Starfall Page 17

  Technically, all this work belonged to Crimson Technology; the Red Ghost’s permission would be needed before my team could publish any results in academic magazines. Separating the generally-applicable math from the proprietary information would be difficult…but eminently possible.

  My hand paused in its scribbling. The methodology currently being explored wasn’t evolving in the hoped-for manner; I crossed out half a page and re-started from an earlier section, shifting towards a more promising path. There was a pattern here, and an elegant truth awaited at the end of the puzzle. I needed only to follow the threads, to tug here or there, to weave the variables into a perfect tapestry.

  For a time, there was nothing but the work. And then someone cleared his throat.

  “Just a minute,” I repeated absently, sketching out a quick Cayley graph; if the subset of bounded dimensions k could be proven uncountably infinite, then a variation on a Banarch-Tarski decomposition could be used to separate k into discrete uncountably infinite subgroups…

  “Wow,” Alex chuckled. “This feels just like old times.”

  “Pardon?” Reluctantly, I looked up.

  “I brought you lunch,” my former TA noted. “Also, more caffeine.”

  I felt my cheeks heat from embarrassment. “How long was I…?”

  “A bit more than an hour.”

  “That was rude” I sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It happens to me, too.” He stepped into my office to set a paper-wrapped sandwich on my desk (carefully avoiding any of my notes) and followed that with a steaming mug of coffee. “Twenty-five years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to pull you away ’til it got dark out.”

  “Well, then I’m sorry for putting you through that twenty-five years ago, also.” I ignored the sandwich in favor of caffeine, wrapping both hands around the mug. The heat felt pleasant upon my palms.

  “All will be forgiven if you check my math.”

  If only all redemption could so easily be acquired.

  “Okay. Your office?”

  “My office.”

  The coffee came with me as I followed Alex across the hall. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m hoping that I missed something obvious.” He pointed me towards the whiteboards arrayed against the room’s wall. “Do you see where I started from?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, I was working on a way to simplify the calculations and I came up with some confusing results.”

  “Hm. Let me have a look.”

  Over the last few decades, Alex had broadened his education significantly. His work was peppered with references to obscure theories and papers, but the overall theme was easily grasped. The application, however, was extraordinarily complex. My mug was empty before I finished studying the proof.

  “I don’t see any errors,” I finally said. “The theory seems valid.”

  “It can’t be. Do you see how much force would be released?”

  “Oh, I see it and I think that congratulations are in order. You just successfully turned an automotive safety device into a planet-killer.”

  Alex’s eyes were wide. “But…I don’t want to kill planets.”

  “Then we should probably just focus on this section here,” I grabbed up a dry-erase marker and drew an arrow on a whiteboard, “and maybe here, to develop safeguards. And then erase the rest.”

  Alex stared for a few moments more, then barked in sudden laughter and picked up an eraser. “Yeah, sorry. I was just suddenly reminded that we’re working on Doctor Fid’s tech. I’ve consulted for aerospace and power companies, but I always avoided weapons development. Who needs the bad karma, right?”

  “Right.” I forced a tight smile. The idea that earned ill luck would linger was not a pleasant one.

  “It’s kinda weird, though. Doctor Fid was, y’know, Doctor Fid. He designed all this!” He gestured at the whiteboard with the eraser. “He must’ve understood the math.”

  “Most likely.”

  “So…he built a doomsday weapon and instead of taking over the world he just decided to redesign it as a safety device?”

  “Strange man.”

  Alex continued erasing in silence for a moment, then again erupted in laughter. “He used a planet-killer to build a better seatbelt. I wonder what he would’ve used to build a better mousetrap?”

  “I can’t imagine,” I replied, wholly unable to stop myself from imagining.

  Alex grabbed a coffee mug off his own desk. “I’m going to get a refill and then get back to work. You want anything?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Be back in a bit, then.” Alex wandered off in search of further caffeination. There was something painfully nostalgic in his gait, some aspect of his body language or tone that sent me back deep into my past. For a brief moment, it felt as though the last quarter century was only a bad dream, that Doctor Fid was just a crayon drawing, and that if I peeked under Alex’s desk I would find my little brother working on a hand-drawn comic while he waited for me to finish a day’s work.

  Reality reasserted like a crashing wave.

  The space below the table was unoccupied; no quiet child lay beneath, scribbling patiently. My sister, too, was gone. Doctor Fid was dead—his mission incomplete—but still his ghost squirmed beneath my skin.

  I took a deep and unsteady breath, grateful for the temporary peace to be found in science and math, and then returned to my own office to muse upon mousetrap designs.

  “…and this one is a Pteranodon,” Bobby chirps. “Like the big one that fought the giant lizard in that movie. But real Pteranodons weren’t that big. They were big! But not that big.”

  Bobby grabs my hand and tugs me towards the next exhibit. We come here every time I’m in New York for a conference, and this area had only recently completed its renovation. Even with the changes, this feels familiar; there’s something about the echo here—the tall ceilings and open spaces and constant hum of activity created an ambiance that never seemed to change. There are new dinosaur skeletons on display, new kiosks and labeled pedestals, new plaques to read, and so much more to explore.

  The planetarium here is lovely, but Bobby’s favorite is the dinosaurs.

  “How big were they?” I ask.

  Bobby lets his grip fall away as he stretches out his arms like wings. “Twenty feet! Raaaah!”

  “That’s pretty big.”

  “Uh-huh! And they could fly!” Bobby flaps ponderously.

  I smile, “And…what did they eat?”

  “Fish! They probably had to eat a lot of them, ‘cause they were so big.”

  “Interesting. Oh, what’s that one over there?” I pointed to the next exhibit.

  Bobby’s voice drops to a reverent whisper. “It’s a velociraptor.”

  I let him wax eloquent about his favorite theropod for a while and occasionally prod for more information. He’s done much more research than I on ancient history so it’s nice to let him lecture for once. Bobby practically bubbles with excitement as we circle the new display; several velociraptor skeletons are posed as though chasing some smaller dinosaur. It’s easy to imagine that these were fierce, dangerous predators.

  And so it goes. Aisle by aisle, display by display, until all the dinosaur attractions have been exhausted and it’s time to go home.

  We’re walking back to the hotel when Bobby comes to a sudden halt.

  “What’s wrong with that man?” he whispers urgently.

  I wince. “He’s just sleeping. C’mon, let’s let him rest.”

  “He’s dirty!” Bobby notes sadly.

  “He is,” I agree. “He doesn’t have a home, so it’s probably hard for him to get clean.”

  We’ve passed other homeless men and women in our wanderings but none quite so visibly decrepit. This particular unfortunate is sprawled face-first upon a flattened cardboard box laid across the sidewalk, insensate, vomit crusted in his straggly salt-and-pepper beard. The skin on his arms and face is racked
with sores, unconcealed by the layer upon layer of filthy clothes that hide the majority of his unhealthily-slim figure. Even at a distance, the stench of fermented sweat and urine and sickness is overwhelming.

  “But why?” Bobby asks—bewildered—turning to stare as I try to shuffle him past. “Why don’t the heroes save him?”

  “There’s no villain to punch, kiddo. The reason people end up like this…It’s not so simple. Sometimes, it’s bad choices. Sometimes it’s just bad luck.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “No, I guess it isn’t.”

  “Why doesn’t anyone else help?” he asks, bewildered.

  “People try,” I reassure. “Remember, Mom ’n Dad raising money for the shelter? That was so people like him have someplace to stay.”

  “Oh.” Bobby doesn’t seem convinced.

  “It doesn’t work for every person,” I try to explain. “But people try.”

  “It’s sad.”

  “Yeah.”

  “People should try and help people more,” Bobby says decisively. “Then everything would be better.”

  My little brother’s instinctive kindness is infectious, so I leave a few dollars for the unconscious homeless man before we make our way back to our hotel.

  “Welcome to KNN CapeWatch,” the respected television announcer began. “I’m your host, Stan Morrow.”

  “And I’m Pamela Green.”

  “Joining us tonight is noted sociologist and author, Joanne Durand.”

  “Thank you, Stan, Pam. It’s great to be here.”

  “Dr. Durand’s book—Black Masks—studied the effects that supervillains have had upon society, was a New York Times Best-Seller, and has been translated into twenty-four languages. Now, I understand that you have a new book coming out?”

  “Yes, thank you Stan. My new book is called Armored Night and it focuses on one of the world’s most feared and enigmatic villains: Doctor Fid.”

  “From what I hear, this book has been something of a new experience for you?”

  “Yes. As you mentioned, my background is in Sociology, and most of my prior books have been approached from that angle. For this book, however, I partnered with an investigative reporter to delve deeper and to gain a greater insight. It was a very interesting experience. Unfortunately, there are still so many questions unanswered…but I do hope that this book helps my readers to understand some of the strange complexities of the man who was certainly one of the greatest inventors in human history.”

  “Interesting! I’m definitely looking forward to reading it,” Pamela smiled; the former fashion-model had earned quite the reputation as an investigator, herself. “We interviewed Doctor Fid ourselves, once.”

  “I know,” the sociologist laughed. “I dedicated most of a chapter to that episode. You both did a wonderful job. Fearless!”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Stan replied dryly. “Being in the same room as Doctor Fid was one of the most frightening experiences in my life.”

  “He was a perfect gentleman,” Pam objected.

  “He was, yes. But if he’d decided not to be, there wouldn’t have been anything that anyone could have done to stop him.” Stanley shook his head. “I’m not sure that cameras have ever captured how incredibly frightening Doctor Fid could be in person. Even from only a few feet away, his armor’s surface was so non-reflective that you could only guess at its shape from the glowing seams. There was something alien and strange about the way the stars in his armor were displayed…it felt as though I wasn’t looking at a real object. I was looking through him into deep space.”

  “I interviewed the director of the Hayden Planetarium as part of my research,” Joanne noted. “No matter what angle you looked at Doctor Fid from, you were always viewing an accurate representation of the distant stars as though there weren’t any buildings or atmosphere in the way.”

  “How is that even possible?”

  “No one has any idea,” the author laughed. “I asked everyone I could think of, no one had the slightest clue. In a strange way, it’s funny: Doctor Fid fought against the most powerful heroes on Earth and demonstrated an awe-inspiring level of strength and resilience…but the longest-running Internet discussion about his armor is one among astrophysicists attempting to determine how accurately Doctor Fid displayed the night sky.”

  “And now, I suppose that we’ll never know for sure,” Pamela lamented.

  “The online argument will probably continue for years!”

  “Doctor Fid has always been a very divisive figure,” the older host chuckled. “For heroes and physicists alike.”

  “He was a perplexing character,” Joanne agreed. “Some heroes—such as Valiant and the Red Ghost—have implied a grudging respect for Doctor Fid, and others talk about him as though he’d been the anti-Christ. That dichotomy was one of the issues I wanted to explore as I started doing research for this book.”

  “What sorts of juicy secrets did you uncover?”

  “Well, for one thing…I’ve found evidence that he chose his victims far more carefully than most people would ever have imagined.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Hm, here’s an example: Do you remember the attack on the Balmer Technology Group?”

  “Yes,” Stan nodded. “It was a robbery foiled by the Charioteer. The only casualty was a bystander who was badly injured when Doctor Fid threw a mailbox at Charioteer and missed.”

  Joanne Durand leaned forward, “I’m reasonably certain that the injury wasn’t an accident. In fact, it’s very possible that Doctor Fid set up the entire battle to target that particular person.”

  “That’s horrifying,” Pam murmured, aghast.

  “It becomes less so once you discover that the so-called ‘innocent bystander’ was secretly running a human trafficking ring.”

  “I’m sorry, are you suggesting that Doctor Fid went out of his way to target a criminal?” Stanley asked, skeptical.

  “I’m saying that Doctor Fid’s early career was characterized by escalating violence and bloodshed, and that I believe that escalation was very carefully calculated. If you study the timing and quantity of media coverage, it’s too smooth a curve to have happened by accident. He decided who to hurt and when to hurt them, and all those choices were focused upon a primary purpose: making Doctor Fid a household name.”

  Pamela’s brow furrowed, “And, what does that have to do with the human trafficker?”

  “Doctor Fid’s rise was—literally—a textbook-perfect marketing campaign. Somewhere, there was a plan…and there was a checkbox next to the line that read, ‘demonstrate willingness to injure random bystanders’ marked complete after the attack on Balmer Technology Group. But nothing was really random. The more I dug into the backgrounds of the civilians that Doctor Fid directly harmed, the more clear the pattern became: the vast majority had gone unpunished for terrible crimes, many of which weren’t uncovered until my investigation decades afterwards.”

  “Are you saying,” Stanley pressed, “that Doctor Fid was some kind of vigilante?”

  “We should never forget that Doctor Fid hurt a lot of good heroes. That he was a violent man willing to do violent things in order to accomplish his objectives. I have no idea what the man behind the star-field mask was thinking or what his goals were, but I can definitively say that I agree with Valiant’s assessment: Doctor Fid was a complicated man.”

  “Well, we have to go to a break,” Pam said. “But when we return, we will continue discussing Dr. Joanne Durand’s new book, Armored Night. I’m Pamela Green.”

  “And I’m Stan Morrow. KNN CapeWatch will return after these messages.”

  The door is open, but I knock gently on the frame anyway. “Whisper? Can I come in?”

  “Mmm!” The little android cheerfully turned to face me, abandoning her ongoing efforts to build a colorful castle out of blankets and pillows. Her smile falters when she sees my own serious expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “Sweethear
t, did you hack the Massachusetts State Lottery to make sure Ms. Tillerson won on her birthday?”

  “Ms. Tillerson’s nice!” Whisper notes carefully.

  “She is,” I agree. “But that isn’t what I asked.”

  “Ms. Tillerson is nice, and she deserves a nice birthday present.”

  I sigh, “Whisper, you have to be more careful. What if Cuboid caught you hacking the lottery? He’s the only other A.I. around, and you know he does security audits…”

  She rolls her expressive glowing-blue eyes. “Cuboid’s old. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Honey, it’s a bad habit to get into. Even if it’s not Cuboid, there’s other people out there who watch the lotteries for unusual behavior. I do.”

  “I know,” she sighs, hugging her favorite doll to her chest. “But Ms. Tillerson is a good person. She makes me cookies even though I can’t eat them, just like if I was a real girl.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, you’re a real girl in every way that matters.”

  “Not everyone says so,” she murmurs, lowering her gaze.

  “Some people are stupid,” I say quietly, sitting down next to my adopted little sister on her bed. She leans against me and I can’t help but smile fondly even though I came in here to reprimand her. “But others are just scared. That’s why it’s important that you don’t take unnecessary risks.”

  “Yeah. It’s just…Ms. Tillerson is kind and gentle and she’s the sort of person who deserves to have good things happen to her. I can help, and no one gets hurt.”

  “There are lots of good people in the world, sweetheart.”

  “I know. I haven’t gotten around to helping all of them yet.”

  “Oh, you’re going to help all of them, are you?”

  “Mmm!”

  I hug an adorable android. “I believe you.”

  The world has never been fair, before. It’s never been nice. But maybe Whisper can make it so.

  And even if she fails, it’s reassuring to know that my sister’s digital heart is in the right place.

  “I’ll have the Tom Yum Soup.” Aaron handed his menu to our waiter.