universes newborn each moment, into Thaddeus’ own churning mind popped the vision of two commingled universes. Of two possible professors in superposition. From what source might free will arise, except for quantum uncertainty?
Children or not? Memories or hallucination? A bullet hole or just a hole?
Clanging yanked his attention back to the lecture hall. An unseasonably warm autumn day and an alarm: almost surely a fire drill. “Attention, everyone! Leave in an orderly fashion. Assemble on the quad.” Thaddeus watched the students stand, form lines, file efficiently from the room, his eyes sweeping from exit to exit to exit. His thoughts remained in turmoil.
“Mr. McDowell!” The lad was at the blackboard. Had he likewise concluded this must be a fire drill? “Cease your foolishness and go now.” Thaddeus’ eyes resumed their sweep. When his gaze next touched the front of the auditorium, the area was empty. A hastily scrawled phrase had appeared below Shrodinger's cat. He squinted to read it.
Now what had he been thinking about?
* * * *
The students filtered back from the sunny quad into the hall. A few glanced unsubtly at the wall clock. The hour was almost up. He could have dismissed them straight from the quad, instead of squeezing in a final few minutes of lecture.
“A pleasant day for a fire drill.” Thaddeus picked up a piece of chalk. “Where were we?"
Tittering erupted as he looked to the flawless blackboard. His face, thankfully hidden from the class, reddened. “Quite clever.” He briskly erased the scribbled graffito that had appeared beneath his crudely drawn sketch of Shrodinger's cat. The chuckling grew. “Very clever, indeed."
He wished he had dismissed them from the quad. A minute later the bell rang, ending the session. Grinning students in twos and threes bustled from the hall.
His humble drawing followed the student witticism into oblivion. Not that it mattered; the caption had been memorable enough. Straightening a sheaf of lecture notes, Thaddeus wondered whether even Einstein would have agreed.
“The cat knows."
Copyright (c) 2007 by Edward M. Lerner
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Short Story: THE LAST AMERICAN
by John Kessel
John Kessel co-directs the creative writing program at North Carolina State University in Raleigh. His fiction has received the Nebula Award, the Theodore Sturgeon Award, the Locus Poll Award, and his October/November 2002 Asimov's novella, “Stories for Men,” was the winner of the James Tiptree Jr. Award. Another Asimov's story, “A Clean Escape” (May 1985), was the first episode of last summer's ABC television series Masters of Science Fiction. John's books include Good News from Outer Space, Corrupting Dr. Nice, and The Pure Product. Most recently, with James Patrick Kelly, he edited the anthologies Feeling Very Strange: The Slipstream Anthology and Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology. His next short story collection, The Baum Plan for Financial Independence will be out soon from Small Beers Press. The author's latest story for us takes a grim and brutal look at a master manipulator.
A word of warning: there are scenes in this story that may be disturbing to some readers.
The Life of Andrew Steele
Recreated by Fiona 13
Reviewed by The OldGuy
—
"I don't blame my father for beating me. I don't blame him for tearing the book I was reading from my hands, and I don't blame him for locking me in the basement. When I was a child, I did blame him. I was angry, and I hated my father. But as I grew older I came to understand that he did what was right for me, and now I look upon him with respect and love, the respect and love he always deserved, but that I was unable to give him because I was too young and self-centered to grasp it."
—Andrew Steele, 2077 Conversation with Hagiographer
* * * *
During the thirty-three years Andrew Steele occupied the Oval Office of what was then called the White House, in what was then called the United States of America (not to be confused with the current United State of Americans), on the corner of his desk he kept an antiquated device of the early twenty-first century called a taser. Typically used by law enforcement officers, it functioned by shooting out a thin wire that, once in contact with its target, delivered an electric shock of up to three hundred thousand volts. The victim was immediately incapacitated by muscle spasms and intense pain. This crude weapon was used for crowd control or to subdue suspects of crimes.
When Ambassador for the New Humanity Mona Vaidyanathan first visited Steele, she asked what the queer black object was. Steele told her that it had been the most frequent means of communication between his father and himself. “When I was ten years old,” he told her, “within a single month my father used that on me sixteen times."
“That's horrible,” she said.
“Not for a person with a moral imagination,” Steele replied.
In this new biography of Steele, Fiona 13, the Grand Lady of Reproductions, presents the crowning achievement of her long career recreating lives for the Cognosphere. Andrew Steele, when he died in 2100, had come to exemplify the twenty-first century, and his people, in a way that goes beyond the metaphorical. Drawing on every resource of the posthuman biographer, from heuristic modeling to reconstructive DNA sampling to forensic dreaming, Ms. 13 has produced this labor of, if not love, then obsession, and I, for one, am grateful for it.
Fiona presents her new work in a hybrid form. Comparatively little of this biography is subjectively rendered. Instead, harking back to a bygone era, Fiona breaks up the narrative with long passages of text—strings of printed code that must be read with the eyes. Of course this adds the burden of learning the code to anyone seeking to experience her recreation, but an accelerated prefrontal intervention is packaged with the biography. Fiona maintains that text, since it forces an artificial linearity on experience, stimulates portions of the left brain that seldom function in conventional experiential biographies. The result is that the person undergoing the life of Andrew Steele both lives through significant moments in Steele's subjectivity, and is drawn out of the stream of sensory and emotional reaction to contemplate the significance of that experience from the point of view of a wise commentator.
I trust I do not have to explain the charms of this form to those of you reading this review, but I recommend the experience to all cognizant entities who still maintain elements of curiosity in their affect repertoire.
* * * *
CHILDHOOD
Appropriately for a man who was to so personify the twenty-first century, Dwight Andrew Steele was born on January 1, 2001. His mother, Rosamund Sanchez Steele, originally from Mexico, was a lab technician at the forestry school at North Carolina State University; his father, Herbert Matthew Steele, was a land developer and on the board of the Planter's Bank and Trust. Both of Steele's parents were devout Baptists and attended one of the new “big box” churches that had sprung up in the late twentieth in response to growing millennialist beliefs in the United States and elsewhere.
The young Steele was “home schooled.” This meant that Steele's mother devoted a portion of every day to teaching her son herself. The public school system was distrusted by large numbers of religious believers, who considered education by the state to be a form of indoctrination in moral error. Home schoolers operated from the premise that the less contact their children had with the larger world, the better.
Unfortunately, in the case of Andrew this did not prevent him from meeting other children. Andrew was a small, serious boy, sensitive, and an easy target for bullie
s. This led to his first murder. Fiona 13 realizes this event for us through extrapolative genetic mapping.
* * * *
We are in the playground, on a bright May morning. We are running across the crowded asphalt toward a climbing structure of wood and metal, when suddenly we are falling! A nine-year-old boy named Jason Terry has tripped us and, when we regain our feet, he tries to pull our pants down. We feel the sting of our elbows where they scraped the pavement; feel surprise and dismay, fear, anger. As Terry leans forward to grab the waistband of our trousers, we suddenly bring our knee up into Terry's face. Terry falls back, sits down awkwardly. The other children gathered laugh. The sound of the laughter in our ears only enrages us more—are they laughing at us? The look of dismay turns to rage on Terry's face. He is going to beat us up, now, he is a deadly threat. We step forward, and before Terry can stand, kick him full in the face. Terry's head snaps back and strikes the asphalt, and he is still.
The children gasp. A trickle of blood flows from beneath Terry's ear. From across the playground comes the monitor's voice: “Andrew? Andrew Steele?"
* * * *
I have never experienced a more vivid moment in biography. There it all is: the complete assumption by Steele that he is the victim. The fear and rage. The horror, quickly repressed. The later remorse, swamped by desperate justifications.
It was only through his father's political connections and acquiescence in private counseling (that the Steeles did not believe in, taking psychology as a particularly pernicious form of modern mumbo jumbo) that Andrew was kept out of the legal system. He withdrew into the family, his father's discipline, and his mother's teaching.
More trouble was to follow. Keeping it secret from his family, Herbert Steele had invested heavily in real estate in the late oughts; he had leveraged properties he purchased to borrow money to invest in several hedge funds, hoping to put the family into a position of such fundamental wealth that they would be beyond the reach of economic vagaries.
Asimov's SF, February 2008 Page 11