The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O.. Nicole Galland

be,” Tristan said, “or could be it just went on the fritz. We are blind in there. No real way to know if it’s working.”

      “Maybe if we had a cat,” the professor said.

      “Maybe if we go inside,” said Tristan. Rebecca made a disapproving sound under her breath as the Maxes and Vladimirs made anticipatory sounds under theirs.

      Oda shook his head. “A cat is one thing. But I’m not going in there.”

      “I’ll go,” said Tristan.

      “It’s your funeral,” muttered Rebecca, as if to herself, and paced away from the console table.

      Tristan turned to look at her, and then at Oda. “Does she mean that literally?” And to Rebecca: “Do you mean that literally?”

      Oda answered before she could. “It won’t kill you. But . . . you will not enjoy it. The cat certainly didn’t.”

      Tristan waved this away dismissively. “As long as it’s not lethal, I’m going in.” And then with an inviting grin: “Want to come with me, Stokes?”

      Flattered as I was that he considered me a peer in this undertaking, and eager as I was to know what would come of it, I thought of the cat. “Next time,” I said.

      “Internal temp of the cavity?” Tristan asked.

      “Twenty-three below zero, Celsius, and holding,” reported Console Max.

      “Gotta get better insulation,” Tristan muttered. He pivoted and made for the rolling coatrack, which was still all kinds of messy on the floor. I stiffened, awaiting a reprimand, but he didn’t even seem to notice that it had been knocked over. He found the end of the pile where the larger snowmobile suits had ended up, pulled one out, and stepped into it. “We still go? Everything nominal?”

      Half a dozen different Maxes and Vladimirs hollered out “Check!” from various parts of the building.

      Tristan zipped up the suit. In a side pocket he found a balaclava, which he pulled on over his head. I helped him yank it around until his eyes were shining out from the oval hole. He gave me a wink and then pulled on a pair of bulky mittens while striding toward the ODEC door. Oda hauled it open for him, then appeared to regret this gesture as the cold burned his hand.

      Tristan stepped over the threshold, displacing a column of air that turned cloudy as it spilled out into the room.

      A torso flew out and did an end-over-end bounce across the floor, shedding batteries and thumb drives. It was the upper half of a store mannequin that we had instrumented with sensors. Tristan had tossed it out.

      Having thus made room for himself, Tristan sat down on the wooden stool we’d put in there to support the mannequin. Providing a bit of padding under his bum was the cat-hair-saturated cushion from the Mark I; Rebecca had moved it to the Mark II to supply a feeling of continuity. He reached out, pawed at the door, and closed it behind him. The Maxes exchanged expectant glances. Rebecca rubbed the space between her eyebrows and paced silently. Oda-sensei resumed his position at the control panel. He reached out and flipped up the protective cover on the switch. Rebecca stuck her fingers in her ears.

      For a few moments we all stood at rigid attention, our eyes on Oda’s finger. Then he flicked the switch. Again the lights went out and the Klaxon came on. He checked his wristwatch and let the machine run for fifteen long seconds. Then he flicked the switch back off and gently replaced the cover.

      Tristan walked out of the ODEC, pulling off the balaclava and shaking his head as if he had swimmer’s ear. He saw all of our party staring at him, and he stared back a moment, frowning. “That was unpleasant,” he reported gruffly. “Like being in a Russian disco. But that’s all.”

      “I’m glad you’re all right,” I said. “But . . .” And I thought better of saying more.

      “But it would have been cooler if you had to carry me out strapped to a back board. I know,” Tristan said ruefully. “Vladimir? Got anything for me?”

      The Vladimir with red hair was strolling carefully into the space, kicking fire extinguishers and empty Red Bull cans out of his way while studying an iPad. “Preliminary diagnostics suggest a large number of wedged processes. Probably a bug we can fix overnight.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “The ODEC was running at maybe one percent efficiency.”

      “Sounds like you have a long night ahead of you, then,” Tristan said.

      Diachronicle

      DAY 291

      In which we become decoherent

      WHEN I ARRIVED THE NEXT morning, Frank Oda was already there, and with him—arms crossed, slightly pacing—Rebecca. Two of the Vladimirs were lying on the server room floor asleep. Longbeard was in our little kitchen, supporting himself on his elbows and gazing fixedly into a cup of coffee.

      On Tristan’s cue we all resumed the places we had occupied for the previous day’s failed experiment. The vessels had remained filled with liquid nitrogen overnight, so there was no need to repeat the chill-down process. Tristan donned his snowmobile suit—it would be just about freezing in the chamber itself—and gave us all a grin and a thumbs-up signal, before walking into the ODEC and closing the door behind himself.

      Oda-sensei seated himself at the console and ran through the checks, then flipped the switch. Someone had zip-tied a blanket over the Klaxon to dampen the volume. The surge of electricity sent shivers down my spine. Something was about to happen now. I’d no idea what, but I knew that it was history in the making, and I was present for it and not grading papers, and that was extremely satisfying.

      For fifteen seconds, Oda watched, frozen, and we all watched him. Then he shut it down. In the silence that followed we could hear the Vladimirs celebrating.

      Tristan exited the ODEC clutching the sides of his head and staggering drunkenly in his snowsuit. On instinct I moved toward him to steady him, but he veered away from me and collapsed, kneeling, to the floor, looking dazed.

      “Yeah, we’re, um, we’re getting, eh, closer,” he said in a distracted voice, peeling off the balaclava, and then yawned. He looked up at Oda-sensei. “Did I fall asleep? How long was I there for?”

      “Fifteen seconds,” said the professor, surprised.

      Tristan shook his head and slapped his cheek a few times. “Well, we’re onto something, then—whatever happened to me the first time, lots more of it happened this time.” He grimaced and tried to shake it off.

      Journal Entry of

      Rebecca East-Oda

      MAY 15

      Temperature 66F, bright sun. Barometer falling.

      Peppers and chard germinated. Lilies of the valley in full bloom. Lilacs at peak. Swapped out storm windows for screens (finally).

      Work on the new ODEC continues, and has become the sole topic of discourse in the house. Frank is just as obsessed as he was the first time. I read over my diary from back then, and must remind myself that this time at least he is working with a willing and supportive cohort (besides me, I mean). Jury still out for me re: Tristan. Prefer Melisande but she’s not in charge. (Not clear if their relationship is personal or just professional. Not sure they’re clear either.)

      The schedule has been extended by two days to accommodate upgrades to the software, and improvements to the building’s electrical service. Whomever Tristan works for takes him seriously; Frank faced endless red tape whenever he requisitioned extension cords, for heaven’s sake.

      Two concerns regarding this project, besides the obvious reservations.

      First: Tristan insists on being inside the ODEC while it is in operation. He can’t understand how that makes