Little Deadly Things

by Harry Steinman

  “And it goes way beyond moods, Jim. Listen, we’re dealing with Eva at her worst. We’re in for a rough ride. Eva can’t handle the emotions she’s feeling. They’re too complicated and too threatening. So she splits her feelings. It’s easier to see things as all bad or all good. She idealizes herself, exaggerates her positive qualities, then devalues others. They become the ‘all bad’ to match her ‘all good.’”

  “Why now?” asked Jim.

  “I can’t even guess, but I can tell you that if we push Eva too hard, she could tip. She would demonize us. If she sees us as all bad, it will be easy to devalue us, to make us non-persons. Then she would have no compunction about killing us.”

  “Mom, do you think she killed Aunt Colleen?” asked Dana.

  “I’m sorry, but yes, she might have.”

  “But if she killed Aunt Colleen...” said Dana, his voice trailing off.

  “Remember, we’re not dealing with a sane person anymore,” said Marta.

  “She was always nice to me,” countered Dana. Jim said, “She’s never been normal.”

  “She was always nice to me. She was okay in her own way until you and Mom teamed up against her.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Jim spoke, “Dana, the Eva you knew when she was your teacher is not the Eva we’re seeing today,” Jim said.

  “Why would she turn on us? Would she hate me now, too?”

  “Dana,” Marta said gently, “something happened to her, something changed her.”

  “Mom, I’ve been trying to tell you and Dad for a long time. But you kept on saying, ‘Oh, that’s just Eva,’ or ‘She can be moody.’ But it all came down to public health. Without her all that would have been impossible.” Dana choked back a sob. “And then you made sure that I couldn’t spend any time with her. One of my best friends—and I needed a chaperone to be around Eva. Maybe I could have helped her. You could have helped her. You have all these herbs and plants from Yocahu”—he spat the word—“and you could have helped her.”

  Marta started to cry. Dana’s accusation rang true. “Hijo mia, come here.”

  Dana held his mother at arms’ length. He held her tenderly and respectfully, but at a distance. There was a mixture of pleading and command in his voice, “Mom, you have to figure out what happened to her so you can fix her. I like plain old weird Eva.” Then he embraced his mother and they absorbed strength from each other.

  But Dana wasn’t finished. He turned to his father. “And you? She was your best friend. Then you didn’t want anything to do with her. I don’t know what she did to you, but can’t you forgive her? Look where we are now. Why did you shut her out, anyway?”

  “It’s a long story, Dana,” said Jim.

  “Baloney! ‘Long story’ is what you say when you really mean, ‘I screwed up.’ Okay, you don’t want to tell me why you stopped being her friend after all these years? Fine. But you took her away from me. And you had no right to mess with my friends.

  The three stood silently. As one, they reached for each other, huddling together, each mourning in his or her own way. Jim shed silent tears. Marta sobbed gently. Dana stared straight ahead, angry one moment, crushed the next.

  At long last, Jim spoke, his voice tactical. “Right now, we have three related problems. First, where is Rafael? Second, how do we get him away from Eva? Finally, there’s the small matter of what she’s going to do next.”

  “Play the vid again, Dana,” Marta instructed.

  They watched it again and then Marta pondered out loud, “This is troubling. My dad is one thing, but I’m terrified about what she’s going to do. She said, I ‘reorganize NMech. I get rid of the waste.’ I wonder if she’s going to do something with our public health projects. That was how she described them—a waste. She said over and over that she only did it to get me to join NMech. My god, if she terminates the public programs, there are people who will die. I mean thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands.”

  “What kinds of projects, Mom?”

  “Ah, a lot. Let me make a list.”

  Marta touched her sleeve and subvocalized. She frowned, and tried again.

  “Guys. We’ve got trouble. I can’t access any of the public projects, the subsidized patients, the donated nanomeds—none of it. I can’t tell if she’s terminated those programs or just locked me out. She could wash out every charitable activity we’ve built.”

  “How do we stop her?” asked Jim.

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know what she’s doing. I don’t know how she terminated the accounts that Denise Warren told us about. I don’t know how to stop her.”

  “Can the public health projects be restarted?” asked Jim.

  “I don’t know that either. I don’t even know if NMech still exists. Oh God, I feel helpless.”

  “Dana, link to the newsfeeds. See if there’s anything,” said Jim.

  Dana subvocalized and a series of images projected before them.

  “Look. There. And there,” Dana pointed.

  One feed showed a panorama of hospital entrances, flooded with ambulances. There were desperate fathers and screaming mothers carrying their children. Old men and women with labored breathing, their faces pale or jaundiced. Another series of feeds showed the chaos and violence of street riots or worse—running battles between military or police agencies on one side and pirate armies on another.

  Dana stood, speechless. Marta sat down heavily, her legs unable to support her. Jim watched the feeds. Dana moved to comfort his mother.

  “How is she doing this?” Marta cried.

  Dana asked, “Can she be controlling this from her office?”

  “I don’t think so. Eva would have hidden everything. I had the technical staff search for anything that looked suspicious right after the explosion. Eva’s pillar had been dormant. She must have another one somewhere.”

  “I bet that’s where she’s got my grandfather,” said Dana. “I think I saw a clue in the vid. I’m going to play it again to be sure.”

  Morning broke on March 4. The usual chitters, howls, and grunts of Waza National Park’s wildlife were joined by a new sound. Cries of dismay and alarm echoed among Sergeant Mike Imfeld’s squad. Their uniforms were dead. It was as if a master switch turned every uniform to dumb cloth. The medical sensors were muted; the protective liquid armor puddled uselessly; shirtsleeve bandages for cuts or scrapes morphed from medical marvels to blood-mottled fabric. Even the command, control, and communications applications were dead. In the event of an attack, they would be reduced to blind firing.

  Imfeld’s problems were compounded by his foe’s skill. Aluwa’s scouts had come of age in the forest. A small company followed Imfeld’s squad’s every move. Seventy-five child-soldiers circled north above Waza and then south to reach the park’s eastern border and set up an enfilade with a company on the western border with Imfeld’s squad in the middle. Aluwa knew he would have the element of surprise. What the teenaged general did not know was that the EcoForce’s defenses had been disabled by instructions from Cerberus.

  When Aluwa’s attack began at 0700 hours, local time, the Eco-Force squad’s defense was unfocused. The battle for Waza National Park was over in less than thirty minutes. Aluwa suffered nine casualties. None of Imfeld’s troops survived. The Great Washout claimed its first military casualties.

  Dana Ecco subvocalized and the dumb pillar projected Eva Rozen’s vid feed. There was Rafael Cruz. Behind him were the plain walls, the small bed and the edge of a window.

  “There,” said Dana. “The window.”

  Jim said, “So what? We can’t see what’s outside of the window.”

  Dana said, “Look at the window itself. That’s not smart glass. It’s an old-fashioned window. Look at the glass. See the little ripples in the window?” He subvocalized and magnified the image which showed a moiré pattern in the glass.

  “You’re right,” said Marta. She stared at the vid. “Nobody uses plain glass anymore. Building codes require smart gl
ass.”

  Dana said, “So where does Eva go that would have this kind of a window?”

  “I bet it’s her home,” said Marta. “I remember, back at Harvard. One of the few times she ever talked about her childhood, she described the apartment where she grew up. She swore that if she ever was successful—no, make that when she became successful, she never had any doubts—she wanted to recreate her childhood apartment in Sofia.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked Dana.

  “We’re going to pay her a visit,” said Marta.

  “Not yet,” said Jim. “First you and Dana go to her office and see if you can find anything that will restart the public health programs. I’m going to get your father.”

  Marta said, “I think she’s taken on some enhancements. If I’m right you can’t face her without being prepared. I’m expecting a delivery, something for you that Eva won’t expect. And I need a little time in the lab to confirm my suspicions about her.”

  When the Cerro Rojo plant failed, Nancy Kiley made an inventory of the region’s available water, took stock of her own situation, and made an executive decision: she fled.

  The region’s principal water reserve was the eight million gallons remaining in the pipeline that carried Cerro Rojo’s output to its customers. Kiley did a quick calculation to estimate how much time she had. Eight million gallons of water for thirty million thirsty people. Fifteen quarts each. Survival ration for a healthy human at rest is a bit over three quarts daily. If they used the water in the pipelines only for drinking, the region’s population could survive for a few days—if it rested in the shade. Factor in sanitation and hygiene, the need rises to fifty quarts a day or more. But agriculture and industry also lay claim to the liquid treasure.

  She had little time. Within hours, the populations of six Caribbean islands and the northeast coast of South America would be parched. And Nancy Kiley wanted to be anywhere in the world other than in the middle of a water riot.

  Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. Nancy Kiley stuffed her travel documents, a change of clothing and a few personal items in to a bag. Before she commandeered an NMech land vehicle, she doubled back to her tent and stuffed a treasured pair of comfortable shoes into her pack—I’ll be damned if I have to wear freaking boots when I’m out of this shithole.

  “What are you doing, Dr. Kiley?” her administrator asked as he watched Kiley leave. I can be in Maracaibo in less than two hours, but not if I have to take time to explain. “It looks like there might be a problem upstream of the plant,” Kiley temporized. “I should be back in a few hours.”

  “You can’t leave now. What are we going to do here? The whole system is down. What do we try now?”

  “You’ve got a whole team to figure it out. Stop complaining and get to work.” Startled, the admin turned and left.

  Kiley went back to her escape plan. Canada had been spared the worst of the drought and its climate harbored none of the fire ants, scorpions, and the other creatures that had bedeviled her here in Paraguaná. She could walk on pavement, not gravel, and enjoy seasons with temperatures less than 90 degrees. If she could make it to Toronto, then she might be safe.

  Kiley subvocalized and checked airline schedules. Bad news. No flights to the northern United States or Canada until the next day. By then riots would overtake the airport. She started to weep. Goddam Eva Rozen for getting me into this. Why don’t you come down here for a spell, you fucking dwarf! She pounded the dashboard in frustration, then chided herself. Come on, Nancy—think like a scientist, an executive.

  An executive? That was an idea. She wasn’t part of the most senior management, but perhaps she could appropriate one of their privileges. Eva spared no expense to get me here. NMech can spare no expense to get me the hell out again. She found a corporate jet in Boston, fueled and idle after a flight from Mexico. Kiley linked to the pilot. He was agreeable. There were no travel orders from Rozen and anyway, she’d been unreachable. Nancy agreed to a fare equal to a month’s salary and the promise of some personal time with the pilot. He would be in Bogotá when she arrived and would take her to Canada.

  Kiley left her vehicle at the Maracaibo depot and sprinted to the maglev. The region would soon be bloody, but with a little luck she’d be airborne before it all went bad. For the first time in weeks, she began to relax. A long shower topped her list of things she’d do when she was safe. No, make that a bath. Hot water up to her chin. Quiet music, a bottle of wine. Make that two bottles. She would soak till her skin was as wrinkled as a prune.

  The maglev decelerated at the airport and Kiley came out of her reverie. She grabbed the pack with her travel papers and clothing and headed for a private terminal where the NMech jet was fueled and ready. Fifteen minutes later she was pressed back in her seat as the aircraft accelerated. The landing gear bumped as it folded into the belly of the craft, and after a steep banking turn into the sun, they were heading north. Within minutes she and the pilot were cruising at 30,000 feet, destination: Toronto. There she would find cool weather, moist air, no water shortages, and no damn bugs.

  Nancy Kiley unbuckled her seat belt and stretched. From the plane’s bar she poured vodka into a tumbler of ice and swallowed half, cherishing the cool burn in her throat almost as much as the quiet roar of the jet. She shut down her commlink. Let her staff, no, make that her former staff, let them deal with the desal plant. For the next few hours, Nancy Kiley would enjoy the solitude of the plane’s small but comfortable cabin and its well-stocked bar.

  She freshened her drink and took her pack to the lavatory. There was a shower, large enough to lather and rinse. She drained the glass, stripped, and stepped in. The water was tepid. As long as I’m away from Cerro Rojo, I’d shower in a glacier, she thought.

  Nancy lingered, lathered, rinsed, stepped out of the shower and toweled dry. She poured another vodka, her third. Her clothing was stained despite the self-cleaning nanofibers. No matter. She would buy a new wardrobe in Toronto. She shrugged into clean bra and panties from her pack, along with a fresh tee-shirt and slacks. Nothing fancy, but clean.

  Her one nod to fashion was the shoes, a pair of Dolce & Gabbana ballet flats, shoes that she’d carried halfway around the world. Nancy handled them with the reverence reserved for a holy relic. They were comfortable, lace print silk and leather with a tiny version of the distinctive D&G logo worked into the print pattern. Kiley smiled in anticipation. There hadn’t been an opportunity to wear D&G in the Paraguanán scrubland.

  The shoes. Something about the shoes. What was it? Fatigue, dehydration, altitude, and alcohol slowed her thinking. She giggled and reached again into her pack. Where were her socks? Well, Dolce & Gabanna was made for bare feet. She steadied herself, sighed, and slipped the left shoe onto a tired foot.

  Had Nancy Kiley been sober, she might have looked inside the shoe before slipping it on, out of habit, or to admire the fine Italian workmanship. She would have seen the bright yellow amphibian, smaller than the tip of her thumb, enjoying the cool darkness in the toe of her shoe. A sober Nancy Kiley might have found her socks. The material’s tough nanofibers would have repelled the frog’s poison. Even after direct contact, Kiley might have survived were it not for the cracked skin on the bottom of her feet.

  The stowaway was a female Golden Dart Frog, Phyllobates terribilis, reputed to be the most poisonous of the area’s small amphibians. Its skin accumulates a cardiotoxin that leads to convulsions, swift and certain. Brilliant markings warn predators—a caution that Kiley would have seen nine ounces of vodka earlier.

  At first, Kiley felt a warm, rubbery sensation. Then pain. The Golden Dart’s toxins offer an unpleasant death, mitigated by hallucinations and by the speed of the poison. A few minutes of agony and disorientation for Nancy Kiley, then oblivion.

  When the flight landed in Toronto, the pilot taxied to a private terminal. Once the craft’s engines were silent, he went into the passenger compartment, and halted abruptly. He stared, uncomprehending. Hi
s passenger, quite dead, was curled in a fetal position, wearing a shoe on her left foot and clutching her right shoe in a rigid fist. The pilot recoiled in panic, then giggled uncontrollably and recited an old nursery rhyme. “Deedle, deedle, dumplin’, my son John. One shoe off and one shoe on.” He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had just landed an unauthorized flight carrying a dead body into a foreign country. He subvocalized to ready his flight back to Boston and noted that martial law had been imposed in the larger Caribbean islands and that over a thousand civilian casualties had been recorded in the first few hours of the Great Carib Water Riots.

  Jagen Cater stumbled out of the train’s lavatory and took hold of the top of each seat he passed to steady himself until he fell back into his own seat. He closed his eyes in resignation. The face he’d seen in the mirror was jaundiced. The task of urinating had become difficult and what he saw had terrified him. His urine was cloudy with waste. Its frothy presence in the toilet told him that his dialysis device had failed.

  Now he understood the exhaustion, the disorientation. All of the symptoms of end-stage renal failure were present: fatigue, confusion, swelling of the feet and hands. No wonder his shoes felt too tight. Even bad breath—hadn’t the conductor shied away from him? Next would come the nosebleeds, the bruising, the bloody stools and urine. His hands and feet would become numb. Walking would be difficult. Confusion would peak just before he lapsed into a coma.

  With stoic fatalism he reasoned that the IDD had given him five years of life. If it were his karma to leave the material plane today, then so be it. Too bad about the fine plucking. The year’s harvest would have been superb...

  Before this day was over, Jagen Cater’s thoughts would turn to the Compassionate Buddha. His invocations would be joined by the prayers of some half million other IDD users—invocations to Jesus, to Allah, to Krishna, to the Great Spirit, to a higher power. All would fall on unresponsive ears.