Robert Sawyer - Quantum Night

I’d remained in Winnipeg that summer, having taken a data-entry job in the registrar’s office on the assumption that my relationship with Kayla would continue. David, who’d had the dorm room next to mine during the preceding academic year, had once eaten what was left in my bucket of KFC without permission. And so, near the end of June 2001, I’d gone onto the registration computer and dropped him from every course he’d selected for that coming September—and, for good measure, had him give up his place in the dorm, as well. When he returned to Winnipeg from his summer back home, he discovered he wasn’t registered and had no place to stay. Somehow—perhaps we’d find that memory later—he must have eventually realized I was responsible.

I shuddered, feeling horrible that I could ever have done such a nasty thing—and was grateful when Namboothiri moved on.

Next up were innocuous memories: a few more from my toddler days; going to see the movie version of Josie and the Pussycats —something that probably was best forgotten; Heather coming for a weekend visit, and—

“Move the fucking probes!”

Namboothiri eased off and the images melted from my consciousness, but I was gasping and my pulse was racing.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “We can stop for the day if—”

I lifted a hand. “No. No, I’ll be all right. Just…” My arm was shaking; I lowered it. “Just give me a moment.” Another memory came to me, but not because the doctor was eliciting it; this one was from my verbal index, and relatively recent: Menno Warkentin talking to me in his office, trying to dissuade me from digging into my past. “Sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie,” he’d said. But I’d replied, “No, I can’t do that.”

And I couldn’t.

I had to forge ahead.

I gripped the arms of the chair tightly, forcing the blood from my knuckles, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay. I’m ready.”

“All right,” Namboothiri replied, returning the probes to the same spots on my skull.

Friday afternoon, June 29, 2001. The corridor outside the office of Dominic Adler. Knuckles rapped against the door, and words were spoken: “Dom, it’s me, Jim. Can I have a moment?”

The door opened, revealing Dominic in russet slacks and a gray, short-sleeved shirt. “Hey, Jim. Come in. What’s up?” He gestured at a chair and turned to walk to his desk.

Jim’s body surged in from behind, and Jim’s hands grasped Dom’s neck on either side. A crack! split the air as the neck was twisted ninety degrees to the left. Dominic’s body slumped to the floor.

The front of Jim’s shoe impelled itself into Dom’s kidney, and sounds emanated once more from Jim’s mouth: “Take that, motherfucker.”

Without my asking him to, Namboothiri pulled the probes away once more. “You okay?”

Breathing rapidly, my skin slick with sweat, I reached up to wipe my brow—and once again my hand was trembling. “Jim?” Namboothiri said. I scrunched my eyes shut, but the awful memory lingered. “Jim? What did you see?”

I tried to compose myself then swiveled the chair to face him. “You’re a psychiatrist, right?”

He nodded.

“Which makes you an MD, right? A medical doctor?”

“Yes. What’s wrong?”

“So this conversation is privileged, correct? Even though I came to you without a referral, I’m still your patient, isn’t that right?”

“Jim, my God, what did you see?”

“Say it,” I snapped. “Say I’m your patient. Say this is privileged.”

“Yes, yes, of course. You’re my patient. I can’t be compelled to divulge what we discuss.”

I blew out air, took another moment, then: “Back in 2001…” I shook my head, finding the words almost as impossible to speak as the thought was to think. “I killed a man.”

“Oh… God. No, no.”

“Broke his neck. Deliberately.”

Different responses seemed to swirl on Namboothiri’s face, but at last he said: “Who was it?”

“Dominic Adler. Menno Warkentin’s research partner.”

“Was it—was it self-defense?”

God, how I wished it had been! I’d killed that p-zed in the prairie field a short time ago, and that had indeed been self-defense. Even so, I’d barely been able to live with myself since, but this— this!

I shook my head. “It was premeditated. And… brutal.”

Namboothiri was quiet for a moment. “And do you know why you did it?”

“The motive, you mean?”

“No, not that,” said Namboothiri. “Do you know why?”

I recalled the hairline scratches on my old brain scans. “The paralimbic damage you uncovered, I guess, but…” I sighed. “I never thought I could… I just…” Acid was clawing its way up my throat.

“We can stop digging, if you want,” Namboothiri said.

My heart was still beating rapidly. “No. I have to know the rest.”

Late June was about as nice as Winnipeg ever got. This year the last snowfall had been in April, and the mosquitoes wouldn’t make their first appearance for another month. Menno Warkentin walked down the hallway, his black Bruno Magli shoes making soft impacts against the institutional tiles. During the academic year, the corridors had been bustling with overworked students and harried faculty rushing from place to place. But although there were some summer students, few were on hand here, the Friday night leading into the Canada Day long weekend.

Menno entered the lab he shared with Dominic Adler and walked over to the worktable. Stacked on its surface were eight new sensor packs that would go on the Mark III helmet, and next to them, the old green transcranial-focused-ultrasound pucks. Those wouldn’t be included on the new unit, of course, but Dom kept running tests with them, trying to figure out why they’d caused people to black out; the DoD had goosed his grant by a hundred grand so he could pursue that.

Menno looked around to see if there was any sign that Dom had been in the lab today. His usual spoor included open bottles of Dr Pepper with a flat inch left undrunk at the bottom, but there were none to be seen. Menno hit the power-bar switch that turned on the desktop computer and its bulky seventeen-inch VGA monitor. Windows 98 began its slow boot-up; he wondered if XP, due later this year, would be any faster.

He heard the door opening. “Ah, Dom. I was hoping—” But it wasn’t Dominic. “Oh! Jim. I wasn’t expecting you. I thought you were going to Lake Winnipeg for the long weekend.”

A voice emanated from Jim’s mouth. “That’s what I told everybody. Never hurts to have an alibi.”

Menno made a snort. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. You happen to pass Dom on the way in?”

The mouth worked again: “He’s in his office.” Eyes swiveled toward the wall, where the faux Louisville slugger was held up by its two acrylic, U-shaped supports. A comment required; one made: “Chekhov’s gun.” The bat was taken down, the grip encircled by hands. The club was swung at empty air.

“Dom’s pretty particular about that thing,” Menno said. “You should probably put it back.”

More words were generated, empty, automatic: “Remember when the Blue Jays won those back-to-back World Series? I was eleven the first time and twelve the second. In Calgary, we don’t often root for anything related to Toronto, but we did then.”

Jim started closing the distance between them, the bat held firmly, his heels making ticking-bomb clicks. Startled, Menno backed away. His rear was soon against the worktable, and—