Evil Genius

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘No.’ Gazo sighed. ‘It just worries me. Well, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ said Cadel, with complete understanding. He thought for a moment, his brow furrowed. Then he shook his head. ‘I can’t remember my father ever implying that good grades were a matter of life or death. Not once. Thaddeus either.’ Again, he looked up at Gazo. ‘I wouldn’t put it past them, though,’ he confessed.

  Gazo hissed through his teeth. ‘What am I gunna do?’ he muttered, his hands tucked beneath his armpits. ‘I dunno what to do. If I run away, they’ll find me for sure.’

  Cadel suddenly felt a profound sympathy for Gazo. He knew exactly what Gazo was going through, because his own feelings were identical. When he squeezed his friend’s insulated arm, he wasn’t surprised by the startled look he received. It was the first time that he had ever touched Gazo.

  ‘Hang in there,’ he advised. Unable to explain himself further, he tried to inject as much meaning as possible into his voice and expression. ‘Just hang in there, and it’ll work itself out.’

  Then he turned – before Gazo could reply – and went off to buy himself some lunch. Already he was regretting his friendly gesture. From a distance, it would have looked suspicious. Who else at the institute would deliberately touch someone else’s arm unless searching for a concealed weapon? At the institute, people kept themselves to themselves. It was safer that way.

  Cadel didn’t linger long in the refectory. He was afraid that Gazo might corner him there. So he bought a can of soft drink and a ham sandwich, and took them up to Hardware Heaven, where he was surprised to find himself utterly alone. Even Com was absent. Cadel couldn’t believe his luck.

  The timing was perfect.

  His first job was to scan the Axis network. It had been some time since he’d last piggy-backed on Dr Vee’s regular sweep, and he needed to know the latest – particularly on Terry, Luther, Art and Alias. He was aware, now, that Terry had the vial. He was also aware that Luther and the Fuhrer knew this; Abraham had confessed to telling them. As a result, Cadel discovered, the Fuhrer had recently placed a ‘code red’ status on Terry, as well as on Terry’s current girlfriend, Tracey Lane. A code red status meant that you were followed everywhere, your phones were bugged, your mail was X-rayed and your possessions were searched. Clumsily, sometimes. Cadel found several emails discussing a meeting that was to be held on Friday afternoon, involving Tracey, Luther, Adolf and Thaddeus. The subject of the meeting was to be Tracey’s complaints about Adolf’s ‘intrusive behaviour’. Her office, she’d told Thaddeus, had been ‘trashed’ by the Fuhrer’s Grunts. She therefore wanted to make an official complaint.

  Cadel committed the details of this meeting to memory. Friday, three o’clock, at the Yarramundi campus. It might be important. He wondered what Luther was making of all the attention being focused on Terry. It must be awkward, because there was something going on between Luther and Terry. Cadel realised this as he sifted through their emails. The two men had become involved in some kind of secret experiment. They were sending cryptic, encoded little messages to each other. They were talking about ‘poetic justice’ and blood counts and tissue proteins. They even mentioned a ‘perp’, whatever that meant.

  Could the experiment have something to do with Carla’s vial? Cadel tried to calculate the probability factors, but didn’t have enough data. If the vial was the subject of this mysterious experiment, it could certainly explain why Luther didn’t seem to be putting any pressure on Terry to surrender the deadly thing. In fact he had even warned Terry, in a private email, to ‘watch his back’. Luther, in other words, was undermining the Fuhrer’s efforts.

  And this was the kind of tasty detail that Cadel could use.

  He thought for a while. Then, after adjusting his calculations slightly to take into account various recent developments, Cadel switched off his computer, turning his attention to Sark’s instead. It was by far the easiest prospect in Hardware Heaven because Sark was sloppy. Though he was blessed by the odd flash of brilliance, Sark’s boredom with the drudgery of daily housekeeping routines and security procedures meant that he often hung onto the same passwords for far too long, and was always leaving his encryption keys lying around. As a result, Cadel managed to bypass his firewalls without too much trouble. It took about ten minutes, during which time Cadel kept one eye firmly on the door. Though he only wanted to type a letter using Sark’s word-processing function, the security measures employed in Hardware Heaven meant that this was far more easily said than done. Especially since he wanted to delete all trace of the letter from Sark’s databanks.

  At last, however, the job was finished. Cadel carefully wiped down Sark’s desk and keyboard. There was every chance that he might have been filmed (the institute being what it was), but at least the hard copy in his pocket had left no electronic echo on Sark’s hard drive. It would be impossible to prove what he had actually been doing on Sark’s computer. And raiding the programs of fellow students was a common practice at the institute.

  Having completed this final task, Cadel drained the last few mouthfuls from his can of soft drink, heaved his backpack onto his shoulder, and caught a lift up to the labs. His heart was beating too rapidly; he was thankful that the institute didn’t monitor physical changes in its students, or he would have been identified as a possible arsonist. There was too much sweat on his hands.

  He wiped them as he stepped out of the lift, immediately aware of an unmistakable smell from the labs: a smell that hinted at disinfectant, ozone, harsh chemicals and blood. Cadel swallowed.

  All around him, the hallways and glassed-in rooms looked deserted. He could see no one and hear nothing, except the hum of the air-conditioning system. Because he had no intention of searching the labs themselves (even if he could get into them), he headed for Terry’s office.

  Before he could reach it, however, Terry suddenly banged through the door that led to the fire stairs. He was carrying a box under one arm and a marking pen between his teeth.

  ‘Cadel,’ he said, after removing the marking pen. ‘What are you doing up here?’

  Terry’s white coat was smudged and splattered with stains: brown stains, red stains, black and green stains. Cadel tried not to look at them. Instead, he concentrated on Terry’s face, which was the nicest thing about him, all clear eyes and white teeth and laugh lines and chiselled cheekbones.

  ‘Abraham wants his stuff,’ Cadel replied. ‘I went to see him yesterday, and he told me he wants his notes and things. His work.’

  Terry blinked. He stared at Cadel for a moment, wearing an odd expression. Then he said, ‘Just let me put this down,’ and staggered towards his office.

  As soon as he arrived at the door, his box hit the carpet with a thump. He fumbled through his pockets, produced a set of keys, and spent the next half a minute punching buttons and swiping cards. At last the door clicked open.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, nudging his box over the threshold with one foot. Reluctantly, Cadel followed him in.

  But the office, as far as Cadel could see, held nothing particularly sinister. It was just an ordinary office, full of filing cabinets. The only sour note was struck by a dead pot plant in one corner. It was a brown, shrivelled fragment in a block of parched soil.

  ‘So you saw Abraham yesterday, did you?’ Terry asked. ‘Visited him at the hospital?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ Terry cast around, apparently looking for a place to put his box. Then he turned back to Cadel. ‘The thing is, Cadel, Abraham died this morning. They got hold of me about an hour ago. It’s very awkward, I can tell you. They’re talking about the coroner’s court, because they don’t know what killed him. Thaddeus is throwing a fit.’

  Cadel dropped his gaze to the floor. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

  Abraham, dead!

  But the news wasn’t entirely unexpected.

  Cadel didn’t quite know how he felt. Sick? Sorry? Sad? Scared? When you thought about it, Abraham had b
een a pathetic figure, chasing his unattainable dream.

  All the same, he was fully responsible for his own unhappy fate.

  ‘Was Abraham a friend of yours?’ Terry went on, studying Cadel curiously. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘He – he must have liked me,’ Cadel replied, not knowing how to answer. His mind was working furiously. Would Abraham’s death require a change of plans? No, probably not. No, he would stick to his original scheme. Terry had the vial. Terry could therefore be rattled. And if Luther was involved too, then Terry was bound to contact him. ‘If he hadn’t liked me, he wouldn’t have asked me to collect all his stuff.’

  ‘Well, feel free,’ said Terry. ‘You might as well clear it all out. I certainly don’t want it.’

  Cadel frowned. ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Course not. Load of rubbish. Sorry to say it, but he was a mad bugger. Completely mad.’ Terry surveyed his office again, hands on hips. He seemed to be losing interest in Cadel. ‘There isn’t much here, as far as I know, because poor old Abe was paranoid. Used to drag most of his notes and things home with him. But what there is, you’ll find in his desk. It’s in 311. Hang on – I’ll punch the code in for you.’

  ‘But – I mean, if he’s dead, he won’t need his stuff, will he?’

  Terry shrugged. ‘If it stays here, it’ll get thrown away. Up to you.’

  ‘Well . . . there’s not much point. I don’t think I’ll bother,’ said Cadel, and took a deep breath. Now, he thought. ‘Abraham gave me something for you. He said it was his last will and testament. I don’t know if it really is. He told me not to read it.’ Cadel produced the folded printout from his pocket, concentrating fiercely on his hands. If they shook, it would be fatal. ‘He wasn’t very well, so . . . I don’t know.’ Cadel hesitated, willing himself to adopt a wry tone. ‘It might not make much sense.’

  Terry sighed. He took the paper but didn’t open it up.

  ‘Right, right,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Cadel.’ Once again, his attention was focused elsewhere. ‘I’ll look at it later.’

  ‘Do you know when the funeral is?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know when the funeral is?’

  It took Terry a moment to process this question. Once he had, he shook his head.

  ‘Sorry. No idea.’

  Cadel nodded, and took his leave quickly. All of a sudden his pulse was jumping. He was dizzy with terror. His heart felt as if it was in his throat, and sweat was breaking out all over his body. Plunging into the bathroom near the lifts, he shut himself in a cubicle, where he sat on the toilet seat and took deep, calming breaths.

  He had done it. He had taken the first step – removed the first brick. Somehow, though, this was different to anything he had ever done before. The sports hall, the rail system, his fellow year-twelve students – none of these targets had been the least bit frightening.

  Never before had he been so close to losing his nerve.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he told himself, blinking back tears. ‘Don’t be a sissy.’ He had been shaken by the news of Abraham’s death – that was his problem. He couldn’t stand the thought of all that waste. The precious notes, binned. The feverish brain, snuffed out. It was so pathetic. Poor Abraham. Poor, pitiful Abraham.

  Cadel swallowed fiercely. This was no good, he told himself. He had to stay sharp. If he stayed sharp and didn’t let his emotions get the better of him, then this audacious plan might just succeed.

  With an enormous effort, he pulled himself together. Washing his face helped, as did one of Thaddeus’s travel sweets, which he had tucked into his backpack. He glanced at himself in the mirror. Not bad, he thought. A bit pale, but not bad.

  He squared his shoulders and marched back out the bathroom door – only to find Terry waiting for a lift.

  Cadel couldn’t help flinching as the lecturer swung around.

  ‘Cadel!’ Terry exclaimed. ‘Did you read that thing?’

  Cadel decided to play dumb.

  ‘What thing?’ he asked, bringing his most ingenuous look into play.

  ‘You know what thing!’ Terry snapped.

  ‘Oh, you mean that –’

  ‘The thing you gave me! The letter! Are you sure you didn’t read it?’

  ‘No.’ Cadel’s tone was hurt. ‘He told me not to. Why, was it stupid? I’m sorry, but he was sick. It’s not my fault if –’

  ‘He was blaming me for making him sick,’ Terry interrupted. ‘Did he tell you that? Hmmm?’

  ‘He –’

  ‘Because it’s not true. It had nothing to do with me.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The crazy fool was losing his mind.’

  ‘Yes.’ Cadel nodded sagely. ‘I said he was. But you don’t have to worry – everyone knows he was doing it to himself.’

  Terry stared at Cadel intently for a moment, studying his artless face. Then he seemed to dismiss any suspicions that he might have had, turning abruptly to jab at the ‘down’ button. ‘Come on,’ he growled. ‘Where is this stupid thing?’ Overcome with impatience, he abruptly headed for the fire stairs.

  Cadel waited. He moved to the window, from which he had a clear view of Terry’s sleek red convertible. After about five minutes, Terry emerged from the seminary building and hurried towards the car park. He was holding his mobile phone to his ear.

  His phone!

  Cadel couldn’t help cursing aloud. Why was the stupid moron using a mobile? Didn’t he realise how insecure a mobile phone could be? Cadel’s heart sank as he realised how incomplete his data was. He had calculated that Terry would use his normal email route to alert Luther. Obviously, his calculations had been wrong. Were his IQ specifications at fault, or had he underestimated the panic factor?

  Perhaps Terry was simply calling Tracey. Cancelling a lunch, or something. But his gesture of frustration, when he failed to connect with the person he’d called, seemed a little too violent for that.

  Cadel watched him kick the front tyre of his car, take a deep breath and regain control of himself. Then he spoke into the mobile, but only briefly. (Leaving a message, Cadel decided.) Even as the mobile snapped shut, Terry was climbing behind the wheel of his convertible. The driver’s door slammed so loudly that even Cadel could hear it from his lofty position; as its engine roared to life, the zippy vehicle shot out of its parking spot, did a three-point turn, and careened off into the distance.

  Cadel waited. Sure enough, another car – small and grey – pulled away from a nearby kerb and began to follow the convertible. The question was: to where? There was a high probability that Terry had gone to rifle through Abraham’s bedroom. He would have had the address, after all. But Cadel wasn’t taking anything for granted. Not after his phone mistake.

  He scurried back down to Hardware Heaven. Here he would be able to monitor Terry’s movements, tracking the regular reports filed by the two Grunts who were dogging his footsteps. Adolf had installed a rather elegant little system which involved routing coded telephone text messages through to a continually operating program on his computer, via a modem. Cadel liked this system very much. He liked it because it gave him full access to every surveillance report received by the Fuhrer, including those that concerned his own movements. From the surveillance reports, Cadel learned that he himself had been followed to the hospital. To Abraham’s house. To his old school. The latest report was brief, but informative. Subject Ib02 at A.I. seminary building. (Bastards, thought Cadel. Why don’t you leave me alone?)

  Checking the other reports, he saw that the Grunts in the grey car were entering their latest update. Subject Ir31 – en route. In pursuit. Standby.

  Obviously, it was too soon for a destination.

  Then Cadel had an idea. He abandoned his computer and picked up Dr Vee’s phone, dialling Luther’s number. You have reached extension 3812, Luther’s recorded voice informed him. Please leave a message after the tone. There followed three beeps, signalling three messages.

  Could one of them have
been left by Terry?

  It took Cadel just ten minutes to chase down Luther’s message access code. Chasing down these codes was a hobby of his. He had used his skill to good effect when sabotaging the exam efforts of his fellow year-twelve students at Crampton College. Having identified Luther’s code, Cadel listened to the three recorded messages.

  Sure enough, the third had been left by Terry. Luther, where are you? We’ve got a problem. Someone found out about our project. He’s not in the picture now, but there might be others. Call me. Click.

  Cadel, who had been holding his breath, released it in a great sigh. Thank God, he thought. But how to copy it, from this distance? Before it was erased? Through a modem, onto a disk drive?

  Though it was a complicated little piece of engineering, it wasn’t beyond him. The trouble was, it would have to be done on his own computer, after which every trace of the operation would have to be utterly erased. He couldn’t risk using Sark’s computer. He wouldn’t have time. It was only fifteen minutes until the scheduled start of his next session with Dr Vee, and someone might walk in at any moment.

  Fortunately, there was a stack of blank compact discs in the stationery cupboard, available to everyone who spent time in Hardware Heaven. You simply had to open the cupboard door with your personal access code. Cadel, of course, didn’t use his own; he used Sark’s. Then he sat down and copied Terry’s message onto the disk he’d chosen.

  He was just finishing up when Sark slouched into the room, looking disgruntled.

  ‘Where’s Com?’ Cadel asked, and received a shrug in reply. ‘Is he sick?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Where were you? Where is everyone?’

  ‘What are you, my mother?’ Sark flung himself into his chair and turned on his machine.

  Cadel held his breath. He had done his best to wipe out all traces of recent activity, but things like a warm monitor were impossible to disguise.

  ‘For Chrissake,’ Sark spluttered.

  ‘What?’ said Cadel, his heart contracting.

  ‘This bloody DN server hasn’t crashed! I must have missed one of the goddamn machines, goddammit!’