Authors: Christopher John Chater
“What are you doing?” Ursula asked, standing under the frame of the front door.
Kurt turned with a gasp and said, “You scared the crap out of me!”
“That was my dad’s Rubik’s cube.”
Kurt set it back on the perch. “Sorry.”
“I could hear you pacing.” She crossed over to the desk and picked up the completed Rubik’s cube. She studied the toy incredulously and said, “You did it. This one’s really hard. My dad had it specially made.”
“Beginner’s luck, I guess. Sorry, I couldn’t sleep—”
“He has more games.” She walked over to the bookshelf and opened a drawer at the bottom of it. She took out a wooden box, set it on the desk, and opened it, revealing the ivory colored pieces of different geometrical shapes inside.
“It’s called a Tangram,” she said. “Be careful. It’s old.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“You’re supposed to create an image using the pieces.” She went to the bookcase and retrieved a book on Tangrams. She opened it to a random page. “Arrange the pieces so they look like the images in the book. Like this one here.”
It looked like a chicken.
Kurt hovered over the box a moment and studied the ivory pieces. He then took them out and before long he had them arranged to resemble a chicken.
She looked at her watch and said, “It only took you two minutes. Very impressive. Now try this one.”
It looked like a person in silhouette.
“It says here an advanced player can get it done in less than a minute,” she said.
He stared at the picture a moment and then he created the image with the ivory pieces in just a few seconds.
She gasped and slammed the book shut. “How did you do that?”
“This is easy. It’s a kid’s toy.”
“My dad spent every waking minute on these ‘toys.’ He was one of the smartest men I’ve ever met and I doubt very seriously he could have done that.”
Kurt shrugged.
“Alright, Einstein. Let’s see how you do with this.” She quickly went back into the drawer and took out a square box. It was a sliding tile puzzle on a four by four grid.
“Ever done this?” she asked.
“No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You have trust issues,” he said, taking the game board from her. “How do you play?”
“Put the numbers in sequence,” she said. While he held it, she scrambled the board to make sure none of the pieces were in sequence.
He finished it in thirty-five seconds, with no mistakes or reconsiderations.
She quickly took it from him. She hid the game board from him as she arranged the pieces; the surreptitious behavior, however, gave her no advantage. When she handed it back to him, only the last row was out of sequence. It went 14, 13, 15.
“Fix it.” she said.
He stared at it for a moment. “I would, but it’s impossible.”
“I knew it,” she said, taking the game from him.
“Knew what?”
“You’ve done this before.”
“I’ve never played that game in my life,” he said.
“Then how did you know it’s impossible? You didn’t even try.”
“Seemed obvious to me.”
“It would be impossible for you to know that unless you were some kind of savant or something.”
“Are you saying I’m not smart enough to figure out that silly game?”
“I’m saying that you’re a bit too good looking to be a savant.”
Kurt’s eyes went wide with tickled shock and a winning smirk creased his face.
They were sitting in the kitchen at a breakfast nook in Ursula’s apartment. When she had called him for breakfast earlier, he had felt like he was at a bed and breakfast—until he saw what she had prepared for him: a bowl of
Froot Loops
, admittedly the only thing she knew how to cook.
“You know, when I said you were too good looking to be a savant, what I meant was—”
“I know what you meant,” Kurt said, slurping fruity milk off a spoon.
“Not sure you do. I’ve known a lot of geniuses. Like everything else, my father collected them. Most of them smelled of old books, dressed like they just got out of bed, and were about as well-groomed as a gorilla. All I meant was that you smell nice—I mean, you’re more clean-cut.”
“I smell good, too?” Kurt asked, looking up at her.
“No—I mean—I haven’t smelled you—you smell fine.” She looked at him doe-eyed for a moment, then said, “This isn’t going how I had imagined it in my mind.”
“I get it,” Kurt said. “You’ve never met anyone who is as smart as he is handsome, exudes a natural manly musk, and is not only well coiffed but fashionably relevant. Yes, we do exist. If you went out once in a while, you might have met more of us.”
She rolled her eyes and tossed a business card onto the table. “Here’s my lawyer’s card.” The name on it was Pham Knigle, Attorney-At-Law.
“Pham?” Kurt asked.
“He’s Vietnamese. My dad shot him during the war. He felt pretty bad about it, so he told him that when the war was over, he should come to America and work for him. My dad helped him get citizenship and even put him through law school. Sort of a long and weird story, but that was my dad, long and weird.”
“Must be genetic.”
“Very funny.”
“I can maybe understand not having a TV, but how do you live without the Internet?” Kurt asked.
“Having withdrawals?”
“Big time. I should probably check my phone. It’s still in your mailbox.”
“I bet you feel naked without that thing.”
“Pretty much.”
She grinned. “For me, it’s like watching people put a used diaper to their ears.” She tossed him the keys to the mailbox.
“I’ll wash up afterwards.”
Out on the street, Kurt retrieved the cell phone from the tinfoil-lined mailbox and when he turned it on, he noticed he had no messages. Oddly, Miles hadn’t called. Kurt wondered what could have kept him from calling. He decided to call Ursula’s lawyer first, since Miles had stressed the importance of having one.
Kurt dialed the number and when he got the secretary, he was put straight through.
“This is Pham Knigle. Am I speaking to Kurt Robbins?”
“Yes, sir,” Kurt said.
“Mister Robbins, I am exhausted by your case.” He said this with some humor, but he was obviously annoyed. “The U.S. government is upset with you.”
“Government? I’m involved in a copyright infringement . . . issue,” Kurt said.
“Not according to Homeland Security. You’re being investigated for terrorism, Mister Robbins. I strongly recommend you turn yourself into the proper authorities as soon as possible.”
Kurt was stunned silent. “Is this some sort of joke?”
“No, Mister Robbins. I can assure you, this is very serious.”
“It’s got to be a mistake. I’m a writer.”
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Pham said.
“I wrote a book, submitted it to my editor, and was told that I had written the same book as six other writers. I don’t know what you know about plagiarism, but it’s extremely unusual for someone to copy a book word for word. I’d have to be the dumbest guy on Earth to do that.”
“Yes, but unfortunately for you, prisons are filled with stupid people who have done stupid things. What I can’t understand is how a manuscript is part of a terrorist plot. I was hoping you could shed some light on that.”
“That’s crazy.” Kurt was feeling panicked.
“Where are you now?”
“I’m at Ursula’s house. This has to be some sort of mix-up. You really think I should turn myself in?”
“By law, I must advise you to do so. Don’t worry, I will be there to represent you. My guess is that they’ve made these trumped-up charges to circumvent normal legal procedures, but I won’t let them hold you unless sufficient evidence is forthcoming.”
Suddenly, the roaring sounds of a low-flying helicopter made it hard to hear. Kurt stepped inside the building, but it was still too loud. The whole building was rattling.
“I’m going to have to call you back, Mister Knigle,” Kurt yelled into the phone. “I can’t hear!”
“Don’t stall—Mr. Robbins. You—make—nervous. Faster you get—over with—better.”
Dozens of patrol cars came to a screeching halt in front of the building. Kurt peered through the window.
“I told you!” Ursula shouted down to him. “Get rid of the phone!”
Kurt dropped the phone as if it were on fire and ran up the stairs. “What the fuck’s going on?”
Windows shattered and metal canisters spewing smoke rolled into the lobby.
“Come on!” Ursula shouted.
Kurt shielded his head with his arms as he ran up the stairs. “What the hell?!”
“This way!” Ursula said.
She led him down the hallway in full sprint until they got to an old service elevator. She started hitting the call button repeatedly, her expression riddled with panic, her breathing erratic—she was coming apart at the seams—her worst fear was coming true!
The elevator door squeaked open.
More smoking canisters rolled down the hallway.
They retreated into the elevator, and just as the doors closed, one of the canisters exploded, the blast vibrating the door.
“What the hell’s going on?” Kurt asked.
“I knew this was going to happen.” Ursula began impatiently hitting the elevator button labeled B. The elevator was moving at a snail’s pace, but finally the doors parted. A basement was revealed. A waft of rank air assaulted them. Rats scurried off, escaping through a large hole in the wall that appeared to lead to a sewage tunnel.
Ursula quickly went to an old gym locker against a far wall and began dialing the combination. Inside there was a dusty duffel bag. She grabbed it and went for the hole in the wall, saying, “This tunnel leads out onto the street a few blocks away.”
“Are you a drug dealer or something?” Kurt asked.
“They’re not here for me, Kurt. They’re here for you. Now let’s go!”
“Me? How do you know they’re after me?”
“Come on, Kurt! There’s no time!”
Kurt followed her through the hole in the wall and into the sewage tunnel. “What’s in the bag?”
“Rainy day kit.”
After trudging through putrid puddles of water, they finally arrived at a ladder.
“This should be good here,” Ursula said.
“Where are we?” Kurt asked.
“Midtown.”
“Listen. It’s probably better we part ways here. This thing is spinning out of control, and it’s probably not a good idea to be associated with me. Your lawyer advised me to turn myself in, and here I am running away.”
“Usually I would trust his advice, but in this case I’m not so sure. I think I know what’s going on, and I think I can help.”
“Really? How?”
“It’s going to take me a while to explain it. Let’s go find a place where we can talk.”
Though it was quiet and pleasant in the park, save for the occasional car, Kurt felt mentally chaotic. The memory of the man in his apartment kept surfacing. Somehow he knew he was part of the group hunting him down. The dark battered face, misshapen like a Picasso painting, his eyes seething with anger—the image was so burned in Kurt’s mind that it felt like the man was hovering over him right now . . . or watching him from some hidden place. Sitting on a bench in plain sight was making him feel like a sitting duck. Or was Ursula’s paranoia rubbing off on him?
Ursula scanned the park before saying in a whisper, “I think they’ve infected you with some sort of memeplex.”
Kurt sighed, put a forefinger and a thumb into his eye sockets, and massaged gently. “I hate to ask, but what is a memeplex? And who are ‘they’?”
“A memeplex is a conglomeration of ideas . . . how can I put this . . . ? It’s like a mutated virus. It’s a collection of ideas that attacks and influences our thoughts and beliefs.”
“You think I’ve been infected with a mind virus?”
“First of all, you and several others have written the same book. There’s no way you and those other writers could have done that unless you were programmed to do so. Secondly, why would the government put so much energy into catching plagiarizers?”
“Alleged.”
“I don’t think you plagiarized anyone. I think the government infected you and the other writers with that book idea.”
“Why would they do something like that?”
“Why would they infect thousands of Indians with smallpox? Why would they test LSD on their own employees without their knowledge or consent? Why would they throw tear gas into my apartment building? You’ve been attacked, and there’s a chance that thousands, maybe millions more have been exposed. I can’t be sure yet.”
“You think an idea has been implanted in my mind?”
“I think, in this case, they designed a memeplex that would accelerate the evolutionary process. The government may have found a means to make people smarter. If so, that means that you’re now a weapon.”
Kurt was suddenly forced to admit what he had been feeling for the last few weeks: something was happening to him. It was true that an idea was blooming in his mind, an idea that was changing the way he thought. It was heightening his awareness, redoubling his intellect. He was only beginning to understand it. The government seemed an unlikely culprit. A million little truths were all springing from a source . . . somewhere, and sooner or later he knew he would discover it. His insight was growing by leaps and bounds. Right now, while on the park bench, he knew that that there were seventeen squirrels within twenty-five feet of him. In the last hour, seven different dogs had left their mark on the park trees. The guy across the street in the slacks and dress shirt was in the process of looking for a job, and he wasn’t happy about it.
“I’m not saying I agree with everything you’re saying, but something is definitely happening to me. The question is: what do I do next?”
“We need to keep you from infecting others, at least until we can figure out what’s going on. With a little time, I can track the meme that infected you to its source. We can also determine the type of information you’ve been exposed to.”
“Can you cure me?”
She shrugged. Somehow, he knew the answer was no.
“Just so I understand, you’re saying I’ve been given information that I’m not aware of and that it’s somehow making me smarter?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know what type of information?”
“No. But, in my line of work, we study how ideas shape evolution. For instance, thousands of years ago man first devised language and writing. The elite men who knew how to read and write were very powerful and they maintained their power by not sharing their knowledge with others. That’s why the government wants you. If you infect others, they’ll lose their advantage. It’s very likely you’re part of their new elite.”
“But why me?”
“There has to be a connection. Do you know why—or even
how
anyone might have targeted you?”
“Wait a second,” Kurt said, standing up and pacing. “Miles said that Richard Bock plays cards with the Secretary of Homeland Security.”
“He has to be part of this somehow. He’s working with the government. I’m just not sure how they did it—this is unlike any exposure I’ve ever seen or heard of. Memetic game theory does allow for an artificially created memeplex—one that could even speed up evolution, but they would need a massively powerful computer. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that the Pentagon has such technology. They claim to have invented the Internet back in the late sixties—and though that’s a largely disputed meme, it would be foolish to underestimate their power. If they’ve found a way to speed up the evolutionary process, where does that leave the rest of us? We’ll be slaves! This is exactly what I was afraid of!”
Kurt saw Ursula coming undone emotionally again, so he quickly went to sit back down beside her. He put an arm around her and took her hand in his. “First of all, the Internet was created by Al Gore in the 1990s. I don’t think he’s part of this, but I wouldn’t put it past him. The rest of this is still unknown. The only thing we know for sure is that we don’t know anything for sure. For now, let’s try to stay calm.”
She laughed, her panic seemingly melting away.
“Have you studied pressure points or something?” she asked.
Kurt followed her attention to find that he was gently rubbing the palm of her hand with his thumb, moving over the fleshy part of her skin in circular motions. He had started doing this automatically, as if beckoned by a flashing button on her hand that said: Massage here. Somehow he knew this would help calm her.
“It really works,” she said, blushing. She took her hand away from his and held it with her other hand, almost as if it was now something separate from her, something cherished.
He stood up and said, “The first thing I need to do is get ahold of Miles. The last time I talked to him, I sensed he knew more about this than he was willing to tell me over the phone.”
“I thought you said he was unreachable?”
“His secretary, Candice, might be able to help me find him.”
“There’s a payphone right over there,” Ursula said.
Kurt called Lor publishing and got Miles’s secretary, Candice.
“Miles hasn’t come in today, Kurt,” Candice said. Her voice was stressed and frazzled.
“Any idea when he’ll be in?”
“I don’t know,” she said, exasperatedly.
Kurt finally asked, “Tell me what you know, Candice?”
“You were fired, so I guess I can tell you. Miles and I have been seeing each other . . . romantically.”
“I know, Candice. Everyone in the office knows.”
“Fine. Whatever. But I have a key to his place and we were supposed to meet last night after work, but he never showed. When I let myself in, Kurt, the place was trashed.” She began to cry. “No one knows where he is.”
“Did you call the police?” Kurt asked.
“Yes. But they couldn’t help. And it gets worse. Earlier today I was talking with someone at Lor London and they said they had received five versions of the same manuscript. Turns out it was the same one you and the other writers submitted here. They thought it was a joke, but then they got a visit from some governmental agency that not only confiscated the manuscripts, but they arrested anyone who admitted to reading them. It’s happening all over the world. The big six have all been raided, Macmillan, Harper Collins, everyone! Now there’s a rumor going around that the CDC is going to issue an outbreak alert. They think it’s some form of mass hysteria, like a mental virus or something. I’ve talked to our imprints in Germany, France, India; they’re rounding up the authors and putting them in quarantine. They’re burning the manuscripts. It’s insane.”
“Listen to me, Candice. I need the names, phone numbers, and addresses of anyone who submitted that book to Lor. I’m going to find out what’s going on. I’m going to find out where they took Miles.”
“Okay, Kurt. Let me go get the list. Hold on one second.”
She returned with the list and made him promise to have Miles call her if he heard from him.