Drill Baby, Drill

I woke up at 9:33 today. After sleeping for almost the entirety of the past 36 hours, I felt more or less whole again. Someone had moved me to a more suitable bedroom, and brought me a change of clothes.
I made my way to the cafeteria, and spent a moment taking it all in. "What is this," I asked.
Tom looked embarrassed. "I... should have taken your warnings more seriously. I could have stopped Dalton when he was in the same room as me. But, at the moment, he is barricaded in Level 45."
"He smashed the elevator?" I had noticed that the elevator seemed cleaner than usual today. I suppose Tom would have needed to install a new one overnight.
"Yes. And filled the shaft with concrete. We actually can't get to levels 40 through 44 either. At some point, I guess I have to dig them out.
"So, right now, your plan is to drill all the way through through the Basement, including the three hundred feet of bedrock above Level 45."
"Yes. You don't happen to have a better one, do you?"
I thought about it for a moment, while Tom turned on a very loud digging machine. "Well," I shouted, trying to make myself heard above the din of the machines, "I don't suppose you could reconfigure those fusion reactors to melt through the ground. But I assume Dalton has some sort of communication with the surface, and plans to somehow broadcast the virus' completed genome. You could try to cut the cables."
Tom thought about that. "I could try, yes," he spoke as loudly as he could. "But how would I know if I have them all?"
"You wouldn't. But it is still a good backup plan. Similarly, do we know how Dalton plans to distribute the virus. I assume it is through technology you own through Medizi. Was buying it his idea or yours?"
Tom turned off his drills. "Umm... hard to say."
"That means it was his. Now, Medizi is a leader in organic and biological synthesis. We are going to need to check every single one of their facilities, and see if they have been coopted into Dalton's plan."
"So, it seems like I should keep working on this. Because the drills we have right now aren't going to have an easy time getting through the bedrock. You and Daniel and Gabe and Chris can focus on cutting off Dalton's other resources." Chris? Who was Chris? I had an eidetic memory, why couldn't I place him? Oh, right, mathatically inclined MAD also in the Basement. Hopefully I wouldn't misplace any other facts. I returned my attention to Tom. "I don't think we are getting Camille and Joanne back," he finished, "so its just the two of us and the three of them against Dalton."
"Where are Gabe and Daniel and Chris?"
"One of my houses. About two miles from here."
"I'll call a cab."

It was pouring. I walked up the steps to Tom's mansion- sorry one of Tom's mansions, and rang the bell. All three MADs came to open the door.
My brother threw his hands around me. "Are you okay," Gabe asked. "No, silly question."
"I have felt better," I said, coming inside. "But I am well rested, and we have work to do."
"Are you sure you are ready," Chris asked. I shot him a look. "I mean, I don't know you that well. But you have been through a lot. Nobody would begrudge you a few days' rest."
"People need me," I said. "I have the chance to undo some of what I did under Dalton's influence. I will seize that opportunity. So, fill me in, what has been going on here?"
"Well," Daniel said. "I have been helping Tom design a more powerful drill. The only constraint is that we'll need to make it almost entirely out of car parts at a factory Tom owns."
"Do we have any airplanes we can cannibalize," I wondered aloud.
"Three," Daniel said.
"Okay. Chris, Gabe what have you been doing?"
"I've been helping Daniel," Gabe said.
"And I've mostly been talking to the government," Chris added.
"So the government knows about this? Do they know everything?"
"Everything we know," Chris answered. "But nobody has gone public with it, yet."
"Interesting. And can we count on the government's help."
Gabe chortled. Chris didn't seem to consider this a laughing matter. "The government is being incredibly obstructive. They are trying to stop Tom, saying he does not have the necessary permits for what he is doing, seemingly ignoring the fact that Dalton is trying to make a supervirus."
"I see. Tom thinks he can handle the drilling on his own. We are focusing on attacking Dalton's infrastructure. Once he perfects the formula, he will need to broadcast it from his lair. That will require some sort of wire to the surface. Probably more than one. We need to find that. Does anybody have any idea how to do that?"
"Could we pick it up on sonar," Chris asked.
"A wire would have a minuscule radar signature,"  Gabe said.
"No," I said. "Dalton didn't just stick a wire through the bedrock. He would have needed to drill. The wires are probably in tunnels at least a few inches across. That ought to be doable."
"What do you think about an EMP," Chris asked.
"Even ignoring the difficulty of procuring such a powerful device," I said, "even without considering the consequences of disabling all the transistors in the middle of Silicon Valley, I am doubtful that would be effective. The wires probably extend a tremendous distance from the Basement."
"Very well," Daniel said. "Gabriel and I will see if we can detect Dalton's communication array."
"Chris, Dalton is going to be using Medizi's protein synthesizers to create the virus. I want you make sure that every machine Dalton could use is broken in half. You are probably going to want to get in touch with someone at Medizi. Ask Tom to hook you up."
"What are you planning to do," Gabe asked.
"For now, let's see what I can do about this government obstruction."

"Hello, this is Allegra Complex."
"This is the President.  Who are you, and why exactly am I talking to you?"
"I am an associate of Thomas Markovitz. I know why you are standing in his way."
"Tom is a dangerous MAD and is digging up his own illegal lab in Silicon Valley. My administration finds this suspicious. And, wait, are you the girl who was working for Dalton."
Well, technically, I suppose I was. But that was beside the point, and I wasn't entirely ready to talk about it. Least of all with President Walsh.
"Mr. President, you are facing a tough election. A very tough election. You realize that this will be a game-changer. And you know that the only way you make it through this crisis with even a chance at reelection is if Tom is lying, there is no underlying problem, and you put a quick stop to Tom's nefarious plan. So, no matter how unlikely it seems, that is the plan you are pursuing. Tell me I'm wrong."
The President sighed. "Are you about to tell me there is some other way I can win, and it involves doing what you want?"
"No, I am not. I am telling you that if you don't allow Tom to go about his business, I will tell all of your political rivals to look into you dealings with one Alexander Dalton. With a no-longer-secret adviser like him, who, let's be honest, has been pulling most of the strings behind you administration... well, I just hope your successor decides to pardon you." There I was. Blackmailing the President. The most powerful man in the world. Well, the person who most people thought was the most powerful man in the world.
"Miss Complex, I don't take kindly to that sort of threat."
Shit! He was calling my bluff. Shitshitshit! Where was Gabe. Mister Poker-face. "Mister President, I don't care how you take my threat as long as you stop aiding Alexander Dalton is his quest to annihilate millions of people."
Walsh seemed sounded surprised. "Millions? How many MADs are there?"
"About fifty thousand, worldwide. But this virus will not be that discerning. There will be many, many collateral deaths. I would guess eight million. Which, yes, would make this worse than London. So, Mr. President. Should I go tell the media about this?"
"It will come out eventually, and we both know it. I'll make the announcement. And yes, Tom is now leading the official government effort. But, Allegra, if Tom really is up to something... I will have you sent to a hole in the ground that makes Guantanamo Bay look like a tropical resort." He hung up.
Well, that went better than expected.

I watched the President come up to his podium. He didn't look confident. He looked tired. He looked defeated. He looked like someone you wouldn't want to vote for.
President Walsh cleared his throat. "It is my duty to report to the American people that a terrorist named Alexander Dalton is threatening our world. Dalton is a man of great mental gifts, but is also deeply troubled."
Well, that was a nice euphemism for it!
"In the past, I counted Alex as a friend. But over the years, I have watched his condition worsen, and have tried to get him the help he needed. Dalton has rejected my offers of assistance. Most recently, he has barricaded himself beneath the Xcom building in San Ramono, California. It seems that Thomas Markovitz, owner and CEO of Xcom, has been his unwitting collaborator. They have been working together on several projects, many of which were illegal, for a period of at least six years."
Throwing Tom under the bus?
"Dalton's goal is simple: the murder of several million people, at the hands of a virus designed to target MADs, as well as innocent civilians who happen to have the wrong DNA."
Not quite right on the science, but what do you expect?
"Rest assured that the United States Government is doing everything possible to stop this dangerous madman. I will not be taking any questions. God Bless America."
Still better than expected.    

Interlude: Thomas Markovitz

Thomas Markovitz didn't know what to do. Knowing what to do was never his job.
Tom knew many things, of course. He knew how to create a solar-powered drone that could store up enough energy to last through the night. He knew how to build a camera small enough to fit in the eye of a needle, and how to built a nuclear power plant that could power a city. But knowing what to do... that was Alexander Dalton's job.
And now, Alex was standing right there, talking, and Tom didn't know whether he could trust his own best friend.
"Did Allegra say anything," Alex asked. "When I last checked up on her, she was exhibiting signs of paranoia and schizophrenia."
"Something barely coherent about a virus. You were involved, somehow." A half-lie. Tom had a test running. In about an hour, it would indicate that Allegra's blood had never contained any Quionizine C, but instead contained byproducts of a neurodegenerative disease. After that, Tom go back to trusting Alex, hand Allegra over for proper treatment, and feel silly for ever believing the girl's deranged claims.
"Well, have her sent down to Level 45 as soon as possible. I will need to resume her treatment."
"Of course. And you are confident that nobody else could have been infected."
"The disease cannot be transmitted unless you shared some sort of bodily fluid. From you account, you were in a room with her for approximately a minute. It is near impossible that you contracted the disease."
"That's a relief."
They parted ways.

Tom was trying to design an X-wing fighter. He had wanted one for years, and he was fairly certain that recent advances in aeronautics would make one entirely plausible. "At this rate, I might actually get that time-travelling DeLorean."
Tom thought about climate change. It was a problem. One he hadn't done nearly enough to solve. There was always the method of cutting fuel emissions. But that was boring. Tom didn't want to waste time designing yet another better engine. What would be a more fun solution? There was that idea of putting reflective particles in the atmosphere. Or... a gigantic semiliquid membrane large enough to blot out the sun over the entire planet, but thin enough so as to be almost transparent. Tom began doing calculations. One could finely tune its effects. Make the polar latitudes more comfortable, and the the equator cooler. Tom began to consider the details. What substance could be controlled in such detail even when spread so thin? It would need to react to electrical signals. Tom worked it out in more details. It would be like a bubble, held on a frame. Tom began to calculate how ripples would spread. Not for any practical purpose, just for fun. He checked against the possibility of the bubble bursting. Could the membrane collapse? Yes, unless the skeleton was well designed. Tom got out his computer. There was a notification on the top of the screen. 'BLOOD TEST RESULTS'. Tom opened them up, and absorbed the information.

"I shouldn't be too hasty," Tom muttered to himself. So Allegra did indeed have traces of Quionizine in her blood. So there was no sign of this neurodegenerative virus. That didn't mean that Alex was necessarily at fault. Perhaps she had been experimenting on herself. Alex lied in order to deflect the disappointment. Gabe would be heartbroken when he found out.
Bullshit. Tom knew that idea was bullshit. The truth was staring him in the face. He just needed to be willing to stare back. No. He needed to do more than stare back. He needed to do something.

Half an hour later, Tom was examining a squadron of six terminators. They were instructed to take Dalton alive, and hold him for question. Tom was still holding on to the hope that this was all some big mistake. He allowed himself a brief glimpse of Alex's bemused expression as the two of them realized what had happened. They would laugh about it in the future. Tom would laugh significantly more. Tom sent a message. Coming down w/ allegra. b waiting.
Alex responded I will be prepared almost immediately.
The six terminators entered the elevator. A few seconds later, Tom's phone began to ring. It was Dalton.
"Tom, why are six of your terminators coming down instead of you and Allegra Complex?"
"Uh-"
"Is it because you believe what she is saying, and are trying to stop me from, what was it she thought I was doing again? Ah, yes. A virus designed to selectively kill MADs."
Tom couldn't think of a lie. He was never good in stressful situations. "To be honest... uh... I just wanted to check. They'll look around. Just a precaution."
"I see," Dalton said. Tom heard a sigh on the other end. "Allegra is telling the truth. But hear me out."
"You mean.. you are planning on murdering tens of thousands of people? How-"
"MADs are dangerous, Tom. You have been largely shielded from the dark side of M.A.D.N.E.S.S. To you, it is simply a tool for creating marvelous machines. But that is because you have not seen what I have seen. I have encountered truly vicious individuals. There are MADs who would make Oberon look benevolent. There are MADs, in other countries and even in the United States, designing weapons that would make anything Prometheus ever made look like a toy. There are those who consider Lucas Holloway an amateur. Imagine the harm that someone like Seth could bring if he decided it suited his interests. Or Gorgon, or Madam Srinvasa."
"No, no, you are wrong. Earlier today, I just solved global warming three different ways."
"That is admirable, but the neurotypicals will never trust you enough to implement your solutions."
"That isn't my fault. It's theirs."
"This is not a matter of blame, Tom. This is a matter of the greatest good for the greatest many. Will you help me, Tom?"
"No. No, absolutely not. I'm going to drag you from that lab, and I'm going to lock you up until you see reason."
Dalton sighed again. He sounded almost exasperated. "Do you not realize how many lives I will save?"
"We could save more together, Alex. We could end climate change on our own. Launch a partially reflective semiliquid barrier into space. What could they do to stop us? What would they do if we got on a boat and just started handing out all the medications we invented."
"They would arrest us, Tom. And Oberon would go on killing people."
"We could do the same thing he does, but in reverse. Get a base somewhere at the bottom of the ocean-"
"It is harder to secretly help than to secretly harm."
"Tell you what. In a few seconds, my robots will bring you back up, and we'll talk about this in person."
"Tom, your robots have been smashed to bits. The elevator hit the ground at almost sixty meters per second."
What? How was that... Tom sent out a signal, demanding a status report. He received nothing back. "Do you think those are the only robots I have? I still have the Transformers, the Battle Droids, and the Sentinels."
"And, as of this second, I have over two hundred feet of fast-hardening concrete. I thought I might one day wish to seal off Level 45 more permanently. Only I had assumed it would be to contain a disease, not to create one. Goodbye, Tom."
"Not be a longshot, Alex."

Thomas Markovitz didn't know what to do. So he asked. "You need to tell people," Daniel advised. "You probably cannot stop Dalton on your own. You will need help."
"But-"
"Daniel is right," Gabe said. "This is important. We need help. We need to get the entire U.S. Army banging down Dalton's door. We need the the whole world looking to find out how Dalton plans to spread the virus from a bunker beneath the Earth. And, it will take Oberon off the headlines."
"Did he do something," Tom asked.
"Yes," Daniel said. "He launched a fusion-powered spaceship from a volcano in Antarctica."
Tom tried not to think about how cool that was.
"You need to go public with this," Gabe said. "People need to know what Dalton is doing."
"I'll see what I can do."

Tom sat alone in a room, surrounded by the best technology that genius could design and money could buy. He knew what would happen if he went public. If he told the world that he had a secret laboratory where he harbored fugitive labs. If he went public about the fact that his closest friend was using that lab to kill millions, with help from Tom's bank account. If everyone got through this, the world would need a fall guy. And Tom had a sneaking suspicion he knew who that would be.
There would be no more fun experiments. No more fancy food or cool cars. Tom would be lucky if he was sent to prison. He would probably spend the rest of his life in a straightjacket. Or perhaps he would even get the death penalty.
But it was more than that. Tom had done good. A lot of good. So much had been invented in the Basement. And if Tom were to go public, the backlash would do far more than send him to prison for the rest of his life. It would mean an end for MAD business owners, for independent MAD researchers. Even if Dalton failed, he might do more to harm the world's MADs than anyone since Prometheus.
But Tom knew he was out of his depth. He was about four hundred feet out off his depth, and those four hundred feet were filled with rocks and concrete. Tom didn't know how much time he had until Dalton finished Allegra's work.
Tom knew someone in the military. A general, who had overseen a weapons system Tom designed. Tom dialed that number. "Matt, is that you? I have a bit of a problem."        

I C-Can D-D-Do This

By now, I know the drill. I woke up. After a crappy breakfast, I was assaulted, and pumped up with the worst substance ever invented. I felt its affects coming. I walked to my new station, and listened to the sounds of my progress.

I no longer felt miserable as I toiled under Dalton's powers. I just felt numb inside. My mind head felt like it was being pulled in four different directions, my nose and gums and palms were bleeding, and I just felt numb. I drew clumsy diagrams on the screen, slowly playing into Dalton's hands. I wrote equations, and listed procedures. All the while, I avoided thinking about what was happening to me.

My mental clock had long since left me. My mental map was deteriorating. My hands were shaking, and far too much blood was leaving my body. I barely cared.

Eventually, one of the terminators left to fetch my lunch. And I noticed something: the machine had failed to lock the door behind it.

My mind raced into overdrive. What could I do? There was still one robot monitoring me. I would need to disable it. How long did I have. I didn't know, my sense of time was gone. How far was I from the elevator? I would need to navigate over a hundred feet of corridors to get there. I looked at my sole remaining watcher. Inspiration struck me. "E-e-excuse m-m-m-me? Could... could.... could y-you r-r-read the... equation for m-methylating p-p-prosonase?"

"Very well, Miss Complex." The machine walked to the other side of my board. I could hear its heavy steps. Thump. Thump. Thump. I felt the rhythm. My perfect timing was gone, but I was still able to push over the board while the robot was on one foot. The robot and the board stood frozen in the air for an amount of time I couldn't determine. Would it work? And, slowly, the robot and the board fell backwards.

I knew that these machines had difficulty getting up, when laid on their back. Their arms weren't designed for it, and their center of mass wasn't in the right place. I rushed out the door, slamming it shut, and hearing a satisfying click as a very formidable lock was put in place. And I knew where the only key was. It was picking up my lunch.

I felt alive. I raced to the elevator, stumbling more than once. I reached the elevator, and pressed the button. "Authorization needed."

What? What? I had used this elevator a dozen times on my own. It had never needed authorization. That was it. I had no chance. I fell to the floor, curled up. No longer was I numb. Now I felt the magnitude of my blunder. The machines would find me. They would break my legs. I would never escape. I would never see another human being. I would die in a hole in the ground, a miserable cripple. A broken mind in a broken body.

But, a few seconds later, my mood swung in the other direction. I couldn't give up this opportunity. My mind revved up again. What tools did I have at my disposal?

I had several computers. I raced to the nearest one, and sent emails to Gabe and Daniel explaining my situation. But I doubted that they would be able to spring me from Dalton's clutches. And by the time I could be rescued, I would likely be a broken husk. Even more of a broken husk.

What else did I have? There was a laser two rooms over. I ran over, and turned it on. It was large. Probably immovably so. I turned it on. A beam almost too bright to look at issued from one end. It extended a few feet, to be absorbed by what looked like a superconducting heat sink. I would need to cut a steel plate thirty feet away.

Mirrors. There was a microscope in the room. I broke it open. Mirrors and lenses galore. I began to visualize the space in my mind. This would require incredible precision. I sat in front of the laser. I imagined how the beam would travel, and stared at the surfaces of the mirrors. I calculated angles in my head. I was engrossed. To engrossed. "Allegra Complex. Come with us."

Not one, but two the Terminators. Interesting. That meant that the one with the key hadn't known about my escape until it had found its brother locked in the room. That meant that the terminators weren't networked.

"Allegra Complex. Come with us." The robots started to advance. No, no, no! I couldn't have them moving.

I moved my forehead in front off the laser. A lock of my black hair was sheared off. "Freeze," I ordered. "If my head moves forward three inches, I will sever no fewer than four vital centers of my brain. For every step you advance, I will move forward an inch." I realized I would actually do it. After all my waffling last night, there was no doubt in my heart now. I would die before I let Dalton degrade me any further. I had the means for a quick and painless death. I would do it.

And the robots believed me. They stood still, unsure. There was nothing in their programming for this. I worked quickly, calculating angles, how the light would bounce off the mirror. Finally, my calculation was complete. I thrust a mirror into the beam, and rotated it. Both of the machines were sawed in half.

Dalton knew what I was up to. I heard him on the loudspeakers. "Allegra, you know that I have more than two terminators, don't you? If you surrender to me now, you punishment will be far less severe."

I didn't know if he was telling the truth. And I didn't care. I wasn't going to surrender. I had an out. I knew I wasn't going back to my cage. At the very worst, I would learn what a megawatt laser tastes like.

I arranged the mirrors, and turned on the laser. With shaky hands, I turned a mirror, making a jagged cut through the wall. I looked at the circuitry, parts of it still smoking. I tried to rewire it. I pressed the button. "Authorization needed." No dice. More wiring.  "Authorization needed." More. "Authorization needed. Authorization accepted."

I got into the elevator, and was on my way up.

I stumbled out of the elevator on level 22. I walked around, as if in a daze. Eventually, I came upon Tom and Sam. "T-t-tom? I need to... tell..."

He turned away from Sam. "We'll continue our discussion shortly." He looked at me. "Allegra. You are obviously not well."
"Dalton making... virus." My adrenaline was gone. The mere mention of the virus started my mind working on it again. I didn't hear what Tom was saying. "...mentioned that you had been exposed to a neurodegenerative, and that he was containing you in order to spread contamination. Please leave before you endanger both myself and Samuel."

"No! No. Not... sick. Dalton wants... to make us... sick."

Tom stood up. He was not a physically powerful man. He was in his late forties, and probably hadn't lifted any weights in the past decade. But he was still strong enough to knock and quivering, shaking mess like me into a locked room if he wanted. "Allegra..."

"Let's hear her out," Sam said.

"Look at her. Shaking, bleeding from a half dozen places. She is clearly sick." To late, I realized. Tom was in on Dalton's plan. I should have tried to backtrack. Talk my way out of it. But I couldn't. I just ran at him, hoping to kill him with my bear hands. It didn't go well. He held me against the wall.

Tom was talking. I didn't listen. I assembled the words in my head. If nothing else, I could tell Sam. Someone would need to stop these two. "Dalton was forcing me to create a virus that would kill all MADs." The effort of saying those thirteen words almost knocked me over.

"That's impossible," Tom said. "Sam, this room is airtight. I will quarantine Allegra here. The two of us will be quarantined separately. Hopefully we weren't infected with whatever she is carrying."

"What the hell are you talking about? Quarantine? Allegra needs help. She must have just escaped Dalton."
"She is clearly hallucinating."

"Why don't we hear her out?"
"Proof..." I said. "Given Quionizine C... you helped make it..."

"Well," Tom said, "it is odd that she knew the name Quionizine C, but not nearly-"
"S-s-still in m-my b-blood."

"I'm not going to give you a blood test."

"You're right," Sam said. "You're going to give her the rest she clearly needs. And you are going to believe her, and put a stop to whatever the hell Dalton is doing."

With that, Sam picked me up, and carried me to the nearest bed. I was asleep before he left the room.

When I next woke up, Sam was sitting next to me. "Hot chocolate," he offered.

"T-tom-"

"He is looking into it. My job is to look after you. How are you feeling."

"I need a dose of clodizine. And something to stop the shaking. Perforamine? No, polyacylthalimine. I do not need hot chocolate. And..." the power of speech left me. "And b-b-boranine. S-so I can t-t-t-talk again."

"Whatever you went through... it must have been tough."

"G-gabe?"

"Tom won't let him in here. Just in case you really do have a neuro-whatever."

"N-need to write down."
"Why?"
"S-stutter when t-talking. But still can write." At least, I had been able to write on the board earlier today.

Sam found some paper and asked for a pen. I saw Gabe on the other side of the door, as he passed the pen. I wanted to talk to him. I wrote a quick note to him, explaining what had happened to me. I wrote a more detailed one, just in case Tom really was on our side. And I decided to write another entry for my now-lost journal. Next, I will go to sleep.      

In The Darkness

Another day. Another terrible, terrible day. I don't know what time they woke me up. My mental clock isn't working anymore. But I do know that some time this morning, two robots came into my room, shot me up with that horrible, horrible drug, and offered me some bread with butter on it, and a bottle of orange juice. I would have thrown it in their face, but I was starving. I ate it all up, as I felt my mind slip under the influence of Quionizine C.
I imagined the food traveling through my stomach, slowly being degraded, digested by the toxic environment. It felt almost autobiographical. I thought about the robotic guards. I wondered how they kept balance. They seemed very top-heavy.
My hands were trembling. Why? Was it simply fear? Was it a side effect of the Quionizine? Was the issue localize in my brain, or some other part of my nervous system? I stumbled along, as the two robots guided me to my torture chamber. I passed what looked to be a laser. I wanted to touch it, to take it apart and see how it worked. The terminators held me back.
I saw other strange chambers, filled with experiment I didn't even understand. But how I wanted to understand them! I struggled against the terminators. I wasn't struggling for freedom. I wasn't struggling to save every single MAD from annihilation by a terrifying virus. I was struggling because I wanted to see what that satellite-looking thing was for.

I was in a laboratory. I was under Dalton's control. Working on his problem, doing his will. I tried to stop. I wanted to think about something else. Anything else. I tried. I designed elevators, and tried to derive an equation for heat flow in the sun's corona. But I was always drawn back to studying a virus that would only affect MADs.
I was so frustrated. I hated Dalton so much. I wanted him to suffer for what he had done to me. I wanted to hurt him. But I couldn't. He was in Brazil, probably surrounded by a secret service detail. I was in a basement in Silicon Valley.
But my brain had found a problem, and it demanded a solution. Maybe I couldn't hurt Dalton himself. Could I hurt something he valued? No, I was locked in a room with nothing but a bunch of interacting white-boards.
Could I hurt the terminators? No. The walls, the ceiling? Pointless. Slowly, of course, it dawned on me that there was something in that room that Dalton cared about. Something he needed. Me.
When did I realize that I wanted to die? I don't know. I don't remember. But the more I thought about it, the more desirable death seemed. I could leave this hell, and be free of Dalton forever. I might stymie Dalton permanently, or I might delay him. But I would certainly be better than being will unwilling tool for however long it would take him the complete his virus.
I would be saving millions. With one death, with the end of one useless, pathetic, miserable life, I could be a hero.
I had made up my mind. I would do it. It was merely a matter of how. Could I smash my head against a table. I pictured it cracking like an eggshell, my overgrown brain pulverized. But I calculated how hard I would need to hit my head to provide a quick painless death. Impossible.
It is anatomically impossible to strangle ones self. I needed a knife. What if I could smash open one of the terminators. They were made out of steel, so it would take a lot of force. What sort of machine could do that? How could you calculate the force needed to break a metal bone? Or a real bone? With a real bone, you could use a virus. How would you make a virus to only affect MADs? I walked up to a whiteboard, only to catch myself. I began to cry. Was I this far gone? That I couldn't even focus on committing suicide. I felt the tears running down my cheeks, warm. I tasted them. Salty, but I knew there were other chemicals. Tears contain immunoglobulin, a protein that my virus would need to get past. Perhaps if it degrades immunoglobulin, catalyzed by chemicals only found in the brains of MADs. An impractical idea, to be sure, but worth investigating. I began to work it out. Then, I came up with a better idea. And another one. Then, I started working on two more ideas. My head hurt as I tried to switch back and forth. I don't know how long I worked on Dalton's problem before I realized what I was doing.
I took a step back. My hands were shaking. My senses of time and space, once so reliable, were now gone. My vision was blurring, and my memory was fading. Dalton had tested Quionizine C before. He knew what affect it would have on me. And yet he was willing to drive me into the ground for a chance at his bioweapon.
A robot brought me lunch. A sandwich. Not a useful tool. Unless I could find away to unbind the proteins. Then I could make so many things. A poison would be easy. I could make steroids. I could probably rearrange the sandwich's component to make a small animal. Although it would probably be dead.
Could I make a virus? Of course. What about a virus specifically designed to NOOOOOO.
I needed to focus. Could I hang myself? I had clothing. Would it support my weight? Probably, but what would I hang myself from? And the machines would notice me turning my shirt into a noose.
I could refuse food and drink, and try to starve myself. But that would take a long time, and I would be detected and foiled.
How closely monitored was I? Was Dalton watching me 24/7? Of course not, he needed to sleep. Or did he? The right mixture of chemicals could remove the need for sleep entirely. Dalton could probably accomplish that. And maybe he did decide to always tune in to the Allegra Complex show. Have a live video feed, showing faintly in his glasses. Or maybe he just receives up-to-minute notifications. Or did rely on his AI terminators to monitor me? Or some combination of the above?
I pictured all that data flowing around the world. How, exactly, does the internet work? How much would it cost to replace all that copper wire with fiber optics? Could fiber optics be made more efficient if they moved to a higher frequency of light? You would need a different medium to transfer them. And such a medium would need to fit so many other criteria. I started imagining it. But I also wanted to know how you could treat cancer with a specialized virus to attack tumor cells. I tried to think about the two complex problems, but it made my head hurt so much. I just wanted it all to end.

Eventually, the drug wore off once again. I could have fallen to sleep in the laboratory, but the robots moved me back to my room. One of them offered me my diary and a pen. And an idea struck me.
I've been writing this entry, diary, trying to work up the courage. The willpower, to drive that pen into my eyeball, to lacerate my brain and to end my life.
My fingers are tightening around the pen. I feel the anticipation. Any word I write might be my last. I will put an end to Dalton's madness.
But I know I can't. If I were going to kill myself, I would have done it by now. I'm not strong enough. I'm not strong enough to fight Dalton's influence. I'm not strong enough to end Dalton's influence. I wonder how he would react if he knew what I'm thinking. He would probably tell me that everything that has happened to me, all my suffering these last two days, has been necessary. He would tell me that if I were to simply cooperate with him, there would be no need for these horrible, horrible drugs.
Should I give in? Should I raise the white flag, and tell Dalton that I'll work for him of my own volition? No. No. I need to fight him! I need to see my family, and tell the world what Dalton is doing. I need to stop this! I need to escape!

What was I thinking? I did better than I thought I would. I rammed into one of the robots. We struggled briefly. It was much stronger than me, and much faster. But eventually, it was on the ground. I returned  to my feet. As the machine tried to get up, I turned around, to face the other robot. It grabbed my arm, vicelike. I struggled against it, but my adrenaline was already gone. The machine barely registered my movement. "Alexander Dalton has said that if you try to escape more than once, you legs will be broken." The machine spoke in a Dalton's voice. I hate that man so much. "This has been registered as you first attempt."
The machine lifted me up, and dragged me into my bed. "Stay put," it ordered. It then turned and helped its partner to its feet.
The other machine disappeared briefly, returning with a zip tie. My arms were bound to the bedframe. I barely bothered to struggle. I am tired, and defeated, and Dalton isn't going to use a zip tie unless he is sure it will hold me.
I'm writing this part of the diary by dictation. I'm speaking out loud, stuttering, struggling for words, while a metal man writes it down. I don't know why. I guess I just want part of today's entry to be written by a steady hand, a sure hand.      

The Worst Day of My Life

I hate you! I hate you, diary! And I hate Alexander Dalton, and Thomas Markovitz, and Oberon, and President Walsh. I hate every person is this stupid, fucked-up world. But most of all, I hate myself. I hate how weak I am. I hate how powerless I am. I have never felt like this. The moment I learned I was MAD- ecstasy compared to how I feel now. My trial, where I saw the families of the people I had killed- I'd rather spend a year there than go through today again. But I will go through today again. And again and again and again until Dalton has what he wants and everyone is dead. I hate Dalton. I hate myself.

I didn't sleep last night. I was too scared. Too busy thinking of all the ways Dalton might try to convince me, or force me, to work for him. But I never imagined what would happen.

At 7:45, I heard my door unlock. It opened, and Dalton entered, a terminator on either side. "Hello, Allegra."

"Hello, Dalton." That was my witty comeback.

"Have you seen reason? Will you help me make the world safe for humanity?"
"I will never work with you."

Dalton seemed saddened. But only for a brief moment. "I am sorry to hear that. I am not, however, surprised." He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a syringe. "This is called Quionizine C. I created it in the hopes of alleviated the symptoms of M.A.D.N.E.S.S. You, however, will find it actually has quite the opposite effect." The machines grabbed me, holding me in place. Dalton injected the strange substance into my arm.

I began to feel its effects. The voices in my head, the ones which speak night and day of science, began to grow louder. Was there some way to quantify the effect the Quionizine was having on me? Perhaps by measuring the volume of sodium flow through the broci channels? No, that wouldn't work.

"How do you feel," Dalton asked.

He sounded almost mechanical. Was Dalton a robot? How would you go about trying to make a Dalton-like robot? You would likely need human flesh over a robotic endoskeleton. But that barely counts. So you would want some sort of synthetic material that behaves like human skin. Permeability, sensitivity. It would need to regenerate when cut.

"How do you feel," Dalton repeated.

"I feel fiiiiine. The compound, or mixture of compounds isn't having any effect. How does it work? It must be a complicated molecule. How does it enter the brain so quickly? Does it have proteins facilitating it? Did you inject me with nanobots? How long is the shelf life? It must degrade pretty quickly. If it contains any collodinoids, those would become poisonous. You checked for those right?"

Dalton smiles. "It seems that the Quionizine had the desired impact. Don't worry, Allegra. Very soon, nobody will feel like this."

The robots dragged me along. I calculated the energy required to do that while I wondered about what would happen if you gave Quionizine to a neurotypical. Meanwhile, another part of my brain was thinking about alkaline batteries, and a fourth part was screaming in frustration.

"Now Allegra," Dalton said. I calculated how much of an echo would be bouncing off each of the walls. "I still don't know how to regulate that virus. And I admit you are more talented in that area than I am. So, how do I get you to work on that problem?" How indeed. I started coming up with ideas.

Dalton gestured to the whiteboards that filled the room. "These will display the progress you have made so far. I have several speakers rigged to repeated ask you about the subject. I think there is a seventy percent chance this will work. If not, I will come up with something better."

It worked. I didn't want to help Dalton. I knew what I was doing. But the question he was asking would just build in my head. They would build and build and build until they split my skull and I just had to go to a board, I just had to try to solve them.

I wanted to think of something, anything else. I thought about how the robots must work. I tried to deduce the workings of Quionizine C. I devised the horrible ways I will kill Alexander Dalton when this is all over.

I was his puppet. Off the top of his head, he had thought of a way to make me do the thing I least wanted to do. I was his puppet. He had me tied up in strings and was exerting forces on them to move my arms. I thought about puppets. It must be hard to control them accurately. How would you go about making a marionette capable of complex motion? You would- How do those whiteboards work? How far apart are the pixels? How could I measure that? And those speakers! How small could you make a speaker and still have it be audible? What was the relation between size and power?

I was on the floor, weeping, trying to ignore the stimuli around me. I couldn't. I tried to focus on the pattern of tiles on the floor. I thought about the symmetries it had, and how it was like a crystal. You could bounce x-ray off a crystal and figure out its structure. Maybe you could bounce microwaves off the floor? What would be the symmetry group of the floor in higher dimensions. What effect would the floor patter have if I spilled water? What about oil? Blood? What would be a good way to figure out my red cell count. Could I do it by watching how blood spread over the floor. What about measuring the rate of mutation of a virus? I could make a virus that only affects MADs. NO! No, I could modify bird flu. A virus. Could I make a virus that only affects MADs? It would need to tune into our brain chemistry. But how? A complicated problem. I would need to work it out on one of those boards. But I knew I shouldn't. But I needed to know. But I couldn't. But I had too.

I got up. It wasn't to work on Dalton's problem, though. No, I would do something else. I would work out the melting point of every element on the period table. That would take forever! It would keep me occupied.

Halfway though lithium, I got bored. I needed to do something else. I could write a program to play chess. I started, but I really wanted to think about viruses. Maybe I could design a virus that would only affect MADs. I jotted down some ideas. NOOOO! I tried to erase them, but the computer had already taken note. Soon Dalton would see it, and add it to his list of facts to torment me with.

I tried to clear my mind. I could do it. Just keep my mind empty. Like the vacuum of space. Nothing but one particle per cubic centimeter. And the photons from background radiation. The Cosmic Microwave Background. Not quite isotropic, but is it uniform? Hard to tell. We could look at its reflection off- no that would be silly. We would need to determine it theoretically. A quantum relativistic model of the early universe would need at least four terms in the Lagrangian- NO! Quiet! Quiet like the absence of sound. No, because then I could Dalton's voice, his evil little voice, asking me to betray myself and everything I care about. And I gave in. I hate myself.

The machines brought me food. Bags of chips and dried fruit. I opened them. I tried to think about them. I read the nutrition facts, and wondered if I could make a Dorito out of its constituent elements. I thought about the chemistry in my apple juice. But it was all to no avail. I soon found myself returning to Dalton's problem with a renewed vigor.
I tried everything. I wanted nothing more than to silence my mind, to be free of Dalton's influence. But I couldn't.
I wanted to take a blood sample. To try to analyze this Quionizine C. But I didn't have any of the tools I needed. I was alone with interactive whiteboards and terminators.
I wondered if I could cut the power to the whiteboards. I looked at them, but I didn't see where they were plugged in. I guess that meant they ran on battery. I briefly wondered what sort of battery, and how they were recharged, before I tried to smash one. Immediately, I was dogpiled by my two terminator guards. I tried to figure out how they worked. How had they been programmed? I started wondering about a virus that could only affect MADs.

Eventually, it began to wear off. I began to enjoy some piece and quiet in my head. I was escorted back to my makeshift bedroom. One of the robots spoke to me, in Dalton's voice. "Please understand that it gives me no pleasure to do this. I want nothing more than for you to cooperate. But also understand I will have you down here drugged up to your eyeballs for a decade if that is what it takes. We made valuable progress today, but not enough. I am sorry I could not be here for you in person, but I have a rather pressing engagement in Brazil."
I hated that thought. Alexander Dalton was probably sitting on a beach in Brazil, splitting a piña colada with the President. He was probably smiling, laughing at me. I hate him. I hate him so much. But not as much as I hate myself.
I'm his tool. His puppet. Right now, my strings are slack, but tomorrow, a machine will come, and grab me, and fill my veins with a chemical I don't even understand. And I will sing and dance for my puppeteer, and he will laugh as he sets the world on fire. I hate him. I hate myself.     

The Betrayal

Diary, I have to be completely honest with you. I've left some things out. There are some things I couldn't tell you about. Some suspicions I had that I didn't mention, for fear that I was being monitored. But after today, I don't need to worry about that. So here is a candid explanation of what has been going on.
I thought that Alexander Dalton and Thomas Markovitz were up to something. My first hint was all of the bizarre suggestions Dalton has been giving me regarding my mutated superflu. They kept dancing around the same central theme. He wanted a virus that would infect and kill people who aren't MAD.
I grew more suspicious when I heard about Tom buying a pharmaceutical company. Medizi was known for being able to synthesize complex organic structures from a genomic blueprint. They have dozens of such facilities around the world. Perfect for starting a pandemic. The disappearances of Joanne and Camille were the final straws. They were test subjects, so Dalton or Markovitz could test that MADs were indeed immune.
I knew this was crazy. I knew it was ridiculous. But today, when I entered Dalton's lab, I had my eyes open.
The screens changed as I opened the door. When I looked again, they said something innocuous about Alzheimers. But just for a brief flash... they had said something different. I tried to reconstruct it as I talked to Dalton. It seemed to be talking about a virus that was only active for precise ration's of neurotransmitters. Very suspicious, and made even more frightening by that fact that he felt the need to cover it up. I grew nervous as I spoke to him. "Wh-what are you planning to do this weekend?" Build a bioweapon?
"I will likely be flying to Brazil on Sunday. The president will need me."
"He trusts you a lot, doesn't he?" I bet he doesn't know what you're cooking up down here.
"I have earned it. More than ten years of loyal service, for the betterment of all mankind."
Until now, huh? "W-Well... see you later."
"Indeed."

I was suspicious. Extremely suspicious, at this point. But it was still possible that Alexander was working on some secret project to use a virus to treat some mental disorder. Unlikely, but possible. This would require some snooping.
It was a simple matter to sabotage one of the terminators. I felt like Sarah Connor as I opened its skull up and melted on of its connections with a blowtorch. Next, I visited Dalton. "One of the terminators is broken, and I haven't been able to fix it?
Dalton sighed. "Those contraptions can be quite a bit of trouble. But still, I suppose I had better take a look. Quite likely some silly mistake Tom made while constructing them." He left.
I watched him walk away. As soon as I knew I wasn't being watched, I pulled a small camera out of my pocket. It would transmit to my laptop, and I could watch Dalton as he did his work. After I has ascertained what he planned to do, I could go to the police, no the FBI, with my evidence. Would they believe me? Dalton was a powerful man. My best bet would probably be to go public with the information. Then, there would have to be an investigation.
Eventually, Dalton returned to his office. He pulled up some notes on his screen. He jotted down some diagrams on his touchscreen whiteboard. I tried to follow along. It did look like he was designed a virus. It certainly looked like it could be lethal. It also looked like he was incorporating a lot of my work without telling me.
I began working out the best way to go public with this information. I could email a few hundred reporters simultaneously. I would post the information online, probably in several places. Actually, I could probably ask Tom for money, and the pay for a big banner ad on the front page of some important website. I was compiling a mailing list of reporters when I heard a knock on my door.
My heart froze. Had I been found out? I walked slowly, and opened the door.
And saw Dalton standing outside with two terminators.

 "I am the greatest scientific mind on the planet," Dalton said. "Did you think I would fail to notice your clumsy blowtorching?"
I opened my mouth, but didn't trust myself to speak.
"Oh, I know you bugged my office. Pretty easy to pick up on it when you send the information over Wi-Fi."
"It... it was encrypted," I sputtered. No idea why I felt such a need to explain that. He must have already known.
"Yes, but it still looked like video. And it wasn't hard to figure out where it was coming from. Of course, I also saw you put it there. You aren't the only one with a camera in my office. Which prompts me to ask. How much do you know?"
"I know everything," I said. "And I already went public with it."
"You did no such thing," Dalton said. "Now tell me what you know, and I will explain the rest."
"I know that you are working, using my research, to create a disease that will kill everyone in the world except MADs."
Dalton cracked a smile. He began to laugh. It was the first time I had ever seen any levity from him. "No. In fact, quite the opposite. I am working on a virus that will kill all MADs. Kill you and me and all the dangerous maniacs who threaten the world with nuclear annihilation. That is my plan."

I was confused. "You want to die?"
"I am willing to sacrifice my life for what I believe in, yes."
"How long have you been working on this?"
"In broad strokes, for about three years. If I cannot cure MADs of M.A.D.N.E.S.S., I will cure the world of MADs. I first came across your work on the subject a year ago. For you information, soon after your arrival in Poughkeepsie, you would have found yourself here."
"And what exactly is your plan?"
"I will release the virus using Tom's recently purchased Medizi facilities, as well as several other similar facilities I have constructed. It will be a modified form of the London Virus, in fact. It will infect the brain, and replicate. It will cause only a slight headache in neurotypicals, but will be fatal to MADs in less than eight hours. It will be contagious enough to kill ninety-nine percent of MADs within one week. Air- and waterborn."
"You're insane."
"I am. So are you. So is Tom, and so is Gabe, and so is Oberon. And any one of us could wake up tomorrow and kill a million people. We could turn New York or Los Angeles into the next Topeka. The next London might not be a city. It might be a whole country, or the world."
"But, you're becoming the very thing you hate. You said yourself that you're modifying the London Virus."
"If you're worried about its affect on neurotypicals, don't worry, I have already begun to test the virus, although there is still tweaking to do."
"But even if it works, you will kill thousands."
"Millions, more likely. But it will still be smaller than London. Did you know Oberon once tried to destroy Washington? Or that Xingxi Yu tried to knock out the European power grid? MADs are the greatest threat- the only threat- to human survival, and I will eliminate them."
"Are you going to kill me?"
"I thought I made it clear-"
"No, are you going to kill me now?"
"I am not. I was hoping you would join me."
"Why on Earth would I do that?"
"Because you agree with me. Allegra, soon after you discovered your sickness, you killed six people. I read the reports, I watched the trial. I know how you feel. I know that you will do everything in your power to ensure that no one ever does what you did."
"You're trying to do the same thing but millions of times worse! And MADs do good things as well. Think of everything we've accomplished here!"
Dalton sighed. "Yes. Every now and then, we give the world a little toy. But none of it can balance out the threat of species-wide extinction that every one of us represents."
"But-"
"I hope you understand I am not a villain. I am giving a great gift to the world, and I need you help. I will let you sleep on it. One of my machines will bring you dinner. Tomorrow, you will see reason. Or I will make other arrangements."

Well, the choice seems pretty clear to me. Killing that many people is wrong. But... Dalton knows a lot more about MADs than I do. Could he be right about this?
I mean... he has some valid points. We are dangerous. MADs kill people every day. Right now, there are only five thousand in the United States, but we are still one of the dominant issues in the country. What the rate of M.A.D.N.E.S.S. continues to increase? One of us will eventually kill everyone with a virus, or nanobots, or a black hole, or nuclear war.
But... I can't kill myself. I can't kill Gabe. I'm not even sure if I can kill Daniel. MADs are people. We are living, thinking people, who don't want to hurt anyone. We save lives. We do more good than harm, don't we? I can't work with Dalton on this. I can't.

Diary? I'm scared. I don't know what Dalton will do to me, when I tell him I can't work with him. Will he torture me? Will he threaten Gabe? Or my parents? I can only imagine the sort of pain a MAD like him could inflict on someone. He has an expert knowledge of the human brain, and unlimited resources. And I am held captive by his army of terminators. I am scared.

A Busy Day

Today, during lunch, Tom walked up to me. "I was searching through our database to see what Team Basement had figured out about skin grafts. I saw that you had some notes. Could I ask for your help."
"First of all, Team Basement is a terrible name. Second of all, I'd be happy to help. Do you know someone in need."
"Yes. Although you might not be his biggest fan."
I thought of people I knew with severe burns. "Spectrum?" Was he The Basement's newest recruit?

"No. The reason Spectrum still has those burns is that he is proud of them. I was thinking about Samuel R. Barton."
"The human trafficker who kidnapped me?" I don't know why I asked that. It's not like I knew a lot of other people named Samuel R. Barton.

Anyways, I was still willing to help. Tom explained that he was keeping Sam for information. Sam had moved a lot of MADs over the course of his career. "Which means had can point us in the direction of a lot of MADs who might need help. We can free them, and bring them here."
"Who is 'we'? You might think your wealth is unlimited, but even your can't force the government of Iran to part with all of their nuclear engineers."

"Well, needless to say, some of the MADs may be slightly beyond our reach at the moment. But between Dalton and myself, we have a rather large ability to either buy or seize many of the world's captive MADs."

Tom showed me the body of my former captor. He was unconscious, and wrapped almost entirely in bandages. "I can do this," I said. "But I am going to need a sample of his skin. He has some left, I assume. Otherwise, I'd have to clone his DNA into someone else's, which would be a pain."

"No," Tom said, "no need for that. He still has skin. And some hair, I believe."
"Excellent. He may well look like a guy from a spaghetti western yet again."

I got to work. First I cataloged the damage. Then I made scaffolds to grow the artificial skin. I was entering his room to collect a sample, and I found him awake.

I didn't know how to act. He had kidnapped my brother and me, but he had sustained these injuries defending us. Plus, I sort feel obligated to be nice to sick people. Was I his doctor? Did I need to have a good bedside manner? 

"Allegra," he said. I could tell that speaking was difficult for him.

"You shouldn't be talking," I said. "It is bad for you, and it will continue to be bad for you until I fix up your mouth. If you feel the need to communicate, you can move you eyes in Morse code. Do you know Morse code?"

Y-E-S.

"Excellent. Do you have something to say."

T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-G

"U is dot-dot-dash, not dash-dash-dot, and I am not doing this for you. I am doing this because Tom Markovitz wants you to tell him the name and location of every single MAD you sold, and that requires getting you at least well enough to talk. If you make him happy, I might even get you to the point where children won't scream at the sight of you." Immediately after I said that, I felt bad. "Sorry. I guess some part of me still hates you for kidnapping Gabe. But another part of me doesn't hate you, because you did sacrifice quite a lot fighting Spectrum. Thank you for that."

Y-O-G-A-R-E-W-E-L-C-O-M-E

"Dot-dot-dash, remember?"

U-U-U-U

"There yog go. Now, if yog will exc-g-se me, I have to regrow yo-g-r skin." I shouldn't have done that. He smiled, which made his whole face hurt. "I'll administer something that should numb that. Sorry."

A few hours later, Dalton came into my lab. "Allegra," he said. "You seem to be focusing your energies on regrowing the skin of this Samuel Barton. Could you please redivert it back to the influenza project."

Well, that was awkward. My two bosses wanted me to do different things. "Tom asked me to deal with Barton's skin grafts."

"I understand. Tom is a very intelligent man, but you may have noticed that his sense of priorities is somewhat lacking. Just yesterday, he took time off building a quantum computer in order to teach a robot to play hopskotch. A year ago, he spent some time watching a children's cartoon. Now all of his cars can transform into large humanoid robots." Dalton sighed. "What I am trying to say is that right now, Samuel Barton is Tom's new toy, and Tom wants to play with him. That does not necessarily mean that helping Samuel is in fact the optimal use of our time. That being said, how close are you to being finished with this particular task?"
"I really just need to wait for the skin to mature, and later today I'll operate on him."
Dalton gave a flicker of a smile. "Excellent. And if you need any guidance with either project, feel free to ask me."

You know, diary, I never really discussed clothes. I guess it's not the sort of thing I usually consider important. But I have noticed some things, so why not write it down?

I myself am a t-shirt and jeans type (Gabe jokes that I'm a t-shirt and genes type), but of course I wear a lab coat when I'm on the job. Tom's wardrobe seems to consist of a bunch of brightly colored shirts with references to old TV shows (you know, typical billionaire clothes), and he has lent those clothes out to Daniel and Gabe. Joanne usually wears normal, clothes. How do I describe them? She dresses like my mom,  I guess. A decently normal set of clothes.

But Dalton... he wears a suit in the laboratory. What's up with that? I asked him about that, and he said that you can never know when the president will call. I've never known him to make a joke, so I guess that means he was serious? I don't know.

So, I didn't notice Joanne during dinner. I asked if anyone had seen her. Nobody had talked to her since breakfast, it seemed. "I'll send someone to check her room tonight," Tom said. "I'm not terribly worried. She probably just got absorbed by some problem. It's not like there was anywhere for her to go." I hope he's right.

Tom, Gabe, Daniel and I played Scrabble over dinner. When was the last time I played that game? It must have been in high school, back when I was still living at home. It tonight was anything to go by, Gabe must have creamed everybody. That kid knows how to Scrabble. We all had to admit that. "But I could totally write a computer program to play this," Tom said.

"Of course," Daniel added. "Which algorithm would you use? Recursive?"
"Not worth it. You don't know the other player's letters, your best bet is to run MEX regression on a large sample database and just optimize based off of that."

"You would need an absurd database."

Tom got out his phone. "I own a social networking site where people can challenge their friends to Scrabble games. I can start collecting data right now."

"That ought to do it," I said.

"Well," Gabe challenged, "I bet I can still beat it."

After fighting words like those, Tom and Daniel got to work. "We have twenty-four hours to write this program," Tom said. "We are allowed access to every sort of dictionary, every pre-made artificial intelligences I already have, et cetera."

Gabe was suspicious. "I get the feeling I'm being hustled. Are there any AIs I should know about before I agree to this?"
"The most germane one is for chess. When we defeat you, when our computer program leaves you weeping in humiliation, you will have nothing to blame except for your own hubris."
"Okay," Gabe smiled. "Deal. If I win, can I have a billion dollars?"

"No, but I'll buy you ice cream."

They shook hands, and then immediately started arguing about whether quantum computers are allowed. They reached the compromise of yes they are allowed but it doesn't matter since Tom's computer wasn't actually powerful enough to be useful.

I spent the evening talking with Gabe. "You know," he said. "I never asked. When did you first realize you were a MAD?"

"Well," I said, "it wasn't an abrupt realization, like you had."

Gabe laughed.

"I began to suspect over the course of a few weeks. At first, it was great. My classes were easier, I was never bored, I could always get my computer to work. But it quickly became distracting, the voices in my head asking me questions. The changes in my personality. I drove my friends away when I needed them most. I tried to convince myself that it wasn't M.A.D.N.E.S.S. I said that I was just discovering an interest in science. But eventually, I learned the truth. I came out to you guys a few weeks after I was sure. And the rest is history."

Gabe gave me a hug. Surprised, I hugged back.

"I am so lucky," he said. "To have you around for this transition. To have Daniel and Tom and everyone. It must have been so scary for you. When things got out of control... when you were shipped off to that horrible place."

It was scary. It was terrifying, discovering the power of my ideas. Discovering how weak my will really was in the face of the urge to do science. But at the end of the day... "I did what I did. I killed six people, I was locked up for two years, and now two of the most important men in the country have taken us under their wing. Life has been more than fair to me."

Gabe gave me another hug.