Evil Genius (4 page)

"Does he?" Cadel was confused. It didn't seem to him that Phineas Darkkon had been all that smart. In some ways, yes—but not in others. The business with Doel the Disruptor ... Cadel wasn't sure about that at all.

"Your father has certain ideas about the world, Cadel," Thaddeus remarked. Twitch, twitch, twitch went his foot. "Not many people share them, because not many people understand them. Not many people have made the mental leap. He had to find his own money to fund the research to support those ideas, and in doing so, he simply exploited the stupidity of others. You see, there are two types of people in this world, Cadel—"

"I know, I know," Cadel interrupted. "I read about it. Two types of people, like two types of DNA. But
I
wouldn't like to lose money in a soft-drink machine."

"Cadel, you wouldn't." Thaddeus spoke patiently. "If you ever set your mind to it, you'd never have to pay money into a vending machine ever again. You're the sort of person who would develop a means of getting the drink without paying the money. You have a supergenetic blueprint, Cadel—just like your father. The world is going to hell precisely because the junk DNA of stupid and talentless people has been swamping the potential of the human race. Think about it, Cadel. Think about what
you
have to put up with. It's as if you've been dragging invisible shackles around, isn't it? No one
wants
you to spread your wings. You're regarded as a problem, not a solution. Everywhere you turn, people want to rein you in. Stop you from doing what you want."

It was true. Cadel stared in astonishment.

"Have you heard about Galileo?" said Thaddeus. "Galileo was scorned and imprisoned because of his views, which were ahead of their time. One day, Cadel, your father will receive the recognition he deserves."

Cadel wondered. He wasn't completely convinced. But he
was
interested. After a long time, he said, "Do you know what I like about you? I like the way you talk to me. No one else talks to me the way you do. People treat me like ... like..." Words failed him, briefly.

"Like an eight-year-old?" Thaddeus suggested, with a smile.

"Like I'm stupid," said Cadel. "Like I don't understand."

"Which isn't an error I'm likely to make."

"You're the only one who doesn't expect me to be stupid."

"As to that, I should point out two things," Thaddeus replied. "Firstly, most adults would find it impossible to admit that a child is smarter than they are. Secondly, your father is not among this group of people." Thaddeus narrowed his eyes. "He would very much like to speak to you, Cadel. If you have no objection."

Cadel had been swinging his legs. He froze. He stared, then swallowed. "On the phone, you mean?" he asked warily.

"I think not. Your father is under constant surveillance. He's had to find alternative methods of contacting me."

"How?"

"Via transmitter." A slow smile spread across the psychologist's face. "As a matter of fact, it's hidden in his arthritis bangle."

Cadel blinked.

"His first transmitter was in his wristwatch," Thaddeus continued, "but they took that away."

"It must be a pretty small transmitter."

"It's wired with DNA."

Cadel caught his breath.

"It's
what?
"

"You heard me." Thaddeus winked. "Someone was bound to master the technique sometime, and Dr. Darkkon has the obvious background."

"But ... but ..." Cadel's mind was working furiously. "But DNA is a bad conductor. Unless it's a substrate for metal plating, and that's so much work."

Thaddeus lifted a hand. "Don't ask me for details," he said firmly. "Your father's the one who understands—your father and his nanotechnology department."

"There's been no news." Cadel could hardly believe his ears. "Nothing. Not on the Internet or in the papers."

"Of course not. If no one knows it's even
possible
to hide a transmitter in an arthritis bangle, why would anyone think to look?" Thaddeus surveyed Cadel over the top of his clasped hands. "Well?" he drawled. "What do you say, Cadel? A fifteen-minute conversation during our next session together. How does that sound?"

"Fine," said Cadel, but his voice was flat. Experience had taught him to be cautious, and he still didn't know how he felt about his father. Only about Thaddeus.

He trusted Thaddeus, and admired him. If Thaddeus thought he should speak to Dr. Darkkon, then he would—no matter how nervous the prospect made him.

Besides, how else was he going to get a look at that DNA-wired transmitter?

When Cadel turned up for his next appointment, he discovered a curious little screen mounted on Dr. Roth's desk. The screen was attached to a very small box of circuitry, which trailed an array of fine wires. Thaddeus directed Cadel to a chair in front of the screen and began to fiddle with connections and adjust frequencies. Cadel watched him with the motionless attention of a leopard waiting to pounce.

After about five minutes, a crackling noise issued from the plastic box. Thaddeus said, "Ah," and rubbed his hands together. The screen in front of Cadel filled with light.

A face appeared, then broke up again. There was a roar of static.

"Damn," muttered Thaddeus.

"Are there relay stations?" Cadel wanted to know. But before Thaddeus could answer, the shredded signal coalesced once again, and Cadel saw his father's face on the screen.

It was quite a shock.

"Good god," croaked a disembodied voice.

"Are you reading us?" Thaddeus demanded. "Dr. Darkkon?"

"I can see him," the fuzzy voice continued. "It's Cadel, isn't it?"

"That's right," said Thaddeus, nudging his client. "Say something, Cadel."

Cadel, however, was struck dumb. Reception wasn't perfect, and the color was poor; his father's face looked blue. It hung on the screen like a big blue balloon, bobbing and weaving with every breath that Dr. Darkkon took. Cadel saw first one eye, then another, each embedded in a nest of heavy creases. Dr. Darkkon had a frog's mouth and liver spots. His expression was hungry, his breathing loud.

"Cadel," he crooned. "Cadel. I can hardly believe it. You really are the image of your mother. Thad, can you believe it? He's the spitting image."

"Mmm," said Thaddeus.

"How are you, Cadel? Thad says you've been having a lot of fun lately." A sly grin. "Playing with trains and so forth."

Cadel swallowed. Then he nodded and licked his lips. He didn't know what to say. (This man was his
father
!)

"Mucking around with computers," Dr. Darkkon added. "You like computers, don't you?"

Cadel cleared his throat. "They ... they won't let me use them," he stammered. "Not the way I want to."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I don't even have one of my own anymore!"

Dr. Darkkon shook his head and clicked his tongue. "It's a shame," he murmured.

"Can
you
buy me one?" Cadel asked hoarsely, deciding not to beat around the bush. His father owed him a computer, after so many years of missed birthdays. It was the least he could do. "I've heard you have a lot of money."

"Well, I do, but—"

"Can you give me one with DNA wiring?"

"Cadel, it's not as simple as that," Dr. Darkkon said softly. His face lurched about on the screen. "I wish I could give you a computer, but if I did, the Piggotts would wonder where it came from."

"I could hide it. If it was small enough. If it had DNA wiring."

Dr. Darkkon laughed. Thaddeus said, "Too risky. Suppose they did find it? Word would get out. The computer companies would get interested. You'd have the world at your door, Cadel, and you don't want that."

"No, you certainly don't," Dr. Darkkon agreed. "If there's one thing I've learned, Cadel, it's that you must keep a low profile. You should never attract too much attention. Let Thaddeus guide you—he's always been inconspicuous."

"There's an art to it," Thaddeus conceded.

"But I want a computer!" Cadel protested. Tears sprang to his eyes. He had hoped that his father, by suddenly appearing, would be able to solve all his problems. "Why won't you give me one?"

"Because I don't need to," Dr. Darkkon replied. He didn't have a nice voice—not like Thaddeus. Dr. Darkkon's voice was high and scratchy and nasal, made worse by the distortions of the transmitter. "Someone with your brains, my boy, shouldn't have everything served up to him on a plate, even if it were possible. Think. Consider. Work your way through this. There isn't anything you can't get if you're smart enough." With a flourish that sent colors bouncing wildly around the screen, he added, "Just look at me. They tried to take my son away, and they couldn't do it. I'm too clever to go without. Why should you be any different?"

"Because I'm not a grown-up," Cadel replied, in sullen tones. "Because I'm not a billionaire. Because I'm not in charge of an international business empire."

Dr. Darkkon chuckled. It sounded like water gurgling down a drain.

"Don't worry, my boy," he said, leering across the miles. "You'll be all of those things soon enough. I guarantee it."

And with that promise Cadel had to be satisfied. Dr. Darkkon steadfastly refused to give him a computer. What's more, though Cadel tried very hard, he was never able to obtain even the most humble laptop for more than a day and a half, because his withdrawn behavior always alerted the Piggotts or his nannies. It was as if they could
smell
the electrodes firing.

But he did achieve all kinds of other things, thanks to the encouragement he received from Thaddeus and Dr. Darkkon. They opened up new worlds for Cadel. After that first conversation, there were many others. Cadel, Thaddeus, and Dr. Darkkon discussed all manner of interesting things, from gambling to international smuggling laws. Cadel's various hobbies were thoroughly examined. His ambitions were applauded. Clever suggestions were made. In fact, it was thanks to Dr. Roth's advice that Cadel began to take an interest in Sydney's traffic flow—a far more complex, difficult system than the rail network, owing to its random and organic nature. Traffic jams in particular were a challenge to Cadel. He only gradually came to understand that a traffic jam is not the sum of the cars inside it. On the contrary, just as a human body can replace all its cells and remain a human body, so a traffic jam can have all its cars replaced by different cars, as some leave it and others join it, while remaining, in essence, the same traffic jam.

"Like my parents," Cadel remarked to Thaddeus, on one occasion. "You could replace them with two different people, and they'd still be my parents."

"Your
adoptive
parents," Thaddeus corrected.

"Whatever."

"Meaning they're never around?"

"Hardly ever."

"Just as well, don't you think?"

"I guess."

"If they were around more, they might notice how interested you've become in the traffic reports on the radio. Not to mention automotive engineering."

Cadel grunted. Though he was used to rattling around in the Piggotts' gigantic house, which had six bedrooms and five bathrooms and lay hidden at the end of a long, leafy driveway, he could never get over the feeling that he deserved more attention. Not necessarily from Mr. Piggott—who was just a corporate cog, uninterested in anything except asset securitization—but from Mrs. Piggott, who was
supposed
to be Cadel's mother. Sometimes he wondered why she had decided to adopt a child at all, before remembering that all her friends had children (loathsome children, Cadel had discovered). It was possible that Mrs. Piggott, being an interior decorator, had also wanted to try her hand at a nursery in her own house. She had certainly lavished a lot of care on Cadel's latest bedroom, covering the walls with storage boxes in shades of plum and mustard, designing a round "dart board" rug, and converting an old wooden dinghy into a wardrobe. She seemed more interested in Cadel's bedroom than she was in him.

Cadel, who didn't feel comfortable in the room, spent most of his time in the library, or in the little guesthouse on the south side of the pool. At least these spaces had sensible, adult color schemes and a calming arrangement of furniture. The colors in his bedroom made his eyes water, and all the PlaySkool soft cubes and sailing-boat bed linen set his teeth on edge. Cadel had never sailed a boat in his life. He never wanted to, either. It was as if his bedroom belonged to another boy.

Cadel's interests were more unusual.

Over the next year and a half, Cadel amused himself in various ways as he mastered Sydney's road network. Such mastery was hard-won for someone with no driver's license and only limited access to a modem. He made do by asking his current nanny to drive him around town every afternoon and weekend; by plundering the Road and Traffic Authority's information service; and by requesting several helicopter flights for his ninth-birthday present. These flights, needless to say, were always taken during the city's rush hour.

He also kept a calendar, marked with events such as football matches, parades, races, festivals, and school holidays. He paid particular attention to beach suburbs when the weather was hot, and tried to monitor roadworks on arterial routes. Busy points like the Harbor Bridge and tunnel were often his chosen destinations when they were most likely to be jammed up; stuck in a gridlock, his nanny would pound the steering wheel and give vent to explosive sighs, while Cadel studied the tunnel's electrical system or the bridge's signal array.

Meanwhile, his teachers had begun to notice a curious pattern in his behavior. He would suddenly become intensely interested in a particular subject—mathematics, say, or chemistry—which he would pursue in great depth for several weeks before dropping it in favor of another subject. His teachers would find themselves dodging questions about the table of elements or modular algorithms, and once again the issue of Cadel's promotion to high school would be raised at staff meetings. One teacher in particular was very impressed by Cadel; he had twice given the boy a lift home, and had been astonished at his knowledge of, and interest in, the car's engine. But there were disagreements about Cadel among the teaching staff. Though he had a sweet little face, his mode of speech was very odd. He would calmly advise a teacher on playground duty that she was "paying insufficient attention to nodes of activity in the northeast sector." He would station himself beside the playground equipment and carefully note down every accident or injury that took place on it, explaining that he was "interested in the energy flows." When asked to write a composition about a class visit to Taronga Zoo, he produced a ten-page essay on the movement of visitors around its many meandering pathways.