-graffiti found in the ruins of MIT. Author unknown.

"Professor, there's someone here to see you. He says he's with the SSRU. Should I show him in?"

"Please, Melissa. Then why don't you gather up the rest of the staff and take them out for lunch? My treat."

"Is this . . . is it time?"

"I think so. Be sure everyone takes their wallets and leaves their laptops, just in case."

"Will you be careful?"

"Oh, probably not. I never have been before, and I don't see the point in starting now. Hurry along, Melissa. It wouldn't do to keep the nice policeman waiting."

Melissa went. I didn't expect any different; she's been a good technician since the day I hired her. She was wasted in the herd environment of the psychology department. Her work with me may not have enhanced her resume the way a more traditional fellowship would have, but what I can't offer in prestige, I've definitely provided in practical experience. I daresay her old cla.s.smates would be astonished by the things she's learned while they were watching rats run around in mazes and building Skinner boxes.

By the time she returned, a groomed, chisel-jawed specimen of h.o.m.o officicus trailing along behind her, I was wearing my formal lab coat- the one without the bloodstains- and seated behind my desk, a pair of reading gla.s.ses pushed to the top of my head as I pretended to study my monitor. When setting a scene, it's the details that matter; show, don't tell, as my creative-writing professor told me once, before he went mad and slew half the graduating cla.s.s with an infectious poetic meme that inspired euphoria followed by suicidal depression. Professor Hagar was a wonderful teacher, and I will treasure his lessons always. They're so applicable in daily life. Consider: A lab coat over a low-cut blouse shows a dichotomy of nature, implying that the subject is uncomfortable with her roles as both scientist and woman. Gla.s.ses propped against the forehead project vanity- a reluctance to conceal one's eyes behind a frame- coupled with vulnerability, due to presumably impaired vision, and absent-mindedness, due to the potential that the gla.s.ses have been forgotten in their present location. A simple pair of gla.s.ses can be one of the most useful psychological tools available, if you know how best to position them. Dress shoes with a low heel show the desire to look feminine, and acknowledge the necessity of comfortable footwear in a lab setting. I looked, in short, like an insecure stereo type, and it was all achieved with nothing but a few props and a knowledge of human psychology.

"Professor Garrity?"

That was my cue. I looked up, meeting Melissa's question with a genial, somewhat vacant smile as I replied, "Yes, Melissa?"

"Sergeant John Secor, SSRU, here to see you."

"Oh!" I stood, extending a hand for him to shake. "Professor Clarissa Garrity. It's a plea sure to meet you, Sergeant. What can I do for you today?"

It was hard to tell whether my psychological cues were finding their mark with this man. He had a matinee hero's face, all sharp angles and brooding eyes. It was annoying. I don't require that my targets be open books, but it's best when I can see whether or not I'm getting through.

"I understand your field is human sociology," he said, giving my hand one short shake before releasing it. Matter-of-fact, then, business first; all work and no play. I could work with that.

"Yes, it is. I specialize in crowd psychology and behavioral conditioning. It's not flashy, compared to some disciplines, but I like it, and I find it to be an endlessly fascinating realm of study. Would you like to see our works.p.a.ce?"

"Very much so, Professor. I've been working on a case that I think you might be able to a.s.sist me with."

"I would be delighted." He can't have hard evidence, or he'd have me in the station, rather than appearing here entirely on his own; he can't be acting with full departmental support, or he'd have backup with him, giving him the psychological upper hand. "Can you tell me anything about it, or do you have some data you need me to look at cold?"

"It's a bit of an odd case." He followed me out of my office, into the empty lab. Melissa worked fast. The staff was gone, probably ordering pizza on my tab, and she knew to keep them away for at least an hour. "Did you hear about the latest SCGPD outbreak?"

I made a show of thinking about it, reaching up to slide my gla.s.ses into place like I thought it would somehow make me smarter. Finally, I "guessed," asking, "Professor Raymond in New Hampshire?"

"Yes. He was a robotics engineer. Clean psych profiles dating all the way back to his college entrance applications. Everyone who knew him said there was no sign he was at risk."

"Oh, I see." Professor Raymond. Such a fascinating man. Such skilled hands. He'd been a joy to work with, and the dividends . . . my work is always rewarding, but Professor Raymond had carried it to new heights. Once he decided to open himself to the possibilities of the universe, he'd opened himself all the way.

The radiologists say Bedford won't be safe for human habitation for at least another hundred years. A fitting monument for a truly gifted man.

"It's a tragedy, but it's a fairly cut-and-dried one. He always had the potential to become symptomatic. There's just one thing that's troubling me about the situation."

"Oh?"

"He hired an office manager about three months before he went mad. She wasn't among the dead- and her name matches another low-risk scientist who became symptomatic for SCGPD about five months prior. Doctor Bellavia in New York."

Dear, sweet Rand. It's rare that I encounter a mind that brilliant. It's rarer that I get the opportunity to work on it directly. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you're getting at. What is it you think I can do to a.s.sist you?"

"Professor Garrity, your graduate thesis was on nonstandard manifes tations of SCGPD. Scientists whose work didn't fit the standard 'mad science' model, yet had the same potential as any other genius."

The same potential, and much looser testing standards. Never mind that a mad mathematician could cripple a nation with an equation, that a mad linguist could drive a city insane with a radio ad, that a mad musical theorist could control the world with a single Billboard hit. Keeping my expression neutral, I said, "That's true. Again, what is it that you think we can do for you?"

"Professor Garrity, can you account for your whereabouts on the evening of August sixteenth?"

"Certainly. I was leaving Doctor Bellavia's lab via the back door. He'd just reached the stage of wanting to test his creations on a living human population, and I thought it would be best if I was out of the building before the mutagens made it into the ventilation system." The screams had been beautiful. They had sung me out of the parking lot like a flight of angels.

Sergeant Secor's eyes went wide. "You admit to your involvement in the triggering of Doctor Bellavia's SCGPD?"

"Naturally. It was some of my best work. But you must answer a question for me, Sergeant, before this goes any further."

His hand inched toward his sidearm. He was a clever boy, really. Not clever enough to come in with a full extraction team, but one can't have everything in this world. "What?"

"How resistant are you to transdermal sedatives? On a scale of, say, one to losing consciousness right about now."

The sound he made when he hit the floor was deeply satisfying.

One day, the world will realize that it has been at war for years. War between the past and the future; war between the visionary and the blind. One day the world will realize that human nature cannot be dictated by law. It can only be temporarily suppressed, and one day, when that suppression ends- as it inevitably must- those who have been kept in bondage will rise up, and together, they will set the skies to burn.

-from the manifesto of Professor Clarissa Garrity, unpublished The sergeant returned to consciousness to find himself strapped to his chair. He struggled briefly before he subsided, glaring. "I am an officer of the law. Release me at once."

"I'm afraid that won't be happening for a few hours yet, Sergeant. I hope you're comfortable." I busied myself with getting the screens into position. The work would have gone faster with Melissa and the others helping me, but I needed them out of the lab, watching the door for any additional uninvited guests. "The straps aren't too tight?"

"I don't think you understand the severity of the charges you're facing here."

"In good time, I promise. Congratulations, by the way, on catching the sequential names. I really did hope that would be the first trail of bread crumbs to be successfully followed to me." I stepped back, offering him a warm smile. "Can I get you anything before we begin?"

"Begin? Begin what?" His bravado died in an instant, replaced by wariness. That was good. That showed intelligence.

"Your tests."

It took quite some time for the screams to stop.

There is no cure. There is no hope. There is no G.o.d. There is only fire, and the echoes of those fools who laughed. They're always laughing . . .

-from the suicide note of Professor Midkiff-Cavanaugh(deceased) I hate force conditioning a subject. It lacks subtlety, and more, it lacks elegance. There's an art to finding the locks buried in a person's mind and crafting the keys that will undo them, each one beautiful and unique. Sadly, time was short, and there was no other way.

"I'm so sorry, Sergeant. This was a job for a scalpel, and I've had to use a sledgehammer. I hope you can forgive me." I turned off the projector and walked toward him. He was whimpering and twitching in his chair, eyes frantically searching the corners of the room. The hot smell of urine hung in the air. He'd wet himself at least twice. That was good. That meant things were going as planned.

"How are you feeling? Do you need a drink of water?"

He giggled.

"Good." I pulled a damp washcloth from my pocket, beginning to wipe his forehead. "Let me tell you a secret, Sergeant. You're losing this war because the men who created the diagnosis for SCGPD left a few cla.s.ses of genius out. They forgot that brilliance can take many forms. You, for example. You have a brilliant a.n.a.lytic mind. It's a shame that you were never given the opportunities that would have allowed you to hone it to its greatest potential. You were never taken seriously as a scientist of human behavior." I scowled, remembering the glares of my so-called cla.s.smates, the ones who believed that real science was found only in electrons and DNA. They never understood that the mind, and the mind alone, is where the heart of genius truly lies. "This petty world and its petty lines. One day, they'll understand. One day, they'll see that madness is the only route to sanity."

Silence.

"But you don't want to hear about all that, do you? No, you've wasted enough time. Haven't your hands been tied for long enough, Sergeant? Aren't you tired of being hobbled by artificial, useless constraints? Religion, morality, social expectations, rules and regulations and paperwork- you've spent so much valuable time and energy justifying yourself. That was time you could have used saving lives. Doesn't that bother you? Doesn't it just make you burn?"

Silence . . . but there was a new light in his eyes; a light that spoke of understanding. I was getting through to him, and that was all I needed. Sometimes a spark is all it takes.

"I'm setting you free today, Sergeant. After this, you'll never need to hesitate, never need to question yourself. Their rules won't apply anymore. It's time for you to find out what kind of man you really are, and I'm happy to help, because I want to know just as much as you do. That's what I do. I help people reach their full potential, and in return, they help me set the sky on fire. That's what you'll have to do. You'll have to set the sky on fire. Do you think you can do that for me? Do you think you can make them pay?"

Sergeant Secor babbled something incoherent, following it with a peal of merry laughter. I leaned forward and kissed the top of his head.

"Don't worry. You've waited long enough." I returned the washcloth to my pocket, withdrawing the first syringe. "Everyone deserves the opportunity to go mad."

It's all so clear now. Crime is a natural outpouring of the septic core of human nature. It can be predicted. Human response ill.u.s.trates every possible violation. There's no point in waiting for those violations to occur. All we need to do is strike.

-Sergeant John Secor, SSRU, transcribed from security footage taken immediately prior to his shooting "h.e.l.lo, Doctor Talwar."

"Why, Miss Secor. I wasn't expecting you for another hour."

"Well, you know what they say. The early bird catches the worm."

"I always wondered what that said about the early worm."

"That it's always best to be a bird, I suppose. I do hope you don't mind. I'm just so excited about the opportunity to help you with your work that I couldn't wait for the chance to get started."

"That's very industrious of you."

"I believe that everyone should have the tools they need to achieve their full potential."

"And you believe you could be one of those tools?"

"Oh, Doctor. I know that I am."

Seanan McGuire is the author of The October Daye and InCryptid urban fantasy series. Writing under the open pseudonym Mira Grant, she is the author the Newsflesh trilogy- which includes Feed, Deadline, and Blackout- which she describes as "science fiction zombie political thrillers" that focus on blogging, medical technology, and the ethics of fear. A story set in that milieu appeared in John Joseph Adams's anthology The Living Dead 2. Her other short work has appeared in Fantasy Magazine, Book View Cafe, The Edge of Propinquity, Apex Magazine, and in the anthologies Zombiesque and Tales from the Ur-Bar.

Brilliance comes with a hefty price tag. To understand the sciences at the level required for true mastery calls for sacrifice, hard work, and isolation. That level of commitment pulls a scientist away from ordinary life, swallows time that otherwise would go to a girlfriend, a bowling league, or poker night with the guys. But all work and no play . . . well, we all know where that leads.

But the narrator of our next tale, Doctor Talon, would argue that he's not mad at all. He simply lacks the kind of powerful friends who could tell his side of the story in a sympathetic manner. For Doctor Talon, it's not a question of a deranged mind- but simply being misunderstood.

In a world of caped superheroes and mysterious technology, it's not easy to draw the line between hero and villain. For Doctor Talon, there's only one way to redeem a life of strange science. He's got to speak up for himself.

Just when the Op Eds were getting boring, here comes an editorial that might change your mind about a villain's job.

LETTER TO THE EDITOR.

DAVID D. LEVINE.

Once I was an astrophysicist. Once I struggled only with balky equipment, recalcitrant equations, obstinate administrators. Once I was well on the way to uncovering the secrets of the Universe.

But then he arrived. The caped and costumed alien who has occupied my days and dogged my dreams for my entire adult life.

You know him as Ultimate Man, or the Emerald Avenger, or the Champion of Humanity. You know me- if you think of me at all- only in relation to him: "Doctor Talon, Ultimate Man's constant foe and implacable adversary." Or perhaps to you I am "Doctor Talon, mad scientist" or "Doctor Talon, criminal genius." But though I do not deny that some components of my actions have been against the law, I know that history will eventually exonerate me.

Everything I have done, you see, I have done to save the world.

In real life, the most important moments in science are not greeted by the exclamation "Eureka!" but by a puzzled frown and the words "That's funny . . ." So it was with me. I soon tracked the anomalous energy signature that had spoiled my radio observations of the Eagle Nebula to a humble dairy farm in Wisconsin, and then to a single point source. A point source that moved and grew and behaved in a most unusual way.

Intrigued, I studied the phenomenon as it developed. Despite its humanoid appearance, I soon ascertained that it was in fact an extraterrestrial energy matrix with a human shape- not even alive, in the conventional sense. More like a standing wave of solar energy.

By the time the media finally managed to notice a flying man in a gaudy green-and-gold costume zipping hither and yon over the city, over twenty years later, I had already verified, identified, and a.n.a.lyzed this extraterrestrial and determined that he was a threat. The rest of my career- of my life- has been devoted to this threat's amelioration.

My personal relationship with Ultimate Man began with the famous incident in which my right hand was severed above the wrist. I won't go into details about this unfortunate episode, except to say that the primary reason it is significant to me is not simply the physical pain it caused me. Nor is it the psychological pain resulting from the cruel nickname with which I have been saddled by the media, based upon the appearance of the eminently practical prosthesis I designed to replace my missing appendage. Rather, it was the data I gathered about Ultimate Man during the incident, which proved beyond question that my hypothesis about him was in fact correct.

It was shortly after the completion of my a.n.a.lysis of this data that I began performing the series of actions which have been described with wearisome hyperbole as "a criminal career without precedent in history," but which, as I said above, were necessary in order to save the world.

I know that you will not believe this a.s.sertion, choosing instead to accept the conventional narrative that I have done what I have done because of an irrational, personal hatred for the alien being known as Ultimate Man (who is, by the way, an illegal immigrant- he arrived here without papers, and resides in this country under a false ident.i.ty). But, as any thoughtful consumer of today's media knows, it is the frame in which the facts are considered, rather than the facts themselves, that determines their emotional content and the impression the viewer carries away. Rather than "Mad Genius Threatens Crowd with Heat Ray," for example, what would you think if you read the headline "Philanthropic Inventor Staves Off Global Destruction"?

You may scoff, but I can prove my position is well-founded.

Let me begin by pointing out something that you might even have noticed yourself: Ultimate Man's power is growing. Over the years, he has gone from leaping tall buildings in a single bound to outright flight; from traveling faster than a speeding bullet to exceeding the speed of light; from being so tough that nothing less than a bursting bomb could penetrate his skin to withstanding the force of an atomic blast or the interior of the sun. Additional, unrelated powers have also appeared with time, some of them quite ludicrous.

If you had been paying attention, you would have noticed that these increases in his power were most significant in the first few decades of his career, and have leveled off since then. And if you had been paying attention and were as intelligent as I, you would have realized that this was a very, very fortunate turn of events.

Why? Consider for a moment the energy required to accelerate a body the size of a human being to the transonic velocities Ultimate Man has been observed to attain. The energy required to raise the locomotives, steamships, and even entire buildings he has been observed to lift. The energy required to crush coal into diamonds, perform detailed X-ray a.n.a.lysis on the contents of a person's pockets at a distance, or melt steel with a glance. If you are incapable of performing the math, I hope that you will believe me when I tell you that the energy Ultimate Man expends in a single typical day is far in excess of the annual electrical production capacity of the entire United States.

Now consider what would occur if the energy level implied by those feats exceeded the phase s.p.a.ce limit of an extraterrestrial humanoid standing wave.

I recognize that this last calculation depends on some unverifiable a.s.sumptions about the specific parameters of Ultimate Man's alien waveform. But my observations and my calculations have proved beyond the possibility of contradiction that such a limit must exist, and furthermore that it must be well below the energy level which would have been attained by now if his power had continued to increase at the pace of his earliest years. And if that limit should ever be exceeded, even momentarily . . . the energy would be released in a single burst.

The exact impact of such an energy release depends on its position and circ.u.mstances, but its magnitude is greater than anything seen on this planet since the formation of the solar system. If it should occur, for example, over land at an alt.i.tude of ten kilometers, the energy is certainly sufficient to crack the Earth's crust, blow half its atmosphere into s.p.a.ce, shift its...o...b..t, and render the planet incapable of supporting any form of life more complex than a paramecium.

So why, you might ask yourself- again, if you had been paying attention- did Ultimate Man's increase in powers level off?

Could it perhaps have been a consequence of the energy he was expending while battling the nefarious schemes of a certain master criminal?