"We want to coat the entire southeast with it, in one coordinated attack, to bring commerce to a grinding halt. We'll plant it at night, in places where it will cause maximum disruption—busy roads, shopping plazas, tourist attractions. We need to slow things down, clog the roads so vehicles can't operate, keep the military busy, slow the violence in the streets. This stuff will have them pulling their hair out."
Ange went over and sat on the arm of the couch. “Could that stall food transport? People might starve."
"It could make transport difficult, but people shouldn't literally starve. Some may."
"That's pretty fucking cold,” Ange said.
"Depends on how you look at it. Are a few thousand lives lost now worth saving a few million later?"
"What's the other delivery?” Chair asked.
Sebastian smiled wide, spread his arms. “You're looking at him!"
Chair frowned. “You're the other delivery?"
Sebastian nodded.
"So what can you do?” Rami asked.
"It's not what I can do, it's what I carry. In my blood.” He fished around in his backpack, pulled out a plastic bag attached to a thin tube. He pressed the end of the tube against the crook of one elbow, demonstrating that it was for drawing blood. “It's called Doctor Happy, and it's guaranteed to take the fight out of anyone infected with it."
* * * *
It was scorching hot by afternoon, and they couldn't afford the juice to cool the place, so they moved to the canopied roof with a boom-box, cranked up some Necrobang, and planned their first Doctor Happy infection party.
While Sebastian bled himself, Ange helped embed short pins in the leather fingerpads of some VR gloves that Rami sometimes wore as a tech-dude fashion statement. Including Chair and Rami, Ange counted eleven members of the infection gang. She knew most of them.
She was still uneasy about this; the whole thing smelled so much like a Jumpy-Jump operation. The plan was to spread the virus pretty much at random, trying to target males, and anyone who looked pro-business or pro-government, when possible. Sticking those who would benefit most from the virus—gang types, political leaders, police—was deemed too risky. She made it clear that she would work as a spotter, making sure no cops caught on to what they were doing, but wouldn't help infect. She felt guilty about not being a team player, and when Chair met her eyes, she thought she saw masked disappointment.
As they worked and planned, Sebastian kept them focused on the big picture: they were engineering a softer landing for the impending collapse. He kept reassuring them that the secret cabal of Nobel Prize winner-types who were calling the shots knew what they were doing.
Rami broke out a quart of home-brewed grain alcohol and passed it around. When the boom box reached a particularly breezy song, Ange and a few others broke loose.
Chair nodded to the beat, watching people who had movable limbs with only a hint of envy. “Carpe diem,” he shouted over the music, “but never forget that we're partying on the fucking Titanic.” He took a long swig from a soiled plastic cup.
Were things really going to get worse? Ange didn't want to believe it, but it was hard to ignore police puking blood on the sidewalk in front of your house. On TV and in the papers, the assumption was that things would get better soon, that the stock market would recover, the Jumpy Jump movement would be crushed, the war with China would end, that we'd get a grip on melting icecaps without dramatic changes to our ‘way of life'. But there'd already been supersized changes to Ange's way of life. She missed air conditioning, daily showers, eating anything she wanted at any time.
Pouring sweat, semi-buzzed, they hit the sidewalk market on Barnard Street, where the crowds were packed tight, and hopefully too focused on the deadly-serious business of buying food and clothes and video games to notice pinpricks.
Rami led the way, winding through the crowds so naturally. He stopped to examine a table of sorry-looking pistols locked in a glass display case, then turned and bumped into a guy in an expensive suit, grabbing the guy's shoulders as if to steady himself. His timing was perfect; the guy didn't even flinch from the stick.
Others weren't so smooth. Junie tapped a potato vendor on the shoulder, as if seeking his attention to ask a question. The vendor jerked, spun around to face her when the needle stuck him. When he saw Junie had nothing in her hand, he relaxed. She asked her potato question, and he answered impatiently and turned back around.
The real trick was reloading the pin with blood. They had to get it only on the pin head, not on their gloves. Leaving bloody smudges on people was not advisable; people would rather have a rat on them than someone else's bodily fluids. They all seemed to be doing well, though, getting at the uncapped vials of Sebastian's blood hidden in their pockets.
Once Rami got comfortable, he played his bumping trick on a few cops and soldiers, despite what they'd agreed. It went off without a hitch. The guy was fearless.
The victims would suffer mild flulike symptoms for a day or two, then they would feel extremely peaceful and happy for the rest of their lives. Hooray for them.
* * * *
Albert stood as she approached the table, opened his arms for the obligatory grope-hug, sporting a grin he probably thought was dashing or sophisticated. She steeled herself as he wrapped his arms around her and rubbed both hands up and down the back of her arms.
"Well,” he said as they took a seat at the small, candle-lit table. “Are we going to bullshit, or are we going to get intimate?"
"I thought we could talk about scheduling my defense,” Ange said, ignoring the question. “Did you read the revised draft of the discussion section?"
Albert shook his head. “I haven't had time. I've got my own work to think about. As soon as it's finished, I'll send you a copy. I'd like to get your comments."
That was supposed to make her feel important, that he would deign to seek her opinion of his own lofty work. How had she ever admired this man? How had she not immediately seen through his paper-thin posturing? He was like a silent movie actor, exaggerating the role of professor to the point of caricature. Just looking at him made her skin crawl. His thick lips and nostrils, the professorly grey beard grown to hide his weak little chin.
He took forever to order, quizzing the waitress on what type of tuna they served, listing off the genus and species of the possibilities as if this might jog the waitress's memory. When he finally finished putting on his ‘see how smart I am’ show and the waitress had escaped, he reached across the table, brushed a wisp of hair out of Ange's eyes. She wanted so badly to pin that soft little hand to the table with a fork. But she wanted that PhD, and the patent rights for her vertical-weave grass. She wanted it so, so bad.
"I shouldn't have done that, should I?” Albert said, a naughty boy smile on his face.
"When do you think I can defend?"
He took a deep breath, rubbed his beard thoughtfully with stubby thumb and stubby forefinger. “I really think you need to run a third trial."
"What?” No. No fucking way. He didn't just say that.
"Not as elaborate as the first two. If we're going to get a major corporation interested in marketing the grass, the research has to be impeccable."
Ange felt like she was going to cry. “But I was hoping to be on the job market in September. I can't run another study and defend before then."
"Well, why don't we discuss it further, after we've both had time to process?” He pulled his shiny brown leather satchel (which screamed I am a college professor) into his lap, pulled out his appointment calendar, and laid it on the table. “My wife will be out of town the first half of next week. Why don't you come over to my place Tuesday night for dinner? I've been studying Swedish cuisine, I think you'll be impressed."
"Your place?” Ange said.
"Around eight?” Albert said. He stared at her, pen poised to record the appointment.
A realization hit her then, as she stared at Albert's raised eyebrows, with a certainty bordering
on prescience. He wasn't going to let her defend her dissertation, or allow her to patent and market the grass, which he and the university owned a stake in, until he fucked her. That was his price. Until then, he was going to delay her, and make her sit through a thousand excruciating dinners.
* * * *
Uzi tugged on his leash, panting and wagging his tail, trying to pull her across the street toward Jackson Square and its Live Oaks. He lived to pee on those massive trunks.
"Uzi, no,” Ange said, as if that would phase her semi-retarded dog. She pulled him along the sidewalk, toward Oglethorpe, and the psych department.
There were more people in the park than usual. More adults, anyway. The kids were always there, playing their incomprehensible games, jumping among big colored dots that they laid along the squares and sidewalks in different patterns each time, alternately frowning in concentration and laughing like hell, dousing each other with industrial-strength waterguns, rolling dice the size of baseballs. But now there were also groups of adults, sitting in circles, cooking in pots on open fires. Ange suspected many were infected with Doctor Happy.
Doctor Happy had made the local evening news three days after their party—a strange new virus with symptoms the newscaster described as ‘disorientation, amotivation, and giddiness'. Sebastian said the government wasn't going to like this virus at all. Authoritarian types are uncomfortable with people altering their consciousness—they'd rather see them vomit blood.
An ultralight helicopter buzzed overhead, casting a drifting shadow on the street. Some rich fuck probably going for a martini at Rooftop Elysium. What she wouldn't give for a rocket launcher. When she got her PhD, she'd never become one of them. She'd live in a better place, sure, but not gated. But first she had to get the PhD. It meant even more to her than the grass patent. The patent would mean money if they could get a corporation interested, but it wasn't money she wanted.
For four years she'd dreamed of walking across that stage, her whole family—mom, Cory, grandpa, grandma, and her bitch aunt—all watching as the university president handed her the PhD.
What do you think of your crank-addict loser drug-rehab dropout granddaughter now? She wouldn't have to say it out loud. It would loom in the air as her friends circled her, calling her doctor. Probably none of them but her mom and Cory would actually show up when she did graduate, but the fantasy worked better when they were all sitting in a row on those metal folding chairs, watching.
It was a shallow reason to want a PhD, and it wasn't her only reason, but goddammit, she craved that moment.
A Jumpy-Jump lounged on a stoop up ahead, watching Ange approach. He was dressed in a mock-mailman outfit, the u.s. mail shoulder patches executed in ornate calligraphy.
"That's a big dog for such a little peanut,” he said as she drew near. Ange smiled tightly, kept her pace steady. She'd seen the guy around—he was ethnic, maybe East Indian. Long braided hair. He spoke with the singsong accent that Jumpy-Jump's had evidently invented out of thin air.
"Where are you and your big dog so urgently needed?” He stood lazily, not exactly blocking the sidewalk, but impeding it. Ange veered into the street, cutting a wide path around him, trying not to walk scared. She hated that she couldn't walk down the street without having some asshole harass her. Hated it.
"I'm talking to you, don't disappear me,” he said. He moved to block her path.
Uzi snarled and lunged. Ange held his leash tight; the Jumpy-Jump leaped clear of Uzi's snapping teeth.
A heartbeat later, there were blades all over him, jutting from his belt, his boots; he clutched what looked like machetes in both fists. “You think your big dog can protect you?” There was blood and a ragged gash on his thumb—Uzi had just caught his retreating hand.
Ange dragged Uzi backward. He was barking and snapping, scrabbling to get at the man. When she had him under control, she ran.
"I can fuck you any time I want, little peanut,” the Jumpy-Jump shouted after her. “Right here on the daylight street. Strip off your false security and live in constant fear, where you belong."
She ran until she reached the psych building, then sat on the marble steps and composed herself.
She was so fucking tired of it, tired of people wielding power, causing her grief just because they could. What the fuck had happened to the police? When she was a kid the police stopped shit like this from happening. Now they just looked out for their own interests.
She tethered Uzi to the bike rack and headed to the department chair's office.
Dr Stokes, the department chair, listened to her story, nodding sympathetically. By the time Ange had finished, her eyes were blazing with anger.
"That son of a bitch,” Stokes said. She shook her head thoughtfully. “I wish there was something I could do. All I can think of is for you to switch advisors. Of course Albert's the only neuropsych person left. You'd have to start your dissertation over."
"You're shitting me, right?” Ange said.
"I wish I was. I can't force him to let you defend; department chair is just an administrative position, I don't have power over other faculty.
"Can't he be fired for this?” Ange asked.
Stokes shook her head. “He's tenured. You would have to go through Judicial Affairs to fire him, and there is no Judicial Affairs office any more. Budget cuts."
"What about the Dean, or the President?"
"You've got to be realistic. When buildings are being bombed and politically outspoken faculty disappear in the middle of the night, incivilities just don't mean much. There aren't enough resources to deal with the small injustices any more. When was the last time you saw someone getting a speeding ticket?"
"This is not a speeding ticket!"
"I know, I know. I'm sorry.” Stokes stood, walked toward her door in a not-so-subtle hint that the meeting was over. “Switch specialties if he won't let you finish. Do another dissertation. It's the only advice I can give you. Or—” She shook her head, reconsidering.
"Or what? Or let him fuck me?"
"That's not what I was going to say. But it's an option.” Ange opened her mouth to curse a storm, but Stokes cut her off. “These are dark times, Ange. The streets are anarchy. A doctorate gets you off the streets and into a gated community with private security. The stakes are high. Close your eyes and think of someone else."
Ange glared razors at her, then stormed off.
She took the long way home, wandering through the shady little squares that dotted downtown Savannah, letting Uzi pee to his heart's content. At least one of them would get what he wanted today. And he deserved a reward for taking a bite out of that Jumpy-Jump.
The sun was low in the sky, filtering through the twisted, moss-covered branches of the oaks, adding a gold tinge to the red brick path.
She was so close. So fucking close. A two-hour defense, three signatures, and she was a PhD. She could teach at a university, or continue her research for an agro corporation.
Should she just sleep with him? Would it be a one-time thing, or would she have to put out for weeks, until the actual defense. She was so angry she wanted to scream. The whole world sucked ass.
As they approached Jackson Square, Ange stopped short. Sebastian was sitting on a bench in the square, with the Jumpy-Jump who had threatened her an hour earlier. They were laughing like old pals. Sebastian spotted her and waved; the Jumpy Jump turned, smiled.
"Little peanut! Come join us."
Uzi growled. Ange wrapped his lead around her palm two or three times, then headed toward the bench.
"You two know each other?” Sebastian said as she approached.
"Yes indeed,” the Jumpy-Jump said. He held out a bandaged hand without getting up, looking amused, as if they had shared a joke rather than an altercation. Ange ignored his hand. Uzi let out a rolling growl that went on and on. “We began our song with the wrong note, I fear.” He dropped his hand, stretched out on the bench and sighed contentedly. “So, little peanut, what do you think
of our Dada Jihad?"
Ange had read about the Jumpy-Jump movement in the paper. They were mostly poor, no jobs, no access to medical care or welfare since the depression hit, but the actual doctrine was incoherent bullshit. “I understand why you're angry, but I don't understand why you kill random people. What do you expect to get out of it?"
"Me?"
"Jumpy-Jumps, I mean."
"We don't expect anything.” He shrugged, his eyes twinkling.
"It doesn't make sense."
"Does anything make sense? It's all absurd. We're just unleashing some vicious absurdity to underscore the point.” He stood, made a peace sign. “Sebastian, it was a pleasure."
Sebastian returned the gesture. “Same here, Rumor."
"Down is up, and sinners are saints, little peanut,” Rumor said as he turned to leave.
"My name is Ange."
"Down is up, and sinners are saints, little Ange."
Uzi barked once as Rumor stood at the edge of the square, waiting for a truck to pass, before sauntering between two abandoned gas hogs and across the street.
"Why were you talking to that asshole?” Ange asked.
"I'll talk to pretty much anyone.” He reached out and scratched Uzi under the chin. Uzi wagged his tail, licked his slobbering chops. Uzi would talk to pretty much anyone who would rub on him.
"So tell me about your research,” Sebastian said. “Chair tells me your degree is in botanical biotech."
"I'm not going to work for your friends in Atlanta,” Ange said, glaring at him. “I'd never be able to get a legitimate job once I started down that path.” It didn't surprise her that Chair had tipped Sebastian off about what Ange was studying. Recruiting for the cause.
Sebastian smiled. “I understand. I'm just curious about what you're working on."
"I've developed a vertical weave grass. It never has to be mowed, and once it gets established, weeds can't penetrate the weave, so no need for weed killer."
"Nice!” Sebastian said. He rubbed on one of Uzi's ears. Uzi put his head in Sebastian's lap and closed his eyes. “Of course the trick will be to convince people with lawns to switch over. Anyone who still has a lawn can afford to have it mowed, and sees the waste of gasoline as a status symbol. And all the people who've let their lawns go probably can't afford to plow under a yard full of weeds, reseed, and water. And lawn mower manufacturers won't like it. They'll lobby to block your patent. They might even have you killed."
Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #212 Page 11