Graham froze. Sylvestrus blocked the door—he'd probably locked it, probably entered some code that Graham couldn't crack in a million years. They were in the basement—no windows, no exits. Solid concrete and a hardwood door between him and any way out.
He'd charge Sylvestrus, that's what he'd do. He'd knock him over, force him to open the doors. Sylvestrus had to be in his sixties, he was no threat.
Sylvestrus produced a gun. He didn't point it at Graham, he let it rest in his hands, fondling it, letting Graham know it was there.
"A wonder of technology," said Sylvestrus, looking down at the gun in his hands. "The first of our New Tech hand weapons."
Graham recognized it. He'd seen one before. He'd heard it whine; he'd seen it arc terror into a crowd of screaming people.
"I expect you're wondering why I sent for you."
Graham thought he'd misheard. Sent for you? How . . .
The realization made him feel slow and stupid. He'd flipped again. He checked his clothes. He wasn't wearing the shirt that Annalise had picked out for him. He'd been so blind. He'd been so wrapped up in his own thoughts he'd forgotten about the dangers of making choices.
"Have you lost something?" asked Sylvestrus.
Graham ignored him. When had he flipped? Which choice had it been? His decision to leave the others, to hide in the gents, to take the stairs, to investigate the basement?
And what was Sylvestrus doing here? Gary had said he'd be safe in Putney; it wasn't one of ParaDim's usual offices. And hadn't Tamisha said that Sylvestrus didn't like modern architecture?
"I thought you didn't like modern buildings?" The words came out of Graham's mouth before he'd had time to think.
"You can speak," said Sylvestrus in a mixture of surprise and amusement. "I suspected as much but," he paused, "however did you know about my dislike of modern architecture?"
"I know a lot of things." Graham wasn't sure what he was doing. He kept thinking about Annalise Fifteen and what she'd do. Somehow, she'd think of a way to turn the situation to her advantage.
"Indeed?" Sylvestrus smiled as if amused at the presumption of a young child. "Enlighten me, what else do you know?"
"I know about the resonance wave."
Sylvestrus blinked. Graham saw the surprise—shock even—that flashed across his face. It only lasted for a fraction of a second, but it had been there. He'd rattled Sylvestrus.
"You're a different Graham, aren't you?" he said, smiling once more as he looked Graham up and down.
Graham rocked slowly from side to side, shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot. If only he had Annalise's speed of thought. And her ingenuity: she'd do whatever it took, use whatever was at hand. What did he have?
He racked his brain. He had knowledge. He knew Sylvestrus's future from the other worlds. He knew the man was going to die.
"I know what's going to happen to you," he said, faster than he meant to, the words rushing out in a breathless stream. "You'll never have the time to enjoy your power. The money won't last. I've seen the pictures of your death."
"Is that what you think this is all about? Money and power?" Sylvestrus smiled and slowly shook his head. "You really think I need more money? You think I haven't amassed all the wealth a man could possible require?"
He advanced slowly towards Graham. There was something about his presence that awed Graham. The smug self-assurance, the way his eyes seemed to look right through you. Graham felt pinned by them, he felt opened up and exposed.
And the gun didn't help.
Graham backed off until he felt the frame of the notice board digging into his back.
"When one approaches my age, Mr. Smith, it's not money one craves, nor power. But one's place in history, one's legacy to future generations." He paused and ran a finger along the barrel of the gun. "Do you believe in natural selection, Mr. Smith?"
Graham shrugged and nodded at the same time. And kicked himself for being so easily silenced. He was supposed to be grabbing the initiative, not Sylvestrus. But he couldn't think straight with Sylvestrus talking.
"Survival of the fittest. Market forces," continued Sylvestrus, slow and unruffled. He could have been talking to his favorite grandson. There was no hint of nerves or malice.
"The human race is at a crossroad. We've thrived under natural selection. The best and the bravest have prospered and passed on their genes. But now what happens? Who's most likely to pass on their genes today? The clever, the successful, the people who have something to offer future generations? Or the couldn't-care-less, the bored, the irresponsible, the 'whatever' generation?"
He paused, his eyes staring directly into Graham's. Graham looked away.
"You've met Miss Kent?" Sylvestrus said, raising an eyebrow. "A brilliant mind, a healthy body. Wouldn't you say that she has everything to offer future generations?"
There was a passion to Sylvestrus's voice now. The detached amusement had gone.
"But she's decided against children. Her gene line ends with her. As does Mr. Sarkissian's. Professional people are having fewer children, Mr. Smith. Talented people are having fewer children."
"What has that got to do with anything?" said Graham.
"You still don't see?" Sylvestrus looked surprised. "Who's having children these days?" He changed his tone, introducing a hard sarcastic edge, a hint of parody. "The bored, fifteen-year-old girl—lonely, low self-esteem—who thinks that having a baby will be the answer to all her problems. She'll get respect, she'll get love. She'll be a mother. Won't it be neat?
"No thought as to how she would look after her child or whether she was fit to be a mother. Hell, no, it was her right! The state would look after both her and her baby—that's what other people paid their taxes for, right?"
Graham stayed wedged against the wall as Sylvestrus ranted.
"Natural selection would have slapped her across the face. But natural selection ain't around no more. This is a no-fault society. Trip over in the street—ain't your fault, the road was poorly maintained—sue the local authority. Trip over in life—ain't your fault—you can't be expected to think ahead. Sue the government, big business, anyone with a wallet. It's gotta be someone else's fault 'cause it sure as hell can't be yours."
He paused, breathing hard.
"Is that it?" said Graham.
"Haven't you been listening, Mr. Smith? The weak survive these days. Tomorrow's gene pool comes from them." He waved an arm in the general direction of the door. "Natural selection is being reversed. We are sowing the seeds of our own destruction."
Graham was confused. "What has any of that to do with the resonance wave?"
"Natural selection is the resonance wave. Can't you see that? It's nature's way of restoring the balance. Of weeding out the weak and clearing the path for the strong."
"By plunging the world into war and chaos?"
Sylvestrus shook his head. "Your mind is too small to appreciate the bigger picture. You think in individuals, I think in species. The human race will exit the Chaos leaner and stronger. That will be my legacy."
"You're mad."
"People of vision frequently are . . . to the small-minded. Only history can judge a man's sanity. You're a gardener, Mr. Smith. Do you let every weed grow? Do you prune and thin out?"
Graham didn't bother to reply. Suddenly, Sylvestrus seemed less formidable. The man was mad. He saw the resonance wave as nature's revenge. Something quasi-religious, to be celebrated and protected at all costs.
Perhaps that was his weakness? His need to sustain the wave. His fear of the Resonance projects discovering an answer.
"We know how to stop the resonance wave," Graham said.
Graham saw the flicker of panic flash across Sylvestrus's face.
And he saw the light above the door flash from red to green.
Sylvestrus didn't. His back was to the door. There'd been no sound. Any second now the door would open.
"We've cracked the equation," said Graham, trying to keep Sylvestrus's attention and watch the door at the same time. He'd time his move. It might be his only chance.
The door clicked. Sylvestrus began to turn his head. Graham barged forward and grabbed the gun with both hands. They struggled, for a second; Graham wrenched the gun free, turned round and ran behind the bank of filing cabinets.
"Stop him," yelled Sylvestrus.
Graham ducked down and ran the length of the cabinets. If he could swing back to the door . . .
An armed security guard suddenly blocked his way. The man crouched low, arms extended, both hands on his gun. Graham stopped, spun round. Sylvestrus and another guard appeared at the other end of the cabinet line. He was trapped. He looked at the gun. He looked at Sylvestrus. And he thought of Annalise Fifteen.
"You can't escape," said Sylvestrus.
"I don't need to escape," said Graham. "I can stop you now."
He flicked a switch on the gun, a red light came on, it started to whine.
"Killing me won't stop anything," said Sylvestrus. "Whatever happens to me, you're not leaving this room."
"Who said anything about killing you?" Graham turned the gun on himself. "I'm going to stop the resonance wave."
Sylvestrus's eyes widened in panic. Not for a fraction of a second this time but for two slow heartbeats. Graham took a deep breath. He felt remarkably calm. He felt exhilarated and composed at the same time. Maybe this was what it felt like when death became an inevitability. No more panic, no more fear of what might happen. Indecision replaced by a clarity of purpose. Just you, the gun and destiny.
"Put the gun down," said Sylvestrus. "I'm sure we can work something out." He motioned for the guards to back off. They did.
"Nothing to work out," said Graham. "I've seen the projections. Kill all the Grahams and the resonance wave stops dead. A small price to pay, don't you think?"
"You're only one Graham. Your death will have no effect," said Sylvestrus, his voice regaining some of its former equilibrium.
"Who said anything about just one Graham? Haven't you seen the latest Resonance logs? We're all earmarked for slaughter. It's the only way to collapse the wave."
"They'd never do it," said Sylvestrus, shaking his head.
"They don't have to," said Graham. "We're doing it. The Grahams. We're men of vision. Maybe your mind's too small to appreciate that. But we . . ."
Graham stopped. He felt strange, the light in the room was flickering. He felt . . .
No! Not that! Not now, he couldn't flip now!
A pain exploded in the back of his head. He reeled forward, men were all around him, grabbing his arms, the gun. The whining sound increased. It might have been the gun, it might have been him, everything was moving and coalescing—ceilings, floors, sounds. He felt like he was being stretched and pulled. There was an explosion. He was falling, flying, rolling.
No! A thought burrowed into the back of his head. He was flipping out of danger. He was going to wake up in a new world. Someone else was going to wake up with a gun pressed against his head.
No! He fought. He concentrated. He summoned whatever will he possessed and then dug deeper. He was not going to put someone else in jeopardy. He couldn't. He wouldn't.
He dragged the world back to him. Sylvestrus, the guards, a smoking hole in the ceiling. He was on the floor, writhing, his arms and legs pinned, the gun nowhere to be seen, debris everywhere.
"Hold him down," shouted Sylvestrus, removing something from his breast pocket. A syringe. Graham struggled, the pain and nausea building. Sylvestrus's face loomed towards him. The needle, the prick, the burning sensation in his arm.
No! He fought, he struggled, he screamed. And then he was flying again, everything so hazy, he was being pulled and squeezed and stretched. The world had lost its cohesion. He wasn't sure if he was dying, losing consciousness or flying.
He awoke, lying on the floor. No Sylvestrus, no debris, no hole in the ceiling.
Only pain.
He retched.
When one pain eased, another hit him harder. Guilt. He'd exchanged lives. He'd dragged someone to a slow, lingering death.
He jumped to his feet and immediately fell down again. His legs had buckled beneath him. His head felt like it was going to explode.
He looked around the room. It looked identical to the one he'd left. Except the filing cabinets were gone. He could see the door. He crawled towards it, used the handle to pull himself up, pressed the release button. The door clicked. It hadn't been locked. He pulled it towards him and squeezed through, keeping a foot in the door to stop it from closing. The corridor was empty. Did that mean he was safe?
He prayed for his head to clear. He couldn't think through the pain. How could he determine if he was safe or not?
The notice board! He swung round. The notice board was there but no mention of New Tech weapons. He staggered towards it. Memos about joint ventures and procurement, something about the Census project and accommodation. Nothing about Sylvestrus or weapons.
Was that proof?
And did that matter? He'd left someone to die on the other side. He'd made a choice and someone else had suffered the consequences. They wouldn't even have a chance! They'd materialize in a drugged body, pinned to the ground by two armed guards.
He'd go back! He'd make things right. He'd make a choice, ten choices, and lie in the exact same spot.
"I choose to go back," he said, tilting his head back and shouting at the ceiling. He ran to the spot where he'd struggled and threw himself on the floor.
Nothing happened.
How long did it take, he wondered? Should he make another choice? Should he make a larger choice? What if the other Graham was in no condition to reciprocate?
He dismissed the thought. He had to try. He jumped. He filled his head with decisions. He chose to walk to the wall, to hop back, to use his left foot, his right. He picked up a pencil and snapped it. He took the stub and marched over to the notice board. He started writing. Telling everyone about Sylvestrus and the resonance wave and how to stop it.
Nothing happened.
Maybe the other Graham was no longer in the room? Maybe he'd been moved?
He left the room. He ran down the corridor towards the stairs. Would this be the way they'd bring him? He banged on every door he passed. He chose to run, he chose to walk, he chose to shout at the top of his voice.
Nothing happened. Not one door opened, not one person came out to investigate. Was the building empty?
He reached the stairs. Would they have taken the other Graham this way? He took the first flight. He ran back. He thought of every possible meal he'd cook for dinner that evening—choosing each in turn and then changing his mind.
He chose until he had no choices left. And then he collapsed. On the cold concrete steps by the basement doors. The other Graham could be anywhere now. He'd failed him. He'd failed everyone.
He stayed on the stairs for hours. Or maybe only a few minutes. Time lost all meaning in the wallowing landscape of guilt and what-might-have-beens.
A voice called out to him from above.
"Mr. Smith? Graham, are you all right?"
Graham looked up and saw a face peering down at him from the railings above. It wasn't a face he recognized. Or could talk to. He pulled himself slowly to his feet and trudged up the stairs.
The man came down to offer him a hand. A middle-aged man in shorts and a T-shirt that failed to encompass his bulging stomach. Graham shrugged away his offer of a hand. He wasn't deserving of any help this day. Graham pushed through the doors to the ground floor lobby and strode out. He didn't care if Sylvestrus and all his henchmen were waiting for him. Let them do their worst. He'd already done his.