Collective Intelligence

hard to believe.

  “Nobody. I am fortunate to work with some brilliant organic synthesis chemists.”

  Pawluk nodded in agreement. He had set the protocols. Since his departure there had been too little time to change them, no matter how ambitious his successor was, too little time to re-cast the department in a different image.

  “I made sure sure that I kept track of what was yours and what was ours,” Robb verified one of his motivations.

  “Where are the dangerous results kept?” Ryan asked. It was clear he wanted a closer look.

  “I can't really tell you,” Robb said carelessly, starting Ryan's blood to simmer. “But I assure you, dangerous is not in my program.”

  “Then I can be sure it's in someone's else,” Ryan stated through clenched teeth. He needed to calm down.

  “It's not coming from my lab.” Robb repeated carelessly.

  For a moment Ryan saw red; the runaround Robb was giving him was tedious. Robb certainly knew more than he was letting on but instead of being forthright he was prancing behind the veil of government secrecy like a school girl with a secret.

  “Robb, is this work classified?”

  “Some applications are.”

  “Is this one?” Ryan snarled.

  “Nobody knows about the markers?” Pawluk interrupted. It was much a question as it was a statement and it saved Ryan from losing his composure. Ryan realized that Pawluk was also struggling to keep pace. Pawluk was an advocate.

  “Only you and me,” Robb's reply rung hollow.

  “I thought you shared them with a management review board years ago.”

  “An MRB wasn't necessary,” Robb continued with the digression. “They were convinced we were developing in 'open space' and weren't treading on Jankowiak's patents.”

  “What aren't you saying Robb?” Ryan interjected while making a mental note to revisit this conversation when it was more relevant.

  “The biology originated from your molecules,” Robb answered.

  “No,” Ryan was adamant.

  “Hear me out,” Robb requested, “I'm not guessing, I know. There was development that was independent of CI.”

  “Meaning?”

  “In all your work, even your present applications...” Robb started.

  Ryan nearly leaped from his seat. How could Robb know?

  “Your markers are periodically replicated...” Robb continued.

  A spasm seized Ryan's chest. How much did Robb know?

  “... and the agents that are causing these mutations have a chemical backbone consistent with the CI signature—but the branches that actually force them are marker-free,” Robb finished.

  “Why didn't you say this sooner?” Ryan choked. His throat had constricted. It was difficult to breathe.

  “You're as much a suspect to me as I am to you.”

  “I have... a lifetime's... effort... to lose.” Ryan spat in staccato disagreement. “Families... that count on my employment. You... you have objectives to fulfill. Secrets to maintain.”

  “Yes,” Robb agreed and Ryan's anger displaced his anxiety. He felt the urge for violence.

  Ryan's voice rose, “If you've been spying on me how can I trust you?” He was ready to walk.

  “We need to work together.”

  “How?” Ryan snapped. “I'm not authorized to look at your work.”

  “It's not my work,” Robb reaffirmed. “It wasn't even Pawluk's and no, it's not classified.”

  “Careful, Robb,” Pawluk admonished.

  “Not yet,” Robb backpedaled, “but I expect it might happen any day.”

  Ryan doubted Robb's capability for commitment. “Why take me into your confidence now?” he asked. “I don't want to start something I can't finish.”

  “This may be the only time I can share information with you,” Robb admitted. His tone was subdued.

  Ryan's uncertainty waned.

  “The lack of a signature may be traceable,” Robb added.

  “Yes,” Ryan agreed instantly, “but how?”

  “The isotopic analysis was done on aerosol samples...”

  “This is airborne?” Ryan was incredulous.

  Ryan's mind reeled with the revelation—CI was sunk. Just like its founder the corporation was engulfed in a publicity firestorm that would permanently scorch it's reputation—even if he could prove that it was not involved. It was all too easy to imagine why. CI's technology had betrayed the most basic instinct of human survival.

  Fatigue

  “I need help for my son.” The Mom was clearly worried. As she sat on a small chair in the Pediatrician's examining room her eyes repeatedly darted from the doctor to the closed door and back and forth again with unchecked restlessness. It was obvious that she wanted to leave quickly.

  “Is he here today?” The Pediatrician asked.

  “No.” She fidgeted in her seat.

  “It would help to have him present.”

  “At last minute he couldn't make it,” she said hastily.

  “Then perhaps you should reschedule.”

  “No, it can't wait. Please Doctor.”

  The Pediatrician furrowed his brow. He had been the boy's pediatrician for over a decade. As long as he could remember the boy had never been ill. The boy's mom wasn't trying to get out of the appointment. She seemed truly concerned—and scared.

  He deferred. “Can you describe his symptoms?”

  “He came home from school a few nights ago after volleyball practice. He ate supper...”

  “What did he eat?” the Pediatrician interrupted. He readied his hands on a computer keyboard to take notes.

  “Just about everything on the table,” the worried Mom replied. “Steak, rice, vegetables, you name it. He ate all the leftovers and then he had a bowl of ice cream for dessert.”

  “Is this usual?” The Pediatrician typed at the keyboard.

  “He's always been a big eater, but lately his appetite has been enormous. I can barely make enough food for him, never mind the rest of the family.”

  “Has he put on any weight?”

  “He might have gained a few pounds, but he's active and it doesn't show. He still wears the same clothes but the kids tend to wear oversized clothes so I can't be sure.”

  “That night,” the Pediatrician refocused the conversation, “did he complain of indigestion or anything that would indicate he didn't feel well?”

  “No, not at all. He just asked if there was more to eat.”

  “Did you have more?”

  “No.” The Mom laughed nervously. “I told him he could make something himself. And he did. He got up from the dinner table and made a couple of batches of popcorn.”

  “It could just be a growth spurt ahead,” the Pediatrician mused.

  “I don't think so.”

  “No? Please continue.”

  “Then he fell asleep on the couch.”

  The Pediatrician grew impatient. “And...?”

  “He was asleep for two whole days. My husband had to carry him to his bed and I couldn't even get him up to go to school.”

  The Pediatrician's face was bland with disinterest. Even so, he leaned forward.

  “Then what happened.”

  “He awoke on the third day. That was this morning. He was grouchy and unkempt and he needed a shower but instead he walked into the kitchen and announced that he was hungry. While he was eating his third bowl of cereal, I called your office and booked an appointment. I had to, you see. Before I can take him to school I need your signature.”

  “I need to see him for that,” the Pediatrician chided. “Where is he now?”

  She looked at the door. “He's asleep in the car.”

  “You left him...”

  “He's fifteen years old. He fell asleep on the way over. I couldn't wake him up.”

  “Why didn't you take him to Emergency?”

  “That's twenty miles away. It would take too long. I wanted someone to see him now.”

  The Pediatrici
an was now fully engaged.

  “Have there been any changes in his recent behavior?”

  “No.”

  “You mentioned irritability. How about his school work?”

  “Doctor. My son is not on drugs.” The Mom was adamant.

  “Are you positive?”

  “Absolutely.” She snapped but she looked away.

  “Is there something more you wish to tell me?” he pressed.

  She hesitated.

  “We can help,” the Pediatrician soothed.

  “When I left, he was so still,” she murmured under her breath. “I was afraid—I checked his heartbeat...”

  “Yes.”

  “His heart was beating so slowly.” Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked rapidly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Doctor. And he was cold. I covered him with my jacket.”

  “We'll get him in here, now, and transport him to the hospital if necessary.”

  Origins

  At 6AM the following Saturday Ryan entered the ground level of yet another nondescript four story brick government building. This one was particularly outdated and in serious need of renovation. The air reeked of chemical and biological residue, a gradual release of decades of spills trapped in cracks and pores, lending a distinct and permanent perfume to the interior. The air soured his nostrils and threatened his mortality.

  Yet, the hallway was familiar. At regular intervals along the polished tile floor, both sides of the long corridor held numerous small alcoves for fire-doors. None of the doors had windows but Ryan knew that behind each was a sophisticated, world-class research lab. It had been years since Ryan had been in these labs. Nothing seemed to be different.

  He felt no nostalgia; only dread for his upcoming meeting with Robb's associate.

  In between the doorways were stark beige walls plastered over conference posters. The posters displayed a range of engineering and science projects of recent vintage: some useful, some relevant, some interesting, some obscure and some that clearly pertained