Resonance (44 page)

They'd smile, their consciences assuaged, and leave Graham wondering why so many first thoughts involved his death.

When the man from Kyoto suggested placing explosives on the Grahams and making them unwitting delivery devices in political assassinations, Graham decided he'd heard enough.

Annalise followed him into the corridor.

"They really don't mean it," she said, pulling the door closed. "It's the way they work. They think in abstracts. They throw ideas up in the air and sort them out later. No one's going to make the Grahams do anything they don't want to."

Graham nodded. He didn't want to talk. Not even to Annalise. He felt distanced by events as though the universe had been split into two camps—the Grahams and the not-Grahams, the expendable and the non-expendable. Why
not
kill all the Grahams? They'd never be missed.

"I'm only going to the bathroom," he lied, knowing that any other statement would give Annalise an excuse to tag along. Company was not something he wanted.

He paused by the cloakroom door and glanced back. Annalise was watching so he went inside. When he came out, she'd gone.

He pushed through the doors to the stairs before she had time to reappear. He needed to be alone, he needed time to think.

He trudged slowly down the concrete steps. He knew everyone meant well but he also knew that desperate people embraced desperate measures. If only he were cleverer. If only he didn't have to depend so much on others.

He reached the stair door to the ground floor and stopped. The stairs continued down. He peered over the metal handrail. There was a basement level? He'd never been shown a basement level on his tour of the building. And he was sure the buttons in the lift stopped at "Ground."

He followed the steps down. Why would they have a floor you could only access from the stairwell?

At the bottom, there was a sign above the doors—Lower Ground. He pushed through into a corridor, a mirror image of all the other corridors in the building. Doors dotted along its length, each door with an entry panel.

He walked along the empty corridor, wondering what each room contained. There was a low rumble in the distance, becoming louder the further he walked. Machinery of some sort? A generator?

A green light shone above one of the doors, two rooms ahead on the right. As he moved closer he could see that the door hadn't closed properly, it was resting against the lock. He walked over, placed a hand in the center of the door and pushed ever so slightly.

The door opened a crack and he peered in. There was a notice board on the side wall, four words written across the top:
New Tech Weapons Research
.

He blinked and read the words again. Gary had sworn he knew nothing about New Tech weapons on this world. He'd acted surprised at the newspaper headline. Had it all been an act?

He pushed the door wider, slid inside and peered around the edge of the door. The room looked empty. There was a row of head-height metal cabinets running left to right across the room. He couldn't see anyone on the other side and if he kept low they wouldn't be able to see him either.

He slipped silently inside, crouching low and moving cautiously. He had to read what it said on that board. If Gary couldn't be trusted, he needed to know. Now.

He reached the edge of the cabinets; the notice board was only a few feet away. There were brochures, memos, lists and timetables. He started to read. One memo indicated that weapons research had been running for fifteen months. There were . . .

The door behind him clicked shut.

Graham turned in surprise.

Adam Sylvestrus was standing by the door, his fingers tapping numbers on the entry console. The green light above the door flashed to red. He turned and smiled.

"Delighted to at last meet you, Mr. Smith. I have been following your progress with great interest."

Graham froze. Sylvestrus blocked the door—he'd probably locked it, probably entered some code that Graham couldn't crack in a million years. They were in the basement—no windows, no exits. Solid concrete and a hardwood door between him and any way out.

He'd charge Sylvestrus, that's what he'd do. He'd knock him over, force him to open the doors. Sylvestrus had to be in his sixties, he was no threat.

Sylvestrus produced a gun. He didn't point it at Graham, he let it rest in his hands, fondling it, letting Graham know it was there.

"A wonder of technology," said Sylvestrus, looking down at the gun in his hands. "The first of our New Tech hand weapons."

Graham recognized it. He'd seen one before. He'd heard it whine; he'd seen it arc terror into a crowd of screaming people.

"I expect you're wondering why I sent for you."

Graham thought he'd misheard.
Sent for you?
How . . .

The realization made him feel slow and stupid. He'd flipped again. He checked his clothes. He wasn't wearing the shirt that Annalise had picked out for him. He'd been so blind. He'd been so wrapped up in his own thoughts he'd forgotten about the dangers of making choices.

"Have you lost something?" asked Sylvestrus.

Graham ignored him. When had he flipped? Which choice had it been? His decision to leave the others, to hide in the gents, to take the stairs, to investigate the basement?

And what was Sylvestrus doing here? Gary had said he'd be safe in Putney; it wasn't one of ParaDim's usual offices. And hadn't Tamisha said that Sylvestrus didn't like modern architecture?

"I thought you didn't like modern buildings?" The words came out of Graham's mouth before he'd had time to think.

"You
can
speak," said Sylvestrus in a mixture of surprise and amusement. "I suspected as much but," he paused, "however did you know about my dislike of modern architecture?"

"I know a lot of things." Graham wasn't sure what he was doing. He kept thinking about Annalise Fifteen and what she'd do. Somehow, she'd think of a way to turn the situation to her advantage.

"Indeed?" Sylvestrus smiled as if amused at the presumption of a young child. "Enlighten me, what else do you know?"

"I know about the resonance wave."

Sylvestrus blinked. Graham saw the surprise—shock even—that flashed across his face. It only lasted for a fraction of a second, but it had been there. He'd rattled Sylvestrus.

"You're a different Graham, aren't you?" he said, smiling once more as he looked Graham up and down.

Graham rocked slowly from side to side, shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot. If only he had Annalise's speed of thought. And her ingenuity: she'd do whatever it took, use whatever was at hand. What did
he
have?

He racked his brain. He had knowledge. He knew Sylvestrus's future from the other worlds. He knew the man was going to die.

"I know what's going to happen to you," he said, faster than he meant to, the words rushing out in a breathless stream. "You'll never have the time to enjoy your power. The money won't last. I've seen the pictures of your death."

"Is that what you think this is all about? Money and power?" Sylvestrus smiled and slowly shook his head. "You
really
think I need more money? You think I haven't amassed all the wealth a man could possible require?"

He advanced slowly towards Graham. There was something about his presence that awed Graham. The smug self-assurance, the way his eyes seemed to look right through you. Graham felt pinned by them, he felt opened up and exposed.

And the gun didn't help.

Graham backed off until he felt the frame of the notice board digging into his back.

"When one approaches my age, Mr. Smith, it's not money one craves, nor power. But one's place in history, one's legacy to future generations." He paused and ran a finger along the barrel of the gun. "Do you believe in natural selection, Mr. Smith?"

Graham shrugged and nodded at the same time. And kicked himself for being so easily silenced. He was supposed to be grabbing the initiative, not Sylvestrus. But he couldn't think straight with Sylvestrus talking.

"Survival of the fittest. Market forces," continued Sylvestrus, slow and unruffled. He could have been talking to his favorite grandson. There was no hint of nerves or malice.

"The human race is at a crossroad. We've thrived under natural selection. The best and the bravest have prospered and passed on their genes. But now what happens? Who's most likely to pass on their genes today? The clever, the successful, the people who have something to offer future generations? Or the couldn't-care-less, the bored, the irresponsible, the 'whatever' generation?"

He paused, his eyes staring directly into Graham's. Graham looked away.

"You've met Miss Kent?" Sylvestrus said, raising an eyebrow. "A brilliant mind, a healthy body. Wouldn't you say that she has everything to offer future generations?"

There was a passion to Sylvestrus's voice now. The detached amusement had gone.

"But she's decided against children. Her gene line ends with her. As does Mr. Sarkissian's. Professional people are having fewer children, Mr. Smith. Talented people are having fewer children."

"What has that got to do with anything?" said Graham.

"You still don't see?" Sylvestrus looked surprised. "Who's having children these days?" He changed his tone, introducing a hard sarcastic edge, a hint of parody. "The bored, fifteen-year-old girl—lonely, low self-esteem—who thinks that having a baby will be the answer to all her problems. She'll get respect, she'll get love. She'll be a mother. Won't it be neat?

"No thought as to how she would look after her child or whether she was fit to be a mother. Hell, no, it was her right! The state would look after both her and her baby—that's what other people paid their taxes for, right?"

Graham stayed wedged against the wall as Sylvestrus ranted.

"Natural selection would have slapped her across the face. But natural selection ain't around no more. This is a no-fault society. Trip over in the street—ain't your fault, the road was poorly maintained—sue the local authority. Trip over in life—ain't your fault—you can't be expected to think ahead. Sue the government, big business, anyone with a wallet. It's gotta be someone else's fault 'cause it sure as hell can't be yours."

He paused, breathing hard.

"Is that it?" said Graham.

"Haven't you been listening, Mr. Smith? The weak survive these days. Tomorrow's gene pool comes from them." He waved an arm in the general direction of the door. "Natural selection is being reversed. We are sowing the seeds of our own destruction."

Graham was confused. "What has any of that to do with the resonance wave?"

"Natural selection
is
the resonance wave. Can't you see that? It's nature's way of restoring the balance. Of weeding out the weak and clearing the path for the strong."

"By plunging the world into war and chaos?"

Sylvestrus shook his head. "Your mind is too small to appreciate the bigger picture. You think in individuals, I think in species. The human race will exit the Chaos leaner and stronger.
That
will be my legacy."

"You're mad."

"People of vision frequently are . . . to the small-minded. Only history can judge a man's sanity. You're a gardener, Mr. Smith. Do you let every weed grow? Do you prune and thin out?"

Graham didn't bother to reply. Suddenly, Sylvestrus seemed less formidable. The man was mad. He saw the resonance wave as nature's revenge. Something quasi-religious, to be celebrated and protected at all costs.

Perhaps that was his weakness? His need to sustain the wave. His fear of the Resonance projects discovering an answer.

"We know how to stop the resonance wave," Graham said.

Graham saw the flicker of panic flash across Sylvestrus's face.

And he saw the light above the door flash from red to green.

Sylvestrus didn't. His back was to the door. There'd been no sound. Any second now the door would open.

"We've cracked the equation," said Graham, trying to keep Sylvestrus's attention and watch the door at the same time. He'd time his move. It might be his only chance.

The door clicked. Sylvestrus began to turn his head. Graham barged forward and grabbed the gun with both hands. They struggled, for a second; Graham wrenched the gun free, turned round and ran behind the bank of filing cabinets.

"Stop him," yelled Sylvestrus.

Graham ducked down and ran the length of the cabinets. If he could swing back to the door . . .

An armed security guard suddenly blocked his way. The man crouched low, arms extended, both hands on his gun. Graham stopped, spun round. Sylvestrus and another guard appeared at the other end of the cabinet line. He was trapped. He looked at the gun. He looked at Sylvestrus. And he thought of Annalise Fifteen.

"You can't escape," said Sylvestrus.

"I don't need to escape," said Graham. "I can stop you now."

He flicked a switch on the gun, a red light came on, it started to whine.

"Killing me won't stop anything," said Sylvestrus. "Whatever happens to me, you're not leaving this room."

"Who said anything about killing you?" Graham turned the gun on himself. "I'm going to stop the resonance wave."

Sylvestrus's eyes widened in panic. Not for a fraction of a second this time but for two slow heartbeats. Graham took a deep breath. He felt remarkably calm. He felt exhilarated and composed at the same time. Maybe this was what it felt like when death became an inevitability. No more panic, no more fear of what might happen. Indecision replaced by a clarity of purpose. Just you, the gun and destiny.

"Put the gun down," said Sylvestrus. "I'm sure we can work something out." He motioned for the guards to back off. They did.

"Nothing to work out," said Graham. "I've seen the projections. Kill all the Grahams and the resonance wave stops dead. A small price to pay, don't you think?"

"You're only one Graham. Your death will have no effect," said Sylvestrus, his voice regaining some of its former equilibrium.

"Who said anything about just one Graham? Haven't you seen the latest Resonance logs? We're all earmarked for slaughter. It's the only way to collapse the wave."