“It never does.”
“It was suggested that each time an intelligent creature repeats something exactly as previously done, it sets up a resonance. Not in the air. In—spacetime, the ether, I don’t know. But it’s there, and the more it’s repeated, the stronger and more permanent the resonance becomes, until it spreads far enough to affect the identical pattern no matter where it’s repeated. That’s where the rats come in. The theory holds that the rats in Australia were picking up on the resonance set up by the maze runners in Scotland. Then again in India. Which is why they ran the maze slightly faster at the start and progressively thereafter for the duration of the experiment. The resonance gave them a head start.
“MR’s been used to explain a lot of things since it was first formulated, up to and including mankind’s exponential progress in science and technology. According to the theory, we’re working on one hell of an expanding resonance. Each time we come up with something new, it’s because we’re building on thought patterns or experimental methodologies that’ve been repeated in the past.”
“What’s all this got to do with our departed designers?”
“You told me what a supercooled Cribm can do. Trillions of crunch a second. Unthinkable quantity in an hour. Incalculable content in a day. Cribm’s are used to crunch whole bushels of problems. Suppose you set it to process just one problem, instead of hundreds. Set it to run the sequence over and over, trillions upon trillions of times. Think of the resonance you could set up. Enough to last a long time without fading. Maybe even enough to become permanent.” He nodded toward the flickering, flaring wallscreen.
“You could set it up in there.”
She followed his gaze, found herself whispering. “Crescent and Noschek?”
“Safe, together. As a dual resonance. Patterns of memory, electrical impulses: what we call memory. Reduced to streams of electrons and run over and over and over until brought separately into being as a floating resonance inside a Box. Not in formal storage, exactly. Different. Independent of the Box systems and yet localized by them. So they’d hang together even better. They reduced themselves to a program the Cribm could process and set it to repeating the designated patterns, using all that stolen crunch. They’re in there, Hypatia. In a Box built for two.”
“That’s crazy.” Her mouth was suddenly dry. For the first time she felt uncomfortable in the cool office. The door, the unbreakable window was keeping them in instead of others out. “You can’t Box a person.”
“Resonance, Hypatia. Not a program as we conceive of one. Repetition creates the pattern, brings it into existence. You vacuum yourself into the Cribm, and it repeats you back into existence. As to whether that includes anything we’d recognize as consciousness, I don’t know.”
“If it’s a pattern the Cribm can repeat, maybe it could be—accessed?”
His expression was somber. “I don’t know. I don’t know how they’re in there, if they’re just frozen or if they have some flexibility. If they’re anything more than just a twitch in space-time, Hypatia, they’ve found immortality. Even if the power to the Box fails, the resonance should remain. It may be restricted in range, but it’s independent of outside energy. The resonance maintains itself. Don’t get me started on thermodynamics. The whole thing’s cockeyed. But it’s not new. People have been discussing it for decades.”
“Easier when they’re talking about rats,” she murmured. “You say they’re restricted by the confines of the Box. Can they move around inside it?”
“You’ve got the questions, I haven’t got the answers. We’re dealing with something halfway between physics and metaphysics. I don’t know if I should consult a cyberneticist or a medium.” He indicated the tunnel on the screen. “Maybe when we get to the end of that, we’ll find something besides a dead end.”
She joined him in monitoring their progress. The tunnel seemed endless. By now it should have pushed beyond the confines of the GenDyne Box, yet it showed no signs of weakening.
“They took a terrible chance. They worked awfully hard to hide themselves.”
Cardenas stroked Charliebo. “Maybe all to no end. The theories I’ve enumerated might be just that. It’s more than likely they’re as dead as their physical selves.”
“Yeah. But if there’s anything to it—if there’s anything in there—they might not like being disturbed. Remember the psychomorph.”
“I’m pretty sure I can handle the screen if it goes tactile again, now that I’ve got an idea what to expect. I can always cut the power.”
“Can you? You said this resonance, if it exists, would remain whether the power was on or not.”
“Their resonance, yes, but cutting the power would deprive them of access to the system—assuming they’re able to interface with it at all. They could have inserted traps like the psychomorph before they vacuumed themselves.”
“And you think you can access this resonance?”
“If it exists, and only if it’s somehow interfaced with the GenDyne Box.”
Two hours later the rising sun found them no nearer the end of the tunnel than when they’d begun. Thirty years earlier Cardenas could have hung on throughout the day. Not anymore. There were times when mandatory retirement no longer seemed a destination to be avoided. This was one of them.
He let Hypatia drive him back to her place and put him to bed. He fell asleep fast, but he didn’t sleep well.
A psychomorph was chasing him: a gruesome, gory nightmare dredged up from the depths of someone else’s disturbed subconscious. Frantically, he tried to find a kill strip to shut down the power, but someone had removed them all from the control panel in front of him. And there were screens all around him now, and on the ceiling, and beneath his feet, each one belching forth a new and more horrible monstrosity. He curled into a fetal ball, whimpering as they touched him with their filthy tendrils, hunting for his psychic core so they could enter and drive him insane. One used a keyword to open the top of his skull like a can opener.
He sat up in bed, sweating. Beneath his buttocks the sheet was soaked. A glance at the holo numerals that clung like red spiders to the wall behind the bed showed 0934. But it was still dark outside. Then he noticed the tiny P.M. to the right of the last numeral. He’d slept the whole day. His mouth confirmed it, his tongue conveying the taste of old leather.
“Hypatia?” Naked, he slid slowly off the hybred and stumbled toward the bathroom, running both hands through his hair. Water on his face helped. More down his throat helped to jump-start the rest of his body. He used one of her lilac towels to dry himself, turned back to the bedroom.
“Hypatia? Charliebo?”
She wasn’t in the kitchen, nor the greeting room. Neither was the shepherd. Both gone out. Maybe she’d taken him for a walk. Charliebo was well-trained, but his insides were no different from any other dog’s. He’d go with her. Dog and designer had grown close to each other this past week.
He knew she was worried about him. While he would have preferred to have spared her the concern, he was pleased. Been a long time since anyone besides Charliebo had really cared about Angel Cardenas, and Hypatia had better legs than the shepherd. Sure, he was stressing himself, but he could take it. All part of the job. Experience compensated for the lack of youthful resilience. He could handle any traps Crescent and Noschek had left behind, even if she didn’t think he could.
He stopped in the middle of the room. Concerned about him, yeah. About his ability to deal with another psychomorph or worse. Under those circumstances what would a caring, compassionate woman do? What could she do, to spare him another dangerous, possibly lethal confrontation? Couldn’t an experienced, younger designer follow the path he’d already found and thus keep him from possible danger?
Shit.
He was wide awake now; alert, attuned, and worried. He didn’t remember getting dressed, didn’t recall the short elevator ride to the subterranean garage. Sure enough, her little three-wheeler was gone. She wasn’t out for
an evening stroll with Charliebo, then. His lungs heaved as he raced for the nearest induction station. It would be faster than trying to call for police backup.
Besides, he might be getting himself all upset over nothing. If he was wrong, he’d end up looking the prize fool. If he was right, well, Hypatia was highly competent. But he’d much rather play the fool.
* * *
The only thing that saved him was three decades on the force. Thirty years’ experience means you don’t go barging into a room. Thirty years’ handling ninlocos and juice dealers and assorted flakes and whackos says you go in quietly. Go in fast and loud, and you might upset somebody, and he might react before you had time to size things up.
Thirty years’ experience told him Hypatia would have security-sealed the door to the office. When he discovered it wasn’t, he opened it as slowly as possible.
The lights were on low. The wallscreen was alive with flaring symbols and muted verbal responses. In the center was the tunnel, twisting and glowing like an electrified python. He picked out the desk, the muted holo portraits of Wallace Crescent’s abandoned, innocent family.
Hypatia was on the floor. There was enough light to illuminate the figure bent over her. Enough light to show the still, motionless lump of Charliebo lying not far away.
Quiet as he’d been, the figure still sensed his presence. It turned to face him. The blend suit melted into the background, but he recognized the triple lenses that formed a multicolored swath across the face instantly. All three primaries were down and functioning now.
Cardenas saw that Hypatia’s jumpsuit was unzipped all the way down to her thighs. A handful of secrylic had been slapped across her mouth, muffling her as it hardened. More of the so-called police putty bound her ankles and wrists. She tried to roll toward him but found it hard to move because the figure had one knee resting on her hip.
His gaze flicked to Charliebo. The shepherd’s chest was still, the eyes vacant. Cardenas’s vision blurred slightly, and his teeth moved against each other.
“Don’t,” said the flashman. He didn’t sound uncertain tonight. He glanced down at Hypatia, then smiled up at the Federale. “Worried about baby? No need to. Maybe. Come in, close the door behind you. If I’d sealed it, you would’ve gone for help. This way I only have to deal with you, right?” He leaned slightly to his left as if to see behind Cardenas.
“Right.” Cardenas kept his hands in view, his movements slow and unambiguous. Hypatia stared at him imploringly. He saw that she’d been crying. Easy, he told himself. Keep it easy.
But it wasn’t easy, it wasn’t easy at all.
“You so much as twitch the wrong way, Federale, and she’ll be sorry.” The flashman was grinning at something only he found amusing. “You should’ve stayed in bed, man.”
No hurry. No emergency. Not yet. He moved off to his right. “Why’d you have to kill my dog?”
He didn’t get the response he expected. The flashman let out a short, sharp laugh. “Hey, that’s funny! You don’t know why it’s funny, do you? I’ll tell you later, after I’m through here. Or maybe I’ll let her tell you.” He glanced quickly at the screen, not giving Cardenas any time. “Got to be an end to this damn tunnel soon.”
“All I have to do,” Cardenas said softly, “is shout, and Security’ll be down on you like bad news.”
Again the unhealthy, relaxed laugh, a corrugated giggle. “Sure they would, but you won’t shout.” He held something up so Cardenas could see it.
A scrambler. Military model, banned from private use. Of course, banning was only a legal term. It didn’t keep things from falling into the hands of people who wanted to have them. When everything else failed, the police used less powerful versions of the same device to subdue juice addicts who outgrabed. It put them down fast, but it didn’t do permanent damage. Fourth World military types used powered-up models for less reputable purposes. The flashlight-shaped device scrambled nerve endings. The Federale issue paralyzed. The military model could break down neurons beyond hope of surgical repair. In hand-to-hand combat it was much more efficient than knife or bayonet and a lot easier to use. You didn’t have to penetrate. All you had to do was make contact.
“Go ahead and shout, if you want to.” The flashman calmly touched the scrambler to Hypatia’s exposed left breast.
She thrashed. Hard, but not hard enough to break the secrylic. She whined loud enough to penetrate the slightly porous gag. The flashman showed the scrambler to Cardenas again, ignoring the heavy, gasping form behind him.
“See here? No safety. A simple modification.” Cardenas bit down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, but he kept his hands at his sides, his feet motionless. “You shout, you move funny, and I’ll shove this between her legs. Maybe it won’t kill her, but she won’t care.”
“I won’t shout.” Only practice enabled him to reply calmly, quietly. His fingers were bunched into fists, the nails digging into the flesh of his palms.
“That’s a good little sponger.”
“How long?”
Again the grin. “Since Crescent vacuumed himself. Since the investigation started.” He looked ceilingward, toward the low-key incandescents. “One bulb up there’s got an extra filament. Records and holds. Can’t broadcast each pickup. Security would track it. Just a five-second high-speed burst when a receive-only passes outside the door. Me. Just enough range to clear the room. Not real noticeable, if you know what I mean. I walk by once a day, stop long enough to sneeze, move on. Hardly suspicious. Then playback at normal speed when I’m home. Nothing very entertaining until you showed up.”
“You’ve been monitoring her place, too.”
The flashman chuckled. “Sure now. You think I knew she’d be coming here tonight via esp? Expected you to snore on. Been getting some custom design work of your own?”
He took a step forward. The flashman lowered the scrambler slightly. Cardenas saw Hypatia’s eyes widen, her body tense.
“Ah-ah. Don’t want to make me nervous, Federale.” Cardenas took back the step, his expression bland, screaming inside. “Glad you started pushing your hypothesis here, man. I would’ve been in a world of hurt if you’d started down this tunnel over at Parabas. Guess I’m just lucky.”
“What do you want?”
“Don’t game me. I want whatever’s at the end of this tunnel. A subox, resonance, miracle crunch. Access. Same thing you’ve been after. ‘Morphological resonance.’ That’s wild, man. Immortality? Wilder still. Relax. You’ll cramp your head.”
“And if you find it?”
The flashman nodded toward the side of the desk. Cardenas saw the metal and plastic plug-in lying there. He couldn’t see the cable link but knew it must be there, running to jacks beneath the desk.
“One sequence. I finalize, then do a quick store-and-transfer. Anything valuable, and there ought to be plenty.” He licked his lips. “Never seen a tunnel like this. Nobody has. Construction crunch alone’s worth all the trouble this has taken.”
“But you want more.”
The flashman smiled broadly. “Man, I want it all.”
“You’ll take it and leave?”
The man nodded. “I’m a thief. Not a vacuumer. Not unless you make me. I get what I’ve been after for months, and I waft.” He gestured with the scrambler. Hypatia flinched. “I’ll even leave you this. Memories can be so much fun.”
“Assuming there’s even anything in there to steal, what makes you think you can transfer a resonance?”
“Don’t know unless you try, right? If you can get something in, you ought to be able to get it out. It’s only crunch. Key the Box, key the transfer, and it’s off to friends in the Mideast.”
“Immortality for the petrochem moguls?” Cardenas’s tone was thick with contempt.
“That’s up to them to figure out. Not my department. I just borrow things. But they’ll have the subox, if there is one. Our farseeing pinkboys are going on another trip. Suppose they can slip in and out of any Bo
x they are introduced to? My employers could send them on lots of vacations. A little crunch out of First EEC Bank, some extra out of Soventern. With that kind of access, petrochem will seem like petty-cash stuff.”
Cardenas shook his head. “You are crazy. Even if they’re in there in any kind of accessible shape, what makes you think you can force Noschek and Crescent to do what you want?”
“Also not my job. I’m just assured it can be done, theoretically anyway. But then this is all theory we’re jawing, isn’t it? Unless I find something to transfer.” He turned to the screen. “Starting to narrow. I think maybe we’re getting near tunnel-end. Stay put.” He rose, straddling Hypatia. He wasn’t worried about her moving. The scrambler assured that.
The petit-point pusher in Cardenas’s shirt pocket felt big as a tractor against his chest. The little gun would make a nice, neat hole in the flashman’s head, but he couldn’t chance it. If he missed, if he was a second too slow, the man could make spaghetti of half of Hypatia’s nervous system. Thirty years teach a man patience. He restrained himself.
But he’d have to do something soon. If there was a subox holding a resonance named Crescent and Noschek, he couldn’t let this bastard have it.
The flashman removed a vorec, still clutching the scrambler tight in his other hand. He was trying to watch Cardenas and the wallscreen simultaneously. Hypatia he wasn’t worried about. As Cardenas looked on helplessly, the man spoke softly into the vorec. Patterns shifted on the wall. The steady thrum of the aural playback became a whispery moan, an electronic wind. The tunnel continued to narrow. They were very near the end now and whatever lay there, concealed and waiting. The flashman smiled expectantly.
Teeth began to come out of the wall.
The flashman retreated until he was leaning against the side of the desk, but it was an instinctive reaction, not a panicky one. Clearly, he knew what he was doing. Now he would use the key Cardenas had concocted following his own previous confrontation, use it to dry up the power to the psychomorph. Then he could continue on to the end of the tunnel, having bypassed the psychic trap. Cardenas watched as he spoke into the vorec.
The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Sixth Annual Collection Page 61