Could those schemes, perhaps, have been carefully designed to absorb as much of his energy as possible without killing him?

Yes, I have carefully avoided killing or permanently disabling my adversary. I'm not blind, or stupid- his accomplishments during natural disasters alone, never mind the many times he has defended the Earth from extraterrestrial enemies, demonstrate to even the least perceptive observer that he must be allowed to continue in action despite the long-term threat he would pose if not controlled.

At this point you are no doubt rolling your eyes- if indeed you are still reading at all- at my naivete for believing that anyone would believe the a.s.sertion of a known evil genius that the Champion of Humanity is actually its greatest threat. Isn't it more likely, you may ask, that this is part of some nefarious scheme? If this threat had any basis in reality, wouldn't I have gone public long ago, to clear my name and gain allies in my long battle to keep Ultimate Man's power under control?

The two questions answer each other. I have been unable to come forward before now because no one would have believed me.

It all comes back to framing. When Ultimate Man himself believes I harbor an intense personal hatred for him, and the major media outlets are predominantly staffed by personal friends of his, any communication on my part is interpreted in terms of that frame, and is interpreted as a ruse, a hoax, or just an attempt to grab attention. The same frame has prevented my theories from being accepted by the scientific establishment.

I must a.s.sign some of the blame to myself. In the early years, uncertain of the validity of my hypothesis- and, yes, I must confess, still somewhat peeved about that early incident that deprived me of my hand- I worked tentatively, in secret, and in a way that could easily have been misinterpreted as intending deliberate harm to Ultimate Man and innocent bystanders. By the time I had confirmed my hypothesis and was prepared to announce it to the world, I had already been branded a "mad scientist."

Which brings us to this current communication. Why, you may ask, do I think this letter to the editor will be taken seriously when my previous phone calls, broadsheets, and loudspeaker announcements from hovering dirigibles have been dismissed as the ravings of a brilliant but deranged madman?

Evidence. Incontrovertible and unbiased evidence.

At the same time this letter was released to the press, all of the data, a.n.a.lysis, and conclusions I have gathered on the alien known as Ultimate Man were published on the World Wide Web. You can see it right now at this URL as well as several redundant locations which can be located with a simple Google search. It includes all of the raw data, all of my steps in the development of my theory- complete with every blind alley, misstep, and error- and details of every action I have taken to test the theory and put it into practice. It is my hope that by sharing all of this information, some of it embarra.s.sing or incriminating, I will make it as clear to you as it as been to me for decades that Ultimate Man must be continuously monitored and controlled, with frequent and serious challenges to his ever-increasing powers to keep them in check, or humanity is doomed.

My files also include pointers to physical evidence, including the exact locations of my various secret laboratories, where you will find specialized instruments and devices which I have used to both monitor and challenge Ultimate Man. I recognize that many people- including Ultimate Man himself and many of my criminal a.s.sociates- will immediately attempt to take exclusive control of these devices. However, by making their locations and the data behind their creation simultaneously available to the public, I expect that any advantage gained by such control will be short-lived.

But why am I releasing this information now, after so many decades of secrecy? The answer is that my circ.u.mstances have changed.

My occupation- this career that has been thrust upon me by circ.u.mstance- is by no means easy or safe. Even though Ultimate Man, for all that he endangers the planet by his very existence, would never voluntarily hurt me, the same cannot be said for the less sophisticated members of the law enforcement community, or for my criminal rivals, or for the unplanned side effects of my own actions. Though I have so far evaded every bomb, missile, and collapsing secret laboratory sent my way, it seems that I have failed to dodge one bullet- one too small to be seen. It turns out that long-term exposure to certain extraterrestrial radioactive materials was not as harmless to Earth life as I had thought.

To be blunt: I am afflicted with aggressive late-stage leukemia. As I write this, I will be dead within six months; if you are reading it, I am dead already. And with my death, the release of my theories and the supporting data becomes not only possible but necessary.

Naturally you will suspect a hoax. Please do visit the URL above and check out the resources there for yourself, which include several different third-party verifications of my demise. If you are reading this letter, you can be certain that my pa.s.sing has been noted, confirmed, and verified by numerous automated systems and trusted colleagues, and that I am truly and irretrievably dead.

And even though death in my line of work is not always permanent, at the very least it seems to require some time to recover, and in that time Ultimate Man's power could grow to planet-shattering levels.

Therefore, now that I am gone, I ask that you- yes, you, the person reading this letter on the Internet or in any of over six hundred daily newspapers around the world- take up my tools and my cause. Challenge Ultimate Man, dissipate his power, prevent disaster.

I know that most of my readers will not heed this request. Your daily life is already too full; you feel you lack the necessary expertise; you wish to avoid the consequences of such action. Having faced those consequences myself, I cannot impugn your reluctance. But some small percentage of those who read this will feel called to action, and will take up the challenge. Perhaps, if you are still reading, you are one of these.

My life since Ultimate Man's arrival has been a hard and lonely one. But you, with the head start provided by my files and devices, will have an easier time of it than I did. And you will have colleagues around the world, others like yourself who have heeded my call, working together on difficult challenges with dramatic and immediate real-world impact. I cannot imagine anything more exciting or satisfying: it is, in effect, the biggest and most important open-source project in history.

I have been labeled a "mad scientist." I rebelled against this label at first, then eventually learned to wear it with pride. Now I pa.s.s it along to you, to share with your peers.

You are the mad scientist now. Go forth and save the world.

David D. Levine is the Hugo Award winning author of dozens of short stories. His work has appeared in a.n.a.log, Asimov's Science Fiction, Interzone, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Realms of Fantasy, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Daily Science Fiction, and in anthologies such as The Year's Best Science Fiction, Transhuman, Gateways, All-Star Zeppelin Adventure Stories, The Mammoth Book of Extreme Fantasy, and John Joseph Adams's Armored. A collection of his short work, s.p.a.ce Magic, was published in 2008. In addition to the Hugo, he has also won the Endeavour Award and the James White Award, and has been nominated for the Nebula, John W. Campbell, and Theodore Sturgeon awards.

No two thinkers seem to agree on The Singularity, that moment when we create a smarter-than-human intelligence. A lot of people think it will never happen. Technology is limited and so are resources, these folks say. The human brain is as smart as it gets. Some scientists and programmers, however, not only believe we can create a technology that trumps our own intelligence, but that we have a moral obligation to do so. We need bigger brains to solve the world's biggest problems.

The scientist in our next piece couldn't care less about morality or the world's difficulties. In fact, if humanity is destroyed by his creations, so much the better. He wants to create a machine smarter than himself just to prove that he can.

One of two reprints in this anthology, this story, which first appeared in the small-press anthology All Star Zeppelin Adventure Stories, paints the picture of heartless intelligence and genius fixated upon itself without concern for others- the perfect an image of the archetypal mad scientist. I'd have been crazy- or perhaps I should say mad- to leave this one out.

INSTEAD OF A LOVING HEART.

JEREMIAH TOLBERT.

I hate it here. It is too cold for my motors, and it never stops snowing, but Dr. Octavio says that the weather is conducive to his experiments. I'm still not certain that what he is working on isn't meant to replace me. He tells me impatiently that it isn't, but I live in constant fear of it. I have nightmares that he will withhold the fuel that is my sustenance, that my parts will run down slowly until they can no longer nourish my brain while the rest of me turns to red dust. No oil can would bring me back.

It is a terrible sort of death; one that I could sit back and watch unfold in gruesome detail. I want to go quickly, when the time comes.

We are somewhere among the tallest mountains of the world. When we arrived, I was locked away in a cargo hold, so I don't know exactly where. Our home is a small, drafty castle and a separate laboratory. Dr. Octavio had the locals construct the lab before he tested the new death ray on their village. There's very little left there. In my little bit of spare time, I try to bury the bodies and collect anything useful to the doctor's experiment.

My primary duties consist of keeping the castle's furnace running and clearing the never-ending snow from the path between the two buildings. Sometimes, it falls too fast for my slow treads and shovel-attachment to keep up with and I find myself half-buried in the snow. It is horrible on my gears when this happens, but I use heavy-weight oil now and it helps.

It is one of the few benefits of my metal frame that I appreciate. Life in this contraption is like being wrapped in swaddling clothes. I wonder if I would feel anything if my casing caught on fire? I need to ask the doctor when he isn't in one of his moods.

I am plowing fresh snow from the path when the wind begins to blow harder than usual. I swivel my cameras and spot Lucinda's flying machine landing on the rocky field behind the castle. Dr. Octavio calls it a helio-copter. It is the perfect transportation for a jewel thief of her skill; painted black, with stylized diamonds on the sides. She calls it the Kingfisher because it can hover above her prey. It is faster and more agile than a zeppelin, her previous method of transportation.

I feel a twinge of happiness that she has caught up with us, even though it will send the doctor into a fit of anger. Before the Protectorate destroyed our previous laboratory, they argued and she left without telling me good-bye. Dr. Octavio grumbled the next day about money. Often, Lucinda became stingy and demanded "unreasonable results," so said the doctor.

Dr. Octavio a.s.sembled this new fortress on a very tight budget. We have no automated machine-gun turrets, or shock troops. We do not even have rabid Yetis to protect the compound. There is only me and my flamethrower attachment against what ever is out there. The death ray broke down due to the cold.

I roll up the path as fast as my treads let me. Lucinda climbs out of the Kingfisher wrapped in a scarlet cloak, her trademark color. Her raven hair is braided into ponytail that flails in the wind like a dangerous snake. When she sees me, she smiles. I examine myself for a reaction. I cannot find one.

I have no heart, like the tin woodsman from the Baum books I read as a child. Only he was lucky enough to lose his body a piece at a time.

"Zed! What are you doing out in the cold?" she says. She uses the name Octavio gave me, Z-03. I try not to imagine what it was like for my predecessors.

"I must keep the path clear of snow for the doctor," I answer in my monotone, mechanical voice. I hate it nearly as much as the loss of my hands; I once prided myself on my ability to tell jokes. Now even the funniest punch line falls flat. "I saw you land. Come into the castle where it is warm."

She shakes her head. "I need to see Father immediately."

"He left me with orders that he is not to be disturbed."

Her smile fades. I cannot disobey Dr. Octavio's orders, she knows this. My body inflicts unbearable pain when I do.

"Fine then. Lead the way."

I plow a path around the castle to the servant's entrance into the kitchen and allow Lucinda inside while I swap my shovel attachment for my manipulators. They have pressure sensors.

Inside the kitchen, I put a kettle on the stove while Lucinda warms herself beside the radiator. "The tea will be ready in a few minutes," I say.

She doesn't answer, and I turn to see what has captured her attention. She has uncovered my easel and is looking at the latest of my failures. "Hmm? That'll be fine, Zed." She takes a seat at the small table in the corner. I recover the painting and roll to be opposite her. She reaches out and holds one of my manipulators in her hand. Six PSI. Six PSI.

"What's his mind like these days?" she asks. She looks at me when she speaks, unlike the doctor.

"It's fine," Dr. Octavio say, voice full of irritation, from the doorway. I hadn't noticed the gust of cold air. How could I? "What are you doing in here?" He points at me. "You're my servant, not hers. Get out there. I nearly broke my back on the ice, you useless heap of sc.r.a.p!"

When I see the doctor, I see him in his youthful prime. He has designed me that way. Where his aged voice comes from, I see a stretched-out man with fidgeting hands and fevered blue eyes. I know that he must be decrepit by now. I do not know exactly how old he is, but he rants about the American Civil War as if he were there.

Lucinda gives me an apologetic look, and I roll outside, but stop on the opposite side of the door. I extend my microphone and maximize the gain.

"I saw the village, or what was left of it anyway. So you're a ma.s.s murderer now?" Lucinda shouts. "What did those people ever do to you?"

"They knew too much," Dr. Octavio says, raising his voice to match hers. "The Protectorate found me too easily last time. No one must know we are here. But you needn't worry. The death ray failed to function afterward," he grumbled, sounding like a child with a broken toy.

"Thank G.o.d for small miracles," she says. "I want to inspect the weapon, to be sure that you're not lying again, Father." It is quiet for a moment, and I fear that I might have made a sound. No one comes to the door. Finally, Lucinda continues. "What are you working on now?"

"I don't have to tell you that!" Dr. Octavio nearly shrieks. "It's not a weapon, if that's what you want to know."

"It had better not. The Germans are looking for weapons, and if I find out you have been dealing with them, you will learn the true meaning of poverty." If I could shudder, I would at the tone of Lucinda's voice. She can become as cold as this mountaintop when dealing with the subject of money.

They argue about money for an hour, and then the subject turns to Lucinda's latest heists, so I hurry away to the path.

I still sleep, much to the doctor's dismay. Sleep is a requirement of the mind as well as the body. Mostly I have nightmares, but sometimes I have a real dream. I dream that I still have hands that can paint, that can sculpt, that can play the piano. In the dream I have six arms, and I do all at once. When I drift awake, there are only the manipulators, reporting pressure. Zero PSI. Zero PSI.

Lucinda left in the evening, and Dr. Octavio retired to his chambers. My internal clock tells me that it is six a.m. and I must wake the doctor. I take the crude elevator that he has rigged to allow me access to all the floors. His bedroom chamber is dark and baroque, full of intricately carved furniture. The set was a gift from Lucinda last Christmas, and somehow he managed to retrieve it from our previous fortress in the South Pacific.

"Dr. Octavio, it is a new day," I say tonelessly. He groans and rolls out of the bed, apparently a well-muscled man in his mid-twenties. Well-endowed. He shuffles into the bathroom and waves me away. "Go clean or something, Zed."

I obey.

Once, Lucinda asked Dr. Octavio why he chose me, an unknown painter, to be the brain of his servant-machine. His reply is burned into my mind.

"Because he is an artist. Art serves no purpose but to distract. How does it improve the lives of men? Science is ultimately the true path of all men, even artists like him. Unfortunately, he is stubborn."

Dr. Octavio kidnapped me from my Paris studio, removed the brain from my body, and implanted it in a machine, to prove a philosophical point to no one in particular.

That is how the man's mind works.

"Zed, I need your a.s.sistance in the laboratory," he says to me from the doorway. His words hang in the air amidst the fog of his breath. How long has it been since he last asked me to a.s.sist him?

I turn from my shoveling and join him inside the laboratory. I wait for my lenses to clear. When they do, I see his latest experiment.

Rows and rows of vacuum tubes connected with haphazard wiring line the walls, connected to more arcane machinery that I have no words to describe. Some of the machinery resembles parts of me, especially a manipulating arm that resembles mine, but significantly more advanced. I feel a deep pang of greed at the sight of it. The emotion surprises me, and I relish the sensation.

"What is your bidding, Dr. Octavio?" I ask.

He motions toward the arm. "I need you to interface with this. Come over here."

Dr. Octavio attaches me to the arm, and I flex it, checking the wiring. It seems good. It relays seven decimal pressures to my brain, far more sensitive than my own manipulators. "What would you like me to do with it?"

He shrugs, his attention already returning to a workbench crisscrossed with wiring. "I don't care. Give it a thorough testing for range of motion and dexterity."

"Can I retrieve a few things?" I ask.

"Fine, but don't be long. I have other tasks to attend to," he barks.

I collect my easel and paints from the kitchen and bring them to the laboratory. Dr. Octavio impatiently hooks me to the arm again, and I take up my brush.

An hour later, I want to weep. I haven't been able to achieve this level of technique since Paris. I call for the doctor to inspect my work.

He picks up the canvas and examines it pa.s.sionlessly. He walks to the furnace and throws it inside the burner. "The quality of the arm is sufficient. You may go."

It is spring when Lucinda returns. The snow has turned into freezing rain, and I've been using my flamethrower to clear ice from the path for a week and to clean the path before sunrise because I cannot sleep. After the Doctor caught me using the arm late one night, he has kept the lab padlocked. He shattered the sculpture with a sledgehammer.

Lucinda's helio-copter lands quietly and I watch as she leads several gray-uniformed men to the laboratory. They make short work of the lock, and I hear them breaking things inside the laboratory. Several minutes later, they leave with armfuls of equipment. Lucinda walks down the path to me.

"I'm sorry to do this to you, Zed," she says, and I can see that her face is bruised. "I owe money to some people." She stares at the castle for a moment, and then curses. "I'm sorry I'm leaving you here with him. One day I'll come back for you."

"Will you be alright?" I ask.

She forces a smile, and I almost believe her when she says yes. "There's a war breaking out in Eu rope. The Germans have taken Poland. It will be a good time for someone in my profession." The men come out of the helio-copter and shout down at us in German. They have guns. Lucinda walks back to the helio-copter, slipping only a little. She waves at me from the c.o.c.kpit when the Kingfisher takes off.

"Failed projects," Dr. Octavio says when he inspects the damage. "All junk. They damaged my masterpiece, but it will only take a week to get back up to speed." He grins and rubs his hands together. He enjoys a good setback. They give him an opportunity to refine work that his manic brain would not otherwise.

"What is this project?" I ask.

"Why should I tell you?" he says, and squints at me. "I'm not going to let you use the arm again. You'll waste its potential on worthless doodles."

"Will it replace me?" I ask.

The doctor muses for a moment. "I think that in the end, it will replace all of us."