“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.”