“She may have given her pursuers the slip and may currently be ‘on the run.’ In the meantime, her subterfuge has been discovered, and her pursuers may be on the verge of discovering her hidden coding."
“I still find it hard to imagine that someone with the name and academic reputation of Cyril Alexander would resort to such tactics.” Synesius turned into a five-story parking garage that adjoined the back of the Science and Engineering Hall.
Baker remained silent as we spiraled up a ramp and emerged on the third floor, where Synesius slipped the sedan into a reserved parking space. We climbed out and Synesius led us at a brisk pace across a skywalk into the Hall, where a bored uniformed guard at a small card table waved to him. We all hurriedly signed the clipboard register, where I noted among the half-dozen or so after-hours signatures the name of Miles Orestian, who had arrived at 8:35 pm, approximately a half hour ahead of us. We received plastic badges that we clipped to our lapels and we proceeded down a long hallway.
Synesius stopped abruptly. We had arrived at the Molecular Biology office and the frosted door panel was illuminated from within. Synesius drew a deep breath. “My God, perhaps you're right! Someone's in there!"
Baker already had his right hand on the door handle, the other thrust deep into the pocket of his overcoat. Synesius stepped back and got behind me. Once again I was following Baker into the unknown.
Baker swung the door open with a sudden movement. The outer office was fully lit but deserted. Synesius gestured toward one of several doors that evidently led off into laboratory areas. The door had a simple black and white sign: “PCR,” and although of solid metal, a slit of bright light shown on the floor at the threshold.
Baker stepped over and hesitated, listening. There were a few faint clicks and taps, but no speech. He reached slowly for the brushed metal doorknob and gave it a twist. My heart, which had been thumping since the parking garage, was now beating in my ears. Baker swung the door open to reveal a brightly lit laboratory with mechanical shakers and rotary evaporators lining one bench and an array of impressive-looking instruments, each with its own robot-arm sampler/dispenser. There was also a bank of desktop computers. And at the nearest one sat a young man with a red beard, attired in a white lab coat with a lapel tag that said: “Henry.” He had freckles and a small cicatrix just above his right eyebrow, and he was apparently alone.
As we entered he looked up curiously, then said: “Oh, Dr. Synesius, I was just about to phone you. I've just now gotten the code message from the goldfish tissue."
Baker and I turned around as if with one thought. And, of course, kindly old Dr. Synesius had a very large silencer-fitted handgun pointed at us.
“Please withdraw your hand from your pocket, Mr. Baker,” he said. “And both of you must raise your hands. High in the air, please!"
Synesius was sweating a little as he frisked us. My pockets were empty, but Baker had been “packing” several black licorice full-bent pipes and a clear plastic water pistol, characteristically unloaded. As this stuff hit the floor, Synesius stepped back and regarded us. “You gentlemen have become an expected problem as annoying as Hypatia herself."
“So then you don't have her?” Baker said, smiling despite our present situation.
“It is only a matter of time. Alexander's agents—"
“Dr. Synesius?” Henry was holding a printout sheet.
“Mr. Aldrich, would you just read the message! You can see that I'm busy."
Henry squinted at the output, then read: “'Randy's raw data, pages 87-374.’ I'm afraid I can't make anything out of it. Would you like me to show you the transcription patterns?"
Synesius waved the gun carelessly and I could see Baker's wheels turning, but he didn't try any moves. “That's not important, Henry, I understand the message. But I'll need you to watch these gentlemen. Where is your handgun? We are going as a group to that brat nephew's project in the gymnasium."
Henry reached into a lab coat pocket and retrieved a black snub-nosed revolver.
“So tell us, doctor: what drove you to team up with Alexander?” Baker's tone was conversational. “Did he promise you a share in the Stockholm money?"
“You've heard then? It's been announced?"
“No, actually I was surmising that the Nobel award would be forthcoming after Alexander's last series of journal articles. His theoretical treatment of quantum information has been a groundbreaking approach. Although he has hinted at a working 100-bit quantum computer, the details have been cloaked by US government security."
Synesius wiped at his sweat-matted white hair, but his gun remained steady. “It is expected, yes. And Dr. Alexander has promised to be generous to those of us who help him tidy things up a bit.” He looked over at Henry, who was twirling his pistol by the trigger guard. “Henry, is that thing loaded? No? Then put your bullets in. And no fooling around!"
Henry dug in his lab coat pocket and produced a handful of bullets. He proceeded to load his weapon.
Synesius stared at us. “Unfortunately, you gentlemen are now part of the housecleaning. You will accompany us for the moment. Now, please to start walking! And remember to smile silently at the skywalk guard."
Synesius drove while Henry kept us covered with his little black gun. The gymnasium parking lot was empty, but all the interior lights were on. A large foundation hole for a major addition to the facility was surrounded by “Caution"-emblazoned wooden horses and yellow, battery-operated flashing lanterns. Several large piles of crushed rock were in evidence, as were idle dump trucks, backhoes, and bulldozers.
We emerged from the Lincoln and formed a small group at the facility's main entrance. Synesius produced a key but found that the door was unlocked. He and Henry waved their guns at us and we entered, Baker leading the way to the Senior Chemistry exhibits. In the echoing silence there was a slight noise, and Synesius brought us up short with a poke from his silencer and a loud whisper: “Stop!” We all halted in a frozen tableau. There were a few moments of total silence, followed by a faint sound like padded footsteps.
I heard Synesius murmur one word: “Hypatia!” This was followed by a metallic noise, like a lever or a mechanical relay closing.
“It's the candy machine,” Henry said. “I'd know that sound anywhere."
Henry led us back toward the entrance where a plump, middle-aged woman in a floor-length dress was munching a confection. A sheaf of papers was tucked under her arm.
“Ms. Theonsky, I presume,” Baker said.
Hypatia waved her candy bar wrapper at us between bites. “Bad guys win again,” she said.
“Henry,” Synesius said, “please relieve Hypatia of that hardcopy printout."
With remarkable calm in light of the display of small arms weaponry, Hypatia took another bite of her candy bar and extended the inch-thick stack of papers toward the red-bearded accomplice. Henry reached for it just as she let it slip from her fingers. As he stooped to catch it, Hypatia delivered a well-aimed kick to the groin and Henry folded like an accordion. At that Baker grabbed for Synesius’ gun hand, but missed by inches as the little man squeezed the trigger. There was a startling thunk and a large hole in the candy machine next to Ms. Theonsky.
Synesius backed up, the gun leveled at all of us. “No one will move! Henry, get the printout."
Henry seemed out of commission for the moment. “You will all back up against the far wall,” Synesius said. He was sweating profusely, but his aim remained steady. “Henry, hand me the papers!"
Henry was still on the floor, but he passed up the papers with a grunt.
“Very clever, Hypatia, concealing the decoherence correction software in plain sight in your nephew's science fair project. Those obtuse judges had no clue as to what it represents."
I felt that, but took some comfort from the fact that Baker had viewed it as well.
“Henry, will you stop groaning and get up!” Synesius nudged the lab technician with his foot.
“She kicked me in the�
�"
“Never mind about that, get up and get your gun!"
Henry struggled to his feet and shakily took aim at us.
Synesius hefted the stack of papers. “With this the quantum computer becomes a practical tool rather than a theoretician's daydream."
Hypatia seemed to have retained her cool. “You never struck me as the loyal follower type, doctor. Why are you acting as a henchman for Alexander?"
Synesius licked sweat from his upper lip. “You are quite right, my dear. Alexander has promised me some pittance share in his expected Nobel Prize money, if I would help facilitate matters. That fool cares only for the robes of honor. But I have my own agenda—"
Baker spoke up. “Then you are prepared to supply information on quantum computing to forces that are seeking to disrupt the world economy?"
Synesius mopped at his brow with a white handkerchief, but did not lower the gun in his other hand. “Exactly, Mr. Baker. The most secure public key cryptography algorithms, like RSA, will be child's play for this device. There are organizations—and governments—that are willing to pay handsomely for the ability to intercept bank transactions and login to defense systems. Alexander can have the glory. I'm going to collect the real profit."
“And so you have complete plans for the device?"
Synesius held up the sheaf of papers. “Now I do,” he said.
“And so, I assume, we three are an inconvenience,” Baker sniffed.
I looked at Baker in complete dismay. Like we had to remind this guy to kill us.
“Yes, quite an inconvenience. But fortunately I have a plan which will result in three unrelated missing person stories.” Synesius nudged his accomplice. “Henry, we're going outside. Keep your gun on them!"
Henry shook himself and took unsteady aim.
“You will walk slowly in front of us. We are going out the side door.” Synesius waved his long barrel and we walked.
Outside we stumbled amid the construction site. We were stopped at a line of “CAUTION” tape. “You may proceed down that slope, beyond the tape, dead or alive,” Synesius said. “The choice is yours.” And he raised the silencer.
We moved under the tape and down a steep, dark incline of moist clay, finally tumbling and sprawling at the bottom of the pit.
I heard Synesius bark some indistinct orders at Henry, followed by some crunching of gravel.
And then there was the distant sound of a diesel engine starting.
I scrambled to my feet on the slippery clay and helped Ms. Theonsky up. “Thanks,” she said, grabbing my elbow for support. “I thought at first that you two were a part of this."
Baker had regained his footing as well. “Your nephew enlisted our aid when you chose to go underground.” The diesel growl was growing louder, and in the dim light I saw Baker look up toward the top of the pit. “And unless I am mistaken, we are about to go underground ourselves—"
I swallowed hard. “You mean—"
“Henry is about to dump a large truckload of crushed stone on us,” Baker observed.
I felt the pit wall just behind us.
“Quite impossible, Woodside. The slope is too steep and slippery for any unassisted ascent."
“Then I suppose that we're trapped,” Ms. Theonksy said, rather matter-of-factly, I thought. “It seems a shame to end it all as the foundation for a physical education annex. I was never much of an athlete."
I looked at the two of them, discussing our mutual demise with the same detached calm. I, on the other hand, was beginning to panic enough for the three of us. The diesel sound was growing to a loud roar, and I heard the crunch of tires on gravel.
Retirement. The golden years. Sitting by the hearth with a glass of wine and a good book. I saw it all evaporating. And Marcia gets the widow's pension. Running off to Mexico with that Raoul character, her dance instructor.
“He only wants the pension money,” I muttered.
“What's that, Woodside?” Baker had produced his cell phone from some inner pocket. “I was about to call for help, but it appears to have already arrived."
There was a siren growing in volume, and the diesel engine stopped abruptly.
In another moment there was some indistinct shouting, then we heard: “Is everybody okay down there?” It was the voice of Miles Orestian.
Orestian, who had evidently consciously cultivated his obtuse persona, had been suspicious of frequent meetings of Alexander and Synessius. An authorized phone and e-mail check on Synesius had revealed a series of communications with unsavory elements in places like North Korea and Libya. And our evening excursions at the Molecular Biology department and the gymnasium had been observed. At any rate, we were rescued from the construction pit, and Synesius and Henry were apprehended.
The morning paper carried the news that Cyril Alexander had received the 2011 Nobel Prize in physics for his development of the detailed theoretical treatment behind quantum computation.
I had gotten back to my motel room at the crack of dawn, after a long night of questioning and legal depositions. I looked at the mattress longingly, but realized that I was expected back at the Science Fair for the final judging at 8 am.
I half-consciously rubbed the electric shaver across my face, staring blankly into the bathroom mirror. If Synesius implicated Alexander, which I believed he would, it would make for some interesting newspaper headlines: “Nobel Laureate Accused of Treason,” perhaps. Or, I mused cynically, Synesius might be “bought off” by a pledge of clemency to preserve the dynastic aura of U.S. Nobelists.
Randy Biederbeck did not receive the Grand Champion award at the final judging. That honor went to a math project that a girl, a high school sophomore, did on Fibonacci numbers. It seemed to be a brilliant piece of work, and the math judges were enthusiastic about her responses in yesterday's interview. Randy did come in second, and, as Reserve Champion, got the trip to the National as well, much to the chagrin of the big guy with the periodic chart tie.
I was donning my coat when I noticed Baker and Hypatia striding toward me. “The candy machine is marked with an ‘Out of Order’ sign,” Baker said with an amused chuckle. “Perhaps you'd care to join Ms. Theonsky and me for lunch?"
I shook my head. “I'm exhausted and I've got a long drive home. I'm going back to my motel room for a few hours sleep, and then I'm hitting the road for King of Prussia.” I explained the results of the final judging, and mentioned the news of Alexander's Nobel Prize and its implications.
“You are quite right, Woodside. There may be some move to suppress or minimize Alexander's involvement in this messy business. I gathered that he has covered his trail carefully, allowing Synesius to assume all the risk.” Baker looked at Hypatia, who had replaced her mud-soaked gown of last night with a bold flowered print. “However, Ms. Theonsky has agreed to go public with the complete details of her story. And a newspaper account is likely to at least raise some doubt."
Hypatia nodded, her graying tresses secured with a pearlescent comb. “They got Goldie. He'll have to pay for that,” she said.
I had little to add. We took our leave. The motel bed seemed to be calling me.
But as we left the building, through the fog of exhaustion, I distinctly noticed Baker's arm around the flowered waist of Hypatia Theonsky.
Copyright (c) Thomas R. Dulski
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Short Story: 911-Backup by Richard A. Lovett
There's a fine line between a tool and an addictive drug....
Winston was on the Sunset Highway when it happened. He'd just crested the Sylvan Hill, where the freeway, living up to its name, lined up directly on the late-afternoon sun. He squinted, winced, and reached for the visor, but at the same time, he reached out with his mind, as though trying to wipe the sunbeams out of his eye with the swipe of a mental cursor.
It was an obvious fantasy wish, and the safeties should have ignored it. Instead, he had an odd flickering sensation, as though crossing fr
om one reality to another—sort of like a mental hiccup. It wasn't the first time he'd had such a sensation, and he'd been meaning to have it checked out—just as he'd been meaning to do something about the shimmy his car sometimes produced when downshifting from fourth gear to third. But always before, the hiccup had passed as quickly as it appeared, and he'd never quite gotten around to doing anything about it.
Now, he had about five seconds to realize he'd waited too long. While he was still reaching for the visor, the sun zipped across his field of vision and disappeared, like a computer icon summarily hauled into the trash.
That's weird, he thought. How did I do that? Then the spot where the sun had been turned lavender and exploded into fractal patterns, highlighted by flickering zigzags, like chartreuse lightning bolts.
“What the hell!” Winston yelped. Followed by “Crap!” as he realized that the lane markers ahead of him were shimmering with those same unnatural hues. Any moment now, the rush-hour traffic was going to start looking about as much like the normal commute as the sky looked like—well, anything sky should look like.
Winston stomped on the brake and steered for the shoulder. Car horns sounded on all sides, then mutated into swarms of musical symbols that flew across his field of view like startled birds. Could he still hear them, or were his vision and hearing now cross-wired?
Other than desperately trying to get to the shoulder alive, Winston had one overwhelming thought. I need an uplink, NOW. His laptop had a microwave card and a link coupling, but those were in the trunk, and he didn't think he had time to reach them. Even as the car was rolling to a halt, he grabbed his cell phone and jammed its hands-free plug into the link jack in his right temple. Luckily, he'd spent the bucks for the universal telecom implant, though his reasons for doing so hadn't been practical. The gilded fleur-de-lis was a fashion statement—a nice way to tell the ladies that you had money to burn. It had bought him some really great dates in the years he'd been living alone, though the only woman who'd ever been worth keeping around was the one who'd not been attracted by his father's money and had eventually left him.
Analog SFF, November 2005 Page 19