Douglas Preston - Mount Dragon

Scopes laughed harshly. “I’m not that attractive a person, I’m afraid. As you well know.”

“Perhaps. But you’re certainly the most interesting.”

Scopes nodded. “Thank you for that.” He paused. “It’s an intriguing idea.”

“We have two hours to kill.”

Scopes smiled wanly. “All right, Charles. Why not? There’s one condition, however. You must put yourself into the program, as well. I’m not going back to Monhegan Island alone.”

Levine shook his head. “I’m no programmer, especially of something as complex as this.”

“That’s not a problem. I’ve written a character-generating algorithm. It uses various AI subroutines that ask questions, engage the user in brief conversations, do a few psychological tests. Then it creates a character and inserts it into the cypherspace world. I wrote it as a tool to help me people the island more efficiently, but it could work just as well for us.”

He looked questioningly at Levine.

“And perhaps then you’ll tell me why you chose to depict your summer house in ruins,” Levine replied.

“Perhaps,” said Scopes. “Let’s get to work.”

* * *

In the end, Levine chose to look like himself, with an ill-fitting dark suit, bald head, and uneven teeth. He turned slowly in front of the unblinking video camera in the Octagon. The feed from the camera would be scanned into several hundred hi-res images that together would make up the Levine figure that-would be taking up residence on Scopes’s virtual island. Over the last ninety minutes, the AI subroutine had asked him countless questions, ranging from early childhood memories to memorable teachers, personal philosophy, religion, and ethical beliefs. The subroutine had asked him to list the books he had read, and the magazines he had subscribed to during the different periods of his life. It posed mathematical problems to him; asked about his travels; his musical likes and dislikes; his memories of his wife. The subroutine had given him Rorschach tests and even insulted him and argued with him, perhaps to gauge his emotional reactions. The resulting data, Levine knew, would be used to supply the body of knowledge, emotions, and memories that his cyberspace character would possess.

“Now what?” Levine asked, sitting down again.

“Now we wait,” Scopes said, forcing a smile. He had undergone a similar process of interrogation. He typed several commands, then sat back in the couch as the supercomputer began to generate the two new characters for his cyberspace re-creation of Monhegan Island.

A silence fell onto the room. Levine realized that, if nothing else, the interrogation had kept him occupied, kept him from realizing that these were in fact the last minutes of his life. Now, a strange mix of emotions began to crowd in on him: memories, fears, things left undone. He turned toward Scopes.

“Brent,” he began.

There was a low tone, and Scopes reached over and pressed a button on the phone beside the couch. The patrician voice of Spencer Fairley sounded through the phone’s external speaker.

“The helicopters have arrived, sir,” he said. Scopes pulled the keyboard onto his lap and began typing. “I’m going to send this audio feed down to central security, as well as to the archives, just to make sure there are no troublesome questions later. Listen carefully, Spencer. In a few minutes, I’m going to give the order for this building to be evacuated and sealed. Only yourself, a security team, and a bioemergency team should remain. Once evacuation is complete, you must shut off the air-circulation system for the Octagon. You are then to pump all ten canisters of VXV into the air supply, and restart the system. I’m not exactly sure how long it will take to ...” He paused. “Perhaps you should wait fifteen minutes. Then, send the bioemergency team to the emergency pressure hatch in the Octagon’s roof. Have Endicott depressurize the hatch from security control, instruct the team to place the beakers of cyanophosphatol inside the hatchway, then seal and repressurize the outer hatch. Once the team is clear, have the inner hatch opened remotely from security control. The beakers will fall into the Octagon and break, dispersing the cyanophosphatol.”

He looked at the screen. “Are you following this, Spencer?”

There was a long pause. “Yes, sir.”

“Even after the cyanophosphatol does its work, there will still be live viruses in the room. Hiding in the corpses. So, as a final step, you must incinerate them. The heat will denature the cyanophosphatol as well. The fireproof shell of the Octagon will keep a fire in as well as it will keep a fire out. But you must be careful not to cause a premature explosion or a dirty, out-of-control fire that might spread the virus. A fast-acting, high-temperature incendiary such as phosphorus should be used first. When the bodies have completely burned, the rest of the room should be cleansed with a lower-temperature incendiary. A napalm derivative will do. Both will be available from the restricted laboratory supplies.”

Listening, Levine noted the methodical detachment with which Scopes described the procedure: the corpses, the bodies. Those are our corpses , he thought.

“The bioemergency team should then perform a standard hot-agent decontam on the rest of the building. Once that’s finished—” Scopes stopped short for moment. “Then I guess, Spencer, it’s up to the board of directors.”

There was a silence.

“Now, Spencer, please get my executor on the line,” Scopes said quietly.

A moment later, a rough, gravelly voice sounded through the speakerphone beside the table. “Alan Lipscomb here.”

“Alan, it’s Brent. Listen, there’s to be a bequest change. Still on the line, Spencer?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Spencer will be my witness. I want fifty million set aside to fund an endowment for the Institute for Advanced Neurocybernetics. I’ll provide Spencer with the details, and he’ll pass them on to you.”

“Very well.”

Scopes typed quickly for a few moments, then turned to Levine. “I’m sending Spencer instructions to transfer the entire cypherspace databank, along with the compiler and my notes on the C 3language, to the Institute for Advanced Neurocybernetics. In exchange for the endowment, I’m asking them to keep my virtual re-creation of Monhegan Island running in perpetuity, and to allow any serious student access to it.”

Levine nodded. “On permanent display. Fitting for so great a work of art.”

“But not only on display, Charles. I want them to add to it, extend the technology, improve the depth of the language and the tools. I suppose it’s something I’ve kept to myself far too long.” He smoothed down his cowlick absently. “Any last requests, Charles? My executor is very good at getting things done.”

“Just one,” Levine said evenly.

“And that is—?”

“I think you can guess.”

Scopes looked at him for a moment. “Yes, of course,” he said at last. He turned back to the speakerphone. “Spencer, are you still there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please tear up that patent renewal for X-RUST.”

“The renewal, sir?”

“Just do it. And stay on the line.” Scopes turned back to Levine, one eyebrow raised.

“Thank you,” Levine said.

Scopes nodded quietly. Then he reached for the phone and pressed a series of buttons. “Attention, headquarters staff,” he said into the mouthpiece. Levine heard the voice echoing from a hidden speaker and realized the message was being broadcast throughout the building.

“This is Brent Scopes speaking,” Scopes continued. “An emergency has arisen that requires the entire staff to vacate the premises. This is a temporary measure, and I assure you that nobody is in danger.” He paused. “Before you leave, however, I must inform you that an alteration is being made in the GeneDyne chain of command. You will learn the details shortly. But let me say now that I have enjoyed working with every one of you, and I wish you and GeneDyne the very best of luck in the future. Remember that the goals of science are our goals, as well: the advancement of knowledge, and the betterment of mankind. Never lose sight of them. And now, please proceed to the nearest exit.”