Laughter at the Academy, Page 2

  “Yes, Miss Bellavia, that would be most appreciated. Did he say why he couldn’t leave the shipping list?”

  “No. He just dropped off the boxes and ran. I can call the office if you’d like…”

  “I think that would be best. But first, let’s get these things put away. Some of them are perishable.”

  “Of course.”

  “I…Miss Bellavia, did you order this?”

  “No, sir. I entered the request exactly as you gave it to me. What is it?”

  “It’s—it’s a Jacob’s ladder. A form of spark gap. They’re mostly decorative, although some people say you can learn things through watching the movement of the electricity. That you can see the true nature of the universe in the ionization of the air…”

  “Professor? Are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Bellavia. I’m fine. I just haven’t seen one of these in years—not since my high school science fair. I wasn’t prepared for the memories it brought pouring back. That’s all.”

  “Would you like me to have it returned to the distributor?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary. It will be…nice…to have something around that reminds me of my past. The reasons I fell in love with science. Yes. I’ll put this somewhere safe, somewhere in the lab…you needn’t worry yourself about it, Miss Bellavia. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “Are you smiling, Miss Bellavia?”

  “I’m just glad to see you progressing with your work. That’s all.”

  The question remains: If SCGPD is an incurable part of our genetic makeup, what causes its expression? Can that expression be prevented, or even controlled? Imagine a world where the forces of creative genius are harnessed, devoted only to growth, and independent of all destruction. A world where each child is free to reach his or her potential, free of the fear that one day, a casual word or an unexpected setback will trigger madness. If this paradise could be made available to the human race, would it not be our duty to pursue it?

  —from “Development of the Creative Genius: Nature v. Nurture,” by Doctor Powell (diagnosed SCGPD, trial pending). Published in Psychology Journal, volume 32, issue 8.

  6.

  “Captain, I’m telling you, the pattern is clear. You need to look at the data.”

  “Do you realize what you sound like, John? A mysterious lab assistant whose name changes every time she appears, somehow driving some of the nation’s most brilliant minds into the grips of psychological disorder? Escaping disaster after disaster—to what end? What motive could this woman possibly have?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” Sergeant Secor stared resolutely ahead, trying to ignore the look of disbelief on his superior’s face. “The pattern is too consistent to be accidental. I combed through seven years of incidents. This anomaly is present in eighty percent of the reports. Five or ten percent, I might be able to dismiss, but eighty? Every time, she’s been hired within the past four months. Every time, her surname matches that of a recently deceased scientist who fits the special handling profile. And every time, the lab is destroyed, with no survivors, but her body is never found. It can’t be a coincidence, sir.”

  Captain Jovan Watkins sighed. “If you’re sure about this, John…”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Bring me proof. You’ll need to find this mystery woman. We need a name, and a reason for anyone to be willing to do the things you claim she’s doing.”

  “Yes, sir. I won’t let you down.”

  “I certainly hope not, John. Dismissed.”

  THE SUN WAS CREATED BY A MAN WITH A SUPERNOVA WHERE HIS HEART ONCE BURNED. EMBRACE GENIUS. IGNITE THE SKY.

  —graffiti found in the ruins of MIT. Author unknown.

  7.

  “Professor, there’s someone here to see you. He says he’s with the SSRU. Should I show him in?”

  “Please, Melissa. Then why don’t you gather up the rest of the staff and take them out for lunch? My treat.”

  “Is this…is it time?”

  “I think so. Be sure everyone takes their wallets and leaves their laptops, just in case.”

  “Will you be careful?”

  “Oh, probably not. I never have been before, and I don’t see the point in starting now. Hurry along, Melissa. It wouldn’t do to keep the nice policeman waiting.”

  Melissa went. I didn’t expect any different; she’s been a good technician since the day I hired her. She was wasted in the herd environment of the psychology department. Her work with me may not have enhanced her résumé the way a more traditional fellowship would have, but what I can’t offer in prestige, I’ve definitely provided in practical experience. I daresay her old classmates would be astonished by the things she’s learned while they were watching rats run around in mazes and building Skinner boxes.

  By the time she returned, a groomed, chisel-jawed specimen of Homo officicus trailing along behind her, I was wearing my formal lab coat—the one without the bloodstains—and seated behind my desk, a pair of reading glasses pushed to the top of my head as I pretended to study my monitor. When setting a scene, it’s the details that matter; show, don’t tell, as my creative writing professor once told me, before he slew half the graduating class with an infectious poetic meme that inspired euphoria followed by suicidal depression. Professor Hagar was a wonderful teacher, and I will treasure his lessons always. They’re so applicable in daily life. Consider:

  A lab coat over a low-cut blouse shows a dichotomy of nature, implying that the subject is uncomfortable with her roles as both scientist and woman. Glasses propped against the forehead project vanity—a reluctance to conceal one’s eyes behind a frame—coupled with vulnerability, due to presumably impaired vision, and absent-mindedness, due to the potential that the glasses have been forgotten in their present location. A simple pair of glasses can be one of the most useful psychological tools available, if you know how best to position them. Dress shoes with a low heel show the desire to look feminine, and acknowledge the necessity of comfortable footwear in a lab setting. I looked, in short, like an insecure stereotype, and it was all achieved with nothing but a few props and a knowledge of human psychology.

  “Professor Garrity?”

  That was my cue. I looked up, meeting Melissa’s question with a genial, somewhat vacant smile as I replied, “Yes, Melissa?”

  “Sergeant John Secor, SSRU, here to see you.”

  “Oh!” I stood, extending a hand for him to shake. “Professor Clarissa Garrity. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant. What can I do for you today?”

  It was hard to tell whether my psychological cues were finding their mark with this man. He had a matinee hero’s face, all sharp angles and brooding eyes. It was annoying. I don’t require that my targets be open books, but it’s best when I can see whether or not I’m getting through.

  “I understand your field is human sociology,” he said, giving my hand one short shake before letting go. Matter-of-fact, then, business first; all work and no play. I could work with that.

  “Yes, it is. I specialize in crowd psychology and behavioral conditioning. It’s not flashy compared to some disciplines, but I like it, and I find it to be an endlessly fascinating realm of study. Would you like to see our workspace?”

  “Very much so, Professor. I’ve been working on a case I think you might be able to assist me with.”

  “I would be delighted.” He can’t have hard evidence, or he’d have me in the station, rather than appearing here entirely on his own; he can’t be acting with full departmental support, or he’d have backup with him, giving him the psychological upper hand. “Can you tell me anything about it, or do you have some data you need me to look at cold?”

  “It’s a bit of an odd one.” He followed me out of my office, into the empty lab. Melissa worked fast. The staff was gone, probably ordering pizza on my tab, and she knew to keep them away for at least an hour. “Did you hear about the latest SCGPD outbreak?”
>
  I made a show of thinking about it, reaching up to slide my glasses into place like I thought it would somehow make me smarter. Finally, I “guessed,” asking, “Professor Raymond in New Hampshire?”

  “Yes. He was a robotics engineer. Clean psych profiles dating all the way back to his college entrance applications. Everyone who knew him said there was no sign he was at risk.”

  “Oh, I see.” Professor Raymond. Such a fascinating man. Such skilled hands. He’d been a joy to work with, and the dividends…my work is always rewarding, but Professor Raymond had carried it to new heights. Once he decided to open himself to the possibilities of the universe, he’d opened himself all the way.

  The radiologists say Bedford won’t be safe for human habitation for at least another hundred years. A fitting monument for a truly gifted man.

  “It’s a tragedy, but it’s a fairly cut-and-dried one. He always had the potential to become symptomatic. There’s just one thing that’s troubling me about the situation.”

  “Oh?”

  “He hired an office manager about three months before he went mad. She wasn’t among the dead—and her name matches another low-risk scientist who became symptomatic for SCGPD about five months prior. Dr. Bellavia in New York.”

  Dear, sweet Rand. It’s rare that I encounter a mind that brilliant. It’s rarer that I get the opportunity to work on it directly. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you’re getting at. What is it you think I can do to assist you?”

  “Professor Garrity, your graduate thesis was on non-standard manifestations of SCGPD. Scientists whose work didn’t fit the standard ‘mad science’ model, yet had the same potential as any other genius.”

  The same potential, and much looser testing standards. Never mind that a mad mathematician could conquer a nation with an equation, a mad linguist could drive a city insane with a radio ad, a mad musical theorist could control the world with a single Billboard hit. Keeping my expression neutral, I said, “That’s true. Again, what is it that you think we can do for you?”

  “Professor Garrity, can you account for your whereabouts on the evening of August sixteenth?”

  “Certainly. I was leaving Dr. Bellavia’s lab via the back door. He’d just reached the stage of wanting to test his creations on a living human population, and I thought it would be best if I was out of the building before the mutagens made it into the ventilation system.” The screams had been beautiful. They had sung me out of the parking lot like a flight of angels.

  Sergeant Secor’s eyes went wide. “You admit your involvement in the triggering of Dr. Bellavia’s SCGPD?”

  “Naturally. It was some of my best work. But you must answer a question for me, Sergeant, before this goes any further.”

  His hand inched toward his sidearm. He was a clever boy, really. Not clever enough to come in with a full extraction team, but one can’t have everything in this world. “What?”

  “How resistant are you to transdermal sedatives? On a scale of, say, one to losing consciousness right about now.”

  The sound he made when he hit the floor was deeply satisfying.

  One day, the world will realize that it has been at war for years. War between the past and the future; war between the visionary and the blind. One day the world will realize human nature cannot be dictated by law. It can only be temporarily suppressed, and one day, when that suppression ends—as it inevitably must—those who have been kept in bondage will rise up, and together, they will set the skies to burn.

  —from the manifesto of Professor Clarissa Garrity, unpublished.

  8.

  The Sergeant returned to consciousness to find himself strapped to his chair. He struggled briefly before he subsided, glaring. “I am an officer of the law. Release me at once.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be happening for a few hours yet, Sergeant. I hope you’re comfortable.” I busied myself with getting the screens into position. The work would have gone faster with Melissa and the others helping me, but I needed them out of the lab, watching the door for any additional uninvited guests. “The straps aren’t too tight?”

  “I don’t think you understand the severity of the charges you’re facing.”

  “In good time, I promise. Congratulations, by the way, on catching the sequential names. I really did hope that would be the first trail of breadcrumbs to be successfully followed to me.” I stepped back, offering him a warm smile. “Can I get you anything before we begin?”

  “Begin? Begin what?” His bravado died in an instant, replaced by wariness. That was good. That showed intelligence.

  “Your tests.”

  It took quite some time for the screams to stop.

  There is no cure. There is no hope. There is no God. There is only fire, and the echoes of those fools who laughed. They’re always laughing…

  —from the suicide note of Professor Midkiff-Cavanaugh (deceased).

  9.

  I hate force conditioning a subject. It lacks subtlety, and more, it lacks elegance. There’s an art to finding the locks buried in a person’s mind and crafting the keys that will undo them, each one beautiful and unique. Sadly, time was short, and there was no other way.

  “I’m so sorry, Sergeant. This was a job for a scalpel, and I’ve had to use a sledgehammer. I hope you can forgive me.” I turned off the projector and walked toward him. He was whimpering and twitching in his chair, eyes frantically searching the corners of the room. The hot smell of urine hung in the air. He’d wet himself at least twice. That was good. That meant things were going as planned.

  “How are you feeling? Do you need a drink of water?”

  He giggled.

  “Good.” I pulled a damp washcloth from my pocket, beginning to wipe his forehead. “Let me tell you a secret, Sergeant. You’re losing this war because the men who created the diagnosis for SCGPD left a few classes of genius out. They forgot that brilliance can take many forms. You, for example. You have a brilliant analytic mind. It’s a shame you were never given the opportunities that would have allowed you to hone it to its greatest potential. You were never taken seriously as a scientist of human behavior.” I scowled, remembering the glares of my so-called classmates, the ones who believed that real science was found only in electrons and DNA. They never understood that the mind, and the mind alone, is where the heart of genius truly lies. “This petty world and its petty lines. One day, they’ll understand. One day, they’ll see that madness is the only route to sanity.”

  Silence.

  “But you don’t want to hear about all that, do you? No, you’ve wasted enough time. Haven’t your hands been tied for long enough, Sergeant? Aren’t you tired of being hobbled by artificial, useless constraints? Religion, morality, social expectations, rules and regulations and paperwork—you’ve spent so much valuable time and energy justifying yourself. That was time you could have used saving lives. Doesn’t that bother you? Doesn’t it just make you burn?”

  Silence…but there was a new light in his eyes; a light that spoke of understanding. I was getting through to him, and that was all I needed. Sometimes a spark is all it takes.

  “I’m setting you free today, Sergeant. After this, you’ll never need to hesitate, never need to question yourself. Their rules won’t apply anymore. It’s time for you to find out what kind of man you really are, and I’m happy to help, because I want to know just as much as you do. That’s what I do. I help people reach their full potential, and in return, they help me set the sky on fire. That’s what you’ll have to do. You’ll have to set the sky on fire. Do you think you can do that for me? Do you think you can make them pay?”

  Sergeant Secor babbled something incoherent, following it with a peal of merry laughter. I leaned forward and kissed the top of his head.

  “Don’t worry. You’ve waited long enough.” I returned the washcloth to my pocket, withdrawing the first syringe. “Everyone deserves the opportunity to go mad.”

  It’s all so cle
ar now. Crime is a natural outpouring of the septic core of human nature. It can be predicted. Human response illustrates every possible violation. There’s no point in waiting for those violations to occur. All we need to do is strike.

  —Sergeant John Secor, SSRU, transcribed from security footage taken immediately prior to his shooting.

  10.

  “Hello, Dr. Talwar.”

  “Why, Miss Secor. I wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”

  “Well, you know what they say. The early bird catches the worm.”

  “I always wondered what that said about the early worm.”

  “That it’s always best to be a bird, I suppose. I do hope you don’t mind. I’m just so excited about the opportunity to help you with your work that I couldn’t wait for the chance to get started.”

  “That’s very industrious of you.”

  “I believe everyone should have the tools they need to achieve their full potential.”

  “And you believe you could be one of those tools?”

  “Oh, Doctor. I know I am.”

  Lost

  There are very few stories that absolutely had to be included in this collection: this is one of them. While “Lost” was not the first story I wrote or sold, it was the first story to appear in a print anthology: Ravens in the Library, which was put together by SatyrPhil Brucato and Sandra Buskirk to raise money for musician S.J. Tucker, who had been hit with sudden and unexpected medical bills. I am so proud of our community for coming together to help someone who genuinely needed it, and I am still honored to have been a part of this project.