Sandbagging

by Kyle Kirkland

Quinton silently crept along the dark hallway until he reached the door to the projection booth, but before he could slip inside, Mark emerged from the shadows. The two graduate students glared at each other, their faces barely visible in the dim glow of a light strip. Faint voices leaked through the door to the projection booth—the secret faculty meeting in the conference room had begun.

“We seem to have had the same idea,” said Mark.

Quinton nodded. It had happened often in the year and two months since Quinton enrolled in the biophysics program at the University for Advanced Research. Although he and his chief rival had more or less observed a truce since classes had been canceled indefinitely, Quinton had not forgotten the sometimes-messy battles they’d fought. Ideas fueled careers, but ideas were easily stolen. Mark had sticky fingers.

“There’s room for two in the projection booth,” said Quinton.

“It’s locked,” said Mark, moving to block the doorway. “How do you propose to get in?”

“With the keypad. I’ll show you if you step aside.”

Noise from the conference room intensified. People were raising their voices.

Mark didn’t move. The dim light strip, already beginning to flicker and die, washed out the color of Mark’s shoulder-length auburn hair and gave his face a veiny, bluish tint. Quinton’s southern tan had long since faded; now, with his dark hair and pale complexion, he had a gothic, cloistered appearance.

“How do you know the code?” asked Mark. “The projectionist left a week ago.”

“He gave me the code before he went. In case we needed to use it before he returned.”

Mark shook his head. “He knew he wasn’t coming back. He was headed for the really bad part of town. I’ll bet you didn’t try to talk him out of it. You wanted the code—”

“If you’ll let me get to the keypad,” prompted Quinton. When Mark finally moved, Quinton punched the numbers. Mark watched closely.

Too bad for you, thought Quinton, that the projectionist also told me how to change the code. It won’t be the same tomorrow.

The deadbolt whirred. As the door unlatched, Quinton wondered how Mark had intended to get inside. Out of the corner of his eye, Quinton saw Mark quietly lay a thick screwdriver against the wall. Typical, thought Quinton. Brute force approach.

Quinton pushed the door.

“Don’t open it so wide,” said Mark. He nudged Quinton inside and quickly closed the door. The cramped booth was dark, but the stark light from the conference room fluorescents streamed in through the plate glass at the front of the booth. “They could have seen the door move. You might as well announce we’re here while you’re at it.”

Quinton saw that he was right. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He crouched in the midst of racks of audiovisual equipment, along with a useless computer that hadn’t been touched in weeks. The Internet routers were the first things that DCC had crippled, isolating every computer in the world.

The voices became more distinct. Quinton and Mark leaned against the forward wall, just beneath the glass. When Quinton put his ear against the clapboard, he heard Professor Borden Timms saying, “…can’t change the past, we have to deal with the present.”

The comment didn’t go over well with the other faculty. A farrago of angry voices erupted.

Quinton recognized another voice breaking through the din. “This is what happens,” shouted emeritus Professor Grange, “when you put a machine in charge. It’s murder, nothing short of murder. Don’t call it downsizing.”

Raised voices.

Grange’s booming voice overrode the others. “…don’t care what that machine says. It’s murder.”

More shouting.

Quinton found his breathing had become labored. Not enough air? No, he thought. He was just scared.

Chairman Timms restored order. “Terminology isn’t important. Yes, it’s infuriating, but it’s also irrelevant. We need to focus on how we should respond. And what we should tell the students and staff.”

“My God,” whispered Mark. “The rumor’s right.”

Quinton turned to look at him. The light coming from the conference room highlighted Mark’s hair, leaving his face in shadow. But Quinton could sense the fear that was no doubt etched in Mark’s expression. And his own.

“Is DCC going to nuke us?” said Mark, his voice trembling. “I saw someone on the roof earlier, adjusting the antenna. Timms might be trying to contact our satellite. For defense, maybe.”

“How? It gathers data, it doesn’t have any weapons.”

“But we could…” Mark groped for words. “Alter its orbit. Yeah. Smash it into another satellite, a military satellite. If one comes overhead.”

Quinton had also heard rumors that the shortages and service disruptions had been a prelude to something even more sinister. Why had DCC gone berserk? “You think that’s how it would attack?”

Mark raised his voice. “How else would DCC do something global? If population reduction is its goal—”

“Quiet, they’ll hear you.”

Quinton put his ear back on the wall.

“…trying to get a signal,” somebody was saying.

Then the conference room got quiet. The silence stretched for an unbearable minute.

“What’s going on?” whispered Mark.

Quinton didn’t say anything, although he was afraid he knew the answer. In one ear—the ear turned away from the wall—he had heard Mark’s question. But the ear against the wall also seemed to pick it up—through the wall.

Quinton remembered all the times he’d sat in the conference room listening to a professor deliver a lecture. A communication system permitted a two-way conversation between the speaker at the podium and the projectionist in the booth who was in charge of visuals. All the speaker had to do was flip a switch. “Busted,” he said.

“‘Busted’ is right, Quinton,” said a voice that rang like a bell in the projection booth. “Mark, is that you in there with him?”

Quinton stood up and looked out the window. Professor Timms waved his arm, indicating that both students should enter the conference room. Mark opened the front door of the projection booth and stepped out.

“He made me do it,” said Mark, pointing to Quinton. His grin didn’t last long.

Quinton felt the overwhelming tension in the room. Clustered around the dais were twenty somber professors, ranging in age from Grange’s eighty years down to a young assistant professor who’d just been hired before the trouble began in earnest last autumn. Timms, scarcely older than the assistant professor, stood at the podium in front of the crowd. With long blond hair past his shoulders and a tendency to skip the top three buttons of his shirt, Timms often got caricatured in students’ doodles with a guitar strapped to his shoulder and a colorful tat on his forearm.

Also on the dais, close to the maintenance closet, sat Professor Sandra Rebbin, balancing a small screen and keypad on her lap. Nearby was a table covered with food packages and cans—the only thing available to eat was packaged or canned food, since everybody had long since run out of fresh fruits and vegetables. Most of the packages on the table were still almost full.

“So much for secrecy,” muttered a professor as Quinton and Mark walked sheepishly down the aisle.

“I hope not,” said Timms. “These two outstanding young men are currently working in my laboratory, and I can vouch for them. If not for their character—for as you can see they’re not the best behaved of our students—then for their superb intelligence and inquisitive nature.” He gave Quinton and Mark a pointed look. “You both understand that this information is strictly confidential?”

The tone of voice admitted no objection, and Mark nodded eagerly. But Quinton bit his lip, and Timms and everyone else noticed.

“Don’t worry,” said Timms, in a gentler tone. “The moment the other students need to know, we’ll tell them. But let’s not panic anyone unnecessarily.”

Rebbin suddenly spoke up. “Got it!” she cried triumphantly.

“Hurry,” said Grange. “We only have a few minutes before it passes over the horizon.”

A printer underneath Rebbin’s feet began whirring. Paper spewed into the output tray.

Three professors scrambled onto the stage and grabbed at the sheets of paper. Several pages got ripped during the tussle.

Timms quickly separated the professors, pushing them away from the stage. “I expect the faculty at this university, even at a time of great stress, to behave as reasonable and intelligent adults.” He gathered and sorted the printer output, carefully folding the torn pages.

“Lost it,” said Rebbin, frowning.

“But you did a great job,” said Timms. He stacked the pages in a neat pile. “Since you’re the one who got us this information, Sandra, you should be the first to look it over.” He gave her the paper.

As she was reading, Timms looked at Quinton and Mark. “We contacted our satellite on its previous orbit,” he explained. “Earlier today we heard a rumor on the ham radio that some scientists in Chicago had found and studied one of DCC’s zombie computers. It contained some data concerning a frightening plan.”

“Plan?” asked Quinton.

“Extermination,” said Grange. “But I couldn’t hold the connection long enough to learn more.”

Timms frowned. “Not extermination. The solution to the overpopulation problem. I guess DCC decided that the problem warranted a drastic solution. Better to kill half than for the whole population to suffer catastrophic failure.”

“Insanity,” said Grange.

“Not to an AI,” said Timms. “The food riots in Los Angeles, Moscow, Rio, Paris, and elsewhere probably tipped the scales. Too many people, not enough resources.”

“Which half?” asked Quinton. He tried to keep his voice as steady as his thesis advisor.

“Which half to eliminate?” Timms shrugged. “That’s the big question. We’re hoping to find out soon. I suspect it’ll be random. Some kind of virus, perhaps. Sandra managed to program the satellite to communicate with Chicago as it flew overhead. Apparently, it succeeded in uploading some of their results.”

Grange said, “We’ve got to finish wresting control away from that machine and its minions. It’s gone crazy.”

“If it’s a virus,” said Timms, “we might be able to use antivirals or some other means to neutralize the infection. Then later we can deal with DCC.”

“My god,” said Rebbin. Her face had gone even paler than usual. She handed some sheets to Timms. He scanned them quickly.

“DNA inactivation?” he said, eyebrows raised. “Ingenious. Diabolical, but ingenious. It’s going to silence critical sequences that are carried by about half of the population.”

Quinton’s mouth gaped open. And then he shut it quickly, hoping nobody noticed.

I know how to prevent it, he thought.

Quinton’s research thesis, which he’d chosen himself, was on DNA inactivation. He’d kept working through the tumult—what else was there to do? Home was 1,000 miles away in South Carolina, and there was no way to get back there. So he’d stayed busy in the laboratory and applied himself; it was therapy, taking his mind away from negative thoughts. He’d made some important discoveries, which he hadn’t told anyone about—no way in the present crisis to publish and ensure you got credit for your work. He had found an unusual reagent that precluded DNA inactivation. At the time he’d considered the finding interesting, but the technique wasn’t useful to his research—he was studying the effects of DNA inactivation and why some genes became inactive at certain times, so he wanted to initiate the process rather than prevent it—but now he realized it could possibly foil DCC’s plan.

But there were problems. He wasn’t entirely sure he could replicate the results. He didn’t know if the procedure was safe for humans—it worked in a cell culture, but he hadn’t even tested it in animals. And even if it was safe and effective, he only had enough material to protect perhaps a dozen people, and there was little chance of replenishing supplies.

Despite Timms’s calming influence, the meeting occasionally degenerated into shouting matches as a mixture of panic and resignation began to set in. Several professors scrambled home to their families—to do what, nobody knew. No details of DCC’s plan emerged; how DCC would carry it out, and when, was unknown, although the Chicago group apparently believed it would happen shortly, perhaps within a few days or a week at most. Rebbin couldn’t re-establish contact with the satellite when it again flew overhead. She said it may have been disabled—DCC could have detected the transmission. Grange had insisted on launching a strategic attack on DCC, but in the absence of communication and the means of coordination with other communities, little could be done.

A few hours after the meeting had begun, the building’s solar power cells were almost fully depleted. The lights faded and the electrical equipment quit working. Timms dismissed the remainder of the faculty. He said that he would post the Chicago news at the central bulletin board because it was the fastest way to get the word out. Everyone, they agreed, should be told as soon as possible. He asked people not to panic. “I know it’s tough, but try to stay positive,” he said, as the remainder of the assembly numbly drifted toward the exit. “We’ll try to think of something to do, some kind of counteraction. And Bill Grange will keep monitoring the radio for more information.”

Quinton followed Rebbin at a discreet distance. He waited until she had gotten outside and started walking down a street where many of the professors lived. The night was dark—no moon, so brilliant stars filled the sky. Quinton couldn’t help looking up at them every once in a while; he had never realized there were so many. He never saw very many stars in Charleston, or anywhere else. Up until now, there’d been almost nowhere in the world to get away from city lights, which obscured the light from most stars, since the world’s population had grown so large that the cities and suburbs had spread even to mountains and deserts. He’d read somewhere that virtually all astronomers had been forced to rely on orbiting telescopes.

Rebbin switched on a flashlight. Quinton wasn’t carrying one; he hadn’t expected to be out so late.

A car passed along the street. It was the only sound in the quiet night—a soft humming of the engine. One of the professors had managed to recharge his electric car’s batteries with a relatively high-capacity solar power cell somewhere—he refused to reveal where—but he could only go about ten miles on the charge. Persistent rumors of a cache of gasoline on campus had failed to yield any results.

Quinton had wanted to blurt out his secret during the meeting. Could they use the satellite to transmit his research discovery to everyone? Anyone?

His indecision was agonizing. He’d said nothing, but had come close. He had caught Timms staring at him once or twice. Timms had probably noticed Quinton’s internal debate.

Increasing his pace, Quinton caught up to Professor Rebbin. She whirled around, shining the flashlight in Quinton’s face. “Who’s there?”

Quinton said, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Rebbin aimed the flashlight at Quinton’s chest. Her voice remained unsteady. “What do you want?”

Quinton realized that she might misinterpret the reason why he’d followed her. Reports floated all over campus that one of the female professors and two female graduate students had been attacked. Most of the campus cops had stopped coming to work—no way to get to the campus unless they lived nearby. “The satellite,” said Quinton hurriedly. “I was wondering if there was any way to contact it again, and configure it to send a message.”

“I believe I made myself clear at the meeting. The satellite went silent. No signal at all.”

Quinton struggled for the right words. “I heard what you said. But I thought maybe there was something you weren’t saying.”

“Sandbagging?” Rebbin sounded suspicious. “No, I wasn’t holding back.”

“So the satellite is definitely gone?”

“Ask Professor Timms. He knows more than I do about it.” She paused. “What sort of message did you want to send?”

“Never mind. Sorry to bother you.” Quinton began walking back to the campus.

“What’s there to do?” shouted Rebbin. “We’re helpless! And there’s only a day or two until…”

Quinton didn’t answer. The flashlight beam shined on his back and he saw his shadow in front of him until Rebbin turned to go. Then the darkness enveloped Quinton, but the stars shined so brightly that he could see the hazy outline of the concrete sidewalk.

A gentle breeze blew. The air had become fresh in the last few weeks and smelled pure—no exhaust fumes.

The campus was quiet, like a graveyard. Almost all the undergraduate students had gone home or were staying with friends in the city, though many graduate students had stayed because most of them, like Quinton, weren’t from the area. A few candles lit up dorm windows, and the student lounge was occupied. Things hadn’t gotten bad on and around campus yet. Stragglers coming from other parts of the city told horror stories about the lawlessness they had witnessed, but the campus remained relatively safe.

Quinton wondered what would happen when the “population solution” began to take effect. Would DCC really carry out the plan? Could it succeed? How? Several DNA inactivation molecules had been identified, but how could the machine and its helpers expose so many people? Aerosol dispersion, perhaps. But worldwide? I could be torturing myself for nothing, Quinton thought. It all sounded a little bit far-fetched.

But Distributed Computer Control maintained its grip on the world’s digital and electronic infrastructure, and apparently some loyal government workers still served it. There’d been stories in the newspapers, just before the blackout, of a few government employees wearing swastika armbands. And some people apparently had begun worshiping DCC, maybe even offering sacrifices in horrific ceremonies.

It had seemed like such a good idea to put an advanced artificial intelligence in charge of the world. A world without politics, no more bias. It was a worthy goal. Rational decision-making would prevail. Or so people thought.

Was it rational to kill half of the world’s population? Even if you were convinced it was ultimately necessary to save the other half? Perhaps there’d been a bug in DCC’s programming. But people had insisted on an enormous variety of safeguards before handing over control, and computer experts had tested DCC for years before implementation. Yet experts clearly underestimated the degree to which civilization relies on infrastructure—and also underestimated DCC’s ability to introduce small but precisely directed glitches that snowballed into debilitating problems.

Which half would be chosen? With genetic sequences, you could do it randomly or you could target a specific trait, depending on the sequence. DNA varied, with some people having one sequence and others having a slightly different one. Sometimes the sequences varied in ways that didn’t seem to be important—the result of convergent evolution, with distinct genes having evolved to perform the same function. In these cases the sequence differences were irrelevant, and randomly distributed among the population; select one or the other of these sequences, and your targets would be random. You could also select repeating sequences whose number and location seemed to vary randomly in the population. On the other hand, genetic differences often led to functional or behavioral differences. Pick one of these sequences and you could attack a specific trait.

Which would it be? The Chicago scientists had indicated the selection would be random, but they weren’t 100 percent certain.

He desperately wanted to talk to someone. But whom could he trust?

Quinton stopped beside the biology building that housed Timms’s laboratory and the other biomedical labs. Rays of light shot out of a couple of windows. A few people had lamps with batteries recharged by solar power that would last well beyond midnight; Quinton’s flashlight began to fade around ten o’clock if he left it on, so he conserved it as much as possible.

Something stirred in the shadows behind the bushes. The branches rustled.

Probably cats, thought Quinton. Some people had turned their pets loose because they could no longer care for them or they had left town and set them free. Cats swarmed the campus.

The rustling stopped.

Quinton paused, then looked at the dorm, situated on the other side of the pedestrian walkway at the heart of the campus. The twenty-story building loomed into the starry sky, blocking a large swath of precious starlight.

He took a few steps when he heard the bushes rustle again. And then something that sounded like voices. Quinton stood still, straining to hear. Definitely voices.

Quinton ran toward the dorm. His path was lit by solar lamps that threw out a ring of fading light around the statue of the university’s founder, at the center of campus. He reached the dorm entrance and raced to the stairs. Lights were dim but not extinguished. Twelve flights went by, and he paused only once, at the ninth floor, to catch his breath.

He remembered that Mark Leidenhauser had stared at him a couple of times during the meeting. He and Timms both had noticed something. They had probably noticed the struggle, Quinton’s internal debate.

Professor Timms didn’t know what project Quinton had chosen for his thesis because Quinton hadn’t told him yet. Quinton hadn’t assembled his thesis committee yet—the first year at the university had been filled with class work and laboratory rotations, although Quinton had spent all of his time since then working on DNA activation because he found it fascinating. Nobody knew why the body silenced certain genes and DNA sequences at certain times.

And nobody could have guessed that DCC would hit upon the scheme of inactivating critical sequences at inappropriate times for genocidal purposes.

Timms may have had a vague idea what Quinton had in mind for his thesis project because they had discussed DNA inactivation a few times, but Timms was a well-funded researcher with an army of postdocs and more than a dozen graduate students besides Quinton and Mark Leidenhauser. He couldn’t possibly keep track of everything that went on in his lab.

What did Mark know? Probably, thought Quinton grimly, as much as he could learn by snooping.

Quinton inserted his magnetized ID card, and his room door popped open. He grabbed his flashlight and raced out.

He paused at the top of the stairs. Hefting his flashlight, he tapped the wall with the end of the flashlight that held the heavy, rechargeable batteries. Lots of mass. It made a pretty good weapon. Not optimal, but it would have to do.

Twelve flights of stairs came and went, two steps at a time, and then he exited the dorm.

Quinton figured they were guarding the entrance to the lab. Mark Leidenhauser and some of his friends. They probably suspected he would go into the lab tonight.

But Quinton hoped they hadn’t thought about the door at the unloading dock. It’d be locked, but the projectionist, who had also helped cart and store supplies, had told him the code. Quinton was glad that Mark belittled instead of befriended the university staff. Quinton listened to Timms when he’d said, “Smart people are nice to secretaries and assistants. You never know when you’ll need a favor to gain a competitive advantage.”

Staying in the shadows, Quinton reached the biology building. The ramp that led to the dock sloped downward, and Quinton could stay hidden all the way to the door. No one seemed to be around. He turned on the flashlight but dimmed it with his shirt so that it emitted only enough light for him to see the keypad. Hoping that the battery-powered lock still worked, he tapped the code and pressed the handle.

It opened.

Quinton switched off the flashlight and groped his way down the dark hall. Listening for noises, he heard only a steady drip from a leaky faucet somewhere. The water supply had been out most of the day and had been intermittent across campus for the last two weeks, but someone must have restored it recently. He saw the barely visible red light of the “Exit” sign, running from an emergency battery supply that had almost fully drained. It pointed the way to the stairs.

Slowly and cautiously he opened the door to the stairwell. It creaked like a thousand banshees, and Quinton held his breath. But nothing leaped out of the darkness at him.

He felt his way up the unlit stairs. Already Quinton found himself making a list. All the way up the stairs his thoughts were racing, formulating a list of people he would try to protect. If they would let him. If he could get his hands on the reagent. If it worked.

Timms. Grange. Rebbin. That’s three. Had to protect them first. And some of the other brilliant professors that remained on campus. They needed the smart people, the leaders, the “alphas,” to live. If not, what would happen to the survivors? Who would lead them back to civilization?

Ten people, maybe twelve, already populated Quinton’s list of guaranteed survivors. That would probably exhaust the supply. And what about himself and the others? He had no close friends on campus, but if there were any reagent left over, he’d distribute it to as many students as possible.

And he’d have to reserve some for himself or take his chances. He would make that decision later. First thing to do was to protect the leadership. This DCC takeover was a test, a challenge. That’s the best way to look at it, he thought. Nobody will be able to say that I didn’t do what’s right for the university and the city.

He counted the floors until he reached the third. A faint sliver of light escaped from underneath the door. The lights had not yet fully discharged, although they would be extremely dim.

The hinges of this door didn’t squeak like the other. Quinton nudged it open, peering into the corridor.

Nobody. The dusky hall was empty.

Quinton tiptoed down the hall to the door leading to his section of the lab. His familiarity with the keypad enabled him to punch the code without even having to look. The bolt slid away and the door snapped open, sounding like a rifle shot. Quinton flinched, then peered inside. The room was completely dark except for a trifling amount of light streaming through the open doorway.

Slipping inside, Quinton closed the door. He didn’t have to turn on his flashlight to find his locker, which stood in a corner along with four others. Feeling his way along the wall, he at last touched the cold metal of the locker. He dropped to his knees and felt for the combination lock.

The locker door swung open.

Astonished, Quinton used his shirt to dim the flashlight and switched it on. Someone had pried open his locker. His lab notebooks were missing.

“Nice one, Mark,” muttered Quinton. “You won that round. But good luck trying to decipher my notes.” Quinton allowed himself a laugh as he imagined what Mark’s face would look like when he discovered his theft would do no good.

Without his notes, Quinton would have to guess on dosages. But he felt confident he could get it right.

Quinton shut off the flashlight and crept over to the supply cabinet. He knew where the reagent would be. Using a dimmed beam he saw it at once and grabbed it.

A sense of relief shot through his body. Even though he knew it would be there, he felt a release of tension once the bottle was in his hands.

Quickly he sorted through some of the other chemicals. He grabbed six others. Decoys. If he were stopped, then nobody would attach particular importance to the vital substance.

As he stowed the chemicals in a plastic bag, he heard the lab door open. He shut off his flashlight and dived beneath the lab bench as a beam of light swept across the room.

“I know you’re in here,” said Mark. “So you can come on out.” He took a step and paused. “Come on, Quinton. You can’t hide in here. I’m going to find you. Why don’t you show yourself? What are you afraid of?”

Quinton stashed the chemicals under a sink and scooted down the aisle. The beam of light swung in his direction.

“I hear you,” said Mark.

Quinton rose from behind the bench, twenty feet from the sink. “What do you want?” he asked.

The flashlight beam shined briefly in his face. Then Mark lowered it. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re wondering how I got in the building, aren’t you?”

“I assume,” said Mark, “you came in the front door, like I did.”

“Stop pretending you’re not looking for me.” Quinton’s voice wasn’t as steady as he’d hoped.

“Okay, I’m looking for you,” said Mark. “I admit it. You know something. Something about what’s going to happen.”

“I don’t know any more than you do.” Quinton slowly stepped around the bench and toward the door.

Mark moved to block him. “I think you do. The minute Timms said something about DNA inactivation, your expression changed. That’s what you’re working on in the lab, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m working on. So? I was amazed at the coincidence.”

“Sure,” said Mark. “But you looked like you stayed amazed for an awfully long time. Amazed, and something else too. Troubled, I’d say.”

Quinton had gotten about ten feet from the door. Mark’s beam shined on his chest. Quinton couldn’t make out Mark’s face, but he could sense the tension in his voice and in his stance. Quinton increased his grip on his heavy flashlight. Could he really bring himself to hit somebody with it? Hard enough to hurt him? Quinton recalled his childhood and the way he was raised—chess, chemistry sets, books, and piano lessons; unlike most of his classmates, Quinton had never been interested in football or wrestling.

Then he saw the knife. A stray beam caught a wicked-looking knife strapped to one of Mark’s belt loops. The glinting blade, showing through the straps of the sheath, was enormous—a hunting knife, with a blood groove.

Quinton tensed. But he noticed that Mark’s free hand did not seem to be anywhere near the hilt.

Footsteps in the hallways caused them both to spin toward the door. It opened authoritatively.

“What’s going on in here?”

Mark’s flashlight illuminated the face of Professor Timms. Quinton felt a flood of relief.

Mark said, “We were just talking.”

“Come out into the hallway,” said Timms. “Both of you.”

Although the corridor lights glowed dully, Quinton could see Timms and Mark. Quinton moved closer to Timms, facing the professor; Quinton’s back was to the wall. Mark flicked off his flashlight and stood sullenly beside the lab door.

“What was the argument about?” asked Timms impatiently. When he didn’t get an immediate answer, he said, “Now is not the time to be playing childish games.”

“I’ll tell you in private,” said Quinton.

“Okay,” said Timms.

Mark stirred. “Now wait a minute. This thing involves everybody. And he knows something.” Mark took a step toward Quinton.

“He stole my lab notebooks,” said Quinton, looking at Timms. “But he can’t read them.”

“Look out!” cried Timms.

The professor shoved Quinton to the floor. Quinton hit the tiles hard, then heard a buzz-ing sound that lasted a few seconds. Quickly he rose to his hands and knees. An acrid smell hung in the air.

Quinton looked around. Mark lay on his back; Timms stood over him holding a gun in his right hand. Quinton scrambled to his feet. “What happened?”

Timms didn’t answer. Quinton stepped over to Mark and got down on one knee for a closer look. In the dim light he could barely make out Mark’s eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling. Wisps of smoke escaped from his ears.

For once Timms seemed to be rattled. “Is he… is he dead?”

Quinton felt for a carotid pulse. Nothing. “Yes.” He noticed that the hunting knife remained snugly in its holder.

Quinton rose and faced Timms. For the first time it dawned on him that he was two inches taller than the professor. If someone had asked him earlier, Quinton would have said that he was shorter than Timms.

“What did you do?” asked Quinton. He gestured toward the gun. “What is that thing?”

Timms’s reverie broke suddenly. He stashed the weapon in his pocket and put a strong hand on Quinton’s back. “Things are spinning out of control. Let’s go to my office. We need to make plans.”

Quinton sat in Professor Timms’s expansive, well-lit office. Somehow the chairman had managed to commandeer sufficient power to keep the lamps shining. And to circulate the air, which did not smell stale, as it did in the rest of the building.

From behind his gigantic desk, Timms stared at Quinton. “What was the fight about?”

“We weren’t fighting. What makes you think we were?”

Timms frowned. “I know you two have been at each other’s throats since you came into my lab. Don’t try to snow me, Quinton. I’ve got a lot of people working for me, but not so many that I don’t know what’s going on. You two were my most competitive students.”

Quinton still couldn’t quite believe that Mark was gone. “What was that gun you fired? Was it a Taser?”

“Sort of. That’s not important. What’s important is—”

“Mark’s dead. I can’t say I liked him very much, but you killed him.”

“He lunged at you. He would have killed you. You saw the knife.”

“It was still sheathed.”

“His hand went to the handle. I had to act fast. The gun is just a prototype; it doesn’t have any kind of control. I didn’t think it would kill him.”

“Where did you get it?”

Timms waved a hand. “Research I did some years ago. For the military. Back when I was struggling to get funds. We all take on projects sometimes just for the grant money. The army wanted a weapon to overstimulate an enemy’s nervous system and incapacitate him. We developed a microwave emitter that set up seizure-inducing oscillations in the brain.”

“You weren’t supposed to keep a prototype, were you? You held it back.”

Timms expression hardened. “We’re all competitive to a certain extent. We’re all looking for an advantage. You never know when something like this weapon could be useful. Necessary, even.”

“You were sandbagging at the meeting, too, weren’t you?” A surge of emotion swept over Quinton. He couldn’t define what it was—a mixture of excitement and fear. “I think Rebbin suspected something. She told me that you knew more than she did.”

“You know how modest Sandra can be.”

Quinton kept staring at the professor. Timms had completely regained his composure. But you’re lying, thought Quinton.

“Okay,” said Timms. “Let’s stop playing mind games.” He rose and walked to a cabinet. Opening a door, he lifted a bottle and examined the label. “Pour you a drink? Good scotch.”

Quinton shook his head.

Timms set a shot glass on his desk and poured until it was half full. “Sure you don’t want any?”

“What are you holding back?”

Timms put away the bottle and returned to his chair. “I palmed a few pages of the printout when I was collecting them and folding the ones that had been torn.”

“What did they say?”

“Speculation, mostly. According to Chicago, DCC’s plan is to use dispersion agents. Like the rainmakers, I guess, who use condensation nuclei. They’ll drift with the wind, scattering the inactivation compounds.”

“What will it inactivate? How much time do we have?”

“We might have already run out of time. I’ve got to hand it to DCC, it knew what it was doing. The plan is to target certain brainstem neurons that are responsible for controlling respiration. Keeps them from making a certain protein, an ion pump, which maintains the electrical gradient. No gradient, no activity. The neurons slowly run down.”

“You quit breathing?”

Timms nodded. “You can keep yourself alive for a while by forcing air into your lungs. But you need these neurons to make breathing automatic. They monitor oxygen levels and adjust the rate accordingly. Respiration is usually not conscious—you don’t have to think about it. But without these neurons, you do have to think about it.”

“Which means,” said Quinton, “when you go to sleep…”

“You die. Victims will feel tired, get short of breath. They’ll probably lie down and rest. Then they’ll fall asleep. They won’t know they’re running out of oxygen because the neurons that monitor the oxygen levels are shutting down. Nobody will know what’s happening until the next morning—when about one out of every two people will have expired. It’s clever and painless.”

“Clever?”

Timms shrugged. “You’ve got to admit that it has a certain kind of brilliance.” He stared at Quinton. “The real question is, what are we going to do about it?”

“You withheld this information to prevent panic? Or for some other reason? To gain an advantage over the competition, perhaps.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Timms sipped his drink. “Now is not the time for philosophy or psychology.”

Quinton thought about Mark. Saw the body in his mind’s eye. Then a flash of insight struck. He opened his mouth, ready to speak. But he held back.

“Yes?” said Timms. “Something you want to say?”

And I ought to say it, thought Quinton. But he wondered if the gun was still in Timms’s pocket.

Timms leaned forward. “You’ve got an idea, Quinton? Let’s hear it.”

“Mark didn’t steal my lab notebooks. You did.” A brief flush came over the professor’s face, telling Quinton he was right. “At first I was sure it was Mark, but now that I think about it, that doesn’t really make much sense. Mark had already been looking over my shoulder; he would have known that I write my notes in code. It’s not a simple one either. Vigenere cipher. Mark knew that stealing my notebooks wouldn’t have been useful, but you didn’t.” Quinton paused. He felt short of breath. “That means you murdered him when you realized I would find out Mark didn’t take them.”

The professor’s expression went cold and hard, but his poise quickly returned. “He really did lunge for you, Quinton. He didn’t reach for his knife, but I thought that’s what he was planning to do.”

Quinton watched him closely. The professor’s hand crept toward his pocket. “You can threaten me, but you can’t kill me,” said Quinton. “I know something you don’t.”

Timms smiled. Quinton was amazed that the professor’s smile seemed fluid and relaxed. “You have a point. But some of the other people in my lab are anxious to replicate and extend your discovery. You have made a discovery, haven’t you, Quinton?”

“I won’t tell you,” said Quinton.

“Why not? You want half of the people in this community to die?”

“You couldn’t save them. Even if you wanted to—which I doubt.”

Timms leaned back. “Not enough material? I figured there was a reason you didn’t say anything at the meeting. Well, maybe we can scrounge up some more somewhere.”

“No, it’s a special order,” said Quinton. “You’d only protect yourself. And some of your goons.”

“Goons?” Timms looked genuinely surprised. “These people are scientists, they have doctorates—”

“Doesn’t matter. What you’re doing isn’t right. And what you’ve already done isn’t right. I don’t care how smart you are.”

“And what about yourself? You’re prepared to roll the dice?”

Quinton nodded.

Timms shook his head. “Come on, Quinton. You’re as competitive as anyone, including me. We’re both competitive, and that’s why we have so much success whereas others fail. I promise that you’ll be one of those we protect.”

“No.”

“I can’t believe you’ve gone so soft. You’re smart enough to know that there will always be winners and losers. And it’s better to win than lose.”

“That’s true. Winning is always better. But I guess I’m a lot more different from you than I thought. Where we disagree is on the definition of ‘winning.’”

Timms frowned. “I think you’ll tell us what we want to know, though we might have to do a little bit of persuading.” He reached for the intercom. “Believe me, Quinton, I hate to do it, but we’re fighting the clock on this one. You leave me no alternative.”

Quinton aimed and threw his flashlight. Timms saw it coming and ducked. The heavy cylinder bounced off his shoulder, but Quinton heard the thud of metal against bone. The flashlight had struck the professor’s clavicle.

Racing out of the room, Quinton was suddenly blinded in the dimness of the hallway. His night vision was gone—his eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the professor’s office.

But Quinton had walked these hallways day and night for a long time. He bumped into the wall a few times but still reached the stairs quickly. Just as he was racing down the steps he heard the heavy footfalls of pursuers.

Quinton stayed in the lead, finding the exit at the unloading dock and then sprinting up the ramp. He raced across campus, able to stay the course using starlight and the stray light of the flashlights of the people running after him. He won the race to the dorm.

With burning lungs and aching legs he galloped up the stairs. After he reached his room he yanked the deadbolt, clasped the chain, and pushed his dresser against the door for good measure. Then he collapsed.

As he lay on the floor in the pitch-black room, he heard thumps and scratches on the metal door. They’ll have to wait until after the sun rises to use power tools, thought Quinton. And by then it might be too late.

Quinton drew deep breaths. Shoulders, chest, abdomen rose and fell. Was he out of breath because of the unaccustomed exercise? Or was he one of the victims?

Maybe they’ll find the chemicals under the sink, he thought. But probably not. And even if they did, they wouldn’t know which one to use or how. “For once,” he muttered, “the playing field is level. Too bad for you, Professor Timms.”

He closed his eyes. His breathing softened, his thoughts drifted. If it’s going to happen, he figured, he should just accept it.

What would Timms do if both he and Quinton survived? How would Timms treat Quinton? What would he say, what would he do? And how could Quinton ever look at Timms again and not think of him as a cold-blooded killer?

But Quinton decided to worry about that later—if, that is, he had a later. His last thought was, what exactly is my definition of winning?

Clouds thickened during the early morning hours. By dawn a light rain fell on campus. The dark skies promised a wet, cloudy day. Lights would be dim all day and go out early in the evening.

The gentle rain unleashed fresh scents. Shoots of grass poked up between cracks in the ubiquitous concrete.

Quinton opened his eyes. Light filtered through the curtains. Rain beat a soft tattoo on his window.

“I made it!” he cried.

He rose and looked out of the window. The campus appeared active, lots of people walking about. Many of them carried umbrellas.

Quinton listened at his door. Silence. He moved the dresser and unchained and unbolted the door. He peeked outside. Nothing. But dents and scratches covered the front of the door.

He looked for his flashlight, then remembered what he’d done with it. A twinge of regret came over him. He wondered if he should have tried to escape without hitting the professor.

Curiosity wouldn’t let him stay in his room. He came out and started down the stairs. He met two sleepy grad students on the stairwell.

“What’s the news?” he asked.

They shrugged. Apparently, they knew nothing about what had happened last night.

Quinton stepped out into the misty weather. No one who passed by him seemed especially alarmed or affected.

Maybe DCC hasn’t released the toxins, he thought.

He wandered to the biology building. A postdoc he knew slightly went inside. He followed cautiously.

The first person he met was emeritus Professor Grange. He was carrying a plastic bag and striding rapidly down the hall when he saw Quinton. He stopped and stared, saying, “I wondered when you would show up.”

“What happened?”

“It’s all over the radio. I heard just a few minutes ago. They’ve finally taken down DCC and its zombies. We’re in the process of reestablishing an Internet connection.”

“DCC didn’t have time to carry out its plan?”

Grange muttered an expletive. “It was carrying out its plan, all right. It just wasn’t what we thought.”

Four men appeared in the hall carrying a covered stretcher. Professor Grange and Quinton made way for them to pass.

“My God,” said Quinton. “How many?”

“Just a few.” He watched the men carry away the body. “That was Borden. Borden Timms.”

“What—”

“He’s been stabbed.” Grange looked at Quinton. “I understand you and he and some of his friends had a set-to last night.”

“I didn’t kill him!”

“I know you didn’t,” said Grange, gently. “I heard what happened. I’m sketchy on the details, but I think I’ve got the general idea.” He reached into the bag and pulled out Timms’s gun. “He was clutching this in his hand. Apparently, he threatened somebody with it. Somebody who was a little faster than he was.”

“His shoulder,” mumbled Quinton. “Slow on the draw, I bet.”

“How’s that?”

Quinton shook his head. “Never mind. What did you mean when you said DCC’s plan wasn’t what we thought?”

“That genocide or whatever you want to call it. It was a lot of nonsense. DCC was never going to do anything like that. But that’s what it wanted us to think. It encouraged the rumor, spread it around, and leaked news of all kinds of schemes with which it would carry it out.”

“Why would it do something like that?”

“That,” said Grange, “is going to be the subject of a lot of research and debate over the coming years.” He closed the bag and wrapped it up tightly. “Once the police get on their feet again, I’ll let them dispose of this properly. In the meantime, Sandra Rebbin and I are getting the labs safely up and running again. Regular electric power will be restored soon, or so the city tells me.”

Quinton followed him.

“Professor,” said Quinton, “what really happened? Do you have a theory about DCC? What was the goal?”

“I’m not sure.” Grange paused. “But maybe it was genuinely concerned about civilization—we’re facing a lot of problems, you know—and perhaps it wanted to encourage a reduction in population the old-fashioned way. Set up a situation in which people would fight it out. Red in tooth and claw.”

“Maybe,” said Quinton. “But I have another idea. Maybe DCC learned only too well from its human programmers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Holding back—sandbagging. It didn’t reveal its true plan. It held back—on those who usually do the same.”

“With the goal…?”

Quinton shrugged. “Maybe it thought the best way to deal with overpopulation was to get rid of the people with the least tendency to cooperate. People who try to gain an edge by withholding important information. If it could fool them, somehow get them to eliminate each other—”

“Interesting theory,” said Grange, “but far too complicated for a machine. How would such a plan work? I think the simplest theory is the best, and that’s the theory of evolution. That’s what must have guided DCC. It believed that the strong would kill the weak, increasing society’s fitness…”

But Quinton wasn’t listening. He’d seen a couple of postdocs struggling to move a crate and stopped to lend them a hand.

Content

Sandbagging
by Kyle Kirkland