The Trigger

  'Output power at five percent,' Gordie reported a moment later. 'Output frequency at one hundred Hertz and climbing.'

  Horton sat back in his rolling lab chair, his elbows propped on its arms, his hands restless in his lap. The experiment was now under the control of a custom program nicknamed Steady Hand, running on the Alpha 3 at Lee's console. Immune to both anxiety and anticipation, Steady Hand's primary duties were to hold the output power constant at each stage of the series, and to ensure a slow, smooth sweep through the emitter's operational spectrum.

  No one spoke for several minutes. Thayer and Horton were intently watching the continuously updated displays before them.

  Both had the power to pause the sequencer or terminate the trial with the touch of one finger.

  'Coming up on the infrared notch,' Lee announced.

  Horton nodded. Owing to the problem of heating the tissue-thin ribbons, much of the infrared spectrum had to be skipped. 'Here comes the first rainbow.'

  From behind the radiation screens came a flare of pale red light. The light shifted quickly toward orange and kept changing until it disappeared as a pale violet cast.

  'Beginning X-ray series,' said Thayer.

  'I hope that was lead underwear you changed into,' said Gordie.

  'You'll never know,' she answered breezily. 'Boss, everything still looks nice and stable to me.'

  'To me, too,' he said. 'I wouldn't mind seeing a wiggle or two any time now, though.'

  'Do you have a bet going with yourself about where?'

  The low end - the very long wavelengths. Dr Brohier thinks just the opposite - he thinks our emitter can't reach the necessary frequencies, up around ten to the twenty-second.' He shrugged. 'So much of the mid-spectrum's been studied to death already, the odds are that one of us is right -'

  'First pass complete,' she interrupted. 'Negative results.'

  'At least we got through a first pass,' Gordie said. 'Output power now at ten percent. Once more with feeling -'

  'We've been here before,' Thayer said diffidently. 'I'm not going to get excited until we pass our previous best.'

  That was twenty-eight minutes and six seconds, or nearly three complete passes, from the December 12 trial. That attempt had ended when a solid-state power conditioner failed, giving Steady Hand an advanced case of digital palsy.

  'I wonder if there's some French physicist sitting in the control room at CERN right now,' Greene mused aloud, 'pumping Z particles into a simulated protostellar nebula and polishing his paper on induced gravitational clumping -'

  Spinning his chair toward Greene, Horton shrugged. 'If so, more power to 'em - no pun intended. If it turns out you need heavy bosons to pump up a gravity laser, we're not going to be the ones to do it. Fermilab, CERN, KEK, even Stanford and

  Brookhaven - we can't get in there, and we can't compete with them.'

  'Coming up on the infrared notch,' Thayer said quietly.

  Horton nodded.

  A rainbow of light flared across the ceiling of the lab.

  'I still think we missed a bet not making a deal with one of the smaller high-energy labs,' said Greene. 'There's always someone who's hurting for money. Macdonald, Elettra - I hear Protvino's for sale.'

  Thayer sniffed. 'You just want a chance to play with a trillion electron volts.'

  'Who doesn't?'

  Horton stood up and stretched. 'I don't. That wouldn't help us. I'm hoping for an effect we can apply in the real world - the physics of the first three seconds of the Universe are of no practical use to anyone. If we -' He stopped in midsentence and leaned in toward the display. 'What the hell is that?'

  Thayer was frowning, pulling her chair toward the control console. 'Some kind of ground tremor. Look at the seismograph.'

  Before Horton could respond, a harsh alarm cut through the room, keening from the lab intercom.

  'What is that - the lockdown warning?' Horton started toward the lab door. 'Reset everything to the start of the current pass,' he ordered, raising his voice over the alarm. 'Check your calibrations -'

  Suddenly Horton was competing not with the alarm, but with another voice. 'All Terabyte personnel - this is Site Security. A precautionary lockdown is now in effect throughout the campus. Isolation protocols for power and communication have been invoked -'

  'There goes the trial,' Greene said in disgust.

  '- Please remain where you are. Do not leave the building. Stay away from windows -'

  As Horton reached the lab door, the data bar on the electronic locks began to flash red, and the door itself was immovable. He grabbed the wired phone hanging beside it and punched Security. It rang an extraordinary eleven times before it was answered.

  'This is Dr Horton. What's going on?'

  'Dr Horton - this is Tim Bartel. Are you and your staff all right?'

  'We're fine -'

  'Where are you at the moment?'

  'Davisson, Planck Center.'

  'Good. Please stay there, Dr Horton. We'll come for you as soon as we're sure there's no danger.'

  'Damn it, just tell me what's happening.'

  There was a moment's hesitation. There's been an explosion on the grounds -'

  'What? A bomb?'

  'Bloody hell,' said Greene, eavesdropping.

  'I don't know what caused it,' Bartel said tersely. 'We've got two fires burning, a couple of people hurt. But you should be safe where you are. Please stay put until we're sure the situation is under control.' Then the line went dead, the connection broken at the other end.

  As Horton returned the phone to its cradle, he sighed exasperatedly, and his shoulders sagged. He looked up into the anxious expressions on his staff's faces. 'Shut it all down,' he said wearily. 'We're done for the day.'

  * * *

  2: Mystery

  San Juan, Puerto Rico - Nine separate explosions rocked Puerto Rico overnight Tuesday, killing one person and injuring three others. The bombs destroyed a railroad bridge and damaged a tour bus depot and the power substation serving Ft. Buchanan, headquarters of the US Army South. The show of strength by the pro-independence Macheteros came on the anniversary of the US invasion of the island during the Spanish-American War.

  Complete story Gov. Harrod's statement

  The security lockdown ended after two hours, allowing Jeffrey Horton to leave Planck Center. He was met at the door by an acrid smell of something burned or burning, and by Donovan King, the director of site security for Terabyte, in his yellow Jeep.

  'Dr Brohier's waiting at the service gate,' King said. 'Get in - I want to give you both a tour of the damage.'

  Horton clambered into the back seat. 'What happened?'

  'Damned if I know,' King said tersely as the Jeep jerked forward.

  'Well, was it a bomb?'

  'Damned if I know.'

  King's answer was sobering. He was a lean, tanned veteran of ten years with US Air Force Special Operations and sixteen in private security consulting. In that time, he had confronted a wide range of threats, from millennialist martyrs and Third-World gunrunners to cuckolded husbands and corporate hackers. His quiet competence was taken as a matter of course - which made his clear discomfiture a matter of concern.

  'What about injuries?' Horton pressed.

  'Dr Horton, I understand your impatience with me, but I'd like to wait until Dr Brohier joins us and brief you together.'

  Horton did not argue. He was distracted by the thin plume of grey smoke visible to the northwest. A grassy hillock intervened to keep him from seeing its source or gauging its distance, but the tang in the air told him it was nearby.

  It did not take long to reach the service gate and collect Brohier. The director looked uncharacteristically rumpled, with no tie or jacket, and an unruly lock of hair over his left ear. But he greeted Horton with a relaxed smile.

  I'm glad you and your people are okay, Jeffrey. Mr King, how is Mr Fleet?'

  'As soon as I could spare him, I sent Charlie over to the hospital to get a rep
ort on Eric,' King said. 'But he hasn't called in yet.'

  'All right,' said Brohier, awkwardly hoisting himself into the passenger seat. 'Why don't you show me what happened here?'

  Their first stop was the still-smouldering remains of the grounds-keeper's shed. The little earth-sheltered structure was a shambles, its concrete roof and overburden of earth and sod gone, its contents a blackened jumble, its sectional door lying thirty meters away, buckled and twisted. Nearby, a member of the maintenance staff stood watch beside the lab's first-response fire truck - a foam generator mounted on a Hummer chassis.

  'What was Eric doing back here?' Horton asked as he peered at the remains of the tractor. 'He was on the gate when I came in.'

  'He was still on the gate when this went up,' said King. 'He never got back here.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'Neither do I,' said King. 'Let me show you the rest.'

  King took them next to the front gate. 'Eric was in the shack,' he said, gesturing. 'Nothing to see, really, except a scorch mark on the floor. Eric ended up with burns from his hip to his knee. His leg looks like it was held in a blowtorch. I have what's left of his sidearm in my office. Apparently the bits of melting nylon from the holster caused some of his worst burns.'

  'Heavens,' said Brohier. This was caused by debris from the explosion, I take it?'

  'The shack's intact, Dr Brohier. No holes in the roof, no broken glass -'

  Then what? Did he set himself on fire? Perhaps he was lighting a cigarette when the bomb went off -'

  'Eric doesn't smoke,' said Horton.

  'No?'

  'No,' said King.

  Then what?'

  Til show you the security video when we go inside. Maybe you can tell me.'

  But first, the security director drove them past the burned-out shell of a two-door sedan parked in the outer lot, three rows south of the gate. 'We were a bit shorthanded when everything went blooey,' King said. 'Eric and the grounds shed got priority. The guys didn't get to this until the car was pretty well gone.'

  This must be how Eric got hurt, then,' said Brohier. There must have been two bombs, one here in front, the other in back. He must have been checking out this car -'

  'No,' said King. 'Wait until you see the rest.'

  There's more?'

  King drove them to the west side of Edison Center, the sprawling administrative services building, and took them inside the small security office garage, where the first-response truck was ordinarily parked when not in use. There he showed them the blackened lockbox between the front seats of a yellow Jeep which was parked in a back corner and roped off with red plastic tape. The interior of the Jeep was coated with a gritty white powder which Horton took for residue from a chemical fire extinguisher.

  'We were able to keep this in the family,' King said. 'Jack was on mobile patrol in Number Three this morning. He was responding to the back lot explosion and reaching for his sidearm, which was in the lockbox. He ended up burning his hand on the cover of the box. I have a pretty good idea what we'll find when we get that box open - it's sealed tight, with a deadlock and probably a partial vacuum inside.'

  'I'm confused - what do these things have to do with each other?' Brohier asked, frowning.

  'I'm kind of counting on you to tell me,' King said.

  Horton's mind was already spinning. 'Your men carry the Clock 17, right?'

  King nodded.

  'Anything special about the ammunition?'

  'Besides the fact that there seems to have been some sort of massive misfire that I don't begin to understand? No. It's standard Remington 9mm - we don't roll our own.'

  'Still, it wouldn't hurt to look at the rest of the box -'

  'It wouldn't hurt, but it isn't going to happen. If you'll follow me into the office, I'll show you why.'

  A minute later, they were standing in the equipment room of the security suite, staring disbelievingly at the buckled door of the gun safe. Neither the deluge from the fire sprinklers nor the fans set up to dry out the room had scrubbed the smell of burned gunpowder from the space.

  'The fire started inside the safe?' Brohier asked.

  'So it seems.'

  Brohier shook his head. 'I need a cup of coffee,' he said. 'Mr King, why don't you join us in my office in half an hour. Bring the video and Mr Fleet's gun with you, and anything else you may have by then. And get someone to work on that lockbox -I think we need to see what's inside.'

  'I have a forensic specialist coming in later this morning. I'd rather not touch it until then.'

  Brohier nodded grudging agreement. 'In half an hour, then.'

  'Director - one more thing,' King said. The fire inspector's waiting for me to call her back. How do you want me to handle the authorities? Invite them in, or try to keep them at arm's length?'

  That depends, Mr King. Are we looking at a crime, or an accident?'

  'At this point, Director, I just don't know.'

  Then why don't we keep it closely held for a while. And I'll deal with the outside world.'

  King nodded approvingly. 'I have no problem with that.'

  One of Karl Brohier's qualities that Horton most admired and marveled at was his calm efficiency in crisis. While Brohier did not succeed in getting near a coffee cup before Donovan King rejoined them, he did manage to complete eight phone calls - to the township fire inspector, two members of the township council, the city editor of the Columbus Dispatch, the director of personnel for Terabyte, the lab's insurance officer, the chief of medicine at the Olentangy Medical Center, and the local news channel that was broadcasting live pictures of the smoking hole in the lab's back yard from an orbiting UAW.

  Even more amazingly, he seemed to get what he wanted from each of the calls -namely, breathing space.

  'Any further word on Mr Fleet?' Brohier asked King as the trio sat down together.

  I'm still waiting for an update from someone who's actually seen him in the ER, but the EMTs were optimistic,' said King. 'Might need some grafts, though, which is never fun. He probably doesn't feel as lucky as he was. Let me show you the recording from the gate cameras.'

  Brohier and Horton watched silently as the split-screen images played. There was no vehicle at the gate, no sign of any outsider. One moment Fleet was sitting in the gatehouse, sipping a cup of coffee. Then the holster on the guard's right hip seemed to explode in a fierce roar and a searing gout of yellow flame. Screaming and thrashing frantically, Eric crashed heavily into the metal security log desk, then the side wall before falling against the door and out onto the pavement.

  'Good god,' said Brohier, blanching.

  Horton was shaking his head. That shouldn't happen. I've never seen anything like that.'

  'No, it sure as hell shouldn't,' said King. 'It looks as though all seventeen rounds - the whole clip, with one of the rounds chambered - were involved. The gun is a wreck. The grip is nearly burned away. It looks like most of the slugs were still in the gun -half-melted, though.'

  'Why is that?' Brohier asked, his gaze narrowing. 'I would think they'd have scattered in every direction.'

  'The brass isn't strong enough on its own to contain the kind of gas pressures that burning gunpowder produces.' Horton explained. The cartridge will split and vent before the bullet acquires any real momentum.'

  'So what would you call this, then - a misfire?' asked Brohier.

  'No, no,' said King. 'Not a misfire, not an explosion. What we had was a gunpowder-fueled flash fire inside the body of the pistol. For a couple of seconds, it was a flamethrower instead of a firearm.'

  'How do you know that's what happened?' asked Morton.

  King tapped the upper left corner of the interior view. 'Eric keeps his spare clip in the log desk - he doesn't like the weight on his belt -'

  'They both burned?' Horton asked disbelievingly.

  'I'll show you the recording again. You can see the flash, and the lid of the desk jump, and then smoke from the seams.'

  'Makes
no sense,' Horton said, still shaking his head.

  'What about the car bomb?' asked Brohier.

  King nodded. That was probably an unfortunate choice of words on our part. Did you two see what's left of the vehicle?'

  'Yes, as I arrived,' said Brohier.

  'Just a glimpse,' said Horton.

  'I've got a security camera recording on that, too. Take a look.'

  The camera was slowly panning the nearly-empty lot when there was a bright flash inside a white sedan parked in the foreground. The vehicle seemed to jump in place, the windshield and both of its passenger-side windows blown out by a cloud of gray-black smoke that lingered over it in the still air. Then the first tongues of flame appeared, licking at the dash. In moments, the interior of the sedan was completely engulfed, and the plume of smoke turned black with burning synthetics.

  King turned off the recorder. 'About three minutes later, the gas tank blew up, with the results you've already seen. Luckily, no one was there trying to put it out - we'd responded to Eric's location.'

  'Which happened first?' asked Brohier. The misfire, or the car fire?'

  'Neither,' King said. 'According to the time marks on the recordings, they happened at damn near the same instant. You can hear Eric's gun on the audio track from the parking lot. And you can see the initial flash from the car as a momentary shadow on the video track from the gatehouse.'

  'Whose car was it?' asked Horton.

  'Your assistant's,' King said. 'Dr Gordon Greene. I thought this might be a good time to ask him about it and see if he can shed any light.'

  'By all means,' said Brohier, gesturing his assent. 'Call him in.'

  King nodded. 'Maybe I should send someone to bring him here, just in case.'

  'Just in case what?' Horton asked.

  'In case he tries to run,' King said, his gaze and tone both level.

  'Wait - this is absurd. How did he become a suspect? What do you think he did?'

  'I don't really know,' said King. 'But I've got a friend in intensive care because something pretty goddamned weird happened to his sidearm. And Greene is your gadgeteer, yes? Don't those Cal Tech people have a reputation for pranks -'