The Mad Scientist's Guide to World Domination Part 2

We return, then, to the mall to await developments. The Kateosaurus with the flashy engagement ring has just flamed a Cadillac Escalade in the parking lot. The SUV's fuel tank, a reservoir containing the essence of Lord knows how many dinosaurs, sends a column of greasy black smoke into the sky to mark their final return to the environment.

After a roar of triumph, the Creature from the Lime Soap Lagoon advances purposefully on a van even bigger than the Escalade (and they said it couldn't be done!). On the side of the van is blazoned EYEWITLESS NEWS.

Another burbling roar. Another blast of flame. But- disappointingly, at least to Prof. Kidder- only a small one. The news van gets scorched, but does not become as one with Nineveh and Tyre and the unmourned Escalade.

Kidder sighs. "I should have waited another minute or two. Oh, well."

For Bridezilla is undergoing another transformation- another recodification, if you will. Not from real-estate whiz and investment banker's kid to fire-breathing monster, but the reverse. To Tesla Kidder, who is thinking about Archie, going this way may be the more frightening. With a fire-breathing monster, at least, you know ahead of time what you're getting. You don't have to find out later, the hard way.

In the Northridge parking lot, Kate- yes, she's Kate again- looks vaguely confused. She doesn't remember a whole lot of what just happened. As Bridezilla, she had a brain about the size of a walnut. Most MBA candidates come with a little more cranial capacity than that.

Most reporters? It's an open question. Anyone watching the subsequent interview between the TV guy and the recently ex-dinosaur would doubt that the intelligence level of the planet's dominant species has changed much over the past 65,000,000 years.

Professor Tesla Kidder puts the long-range genetic recodifier back on the shelf. Maybe he'll need it again one of these days. "Well, Igor," he says, "what shall we work on next?"

Igor is still watching the aftermath of chaos on TV. Maybe staying in Moscow would have been better than this, or at least less wearing. But maybe not, too. That may be the scariest thought of all.

The wedding is a great success. If everything smells a bit too strongly of lime, well, you can live with lime. After the vows, before the minister tells Archie he may kiss the bride, he beats the guy to the punch. "Kiss me, Kate!" he says, and she does. If she doesn't quite grok why he's got that kind of smile on his face while he says it, you have to remember she's only someone who's finis.h.i.+ng an MBA.

At the reception, Kate's mother comes up to Tesla Kidder, champagne flute in hand. "Hey, listen," she says, "you didn't have anything to do with the, ah, unfortunate incident, didja?" That's what Kate's family- and their lawyers- have taken to calling the scaly, incendiary rampage through the mall.

"How could I possibly?" Professor Kidder answers. "I was in my laboratory the whole time. You can ask Igor, if you like. He was there with me."

Actually, Kate's mom can't ask Igor right this second. He's out on the dance floor with Stacey (who smells, defiantly, of frangipani). Kate's mother nods, as if in wisdom. "Okay," she says. "That's what I already heard, anyways." You have to remember, she's only an investment banker.

Mad scientists? They're right out of her league.

Harry Turtledove- who is often referred to as the "master of alternate history"- is the Hugo Award winning author of more than 80 novels and 100 short stories. His most recent books include Reincarnations, The Golden Shrine, Atlantis and Other Places, and The War that Came Early series: Hitler's War and West and East. In addition to his SF, fantasy, and alternate history works, he's also published several straight historical novels under the name H. N. Turteltaub. Turtledove obtained a Ph.D. in Byzantine history from UCLA in 1977.

Our next story takes us into the maddest of the sciences: psychology. In a future where "Schizotypal Creative Genius Personality Disorder" (SCGPD) is a bona fide psychological disorder, any bright mind is under close scrutiny. Anyone getting a Master's degree faces a battery of psych tests, and anyone continuing in scientific research can expect monthly testing for this disorder.

But a clean bill of health is no guarantee of immunity from SCGPD. In fact, as one psychologist discovers, madness is easy to induce . . . if you have the right skills.

The author says: "I find that a lot of people who study history, psychology, human behavior, or any of the other 'soft sciences' have a tendency to regard themselves as less intellectual than people who study, say, giant death lasers on the moon. I majored in folklore and mythology, and it took me a long time to stop thinking I was dumb when compared to my friend, the physicist. So this story is personal to me in the sense that it posits the soft sciences getting ready to kick your a.s.s."

LAUGHTER AT THE ACADEMY:.

A FIELD STUDY IN THE GENESIS OF SCHIZOTYPAL.

CREATIVE GENIUS PERSONALITY DISORDER (SCGPD).

SEANAN MCGUIRE.

Upon consideration, we must agree that the greatest danger of the so-called "creative genius" is its flexibility. While the stereo types of Doctors Frankenstein and Moreau exist for good reasons, there is more to the CG-afflicted than mere biology. So much more. The time has come, ladies and gentlemen, for us to redefine what it means to be scientists . . . and what it means to be afraid.

-from the keynote speech delivered to the 10th Annual World Conference on the Prevention of Creative Genius by Professor Elizabeth Midkiff-Cavanaugh (deceased) 0.

The world's best research has always been done in the field. Anyone who tells you different is lying, or trying to hide something. Ask anyone who's seen my work. My results speak for themselves.

IGNORANCE IS THE ONLY TRUE SIN; SUPPRESSION OF KNOWLEDGE IS THE ONLY TRUE CRIME. IGNITE THE BIOSPHERE. LET THE REVOLUTION BEGIN.

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

"I hope I haven't kept you waiting long, Miss-?"

"Channing. It's all right. Now it's my turn to hope that you don't mind, but I brewed a fresh pot of coffee and did those dishes that were in the sink. I know it was an imposition. I just don't know what to do with myself when I don't have anything to do with my hands."

"Mind? Why, no, I don't mind at all. Thank you. I've been meaning to do those dishes for . . . well, let's just say the dishes aren't the first ch.o.r.e to come to mind when I have time to tidy around here."

"No thanks needed. You shouldn't be wasting your time with things like this. Isn't that why you're advertising for an a.s.sistant? So that you'll have someone to take care of the mundane ch.o.r.es, and free you to handle the things that really matter? The important things?"

"Yes, Miss Channing. That's exactly right. If you'll come with me, I'd like to discuss the job a bit further."

"Why, Doctor Frieburg, it would be an honor."

Schizotypal Creative Genius Personality Disorder (SCGPD) was officially recognized in the 1930s, by the Presidential commission convened following the destruction of the Was.h.i.+ngton Monument. Those brave, august men, half of whom were probably mad in their own right, decided that the label of "mad scientist" created a self-fulfilling prophecy, one which, by naming individuals as "mad," made their madness a foregone conclusion . . .

-excerpt from The History of Creative Genius In America, by Professor Paul Hauser (missing, presumed dead) Sunrise cast its b.l.o.o.d.y light across the ruins of the lab, illuminating the scene without judgment or mercy. There were still electrical fires burning deep inside the wreckage, forcing rescue personnel to add gas masks to their standard-issue gloves and reinforced boots. Many of them were secretly grateful for the extra protection, no matter how uncomfortable it was. It was never wise to breathe near a confirmed SCGPD outbreak site without protection, and doing it while something was on fire was just signing up for an interesting new mutation.

"Sarge, I think you should come and take a look at this."

Sergeant John Secor rose from his examination of a smoldering desk and picked his way through the shattered ceiling tiles and broken Sheetrock to his squad mate. After six years on the Mad Science Cleanup Patrol- not that anyone official would be so gauche as to use the name; they called it the Special Science Response Unit, like having a polite t.i.tle would change the nature of the job- he was finally growing numb to the horrors that greeted him with every incident. Perversions of every natural law, horrific mockeries of humanity, impossible distortions of the fabric of reality . . . they were everyday occurrences, verging on the blessedly mundane.

The bodies were another matter. This one still looked human; no visible mutations or half-rejected cybernetic implants. If not for the bloodstains on his lab coat and the unnatural bend in his neck, the man sprawled on what was once the laboratory floor would have looked like any other research technician. Just one more scientist dreaming of a better world for all mankind.

"Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d," muttered John, crouching down to study the visible injuries more closely. He didn't touch the remains. The scene was already compromised beyond recovery, but the risk of infection remained if one or more of the local madmen had been working with pathogens.

"We have an ident.i.ty. It's Doctor Charles Frieburg."

"What was his field?"

The attending officer tapped the screen of his tablet computer. Then: "Particle physics. He was a faculty member at the local university until last year, when he received a grant to pursue private research. There are no flags on his file. He showed no signs of SCGPD."

"But this is a confirmed incident."

"Yes, sir."

"Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d," John repeated, and stood. "Something drove him over the edge."

"Shall I call the medical team to remove the body?"

"Yes, and keep sifting. If he had any staff working with him, they probably didn't make it clear of the blast."

One of the most controversial aspects of the SCGPD diagnosis lies in the conflict of nature versus nurture. Are mad scientists born, destined to crack under the pressure of their own minds? Or are they made, shaped by the world around them until they are driven to create even to the point of destruction? Can SCGPD be cured, or is it a scourge mankind is destined to suffer forever? And if it is inevitable, if the nature of this madness is part of our very genetic code, is it somehow necessary for our ongoing evolution?

-from "Development of the Creative Genius: Nature v. Nurture," by Doctor Aubrey Powell (diagnosed SCGPD, trial pending). Published in Psychology Journal, volume 32, issue 8.

"I am so sorry about the delay. I got wrapped up in my research, and, well . . ."

"There's no need to apologize, Doctor. Believe me, I understand the attraction of finis.h.i.+ng a job before dealing with mundane things- like hiring a lab a.s.sistant."

"I admit, Miss Frieburg, I was a little surprised to receive your resume. I don't want to keep you here under false pretenses; we're not hiring research staff right now."

"I'm not here for a research position."

"Then, if you don't mind me asking, what are you here for?"

"If I may be frank, Doctor, your lab is a mess. Your equipment is well maintained, but your filing is a disaster, and from the glance I took inside your refrigerator, you're keeping your existing staff in a state of constant danger from E. coli, or worse. You don't need more research staffers. You need an office manager. Someone who can take care of the mundane, while you focus on the extraordinary."

"And you think you're the appropriate person for the job?"

"Doctor Bellavia, I think that once I've been here for a little while, you won't be able to imagine operating this lab without me."

The number of incidents involving seemingly latent SCGPD sufferers has been rising precipitously in recent years. Many root causes have been proposed for this phenomenon, but we are no closer to identifying the trigger- if, in fact, there is a single trigger- than we were when the first incidents occurred. What ever is causing these good men to lose their minds, we are neither positioned nor prepared to defend against it.

-report to the City Council by Captain Jovan Watkins of the Special Science Response Unit (deceased) The destruction of Doctor Rand Bellavia's lab made the news, not just in upstate New York, but throughout the country. His work in recombinant genetics had been hailed as a triumph of the stable mind for years, proving that a researcher who had not succ.u.mbed to the lure of jumper cables and evil plans could still push the frontiers of science. There had even been rumors that he might find a treatment for the biological causes of SCGPD, allowing for the rehabilitation of the hundreds of brilliant minds locked in endless war with their own inner demons. He was a poster child for science as a force for good . . . at least until the tentacles started bursting from the windows.

"Another one," muttered Sergeant Secor, staring at the photo of Doctor Bellavia's face gracing the latest issue of Time. The headline, "Science: Is Progress Worth the Price?" seemed unnecessarily sensationalist. Then again, when had the media ever dealt fairly with the victims of mad science? "If it bleeds, it leads" was the only commandment of the news.

This one sure as h.e.l.l bled. What it didn't do was make sense. Doctor Bellavia had been a pillar of his community. He'd displayed none of the cla.s.sic signs of the latent mad scientist. He'd had friends, family, a healthy social life; he'd left his lab more than once a month. He'd been tested every year for signs of SCGPD, and every test had come back clean. This should never have happened.

But it had- and Doctor Bellavia wasn't the first. John started thumbing through the incident report for what felt like the hundredth time. Everything looked normal. The s.h.i.+pping manifests showed the items and amounts to be expected for a medium-sized genetics lab. The staff list was up-to-date, and matched the list of casualties provided by the coroner's office perfectly.

Almost perfectly.

Frowning, John dug through the papers on his desk until he found the coroner's report. The staff list was one name longer. They'd recovered a lot of bodies from the wreckage. DNA were required to identify many of the researchers, in some cases because multiple individuals had been twisted into a single grotesquerie. The report stated that all a.n.a.lysis was completed, and there were no more foreign DNA strains in need of identification . . . and there was still one name missing. The office manager, Dora Frieburg.

Five minutes on the computer introduced two disturbing new facts to the case. There were no records of an individual named "Dora Frieburg" anywhere in the Special Sciences database, which meant she'd never been tested for SCGPD, and that she hadn't graduated from any known Master's program. In fact, the only hits for the name "Frieburg" came from the incident report on the destruction of Doctor Charles Frieburg's lab eight months earlier, in central Minnesota. His lab had been rather more thoroughly devastated, and they never did quite get the coroner's report and the staff lists to match . . .

And the office manager, Cathy Channing, was among the missing.

The office seemed suddenly colder. John bent over his keyboard and continued to type.

The only certainty we have when dealing with this insidious disease is that it will not be, and cannot be, truly defeated. It is the monster in us all, waiting for the opportunity to open the final door between the human mind and madness. Keeping that door guarded is our duty and our burden, as scientists, for to allow the lock to be broken is to lose everything that makes us moral, that keeps us honest . . . that makes us men.

-from the keynote speech delivered to the 10th Annual World Conference on the Prevention of Creative Genius by Professor Midkiff-Cavanaugh (deceased) "Professor Raymond, I have that s.h.i.+pment that you requested. I'm afraid the delivery man didn't leave an invoice, so I can't be sure that everything is here. Would you like me to a.s.sist with the unpacking process?"

"Yes, Miss Bellavia, that would be most appreciated. Did he say why he couldn't leave the s.h.i.+pping list?"

"No. He just dropped off the boxes and ran. I can call the office, if you'd like . . ."

"I think that would be best. But first, let's get these things put away. Some of them are perishable."

"Of course."

"I . . . Miss Bellavia, did you order this?"

"No, sir. I entered the request exactly as you gave it to me. What is it?"

"It's-it's a Jacob's ladder. A form of spark gap. They're mostly decorative, although some people say you can learn things through watching the movement of the electricity. That you can see the true nature of the universe in the ionization of the air . . ."

"Professor? Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Bellavia. I'm fine. I just haven't seen one of these in years- not since my high school science fair. I wasn't prepared for all the memories it brought pouring back. That's all."

"Would you like me to s.h.i.+p it back to the distributor?"

"I don't think that will be necessary. It will be . . . nice . . . to have something around that reminds me of my past. The reasons I fell in love with science. Yes. I'll put this somewhere safe, somewhere in the lab . . . you needn't worry yourself about it, Miss Bellavia. I'll take care of everything."

"Yes, Professor."

"Are you smiling, Miss Bellavia?"

"I'm just glad to see you progressing with your work. That's all."

The question remains: If SCGPD is an incurable part of our genetic makeup, what causes its expression? Can that expression be prevented, or even controlled? Imagine a world where the forces of creative genius are harnessed, devoted only to growth, and in dependent of all destruction. A world where each child is free to reach his or her potential, free of the fear that one day, a casual word or an unexpected setback will trigger madness. If this paradise could be made available to the human race, would it not be our duty to pursue it?

-from "Development of the Creative Genius: Nature v. Nurture," by Doctor Powell (diagnosed SCGPD, trial pending). Published in Psychology Journal, volume 32, issue 8.

"Captain, I'm telling you, the pattern is clear. You need to look at the data."

"Do you realize what you sound like, John? A mysterious lab a.s.sistant whose name changes every time she appears, somehow driving some of the nation's most brilliant minds into the grips of psychological disorder? Escaping disaster after disaster- to what end? What motive could this woman possibly have?"

"I don't know, sir." Sergeant Secor stared resolutely ahead, trying to ignore the look of disbelief on his superior's face. "The pattern is too consistent to be accidental. I combed through seven years of incidents. This anomaly is present in eighty percent of the reports. Five or ten percent, I might be able to dismiss, but eighty? Every time, she's been hired within the past four months. Every time, her surname matches that of a recently deceased scientist who fits the special handling profile. And every time, the lab is destroyed, with no survivors, but her body is never found. It can't be a coincidence, sir. It simply can't."

Captain Jovan Watkins sighed. "If you're sure about this, John . . ."

"I am, sir."

"Bring me proof. You'll need to find this mystery woman. We need a name, and a reason for anyone to be willing to do the things you claim she's doing."

"Yes, sir. I won't let you down."

"I certainly hope not, John. Dismissed."

THE SUN WAS CREATED BY A MAN WITH A SUPERNOVA WHERE HIS HEART ONCE BURNED. EMBRACE GENIUS. IGNITE THE SKY.