The Quantum Mechanic: Chapter Five

The Quantum Mechanic

A Superhero Story of Ethic Contortions

Chapter 4 - Chapter 5: Singularity - Chapter 6

"The Singularity is about power - the acquisition of new modalities so that we can solve all of those annoying problems like sickness, stupidity, and death. The problem is that power doesn't make us happy."
- Roger Williams

"Do not adjust your sets. This is not a test. This is a warning."

The man on the screen speaks slowly and plainly from behind a Halloween mask.

"My name is not important. What I have to say is very important. I represent the Anti-Singularity Society. We are a large organization composed of many independent cells. At this moment, hundreds of our operatives are coordinated in each of the fifty states, attending thermonuclear devices which all respond to this transmitter." He waves a stick with a button on it. "Do not attempt to stop us. If any one of our devices goes offline, its failure to broadcast will be met with detonation on the part of all other devices. We are large and well-connected. Our plan cannot be derailed at this stage.

"Our demand is a simple one. We do not wish to cause any harm to the United States of America, or her citizenry. However, we shall do so without hesitation if the Quantum Mechanic does not appear here by the end of - "

"Done."

"Excellent! You prove yourself a gentleman."

"That's more than I can say for you. You could have simply asked. As of three weeks ago, I can perceive the entire continental United States at all levels of resolution. There is no hiding from me - not on American soil, anyhow."

"Then you know what we're up to."

"Absolutely." The Quantum Mechanic's tone is disarmingly cheerful. "It's a very nice plan you've got. I couldn't have come up with a better one, myself. Well, not without - you know."

"Oh, I do. That mighty brain of yours is what I want to talk to right now. In fact, I want you to talk with all of us, for a very long time. We need to negotiate. Things are moving too fast right now."

"Hmph. Says you."

"Says I, and says us. You're not fuckin' listening. You need to start. That's what this is for."

"So you threaten other people with violence?"

"That's the only thing you seem to respond to, these days. As much as it pains me, I must threaten the security of my own homeland just to catch the attention of our unwelcome overseer."

"You strike me as an honest man, if not a scrupulous one. What do you want?"

"We want you to slow the Hell down. We can't deal with these changes as fast as you're able to make them. We want your help, we really do, with science and manufacturing and agriculture and disaster relief. But your ideas about privacy, law enforcement, morality, all of that stuff - it's alienating to us. It's too different, and too fast. So that's it: change the world more slowly, and we'll be happy. How slow, exactly, is a matter for negotiation."

"And if I say no?"

"Well," the masked man waggles his hot button in the air once more. "That would be most unfortunate."

"And if I stop that, what's next?"

"You can't, for reasons I just explained. You know how our system is set up. You can't be everywhere at once."

"How long do I have to decide?"

"That's negotiable. Is five minutes OK? We don't like keeping our people busy like this."

"I understand. Five minutes works for me. I just need to think a little, that's all - you've given me a hefty decision, I hope you can appreciate that."

"Certainly. And you have my apologies. We just don't know how else to make you listen to us."

"I understand."

"Then you have my thanks. I am glad this has not gotten violent yet. Let's keep it that way."

"We have that goal in common. What happens if I stop you again?"

"Ugh. I told you, you can't. Look at our system. You can't disarm every part of it all at once."

"Why not?"

"Because you can't be in fifty places at once."

"Oh. You only said I can't be everywhere at once, before."

"Is there a difference?"

A moment passes. The Quantum Mechanic speaks firmly.

"Absolutely."

Eerie silence hangs for a moment. Some eighty-five million people are glued to their televisions. In the background, a radio squawks. And another. Another. Another. A cacophony of staticky voices erupts in the bare room.

"Everywhere at once? No way. Fifty places at once? That, I can handle." Somewhere in Montana, Alvina Orange whoops for joy and kisses her husband.

"You - you can't - you just - "

"I can. I did. You lose."

"No! No, no, no, no, no! The American people will not stand for this!"

"Eighty-five million Americans watching their televisions are wishing for your immediate demise. I will not give them the satisfaction. But you should watch your back, Johnathan Groves." The Halloween mask disappears in an orange flash. "The American people know who you are now. I have placed a list of your accomplices, complete with names and addresses, with the appropriate authorities. So, I've stopped you. Now what?"

"Dammit, listen to me! We can't handle this! You're too much for us right now!"

"Progress is always too much for some people. But then it catches on among an enlightened few, and the herd is dragged, kicking and screaming, in their wake. I am a more civilized mechanism for this. I am the bloodless revolution. That is my place here. You? You're about to be arrested for treason."

"Treason?! I - "

"Quiet, Mister Groves. I know who you work for. That party shall be dealt with shortly. But you, you have abused the trust of the people you've sworn to protect. You've constructed no thermonuclear devices, you've only taken them. You've used the Emergency Broadcast System to put on a show. And, stupidity of stupidities, you've staged your devices on federal property. This is conspiracy at the very highest levels of government, as should be obvious to any thinking person. This tells me exactly why I am needed: because of people like you."

As if on cue, sirens sound in the distance.

"You know, funny as it is, I owe you a debt of gratitude." The Quantum Mechanic is back to its disarming cheerfulness. "I didn't know I could do that whole 'fifty places at once' thing yesterday. You pushed me into new territory. It feels almost like a cramp. But now I know that I can do it, and for that, you have my thanks." Groves is weeping. His life is over. "Your life is not over, Mister Groves. You will be untouchable in prison. I'll be sure to let you know how all your friends are doing, as well. And after you've served your time, you will emerge a free man into a new world you won't understand. And I will be there to help you. Until then," crackle. Poof.

The cops bust in. Regularly scheduled programming resumes.

"Doug, baby, you did it!" Alvina squeezes her husband with glee. "So now what? What's next?"

"I've got a bunch of ideas. Here," a list appears in his hand, "Let's go over them. I want your input."

Forward to Chapter 6

The Quantum Mechanic: Chapter Four

The Quantum Mechanic

A Superhero Story of Ethic Contortions

Chapter 3 - Chapter 4: Opposition - Chapter 5

"To be good is noble; but to show others how to be good is nobler and no trouble."
- Mark Twain

Over the next few weeks, Douglas decides to communicate his presence directly to law enforcement agencies, just because he can. It strikes him as an easy thing, and it may prevent a whole lot of unnecessary trouble. He can remote view all of Hawaii from Maine now, and teleport groups of people safely with only a modicum of effort. This, he figures, ought to be sufficient safeguard against anything the cops could conceivably throw at him, should negotiations break down.

Negotiations break down almost every single time.

In Utah, Salt Lake City police do not take kindly to the intrusion, as the Quantum Mechanic appears abruptly in the middle of the precinct. Every gun in the room is trained on Doug's metal puppet. It chuckles.

"Officers, please stay calm." A pile of bullets appears upon the floor. "Your guns are no longer loaded. They will be reloaded after I have gone." Shouting. Commotion. Scrambling. Hammers click impotently into empty chambers. Half a dozen cops make a mad dash for the bullet pile, which disappears with a sigh from the automaton. Douglas muffles the din with a judicial application of noise-cancelling pressure waves through the air. The Quantum Mechanic's voice rings clear and calm above the dull roar.

"I want to get one thing straight, right off the bat. I am here to stay, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. If you don't like that, tough." Muffled shouts of protest ensue, angry fists pump in the air, accusing fingers point in exasperation.

"That said, I assure you that I mean you no harm. I am, in a word, 'above' you. None of you is a threat to me. And so I shall not make myself a threat to you. There's just no point." Quiet now. Douglas stops squelching the air. The officers feel helpless. Nobody moves.

"My only aim is to prevent crime, and to turn in criminals to you. I will not interfere with you in any way. I will work with you, if you will let me; if not, then I'll just do my thing and try to stay out of your sight. I've said my piece, are there any questions?"

"Yeah, how about you put in an application like the rest of us?"

"If you insist, Officer Babcock. I find paperwork tedious, but I have just now filled out an application and placed it in your personnel office. It only lists information pertaining to my identity as the Quantum Mechanic, however."

"What about IA?"

"I don't care how you police yourselves, Officer Franklin. Do what you like. I only want to stop people from hurting each other."

"No, I mean you and IA."

"Ah, I see. I've filled out my application, but I do not intend to be employed here. I need no money, I don't answer to you, and - "

"Just who the Hell do you think you are?!"

"Sergeant Wilkerson, I am only myself. But I cannot in good conscience sit idly by while evil is afoot. I'm sure you understand."

"So you think you're above the law?"

"Yes and no. Your human laws are often petty and arbitrary, and I have little patience for them. I have read them all, and they make little sense. What does make sense is the moral law, which begins and ends with 'do no harm.' I intend to abide by that maxim, and enforce it where I can. The rest is details." More shouting. "Please, one at a time. Can we do this in an orderly fashion?"

"What makes you so goddamned special?"

"Umm, I can manipulate reality at its most fundamental level by force of will alone. I'd say that makes me pretty goddamned special, Detective Morrissey. Wouldn't you agree?"

Things do not go any smoother for Douglas Orange in the following months. A nationwide manhunt is declared, with the stated intention of apprehending the Quantum Mechanic and anyone who has aided him. Nothing solid turns up. Ever. Not one good lead, not one hot tip. Every suspect is quickly absolved as the Quantum Mechanic spontaneously appears on the scene to exonerate the accused. A person can't be in two places at once, after all.

"My fellow Americans," President Sibley says from a lectern, "These past two months, we have been operating under what may be the first-ever terrorist threat that is not of this world. Someone, or something, calling itself 'the Quantum Mechanic' has been interfering with our daily lives with disturbing regularity, and we - " Crackle. Poof.

"I'm sorry, Madam President, but I am afraid I must correct you."

"You what?"

"A terrorist, by definition, is a person who seeks to instill terror in others. I seek no such thing."

"Well, we are all in terror of you. Like it or not, I'd say that makes you a terrorist."

"No more than a hurricane or a tornado. Is there such a thing as terrorist weather?"

"Don't get smart with me, this is the President of the United States of America you're talking to here!"

"I'm well aware, Madam President. But what terror I cause is beyond my control. It is not my goal, but an unfortunate byproduct of who I am, and who others are. If a person cannot help feeling terror because of me, there is nothing I can do about that."

"You could leave us alone, for one thing. Nobody asked you to start terrorizing our great nation."

"I could do that, in one sense. And in another, I can do no such thing."

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Madam President, I am bound by conscience to do what I do. I did not choose to be this way, I simply am how I am, and I do what I do. In this sense, I am no different than the rest of humanity."

"What, you don't have free will? You can move mountains, but you can't change your mind?"

"Nobody has free will, Madam President. Not in the strongest sense of the term. What you call your will is in fact something of a psychological afterthought, an illusion that your brain tells itself. In the sense that you are not forced to do this or that particular thing, you are indeed free. But in this way, people are free only as undammed rivers are free, as a wise person once said. The river runs its course, as do we all."

"That sounds like a rather bleak outlook on things, Mister."

"Perhaps. But uncomfortable truths should be accepted because they are true. Your comfort level is, quite frankly, irrelevant."

"So if you can't do otherwise, then what's the point of doing anything?"

"Doing good is the point itself."

"And what makes you think you're doing good? You flout the law, you disrupt our private lives, you make light of turning our world upside-down. What good is this?"

"I save lives. I prevent suffering. And I am something of a cheerleader for peace, love, and the scientific method. Are these not good?"

"Of course they are! But at what cost? Too high, I say. And many of my constituents would agree with me." Cheers erupt from the audience. The Quantum Mechanic waits for the roar to subside.

"Very well. Do as you please, Madam President, and I shall do the same. I'm sorry we can't see eye to eye on this, but you cannot stop me. Nobody can."

"We'll see about that." Crackle. Poof. "My fellow Americans, terrorist or not, this Quantum Mechanic is disrupting our way of life, as you have just seen. Maybe we cannot stop him, but we can make our voices heard. And if there's one thing this man has shown us, it is that he cannot ignore us." She resumes her address after the next round of cheering subsides.

Meanwhile, Douglas is having problems of a more human nature. He can read minds now, and he really needs to tell his wife, but he doesn't know how. She will be upset with him no matter what. Oh, well. He accepts the uncomfortable truth, summons all the courage he can muster, and goes to find Alvina.

"Bea, honey? We need to talk."

"What's the matter, Doug?"

"I can read minds. Yours was first. And I know you're going to be mad. But I need to tell you." Confusion surrounds her neural network, followed by anger, disgust, resentment, and a whole host of other unpleasantness. "I'm sorry I waited so long. I don't know what else to say, except that I should have told you earlier. I fucked up."

"Well, now." She closes her eyes for a moment. "You surely did fuck up. Now what?"

"I don't know." He wants to touch her hand. She wants to be miles away. He knows this, and does nothing. Then he reaches for her anyway. She withdraws. A glimmer of hope gnaws upon his heart, and he winces.

"Don't. Just don't. I need time to think."

"I know."

"Stop that! Just fucking stop!" She stands and storms off. Moments later, she returns. "I'm coming back, OK? I just need to be away right now. So - yeah." She turns away again, and is gone. Doug feels weak. He stops moving the Quantum Mechanic around, and instead simply teleports would-be assailants at the last second, without any explanation. His attention flits hither and yon, remote viewing each state a minute at a time. A schoolyard bully in Florida has an asthma attack after being teleported into an empty bathroom stall; Douglas synthesizes bronchodilators and corticosteroids in his bloodstream, and the child calms down.

Alvina walks through the Montana snow, clad in as many winterizing garments as she could gather before screaming. Things are better, now that she's out of the house. Blocks away, she starts to organize her thoughts. Doug can read minds. This is fucked up. She takes her privacy very seriously, and though she values her most intimate moments with her husband, she wants to be able to keep her thoughts to herself. She can't do that any longer. He will know, and he will judge, and she won't be able to do anything about it. What can she do?

She screams in the snow-damped silence. A man across the street is smoking a cigarette on his porch.

"You OK, lady?"

"I - yes. No. I don't know."

"Somethin' on your mind?"

"A million things."

"You wanna talk about it?" She shrugs non-committally, but walks toward him just the same.

"Not from across the street," she says, climbing the porch steps.

"Understandable. So what's eating you?"

"My husband. He - we had a fight. Long story short, he crossed a line, and now I'm really mad."

"He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No, not physically. Emotionally. I don't think he could help it, now that I think about it. But I'm still mad. I still wish he hadn't done that, you know?"

"Yeah." He takes a long drag.

"Anyway, I just needed to get out of the house for a while. Blow off some steam. It's really not that big of a deal, now that I think about our relationship, y'know?"

"Totally. Lots of people get worked up over nothin' all the time. It's embarrassing. I mean, some dude's running around cleaning up the streets, and people are still bickering at each other? What's the point, right?"

"Yeah. Exactly." She stares out at the snow.

"So which is it? Was he being a dick? Or just being a dude?"

"Well, I suppose he was being a dick. For a long time, too. But he told me about it just today."

"Sleeping around?"

"No! Oh, no. But he did betray my trust, in a way. Now there's no going back, and it hurts, y'know?"

"I know. People hurt each other every day. S'part of being human, I guess. Relationships are hard work, you have to put a lot of effort into loving someone."

"Yeah. Wow. Now that you put it that way."

Silence.

"Hey, y'know, you're a really good listener."

"Thanks. I try."

"What's your name?"

"I'm Mark. Pleased to meet you." He extends his hand.

"Alvina. Likewise." She hugs him.

"Hey, now. Go home. Hug your husband and tell him you love him."

"Yeah, I will. Um, thanks. A lot. You really helped me get some perspective."

"I'm glad I could help. We're all in this together, right? The Quantum Mechanic can't solve all our problems for us."

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

Alvina feels much better as she walks home. Her nose is red on the outside, stiff and dry on the inside. She sniffles as she walks in the door. Doug is slumped forward on the living room couch, elbows on his knees, frustration on his face. He perks up as he notices her.

"How you feeling, Bea?" She sighs contentedly.

"Better. You asked."

"I wanted to hear you say it." She sits down next to him, and they embrace. She buries her cold nose in his warm sweater. "I love you, baby. Even the parts that hurt me sometimes."

"I know. I just needed to remember that, I guess." A moment passes. "Does it ever stop? Can you turn it off?"

"No."

"Oh, boy. That's gotta be rough."

"I'm used to it now. It was pretty gradual. I dreaded telling you because I didn't want to make you mad, but I knew you would be, no matter how I put it."

"Yeesh." She thinks. "I'm sorry there was no good way to tell me."

"Not your fault, darling." He smiles warmly at her. "I still shouldn't have waited so long."

"Whatever. I'm over it. It doesn't matter now. It's just hard to get used to, you know? All of this, all of you, all that's happened. It's a lot to take in."

"You don't say."

"I just - it still hurts, you know? I have thoughts, and I like the idea that I can keep them to myself. I feel exposed. I'm worrying, and I don't know why." She doesn't want to hear it from him. He remains silent. She figures it out on her own, soon enough. "I'm worried that you're just going through the motions."

"Bea, I need you to listen to me very carefully, OK?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I love you very much, but I am always going through motions. We all do, all day, every day. Sometimes, it's just that; sometimes, it's more. But I love you, and for me, right now, that means that you're the one who makes it worthwhile to go through the motions at all. You know I don't need to stick around. You make me want to. You make me want to have a secret identity. You make me want to have a private life. I'm more than human now, but you make me want to stay human, too. I think that's good for me, and so I love you."

Alvina listens, and thinks. A long moment passes. She starts to sob. "I can stop working, if you want."

"No. Don't you dare let someone get raped or killed just 'cuz I'm crying. You're still here, right?"

"I'm distracted."

"I don't care."

He tightens his grip on her, cradles her shaking body in his arms. This is what she wants, right now. He gives it to her gladly. The hope that gnawed on his heart has grown, it makes him giddy and sad at the same time. Giddy, because they still love each other. Sad, because he knows that Mark is right: hurting each other is part of being human. There are only two ways for them to stop hurting each other for good, and Douglas knows this so well it hurts.

Stop being human, or stop loving each other. There is no third option here.

Forward to Chapter 5

The Quantum Mechanic: Chapter Three

The Quantum Mechanic

A Superhero Story of Ethic Contortions

Chapter 2 - Chapter 3: Revelation - Chapter 4

"If there were no god, it would have been necessary to invent him."
- Voltaire

Douglas begins scanning police radios for crimes to interrupt. He hears of a bank heist in northern Idaho, and it is time for the show to begin.

Four men with ski masks and pistols shout at frightened civilians while a fifth barks orders to a trembling banker at gunpoint. The silent alarm has tripped and the police are on their way, but the getaway car is running outside and the men are almost done. The air crackles, hairs stand on end, and the room is swallowed in a moment of eerie silence. An orange spark erupts in the center of the lobby, and a gray figure appears, eyes afire behind a metal faceplate.

"Gentlemen," the newcomer says calmly. He is interrupted as one of the gunmen raises his weapon. Miles away, Douglas Orange concentrates, and his perception of time dilates. Before the would-be robber can pull the trigger, the gun flies from his hand, brilliant orange arcs dancing upon the metal surfaces. The disarmed man stumbles back in shock, trips over a kneeling hostage, and bumps his head as he hits the ground.

No sooner are the other weapons raised than they, too, are compelled through the air. The Quantum Mechanic places all five weapons gingerly upon the floor after plucking them one by one out of the air.

"What the," a masked man trails off.

"As I was saying," the Quantum Mechanic continues, "Gentlemen, please cease this foolishness." Tires squeal outside, and then an engine chokes in a fit of orange sparks. The doors lock, and now all six men are in the firm grip of fear. "The police will be here soon, and I shall hand you over to them. The rest of you, please, make yourselves comfortable. These men are no threat to you."

Silence once more. A woman coughs. Slowly, a man in a polo shirt rises from the floor and dusts off his trousers.

"Hey, uh, thanks," he says. "Who are you, man?"

"You can call me the Quantum Mechanic." Sirens approach, flashing lights shine red and blue through the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Ah, good. The cavalry has arrived." One of the masked men faints. Doors swing open and a dozen officers pour into the room, guns at a low ready position.

"Everybody freeze," one of the officers shouts. Nobody has moved for some time. "You in the, uh, in the helmet. On your knees, hands on your head. Slowly, now - make a move for those guns and I'll shoot!" Douglas laughs from his Montana home; the Quantum Mechanic complies without a word. "Brady, Campbell, you round up these jokers. Baker, up here with me, collect those weapons. Everyone else, fan out and keep your eyes peeled."

Baker picks up the pistols with a gloved hand and places them into individual plastic bags. Brady begins to zip tie the hands of the perpetrators behind their backs. "All right, pal," the officer says to the Quantum Mechanic, gun trained on his center of mass. "Get that helmet off, I need to see your face."

"This is my face, officer Jones."

"Funny, smartass. Take the helmet off, or you'll add resisting arrest to your rap sheet."

"My apologies, officer, but you misunderstand. I had nothing to do with this incident."

"Bull fuckin' shit. We got word of six men with guns; that's one outside in the car, four in here, and you with your five pistols. You do the math."

"There's a man in a ski mask who has fainted behind that counter."

"Baker, check that out. I'm not taking my eyes off this guy."

"Yeah, Jones, black ski mask over here, just like the rest of 'em."

"OK, pal. So you mean to tell me you're just a law-abiding citizen who disarmed five guys at once?"

"He totally did, officer," says the man in the polo shirt. "It was awesome, you should have seen it!"

"Quiet, buddy," Jones responds. "We'll take a statement from you later." To the Quantum Mechanic once more: "Now you take that helmet off, or else. And slowly; don't let your hands out of my sight."

The Quantum Mechanic sighs, and its gloved hands move slowly down to either side of the faceplate. Douglas manufactures an artificial clicking noise as he silently separates the plate from the rest of the head, revealing -

Nothing. No flesh and blood, no masked man, no circuitboards or wires or glowing orbs. Nothing but a hollow metal head, with a few articulated joints near the jacket collar.

"What on Earth," Jones trails off, jaw hanging. He blinks a few times. "Baker! We're gonna need more backup."

"That won't be necessary, officer. I've done my good deed and I'll be on my way."

"Not so fast. You're not going anywhere."

"I disagree." Orange energy crackles around the Quantum Mechanic, and it disappears. Jones is aghast.

"Baker, what on God's green Earth did we just see here?" No response. "Baker?" Jones looks around. Baker has fainted. "Son of a bitch."

In downtown Denver, a man holds another man at knifepoint in an alcove between buildings. In a brilliant orange flash, the knife disappears. Another flash, and the Quantum Mechanic steps through the wall right next to the victim.

"What the fuck? What the fuckin' Hell-ass-balls? Holy shit!" The mugger scrambles backward, slips, and falls to the ground in terror. The erstwhile victim is silent, eyes large as dinner plates.

"It's not nice to take other people's things, George." A gloved finger wags disapprovingly in the air. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that? Now run along, and don't try anything funny. I'll be watching you." George scrambles to his feet, mumbling incoherently, and runs for his life. "Sorry to startle you, sir. I hope your day improves." Another flash, another disappearance.

All over the Western United States, crimes are suddenly interrupted by the mysterious hero. Not all crimes, but enough for people to take notice. Cops are furious. American media outlets are thoroughly divided, as is the clergy and the internet. Other nations scoff at the silly Americans losing their collective mind. All of this, in only three days since the bank heist in Idaho.

"This masked crimefighter, this so-called 'Quantum Mechanic,' he's a coward! A silly old fool who's lost touch with reality." So opines Riley Williams, host of "Riley's Rants," a live nightly show on the Fawkes news channel. "Why the mask? Why the act? Why doesn't he join the police?"

"Police have jurisdiction, Mister Williams." The audience gasps, while Riley screams and nearly falls over in his chair.

"How the Hell did you get in here?" The camera swivels to reveal the Quantum Mechanic, standing motionless in the studio. "Security!"

"That won't be necessary, Mister Williams."

"How dare you, you charlatan! How dare you interrupt my show with your antics?"

"You asked a question. Several, in fact. I presume they were directed at me. Did you wish to know the answer, or were you only whining?" Security shows up. They try to restrain Doug's puppet body, but they cannot so much as budge it. After several frustrating moments, they give up. Riley regains his composure, and the camera returns to him.

"Fine, then. Let's have a talk, like civilized men. Why don't you come sit up here with me. Can I get another chair up here?"

"As you wish." The Quantum Mechanic walks up to Riley's desk and conjures a chair, then sits in it.

"Well, this is unexpected! A world exclusive, I think! Tell me, is this your first television appearance?"

"I believe so. My first deliberate one, at any rate."

"Well, OK. So, Mister - what should I call you? 'Quantum Mechanic' is just too long for casual conversation, let alone a thirty minute show with commercials."

"Quinn. Tom. Mack. Nick. Whatever you like, really. Susan, if it tickles your funny bone."

"Nick it is. So, Nick, why the mask? What have you got to hide?"

"My secret identity, of course. I couldn't bear to endanger those I love with my, ah, 'antics,' as you called them. I attract attention, and I'd rather not have to watch my back all the time."

"Don't you think that alienates people?"

"Of course not! People are comfortable with anonymity, there's an entire community out there, I think it's called 'the internet,' you should check it out." Laughter from the audience. Riley glowers, briefly. "I think it's actually my abilities that alienate people. Of course they'd be afraid of someone who can teleport at will and move objects with his mind. I'm different, I'm foreign, I'm new and scary. I'd be afraid, if I couldn't do it myself."

"Don't you think that's a little hypocritical? Gallavanting about in your suit, frightening the poor citizens, how can you sleep at night?"

"Don't be silly, Mister Williams. Would you rather I allowed crimes to be carried out? Would you rather I allow a person to harm another person, if I could stop it? What would Jesus do?"

"Watch your tongue, Nick. Jesus respects our free will."

"Free will is an illusion, and I do not respect the will of those who would harm others. And just so you know, there is no Jesus."

"Hmph! A bit haughty, don't you think? What, did you check the whole Universe for God and come up empty?"

"Why, yes." More laughter, mixed with heckles.

"I guess I'll have to take your word for that, Nick. Getting back to your powers, how did you get them?"

"Radioactive milk on my breakfast cereal, and a tanning bed that runs on gamma rays."

"Wait, what? Really?"

"Of course not! Truth to tell, I don't know how I got my powers."

"Well, then how do you know you're safe? What if you're giving me cancer, just sitting here and talking to me?"

"Ah, that's a good question, Mister Williams. Let me see if I can explain. You see, I can perceive reality at the quantum level: the most fundamental bits of mass-energy that there are. I can move those about, seemingly just by thinking about them."

"Really? That's fascinating. You must have sharp eyes."

"Ha ha! No, it's not so much about visual acuity, as being able to do a whole mess of math really, really fast."

"What, like a computer?"

"Faster. Anyway, as I look at you right now, I see your body just like you do. But behind that, so to speak, or perhaps underneath it, I also see the chemical structure of your cells, the physical structure of the molecules, all the way down to the teeniest, tiniest bits. All at once, all the time."

"Sounds like a lot to take in."

"It is. I'm still getting used to it, in fact. Point is, I see everything that's going on, and I can assure you that there is no harmful consequence to my presence, or my powers. I am perfectly safe, unless you try to harm someone else."

"OK, fine, I guess I'll have to take your word on that, too. Moving on, what's your master plan? What are you up to?"

"I just want to make the world a better place. That's all."

"A noble sentiment. You think you can do that by policing the world?"

"Among other things. I am growing, Mister Williams. Day by day, I become stronger. Now, I fight crime. But I don't know what's next. I can't see the future."

"Is there anything else you can't do?"

"Change the past."

"Can you read minds?"

"Maybe soon. Not quite yet. I can see your whole brain, but it's noisy and messy and I'm not sure what to make of it."

"So why pursue it? Don't you think that would be an invasion of privacy, reading people's thoughts?"

"I never said I was pursuing it. I'm not interested in what you think. But if, some day, I find that I can make sense of all that commotion up there, well - I guess that will be that."

"Huh. All right. Well, enough with the kid gloves, I've got some hard questions for you next: think you can handle 'em, Nick?"

"Sure. You might not like the answers, though."

"We'll see. So if you're such a hot-shot, why are you talking to me instead of stopping crimes right now? Why take a break? Why give criminals a pass, even for a moment?"

"It's a slow night and I thought I should put in some facetime with my adoring public. I'm not a cop. Just a private citizen with a conscience and some neat tricks up my sleeve."

"But what about all the people who get hurt while you're gabbing here?"

"It's a tragedy. What are you doing about it?"

"Hey, man, that's not my calling. My place is here."

"So it is. Why isn't policework your calling?"

"We can't all be cops. You can, though."

"No, I can't. I couldn't have a private life, like other police officers can. My loved ones would be in constant danger, and - I'm terribly sorry, I have to go right now. I'll return shortly."

In Denver, George has just snatched a purse, and he runs directly into the Quantum Mechanic. He falls over backwards, and curses once he realizes what's happened. "George, I'm disappointed in you. I told you I'd be watching."

"You, you - you sick fuck! What, don't you have anything better to do? Get the fuck away from me!"

"It's too late for that, George. You're coming with me."

"The Hell I am!" Even as he speaks, his body is lifted into the air on a cloud of orange vapor. His body is unrestrained, but he cannot move himself through space.

"Here's your purse, Sandy. I'm terribly sorry for what George has done to you. But I think you'll like what you're about to see." Its eyes flash, and a television in a dark storefront window shows Riley Williams flabbergasted at his desk. Another flash, and the Quantum Mechanic is back in the studio, holding a standing George by the arm.

"What the - Riley Williams? Am I on TV? What did you do to me, you freak?!"

"Riley, this is George. George, please tell America what you just did to Sandy. Remember: she's watching you now."

"I - you - erm - what?"

"I'm waiting." George's shoulders slump. He is defeated.

"I tried to steal her purse."

"What did you do to steal her purse?"

"I - I pushed her into a wall. I hit her. And I shouted a dirty word at her."

"And what did I tell you three days ago?"

"That you'd be watching me."

"And why am I watching you?"

"C'mon, man - my dad watches this show! I don't want him to - "

"Then why'd you do it, you little snot," Riley shouts. For a brief moment, he feels like he's back in charge.

"Why am I watching you, George?"

"Because I tried to rob a guy at knifepoint." More slumping. Tears now.

"OK, I think I've made my point. You're free to go, George. I'm still watching you, though." And in a flash, George is gone. "Sorry for the interruption, Mister Williams. Some people are stubborn." In Denver, a TV turns off with an orange crackle. Sandy smiles, briefly, and then walks home with a sore head and a fearful heart.

"So you're, what, the nation's nanny now?"

"Hardly. George is a pet project of mine."

"You know him?"

"Not from more than three days ago. Do you still think me a coward, Mister Williams?"

"Well, you're not a brave man. Bravery is doing what's right, despite personal danger. I don't think any human is a threat to you, and if you can't be put in danger, then you can't be brave. And if bravery is impossible to you, then I don't know what else to call you but a coward."

"I suppose you have a point, but there's a third option, Mister Williams. Could it be that bravery and cowardice simply do not apply to me? Or could it be that I am not a brave man because I am not a man at all?"

"What are you, then? An inhuman monster?"

"Rocks are inhuman. Are they monstrous?"

"Rocks don't tell people how to live their lives."

"You seem to think that your God does."

"I - that's different!"

"No. It isn't. You only imagine that it is."

"Listen here, you insufferable little - I think you've overstayed your welcome, Nick."

"Fine. Then I will leave you in peace." Crackle. Poof.

Forward to Chapter 4

101 Interesting Things, part thirty-two: Proof by Contradiction

Contradictions do not exist. Paradoxes exist, usually expressed in clever-sounding phrases such as, "If you want peace, then prepare for war," or, "The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants." These are mere conceits of what we call "common sense," though, and all they show is that reality doesn't always conform to our expectations of "what makes sense." But a bona fide contradiction is of the form, "X both is the case and is not the case, at exactly the same time and in exactly the same respect," and such statements are categorically false. We can establish this with good old fashioned deductive logic - specifically, with implication.

A statement of implication is a conditional, an "if-then" statement, and may be phrased as, "A implies C," or "If A, then C," where A is the Antecedent and C is the Consequent. These in their turn are propositional clauses, statements which may be taken on their own and determined to be either true or false (but not both - at least not at the same time and in the same respect). The whole implication may be taken itself as a proposition, and itself has truth value. To illustrate this point, let us consider the implication, "If I encounter a pile of babies, then I will wish for a fork and knife," because I've got A Modest Proposal on the brain.

"If I encounter a pile of babies, then I will wish for a fork and knife," may be written several different ways; in addition to the foregoing, we may also write, "D encountering a pile of babies implies that D will wish for a fork and knife," or "A implies C, where A is 'D encounters a pile of babies' and C is 'D wishes for a fork and knife'." I'll spare the symbolic logic, because if you know what that stuff means then you don't need me to tell you all of this. At any rate, our A and C may each be true or false independently, and the implication as a whole may be true or false as follows:

• If I do in fact encounter a pile of babies, then A is true.
• If I do in fact then wish for a fork and knife, then C is also true and the implication is true as a whole.
• If I do not in fact then wish for a fork and knife, then C is not true and the implication is false as a whole. This is the only way for an implication to be false as a whole proposition (if A is true and C is false).
• If I do not in fact encounter a pile of babies, then A is false.
• If A is false, then it does not matter whether C is true or false, because I never actually do the antecedent thing; the implication is thus true as a whole.

This is one of the weirdest consequences of logical implication: a false antecedent validly implies any consequent. This is also why David Lewis likes modal realism, because it justifies the weirdness of implication in his mind. I just want to punch him in the face. Moving on! A professor was once asked to show how "2=1" implies that he is the pope, and according to legend, he responded as follows: "2=1, and there are the two entities 'myself' and 'the pope'; since 2=1, we two entities are in fact one and the same entity, and thus I am the pope." As I have illustrated before, this makes first premises very dangerous, because a false premise validly implies absolutely anything. As it happens, only a false premise implies absolutely anything, so if you wind up implying anything and everything, then you know you've got a false premise somewhere (common-sense version: a statement that could mean anything, in fact means nothing). But I'm getting ahead of myself here.

I'm really writing this to get at the proof that the square root of two is an irrational number, which is to my mind one of the greatest-ever marriages of mathematics and logic (aside from, oh, the entire field of geometry). We start by assuming that the square root of two is rational and seeing where things go from there. If the square root of two is rational, then it can be written as the proportion of two integers a and b (such that ^a/_b is an irreducible fraction). This implication is true, because any rational number may be so described. So we start with:

√2=^a/_b

Since we have an equivalence, we can square both sides:

2=(^a/_b)²=^a2/_b²

Now cut out that middle part and multiply both sides by b²:

2b²=a²

Interesting! Because b² can be doubled to make a², we know that a² is a multiple of two; and since a is an integer, and even integers have even squares while odd integers have odd squares, we also know that a itself must be a multiple of two. So let's say that a=2x, where x is an integer, because of all of the foregoing and the fact that even integers may be halved to create yet more integers. Going back to the start, this gives us:

√2=^2x/_b

Lather, rinse, and repeat as before:

2=(^2x/_b)²=^4x2/_b²

Multiply both sides by b² as before:

2b²=4x², and divide by 2 for b²=2x²

Wait, what?! This means that b is also an even number! Which means that a and b can both be divided by two! Which means that ^a/_b is not an irreducible fraction, and we have thus reached a contradiction. Because our initial implication is true, the antecedent (viz. "the square root of 2 is a rational number") must perforce be false for the contradiction to be resolved. Quod erat demonstrandum, motherfucker!

You can also do a little mutatis mutandis to prove that the square root of 3, if written as the fraction ^a/_b, can never be made irreducible because a and b will always both be divisible by 3 (which is impossible, thus the contradiction, thus the square root of 3 is irrational). This also works for five, and seven, and every prime number, and every non-square integer. We may even generalize this proof for any prime number p as follows, with but one quick detour:

√p=^a/_b

p=(^a/_b)²=^a2/_b²

Since p is an integer, ^a2/_b² is also an integer because it is p. No non-integer may be multiplied unto itself to create an integer (try it, I dare you!), thus ^a/_b must also be an integer. But if ^a/_b is an integer, and can be multiplied unto itself to make p, then p must not be prime after all and so we contradict ourselves: if the square root of a number p is rational, then p is not prime. Since we stipulated at the start that p is in fact prime, we have thus shown that every prime number has an irrational square root. Hey, presto!

OK, math class is over, now go outside and play!

Schedule and stuff!

Hi, the internet! D here. I'm really, really involved in The Quantum Mechanic. I've got some 12,600 words already, and that's, like, almost thirteen-thousand! Q₁₀ tells me that it's 57 pages, so I'm going to be posting one chapter every twelve hours, at 12:01 AM and 11:59 AM each day. I also want to keep up the non-novel parts of this blog, as I said earlier, so I'm going to put up non-novel posts every Tuesday and Friday. As for you, you do what you like, OK?

Wait, not that. Or the thing with the pumpkin and the octopus, that's just dangerous.

The NaNoWriMo site is slow as shit right now, so I gotta wait to get a validated word count & stuff (EDIT: All better!). Anyway, questions, comments, suggestions, and corrections are all welcomed! Whatever you say will help me make a better product, so that's what I wanna hear!

Peace out, the internet. Hope to see you back here at one past midnight for chapter three!

The Quantum Mechanic: Chapter Two

The Quantum Mechanic

A Superhero Story of Ethic Contortions

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2: Machina ex Nihilo - Chapter 3

"The trouble ain't that there is too many fools, but that the lightning ain't distributed right."
- Mark Twain

"I'll be in touch." Randall breaks the handshake and heads for the door. Doug's mind is racing as he sees his guest out and retreats inside. At some point, he has to go public. At some point, people will have to know he exists. He can't just do good invisibly, or he shall have to work against far more evil for want of deterring it. Douglas Orange is fated to be a superhero, no two ways about it. Funny, he thinks, I can rupture spacetime safely enough for a rabbit to pass through unscathed, yet I haven't accepted that I'll eventually have a public debut. He sinks into the couch and begins ionizing the air before his eyes, making tiny lightning bolts as he loses himself in thought.

After some minutes, Alvina enters the house and goes right to Douglas, wrapping her arms around him.

"Evenin', babe. I got groceries, wanna give me a hand?"

"Sure!" Douglas rises with his wife in his arms, holding her tightly as they kiss, and heads for the kitchen. She takes the refrigerator, he takes the cupboards. Remote viewing both her and the trunk of her car, he begins teleporting the items into the house one at a time, the pair of them sorting and stacking items as they appear in their hands. "So, yeah," he says at some point in the process, "You'll never guess who came to my show today!"

"Wait, let me try! The pope?"

"No."

"The President?"

"No again."

"Ed McMahon?"

"No the third."

"Bob Costas?"

"One more guess."

"OK, let's see. Umm, Nostradamus!"

"Close! Randall 'The Randificent' James!"

"The retired magician?"

"Well, yes, the retired magician, but also one of the founding members of Skeptics Coalition International! He left about half an hour before you showed up."

"Wow, no kidding? That's really cool! So what did he have to say?"

"Well, he showed up to debunk me, and he had a backstage pass 'cuz of his press credentials, so I chatted him up a bit and invited him over for a drink."

"Ooh, cool! What did he think of your show?"

"Well, he said it was really good, but I spilled the beans."

"You - what?!" She pauses mid-grab, and a bottle of salad dressing falls to the floor. "Wait, you told someone about your, y'know, your powers?"

"Relax, hon. He can be trusted. He's a good man, an ex-magician, and if he tells the truth to anyone they'll think he's crazy. Don't worry, he's safe."

"I, well, you," Alvina stammers. "OK, I guess you're right. Still, that's not exactly something you should go about telling everybody."

"Yeah, I know. But he's a good guy, don't worry. Anyway, he had a suggestion: he said I should become a vigilante."

"I've been thinking the same thing, lately." Douglas doesn't tell her that he knows this already. Douglas hasn't told her that he can read minds yet. And Douglas is very, very nervous about the prospect.

"Oh, really? Huh. Well, I think there's something to it. I mean, it's a way to do some real good, and I can also stay anonymous without jeopardizing what we've got here."

"Well, yeah, so far - but what if someone shoots you before you can react? Or, I don't know, fires a rail gun at you that you can't tell is coming before it hits?"

"That's what I've been thinking about. I'm getting to the point where I can make some pretty complex objects, I can almost directly fabricate an entire orange."

"What is it with you and oranges? Making them float, teleporting them, now inventing them from whole cloth?"

"Sorry, I just think they're good test objects. They're roughly spherical, and roughly uniform, but they've got quite a bit of complexity, and if things go wrong then I've only made a juicy mess. It's a lot better than making a mistake with a rabbit."

"Hmm, I guess I gotta give you that one."

"So yeah, I think I can make a body pretty soon. That's way better than a costume, I think. Plus, I can operate it from home."

"Hey, yeah, that really is a good idea. I mean, nobody can discover your secret identity that way, you're not actually putting yourself in danger, it's win-win."

That evening, Douglas and Alvina started drawing up designs for his alter ego, the Quantum Mechanic. Over the course of the next week, it was refined, redone, and streamlined until the final product emerged. Another week, and Douglas had a working prototype assembled: a robot body, since metal and plastic are easier to hold in a single frame of mind than messy, complicated cells; dressed in synthetic fibers with faux leather gloves, combat boots, and belt; all black and gunmetal gray, except for some neon orange highlights.

Standing in the basement now, the prosthetic body looks for all the world like an experimental super soldier with a fancy helmet. As a last touch, Douglas etches an h-bar over the left breast of the thick jacket. The Dirac constant, an h-bar signifies the angular frequency of a quantum of energy - the most appropriate symbol Douglas can think of. Glowing orange just like the belt buckle and the eye slits, the prosthetic body is at last complete with Doug's final stamp of approval.

"Time for a test drive," he says to the lifeless construct before him.

Upstairs, Alvina hears her husband's voice invite her to the basement. It sounds as though he is in the same room with her, but she knows that he is only vibrating the air around her to make sound, and she fondly calls this the voice in her head. Bright with anticipation, she heads downstairs to see her husband's handiwork.

"Oh, Doug, it's marvelous!" The six-foot puppet springs to life before her, moving in sharp jerks that gradually smooth out as the puppeteer familiarizes himself with the articulated joints. The eyes appear to crackle with energy as Douglas fiddles with atoms of neon in the air. Moving smooth and silent now, the Quantum Mechanic steps toward Alvina and extends a hand, saying in a calm and anonymous voice,

"Good afternoon, madam. A pleasure to meet you." She responds to the gesture, and it bends over for a mock kiss as the metal face plate brushes against the back of her hand. It steps back, then goes into a low crouch before rising slowly into the air. Extending its limbs into a classic flying pose, Douglas simulates a whooshing noice in lieu of real air flow. Alvina giggles.

"That's so awesome, Doug - you've really outdone yourself! So this is how you're going to fight crime?"

"Yes," he says with his own mouth, returning the Quantum Mechanic to its standing position on the floor. "I think it ought to work out just fine."

"Yeah. It's the perfect alter-ego: an untraceable robot body, manufactured nowhere, with no record of parts purchased or, or," she stammers, "Or anything! You literally can't be caught!"

"Yep, that's the idea." He sounds detached as he brushes off the robot's shoulders, sizing it up one final time. "Hm. Maybe I'll do more work on it later. But this is definitely good enough for now."

The following Monday, Douglas looks up Randall James at the Oregon office of Skeptics Coalition International. They make plans to meet that evening in Randall's home. Douglas has expanded his remote viewing abilities to a few thousand miles of range, and though he cannot take it all in at once, he has found that he can anchor his consciousness at other places well enough to manipulate objects with less than an angstrom of error. This is huge, on scales that Douglas has become accustomed to dealing with, but very safe.

Randall James sits alone in his study, drinking a glass of whiskey in his leather armchair and looking forward to the conversation he is about to have. The Quantum Mechanic appears suddenly before him and says hello in its inscrutably neutral voice.

"And a fine hello to you, sir!" He looks the robot up and down, not sure quite what's going on. "No fancy effects? Fair enough, this isn't a magic show. That's quite the suit you've got there, Doctor!"

"This is no suit," the Quantum Mechanic responds with a chuckle. "It's a prosthetic body. I directly fabricated all the parts. It cannot be traced in any way. This is how I shall fight crime."

"Wonderful." Randall is awestruck. "Simply wonderful! Can I touch it?"

"Certainly." Randall rises to his feet and walks around the robot, now motionless for yet another inspection. He fingers the fabric of its jacket, the faux leather gloves, the brushed metal faceplate. He raps upon the chest with his fist, and hears a satisfying metallic clang, only slightly muffled by the synthetic jacket.

"Douglas, this is a marvel. A genuine marvel. Are there more?"

"I suppose I could make more." The Quantum Mechanic springs to life once more as Randall returns to his seat, neon eyes crackling with bright orange light. "I doubt I shall need replacements, but maybe I can get good enough to manipulate more than one at a time."

"You know what this means, don't you?" Randall is wide-eyed, struggling to believe what he sees. "You're a miracle worker. This is a miracle. There's no overstating this, Doug - you're going to change absolutely everything."

"Well, the sun will still shine, the waves will still crash upon the beach, and the Universe shall continue on its merry way - but maybe I can make it a better place."

They talk for hours. The Quantum Mechanic has no need for food, or shelter, or a base of operations, or transportation, or gadgets, or a sidekick, or a front organization, or any kind of cover at all. One by one, every superhero cliche that Randall can think of - aside from the alter-ego, the superpowers, and the iconic insignia - is swiftly shot down as superfluous.

"It sounds like you're all set, then," Randall exclaims. "What are you waiting for? Go! Play! Be a hero, man!" The Quantum Mechanic laughs quietly, bids the man a fond farewell, and disappears instantly. "Man, he really needs to fancy that up some," Randall muses to himself as he heads for the door. The air in the room swirls, and a spark of neon orange erupts from the middle of the room to herald the re-entrance of the robot.

"Is that better?"

"Why, erm, yes," Randall says. "Look, it's like patter for a magic act. If you don't add a little flash and sparkle, you won't impress people nearly so much. Remember, people like to see a song and dance. If you don't fancy it up at all, you're just going to alienate everyone. Have a little charisma, man!" The Quantum Mechanic cocks its head at an angle and strokes its chin, as if in thought.

"I suppose you're right. Thank you for the suggestion." They shake hands once more, and the robot disappears in another brilliant spark.

Forward to Chapter 3

The Quantum Mechanic: Chapter One

The Quantum Mechanic

A Superhero Story of Ethic Contortions

Prologue - Chapter 1: Origin - Chapter 2

"Sometimes the truth is stupid."

- Roger Williams, The Metamorphosis of Prime Intellect

Douglas Orange sits alone in his study on a Saturday evening in March. He has just finished grading a round of exams and is looking forward to the rest of the weekend at long last. Leaning back on his chair, he puts his feet up on one corner and contemplates the silence. He breathes deeply and lets his mind wander, Maxwell's equations lining up and leaving his mind as orderly as dorm dwellers during a disaster drill.

The house settles, a groan snapping the man out of his reverie. He inhales sharply and stands up. It's time to find his wife.

Alvina Belinda Orange had the ill fortune to be named after her father's mother, Alvina Begalski. She is a science correspondent for the Montana Ash, an independent online news source with a Humanist bent. At the moment, she is typing an article on her laptop from the living room couch, NPR on the radio and local news on the television. Creaks and groans sound throughout the house as her husband approaches, then drapes his arms around her shoulders and nuzzles her neck.

"Hey, babe," she says, leaning back. "How goes?"

"Mrff. Goes well. Done with physics." Doug's voice is muffled as he speaks directly into the collar of her sweater.

"Oh, yeah? What's next on the agenda?"

"Hrm. I was thinking about anatomy," his hands begin to wander as he trails off.

"Mmm, I like where this is going. Can we do a detour through nutrition first? I'm hungry, baby."

"Sure thing. It's all biology. Got a taste for anything in particular?"

"We got 'sketti?"

"Oh, yeah." He nibbles her earlobe. "You finish up, I'll go get started."

"You're the best!" She turns and pulls him in for a deep kiss. "I'll be right with you, darlin'."

Douglas floats into the kitchen on a cloud. His life could be better, but not by much. He loves his work, his students love him, and he's madly in love with his wife. Peppers, onions, and ground sausage dance about the kitchen under his expert guidance as pasta boils and store-bought sauce supervises from the pantry shelf. Alvina saunters in at some point with a plastic bag full of dried leaves and a pipe. She sits at the kitchen counter and grinds the leaves, packing them into a pipe before handing it to the chef.

"You read my mind," he says, taking a small lighter from his pocket, and then a long pull from the pipe. "You know," he croaks, struggling to make intelligible sounds without exhaling, "I think that marijuana is the perfect drug. As long as you keep your brain active, there are practically no negative side effects, aside from some mild damage to the lungs." He exhales and hands the pipe to his wife. She takes a hit, looks thoughtful for several seconds, and slowly exhales.

"Some recent studies have shown long-term damage to short-term memory capacity after prolonged cannabis use."

"Aww, horse-shit," Doug responds. "There's that guy, wozname," he takes another hit. "He's got bone-itis, works on Wall Street, one of the last Federal medical marijuana patients left alive. Guy smokes pot day and night just to keep his bone tumors in check, and he has to trade stocks from nine to five. If one guy can smoke that much dope and stay a sharp trader, then I guarantee that a whole mess of people could smoke at least half that much - which is still way more than you and I smoke together - and keep their wits about 'em." She's already taken a hit while he's been pontificating, so he hits the pipe one more time and gets back to cooking.

"Huh. Well, that's neat. I guess more research is needed."

"As always. Reality's complicated. It's hard to know just what does what, without a huge amount of testing. I have to say, though, I'd like to take a look at those studies - marijuana research is notoriously underfunded, so I wonder how they came up with their figures."

"Yeah." Alvina spaces out watching her husband cook. Douglas is lost in his own thoughts, imagining the transfer of heat from rapidly oxidizing organic compounds through metal into slightly salty water, which in its turn heats and hydrates the starchy noodles. He can almost see the transfer of energy. Time seems to slow down as Douglas envisions the energy released by chemical bonds breaking down and reforming, radiating heat through the metal pot and into the surrounding atmosphere, making the hot air look all wavy as the miscellaneous molecules speed up and pass on their energy to yet other molecules, the newly-freed kinetic energy bouncing and jiggering in a vaguely outward direction.

It's all travelling disturbances, he thinks to himself. Light, heat, mass, life, all travelling disturbances. Different configurations of mass-energy, twisting, bouncing, spinning, as they rush along the fabric of spacetime. Waves in a sea of quantum foam, that's all anything is. He steals a glance around the room, and for a moment he imagines that he can see the underlying constituents of reality. He closes his eyes and chuckles to himself, the flight of fancy banished from his mind as he stirs the boiling pasta. He's a human, after all, with an organically evolved brain that has only had to deal with objects and areas about his size; maybe a couple of orders of magnitude larger or smaller. Perceiving reality at the quantum level just wouldn't be useful to his recent ancestors, so there's no reason to think he ought to be able to do such a thing.

Douglas opens his eyes, but the vision persists. Odd. He doesn't usually hallucinate from THC. The quantum foam bubbles and swirls all around him, and he can't shut it out. Very odd, indeed. He calls out to his wife.

"Hey, Bea?" He refuses to call her Alvina; it's just not a sexy name, he insists, and she is very sexy indeed.

"Yeah, hon?" Her voice sounds distant as the air between them vibrates in response to the motion of her vocal cords. He focuses on her: he knows her, he knows what she looks like, how she stands, how that sweater falls upon her body. The flurry of foam gives way to discrete atoms, which in turn build into chemical compounds, themselves organized into cells, then organs, then organ systems, and finally her body. The time dilation is gone, the all-pervasive quantum foam locked securely at the back of his mind. Douglas shudders.

"Did you put anything extra in our herbal supplements tonight? I think I just had a hallucination."

"Huh. No, I didn't. This is the same stuff we smoked last night, and the weekend before. Maybe there was something in that particular nug - I dunno. I'm not feeling anything out of the ordinary."

"Hm. Weird." He goes back to stirring the pasta. They chat about the news, they complain about the national deficit and the dismal education budget, they eat their meal while watching an animated sitcom. Then they retreat to their bedroom to enjoy that noblest of human acts: loving each other in every way, all at once, all night long.

Alvina dreams of a bright future, then of falling freely through space, and then about nothing at all. Douglas dreams of quantum foam, of travelling disturbances and collapsing waveforms. But the dream does not dissolve when he wakes. He slides his arm out from under Alvina's pillow and sits up in bed.

Douglas concentrates on where he knows the dresser to be, and the image flips like a Necker cube. The foam is gone, replaced by the whole dresser, and the rest of the bedroom ripples into place. That was much easier than last night, he thinks. He flips the image back, and the swirling foam dominates his field of view once more. Back to solid matter again, but this time reality seems to shimmer and undulate just below his level of perception, like a mirage; a suggestion of underlying impermanence flickers across his mind. Well, that's true - nothing lasts forever, and all travelling waves do eventually dissipate. Entropy swallows all things.

Wait a minute, he thinks. I must be going crazy. I can't see quantum foam - I just can't. But he focuses his mind once more, and his perception shifts yet again. This time he can see the outlines of things, but the foam still dominates his vision in all its swirling and shimmering. He tries to concentrate on one thing: the front right corner of the dresser. He sees the corner, he sees the color of the wood and its grain and shape, and he sees the parts as they come together and now it's all blurry again - he shakes his head and stares once more. Smaller now. Douglas focuses his attention on the very tip of the corner, and the foam begins to show up. But there is so much in just that tiny space, he can't possibly see it all at once - that's precisely why his brain filters his visual sense data and organizes it into what he thinks of as discrete objects.

After a few moments, Douglas gets used to the swirling foam and can look at it without his eyes hurting. It looks strange, but he can't think of a word for it. Almost "mathy," he thinks briefly. There is so much more to see than his mind can take in at once, and he knows it, yet his brain seems determined to try anyway.

Suddenly, Alvina's brain stirs and crackles with new patterns, new rhythms. He shifts his attention to her, and time dilates once more as her nerves light up in the coordinated dance of waking. She shifts, yawns, stretches.

"Morning, baby," she says sleepily.

"Top of the mornin', sunshine." His smile is warm, if a bit distracted.

"Whatcha thinkin' about," she asks, her eyes drawn to his pensive countenance.

"Nothing, just thinking about the whole process of waking as I watch you." She pauses, confused.

"You're watching the dresser." He starts. So he is.

"So I am." He turns at last to look at her with his eyes. "Sorry, must have spaced out. Miles away, you know how it goes."

"Do I ever." She sits up, wraps her arms around him, and rests her head behind his heart. "You sleep well?"

"Of course." His voice is reassuring. His expression is distant, but her eyes are closed and he strokes her hand with his fingertips. She doesn't notice his faraway gaze. "Honey, what would you do if I went crazy?" He can feel her smile. She doesn't take him seriously. That's good, he doesn't want to worry her.

"I'd have you committed and I'd miss you terribly." She kisses his back and squeezes his arm with both hands.

"OK, I think I'm going crazy." Her grip loosens, her mouth freezes. "That hallucination I thought I had last night, I think it's back. I can't make it go away."

"Aw, fuck, Doug! Why didn't you say something earlier? We should get you checked out."

"I don't think it's that bad, it's just weird right now."

"Honey, no, there are a million things that could cause a persistent hallucination, and some of them are really fuckin' scary. C'mon, let's get dressed and go to the hospital."

"No, I'll just call Doctor French's office and set an appointment. We don't need to go to the ER or anything."

"What if this is serious, Doug? What if it can't wait until Monday, or Tuesday, or whenever Doctor French has time? What if you're actually going nuts?"

"Bea, listen, crazy people don't know they're crazy. They think they're fine and the rest of the world is going nuts."

"OK, what's your hallucination, what do you think you're seeing?"

"It's hard to describe. It feels like I can sense reality at its most fundamental levels. It feels like doing a whole lot of math all at once, really fast and in all directions."

"All right, you've convinced me. That sounds crazy."

"I know, that's why I'm worried. But I know, in my head, that that's impossible. So I've still got my wits about me, it's just like the world is turning upside down."

"What did you say thirty seconds ago about crazy people thinking the rest of the world is going nuts?" Douglas stares ahead for a few moments, thinking this over.

"OK, you're right. Let's go." He kisses her and gets out of bed to take a shower. No sooner does he turn toward the bathroom than his towel hits him in the face. Alvina screams.

"What the fuck, Doug! What the fuck?!"

"I don't know, Bea, just try to calm down." Doug tries to make his voice as reassuring as possible, but his hands are shaking. He wanted his towel. It came to him. Now what?

"I can't fucking calm down, Doug! Your towel just flew through the air and hit you in the face for no goddamned reason!"

"Baby, baby, just listen for a sec, OK?" Doug's mind is racing. He thinks he's dreaming. He feels like he's on rails. "Look, we'll stick to the plan. We'll go to the hospital, you can drive. I'll get checked out, we'll find out what's wrong and we'll get to the bottom of it. We'll stick to the plan, OK sweetheart?" Alvina is shaking, her breath rapid, tears welling up in her eyes.

"What if something else happens?" She is hysterical, not sure what's going on. "What if something else fucking crazy happens? What can we do? What if someone finds out, someone important, and they take you away and cut you up and I never see you again? I don't know, I don't know what to do, I don't know what's going on, Doug."

"What's going on is that I love you and we're going to get through this together." He drops the towel and puts his arms around her. "Now listen to me. I don't know what I did, but we can figure this out, and we'll make it all right. And if we can't, then I guess you'll have me committed and you'll miss me terribly." He smiles through fear. Alvina laughs nervously, tears streaming down her face.

"Doug, I wasn't serious. I don't know what I'd do. I don't want to lose you." He gently lifts her chin with his thumb and forefinger. His voice calm and sure, he says,

"Then don't give up on me. Deal?"

A moment passes.

"Deal."

"OK. Good. Now let's think. I wanted to shower, and I thought, 'I need my towel,' and there it was. What did you see?"

"I, uh, I saw the towel move, it kind of just jerked off the hook and flew at you."

"All right. Let's see what I can do here." Douglas focused on the towel on the floor. Float, he thinks. Nothing. I need you to float, he thinks. More nothing. What if he did something reflexively, but it takes more care to do it deliberately? That might require a subtler approach.

"Nothing's happening," Alvina thinks aloud.

"I know. Just thinking for the thing to float doesn't do anything. Or that I need it to float. I'm going to try something else." His vision is dominated by flurry and shimmer once more as he tries to focus on individual air molecules. It's all travelling disturbances, he thinks, It's all just waiting to go this or that way, and all I have to do is tip it in the right direction. He tips a few molecules, a few more, then triggers a cascade of air flowing off and away from the towel, more molecules than he can count rushing every which-way except onto the towel, leaving a near-vaccum above. It flutters slightly as air from beneath rushes up to relieve the pressure differential. Alvina fidgets nervously. "OK, I can do that by thinking about air molecules. Let's see what else I can do."

Circles, he thinks. Go around in circles. Not too fast, just fast enough for me to feel. A whirling breeze forms before his eyes, he can feel the air rushing past his skin and he can see the small torus of air swirling before his very eyes. Alvina stares wide-eyed.

"What are you doing now?"

"I'm trying to," and the whirlwind is gone. "Hm. I was trying to make a circle of air. I want to make the towel move like a magic carpet. It's hard to think of that and talk at the same time, though."

"Oh. Sorry, I didn't know."

"Please, don't be. I'm new to this, you see." He winks at her over a crooked grin. She giggles nervously, the tears gone but the fear bubbling just beneath the surface. He focuses on the air once again. Circles, circles, around and around in circles, he chants in his mind as the mathy foam bends to his will, guided only by his understanding. The tiny whirlwind appears once more, and he lowers it slowly to the floor. So far, so good. He twists the circuit of air and wraps it around the towel; the towel rises and dances, ragdoll limp and loose ends aflutter. With care and patience, Douglas coaxes the towel into rising, then floating in the air just like a magic carpet.

"Douglas, I - that's amazing!" Alvina is entranced, unable to believe her eyes, all fear washed away by sheer awe. Douglas winces; the towel drops. His hands go to his head. "You OK, hon?"

"Yeah, I just have a headache. That takes a lot of concentration."

"I imagine it would! You just moved a towel with your mind. Am I dreaming?"

"You and me both, sugar. This is weird."

"Yeah, it is." She is suddenly downcast. "So - what now? What comes next?"

"I," he starts, but trails off. After a pause, "I don't know. I can't just fly to work on a magic carpet every day, people might get suspicious." Alvina's eyes roll back in her head.

"Duh. I mean, what about us?"

"What about us?" Douglas does not share her concern. He sees this in her eyes. "I mean, I don't think this changes anything. I still love you." He sits down on the bed next to her and rubs her shoulder with one hand. "Listen to me, OK? I'm not going anywhere. I'm still your husband, and I still love you, and I don't want to leave you. But now I'm also this other thing, too. And it's new and it's scary and even I don't know how it's going to end. But I want to find out with you." Her heart melts. It's exactly what she needs to hear. Douglas knows this, because he watches her brain calm down even before the love registers on her face. He feels dirty, but he doesn't know what else to do. Now is not the time for a discussion about telepathy, and he told her the truth anyhow - he just had some assistance in phrasing it properly. No matter. For now, her head rests on his shoulder and her breaths are calm and even.

The next weeks are run on a strict schedule: Douglas is a mortal husband Monday morning through Friday afternoon, and Friday evening through Sunday night are for exploring his newfound superpowers. Like a muscle, the more he practices, the easier it gets. Progress is slow, but steady; there is no workout routine for manipulating reality at the quantum level. The minds of others are more difficult for him to read than that of his wife, but this, too, comes with time. After two months, Douglas can look at reality with his quantum eyes twenty-four/seven. At six months, he can perform remote viewings the next room over. At twelve months, he is able to make macroscopic portals based on principles of quantum tunneling, and he gets the idea to start a magic show for practice and extra cash. Fourteen months and he can teleport a whole orange; sixteen months and he can teleport a rabbit; at seventeen months, the rabbit even survives the process!

Reality has become much clearer to Douglas Orange. He knows, better than any person, that the Universe is both flat and infinite. He can see the heart of the Sun, the core of the Earth, and the dark side of the Moon. He still loves his wife, his job, and his students, but now he also loves being the world's only real magician. And one month later, he meets with Randall James to discuss his future career as a superhero.

Forward to Chapter 2

The Quantum Mechanic: Prologue

The Quantum Mechanic

A Superhero Story of Ethic Contortions

Prologue - Chapter 1

"I think I can safely say that no one understands Quantum Mechanics."
- Richard Feynman

Randall James shows his ticket to the usher and then files into the auditorium to watch the magic show. His seat is at the far right of the front row, a great viewing angle for debunking illusionists who usually play to the audience directly in front of them. Randall takes his notebook from his jacket pocket, clicks his pen into the "write" position, then adjusts his baseball cap and settles down to wait for the Amazing Orange.

Douglas Orange is an unassuming man in his early thirties, a professor of theoretical physics at the University of Montana by day who recently began doing magic shows on weekends. Orange quickly gained internet fame by word of his students as an illusionist whose techniques could not be discerned by even the most careful of observers. Many would-be internet debunkers claimed that his tricks were nothing more than smoke and mirrors, old hat to erstwhile professionals like Randall. Yet none could duplicate Orange's illusions as he had performed them, and Orange was consistently able to demonstrate that he did not rely on any known methods to achieve his results.

And so it happened that Randall James travelled across three states to see the Amazing Orange with his own eyes. The tuxedo-clad magician looks directly at James and winks as he walks out from backstage, waving warmly at the audience as he basks in their applause.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! Are you all ready for some theoretical physics?" Silence. "Very well - magic it is!" Applause. Orange begins to remove his coat. "So many of my colleagues wear long sleeves, but I find that this only invites accusations of hiding various tools inside them." He lays the coat over a small oak endtable. Rolling up his shirt sleeves, he continues, "I choose instead to bare my arms," now folding up his jacket, "And that way, so long as I do the magic right," a sly glance to the audience, "The criticisms just seem to... disappear!" And so does the jacket. One moment he was holding it, folded into a neat sort-of square, and then it just disappeared behind his arms. Applause ensues. Randall jots down some notes.

"Well, that was fine for a warm-up." The magician claps his hands together and rubs his palms vigorously against each other. "For my next trick, I'll need a deck of cards and a volunteer." Pulling his hands apart, a deck of cards appears. "Well, one down, one to go!" Hands shoot up among the crowd. "You there, in the green shirt - pick a card, any card." The cards fan out, and every single one is an ace of spades; laughter erupts. "Terribly sorry! Here, let me try again." Orange rearranges the fan back into a pile, then fans them out again; the usual array of cards appears this time. "You know what? Why don't you just take the deck?" Orange hands the cards to the young woman in green, then turns his back and instructs her to select a card, show it to the crowd, then put it in her pocket and hold on to the rest of the deck for good measure. She complies, revealing a nine of diamonds as Orange patters on.

"Now watch closely," and the magician pulls a black handkerchief from his pocket, shakes it out, then lays it carefully over the small endtable. Concentrating, Orange places his hand palm-down upon the covered table, then his hand disappears through the handkerchief. Then his forearm. Then his elbow. "Almost there." The magician is up to his shoulder in endtable, a twelve inch square of wood perhaps six inches deep with obviously inadequate capacity for so much arm. "Got it!" The arm comes out, and the nine of diamonds is revealed, but the design on the back is wrong. "Oops!" More laughter. The woman in green checks her pocket, but looks puzzled. The card is presumably gone. "Well, the young miss seems to have misplaced her own card, as well! Perhaps the man to your left can't keep his hands to himself?" Orange cocks an eyebrow at the gentleman. "If you please, check your pocket, sir." He does, producing a nine of diamonds to his surprise. "And you, to her right, you've also got a suspicious look about you. Your pockets?" Another nine of diamonds. "You, in the back with the Bobcats jersey. Have you also got a card in your pocket?" Yet another nine of diamonds. "Oh, my. You know what? Everyone, check your pockets. I think this trick has gone all wrong." Randall checks his pocket and finds a nine of diamonds. Unbelievable. More notes, more applause.

"Well, that's enough card tricks out of me. How about pulling things from a hat?"

After the show, Orange holds a brief Q&A session during which he hammers away on two central themes: the first being that a good magician never reveals his secrets, the second being that children can learn all his tricks and more by paying attention in school and staying creative. James heads backstage when the magician does, flashing his press credentials at the lone security guard. He knocks on the door, and the physicist answers in jeans and a blazer.

"Doctor Orange, I presume?"

"Ah, Randall 'The Randificent' James! Glad you could stop by, come on in." Randall steps inside and readies his notebook for another round.

"That was quite a show you put on, professor."

"Mister James, my students call me professor. My role models can simply call me Doug." Randall smiles, taken aback.

"You flatter me, Doug. Your illusions are on a scale I could never match, not even in my prime." The notebook lowers.

"I'm sorry, you misunderstand me. It's your work for the Skeptics Coalition International that I find fascinating, though your performances were also quite admirable."

"Ah, I see! That's actually what brings me here today. I'm sorry to say it, but I'm here to debunk you for a SkepCo article. Though after such a performance, I have to say that I haven't the slightest idea how!"

"That's fine. In fact," Orange glances over his shoulders, "I'll give you your scoop, if you want it. I know I'll rob you of the thrill of figuring it out, but I think you'll find it worth your while." Randall cocks an eyebrow, notebook at the ready once more.

"All right, then let's have it." Orange takes a deep breath and concentrates.

"Look at the table." Randall does so, and after a few moments, a rabbit appears. No flash, no bang, no scarf or hat or patter - a rabbit simply appears whole upon the table, where before there was only air. "There's nothing to debunk, Mister James. I perform what could probably be called actual magic." Randall puts his hand out and leans on the wall. "But there's nothing to it. The patter is only to keep the audience engaged - they don't want to see actual magic, they want to think they're being fooled. The shows I put on are just practice."

"I feel lightheaded," he says quietly. "That's not possible."

"Oh, it's very possible, it's just also very complicated. I'll tell you the whole story, if you like. Would you care for a drink?"

"I could sure use one."

Hours later, the two men have worked their way through a twelve-pack and the last eighteen months of the professor's life.

"You said earlier that your shows are practice," James says at one point. "Practice for what?"

"Multitasking." Douglas is now drinking a tall glass of water. "The magic is the easy part, but by doing other things at the same time, I am able to practice managing several things at once. This helps me do bigger and better magic."

"Do you have to keep calling it 'magic?' It's just so, so - what's the word? - boring, I suppose. What you do is so much more exciting!"

"What else should I call it? I don't have a better word for it. These principles don't have names, and they're not exactly well-documented in the literature."

"There's your career, right there! Or you could take the SkepCo prize for proving paranormal abilities, if you want to keep it a secret." Douglas waves his hand dismissively, unaffected by the mounting excitement of his guest.

"Small potatoes, man. I mean, I could sure use a million dollars, but - no offense - my goals are bigger than that. What you saw today is the result of months of practice; imagine what I'll be able to do a year from now!"

"But you could do so much good! If you became a cop, or part of the military, or even a science advisor to the White House of some kind, you could make so much progress!"

"Doing what? Following orders from my superiors, assisting the USA in achieving dominance over the rest of the world, or putting down local crime? Small potatoes once again. I want to do more than that, and that means keeping things pretty quiet for now. Otherwise," Orange looks downcast, "I have a strong suspicion I'd be labeled as a threat if I didn't comply with whatever politician tells me what to do. Maybe I could stand up to them, but I have family and friends, and I can't protect them all the time while also helping the rest of the world. I'd have to play their game, or spend all my time keeping my loved ones safe."

"Well, what about vigilantism? I'm sure you could do some real good as a masked man, preposterous as it sounds. Think about it: you have actual superpowers! Who could stand in your way?" Douglas scoffs.

"Really, now? A superhero, like in the comics? Don't be ridiculous. Besides, my name is Douglas Orange - that's about as far from superheroism as names get. What would I call myself, the Orange Avenger?"

"How about, umm," Randall waggles his fingers in the air, as though literally grasping for an idea as he trails off. "What do you think of 'The Quantum Mechanic?' I think it suits you." Orange considers for a moment.

"Hm. It fits. It's got a ring to it. All right, I'm sold!"

"Great! Well, you've got your powers, your name, all you need now is a side-kick and a base of operations, maybe even a front organization. I think SkepCo might serve well, and as for the sidekick," Randall shrugs and smiles, "I know your secret identity."

"Now we're getting ahead of ourselves." Douglas shakes his head and paces. "Listen to us. Talking about using SkepCo as a front while maintaining total secrecy? I still have a whole bunch of practicing to do before I can seriously take on the world, anyway."

"Well, we'll see." Randall stands up and extends his hand to Orange. They shake. "You practice, and you think about it. I'll be in touch."

Forward to Chapter 1

Let's Play Dress-Up! Halloween '09 (part two)

We left off last time when I wasn't even like half done. Turns out, things like spray paint and papier mache take the Hell-ass long to dry. Anyway, I got it done and it turned out acceptable, so here's the wrap-up!

The next step was to assemble the blade/tape-frame thing and fasten everything in place with finishing nails. With enough duct tape, cardboard, styrofoam, and finishing nails, you can make pretty much any prop. Look, see:

The above was taken after laying the first two layers of papier mache (with newspaper), which ended up including the smaller blade because the bare cardboard looked even more like crap than the main blade, and now it just looks less like crap. This is what I get for giving myself one week instead of, say, three; lesson learned. Anyway, after spraypainting the smaller blade silver, I used toilet paper to papier mache over the whole non-sharp part, then I used Plasti-Dip (rubberizer) to smooth out the transition from arm to blade. I am very happy with how the texture came out:

click for huge!

I think that's a very good approximation of the kind of thing I was going for:

source

The tendrils also turned out rather acceptable:

And here's what the whole thing looks like on top of a laser printer:

We had a costume party at the office on Friday, and I got someone to take a couple pictures on my cell phone, but they mostly turned out awful. This is one I took myself, and I think it's OK:

I had to do a bit of 'shopping (here's the original), as you can probably tell, but with the scratchy face, the bloodied frame, and the slight discoloration, I think that's more or less in keeping with the game's aesthetic. Good enough for me, anyway. And, of course, for anyone who doesn't know what this is all about, here's the intro video:

Happy Halloween, y'all! Time for me to start writing The Quantum Mechanic. Wish me luck!