Dark genius, p.1
Dark Genius, page 1
Dark Genius
H. Peter Alesso
Novels by H. Peter Alesso
www.hpeteralesso.com
THE HENRY GALLANT SAGA
Midshipman Henry Gallant in Space © 2013
Lieutenant Henry Gallant © 2014
Henry Gallant and the Warrior © 2015
Commander Henry Gallant © 2016
Captain Henry Gallant © 2019
Commodore Henry Gallant © 2020
Henry Gallant and the Great Ship © 2020
Other Novels by H. Peter Alesso
Captain Hawkins © 2016
Dark Genius © 2017
Youngblood © 2018
DARK GENIUS
H. Peter Alesso
hpeteralesso.com
© 2020 H. Peter Alesso
This is a work of fiction. All characters, dialog, and events
portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance
to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without prior permission in writing from:
VSL Publications
Pleasanton, CA 94566
Edition 6.00
ISBN-13: 978-1976456657
∞
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises; and oft it hits
Where hope is coldest, and despair most sits.
-All’s Well that ends Well
Shakespeare
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Attraction
Chapter 2: Repulsion
Chapter 3: Initial Conditions
Chapter 4: Emma
Chapter 5: Particles
Chapter 6: Waves
Chapter 7: Classroom
Chapter 8: Paper
Chapter 9: Energy
Chapter 10: Critical Mass
Chapter 11: Synergy
Chapter 12: Cyberspace
Chapter 13: Wall Street
Chapter 14: Travel
Chapter 15: CERN
Chapter 16: Time Off
Chapter 17: Team Work
Chapter 18: Suspicions
Chapter 19: Breached
Chapter 20: Holidays
Chapter 21: Icy
Chapter 22: Questions
Chapter 23: Opera
Chapter 24: The Office
Chapter 25: Vibrations
Chapter 26: Renormalization
Chapter 27: Men in Suits
Chapter 28: Mentor
Chapter 29: Confession
Chapter 30: The Review
Chapter 31: Fraud
Chapter 32: Graham
Chapter 33: Hackers
Chapter 34: The Tightening Noose
Chapter 35: Darkening
Chapter 36: The End of Infinity
Attraction
Andrew Lawrence slid his tablet into his shoulder holster and walked along the Boston sidewalk. He was ready for a fresh start.
Tall, slender, and dark-haired, Lawrence jostled past students eager to begin the fall term. By the time he crossed Longfellow Bridge, his adrenaline was pumping. He noticed several eight-man sculls rowing down the Charles River, their school colors plainly visible. Squinting against the glare, he could make out the MIT and Harvard boats vying for the lead, stroke by stroke.
Striding across the rambling campus, his lips concealed a secret smile, but as he swung around a corner, he ran smack into a young woman. Her armload of books, papers, and assorted technology flew into the air and spread across the walkway like a fan.
“Sor . . . sorry.”
“You should be,” she said, her face screwed into a tight scowl. “Your head was in the clouds.”
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she pointed down and said, “See what you’ve done?”
She stooped and frantically tried to corral her absconding belongings.
“Let me help.”
He grabbed some loose pages about to blow away.
Spying her tablet on the grass, she exclaimed, “Oh no! All my work.”
Carefully, she picked up the device and turned it on, tapping her fingers impatiently until the screen lit up. She heaved a sigh and gazed directly into his eyes. “You’re lucky. Sooo . . . lucky.”
He mumbled another apology and helped her pick up the last few books.
As she struggled to reorganize her treasures, he brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes and cast an appraising glance at the young woman.
She was attractive.
It wasn’t that she was a striking beauty—though her smooth white skin, olive green eyes, and classic profile complemented the hazelnut hair that cascaded over her shoulders. Nor was her carriage especially eye-catching, though she displayed an appealing youthful vitality. No, what seemed most appealing was her confident, determined poise, as if she possessed a special hidden talent.
“You should use a backpack.”
“The lining ripped,” she retorted.
Seeing the logo on her tablet’s screen, he gave her his best wide-eyed smile and asked, “Harvard? Math?”
“I can tell by your tone that you’re MIT,” she said, her eyes flashing.
He grinned, “Physics.” As an afterthought, he asked, “What are you doing on the MIT campus?”
“Well, Mr. Physics, that’s none of your business.”
The defiant yet almost teasing lilt of her voice made him laugh.
They faced each other in a stand-off for a long moment—saying nothing.
Then the young woman heaved a sigh, gathered her possessions to her chest, and brushed past him.
Her long stride and swaying hips captured his attention. For several seconds, he was riveted by the aesthetics of her undulating motion. She looked back and caught his gaze. Then with one more step, her figure was swallowed up by the anonymity of the crowd.
He frowned.
Damn. I didn’t get her name.
As he turned to leave, something shiny on the ground caught his eye. It was a flash drive.
Picking it up, he spun around and called, “Wait!”
But she was gone.
He glanced at the memory stick, and a smile returned to his lips.
I’ll have to crack her password if I’m going to see her again.
Repulsion
2
Lawrence jostled his way through the mass of harried students, past the great domed MacLaurin Building. The Green Center for Physics was next door. Above him, white puffs flecked the blue sky, casting brilliant reflections on the glossy steel and blue-glass around him. At the sight of his own distorted image, he paused to reflect on his past shortcomings and briefly considered what they might mean for his future.
Setting his jaw, he pushed aside the negative thoughts along with the heavy doors and entered the Green Center lobby. As he stepped into the tinted glass elevator, its embedded sensors scanned his ID pin. It identified him as a returning alumnus. A video played on the wall screen showing activities and events within the building. He got off on the third floor and strolled along the so-called ‘infinity’ corridor to the Center for Theoretical Physics.
“I have an appointment with Professor Proust.”
The well-groomed young receptionist peered up and smiled. She glanced at her computer screen and asked, “Mr. Lawrence?”
“Yes,” he said, returning the smile.
“Let me log you in.” She reached down to pull a hand scanner from a drawer. Swiveling in her chair, she aimed it at his ID pin and pressed the trigger to register his visit.
“Please have a seat. He’ll be right with you.” She flashed a smile once more and then returned to her work.
Lawrence looked around. Not a single unoccupied chair, empty office, or vacant area was in sight. Every available area was occupied by someone: typing intently on a keyboard, scribbling notes, or engrossed in studying. To his critical eye, the entire organization seemed to be a paragon of learning. Just what he would expect for the highest-rated scientific institute in the world.
The soft voice of the secretary broke into his musings, “Mr. Lawrence, you can go in now.” She gestured toward the nearby door.
Lawrence nodded and unconsciously clenched his fists. Entering the elegant corner office, he caught his breath. This was no ordinary professor’s cubbyhole. The walls were covered with paintings of famous scientists and there were displays of scientific artifacts.
He gawked at one prominent showcase, wondering how Proust could afford such expensive furnishings.
Is that an original edition of Newton’s Principia?
In the far corner, Professor Stanley Proust sat at his imposing mahogany desk studiously examining a computer screen. His long straight nose, jutting chin, and carbon black eyes gave the appearance of a man not to be trifled with. He held his hand to his brow, masking his eyes as if to conceal his innermost thoughts. But the pitted red skin and twitchy lips destroyed any semblance of a distinguished pose. Despite his close-cropped hair and clean-shaven face, his overweight frame and slumped shoulders made him look bloated. His expensive but ill-fitting suit hung like a sack over his body.
While Proust slid his finger across the computer screen, Lawrence stood like a statue. He let his gaze wander to the scene visible from the window. Students were scampering on the first day of class to their personal college adventure.
A thought rose unbidden—I’d rather be out there than in here.
Finally, without extending his hand or even looking at his visitor, Proust ordered, “Sit.”
“Thank you, Professor,” said Lawrence, his voice strong and clear despite his peculiar stir of emotions. A bead of sweat fell from his brow. He pushed the memories of his prior involvement with this man to the back of his mind.
Proust placed his hands on his desk, leaned forward, and finally looked at Lawrence. Curling his lip, he spat, “Your postdoc appointment was offered by Professor Lloyd during my absence.”
Lawrence’s eyes darkened to match his tousled hair, but he remained quiet for what seemed a portentous moment.
Proust waved his right hand in the air and said, “I took no pleasure in the failing grades I gave you some years ago. Your dismissal from MIT was unfortunate, but I wasn’t the only professor who was disenchanted with a prodigy who skipped classes and approached exams cavalierly.”
Lawrence shifted in his chair.
Am I to be rebuked for the sins of my past yet again?
He forced his ill temper to drain out of his body and whispered, “I was twelve when I arrived.”
Proust gave a humorless smile. “You were an exuberant student, full of promise, but you became ensnared in troubles of your own making. You were a showoff—always trying to prove you were smarter than everyone else, refusing to accept the authority of others.”
“During that last year, I faced a family crisis,” said Lawrence. Words backed up in his throat until he gushed, “You were my advisor. I looked to you for guidance.”
“Don’t cast blame in my direction,” said Proust, his voice louder and more belligerent. “You think your family strife gave you license to disturb this institution and my classes with rude and impudent nonsense? You disrupted . . . no, harassed me. Your checkered past is a cause of great concern. Any further failings on your part will reflect badly on me.”
When Lawrence didn’t reply, Proust said, “Well, nothing to say for yourself?”
Lawrence tensed his posture and with unflinching eyes said, “I’ll work to the best of my ability, sir.”
“It is exactly ‘your best’ that’s in question,” Proust snorted. “Your best was abysmal before.”
He leered as he read off Lawrence’s past academic transcript, enumerated the failed grades, absences, reprimands, and final expulsion—like a string of exploding firecrackers. Shaking his head, he concluded, “My, my, my—it must have been hard on your parents to have such a disappointing child?”
Lawrence flushed. Taking a breath, he managed to tamp down the rising anger.
They glared at one another for a moment, then Proust asked, “What do you know of this division’s mission?”
Lawrence observed a small wrinkle form on Proust’s brow. He ventured, “The Center does fundamental physics research.”
Proust slapped a hand on the mahogany desktop and exclaimed, “Quite right, as far as that goes.”
Then in a more constrained manner, he added, “You’ll find that there are layers here. Layers of personal behavior, some of which relate to academic politics. But beyond that, international implications add another layer of intrigue.”
Proust said, “In any event, I was more than a little surprised that you were able to complete your degree at Stanford.”
“Professor Lloyd helped me. It was his recommendation that gave me the opportunity to complete my studies. He also helped get my thesis published, which was instrumental in getting an appointment here.”
Shaking his head, Proust said, “I’m collaborating with Professor Milena McClain of Harvard along with the University of Geneva’s quantum computer.”
“It’s a magnificent opportunity,” said Proust. “It’s my opportunity.”
Leaning toward Lawrence, he said, “During your year here, I won’t let you mess this up.”
“My appointment is for two years.”
Proust smirked, “Read your contract. It’s an annual agreement with an option for renewal. I will be adjudicating that option.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lawrence, feeling every bit of the intended sting.
But Proust still wasn’t done. “And since I’ve been saddled with you without any say-so, I’ve decided to use your talents, such as they are, to my benefit. I will schedule your work so that it will not interfere with my interests. You will deliver my prepared lectures to my classes and grade their work.”
Surprised, Lawrence interrupted, “That’s a graduate assistant’s duty.”
“It was—now it’s yours.”
Proust searched Lawrence’s face. “Well, nothing more to say for yourself?”
Lawrence stood up, stone-faced.
Finally, Proust turned back to his computer and said, “You may leave.”
Initial Conditions
3
Lawrence left Proust’s office in a foul mood. He stalked past the intelligent paneled walls without seeing any of the notices that appeared for his benefit. He heard none of the subtle hums of the embedded ubiquitous computers or the chatter of people querying the AI system.
Engrossed in his ire, he stood transfixed for several minutes when he found office 360 already occupied. A young man with red hair, an endearing number of freckles, and an athletic physique leaned back in his chair. His feet were stretched across the top of one of the two desks.
He looks at home.
Lawrence asked, “Is this . . . office 360?”
His words went unheard over the latest rock music blasting on a set of speakers in the corner.
The room was small, sparse, and could have used a coat of paint. The only thing hanging on the wall was a fire warning notice. Several overloaded shelves sagged with books, computer printouts, documents, and miscellaneous devices. The disarray extended to the floor, which was also obstructed with piles of books and paraphernalia. It was clear that the long-promised paperless office had not yet reached this corner of the globe.
Raising his voice, Lawrence repeated, “Is this office 360?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.”
The young man perked up and gawked at the intruder as he swung his feet to the floor with a thud. He turned off the music and remained sitting. He was clad in an MIT sweater, a light blue cotton shirt, charcoal-gray trousers, and black loafers.
Lawrence said, “I think there’s been some mistake. I was assigned to this office. I have the notice here,” offering his tablet as proof.
“Oh. You must be Andrew Lawrence?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Glad to meet you. I’m your office mate, Eugene Weyl,” said the freckled-face. Then, with a broad grin, he added, “I think we met at a Stanford conference about two years ago, right?”
Lawrence brushed a lock of unkempt hair off his forehead and took a good look at the young man. “Huh, yes. Two years ago.”
“I recall you were a whiz at math,” said Eugene.
Lawrence shrugged, “It comes with the territory. Um . . . I was under the impression that postdocs rated their own offices.”
“Yes, ordinarily. But you apparently aren’t high on Proust’s priority list. And I’m not done with my thesis yet,” said Eugene, extending his hand.
Lawrence returned the gesture with a smile, pleasantly surprised.
He has a strong grip.
“What’s your thesis topic?” Lawrence asked, dropping his tablet on the mostly unoccupied desk.
“‘Comparisons of Supersymmetric String Theories,’” rattled off Eugene in an animated voice. “It’s exciting, and there’s a lot of drama around the subject. I’m hoping to come up with an intriguing new variation, but my adviser keeps saying that’s outside the scope of my topic. Or else he claims I’ve violated some experimental data or another obscure principle, forcing me to return to mere boring comparisons. At least until I can come up with another novel idea.”
A halfhearted chuckle escaped his lips. “I’m afraid I’ve acquired a reputation for hotly contested debate—though some just call it argumentative.”
Lawrence laughed.
Eugene said, “It was Einstein’s insight into symmetry that inspired me to become a physicist.”
Lawrence nodded, his smile grew. “Supersymmetry is my area of interest, as well.”
Maybe Proust did me a favor after all.
“Do you prefer Eugene or Gene?”
The grin spread again as the young man said, “Eugene will do fine.”
