Montezuma Strip (7 page)

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

He took a deep breath. “Consider all the crunch they’d been siphoning from Fordmatsu. Then consider Noschek’s hobbies. One
of them is real interesting. You ever hear of MR?”

“Like in ‘mister’?”

“No. Like in morphological resonance.”

She made another face. “Gimme a break, Angel. I’m just a lousy Designer. What the hell is morphological resonance?”

“The concept’s been around for decades. Not many people take it seriously. The scientific establishment has too much invested
in existing theories. That doesn’t put off those folks who are more interested in the truth than intellectual comfort. People
like Noschek. When I found out he was into it I did some reading.

“A long time ago somebody ran a bunch of rats through a series of mazes in Scotland. The same mazes, over and over,
for much longer than anyone would think necessary to prove a point. Each time the rats ran a maze they managed it a little
faster.”

“That’s a revelation?”

“Consider this, then.” He leaned forward. “Some folks in Australia decided to run the same maze. Identical as to size, distance,
configuration, reward at the end, everything. The first time they tried it the rats ran the distance just a hair faster than
the first time their Scottish cousins ran it. Then they repeated the experiment in India. Same thing. The Indian rats got
off to a quicker start than did the Australians. What do you get from that?”

She looked bemused. “That Indian rats are smarter than Scottish or Australian rats?”

He shook his head impatiently. “It wasn’t just done with rats and mazes. Other similar experiments were run, with identical
results. For the scientific establishment that hasn’t been conclusive enough. But it hasn’t stopped theorists from making
proposals.”

“It never does.”

“It was suggested that each time an intelligent creature repeats something exactly as previously done, it sets up a resonance.
Not in the air. In—spacetime, the ether, I don’t know. But it’s there, and the more it’s repeated the stronger and more permanent
the resonance becomes, until it spreads far enough to affect the identical pattern no matter where it’s repeated. That’s where
the rats come in. The theory holds that the rats in Australia were picking up on the resonance set up by the maze runners
in Scotland. Then again in India. Which is why they ran the maze slightly faster at the start and progressively thereafter
for the duration of the experiment. The resonance gave them a head start.

“MR’s been used to explain a lot of things since it was first formulated, up to and including mankind’s exponential progress
in science and technology. According to the theory we’re working on one hell of an expanding resonance. Each
time we come up with something new it’s because we’re building on thought patterns or experimental methodology that’s been
repeated in the past.”

“What’s all this got to do with our departed Designers?”

“You told me what a supercooled Cribm can do. Trillions of crunch a second. Unthinkable quantity in an hour. Incalculable
content in a day. Cribms are used to crunch whole bushels of problems. Suppose you set it to process just one problem, instead
of hundreds. Set it to run the sequence over and over, trillions upon trillions of times. Think of the resonance you could
set up. Enough to last a long time without fading. Maybe even enough to become permanent. “He nodded toward the flickering,
flaring wallscreen.

“You could set it up in there.”

She followed his gaze, found herself whispering. “Crescent and Noschek?”

“Safe, together. As a dual resonance. Patterns of memory, electrical impulses: what we call memory. Reduced to streams of
electrons and run over and over until brought separately into being as a floating resonance inside a box. Not in formal storage,
exactly. Different. Independent of the box systems and yet localized by them. So they’d hang together even better. They reduced
themselves to a program the Cribm could process and set it to repeating the designated patterns, using all that stolen crunch.
They’re in there, Hypatia. In a box built for two.”

“That’s crazy.” Her mouth was suddenly dry. For the first time she felt uncomfortable in the cool office. The door, the unbreakable
window, were keeping them in instead of others out. “You can’t box a person.”

“Resonance, Hypatia. Not a program as we conceive of one. Repetition creates the pattern, brings it into existence. You vacuum
yourself into the Cribm and it repeats you back into existence. As to whether that includes anything we’d recognize as consciousness
I don’t know.”

“If it’s a pattern the Cribm can repeat, maybe it could be—accessed?”

His expression was somber. “I don’t know. I don’t know how they’re in there, if they’re just frozen or if they have some flexibility.
If they’re anything more than just a twitch in spacetime, Hypatia, they’ve found immortality. Even if the power to the box
fails the resonance should remain. It may be restricted in range but it’s independent of outside energy. The resonance maintains
itself. Don’t get me started on thermodynamics. The whole thing’s cockeyed. But it’s not new. People have been discussing
it for decades.”

“Easier when they’re talking about rats,” she murmured. “You say they’re restricted by the confines of the box. Can they move
around inside it?”

“You’ve got the questions, I haven’t got the answers. We’re dealing with something halfway between physics and metaphysics.
I don’t know if I should consult a cyberneticist or a medium.” He indicated the tunnel on the screen. “Maybe when we get to
the end of that we’ll find something besides a dead end.”

She joined him in monitoring their progress. The tunnel seemed endless. By now it should have pushed beyond the confines of
the GenDyne box, yet it showed no signs of weakening.

“They took a terrible chance. They worked awfully hard to hide themselves.”

Cardenas stroked Charliebo. “Maybe all to no end. The theories I’ve enumerated might be just that. It’s more than likely they’re
as dead as their physicalities.”

“Yeah. But if there’s anything to it—if there’s anything
in there
—they might not like being disturbed. Remember the psychomorph.”

“I’m pretty sure I can handle the screen if it goes tactile again, now that I’ve got an idea what to expect. I can always
cut the power.”

“Can you? You said this resonance, if it exists, would remain whether the power was on or not.”

“Their resonance, yes, but cutting the power would deprive them of access to the system—assuming they’re able to interface
with it at all. They could have inserted traps like the psychomorph before they vacuumed themselves.”

“And you think you can access this resonance?”

“If it exists, and only if it’s somehow interfaced with the GenDyne box.”

Three hours later the rising sun found them no nearer the end of the tunnel than when they’d begun. Thirty years earlier Cardenas
could have hung on throughout the day. Not anymore. There were times when mandatory retirement no longer seemed a destination
to be avoided. This was one of them.

He let Hypatia drive him back to her place and put him to bed. He fell asleep fast but he didn’t sleep well.

A psychomorph was chasing him; a gruesome, gory nightmare dredged up from the depths of someone else’s disturbed subconscious.
Frantically he tried to find the kill strip to shut down the power, but someone had removed them all from the control panel
in front of him. And there were screens all around him now, and on the ceiling, and beneath his feet, each one belching forth
a new and more horrible monstrosity. He curled into a fetal ball, whimpering as they touched him with their filthy tendrils,
hunting for his psychic core so they could enter and drive him insane. One used a keyword to open the top of his skull like
a can opener.

He sat up in bed, sweating. Beneath his buttocks the sheet was soaked. A glance at the holo numerals that clung like red spiders
to the wall behind the bed showed 0934. But it was still dark outside. Then he noticed the tiny P.M. to the right of the last
numeral. He’d slept the whole day. His mouth confirmed it, his tongue conveying the taste of old leather.

“Hypatia?” Naked, he slid slowly off the hybred and stumbled toward the bathroom, running both hands through his hair. Water
on his face helped. More down his throat helped to jump-start the rest of his body. He used one of her lilac towels to dry
himself, turned back to the bedroom.

“Hypatia? Charliebo?”

She wasn’t in the kitchen, nor the greeting room. Neither was the shepherd. Both gone out. Maybe she’d taken him for
a walk. Charliebo was well trained, but his insides were no different from any other dog’s. He’d go with her. Dog and Designer
had grown close to each other this past week.

He knew she was worried about him. While he would have preferred to have spared her the concern, he was pleased. Been a long
time since anyone besides Charliebo had really cared about Angel Cardenas, and Hypatia had better legs than the shepherd.
Sure he was stressing himself, but he could take it. All part of the job. Experience compensated for the lack of youthful
resilience. He could handle any traps Crescent and Noschek had left behind, even if she didn’t think he could.

He stopped in the middle of the room. Concerned about him, yeah. About his ability to deal with another psychomorph or worse.
Under those circumstances what would a caring, compassionate woman do? What could she do, to spare him another dangerous,
possibly lethal confrontation? Couldn’t an experienced, younger Designer follow the path he’d already found and thus keep
him from possible danger?

Shit.

He was wide awake now; alert, attuned, and worried. He didn’t remember getting dressed, didn’t recall the short elevator ride
to the subterranean garage. Sure enough, her little three-wheeler was gone. She wasn’t out for an evening stroll with Charliebo,
then. His lungs heaved as he raced for the nearest induction station. It would be faster than trying to call for police backup.

Besides, he might be getting himself all upset over nothing. If he was wrong, he’d end up looking the prize fool. If he was
right, well, Hypatia was highly competent. But he’d much rather play the fool.

The only thing that saved him was his three decades on the force. Thirty years experience means you don’t go barging into
a room. Thirty years handling ninlocos and juice dealers and assorted flakes and whackos says you go in quietly. Go in fast
and loud and you might upset somebody, and they might react before you had time to size things up.

Thirty years says Hypatia would have secursealed the door to the office. When he discovered it wasn’t, he opened it as slowly
as possible.

The lights were on low. The wallscreen was alive with flaring symbols and muted verbal responses. In the center was the tunnel,
twisting and glowing like an electrified python. He picked out the desk, the muted holo portraits of Wallace Crescent’s abandoned,
innocent family.

Hypatia was on the floor. There was enough light to illuminate the figure bent over her. Enough light to show the still, motionless
lump of Charliebo lying not far away.

Quiet as he’d been, the figure still sensed his presence. It turned to face him. The blend suit melted into the background
but he recognized the triple lenses that formed a multicolored swath across the face instantly. All three primaries were down
and functioning now.

Cardenas saw that Hypatia’s jumpsuit was unzipped all the way to her thighs. A handful of secrylic had been slapped across
her mouth, muffling her as it hardened. More of the so-called police putty bound her ankles and wrists. She tried to roll
toward him but found it hard to move because the figure had one knee resting on her hip.

His gaze flicked to Charliebo. The shepherd’s chest was still, the eyes vacant. Cardenas’s vision blurred slightly and his
teeth moved against each other.

“Don’t,” said the flashman. He didn’t sound uncertain tonight. He glanced down at Hypatia, then smiled up at the federale.
“Worried about baby? No need to. Maybe. Come in, close the door behind you. If I’d sealed it you would’ve gone for help. This
way I only have to deal with you, right?” He leaned slightly to his left as if to see behind Cardenas.

“Right.” Cardenas kept his hands in view, his movements slow and unambiguous. Hypatia stared at him imploringly. He saw that
she’d been crying. Easy, he told himself. Keep it easy.

But it wasn’t easy, it wasn’t easy at all.

“You so much as twitch the wrong way, Federale, and
she’ll be sorry.” The flashman was grinning at something only he found amusing. “You should’ve stayed in bed, man.”

No hurry. No emergency. Not yet. He moved off to his right. “Why’d you have to kill my dog?”

He didn’t get the response he expected. The flashman let out a short, sharp laugh. “Hey, that’s funny! You don’t know why
it’s funny, do you? I’ll tell you later, after I’m through here. Or maybe I’ll let her tell you.” He glanced quickly at the
screen, not giving Cardenas any time. “Got to be an end to this damn tunnel soon.”

“All I have to do,” Cardenas said softly, “is shout, and Security’ll be down on you like bad news.”

Again the unhealthy, relaxed laugh, a corrugated giggle. “Sure they would, but you won’t shout.” He held something up so Cardenas
could see it.

A Scrambler. Military model, banned for private use. Of course, banning was only a legal term. It didn’t keep things from
falling into the hands of people who wanted to have them. When everything else failed the police used less powerful versions
of the same device to subdue juice addicts who outgrabed. It put them down fast but it didn’t do permanent damage. Fourth
world military types used powered-up models for less reputable purposes. The flashlight-shaped device scrambled nerve endings.
The federale issue paralyzed. The military model could break down neurons beyond hope of surgical repair. In hand-to-hand
combat it was much more efficient than a knife or bayonet and a lot easier to use. You didn’t have to penetrate. All you had
to do was make contact.