Superposition (9 page)

Terry gave an uncertain nod.

“Let's say that, without looking at the coin, I make a wax impression of both sides. I give one impression to Jacob”—she mimed handing me something which I pretended to take without looking at it—“and I put one in my pocket. Now, which do I have in my pocket, heads or tails?”

“Both at the same time,” Terry said. “With some probability wave.”

“What about him?”

“Same thing.”

“Very good! He can be taught.” She stood and walked over to the corner of the transparent room. “I take my wax impression to Paris. Jacob takes his to Seattle.”

“Why can't I go to Paris?” I asked.

“You'll be lucky just to get out of jail,” she reminded me.

“Good point. Seattle it is.”

“Now, I pull out my wax impression and look at it.” She pretended to do so. “It's tails. The probability wave collapses. Now what about his?”

Terry shrugged. “It collapses too?”

“Yes. By looking at my wax impression, I caused his to become heads, from the other side of the world. I sent information around the world faster than the speed of light.”

Terry was shaking his head. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “You didn't change anything. It was heads to begin with.”

“No,” Jean said firmly. “Remember the tennis balls. This is the quantum world. These are particles, not coins.”

He kept shaking his head, sadly. “That may be. But I don't know how you expect me to convince a jury.”

Jean made an aggravated huff. “I'm doing the best I can here. Tennis balls, coins—these are everyday objects. If we use subatomic examples, it'll only get worse.”

“They just need to get the idea that something can be in two states at once,” I said. “They don't have to understand it entirely, but they have to believe it as a thoroughly tested and noncontroversial finding of modern science. So how do we do that? Quote Einstein? Cite polls of leading scientists?”

“None of that matters to a jury,” Terry said. He pointed at Jean. “What matters is her. If she can sell it, and not let Haviland talk her in circles or undermine her credibility, then they'll accept it as fact. So let's do our role playing again. I'll be Haviland on cross-examination. Act naturally, take your time, don't try to anticipate my questions, and especially—especially!—only answer the exact question I've asked.”

Jean ran a hand through her hair and grimaced. “I'm going to be here all night again, aren't I?”

“Probably,” Terry said.

CHAPTER 11

UP-SPIN

Marek's scream pierced the air. More than anything, I wanted to see what was happening to him, but once I did see, I almost wished I couldn't. Marek was in pieces on the ground. His arms and legs and hands and fingers had been torn apart. Incredibly, there was no blood. It was like an old Saturday morning cartoon where the hapless villain is shredded in a propeller or flattened under a steam roller, but he gets up, shakes it off, and is as good as new.

In fact, as I watched, the man with no eyes put Marek back together again, piece by piece. He did it with meticulous care, as if assembling a model airplane, pausing to peer—with no eyes—at the result. It was almost as if the man wanted to see how a human being was assembled. I reached out tentatively and realized that the air above the cables was no longer electrified. Perhaps the thing could only perform one miracle at a time—or was just distracted. I stayed where I was, however, afraid to move lest it disappear and leave Marek spread out in pieces on the floor. Though how Marek could possibly survive the encounter, I didn't know. Finally, when the man finished the last piece of his gruesome puzzle, he stepped back as if to admire his handiwork. Marek opened his eyes. Incredibly, he seemed alive and perfectly whole. He felt his head, his arms, his legs. He said something that sounded like
varcolac
and crossed himself.

The man with no eyes still stood between us and the door we had come through, blocking our exit, but there was another way out of the bunker, an emergency exit with stairs up to the outside. All the experiment rooms were reachable through maintenance access doors all along the ring, deep in the Pine Barrens. They couldn't be entered without an access card or key, but they allowed easy exit in case of emergency.

“Can you run?” I asked.

“I think so,” Marek said.

“Follow me, then,” I said.

Marek took a careful step backward. The man with no eyes seemed to regard him, but made no move. Marek took another step.

“Now!” We bolted for the emergency exit, not looking back to see if the man with no eyes was coming after us. There was a service elevator, but there was no time to punch the button and wait. We used the stairs instead.

We took them two at a time. Twenty flights later, breathing hard, we broke out into the pine forest. I still didn't know if we were being followed, but we didn't stop to find out. After a few moments to catch our breath, we struck out running along the overgrown path toward the road.

In a short dirt driveway, perhaps a hundred feet off the road and obscured by brush, we found a battered Toyota Viva, a car that I recognized at once.

“This is Brian's car,” I said. “He must have parked here and snuck down the maintenance access.”

“How did he get in?” Marek asked.

“They don't monitor them,” I said. “They're pretty remote. When I was working here, Brian and I rigged this one so we could go in and out without triggering the alarm.” That was back when we were installing equipment for CATHIE and had every expectation of long and fruitful study. We sometimes got claustrophobic in our buried, underground bunker, and it was good to be able to come up for fresh, pine-scented air and occasionally, depending on the weather and how late we were working, a narrow view of the stars overhead.

We looked in the car. The keys were in the ignition. I tried my phone and still got no service. “Looks like we'll need to borrow his car,” I said.

I climbed into the driver's seat, and Marek got in the other side. I turned the key, and the engine started easily. I got the car turned around, and it rumbled over the uneven dirt toward the road. When we pulled out onto the highway with a scrape of gravel under the wheels, I let out a long breath.

“It didn't hurt at all,” Marek said. He seemed to be embarrassed that he'd lost his nerve. “It was just . . .”

“The most terrifying thing I've ever seen,” I said.

Marek held his hand up to the light, flexing his fingers. He said something in Romanian that sounded like a curse.

“What?”

“This finger,” he said. “When I was young, a teenager, there was an accident. My hand was crushed under a heavy beam. Several bones broke, but we were poor, and I was strong and proud. I never saw a doctor. But this finger . . .”

He flexed it again, and I remembered that it had always been stiff, the bones fused together in a slightly bent position. Now he was bending and unbending that finger along with all the others.

“It is not possible,” Marek said.

“That's not the only impossible thing we just saw,” I said. “That guy took you apart and put you back together again. Seriously, no pain? You're not just showing me how tough you are?”

Marek gave me a look. “I was screaming like a baby.”

He wiggled his finger some more. I supposed that technically, that thing had healed Marek, but I wasn't ready to consider it a miracle. I wasn't at all sure that healing had been its purpose. It had looked more like an engineer taking a machine apart and putting it back together again to see what was inside.

“Better try the police again,” I said.

Marek tapped some buttons on his phone, but shook his head. “No bars.”

I wasn't too surprised. “We can't be that far out,” I said. “Shouldn't take more than a few minutes to get in range of a tower.”

Pine trees were whizzing by on both sides. The road was narrow and straight, with no other cars in sight. I pushed down on the gas and reflexively checked my rearview mirror for flashing lights, though at that point, a cop car would have been welcome. As I did, I noticed an old brown blanket draped over some junk in the backseat. The blanket moved suddenly, rearing up to fill my view. It fell away to reveal a man, lights flashing where his eyes should be.

Marek shouted. I slammed on the brakes and swerved, sending the car into the opposite lane. I spun the steering wheel hard the other way, adrenaline pumping through my veins, but we were moving too fast. Instead of righting itself, the car skidded sideways off the road and smashed into a tree. My head smacked into the steering wheel, but we didn't hit hard enough to set off the air bags.

I felt stunned and dizzy, but I fumbled with my seatbelt clasp, afraid to look back, expecting at any moment to be grabbed from behind. My hands were shaking; I couldn't find the button. Finally, I found it and the seatbelt popped open. I reached for the door and scrambled out. Marek was already out on the other side, and we ran for the trees.

I risked a backward glance and saw the man just getting out of the car behind us. Using the door. I stopped. The man climbing awkwardly out of the car wasn't the creature that had chased us in the bunker. What had seemed to be missing eyes had in fact been reflections from a pair of glasses. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair was tousled from sleep, and he moved like his body hurt from a night spent sleeping in the back seat of a car. It was Brian Vanderhall.

I advanced on him, feeling both foolish and furious. “What's going on here?” I asked. I was more angry than astonished. This was a trick, some kind of small-minded, immature trick of Brian's to get him out of some trouble or other, probably with a woman. He had somehow faked his own death, but the trick had gone sour, and now he and everyone around him were going to take the fall. It was typical Brian.

Brian lifted his hands as if to ward off a blow, then seemed to recognize me. “Jacob?” He blew out a breath of relief. “I thought you were car thieves. What are you doing here?”

“What am
I
doing here?” I barely knew where to start. “You're supposed to be dead!”

Marek came up behind me. “This is Brian?” he asked.

“Yes. Are you okay?” My head was ringing from the impact, and I'd have a bit of a bruise over one eye, but no real injuries.

“Fine, I think,” Marek said.

Brian was wearing the same shorts and T-shirt as the day before, and one side of his face had a pattern pressed into it from where he'd been sleeping against the car upholstery. He looked worried and confused. “How did you find me?” he asked.

“By running up the stairs to get away from that thing with no eyes, who nearly killed us by doing impossible things, which I hope you are about to explain to me.”

Brian's eyes went large and wild. “You went down there? Is it following you?”

“Of course I went down there! You nearly got me killed.”

“Us killed,” Marek said.

“Tell me you didn't turn the power on,” Brian said.

“Of course, I turned it on. You told me to go down there and look around. So you'd better start telling us what's happening.”

“I don't know what's happening,” Brian said. “I didn't tell you anything. Trust me, I wouldn't have told you to turn the power on down there.”

“I don't trust you as far as I can separate a pair of quarks,” I said. “Tell me what you do know.” I was angry enough to get back in the car and leave him there. I'd seen his corpse on his floor of the bunker, and if that had just been some kind of elaborate hoax, I wasn't finding it very funny. I remembered that I still had Brian's Glock in my pocket, but I decided not to give it back to him quite yet.

I examined the car. The brakes had taken most of our forward momentum, so the hood of the car was only slightly staved in, and none of the glass was broken.

Brian rocked from foot to foot. His skin was peppered with goose bumps. The snow hadn't lasted, but it was still pretty cold outside. “Can we get back in the car?” he asked. “I'm cold.”

“Fine,” I said, disgusted.

He climbed in the backseat again and wrapped himself with the blanket. Marek got in the passenger's side, and I took the driver's seat and tried the ignition. Nothing. I tried three more times, and finally the engine sputtered and caught. I backed the car away from the tree and, after spinning my tires a bit, got it back onto the road and moving forward again. I continued toward Lakehurst, though at a more careful speed. I tried my phone again. There was still no reception, but at this point, it wasn't clear what I would tell the police anyway.

“Start talking,” I said.

“Okay,” Brian said. “You remember the nature-as-computer argument?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes. We had this conversation already.”

“We did?”

I glanced back at him in the rearview mirror. He was wrapped up in the brown blanket so that only his eyes were showing, like an animal in a cave. “Yes. At my house. So was that thing in the bunker one of the quantum intelligences you were talking about? The oh-so-friendly fairies who gave you their technology?”

Brian looked puzzled. “When was I at your house?” he asked.

I was getting irritated. I was getting tired of being pushed around, and I wanted some answers. “You were at my house last night. You fired a gun at my wife, and I punched you. You seriously don't remember that?”

Brian looked blank. “I haven't been to your house in years. I wanted to come, to tell you everything, but I didn't.”

“Okay,” I said. “Something is seriously wrong with you.”

“You're right about the quantum intelligences,” Brian said. “Though I don't know how you know. They're formed from the interactions of the subatomic world, life springing out of complexity. That's what you saw.”