Trial Run (3 page)

S
hane Schearer came out of her final class at the University of California at Santa Barbara's business school and steamed down the main hallway. Beyond the building's entrance beckoned California's idea of paradise. Palm trees lined the two-lane road that rimmed the UCSB's inner campus. The road was jammed with two-wheeled traffic. Thousands of bicycles flashed in the sunlight. Cars were not allowed on these roads. The campus was as eco-friendly as an imperfect world permitted. Shane had no problem with the California lifestyle. Just the attitudes that came with it.

She checked the time on her cell phone. The only people on campus who still used watches were the older professors and the sorority queens who sought any reason to add more bling. Shane pushed through the glass doors and parked herself in the shade. Ten minutes and the streets would empty out. Right now, at the end of classes, the bike traffic was borderline suicidal. UCSB undergrads cycled with
the same self-centered blindness that they applied to most of life. The thousands of other bikes were inconsequential. Cyclists cut and swerved without a glance. The previous week Shane had seen an accident that took down over a hundred bikes, resulting in three broken arms and a chorus of bruised egos.

Shane had come to UCSB because the business school had offered her a free ride. Times like these, after she had coasted through another wasted day of classes she could do in her sleep, the admittance letter from Yale still branded her soul. But she had maxed out on her student loans. She had also received a truly nasty letter from the federal government after pretending she was a man by the same name and borrowing still more so as to attend Oxford's international finance summer school. The feds' letter had arrived the same week as Yale's scholarship committee had turned her down. The feds had basically threatened her with public dismemberment if she took out a cent more in debt or even thought about skipping town.

These days, Shane didn't like herself all that much. She remained trapped in one of two speeds. Either she coasted with everybody else, caught inside a world that lacked any hint of sharp-edged reality. Or she had her bumper shoved up tight against whoever was ahead in line, pushing and shoving and shouting at them to speed up. Seven months into her MBA, Shane moved around the university in her very own isolation bubble. UCSB's business school was all about teamwork. The word had become a little poison pill shoved daily down her throat. Shane couldn't decide which would kill her first, her inability to fit in or her loneliness.

Then the guy rose from the bench on the other side of the road.

She noticed him for two reasons. First, because he studied her with a gaze that could only be described as intense. Second, because of how he crossed the road as though the bikes were smoke. The cyclists shouted and braked and swerved and shouted some more. The guy didn't even blink. He just kept watching her and walking.

When he was close enough, she asked, “Are you positively suicidal?”

“I've wondered that myself.” He stopped directly in front of her. “My name is Trent Major. I'm a graduate student in theoretical physics.”

“Well, Trent Major, could you move to one side or the other? I've got to stare straight into the sun to see you.”

“Sorry.” He kept to the stair below where she sat, and squatted down so that his head was below her own. As though he wanted to make himself as unthreatening as possible. “We need to talk.”

“Do I know you?”

“No.” He drew out a sheet of paper filled to the max with mathematical symbols. “I need you to set up a company and register this for a patent.”

“Wait. Stop. Back up about six miles and explain to me exactly how it is we're having this conversation.”

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Are you dangerous?”

“Not to you. Not to anybody.”

Oddly enough, she believed him. He looked like exactly what he claimed to be. Trent Major was dressed in the grad student's uniform of Ecco sandals and clothes that had never, in their very long life, made the acquaintance of an iron. His skin was a shade darker than olive. His hair was straight and dark and full, the kind of hair that many women would have killed to possess. He did not wear it long so much as not bother to cut it. He shook his head to clear it from his face, calmly waiting, letting her look, not pressing. Shane figured he was part Native American. He had strong features and the latent intensity of a restful cat. His eyes were a hue of grey so light as to appear luminous. He was tallish and big-boned and gaunt in the manner of a half-starved animal. The hand that held the sheet of paper was twice the size of her own.

“Sure, Trent Major. Take a load off.”

He set the sheet of paper with its dense writing between them. “Thanks.”

“Now tell me why you're here.”

“You're a business student. You're bored. You're an orphan. You're broke.”

Shane had not been this knocked back since the winter her parents were killed. “Are you stalking me?”

“Absolutely not. I didn't even know you existed until . . .” He took a long breath. “About an hour before dawn this morning.”

Shane pulled out her cell phone. “I'm going to take your picture now.”

“Go ahead.”

“Then I'm going to show it to campus security. And ask them if you're as nuts as you sound.”

“I'm not a threat.”

“And I want to hear how you know about me.”

He waited until she snapped his picture to say, “My answers don't even make sense to me. I'm asking that you trust me long enough to see for yourself that this is for real.”

“Turn to the left.” She snapped a second picture. “Now the other way. Get your hair out of the way.”

Shane shut her phone. And stared at him some more. Taking the pictures had somehow drawn the guy into a different focus. As in, Trent Major seemed to go out of his way to hide the fact that he was actually good-looking. He was also extremely patient. He did not move, not even blink. Just waited.

Shane said, “I think you should go away now.”

He rose to his feet and descended the stairs. “My phone number and email address are on the back of the sheet.”

“Hold on a second.” The guy's passivity only added to the intrigue. Shane motioned to the sheet of paper. “What is this?”

“An algorithm.”

“Which is what, exactly.”

“An algorithm is a mathematical interpretation of reality. A computer algorithm provides physical input through a series of instructions that form an electromagnetic structure the computer can understand.”

The guy might be a psychopath, and her alarm bells might still be ringing. But she liked his voice. “Sure. Okay. I understand that.”

“This is an algorithm for computer games. Do you game?”

“I'm the one asking questions here.”

He nodded as though he found her brusqueness totally acceptable. “Online gamers download a series of algorithms that set up the game's background structure. Otherwise the game would move too slowly. The online data stream shifts them in relation to this base algorithm and to other gamers. This means every algorithm comes in two parts, the downloaded base and the reactionary data stream.”

His delivery was as calm and unthreatening as his stance. She said, “So?”

“This is a two-part algorithm for game music. It is totally new. There is nothing like it anywhere. Formulas like this are called interactive or parallel algorithms, because they restructure results based upon incoming data. If we ever manage to design thinking computers, these interactive algorithms will most likely form the basis.”

She broke in with, “You don't look like a Trent to me.”

He stopped in mid-flow. And waited.

“You look like you've got Native American blood. What's the name of that tribe east of here?”

“Chumash. I get that a lot.”

“Are you?”

“No. I'm half Afghani. Probably.”

“You don't know?”

“I know my father was Pashtun. The border area is pretty fluid.”

“So you don't know.”

“Not for certain. I never met him.”

She didn't know what to say, so she settled on, “Oh.”

“My mother claimed he was an Afghan freedom fighter. More likely, he drove a construction truck. They were building a big development near where she worked as a waitress. She stole his commercial driver's license. I found it in her purse when I was a kid. His name was Reza.
Reza Shah. I know about the Pashtun connection because I had a friend in the genetic labs test my DNA.”

Shane studied him. “You're so open about anything except what I really need to know, is that it?”

“Give this a chance. See if it's for real. That's all I'm asking.”

“That's a lot.”

He took a huge breath. Expelled it. “I know.”

She gave that a beat. Coming to terms with the thought that she actually might do this thing. And something else. The way he stood, how he waited for her, it was as though he had already given her control. “You were saying. About the formula here.”

“This interactive algorithm allows the game designer to input a basic melody. All computer games have background music. Only with this one, the gamer will
redesign
the melody through his or her actions. What role the gamer chooses, the armor they wear, their weapons, the attacks they win or lose, everything will impact the base melody. The music becomes transformed into a personalized signature.”

Shane watched him grow increasingly animated. His big hands began weaving a pattern in the space between them as he said, “This means you can identify another gamer by his or her sound before they actually appear. And when gamers come together to form a combat team, the music of each gamer
combines.
It becomes a personalized symphony. Each individual supplies a new electronic component to the total.”

She knew she shouldn't respond. But she couldn't help it. “That's pretty interesting.”

“It is more than that. It is groundbreaking.” He motioned at the sheet on the step beside her. “We can sell this for real money.”

“I'm still having trouble with this ‘we' business.”

“I know. But we've got a lifetime to have that conversation. If you'll just hold off with the questions for a while longer and do what you've spent your entire life dreaming of doing. And help me take this to the next level.”

C
harlie Hazard joined Dor Jen in the kitchen of their Campione house. Dor Jen ate toast with marmalade and drank strong black tea. She explained that Rome's Fiumicino airport was three and a half hours from the village where her clinic was situated, and she had not eaten since dawn. A woman named Katrina, from Albania by way of Vienna University, was boiling eggs. Fifteen of their team were spread about the kitchen's perimeter, perched on ledges and cabinets and leaning against the walls. Only Charlie and Dor Jen were seated at the central table.

Gabriella maintained a policy of complete and utter openness within her team. Being admitted as a member meant being included in every aspect of their work, every component of the research, every discussion. Nothing was kept confidential. No meeting was held in secret. The only time a door was shut on the public rooms was during ascents. Charlie had feared that, as their numbers grew, so too would the backroom disputes. But their respect for Gabriella and their enthusiasm for the project was too great.

Until now.

Charlie had attended funerals with lighter moods. The kitchen was rimmed with grim expressions and frightened looks. Brett Riffkind had been their resident biologist since the very beginning. His specialty was the blood-brain barrier and the chemistry governing the neural net.

Everyone knew of the earlier friction between Brett and Charlie. Most had assumed this was in the past. Gabriella remained an aloof mistress to them all, applying affection in almost equal doses. Charlie pretended that it was enough and kept his private yearnings tightly sealed deep inside.

As Charlie sat and watched Dor Jen drink her tea, the one person who caught his eye was Elizabeth Sayer, their resident pharmacologist. Elizabeth carried her standard aura of inapproachability. But she had been shadowing Charlie ever since his return from the airport. He glanced over, giving her a chance to say something. She remained isolated behind her spiky hair and glacial gaze.

Dor Jen ate with calm impassivity. The Tibetan doctor was very slight yet gave off an air of tensile strength. Her intelligence charged the atmosphere. As did her anxiety. Charlie could feel it, could see it in the way she avoided his gaze. Her moon face and glowing features with their yellowish cast were made to hide secrets. But Charlie knew this woman. And he knew she was afraid.

He sipped his own mug and said, “Would you tell me about your research?”

“We're not stopping.”

“I would never ask you to. I made the request simply for the sake of our new team members.” Charlie took another sip. “We hold no secrets here.”

He saw the flicker to her gaze, the quick flash of tension below the impassive surface. And he knew he had guessed correctly.

Dor Jen said, “I am a medical doctor, trained in both Western and Tibetan medicine. We are working at a clinic outside Rome that specializes in conditions that defy standard treatment. No cancers,
at least not yet. The clinic focuses on undiagnosable pains. Ailments that have burdened a patient for years. When they have tried everything else, they come to this clinic. If nothing else, the clinic offers comfort. One of the wings is dedicated to long-term care. It operates like a hospice, only most of these patients will not die from their ailment. Because of this, these patients have often bounced from one hospital to another, doctor to doctor, and they have given up. Now all they want is partial relief from their distress.”

“So you work with the hopeless.”

“Yes. We do not offer them a possibility of healing. We are not ready for that. We explain that we are simply doing experiments in finding a reduced level of pain medication. That is enough. We do not work with everyone, of course. We avoid the patients who do not want to hope again. Many have become enamored with their drugs and their routine and being the center of so much attention. We isolate our volunteers away from such patients.”

“You want people who are still willing to try.”

“We want patients who will
fight
. We seek people who are willing to look
beyond
. We intend to join together Western and Oriental medical directions into a new holistic system. We want to find the root causes for their afflictions.”

“Even if these causes are not physical.”

“Especially if the cause is not a standard illness as defined by Western medicine. Yes.”

Charlie figured she was relaxed enough now to spring his trap. “But that was not why Brett came down to see you, is it.”

Dor Jen froze in the act of raising her fork. And Charlie knew his suspicions were all correct. And that he had in fact been right to call Dor Jen and demand that she return. It was all tied together. The woman's departure, the conflict, Brett's coma. Everything.