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  Paradigms Lost

  Ryk E. Spoor

  Being an expert in information searches, image processing and enhancement, pattern matching, and data forensics earned Jason Wood a lot of money – from private contracts and working with the police. And it was a nice, comfortable job most of the time. But then an informant showed up dead on his doorstep, a photograph didn't show someone who'd been in the viewfinder when the picture was taken, and Jason's world is suddenly turned upside-down.

  Against things that violate the very reality he thought he understood, Jason has only three weapons: his best friend Sylvie, his talent for seeing patterns… and his ability to think beyond the pattern and see a solution that no one else imagined. Against the darkness of the unknown, the greatest weapon is the light of reason.

  A vastly expanded and revised edition of Digital Knight, Ryk E. Spoor's first published novel, Paradigms Lost adds two brand new adventures for Jason and includes many chapters of additional material within the originals.

  Baen Books by Ryk E. Spoor

  Digital Knight

  Phoenix Rising

  Phoenix In Shadow (forthcoming)

  Paradigms Lost

  GRAND CENTRAL ARENA SERIES

  Grand Central Arena

  Spheres of Influence

  Baen Books by Ryk E. Spoor and Eric Flint

  Boundary

  Threshold

  Portal

  Castaway Planet (forthcoming)

  PARADIGMS LOST

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2014 by Ryk E. Spoor

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  Portions of this novel appeared in substantially different form as Digital Knight (copyright © October 2003 Ryk E. Spoor).

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN: 978-1-4767-3693-8

  Cover art by Stephen Hickman

  First printing, December 2014

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Spoor, Ryk E.

  Paradigms lost / Ryk E Spoor.

  pages ; cm

  “A Baen Books Original.”

  ISBN 978-1-4767-3693-8 (softcover)

  I. Title.

  PS3619.P665P37 2014

  813’.6—dc23

  2014034545

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)

  Printed in the United States of America

  eISBN: 978-1-62579-335-5

  Electronic Version by Baen Books

  www.baen.com

  I want to thank my beta-readers for all their support, commentary, and criticism that made Paradigms Lost a better book.

  This book is dedicated to:

  Jim Baen, for giving me a chance;

  Toni Weisskopf, for giving Jason Wood a second chance;

  my wife, Kathleen, for her constant support;

  the “Butcher of Baen” for his invaluable help.

  Foreword

  Paradigms Lost is a greatly expanded edition of Digital Knight, my first published work. It is not just a polishing and slight reworking of Digital Knight—indeed, in many areas I have tried not to touch the writing overmuch, as I don’t want to damage the “flavor” that made it work in the first place.

  What I have done is add incidents and actions that would have happened—foreshadowing and “crossover” events that are part of Jason’s universe—but which I didn’t fully know when I first wrote Digital Knight, some portions of which were written as far back as 1987 and 1988. I have also reconciled a few contradictions and confusing incidents to make more sense and clarified the dating of the stories, as some readers might have found it unclear; Jason’s adventures begin in April 1999.

  In addition to these changes—some of which are quite substantial—I have included two more of Jason’s adventures, “Shadow of Fear” and “Trial Run,” to make this a truly worthwhile read for those of you who may have read the original. Overall, this means that more than a short novel’s worth of material has been added to Paradigms Lost; the original Digital Knight was about 103,000 words, while Paradigms Lost runs well over 160,000.

  Jason’s world is very like ours . . . but not precisely, and it changes for him as time goes on. His adventures also connect—sometimes in surprising ways—with other stories and events in his universe. Those who have read Phoenix Rising will perhaps not be surprised to see his encounters with a certain young man, and possibly make other connections with things that have happened . . . or will happen.

  Join Jason, then . . . on the day that everything changed.

  PART I

  Gone in a Flash

  April 1999

  CHAPTER 1

  Dead Man Knocking

  I clicked on the JAPES icon. A second picture appeared on the Lumiere RAN-7X workstation screen next to the digitized original, said original being a pretty blurry picture of two men exchanging something. At first the two pictures looked identical, as always, but then rippling changes started: colors brightening and darkening, objects becoming so sharp as to look almost animated, a dozen things at once. I controlled the process with a mouse, pointing and clicking to denote key items that would help JAPES interpret the meaning in the image and bring out details.

  Fortunately, I had a lot of pictures of the same area—and the same individuals—from the same batch of photos Lieutenant Klein had given me, which provided me with a considerable amount of material for enhancing and interpreting what was in this photo. JAPES, which stood for Jason’s Automatic Photo Enhancing System, was the whimsical name I’d given to my own specialized image analysis and processing suite which combined multiple standard (and not so standard) photographic enhancement techniques into a single complex operation controlled partly by me and partly by a learning expert system.

  I stiffened; suddenly I was overwhelmed by the sense that I was being watched. Some people say they get that feeling often when they’re alone; since I live alone, and work in the same building I live in, I’ve never been prone to that sensation. But the feeling was so strong that I turned quickly to the plate-glass window that was the front of Wood’s Information Service.

  For just an instant—that split-second between turning and focusing—I thought I saw something: a very tall figure in the mist of evening, dressed in what seemed—in that vague glimpse—to be robes or a longcoat of some sort, with a peculiar wide-swept hat like nothing I’d ever seen. Long white hair trailed off below the hat, and the figure was leaning on, or holding, some kind of staff.

  But when I focused, I could see there was nothing there at all; just mist and the cotton-fog glow of a streetlamp beyond. I stared out for several minutes, then shrugged. What the hell, brain? I thought to myself. Not even seeing things that make sense.

  The delay had, at least, allowed JAPES to complete its work. The computer-enhanced version was crisp as a posed photo—except that I don’t think either the assemblyman or the coke dealer had intended a pose. Yeah, that ought to give Elias Klein another nail to put in the crooks’ coffins. I glanced at my watch: eight-twenty. Time enough to digitize and enhance one more photo before Sylvie came over. I decided to do the last of Lieutenant Klein’s; drug cases make me nervous, you never know what might happen. Come to think of it, I realized, that’s probably why I had that weird feeling; I’m twitchy over this one.<
br />
  So let’s get back to it. I inserted the negative into the enlarger/digitizer, popped into the kitchen for a cream soda, sat down and picked up my book. After seventeen minutes the computer pinged; for this kind of work, I have to scan at the best possible resolution, and that takes time. I checked to make sure the scan went okay, then coded in the parameters, set JAPES going, and went back to Phantoms. Great yarn.

  After the automatic functions were done, I started in on what I really get paid for here at Wood’s Information Service (“Need info? Knock on Wood!”): the ability to find the best “finishing touches” that make enhancement still an art rather than a science.

  A distant scraping sound came from the back door, and then a faint clank. I checked the time again: nine twenty-five. Still too early; Sylvie’s occult shop, the Silver Stake, always closed precisely at nine-thirty, and besides, Syl would just ring the bell or walk in from the front. “Lewis?” I called out.

  Lewis was what social workers might call a displaced person, others called a bum, and I called a contact. Lewis sometimes did scutwork for me—as long as he was sober, he was a good worker. Unfortunately, when he was drunk, he was a belligerent nuisance, and at six-foot-seven, a belligerent Lewis was an ugly sight. Since it was the first Friday of the month, he was probably drunk.

  But I didn’t hear an answer, neither his voice nor the funny ringing knock that the chains on his jacket cuffs made. Instead, I heard another clank and then a muffled thud. At that point, the computer pinged again, having just finished my last instructions. I checked the final version—it looked pretty good, another pose of the assemblyman alone with his hand partly extended—then downloaded all the data onto two disks for the lieutenant. I sealed them in an envelope with the original negatives, dropped the envelope into the safe, swung it shut, pulled the wall panel down and locked it. Then I stepped out and turned toward the back door, grabbing my book as I left. Just then the front doorbell rang.

  It was Sylvie, of course. “Hi, Jason!” she said, bouncing through the door. “Look at these, we just got the shipment in today! Aren’t they great?” She dangled some crystal and silver earrings in front of me, continuing, “They’re genuine Brazil crystal and the settings were handmade; the lady who makes them says she gets her directions from an Aztec she channels—”

  There was a tremendous bang from the rear and the windows shivered. “What the hell was that?” Sylvie demanded. “Sounded like a cannon!”

  “I don’t know,” I answered, “but it wasn’t a gun. Something hit the building.” I thought of the photos I was enhancing. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had decided to erase the evidence before I finished improving it. I yanked open the righthand drawer of the front desk, pulled out my .45, snicked the safety off.

  “You’re that worried, Jason?”

  “Could be bad, Syl; working for cops has its drawbacks.”

  She nodded, her face serious now. To other people, she comes across as a New Age bimbo, or a gypsy with long black hair and colored handkerchief clothes. I know better. She reached into her purse, yanked out a small .32 automatic, pulled the slide once. I heard a round chamber itself. “Ready.”

  One of the things I have always liked about Syl: she isn’t afraid of much and is ready to deal with anything.

  She started towards the back. “Let’s go.”

  I cut in front of her. “You cover me.”

  I approached the door carefully, swinging to the hinge side. It opened inward, which could be trouble if someone slammed it open. I took a piece of pipe that I keep around and put it on the floor in the path of the door so it would act as an impromptu doorstop. Then I yanked the bolt and turned the handle.

  I felt a slight pressure, but not anything like something trying to force the door. Sylvie had lined up opposite me. She glanced at me and I nodded. I let the door start to open, then let go and stood aside.

  The metal fire door swung open and Lewis flopped down in front of us. Sylvie gasped and I grunted. Drunk like I thought. I reached out for him. That’s when he finished rolling onto his back.

  His eyes stared up, glassy and unseeing. There was no doubt in my mind that he was very dead.

  I stepped over the body, to stand just inside the doorway, and peered up and down the alley. To the right I saw nothing but rolling fog—God must be playing director with mood machines tonight—but to the left there was a tall, angular figure, silhouetted by a streetlamp. Pressing myself up against the doorframe in case bullets answered me, I called out, “Hey! You up there! We could use some help here!”

  The figure neither answered nor came closer; he just seemed to melt silently into the surrounding fog. It’s a night for seeing men who aren’t there, I guess. I watched for a few seconds, but saw nothing else and turned back to Lewis.

  Fortunately, there wasn’t any blood. I hate blood. “Aw, Christ . . .” I muttered. I knelt and gingerly touched the body. The weather was cool for a spring evening, but the body was still warm. Dammit. Lewis was probably dying all the time I was reading Phantoms.

  “Jason, I have a bad feeling about this,” Sylvie said quietly.

  “No kidding!” I snapped. Then I grinned faintly. “Sorry, Syl. No call for sarcasm. But you’re right, this is one heck of a mess.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t mean it that way, Jason. The vibes are all wrong. There’s something . . . unnatural about this.”

  That stopped me cold. Over the years, I’ve come to rely on Sylvie’s “feelings”; I don’t really believe in ESP and all that crap, but . . . she has a hell of an intuition that’s saved my job and my life on more than one occasion. “Oh. Well, we’ll see about it. Now I’d better call the cops; we’re going to be answering questions for a while.”

  Normally, I might have asked her more about what she meant; but something about the way she’d said “unnatural” bothered me. I zipped back to the office and grabbed up my phone; I had the local police station on speed-dial. I worked with them a lot. The sergeant on duty assured me that someone would be along shortly. I was just hanging up when I heard a muffled scream.

  I had the gun out again and was around the corner instantly. Sylvie was kneeling over the body, one hand on Lewis’ coat, the other over her mouth. “What’s wrong? Jesus, Syl, you scared the daylights out of me! And what the hell are you doing even near the body? You know what—”

  She pointed a finger. “Explain that, mister information man.”

  I looked.

  On the side of Lewis’ neck, where the coat collar had covered, were two red marks. Small red dots, right over the carotid artery.

  Two puncture marks.

  “So he got bit by a couple mosquitoes. Big deal. There are two very happy bugs flying high tonight.”

  Sylvie gave me a look she usually reserves for those who tell her that crystals are only good for radios and jewelry. “That is not what I meant, and you know that perfectly well. This man was obviously assaulted by a nosferatu.”

  “Say what? Sounds like a Mexican pastry.”

  “Jason, you are being deliberately obtuse. With all the darn horror novels you read, you know what nosferatu means.”

  I nodded and sighed. “Okay, yeah. Nosferatu. The Undead. A vampire. Gimme a break, Syl. I may read the novels but I don’t live them. I think you’ve been reading too much of your woo-woo book stock lately.”

  “And I think that you are doing what you always laugh at the characters in your books for doing: refusing to see the obvious.”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but at that moment the wail of sirens interrupted, which was something of a relief. That’s the craziest discussion I’ve ever been in and maybe we can just forget she started it. Red and blue lights flashed at the alleyway—jeez, it must be a quiet night out there. Besides the locals, I saw two New York State Troopers; they must’ve been cruising the I-90 spur from Albany and heard about Lewis over the radio. I felt more comfortable as I spotted a familiar figure in the unmistakable uniform of the Morgantown
PD coming forward.

  Lieutenant Renee Reisman knelt and did a cursory once-over, her brown hair brushing her shoulders. “Either of you touch anything?” she asked.

  I was glad it was Renee. We’d gone to school together and that made things a little easier. “I touched his face, just to check if he was still warm, which he was. Sylvie moved his collar a bit to see if he’d had his throat cut or something. Other than that, the only thing I did was open the door; he was leaning up against the door and fell in.”

  “Okay.” She was one of the more modern types; instead of scribbling it all down in a notebook, a little voice-activated recorder was noting every word. “You’re both going to have to come down and make some statements.”

  “I know the routine, Renee. Oh, and I know you’ll need to keep the door open during the picture taking and all; here’s the key. Lock up when you’re done.”

  I told the sergeant we’d be taking my car; he pulled the PD cruiser out and waited while I started up Mjölnir. It was true enough that I could afford a better car than a Dodge Dart, even a silver-and-black one, but I kinda like a car that doesn’t crumple from a light breeze . . . and it wasn’t as though Mjölnir was exactly a factory-standard car, either.