Lewis Perdue: Perfect killer

I turned to the big white board at the front of the room, erased my previous notes dealing with the technological verifications of quantum theory-semiconductors, nuclear bombs, GPS satellites.

"Quantum physics and superstring theory invalidate classical physics as follows: First, classical physics says any action must be caused by current, local, and totally mechanical circumstances." I wrote as I spoke, turning back to make eye contact between each point. "Second, classical physics holds there is matter and there is energy, sometimes equal but always separate. But as we have seen, quantum entanglement and superposition destroy the first proposition. The second crumbles because matter and energy are manifestations of the same thing, and neither exists as a simple either-or dichotomy.

"Furthermore, the universe is far weirder than we think because everything we know about matter and energy totally ignores ninety-six percent of everything."

A coherent wall of blank stares greeted this.

"Think for a moment about the studies from NASA and others in 2003 that proved that ordinary atoms-the stuff we're made of-comprise a mere four percent of the entire universe." I held up four fingers. "On the other hand, dark matter makes up twenty-three percent, and the rest, a whopping seventy-three percent, is dark energy.

"And we know virtually nothing about dark matter and energy! I have no doubt that this missing ninety-six percent of the universe affects our consciousness. When we learn more I believe we will lose our bifurcated outlook on matter versus energy and find a third way that will invalidate much of the truth we hold dear."

A hand shot up.

"Yes?"

"Professor, why are you talking about cosmology in a biology lecture?"

"Because quantum physics, superstring theory, cosmology, and particle physics bring us to a point where the infinitely small intersects with the infinitely large. I believe all the hard questions in consciousness lie at the same intersection."

"Like how?"

"Like the incredible nonexistence of matter and energy," I said. "As we look at these on a smaller and smaller scale, matter and energy first seem to be the same thing, then appear to be some sort of ghost particle or a string if you like, produced by spacetime itself. Look at your finger." Everyone in the class looked at his or her fingers. "Now, think about a keratin molecule, any molecule. Okay, now fix on a carbon atom. Then visualize a neutron. Then visualize the quarks making up the neutron. Think about one quark, any quark. It has no mass we can measure, only energy and we have no way to determine where it is at any given point. Indeed, some variants of superstring theory postulate it's a vibration resonance emanating from space-time itself."

I watched most of the eyes in the room close.

"Now, imagine every other molecule and atom in your body at the same time. Visualize yourself as a collection of vibrating space-time clouds, none of which have any mass, but which you perceive as the solid, living, breathing you.

"There is also some very good evidence from work done by Penrose and Hameroff indicating that quantum-based processes underlie our consciousness, maybe through some connection to space-time-the fabric of reality and existence-and that our thoughts alter space-time permanently. Proving this experimentally, establishing it as fact rather than a good theory, will take time."

"So how does dark energy come into this?"

"Obviously dark energy and matter have to be part of space-time," I said. "And therefore part of how consciousness works."

"If Penrose and Hameroff are right," the student challenged. "And a lot of prominent people think they're dead wrong."

"A lot of prominent people thought Copernicus and Galileo were dead wrong too," I said.

I looked at my watch, then at the back of the room. Jasmine stood inside the door, leaning against the far wall. I caught a deep breath and tried to keep my tongue from stumbling. Her hair framed her face like a halo; the emerald studs I had bought her to celebrate Darryl Talmadge's successful defense dazzled on her ears. She wore a simple black dress and carried a suitably conservative leather handbag.

"As you probably know from the media reports, Darryl Talmadge died in his sleep two days ago. I need to go change now for the funeral up in Itta Bena or we'll be late. If you'd like to know more about dark energy, my notes are at ConsciousnessStudies. org. Also, if you're interested in the free will issues concerning Talmadge and Braxton, a transcript of the television interview Ms. Thompson and I did is on the Web site, as well as on Ms. Thompson's site, Mississippilustice. Org. Thank you for coming," I said as I headed for the door and Jasmine's welcoming smile.

The heels of Jasmine's black dress pumps tapped on the polished linoleum as we hurried toward my office.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I lost track of the time." I rechecked my watch. "Oh, man, I really, really hate being late."

Jasmine gave me one of her trademark mysterious smiles. After all these months, I had learned to read her smiles better and realized she still had as many ways of smiling as Sonia did for saying "Oy!" We rounded the corner and spotted Sonia toward the end of the corridor. She stood in the doorway of my new office at the University of Mississippi School of Medicine.

As we drew close to Sonia, I saw the bright, happy look on her face as her eyes connected my expression with the fond look in Jasmine's eyes. "You are going to be late, Dr. Stone," she said, trying to sound reproachful and not quite making it. "Quincy's waiting."

"Yes, Ma'am," I told her as I hurried into the reception area.

"Sorry," I apologized to Quincy.

"We'll make it," he said easily. "Be cool."

I gave him a smile, then hurried into my office and pulled on the same suit I had worn at Vanessa's funeral. Quincy and I had grown close since the night we both had too much to drink and he'd pulled out a worn, brown, expandable folder full of legal documents proving he was my half-uncle via the Judge and Vanessa's mother. The Judge's financial support to Quincy's mother had allowed them a far more decent life than the average resident of Balance Due. The Judge had also secretly arranged financial aid that had put Vanessa and Quincy through college.

I had not been as surprised to learn all this as Jasmine was.

"Vanessa and your grandmother and I decided there was no reason to saddle you with the ugly details," Quincy had told her, but I had seen a look of betrayal on her face and a realization that the specter of the black woman and the white planter from the big house had struck closer to home than she had imagined.

The revelations that had brought me closer to Quincy had wedged themselves between Jasmine and me for months.

Quincy still taught at Mississippi Valley State University, but came down to Jackson often, as did Jasmine. I had arranged my classes, clinical appointments, and lectures into a schedule allowing me to spend about half my time in Greenwood. I bought an old building off Cotton Street and loved to spend time renovating it. It was only a couple of minutes away from the hospital where Tyrone had resumed his work and I volunteered.

"Who's driving?" I said as I rushed out of my office, coat and tie in hand.

"I've got the Suburban," Quincy said. "Remember, we're giving Rex and Anita a ride."

Quincy picked up Anita and Rex at their home in Madison, then headed north on I55. We rode in silence, watching the colors of spring race past the windows. The dogwoods filled the roadside forests with explosions of pink-tinted white. The emerging new leaves frosted the rest of the woods with bright green, full of hope and promise.

I still had not reconciled myself with Camilla, the way she had died and my memories of her I reflected on my lecture from that morning and whether the Camilla I had known and loved had been trapped in her damaged brain all along, the same software and memories and person she had always been, but the damaged hardware failing to let her out.