Carbide Tipped Pens

by Ben Bova

  Once he had the rope well in hand, he wasted no time in lifting the package out of the crevasse. A grunt escaped his lips. The package was heavy.

  “All’s well,” he announced. “I’ve got the…”

  He hesitated. Shone the light on the objects from the crevasse. Noted the absence of any dials, gauges, or markings. Started walking suddenly with a faster stride.

  “I think it’s a bomb, after all.”

  “Leave it then,” the director said.

  “Not yet.”

  He backtracked all the way to the Old Man’s tent. He checked it was empty and left the explosives inside. The farther he got from the tent, the harder it was to breathe. What if they blew now? He would feel really silly.

  Yet, the bomb hadn’t blown when he reached the side of the valley and began climbing immediately. Soon, he spotted the trail left by Old Man Hall, the trampled snow almost silvery in the light. He made quick work of following in the professor’s footsteps and soon discerned the man’s silhouette ahead of him. Just as he was on the verge of hailing him, the bomb blew.

  The noise was surprisingly loud and the flash illuminated the entire nightscape, the dam dazzlingly white, the evergreen saplings thrown in sharp relief, and every rock of the valley floor clearly outlined. A few seconds later, gravel pattered down like a hard rain.

  Paul wheezed helplessly for a moment, his ears ringing. He couldn’t remember breathing since leaving the crevasse, but relief now unclenched some of the muscles he had tensed. The flash had shown him the terrace was within sight. Old Man Hall had found the edge of the flatter ground and was just waiting for him. He was an experienced hiker, after all.

  The explosion had also caused the professor to turn around and locate the younger man. Once Paul caught up to him, the first thing out of the professor’s mouth was a warning.

  “They’ll come and see why the dam didn’t collapse. Whoever did this isn’t going to be happy with us.”

  “I know. But we’ll be gone. And your camp has been blown to bits. We’ll be hard to track.”

  “But completely exposed until we get back.”

  “Look up.”

  The Old Man blinked and glanced at the clouds overhead, the light clipped to his head sweeping up. Whitish stars were falling from the sky and crowding into the beam. Snowflakes.

  “It’s snowing.”

  “As expected. The snow will hide our tracks, cover what’s left of your tent, and make it more difficult for others to follow the helicopter.”

  “What helicopter?”

  Paul raised his hand and waved at the shape emerging out of the flurries. He’d cheated. His younger ears had picked up the sound of the approaching aircraft before his mentor.

  The professor’s shoulders slumped as the man relaxed. He’d held up surprisingly well, given his age. This reminded Paul of the question he’d wanted to ask.

  “Hey, prof, there’s one thing I always wanted to know. Did you really work on the DNA profiling of O. J. Simpson?”

  Hall stared at him and then smiled slowly.

  “I’ll tell you in the helicopter if you tell me why you were so sure that it was going to snow.”

  Paul nodded. He’d given him a few clues, but Old Man Hall was still a sharp one. “You know what many of us are looking for. Sure, the Martian Underground puts up the funding for bacteria that can survive on Mars, whether they’re simple extremophiles or highly durable methanogens. But that won’t help us on Earth. Except that, as you said, global warming is taking us back to the Pliocene.”

  “You’ve found something from the Pliocene!”

  “Ironic, isn’t it, that you came hunting here for Pliocene relics just as I was able to announce that I’d isolated a new strain of ice-forming bacteria in a sample from deep below the ice sheet.”

  “Rain-makers?”

  “Exactly. We’ve always thought that bacteria from a warmer age might be more effective in our warming world than current strains. Pliocene microorganisms adapted to a warmer climate over millions of years, not the ten thousand years or so since the last freeze-up. The strain I found is related to modern-day varieties that promote ice nucleation in clouds.”

  “And now you’ve released it in the wild?”

  The professor looked up again, his mouth closed firmly to resist the temptation of sticking out his tongue and tasting bacteria from another geological age.

  “Whose fault is that?” Paul asked. “Don’t worry, there’s some left for further study, but I cultured enough to leave a flask with Francine. We agreed that she could use a drone to seed any likely cloud mass if it seemed necessary.”

  “That wasn’t very ethical,” the Old Man said, eyes downcast.

  “But it may save our lives until we can report the sabotage to authorities.”

  The professor nodded, any further comment cut off by the roar of the helicopter landing at the far end of the terrace. Paul knew that he would work out soon the other implications of the discovery. The new bacteria heralded a wave of other discoveries that might help with humanity’s adaptation to a warmer world. Might even help to control warming, if that wasn’t too much to hope for.

  Old Man Hall headed for the craft, walking stiffly. Paul followed, but he didn’t make it all the way. The helicopter’s pilot had jumped out in the snow and she ran to meet him. It was Francine.

  She threw her arms around him, hugged him, and kissed him. When they stopped to breathe again, he smiled and asked, “Francine Pomerleau, what are you doing?”

  “The only thing possible under the circumstances. You’ve forced me to ask a question that I don’t know the answer to. What would I do without my guy from Northern Ontario?”

  SKIN DEEP

  Leah Petersen & Gabrielle Harbowy

  * * *

  “It sounds like science fiction…”

  How often have you heard or read a news story about a new scientific breakthrough that started with those words? “It sounds like science fiction, but it’s true!”

  Airplanes were once the domain of science fiction. Television. Antibiotics. Organ transplants. Computers. Space flight.

  In “Skin Deep,” Leah Petersen and Gabrielle Harbowy envision a near future in which allergic reactions can be treated by tattoos on the patient’s skin that activate the patient’s immune system to produce specific antigens that will quell the allergic response.

  Fine.

  Make no mistake about it; some allergic reactions can be fatal. But properly (or improperly) engineered, the immune system’s reaction can be just as dangerous.

  In the reasonably near future, you will learn that biotechnology has produced such protections against potentially fatal allergy attacks. Again, fine.

  But there will also be the possibility that this wonderful new breakthrough could be used for nefarious purposes.

  * * *

  The courthouse was crowded, but Indira Chang maneuvered through the swelling mass of people as if she were six foot seven, bulky, and sour-faced like her co-counsel, rather than her own mousy five foot one. She couldn’t afford to linger. Too often there was that one person who ignored the “no strong perfumes” notice.

  The slow-moving crowd suddenly came to a stop, filling the arch leading into the hallway from wall to wall.

  “Damn!” Indira’s nails tapped impatiently against her carrycase.

  “If only you had a medical tattoo…” Dan deadpanned from behind her.

  “Conflict of interest,” she answered automatically, as she always did.

  He chuckled, a rumble like an avalanche. “Except that half the judges and more than half the jurors we argue in front of have med-tats.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “Remember that one we argued, which was it, the fourth? Fifth—?”

  “Fifth.”

  “Where—yeah, fifth—where the entire jury had med-tats?”

  “I’ve got it under control. My epi-pen works fine.”

  “So get the tat and keep your epi-
pen.”

  “Can’t. They won’t renew the ’script. Risk of overdose. I know the arguments, Dan, I just can’t bring myself to trust my life to something I can’t control.”

  “You? Control issues? Nah.” He laughed, but his voice was low and serious when he added, “Someday it won’t work, Indi.”

  In the lobby behind them, the commotion peaked. Screeching cries of fear pierced the roar of mingled voices. Indira turned, but Dan threw an arm out in front of her.

  “Careful.”

  Uniformed security and plainclothesman policemen rushed in as a man broke free from the crowd. For one frantic moment he met Indira’s eye. Then someone crashed into him from behind and he went down with a thud.

  “Well, that’s not going to be good,” Dan said.

  * * *

  Dan perched on the edge of her desk, arms crossed lazily.

  “You won’t believe what it was.”

  Indira raised an eyebrow.

  “Some whacked-out protestor tried to spray the crowd with ricin loaded into an epi-pen. Don’t worry, it didn’t discharge.”

  Indira had logged many hours of practice at schooling her expression, but incredulity broke through now. “What kind of sick—wait. An epi-pen?”

  Dan snorted. “Yeah. Guess we’ll be using crayons in court from now on. Security will probably start confiscating everything pointy at the door.”

  Indira gave him a long look of exasperation.

  Dan grimaced. “Yeah. I thought of that. I’m sure you can get some kind of exemption, right?”

  “I’m sure.” Indira kept her thoughts to herself. She knew he was concerned about her, but he was also looking a little smug about his prediction coming true.

  “It’ll work out, you’ll see.” He stood and rapped his knuckles twice on her desk. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.”

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. You can’t take that in.”

  Indira scowled at the epi-pen in the guard’s hand, to keep herself from scowling at the young man who held her medicine hostage. It wasn’t his fault. Suited lawyers and nervous family members murmured behind her, shifting in a restless herd while she held up the line.

  “Come on, Ari. Yesterday I was Indira and today I’m ‘ma’am’? I have a note from my physician right here. It’s biometrically notarized. You know I need it for my perfume allergy; you check it through every day.”

  The young man looked around for help. “I’m sorry. Maybe you can speak to my manager. She left for a meeting about fifteen minutes ago. She should be back in an hour, maybe?”

  “I can’t wait that long. I’m due in court in twenty minutes.”

  He shrugged, a dull red creeping up his face and ears. The din behind Indira was growing louder and more frustrated. “I’m sorry.”

  “Fine,” she said, picking up her carry bag, sans epi-pen, and slinging the strap over her shoulder with a frustrated jerk. “Keep it. Can I go in now?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Dan waited for her inside the checkpoint. He matched her angry strides easily with his long legs. “You sure that’s a good idea, hotshot?”

  “Nothing’s happened in months.”

  “Yeah.” His answer was subdued, doubtful, and his face settled into the frown that was his normal expression. Indira was glad. It made people get out of their way.

  The morning session was what Dan liked to call a “defense attorney’s yacht-payment” session. Hours of quibbling over minor details, accomplishing nothing. By the time they broke for lunch, Indira was getting a headache. As she exited the courtroom, a woman stopped in front of her so quickly Indira almost crashed into her.

  “Miss Chang. I didn’t expect to have the pleasure of seeing you today. I was worried that all the fuss yesterday would delay our case.”

  Heather Gannon was the CEO of Gannon & Perez, developer and manufacturer of pharmaceutical and diagnostic tattoo technology. She wore a pale yellow suit with a string of pearls at her perfect throat. Somehow she managed to carry off the Stepford Wife look without losing one bit of her ferocity as a businesswoman. Indira couldn’t help but notice that she made it look sexy, too. Too bad that was a real conflict of interest, and anyway, Gannon and Lucy Perez had been married since before they started the company.

  “No. We’re still scheduled for this afternoon. If you’ll excuse me, I—”

  The familiar itch started in her throat, around her eyes and mouth. Indira sucked in a strangled gasp. Already her throat was tightening. There wasn’t enough air. A hot flush swept her and she staggered back into Dan.

  “Indira? Oh, God. Someone call 911!”

  * * *

  Indira woke, groggy and itchy. Her heart stuttered in a moment’s panic before she realized that it wasn’t the itch preceding an attack, but the more general, pervasive itch of pain medication. She became slowly aware of the all-too-familiar steady beep, and the cold, antiseptic smell of a hospital.

  Damn.

  The deputy DA sat at her bedside, leafing through a magazine. “You’re up,” Rowan said, trying to hide his worry behind a shaky smile. He’d been her boss almost since she’d passed the bar, and was as much friend as colleague. “Glad you’re back with us.”

  “Thanks. Me, too. What’s the status of my cases?”

  Rowan raised a brow. “Considering you nearly died, maybe you can give yourself a couple hours’ recess before you start talking work again, counselor?”

  “It was just an allergic reaction.”

  Rowan’s face hardened. “No. It wasn’t. It was an episode that you almost didn’t survive. What were you thinking, going in there without your epi?”

  “I was thinking that I had an appointment with a judge, and that opposing counsel would be only too pleased if I didn’t show up.”

  He shook his head. “Sometimes I think you’re trying to give me a heart attack. Really, Indi, that was stupid. Dan could have handled it without you. You almost died.”

  “But I didn’t. I just need you to talk to someone and get an exemption for my epi straightened out.”

  “No. You’re not going back to court. It’s already been decided.”

  “Then undecide it. Come on, Rowan. Talk to someone at the mayor’s office.”

  “I have. The mayor himself told me to take you off. No one is keen to start making exceptions when you’re not the only lawyer in the city. Dan’s perfectly competent, Indira.”

  “How many negligence and malpractice cases have I won against Gannon and Perez for implantable biotech?”

  “I know.”

  “Nine.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “How many has Dan argued?”

  “Indira—”

  “How many?”

  “I know.”

  “None. That’s how many. Dan’s a good lawyer, but this is my case.”

  “Not anymore it isn’t. I’m sorry.”

  * * *

  The snake wound around Dr. Tehari’s arm in sinuous green and yellow coils. Its head was poised over her wrist with open jaws that seemed ready to swallow her hand. Or slither a few centimeters farther and sink its fangs into Indira. Indira turned away, closing her eyes and losing herself in the constant buzzing noise.

  “You all right?” the doctor asked.

  Indira forced herself to look at the snake, rather than at the angry-red skin around her half-finished tattoo.

  “What’s that one for?” Indira nodded toward the snake.

  Tehari grinned, a flash of white teeth. “Nothing.” She winked. “That’s just to scare the patients. This one,” she wiggled the other wrist, displaying the single blue line tattooed around it. “This one’s for my diabetes.”

  “Huh. Plain and simple.” Indira took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She’d shoved that damned epi-pen into her own thigh often enough; she could handle one little needle.

  “I was one of the test cases,” the doctor said, and it took Indira a moment to remember what
they were talking about. “The first ones were all the same,” she went on. “They only got fancy once they were in common use. I keep meaning to make it into something more interesting, I just haven’t decided what I want yet.”

  There was something oddly poetic about a tattoo artist not knowing what she wanted tattooed on her own skin. Indira had already known that she wanted a delicate vine of ivy with diagnostic readouts in the leaves. She’d had the design picked out for years, actually, but then she had started taking cases against Gannon & Perez. When she had seen up-close just what the tech could do when things went wrong, the med-tat had been put on permanent hold. She wondered if the doctor knew what she did for a living.

  “Heard you’re off the case,” Dr. Tehari remarked. “It was on the news.”

  Well, that answered that.

  “Not anymore, I hope,” Indira said, nodding toward her arm without actually looking. “Not after this.”

  Dr. Tehari grinned. “I was surprised to see your name on my patient list. I would have thought you’d be a little, well, disinclined to get the tattoo, considering.”

  “It’s not personal. I’m just doing my job.” Indira grimaced as the needle traced a thin, painful line over a nerve. “Though it wasn’t my first choice, I’ll admit.”

  “You’re doing the right thing. Allergies like yours are one of the best applications of the med-tat. Don’t think there have been any cases of failure with these.”

  Indira shook her head. “There have, but they were addressed years ago. They’re one of the safest applications now.”

  “And you would know.”

  Silence lapsed but for the buzz of the needle. Indira looked toward the vial with her name and patient ID on it. Each vial of serum was customized, engineered out of the DNA of its designated target. The tattoo clinic received the bioengineered serum from Gannon & Perez, and then added it to that patient’s ink. She had tried a case where the labels on two vials had been switched, and two patients had gotten product meant to cure conditions they didn’t have. The non-diabetic who got the insulin regulator only noticed that her dust and pet dander allergy wasn’t getting better. The diabetic whose blood sugar suddenly went wild was the one who brought the case. When Indira won it, Gannon & Perez had tightened its quality assurance practices.