Trial Run (20 page)

K
evin watched the swarm of activity and said, “I'm impressed.”

The Goleta State Bank's forecourt was jammed with dark-windowed SUVs. Two men and a woman, all in black suits, spoke with people just inside the bank's main doors.

Reese said, “Normally I'd prefer such a seizure to take place in the middle of the night. But the regional team just cleared a bank closure and had an unexpected opening. It was this afternoon or in three days.”

“Three days is too long,” Kevin agreed.

“The Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation is a quasi-private group.” Reese returned her attention to the bank's front doors. “Which means they are open to pressure from somebody higher up the banking food chain.”

Kevin pointed at the three stern-faced men and two women in blue nylon jackets surrounding the bank's entrance and ushering out the day's final customers. “But those guys are federal agents.”

“Standard operating procedure. Any time a bank is taken over by the FDIC, the sheriff's office and the local feds are alerted. One or the
other takes care of security during the handover.” Reese watched as a trio of red-faced bankers were ushered through the front doors. The executives protested angrily as they were directed to move away. “It turns out the bank's been under FDIC watch for several months. Same old story. Bad loans, bad economy, too small to obtain bail-out funds, sinking under the weight of its debts. All I did was move things forward.”

Kevin's words carried a genuine sense of approval. “Way to get things done, Reese.”

“What if Trent Major has encrypted his research data?”

“I'm hoping my team can break through any firewalls he's inserted. In that case, we'll copy his work, replace the drives in the safety deposit box, and nobody is the wiser. But if need be, we'll bring him in. Give him the choice. A rock or a hard place.”

Reese watched another news van pull into the lot. Two agents in standard nylon jackets unwound police tape to establish a perimeter. “I wonder what Trent has locked away in there.”

“I've been thinking about that.” The agents blocked one of the announcers who wanted a close-up of the bank's entrance. “These days, there are two totally different kinds of physicists, theoretical and applied. Quantum theorists operate on the edge of reality. In many cases, they've lost touch entirely. The applied physicists are people who are interested in seeing their work realized on the physical plane. They want
action
. But theorists accuse the applied group of being little more than engineers, incapable of coming up with anything genuinely new. This dichotomy is what makes Trent so different. He is taking an applied physicist's view toward the outer borders of the theoretical realm.” Kevin glanced over. “Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“Trent is a rare beast.”

“He is
unique
.”

“So which camp do you belong to, theoretical or applied?”

“Neither.” Kevin aged ten years in the time it took to shape that one word. “I'm the third kind. The prehistoric animal who's survived by moving into admin. The guys doing the real work put up with me
because I control the checkbook. Most of the time, I'm not even sure what they're talking about.”

Reese smiled, not because she found what he said humorous. Because she liked his willingness to be open with her. “We were talking about what's inside Trent's hard drives.”

“My gut is telling me he's come up with a means of breaking the barrier of superposition.”

“Explain.”

“The prion molecule used for shaping the quantum computation must be totally isolated from its environment. The slightest interaction with the external world causes the molecule to decohere. The effect is irreversible. So long as that doesn't happen, while the only stimulus operating within our quantum field is our own algorithmic calculation, the molecule remains in superposition. Expanding this superposed period is crucial. We're looking in particular at something called the transverse relaxation time. The only ways we've managed to expand this period are through a combination of supercooling and vacuum isolation of the individual molecules. But there are indications that prions can be held in superposition through strong magnetic resonance generated within tightly controlled wavelengths. I'm hoping Trent will supply—”

Kevin stopped speaking because one of the agents walked over to their car. Reese rolled down her window.

The agent asked, “You Clawson?”

“Yes.”

“Can I see your warrant?”

“Sure thing.”

The agent took her time inspecting the documents, then handed them back through the window. “They're ready for you now.” She waited for them to rise from the car, then handed over two navy windbreakers. “Put these on.”

Reese handed one of the jackets to Kevin. “All I can say is, I sure hope Trent's research is worth the trouble.”

S
hane and Trent argued the entire way to the bank. Shane said, “We can bend things a little bit. What's the problem? We'll just say your traveling with me to England is part of the package.”

“You're missing the point.”

“That's absolutely not true. I know exactly what the point is. I don't want to go anywhere without you.” Shane put her hand to her mouth. “Did I really say that?”

Trent's smile felt too big for his face. “Boy, did you ever.”

“The point is, we're in this together. That's what I meant.”

“Whatever.”

“Stop grinning.”

“Yes ma'am. Absolutely.” Trent pulled up to a stoplight. “Take me through this ascent thing again. That's what they called it, right?”

“Yes. I've done that already. Three times.”

“Please.”

“I was counted up. There was this background hiss, almost like music. Or the wind.”

“But it sounded nice.”

“Really pleasant. I drifted further and further as this guy counted me up. He explained everything in this very steady voice. He had an accent.”

“You didn't mention that before.”

“I forgot. French, maybe. Or Portuguese. It was nice too. He talked about how my heart rate and breathing were slowing, and how I could stop this ascent any time I wanted. I felt that, you know. Really clearly. That was why I didn't get scared. And because you were in the room.”

Trent waited, then pressed quietly, “Then it happened.”

“It must sound crazy.”

He was glad for another stoplight. “You want crazy, let's talk about me meeting myself in a dream and coming back with an algorithm. And us meeting. And you coming up with a whole pile of dough.”

She crossed her arms. “I know what you're going to say.”

He told her anyway. “This is bigger than we can possibly understand at this stage. And it's growing all the time.”

She did not respond.

“So what happened then?”

“You know what. I moved up to where I was floating somewhere above my body. I saw you sitting on the balcony. You were watching me. And smiling. A small smile, but it looked nice.”

Trent shivered. This was the fourth time she had described seeing him. It still freaked him out.

“I could still hear the guy talking, even while I was floating there, looking down at myself. He said, if there is anything vital I needed to gain from this ascent, I needed to realize it now.”

“Ascent,” Trent repeated. “Realize.”

“One second I was there in the room with you, the next and I was in an airport. Standing in line for immigration. I knew it was London. And a blonde woman was standing beside me. I'm assuming it's the same woman who spoke to you in the Starbucks.”

“Spiky white-blonde hair, very pretty, but tough build with an attitude to match. There can't be two of them.” Trent gave her a moment, then said it for her. “And I wasn't there.”

“I didn't see you, is all. Maybe you were somewhere else.”

“No, Shane. That's not what you said before. You knew I wasn't with you.”

Her face was pinched tight. “I might have gotten that wrong.”

“You didn't, though. Did you.”

She swiveled in her seat. “What about your data sitting in the box with my passport?”

He nodded slowly. “I've been thinking about that. I need to do what I was shown. Destroy it.”

“Trent. No.”

“The bigger this is, the more precisely we need to move.”

“Two years of work.”

He searched for something to lighten the moment. But the ache bloomed in his chest like a tainted rose.

Then he pulled into the bank's parking lot and was blocked by a trio of news vans. “What's going on here?”

Shane was up and moving before the car stopped. When a woman in a blue jacket tried to halt her, Shane exclaimed, “I've got to get in there!”

“Sorry, ma'am. The bank is closed.”

“But my passport is in—”

“Step back, please. You can't get inside the bank and that's final.”

Trent could see she wanted to argue. He took hold of her arm and pulled her back. Shane let him move her but continued to argue with the agent. “I have
got
to make that flight.”

“Steady.” Trent led her around the periphery of the taped entrance area. Another news van was parked at the lot's opposite end, the rooftop satellite dishes unfolded and aimed skyward. A technician leaned against a bumper and smoked. Trent asked, “Can you tell me what's happened here?”

“FDIC seizure.” The guy flipped his cigarette across the lot. “The bank's gone bust. They're searching the documents.”

“My friend has a flight to England tomorrow, and her passport is inside the safety deposit box.”

The guy shrugged. It wasn't news and he wasn't particularly interested. “I've covered eight of these closures. Day after tomorrow they'll have the bank up and running under new management and probably a new name. Three days tops. Until then, you're not getting inside those doors.”

“But—”

“Trent. Save it.” Shane was pressed against the van's rear door, angled so she was out of sight of the bank entrance. “Get over here.”

“What's the matter?”

“Kevin Hanley is inside.”

The name was so unexpected Trent needed a minute to place him. “That can't be.”

“Oh really. And what else just happens to be inside that bank?” She was the one moving now. Her hand in his. Pulling hard. “We have to get out of here.”

Which was when he saw the watcher. Trent accelerated until they were jogging together, back around the taped perimeter. He slipped behind the wheel of the rental and started and accelerated away. Almost clipping a truck as he pulled from the lot.

“Slow down. They didn't see us.”

“We're being followed.”

Shane looked at him, frightened now. “What?”

“A woman was talking on the phone and watching us. I saw her before. Outside the physics building this morning just as we were driving away.”

“You're certain it was the same woman?”

“I'm the guy who never forgets, remember?”

Shane turned around, stared out behind. “Are they following us now?”

“My guess is, probably.”

“What are we going to do?”

Trent floored it through a yellow light. “I have an idea.”

Kevin slapped his phone shut and said, “Step away from the doors.”

“What's going on?”

“The kids. They're outside.”

“What?” Reese turned her back to the entrance. “Why?”

“Most likely they returned for the hard drives in my hand. You want me to trot over and ask them?” He gripped the two drives so tightly his knuckles turned bloodless. His phone rang. He slapped it open, listened, shut it again. “Okay. They're gone.”

“I can't believe they showed up like that.”

He pushed through the entrance and headed for the car. “Let's shift things to the lab and see what we've got.”

S
hane heard the party long before she could see it. The noise carried a manic quality, like a cheap carnival on a Saturday night. But it was the middle of the week here, and the sun was only now settling into the Pacific. Classes were supposed to be in session. But the university was empty. The party had been going on for several hours already. UCSB was unofficially shut down for the holiday of Floatopia.

Isla Vista Beach ran north of University Point and could only be accessed at a few spots. Which was how the students liked it. Anybody who wanted to scope out whatever they were doing could be seen a long way off. For a public place, nowhere in Isla Vista was so private as the beach.

The cliffs were very high and unscalable in most places. The beach itself was broad and flat enough to cycle on. But not today. Fifty thousand people jammed the beach and the surrounding area. Atop the cliffs, Del Playa Drive was effectively closed to traffic, and every yard fronting the shoreline was packed.

Like many things at UCSB, Floatopia was a good idea gone bad. It had started as an environmental protest. Bring together all the univer
sity groups concerned about the quality of the sea—the whale watchers and offshore drilling opponents and surfers battling pollution runoff. The groups waited for a calm day. Then they fashioned a floating rig of recycled materials. They paddled beyond the surf line. And passed a resolution to secede from America. The rest of the day was spent voting into policy all the things that would make for a better world. They named the project Floatopia. That first year, a hundred people showed up. The university rag gave them three paragraphs.

The second year, someone had the bright idea to bring beer.

After that, Floatopia grew like a toxic red tide.

Shane and Trent strolled down Del Playa Drive to a postage stamp of oceanfront green called Window To The Sea Park. As they descended the ramshackle stairs to the beach, Shane started to scout for watchers. Trent touched her arm and said, “Be cool.”

“Sorry.”

“You're doing great.” Trent adjusted the straps of his backpack. He was carrying her makeup kit and an extra pair of shoes and her laptop and a book for the flight. Shane's backpack was filled with clothes. She had started to protest over him taking the heavier stuff. But he had been so solemn and intent upon doing right by her and taking care of her. Shane had never known the luxury of relying on another person before. She felt slightly weightless, as if all the forces that surrounded them were kept at bay by Trent's concern. Even gravity.

When they reached the beach, Trent asked, “Ready?”

She took his hand. “Sure thing.”

Floatopia was a colorful island of junk five hundred meters offshore. A steady stream of homemade rafts and surfboards trekked back and forth from the beachside party. The island was perhaps a quarter mile wide, a massive floating junk pile topped by thousands of flags and kites and balloons. Music blared from hundreds of portable players. People danced all around them as they walked along the shoreline, but it was hard to say which music the dancers heard. If any. Faces carried a sunburnt glaze from hours of hard partying.

The university spirit had never left her feeling more out of place.

Trent headed south. The partiers shouted and pointed as the sun's final rim slipped below the horizon. Trent steered them back toward the cliff, where the crowd was less packed and they could move more easily. Twice they stopped and pretended to watch the waning light. Around them people argued over whether there had been a green flash. Shane kept her face directed at the sea while she searched the surrounding throng. “I don't see anyone.”

“Unless our watchers were already decked out like drunken students, I doubt they'll risk coming down here and being spotted.”

Shane caught an edge to his voice. “What's the matter?”

“I didn't bring anything for us to eat.”

She laughed out loud. “We've got secret agents on our tail, some shadowy group has invaded a bank because of your data, and you're worried about me getting peckish?”

“Well, sure.”

She wrapped her arms around him. “You're something else.”

He looked down at her. “Is that good?”

“Yes, Trent. That is very good indeed.”

He hesitated a long moment, then lifted one arm and settled it onto her shoulders. Shane strengthened her own grip in reply. She felt a tension ease from his frame, something he had been carrying for so long she only noticed it when it was gone. She took it for the right moment to say, “I want you to come with me.”

“I can't.”

“If you should stay, then so should I. We're partners. I'm not going without you.”

She readied herself for all the responses she could imagine. The longer he took, the more she felt isolated from the surrounding hilarity. The only two somber faces on the entire beach.

Trent said, “Do this for us. Not for me. Not for you. For us. So we can hope for a future together.”

She locked on to him more tightly. “How can you possibly speak the only words that will break down my walls?”

He lowered his face into her hair. “I've dreamed of doing this. All my life.”

Shane said, “Promise you'll come join me as soon as you can.”

He held her closer still. “The very nanosecond.”

They walked down past the point and then turned east on Ocean Road, the street that bordered the university. They had left their bikes there that afternoon before walking back to the apartment, having a bite, going for a drive, apparently drifting through a slow day in typical student fashion, while the party got under way. Abandoned bicycles formed a metal forest along the university's border and the park fronting Ocean Road. They waited in the shadows until a cluster of semi-sober students wandered past. Then they mounted up and headed south, through the university.

The university's southern border was rimmed by Lagoon Road. Where the street turned inward, a paved bike path branched off. The path continued along the top of the beachside cliffs. Trent held to a steady pace, passing a number of slower-moving cyclists returning to Goleta from the party. Five miles later, the path emptied into the parking lot fronting Goleta's main public beach. Their tires hissed past the shorefront restaurant and locals playing beach volleyball beneath the streetlights. Trent did not push it hard.

Where the parking lot ended, so did the streetlights. Their bike lights illuminated a small path of asphalt. If Trent had not known where the path started again, he would have missed it entirely. It was an inky river beneath a quarter moon. Once they left Goleta's shoreline behind, the only sound was the hiss of their tires along the path.

Seven miles farther south, they climbed the steep rise up to where the path joined the main shoreline drive. He stopped at the top, using a stumpy cedar for shelter. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” Shane was not even breathing hard. “That was fun.”

Trent searched the night. Fifty yards farther on, Highway 101 ran through a concrete cavern. The traffic noise was thunderous in the night. “We'll cross that bridge and then be back in shadows.”

“Let's do it.”

Trent checked the night once more. A few cars passed. None slowed or gave any indication they were aware of two bikers hovering behind the tree. “Here we go.”

The traffic noise rushed up at them. Then they were over and back on the empty path. After two miles and another rise, they entered into the rarified realm of Hope Ranch.

The main avenue was broad as the highway and rimmed by imperial palms. The streetlights cast a gentle glow over their progress. Trent knew there was little risk of their being followed. But he pushed it hard just the same. He swung into a cul-de-sac and cycled to the end. A stairwell opened through a grove of pines. The tang of kelp and sea salt was very strong.

Trent said, “We'll hide your bike in the trees.”

Shane stepped from the bike. “How did you know about this place?”

“I started coming down here my first year. It's about as far from the university scene as I could get on two wheels. The beach below here is almost always empty. I've never seen anyone use these stairs.” Trent descended three steps and lifted her bike over the railing. A trio of pines formed a natural wall. He had hidden his own bike here many times. Unless someone knew where to look, the bike was lost from view. “I guess they're too busy playing golf or off spending money.”

Shane hissed, “Car.”

“Come down here.” As the car swung around the dead end, a streetlight illuminated the vehicle's lone passenger. “It's Murray.”

The attorney watched them approach the car with stone-like gravity. He inspected them and the night before unlocking the doors. When they slipped inside, he said, “I want to know what's going on, and I want to know now.”