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 father'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 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 and observers 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'd selected, was an attack of the new strain of antibiotic-resistant bacteriological 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 boy of only three. But then, midway into the course of the injections, Malcolm's 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.

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