Quantum Night

  The room was filled with conduits and pipes, compressors and tanks. The walls were bare cement; the floor crisscrossed by tire skid marks presumably from heavy equipment having been wheeled in and out. We closed the door, and I took out the disposable pay-as-you-go voice-only cell phone I’d picked up at 7-Eleven this morning. Shit. No bars! But, after a couple of seconds one appeared, and then, like its taller brother, another popped up beside it. Cell phones aren’t great for calling 911, so I’d jotted down the regular number for the Saskatoon Police Service on the back of an old restaurant receipt—the one from that meal Kayla and I had shared at Sydney’s—and punched it in now.

  On the second ring, the phone was answered by an automated attendant. I worked my way through menus, until, at last, a gruff male voice said, “Saskatoon Police.”

  “Good morning, sir,” I said—Canadian politeness to the end. “I’ve planted a bomb at the Canadian Light Source; you know, the synchrotron on the U of S campus.”

  “Who is—”

  “It will detonate in sixty minutes.” And then, to give it an appropriate patina of craziness: “Those godless scientists are messing with the forces of nature. They have to be stopped.”

  “Sir, if you’ll just—”

  I pushed the button that disconnected the call, and we stood there, waiting. The thrum of the machinery drowned out the sound of our breathing, although Pax was panting from the hellish heat in here.

  It was almost four minutes before an alarm sounded, and then, muffled—there was no intercom speaker in this confined space—we heard Jeff Cutler’s voice, reverberating: “All right, folks. Yes, again: evacuate, evacuate! For now, report to your fire-muster points. Everybody out, right now, right now!”

  The building was large; on a normal day, Vic had said it could take a good ten minutes to get from deep in its interior to the main doors. But it had emergency exits, and those would be used now. We waited five minutes—although it seemed much longer—and then, cautiously, Vic opened the door partway, sticking her head out. She then opened it farther and left the room, gesturing for us to follow. My forehead and armpits were slick with sweat.

  The place was deserted: vast, empty, but still alive, equipment throbbing. On the desks in the experimental hutches we passed were the stereotypical abandoned half-drunk cups of coffee and half-eaten sandwiches, plus, stretched like flayed skins over the backs of chairs or hanging from hooks, abandoned jackets and sweaters that might have been needed in air-conditioned conference rooms but certainly weren’t required outdoors in the heat of a prairie summer.

  The security cameras were still running, doubtless recording what we were doing, but no one would be watching the monitors just now. We made it to the end of the SusyQ beamline, and, as Vic had arranged, a gurney was there. “Okay,” I said to Menno, “we’re here.”

  Victoria and I helped guide him to the gurney, and he mounted it with a visible effort, then lay down. Vic cinched the bone-colored strap against his forehead, and she motioned for me to help wheel him into place.

  And, as she’d said she would last night, Vic ran her test, the graph appearing on a monitor. Up high, as usual, was the band representing the entanglement of the entire human race, and, down below, there was just one superposition spike; Menno Warkentin was indeed now a Q1.

  “It’ll take a few minutes to divert the power from the other beamlines,” Vic said. She did things on her computer, and another animated diagram came up on-screen. “Then there will be a three-minute gap between the first boosting and the second one; it’ll take that long for the equipment to recharge before we can boost everyone the second time.”

  I watched as various things I didn’t understand happened on the status display Vic was looking at, and then, at last, she said, “Sixty seconds.”

  My heart was pounding; if it had actually had surgical seams, it might have burst along them.

  —

  Kayla’s car raced across the University of Saskatchewan campus, sending up, as she saw in the rearview mirror, clouds of dust like prairie locusts. She again told her phone, connected to the car’s Bluetooth sound system, to call Vic’s cell, then Jim’s, but they both were still going immediately to their voice mail—and every landline number she’d tried at the Light Source had rung and rung until finally shunting to an automated attendant.

  She turned left onto Innovation Boulevard and—

  —hit the brakes! Five police cruisers were blocking the way, their roof lights flashing. Kayla skidded forward. She spun her steering wheel to keep from colliding with the closest cop car. As soon as she came to a stop, she threw her door open and hurried out. A uniformed officer approached her. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said from behind aviator-style sunglasses. “Place has been evacuated.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Ma’am, we need you to turn around and head out of here.”

  “Oh, Christ,” she said. “It’s a bomb threat, right? Somebody called in another bomb threat, didn’t they?” She spread her arms. “It’s a hoax.”

  “Ma’am, the bomb squad will make that determination when they get here.”

  “I’m Dr. Huron; I’m a physicist at the Light Source. I need to get in.”

  “Please, ma’am, you don’t want me to have to—”

  She scanned around and spotted a loud Hawaiian shirt about fifty meters away. “Jeff!” she shouted, but the summer wind just blew the syllable back in her face. He was with a knot of others—some in lab coats, others in jeans and T-shirts, a couple in overalls and hardhats—and no one in all black. “Jeff!”

  “There’s nothing he can do for you, ma’am,” the cop said.

  “You don’t understand,” Kayla replied. “I have to get in there. I have to stop them.”

  The cop put a hand on the Taser attached to his belt. “Please, ma’am, you need to return to your vehicle and move it out of the way.”

  Kayla took off, running across the grass, heading for the Light Source’s entrance, a hundred meters or more away.

  “Ma’am, freeze!”

  She continued, legs pistoning.

  And then, from behind her, a sound like fishing line being cast, and—

  —something hit her in the back, the force of it impelling her forward even more quickly, until—

  —her eyes bugged out and her legs stopped working and she tumbled forward, skidding face-first across the grass like a runner desperately sliding toward home. She was dazed but still fully conscious—and, she knew, for a few more minutes at least, she also had a conscience, one that was awash with guilt for not having gotten there in time.

  49

  THE mechanical thrum on the Light Source’s experimental floor was growing louder. I had no idea what was happening in the vast ring—or in the linear accelerator off to one side that fed into it, or on the other beamlines Vic was diverting power from—but it was all accompanied by suitably impressive sound effects: a gathering storm of power. Overhead, the giant hemispherical lights flickered a couple of times, as if God himself were blinking in surprise.

  When I’d changed states before—all three previous times—I’d been knocked out, and so there was a discontinuity. I’d been here and then I was there. I’d been seated, or standing, or, you know, trying to strangle someone, and then I was being carried down a corridor by a couple of professors, or lying facedown on the floor in a lab, or waking up disoriented in my bed. But this time there shouldn’t be a change in perspective.

  Vic kept switching from looking at Menno on the gurney and looking at the graph on the monitor, but I kept my gaze glued to the display: the single superposition spike remained rock steady as the background thrum metamorphosed into a whine, a keening of ever-increasing pitch. And then, at last, it happened: a second spike popped up on the graph, and, as it did so, the entanglement band near the top of the screen looked like a braided rope being rotated around its long axis,
changing and yet remaining the same.

  And then—

  But then—

  Just then—

  —

  Vladimir Putin paced back and forth. His generals always took seats in his presence not because he encouraged them to be at ease—far from it—but rather because the president, who only managed 170 centimeters thanks to the lifts in his shoes, disliked having to look up at subordinates.

  Putin walked along the red carpeting, the same red as the bottom field of the Russian tricolor flag, and, more importantly, at least to him, the same red as used on the old hammer and sickle from the glory days of the USSR.

  His communications chief swiveled in his chair. “I have the missile-silo commanders standing by to receive launch codes.”

  “Very good,” said Putin.

  And then—

  But then—

  Just then—

  —

  A computer display. Two spikes. A response required, but—

  But what should it be? Had it always been two spikes?

  Eyes were swiveled to the left, revealing someone else. Searching: a person, a woman, Asian, short, thirties, long hair, black top, black pants. A match: Vic. Victoria. Victoria Chen.

  Eyes were turned back to the display. A reply, manufactured out of nothing. “Well, well, well, would you look at that?”

  —

  Menno heard the voice—“Well, well, well, would you look at that?”—and recognized it at once: Jim Marchuk. And, of course, he knew where he was: the Canadian Light Source. Pax must be nearby, as well as that physicist, Victoria.

  He’d cost Marchuk half a year of his life, and that other guy, Travis Huron, two decades, but—

  But, you know what? Fuck it. Dom and me, we’d been onto something huge. Those kids were lucky to have been part of it, for God’s sake.

  Menno wanted to shake his head, but nothing happened; the restraining strap remained in place. Still, what a relief it was to no longer feel guilty! After all these years! In fact—

  He heard Marchuk’s voice again; Vic’s, too, but it was Marchuk’s that was grating. Not for its tone—yeah, yeah, that was pleasant enough—but for the mere fact of its existence. Why was he even still alive? Fucking guy gouged my eyes out! Asshole’s gotta pay for that!

  —

  When push comes to shove, you don’t back down. That was the lesson young Vladimir had learned on the playground; that was the lesson he’d taught those bastards in Ukraine.

  The launch sequence consisted of two parts: first a daily code word followed by a plain-Russian statement to allow the voiceprint analyzers to confirm his identity, and then a twelve-character alphanumeric code, which his Minister of Defense had already handed to him in a breakable plastic case.

  Putin leaned into the microphone that arched up like the neck of a black swan. “This is the president. The dayword is balansirovaniya, and here is the authorization code.” He cracked open the case, revealing the string embossed in red on the yellow plastic card within.

  Putin spoke the first three characters—two letters and a number—and then . . .

  Thoughts of his daughters Mariya and Yekaterina came to him . . .

  He recited the next two characters: a number and a letter.

  Mariya was expecting her first child this autumn.

  Another letter. And another.

  He paused, thinking. Reflecting.

  “Sir?” said the Minister of Defense. “Mr. President?”

  The consequences would be huge. Gigantic. No way the Americans—and the Chinese and the North Koreans—wouldn’t respond.

  “Mr. President? Are you all right?”

  And, really, in the end, what good would it do?

  “Sir, they’re waiting on the last digit.” The minister leaned in, had a look. “It’s a nine, sir.”

  Putin scowled; he could see that perfectly well.

  “Sir?”

  The president opened his mouth, and said, “Nyet.”

  “Mr. President?”

  “No,” he said again. And then, words he didn’t recall ever having said before in his entire life: “No, on second thought, I’m not going to do this . . .”

  —

  Devin Becker sat, as he had most of every day since his sentencing, on the edge of his bunk here in the Georgia D&C State Prison, hands cupping his narrow face. He was furious at the jury, the judge, and that bitch of a D.A., but, most of all, at his own lawyer and that fucking Canuck expert witness. What the hell had they been thinking, branding him a psychopath! Yeah, yeah, things had gotten a little rough that day over at the Savannah Prison, but, hell, those inmates deserved it. They’re the ones who should be on death row, not him . . . well, except for that asshole he’d drowned in the sink; obviously he couldn’t be here. But still.

  And, besides, it was mostly the fault of the other guards. Devin had merely suggested they teach the prisoners a lesson; those brain-dead morons didn’t have to actually do it!

  And then—

  But then—

  Just then—

  Devin felt something wash over him, a wave of—of . . . well, he didn’t know what, but the thought he was thinking was straightforward even if it was new for him: Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.

  And, a few seconds later: I mean, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t—

  And, after that: What was I thinking?

  And, simplest of all, and yet so novel, so strange: Why?

  Was this . . . ? Was it . . . ? Is this what regret felt like? In affirming the jury’s sentencing, that Jap judge had said, “Mr. Becker has shown not one iota of remorse for his heinous crimes.” But now . . .

  Now . . .

  Devin took a deep breath. The air here was always bad: too hot, too humid, stinking of shit and piss and sweaty clothes. Still, he’d always inhaled it without difficulty, but this time it snagged in his throat, and his chest shuddered.

  And again, another sucking in of rotten jailhouse air, another quaking of his chest, his shoulders cresting and falling.

  And then, the most astonishing thing: his knuckles, resting against his cheeks, suddenly wet.

  —

  Face-first on . . . grass?

  Pushing up, rising, the body turning.

  There: a police officer, holding . . . a Taser? The cop looked at the object, his eyes wide, mouth hanging open, and then dropping the device, walking over, closing the distance. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t have run.”

  Knees wobbling; support needed. Body rotating, revealing a view of others on the wide lawn, movements random, a flock dispersed . . .

  —

  “Let me up!” Menno said. “Let me get up!”

  It wasn’t that painful, really, but he’d changed his mind—now that he was back to having a mind. He wanted to get off at this stop, and not just because it might kill him if the synchrotron zapped him a second time, but because this felt so damn good—despite the splitting headache.

  But Jim and Victoria were presumably both p-zeds at the moment. Of course, they’d be disoriented, but with luck they’d also be compliant. “Jim. It’s me. It’s Professor Warkentin. I need you to come here. Jim, are you there? Jim? Jim!”

  —

  A voice, familiar but distressed. Calling a name—calling this one’s name. A response expected. And so: “Yes, Menno?”

  “Thank God! Something’s wrong. It hurts.”

  More words expected; generated: “What hurts?”

  “My head. It’s—Jesus, it’s like a jackhammer.” A grunt, then: “Turn it off! Turn it off!”

  “Turn what off?”

  “The beam!”

  Eyes were swiveled toward Victoria; shoulders were lifted.

  “Jim! For God’s sake!”

  —

 
Unwatched, the timer on Victoria’s screen counted down the time until the beamline would fire again.

  Five seconds left.

  And now four.

  And then three.

  And two.

  And just one.

  And—

  —

  Wow.

  Wow, wow.

  I looked at my watch—a thirty-dollar Timex; Jesus, why didn’t I get something nice? Something that’d impress people? I could bloody well afford it, after all!

  And—yes, yes! It was like being on Mars, weighing a third of what I had before. No more guilt, no self-flagellation, no fucking burdens. The world was mine for the taking, and why shouldn’t I take it? I was smarter and more cunning than everyone else, and—

  And well, well, well, what have we here?

  Vic.

  She looked ravishing in ebony leather and charcoal silk.

  Ravishing. The very word.

  She’d look even better out of those clothes. And we were all alone here, in this big, empty place . . .

  Well, all alone except for Warkentin, but that Mennonite oaf was blind, and—

  And there he was, still on the gurney, head still strapped down, but—

  But his mouth was hanging open, and his chest didn’t seem to be moving, and his damn dog was whimpering and licking his hand.

  Mildly curious, I went over and felt for a pulse.

  Nada. Huh.

  50

  LYING came so easily now—and that was a good thing. When the bomb squad finally came in to search the synchrotron building, they found me and Vic and Pax, and Menno’s body, which we’d moved from the gurney down onto the cement floor. We told the cops—who were discombobulated by their own quantum-state changes, I’m sure—that Menno had gone into cardiac arrest when the evacuation announcement had come over the P.A., and, of course, we’d bravely stayed behind, trying to resuscitate him. We’d gotten one of the Light Source’s automated external defibrillators out of its emergency case and had deployed it next to his corpse.