Biblical (27 page)

“Sure,” said Casey. “Don’t know why the FBI would be interested in them at all. They’re an odd subset of the scientific community. A bit weird but definitely harmless.”

“And John Astor?”

“Their figurehead. Maybe a real person, maybe not. That goes with their set of beliefs.”

“I don’t get you.”

“Religion and science don’t mix. Like I said, the first only exists in the absence of the second. But the Simulists are scientists who believe we need religion – that there’s a basic human need for belief, whether that belief’s crap or not. So what they did was make science itself their religion. They believe God doesn’t exist yet, but will come to exist. Because we will create him. Science will make us God.”

“
We are becoming
 …” said Macbeth. “The graffiti I keep seeing.”

“That’s them. For the Simulists there is no Judgment Day – just the Singularity, when Man and technology combine and human becomes posthuman. Have you heard of Clarke’s Third Law?”

“Yes,” said Macbeth. “As a matter of fact I have:
Any sufficiently advanced technology would be indistinguishable from magic
.”

“Why doesn’t it surprise me that you know that?” Casey smiled wryly. “Anyway, the Simulists take it one step farther – that any sufficiently advanced form of human intelligence would be indistinguishable from God. They believe it is our destiny to emerge from the coming Singularity as posthuman, then superhuman, then demigodly, then godly.”

“And Astor?”

“He’s their prophet – supposed to have written this superencrypted book that’s buried in the virtual world and reveals itself only to the chosen. It’s all science but all mystic at the same time. Like the supposed trinity of God’s nature, Astor’s nature is supposed to be a duality – virtual and physical. The Simulist part of it all comes from their belief that, as superintelligent posthumans, we will create super-simulations of people, worlds and universes, indistinguishable from reality. Simulations where the people living in them don’t know they’re not real. We become the gods of other realities.”

“Sounds like a cult. And crap.”

“Less crap than existing religions. I come across some mindbending stuff in my work, infinite possibilities and impossibilities. Things that look like magic, except they aren’t – there’s always an equation or a principle to explain them. I think Simulism started out as a joke or a thought experiment – you know, to illustrate the fallacy of religion – but Astor’s book is supposed to contain some kind of revelation. A scientific revelation, not a religious one. Whatever it is, it’s made some Simulists take their beliefs very seriously.”

“You know a lot about it.”

“There was a real fad for it at MIT for a while. Big with
quantum physicists. But when it all stopped being lighthearted, it kinda died out.”

“Do you know if Gabriel Rees was involved with them?”

Casey shrugged. “Can’t say. But I’d doubt it.”

*

Those last days in Boston were a difficult and confusing time for Macbeth.

Like everyone else, he found himself watching the news more than usual. There were more reports of bizarre happenings in locations all over the world, but objective reporting of subjective experiences was all but impossible; added to which no one could be sure which hallucinations had really taken place and which were staged for fifteen Warhol minutes.

But there were other, more tangible threats to be reported. One effect of the visions had been a steep rise in religiomania: fundamentalists of all complexions became more fundamental, radicals more radical, extremists more extreme. Every cleric saw in the happenings a justification for his own brand of superstition and bigotry. Across the US, firebrand preachers announced the beginning of the Rapture while sermonizing xenophobia, intolerance and mistrust; throughout Europe and the Middle East, mullahs and ayatollahs called the faithful to jihad. Closer to home, an unassuming, white, male, divorced car salesman who, as far as anyone was aware, had never set foot outside the continental US, walked into the crowded foyer of a computer software company in downtown DC. Shouting “Allahu Akbar”, he detonated the bomb he had hidden in his rucksack, killing himself and eight bystanders. The same day, an unidentified gunman of Arab appearance opened fire on shoppers in an Apple store in Oregon, killing seven before being gunned down himself by police.

In the meantime, Macbeth spent a lot of time dealing with Professor Poulsen by phone and email, assuring him that he wasn’t going to accede to Brian Newcombe’s request and join
the WHO investigative team. Whenever Macbeth discussed the bizarre occurrences around the world with him, Poulsen seemed to regard it as small talk; a trivial distraction.

While Casey and the rest of Boston struggled to come to terms with the inexplicable experience of the ‘ghostquake’, Macbeth sought his own coming to terms with Melissa’s death and the equally inexplicable circumstances surrounding it. It took three calls to the California Highway Patrol before the three-hour time difference, Macbeth’s schedule and Ramirez’s duty roster came into alignment.

“What can I do for you, Dr Macbeth?” Ramirez’s voice was deep and quiet, his tone strangely unlike what Macbeth expected from a police officer.

He told Ramirez who and where he was and why he was there, his former relationship with Melissa Collins and his disbelief that she would commit suicide.

“I’m afraid there’s no question of it,” said Ramirez. “I saw her and the others jump myself. I’m sorry.”

“Melissa was the least suicidal person I knew … Is there any chance that it’s a case of mistaken identity?”

“There’s no way. We’ve a positive ID and, anyway, I’ve seen photographs of Miss Collins. It was her all right.”

“When she jumped, was she distressed? Or do you think she could have been under the influence of anything?”

“That was what got to me the most … she was perfectly calm. Contented almost. As for drugs or alcohol, the autopsy tox screen came up clean. You knew her well?”

“We lived together for a while, before she moved to the West Coast. We hadn’t been in touch much since. At all, really.”

“And she never showed any signs of any kind of mental instability in the time you knew her?”

“None. None at all.”

There was a silence. Macbeth hated telephone conversations because he found silences and pauses difficult to read. He
guessed that Ramirez was thinking through what he had told him.

“Do you mind me asking,” Ramirez broke the silence, “why it has taken you so long to get in touch? It’s been over two months since Miss Collins died.”

“I only just found out. I mean, I’d heard about the Golden Gate suicides, and the others in Japan, but didn’t know the details. Like I said, I live and work in Denmark. It was only when the FBI – Agent Bundy – spoke to me about it that I found out Melissa had been involved.”

“The FBI?” There was something in Ramirez’s quiet, even voice. Suspicion, perhaps. “I’m surprised we weren’t informed. How long are you staying in Boston, Dr Macbeth?”

“Just till the end of next week. My boss in Copenhagen wants me back even sooner than that.”

Another pause.

“Okay,” said Ramirez. “I’m supposed to be coming to Boston in a week or so, following a lead on this thing, but I’ll try to bring it forward. Would you spare me some time if I can get there before you leave?”

“Sure,” said Macbeth. “But I would have thought your investigation into Melissa’s death would be over, given that it is such a clear case of suicide.”

“It may be clearly suicide, but it’s a high-visibility case and there’s pressure to establish what drove them all to jump. I’m really coming to Boston to find out what I can from Deborah Canning, the only member of the company who was not there that morning, to see if she can cast further light on it all.”

“Deborah Canning? Deborah Canning is in Boston?” Macbeth was genuinely taken aback. Why had Bundy, the FBI man, not mentioned it?

“That’s what I’ve been told. She’s suffered some kind of breakdown and I’ve only just gotten permission to interview her. She’s been admitted to McLean Hospital …”

*

Macbeth was glad he’d moved in with Casey. He often found it a challenge to relate to other people, a dissonance in frequency sometimes making it difficult for them to connect with him. But Casey, though a very different personality, was at least on the same wavelength. He got Macbeth.

That week, they talked a lot, late into the night. Macbeth told Casey all that he had found out about Melissa and the strange connections between her death and those of Killberg and Tennant. He also shared everything about what the WHO team had told him.

“So, are you going to work with them?” asked Casey one night as they sat sag-shouldered with weariness in his kitchen, drinking tea.

“I just can’t. I know it’s an honor and important and all that, but there are others much better qualified. My work in Copenhagen is just as important, and no one can take my place. I’ve said I’ll offer opinions on data when I can, but that’s it.”

“I don’t know, John, something weird’s going on. Like a plague or something. A plague of the mind.” Casey made a face and encapsulated the phrase in quote marks finger twitched in the air. “People are scared. I’m scared by it all. Today I jumped back onto the sidewalk because I didn’t see a car coming. If he hadn’t sounded his car horn he’d have hit me. But after the car was gone I actually found myself questioning whether the car had been there at all. People are going nuts. They don’t know what to believe. I’d have thought getting to the bottom of it would be the psychiatric challenge of the century.”

“Are you still going to the Blackwell symposium in Oxford?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then you ought to understand. The Copenhagen Project is as important to me as Blackwell’s Prometheus Project is to you. We are on the brink of understanding the mind completely. And I honestly believe that the answer to whatever is happening around the world isn’t going to be found by looking for patterns in epidemiological stats.”

“I guess.” Casey sighed resignedly and leaned back in the kitchen chair. “By the way, I had a look at your laptop.”

“Great … Did you get that folder open?”

Casey shook his head. “Couldn’t. You can’t even click on the icon or get info on the size of the folder or even if it’s empty.”

Macbeth shrugged. “I’ll ignore it then …”

“I wouldn’t do that. There’s something about it I don’t like. You’ve a lot of sensitive stuff on your computer, relating to your work. I’ve a bad feeling that your laptop’s been hacked and the folder has been put there.”

“Some kind of Trojan?”

“Trojan viruses are usually hidden deep in your hard drive and more often than not are invisible without anti-virus software. No …” Casey frowned. “No, this is something different. I’ve virus-checked and copied over all of your major files onto a portable hard drive – but none of the software, in case that’s infected. I’ve got a spare laptop that I can loan you.”

“You think that’s necessary?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it before.” Casey gave a confused laugh. “You know, it’s almost a perfect analogy for what’s happening around us: that folder of yours is a ghost – a phantom, like you said. I actually began to question whether it really was there on the screen or whether we’re hallucinating it.”

“You’re letting this get to you too much, Casey,” said Macbeth. “Things are what they are. These episodes are still isolated and rare. I would have thought you of all people would be immune to media hysteria about it.”

“I guess …”

*

They had given it a name: TNHS. Temporary Non-Pathological Hallucinatory Syndrome. The American Psychiatric Association had assigned the syndrome a DSM number, and the World Health Organization adopted the designation for its own ICD.

Macbeth was not at all sure that the name reflected the experience, or that there was enough non-anecdotal data on
which to base it – and there was certainly still no established etiology – but he could understand why they had come up with the name. The media, not just in the US but around the world, had begun to call it ‘Boston Syndrome’ and there was a real need to give the experience an official name, to suggest to the public that the medical community had isolated and defined something. The use of the word ‘temporary’ had no doubt been included to assure people that, if they had such an experience, it was not a chronic problem.

Despite declining Newcombe’s request that he join the investigation team, Macbeth had agreed to work with them at the Schilder until he left for Copenhagen. He recommended again that they try to get in touch with Josh Hoberman.

Hoberman, Macbeth was told, seemed to have disappeared from his home in Virginia, and hadn’t been seen at his clinic for over a week. Given the threat level posed to scientists by Blind Faith and others, the police had been informed.

Macbeth also recommended that the team involve Pete Corbin, who, after all, was at hand in Boston and who had first spotted the emergence of the syndrome; a suggestion to which he had gotten a lukewarm response.

Macbeth called Corbin on the Thursday morning.

“You still okay for tomorrow at ten-thirty?” asked Corbin. “I still would like you to see this patient of mine. I can’t help thinking this case is connected to everything else that’s happening. I’d just like your take on it.”

“Actually, Pete, that’s why I’m calling. There’s another patient I’d much rather talk to, if that’s possible. I’ve been told that she’s at McLean for treatment. Her name is Deborah Canning.”

Corbin didn’t answer immediately. Another difficult to read phone silence; maybe he was annoyed that Macbeth didn’t want to see his patient.

“Shit …” Corbin said eventually. “Now this is really weird, John. Deborah Canning is my patient. Deborah Canning is exactly the patient I wanted you to see …”

The cabby who drove Macbeth out to Belmont lacked the inquisitive chattiness of the one who’d taken him to his first meeting with Corbin, and Macbeth found himself grateful for it. It didn’t surprise him: road accidents had increased steeply in the last week as drivers took drastic evasive action to dodge obstacles or people that appeared suddenly from nowhere.