as many men behind bars as women.
Before my work, and now Kayla’s,
no one
knew how many psychopaths there actually were. Twenty-nine million? Nuh-uh, Kent. It’s morelike
two fucking billion
—thirty percent of Earth’s population, two out of every seven people.
The waiter came with our entrees. When he was gone, I said, “What about the other two cohorts—you know, just one electron in superposition, or all three in superposition?”
Kayla lifted her shoulders. “I couldn’t discern any difference between Q1s and Q3s. No, as far as we can tell, there are only two types of consciousness, at least from a quantum-mechanical point of view: psychopathic Q2s, and everyone else.”
“Do you think you inherit your state?”
“It doesn’t seem to run in families. Oh, some people are the same state as their parents, siblings, or children, but that’s not disproportionately common. And, as far as we can tell, people don’t change states—we’ve done as much of a longitudinal study as we can so far, and no one has ever switched.”
“Fascinating,” I said. Marveling at the circumstances that had brought us together again after so much time, I added, “Quite a coincidence, you and me both ending up working on psychopathy.”
Kayla’s tone grew cold. “It’s not a coincidence, Jim.”
“What?”
She stared at me, and I met her gaze—until I couldn’t. “I got interested in psychopathy because of you,” she said. “Because of the horrible things you did all those years ago.”
11
TWO DECADES AGO
“G OOD evening, Jim. Thanks for coming in again.”
Jim Marchuk was carrying a plastic bag with the green McNally Robinson logo. “No problem, Professor Warkentin. Bit surprised anyone’s working on New Year’s Eve.”
“Oh, Christmas break is my favorite time on campus,” Menno said. “Peace and quiet. Summers are great, too—the campus is mostly empty, and the weather’s nicer then, but Christmas is the best; the place is dead.”
Jim’s tone was light. “Universities would be wonderful if it weren’t for all those pesky students.”
“No, no, no,” said Menno. “It’s
faculty
that drive me up the walls. Departmental meetings, committee meetings, so-and-so’s retirement dinner, somebody else’s birthday lunch. Here, with almost everyone away, a body can finally concentrate.”
“Huh,” said Jim.
“You got a party to get to?”
“Kinda. Bunch of friends, we’re going to Garbonzo’s—hang out, watch Ed the Sock do
Fromage.”
“I’m sure that means something,” said Menno. “Anyway, we’ll get you out of here long before midnight.”
“I’m happy to come in,” said Jim. “Dorm’s kinda lonely. But my parents are off on a cruise for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, so not much point in going back to Cow Town.”
Dominic Adler entered the room, carrying the Mark II. “That’s not the same helmet as before,” said Jim, but there was nothing suspicious in his tone; he was just making conversation, and it beat talking about the weather.
“True,” said Dominic. “Completely new design.” They were hoping that by using transcranial focused ultrasound—a new brain-stimulation technique the DoD was experimenting with—they could boost the phonemes enough to punch through the background noise.
“Great,” said Jim, reaching for the helmet. It had different modules attached to its surface, and, in addition to ones that looked like decks of cards, there were two—one on either side—that looked like green hockey pucks.
“Put it on,” Dominic said.
Jim pulled it over his head, and Dominic loomed in to make various adjustments. “It’s a snugger fit than the old one,” Jim offered.
“Yes. We thought maybe we were losing alignment with the previous setup.” Dom pulled on the chin strap, cinching it. “How’s it look, Menno?”
Jim glanced toward Menno, as if expecting an assessment of his appearance, but Menno was peering at the oscilloscope,
Before my work, and now Kayla’s,
no one
knew how many psychopaths there actually were. Twenty-nine million? Nuh-uh, Kent. It’s morelike
two fucking billion
—thirty percent of Earth’s population, two out of every seven people.
The waiter came with our entrees. When he was gone, I said, “What about the other two cohorts—you know, just one electron in superposition, or all three in superposition?”
Kayla lifted her shoulders. “I couldn’t discern any difference between Q1s and Q3s. No, as far as we can tell, there are only two types of consciousness, at least from a quantum-mechanical point of view: psychopathic Q2s, and everyone else.”
“Do you think you inherit your state?”
“It doesn’t seem to run in families. Oh, some people are the same state as their parents, siblings, or children, but that’s not disproportionately common. And, as far as we can tell, people don’t change states—we’ve done as much of a longitudinal study as we can so far, and no one has ever switched.”
“Fascinating,” I said. Marveling at the circumstances that had brought us together again after so much time, I added, “Quite a coincidence, you and me both ending up working on psychopathy.”
Kayla’s tone grew cold. “It’s not a coincidence, Jim.”
“What?”
She stared at me, and I met her gaze—until I couldn’t. “I got interested in psychopathy because of you,” she said. “Because of the horrible things you did all those years ago.”
11
TWO DECADES AGO
“G OOD evening, Jim. Thanks for coming in again.”
Jim Marchuk was carrying a plastic bag with the green McNally Robinson logo. “No problem, Professor Warkentin. Bit surprised anyone’s working on New Year’s Eve.”
“Oh, Christmas break is my favorite time on campus,” Menno said. “Peace and quiet. Summers are great, too—the campus is mostly empty, and the weather’s nicer then, but Christmas is the best; the place is dead.”
Jim’s tone was light. “Universities would be wonderful if it weren’t for all those pesky students.”
“No, no, no,” said Menno. “It’s
faculty
that drive me up the walls. Departmental meetings, committee meetings, so-and-so’s retirement dinner, somebody else’s birthday lunch. Here, with almost everyone away, a body can finally concentrate.”
“Huh,” said Jim.
“You got a party to get to?”
“Kinda. Bunch of friends, we’re going to Garbonzo’s—hang out, watch Ed the Sock do
Fromage.”
“I’m sure that means something,” said Menno. “Anyway, we’ll get you out of here long before midnight.”
“I’m happy to come in,” said Jim. “Dorm’s kinda lonely. But my parents are off on a cruise for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, so not much point in going back to Cow Town.”
Dominic Adler entered the room, carrying the Mark II. “That’s not the same helmet as before,” said Jim, but there was nothing suspicious in his tone; he was just making conversation, and it beat talking about the weather.
“True,” said Dominic. “Completely new design.” They were hoping that by using transcranial focused ultrasound—a new brain-stimulation technique the DoD was experimenting with—they could boost the phonemes enough to punch through the background noise.
“Great,” said Jim, reaching for the helmet. It had different modules attached to its surface, and, in addition to ones that looked like decks of cards, there were two—one on either side—that looked like green hockey pucks.
“Put it on,” Dominic said.
Jim pulled it over his head, and Dominic loomed in to make various adjustments. “It’s a snugger fit than the old one,” Jim offered.
“Yes. We thought maybe we were losing alignment with the previous setup.” Dom pulled on the chin strap, cinching it. “How’s it look, Menno?”
Jim glanced toward Menno, as if expecting an assessment of his appearance, but Menno was peering at the oscilloscope,
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