Sherlock Holmes in Orbit

by Mike Resnick (ed)

  “I’m not talking to anyone without a lawyer,” Haas said. She had the flat nonaccent most Californians specialized in. She leaned against her chair instead of sitting in it, and she kept gazing at Holmes as if he were familiar.

  “I merely wanted to meet you,” Holmes said, and stuck out his hand. “I am Sherlock Holmes. I am sure you read about my involvement in the case.”

  She didn’t take the offered hand. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “The world’s greatest detective. I suppose I should be honored. Well, I’m not. People like you, they make their way by focusing on the inadequacies of others.”

  Then her gaze met mine. Those intense blue eyes sent a shudder through me that I couldn’t hide.

  “You must be Ned Zaleski. The newspapers mentioned you, too. You were the one who led the investigation until Mr. Holmes came and took it all away from you.” Her words had an accuracy that hurt. I had never mentioned my displacement to Holmes as a problem, but I had resented it. More than I ever expressed.

  She smiled, slowly, as if we shared a secret, and I remembered that morning, so long ago it seemed, when Holmes took his first action on the case. The last body had been discovered near my home. And until that point, I had been the focus of the investigation, the cop made famous by Lorena’s work.

  She knew. She saw. And worse, she understood.

  Jealousy, Holmes had said, is, perhaps, the most destructive of human emotions.

  Lorena Haas had allowed jealousy to destroy her. Who would know what remark one of her famous passengers made that set her violent emotion free. But once freed, it led her back to Santa Lucia, to her home, the place where coming in second had destroyed her life. It didn’t matter that Kimberly Marie Caldicott had not succeeded. What mattered was that in high school, Kimberly Marie had become a symbol of everything Lorena could not have.

  A symbol she killed over and over again with the weapon of anger. A knife.

  Holmes had been right again. Without asking her a single question, he had managed to confirm both her guilt and her motivation.

  He was right, and I despised him for it.

  Lorena’s smile grew and I had to look away.

  Holmes half-bowed to her, ever the English gentleman. “I thank you for your tune,” he said, and knocked on the door. A guard let us out of the room.

  I said nothing to Holmes as we walked back to the car. My skin was crawling and I was deeply thankful that he was scheduled to leave with the Santa Cruz Time Wizards the following morning.

  When he returned to his home, he would not remember me. But, like Lorena with Kimberly, I would always remember him.

  FRIDAY, 6:05 P.M.

  It should have ended there, but it didn’t. As I dropped him off at the chief’s house for a celebrity dinner that I was not planning to attend, a voice pierced through the static on my police radio, announcing a body had washed on shore from the Santa Lucia River. The body was that of a young girl, missing for two days, and she had obviously been strangled.

  As the dispatch fed the information, I imagined the scene: the bloated, black-faced body, tongue protruding, the neck of mass of welts and bruises washed clean of evidence by the river herself. A homicide unrelated to any other that would probably go down in the books as unsolved.

  Holmes was watching me. “Loose ends happen,” he said, “only when we permit them to exist.”

  My mouth worked, but I said nothing. Who had appointed him my teacher, anyway? I was just as good as he was.

  He took his pipe out of his pocket and then pulled out a pouch of tobacco. “What Miss Haas failed to realize,” he said, “is that such jealousies prevent us from seeing ourselves clearly. She already had the perfect revenge: a good income, several jobs that put her in touch with something your society values. She had an interesting life, but instead, she constantly compared herself to an imaginary figure from the past.”

  My jaw was clenched. After this evening, I would never see the man again. Yelling at him would do me no good.

  He filled his pipe, and put it in his mouth, then shoved the tobacco in his pocket. Then he reached out a hand. I shook it, more out of a desire to get rid of him than courtesy.

  “I am quite sorry,” he said, “that I will not be able to take my memories of you back to Baker Street. You have one of the keenest minds I have ever encountered.”

  Then he let himself out of the car, and walked up the sidewalk to the chief’s house. The face of Lorena Haas rose in my mind. History would never record what the young Kimberly Marie Caldicott had thought of her. Perhaps Kimberly looked at her with respect and admiration, or perhaps she had noted, once too often, a talent that went unused.

  I could follow Lorena’s path, and make Holmes a hated icon on which I could blame all my inadequacies. Or I could move forward.

  I glanced out the car window. Holmes stood on the steps, his pipe in his mouth, his cap pulled low over his forehead. I nodded once to him. He nodded back.

  Then I wheeled the car onto the road, picking up my mike and reciting my badge number. I would go to the river, with no preconceptions, and forget about technology. I would look for details, and I would open myself to nuance.

  I never wanted to see Holmes again, and there was only one way I could make sure that happened.

  I had to stop relying on suppositions, experts, and computers. I had to sharpen my own mind, and think for myself.

  PART III: HOLMES IN THE FUTURE

  MORIARTY BY MODEMby Jack Nimersheim

  “That’s right, sir. You’re a machine. In fact, you’ve always been a machine. A damn amazing one, too, I might add.” “And tell me again, my good man,” a disembodied, emotionless voice asked, “exactly what kind of machine was it that you called me?”

  “A computer.”

  “A computer. An odd name, that. An analysis of its structure, assuming that the word reflects a traditional etymology, leads one to speculate that this particular device is able to perform certain types of mathematical calculations, which it then extrapolates into numerical values. Am I correct?”

  “Only partially, sir. Well, no. Forgive me. Now that I think about it, your description is unerringly accurate. Strictly speaking, that’s exactly what a computer does. However, the manner in which it can manipulate and apply the results of any operations it performs elevates a computer far above the status of a mere calculator.”

  “I would hope so. Your revelation that I am more machine than man is disturbing enough without placing further restrictions on my capabilities. Rare would be the individual who could anticipate discovering that his entire existence has been ... Has been what? I suppose the only way to state it would be to call the life I once thought I led an illusion.

  “And yet, here I am, living proof—if this is itself not an illusory turn of a phrase—that such incredible events can, indeed, occur. Where I once believed myself to be human, the very pinnacle of evolution’s handiwork, I now find that I am, and ever have been, a mere machine, some mysterious device which you call a computer.”

  “Actually, sir, that’s not quite correct, either. To be more precise, you’re what’s referred to as a computer program—a series of coded instructions that, when executed by a computer, allow it to accomplish a specific task.”

  “Hmmm. All of this is beginning to sound quite complicated.” In my mind’s eye, I could almost visualize him (for I still thought of Holmes as a him, having no desire to relegate the famed detective to it status) drawing upon his familiar pipe, sifting through the information now in his possession, contemplating its significance. “And just what was the designated purpose of the particular computer program that you claim defines my being?”

  “Stated simply, you were, um, created to assist in the collection, collation, and analysis of evidence associated with selected criminal investigations. That’s an undertaking, I might add, for which a well designed computer program is ideally suited. And as I implied earlier, sir, you are an amazing piece of work.”

  Several second
s of silence followed this observation. This time, I could conjure up no image of how Holmes might be reacting to my comments. How would I feel, I pondered, were someone suddenly to reveal to me that I was not the man I’d always believed myself to be? Indeed, that I was not a man at all!

  To his credit, once Holmes assimilated this information, he responded with his customary poise and the insatiable curiosity that the legendary detective displayed throughout his long and illustrious (and, yes, he was correct, largely illusory) career.

  “Well, there you have it, then. If what you say is true— and ignoring for the moment the natural aversion any rational entity would feel toward the situation you describe, I see no reason to doubt your veracity—the only practical course open to me is to accept the facts of my existence as you’ve outlined them and continue performing those tasks for which, apparently, I was, ah, constructed.

  “It seems logical to postulate, therefore, that you have summoned me, however such a summoning might be accomplished, so that you can consult with me on matters relating to some criminal activity. So explain to me, my good man, the exact nature of the crime that has presumably confounded you. I trust the investigation of it shall prove worthy of my unique talents.”

  “Oh, it will, Mr. Holmes. I assure you, it will—assuming, of course, that you’re at all curious as to the recent activities of your most notorious antagonist, Professor Moriarty.”

  Holmes, that incredible piece of programming which I still tended to perceive from a decidedly human perspective, had a lot to catching up to do. The techniques and technology employed by both the criminal element and those charged with containing it had changed dramatically in the century since he was first created. I spent the greater part of two months upgrading him (it) to state-of-the-art status. My efforts produced some pretty impressive results, if I do say so myself.

  “Good morning, young man,” Holmes—or, rather, a three-dimensional image representing the famed detective— mumbled, as I entered the study.

  “Good morning,” I responded.

  When I opened the door, the holographic Holmes had been leaning back in a virtual armchair, eyes only half open, fiddle thrown across his knee, carelessly scraping the bow across its strings. I must admit, I briefly considered eliminating this musical subroutine. It was pleasant enough when replicating identifiable passages. Like Watson had before me, I rather enjoyed Mendelssohn’s Lieder and several other pieces it contained; on a whim, I even added a semiclassical interpretation of Strawberry Fields Forever. The effect was quite the opposite, however, on those occasions when, as was the case this morning, the simulated violin generated random tones, indicating the parallel execution of some other, unrelated algorithm.

  “I hope my playing did not awaken you prematurely,” he said.

  “Oh, no, sir,” I lied.

  “It is kind of you to say so, but I suspect a lack of honesty in your reply. Having recognized that I no longer require sleep, I’m afraid I’ve developed an unusual tendency to lose track of the time. I find it quite easy to slip into meditation and melancholy, regardless of the hour of the day or night.”

  Carefully laying down his violin, Holmes pushed himself upright from the chair. Slowly, deliberately, he assumed his full height of rather over six feet. His sharp, piercing eyes, which previously appeared to be contemplating some imaginary point far beyond the room’s physical boundaries, focused on me intently.

  “Take this morning, for example. I’ve spent almost the entire night pondering your dilemma. Certain aspects of what has transpired, I must confess, trouble me.”

  “Such as?”

  “You claim that my most dreaded nemesis, Professor Moriarty, is once again loose upon the land. Is that not so?”

  “It is.”

  “I must inquire of you, then, how can this be? Professor Moriarty and I were adversaries almost from the commencement of my professional career. He was the organizer of half that was evil in my beloved London. As I once explained to Watson, he was a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker, a man with a brain of the first order. On these points, there can be no argument. For all of his formidable talents, however, the ex-professor was not immortal. Surely, death would have claimed his damnable soul by now! How is it possible that the devil has survived into the present era?”

  Thus arrived a moment I had been dreading since shortly after I reactivated the Holmes program. There was no way I could answer this question without also admitting that I bore direct responsibility for the resurrection of one of the greatest criminal masterminds of all time.

  “Perhaps you had best sit down again, sir. For the tale surrounding Moriarty’s reappearance is quite convoluted and involves technical information which I suspect will require a considerable amount of explanation for you to fully comprehend.”

  What followed could best be described as a crash course in Computer Science, revised syllabus. For nearly two hours I tutored Holmes, the consummate student, on a wide range of matters pertaining to the heretofore secret evolution of digital technology.

  I explained to him how, while cataloging a recently uncovered cache of obsolete government records and materials retrieved from a deteriorating warehouse in south London, I stumbled across a box marked “Project 22IB.” I described to him the excitement I experienced when, upon opening this box, I discovered a series of monographs authored by

  Charles Babbage. I attempted to convey to him my mounting sense of wonder as I realized that these previously unpublished papers indicated that, contrary to the “facts” as reflected in historical records, the prominent English mathematician had, indeed, constructed a working model of his analytical engine—one which the Queen’s government, citing reasons of national security, immediately decreed to be classified item of the highest order. I then inflated Holmes’s ego by informing him that his legacy traced its genesis to a prototype program clandestinely created to run on this 19th-century precursor to all modem computers.

  Please understand that what I’ve recounted here is an abridged version of a rather lengthy dialog. Lack of space forces me to gloss over many aspects of Holmes’s creation and subsequent evolution. For example, I’ve all but ignored Watson’s role in Project 22IB. Contrary to what you may believe, it was extremely minor. I will tell you this much: Holmes became quite despondent when, in response to his queries about Watson, I informed him that the man he believed to be his friend and trusted companion for so many years was actually a low-level government clerk assigned to transcribe and record data relating to specific crimes. His natural inquisitiveness resurfaced, however, when my narration finally touched upon the subject of Moriarty.

  “Yes, yes. Professor Moriarty,” Holmes muttered, the first time I mentioned this name in our conversation. “I need to know how that rogue has managed to return.”

  I determined it a vain effort to evade the truth with Holmes. The master sleuth would detect immediately any attempt on my part to falsify the facts in this matter. And so I plunged forward, prepared to accept the outrage I was convinced Holmes would direct toward me, once he learned of my role in Moriarty’s revival.

  “In truth, sir, the professor’s longevity is no more a mystery than your own. For, like you—and forgive me for bringing up what I realize may still be a sensitive subject—his life does not comprise a corporeal existence. You see, Moriarty, too, is a computer program; indeed, you and he were both conceived—metaphorically speaking, of course— within the same electronic womb.”

  “Are you implying that, in some ungodly and perverse way I cannot begin to fathom, Professor Moriarty and I are brothers?”

  “Well, I can’t say that I ever considered the matter from that unusual perspective, but I imagine there are those who would characterize in such a manner the relationship that exists between the two of you. In some ways, Moriarty might even be considered your evil twin.”

  “Moriarty and I, twins! What an absurd notion!”

  “Absurd? Perhaps, sir. Nevertheless, it does refle
ct a certain, admittedly convoluted, logic. Just as you were designed to record the nuances of criminal investigation, Moriarty—or, more correctly, the program personified by Moriarty—was created to identify and catalog those less noble attributes of humanity that lie at the core of the criminal intellect. He represents a darkness, in the absence of which your light would not shine nearly so brightly.”

  I don’t know whether a computer program can exhibit pride, but the look that crossed the normally stoic countenance of Holmes’s holographic image in response to this comment implied an emotion closely akin to that deadly sin. “Hmmm. I see your point. You still haven’t revealed, however, the nature of Professor Moriarty’s latest misdeeds. Nor have you enlightened me as to how he managed to escape this peculiar chamber in which I seem to find myself held prisoner.”

  For reasons that seemed to make perfect sense at the time, I’d isolated my systems following the unfortunate incident involving Moriarty. In hindsight, doing so boiled down to an excellent example of bolting the bam door after the horse had already bolted. Unknowingly, I now realized, it also served to penalize Homes for what was, in truth, my blunder.

  “Regarding your first question, Moriarty’s intentions remain a mystery at this time. Concerning the second point, however, I’m afraid that it was / who set Moriarty loose on the world again.”

  “You? But you have presented yourself to me as an ally! How could you do such a thing?”

  “I didn’t mean to, sir. You must believe me when I say this.”

  His square jaw remained set, an indication of his disapproval at my confessed impropriety. Nevertheless, Holmes waved his hand in a nonchalant manner, his thin, delicate fingers extended to their full and considerable length, signifying that I should continue.

  “Do you see the wire over there, the one lying on the floor next to my desk?” I pointed behind him and to his left The image of Holmes swiveled within the image of his chair, following my lead. He nodded. “Well, it’s designed to be plugged into that small hole located in the wall just above it. Can you see it, also?”