Killing Time

quarters was it.

As I've mentioned, Malcolm and Larissa's father, Stephen Tressalian, was one of the first and most powerful leaders of the information revolution. A celebrated prodigy as a child, the elder Tressalian went on in early adulthood to design the hardware and software for an Internet routing system that became standard international equipment and the cornerstone of his empire. The achievement brought him fame, wealth, and a wife, a beautiful film actress possessed of that polished but no less pedestrian form of mental facility that so often passes for intelligence in Hollywood; and further dramatic innovations in the field of information delivery added even more stature to what had already become a household name.

From the beginning Stephen Tressalian was portrayed in the media as somehow nobler than the average information baron. He spoke about the social and political advances that information technology was supposedly bringing to the world often, publicly, and well — well enough to have legions of admirers among not only international business and political leaders but rank-and-file Internet users, as well. There was much tabloid interest, therefore, when the technocrat and his bride announced the birth of their first child, a boy, in 1991. As a toddler Malcolm displayed a precocious brilliance that equaled his sire's; yet that ambitious man was not to be satisfied with a son who could merely match his own achievements. Unlike most fathers, Stephen Tressalian longed for an heir who could outstrip him, believing that such would only add luster to his own legacy. And so he began to cast about for ways to artificially augment Malcolm's nascent genius.

By sinister coincidence, during the mid-1990s scientists at various universities and institutes were tampering with the genetic structure of intelligence in mice and other small animals by altering the biochemical mechanisms that controlled learning and memory. Responsible researchers shielded both their work and its as-yet-inconclusive findings from the general public, reminding the curious of the eternal biological verity that mice are not men. But rumors about the studies began to circulate, and before long there was irresponsible speculation about the possibility of genetically treating human children — whether in the womb or after birth — to enhance their ability to comprehend and store information.

For the right price, then as always, scientists could be found who were eager for a chance to experiment, even if illegally; and thus it was that Malcolm, at the age of only three, found himself entering a small private hospital in his family's home city of Seattle. The official explanation, formulated with almost incredible cunning by Stephen Tressalian and the gene therapist he had selected, was an attack of the new strain of antibiotic-resistant bacterial encephalitis that had been popping up in various parts of the world. In well-rehearsed, utterly convincing statements that prompted widespread public sympathy, Tressalian and his equally ambitious wife tearfully announced that Malcolm's case was so severe that he might emerge from his hospital stay with permanent neurological damage: an actual and distinct possibility, of course, given the experiments that were about to be performed on his mind.

I still shudder to think what those weeks must have been like. At first the treatments seemed to go well, and Malcolm exhibited a radically expanded mental capacity: a disorienting enough experience for a three-year-old. But then, midway into the course of the injections, his body seemed to rebel. Primitive functions — breathing, digestion, balance — became impaired, and there were unexplained bouts of terrible systemic pain and headache. The gene therapist had his own theory as to why — the human brain was not possessed of infinite resources, he told Stephen Tressalian, and with so much neuronal activity going to higher functions, there was the distinct possibility that the autonomic systems were being starved. But he was no physician, and Tressalian was too committed to his plan (as well as too afraid of being found out) to bring in any specialized medical help. Then too, despite all the terrible side effects, the boy's intellectual powers did continue to grow at an exponential rate, producing results that eventually satisfied even his father. After three months Stephen Tressalian called the project off, telling himself, his wife, and anyone else who knew about the work that it had been a gift for his son as well for genetic research and the future of mankind.

Small matter that when Malcolm emerged from the hospital — his arms gripping a pair of pathetic little crutches that had to do the work of his suddenly disobedient legs, and his hair mysteriously turned almost silver — he was faced by a crowd of reporters whose expressions of horror he was now entirely wise enough to comprehend. What was important was that the boy would be brilliant — no, was brilliant — and that the next time Stephen Tressalian engaged in such an experiment he would be armed with enough data to do a far better job.

For there would be a next time. Soon after Malcolm's release his mother became pregnant again, and this time it was she who entered the private hospital, as Stephen Tressalian's gene expert had determined that Malcolm's comparatively advanced stage of physical development had had something to do with his adverse reaction to the therapy. The fetus that would become Larissa received a refined course of injections in utero, and the change seemed to do the trick: when she was born her body exhibited none of her brother's physical disabilities, while the power of her mind was quickly revealed to be astounding. In addition, her beauty from the first looked to exceed even her mother's. In every way, Larissa seemed the living vindication of all the risks her parents had taken.

Of course, there was the strange matter of that silver hair, with which Larissa too had been born; but Stephen Tressalian refused to see this as anything other than a coincidence and emphasized the differences between his two children rather than their similarities.

'He never even suspected the most important thing that Malcolm and I had in common,' Larissa said, as we lay on my bed together.

Yes, together: for her story had quickly transformed my uneasiness about her work as an assassin into an emotion that ran much deeper than the infatuation I'd felt to that point.

'Which was?' I murmured, touching her silvery locks and looking deep into her ebony eyes.

She looked at the ceiling rather blithely. 'We were both a little mad. At least, I can't think of any other way to describe it.'

It didn't seem an entirely serious statement. 'I'm sure you were,' I said in a tone to match hers. 'And your parents never suspected?'

'Oh, Mother did,' Larissa answered. 'The entire time we were poisoning her she kept screaming to Father that she knew we were killing her and that we were both insane.'

I propped myself up on my elbows and dropped the bit of her hair I'd been toying with. ' 'Poisoning'?'

But Larissa didn't seem to hear me. 'Father never would believe it, though,' she went on. 'That is, not until we pushed him out of the airplane. Then — just then—I think he realized that there might have been something to it…'

CHAPTER 20

I sat up on the bed. 'How old were you?' was all I could think to say.

Larissa's face screwed up in a childlike fashion. 'I was eleven when we took care of Mother. The business with Father happened about a year later.'

Utterly at a loss, I found myself reverting to the role of psychiatrist. 'And did they — was it — premeditated?'

She glanced at me a bit dubiously. 'Gideon, everything Malcolm and I do is premeditated. It's what we were bred for. But if what you're really asking is whether or not there was provocation, then the answer is yes, there was.' She looked at the ceiling again. 'Rather a lot, actually.'

I kept watching her, retreating further into professional objectivity yet somehow angry with myself for the reaction. 'Such as what?' I asked.

She suddenly gave me a small, genuinely happy smile and pulled me back down against her warm body. 'I like sleeping with you,' she said. 'I wasn't sure I would.'

I returned the smile as best I could. 'A gift for flattery was not, apparently, the primary goal of your genetic engineering.'

'I'm sorry,' she laughed. 'It's just that—'

'Larissa,' I said, touching her mouth. 'If you don't want to tell me about it, you don't have to.'

She took my hand. 'No, I will,' she said simply. 'It's really not very complicated.' She turned to the ceiling