Durand could see a line of half a dozen boys there displaying a range of numbered cheekbone heights.
“But we—you and I—came here to break the law and get what we both want. There is no turning back from this once we begin. You can’t go halfway with the Luk Krung. If you have lingering doubts, tell me now, and we will leave. And I will pass to the authorities genetic proof that you are . . . mostly . . . Kenneth Durand and not Marcus Wyckes. But if we do that”—he gestured to Durand—“like this you will remain. Now is the time to decide. But your decision must be final.”
Durand considered this as he watched the stage. A small child was doing backflips like an Olympic gymnast, traversing the stage to wild applause.
He suddenly wondered what Kenneth Durand was doing here. Kenneth Durand ate deathless meat because it was better for the environment, and he didn’t want anything to die for his dinner. And yet he had killed people to reach this room. What was happening up on that stage was one of the most disgusting displays of unethical genetics he’d ever seen. And not only had his algorithms not detected this place, but now he was here as a client. A customer looking to serve his own needs.
But it was Marcus Wyckes who had done this to him, and if this Thai cartel could somehow reverse engineer the Huli jing’s in vivo edits, rewriting him to his original DNA—what then? Wasn’t he giving this gang the ability to do in vivo edits as well? Like Desai said: this was worth hundreds of billions. Trillions. He would be helping this technology to spread. A technology that could destabilize the world by rendering identity itself obsolete. Creating a post-identity world. What then?
Durand could feel the ethical quicksand pulling him under. As much as he pictured himself saying, I refuse; I cannot do this—he remained sitting at the table as the degan caviar was placed before them. The only image that kept coming into his mind was of his wife and daughter and the idea of who Kenneth Durand was—father, husband—alongside them. His rational mind told him it was merely an evolved preference for his own genes, but then what else was there in the natural world but a compelling drive to propagate one’s genes? What made them his genes? Chance?
Yet he knew deep down in his being that they were his genes. And now they had been stolen from him.
He was tempted to pull out the photograph of his wife and daughter, to look at it, but he didn’t dare just now. He could see it in his mind clearly enough.
How would they look upon him if they knew what he’d already done?
There needed to be a brief exception in his life—an ethics time-out. A moment of selfishness. Just one, and he would get back to who he’d been. He felt the quicksand swallowing him as he realized he was going to do this. That, in fact, people had already died so that he could reach the seat he was in right now, in this macabre showroom. He watched Frey calmly spooning caviar onto a cracker.
Why wasn’t he punching Frey in the face? Why wasn’t he calling the police and having this place raided?
Here Durand sat, and continued to sit. That was the simple fact. And each passing second he wasn’t getting up and leaving made it all the more true. Was he really the ethical man he presented to his daughter and wife?
The Kenneth Durand he’d thought he was would never have considered this.
But then, that Durand hadn’t seen and felt his face and throat and arms and entire body change around his consciousness. That Durand could hug his daughter with his own arms—not those of a sociopath.
It would be better to be dead.
Then why hadn’t he killed himself? He could have leaped from that under-construction high-rise in Singapore. Or out in the Gulf of Thailand—why hadn’t he just tied an anchor around his neck and plunged into the sea?
He’d killed to get back to himself.
How was that even possible? Kenneth Durand didn’t even fish because blood upset him. Killing—especially after the thousand hours of gun-camera footage he’d seen in Africa—had been completely unimaginable. And yet he’d viciously stabbed two young men to death. He had no concrete memory of doing so—though he knew he had.
He realized for the first time that his own life was more important to him than the lives of others. It was a truth that he’d never had to face before—one every rational person wanted to avoid. Deathless meat was the ultimate expression of that reluctance.
Frey was right about one thing: Durand was just like the rest of the clientele here. He saw what the Luk Krung was doing, but he was still determined to seek their help for himself.
And he was going to do it.
“I’m a hypocrite. Is that what you want to hear from me?”
Frey grimaced. “I want to hear that there is no moral difference between what you and I want. That you will willingly help me to derive the change agent that may still be in your DNA or somatic cells so I can cure my achondroplasia. Do you agree to this?”
Durand nodded. “I agree.”
“And will you make certain to help me, just as I will help you?”
He met Frey’s gaze. “I will.”
“Very well. Now we are neither of us blameless. No matter what happens from here on.” Frey reached for the ivory tablet. “It’s time I spoke to the management of this establishment about the real purpose of our visit.” He tapped an AR button to summon their genetic counselor.
In the interval Durand watched the stage numbly. The little emcee was presenting a child wearing geisha-like makeup and costume who suddenly erupted in a stunning operatic singing voice—to great applause.
Chapter 26
Thick-necked Thai security men in suits and LFP glasses accompanied Kenneth Durand, Bryan Frey, and their genetic counselor, Ms. Meow, down an echoing concrete corridor. It was unlike the plush spaces they’d been in before—clearly the business end of the operation.
Durand glanced back at the Thai security men warily. “This guy really calls himself ‘Mr. Vegas’?”
Frey shook his head. “He didn’t. His parents did. Birth nicknames are a Thai tradition meant to confuse evil spirits from stealing newborns. But they’ve gotten rather fun in modern times. I know a Ms. King Kong and a Mr. Laser as well. You can work for years with someone in Thailand and never know their real first and last name.”
Ms. Meow was stone-faced as she brought them through a steel door into a well-appointed sitting room lined with leather sofas, surrealist paintings, and a well-stocked bar. “Gentlemen, please take a seat.”
Frey looked around with concern that no one was there to meet them. “Does Vegas know it’s me who’s come to see him?”
A male voice answered. “Mr. Vegas does, Bryan.”
Frey and Durand turned to see the male emcee, Mr. Vegas, enter through a different door—the same man who’d opened the fashion show. He still wore his brocade tuxedo and nodded, bowing slightly to them both. He turned back to Frey. “It has been some time since we saw you last.”
Frey bowed slightly as well. “Sawasdee krap, Mr. Vegas. It is good to see you. I’d heard you expanded your product lines into human edits, and so I’ve brought a very interesting client along with me.”
“Our new partners have indeed enabled us to move beyond what we did in the old days. No more editing pets and plants.”
“The modeling load must be enormous.”
“It is.”
“Your product line is quite impressive. And my compliments on your showmanship. It far exceeds the dog and cat shows you put on years ago.”
Vegas stared, unreadable for a moment. He then turned to Durand. “You’ve brought along a commercial client. No doubt one who wishes to remain anonymous.”
Frey spread his hands. “For now, yes.”
“In the market for ‘radical’ edits. Is that correct?”
“We’re here for something even more serious than that. We’ve come to discuss the radical edits my client has received. Edits you might be interes
ted in seeing yourself.”
“This is not the preferred means of contacting us. Entering our facility under false pretenses.” He returned his gaze to Frey. “Under a false name.”
“Of course, but as you’ll see, secrecy was required.”
Vegas moved to the bar and began to pour himself a scotch. “You know, Bryan, you should see what we’ve been up to since you left. You and I got started in this business together, after all. I think you will find it interesting.”
“Perhaps another time. We should instead focus on why we—”
“Nonsense! I insist.” He downed his two fingers of scotch and clapped his hands, motioning. “Come! Let me show you just how far our little enterprise has come from our days of editing poodles and shih tzus!” He let out a screechy laugh and opened the side door.
The security men nodded for Durand and Frey to move forward. Their genetic counselor let herself out the opposite door without looking back.
Durand gave a concerned look to Frey, who motioned for calm.
“If you insist, Vegas. We’d be happy to tour the operation.”
“Excellent!” He entered an echoing and brightly lit double-height concrete corridor lined with numbered sliding metal doors on rails. “All of this was financed by our international partners. Whereas I once had to rely on you alone for guidance, I now have two dozen genetic engineers designing product lines.”
“Where did you find your partners?”
“They found us.”
“They manage your computational load?”
“We have remote access to state-of-the-art systems—cloud-based photonic exascale computing available to us on demand.”
“So that’s how you were able to scale so quickly?”
“More than that. They supplied us with designs. Our younger selves would be amazed by what we routinely achieve today.”
“The changes are indeed coming faster every year.”
Vegas pressed a button, and one of the heavy metal doors slid open with a low grinding sound. He led them into what looked like a light manufacturing operation, with wheeled conveyor lines for moving cardboard boxes. Pallets of boxes stood nearby.
Arranged in a circle stood half a dozen six-year-old children of varying ethnicities—both boys and girls. They wore simple blue work smocks with cheap plastic sandals. They didn’t even glance up as Vegas and his guests entered. Instead, the children focused on passing cardboard boxes from the conveyor line, on to another child, and then to a third child, who added it to the stack of boxes on a pallet—whereupon a child on the far side removed a box from the pallet and placed it onto the conveyor line, starting the loop all over again.
It was a bizarre imitation of work.
Vegas gestured to the little workers. “Our other DLG3 line of edits. We call it ‘Worker Bee.’ Creates laborers of low IQ. Low food requirements. Designed for docility. They can be trained to perform tasks too simple for robots to perform cost-effectively. Sterile, of course.”
Frey and Durand stopped cold.
Frey’s initial look of shock was quickly replaced by a ready smile. “You really have changed your business.”
“Look . . .” Vegas leaned in to take a box from one of the children, interrupting their work. The young girl he took the box from barely noticed, and instead waited for the next box to be handed to her. “Put them through the motions, and they imprint quickly. They can be taught to understand spoken language, but do not themselves speak. And so can keep secrets.”
Durand noticed several more thick-necked security men enter and fold their hands in front of them patiently.
Frey’s eyes darted around the room. “And do these . . . workers mature?”
“Yes, of course, Bryan. They will grow to become full-sized adults—though devoid of sexuality. This product has only been in existence for six years. It shows great promise. They can be produced at a highly competitive cost to typical industrial robots, and are more easily ‘programmed’ by unskilled staff.”
“But . . .” Frey’s voice trailed off.
Vegas turned to him. “Yes?”
“I’m given to understand that there are plenty of slaves already in the world. Huge populations of refugees on the move. Wouldn’t that make for a . . . challenging market for this product?”
Vegas nodded. “Indeed. But unlike slaves, as you can see, these workers will not rebel. Or demand rights. Docile—susceptible to suggestion and lacking self-interest. This achievement was accomplished through research on Devil’s Breath.”
Frey stared out at the workers. “Scopolamine.”
“Yes. It has a fascinating effect on the human brain. Zombifies the mind, making it receptive to external suggestion. Our partners have perfected embryo edits to create the chemical naturally within the brain. With these children, such susceptibility to external suggestion is permanent. They will hold their hand over a flame if you tell them to.”
Durand felt nausea. Right here—this was the reason for the Genetic Crime Division. It’s what had motivated his old self. Before he’d gone on this insane quest, his job had been to prevent abominations like this. He’d had a noble purpose. Now he was standing here petitioning monsters for assistance.
This was devolution. Humanity was devolving a portion of itself into a slave subspecies. He had to put a stop to this. It could not go on. The evil on display here was too great.
Frey nudged Durand roughly.
Durand looked over at him to see an expression of impatience on Frey’s face.
Frey turned to Vegas. “This is a radical shift from editing pets, Tang. I’d heard you’d gone into the baby mill business, but you have to admit, this is pretty goddamned extreme.”
Vegas nodded. “Yes. Yes, it is, Bryan.” He turned an unfriendly eye toward Frey. “But then, I have changed, too. I was given little choice by my new partners. And I was in an economic predicament. It seems I made a bad bet on someone.”
Frey looked momentarily concerned before his easy smile returned.
“A certain freelance genetic engineer I’d employed had badly handled his work. He said he was headed to Singapore. That he didn’t need me anymore.”
Frey held up his hands. “You cannot still be sore about that, Tang.”
“It’s Mr. Vegas now.”
“I was full of myself back then. It was a very big opportunity. Very advanced. They—”
“You were soon dismissed.”
“That was a misunderstanding. The investors had unreasonable expectations, and—”
“To expect anything from you is unreasonable. Or so I have found.” Vegas approached Frey. “The edits you designed for me had serious flaws. You were to deliver the genome for a long-lived shih tzu.”
“I did! The computer model indicated those dogs would live thirty years. Reduced likelihood of—”
“Yes, you did indeed fulfill the letter of your contract.” Vegas’s expression turned angry. “But by six months of age the dogs smelled like Stilton cheese.”
Frey raised his eyebrows. “Really? That is . . . surprising . . . to some extent.”
“Surprising!” Vegas slapped a cardboard box violently out of one of the docile children’s hands. The child didn’t even flinch. “By the time it was apparent how shoddy your work was, you were gone. With my money. Most of the edits you sold me were not as advertised. I was nearly bankrupted. Money had to be borrowed. From dangerous people.”
Frey put a finger to his chin in thought. “You know, I think I know how that shih tzu error happened.”
“It’s too late. I was very glad to hear you had come to me.”
“I can see that you’re angry, Tang.”
“Mr. Vegas!”
Frey held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m perfectly willing to repay any and all costs. Especially when you see—”
; “It is too late.”
Durand observed Frey’s increasing desperation with a strange detachment. He could see how quickly this was unraveling. Looking around him, he realized that there were far too many security people in here for a tour. Things were about to go very wrong.
And yet he felt an eerie calm—even as his anger rose.
“It was a simple mistake. Genetic modeling before photonics was extremely expensive. And your computer modeling budget was alarmingly inadequate.”
“Was it? Well, fortunately my new partners have expanded those capabilities. Let me show you one of our biggest sellers . . .” Vegas gestured to his guards, and they opened a side door.
Six small boys entered wearing military fatigues and tiny caps in digital jungle camouflage, marching obediently. They carried MP6 submachine guns strapped to their chests, tiny hands clutching them as they stared straight ahead.
Vegas shouted as they drew alongside. “Halt!”
The boys snapped to, and slapped their boots on the ground as they stood at rigid attention.
Vegas paced around them, resting his hands on the shoulders of the diminutive soldiers. “You like them, Bryan? They’re knockout mice of a sort—only the genes we’ve knocked out this time are those that support compassion and empathy. HTR2A. SLC6A4. BDNF. DRD2. And don’t forget CRHR1—shrinking the fear center of the human brain. These children are designed to grow into reliable soldiers. They will not fall prey to conscience, or be tormented by memories of horror. Nor do they fear death. They obey and tell no tales of what they’ve done. Likewise sterile. Don’t want these nasty fuckers breeding.”
Durand felt a boiling rage within him. He visualized burning this place to the ground—but then realized he had to notify the authorities. That’s what Kenneth Durand would have done. And he was Kenneth Durand. This place could not be suffered to exist.
Still he watched, almost as if he were having an out-of-body experience. Frey spoke, but the sound seemed muted somehow. He watched the dwarf’s lips moving as he tried to evade his doom—a pointless endeavor, Durand now knew.
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