Change Agent

by Daniel Suarez

  “There will be a diversion to make it easier for you. The Huli jing facility will come under attack by rebel forces tonight at 2100 hours. If you have not found your opportunity by then, perhaps that will create one.”

  Durand turned to the monk with concern. “Resistance fighters are going to attack the Huli jing—in the capital?”

  “They will create enough of a diversion to keep the focus off you. When you’ve obtained your samples, you will resume your identity as a Huli jing client.”

  Durand pondered the plan. “Your people might get killed.”

  The elder monk just stared. “Some undoubtedly will. Knowing this, all have volunteered. They are willing to face the risk, Mr. Durand.”

  “Bo Win volunteered, didn’t she?”

  The elder monk stared. “That is not important.”

  “It’s important to me.”

  “Mr. Durand, there is little time if you are to make your client appointment.”

  Frey stepped between them. “And what about me? What about the edit I came here for?” He gestured to Durand. “And that he came for? You know it will require weeks or months for a transformation. How’s that going to work? We steal an ampoule and then what? Hang around for months in a coma?”

  Durand was about to speak, but Frey cut him off. “Don’t act as though you’re pure of heart. You came here to get edited. To be restored to your original self.” He turned back to the monk. “Where does what we both came for fit into your plan?”

  The elder monk remained unmoved. “Your initial appointment this evening is a consultation. The actual edits are usually scheduled later. Bring us the change agent on your return, and the rest is up to you both.” He turned. “Whether to change yourselves will be your decision to make.”

  Durand and Frey looked at each other.

  • • •

  Durand and Frey walked through the corridors of the monastery in bespoke black tie and dinner jackets—the attaché case of rubies handcuffed to Durand’s left wrist. Both men were immaculately groomed, with Durand’s head shaved close and Frey’s unruly mane for once tamed. The laser scanner made for a perfect fit with their clothing in every dimension. Durand had to admit it was a good look. It made him feel confident, as daunting as their task seemed.

  Frey brushed something off his sleeve. “Black tie. Unusually old school.”

  “It’s what the invitation requires.”

  They passed a young monk in saffron robes who ushered them toward a rear entrance. They moved through kitchen areas until they emerged behind the monastery, where an electric Maybach limousine awaited them. Standing next to it was Thet, dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform with a cap.

  He smiled. “Good evening, gentlemen. You look quite prosperous.” Thet opened the rear door for them.

  Frey climbed into the backseat.

  Durand stopped and gripped Thet’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do this.”

  Thet shook his head. “Not for you, Mr. Durand. For me. For my people. You need to succeed. I will get you there.”

  Durand nodded. Another squeeze of Thet’s shoulder, and he got inside.

  Thet slid into the driver’s seat.

  Frey reclined in back. “I could get used to this. Thet, where on earth did you get hold of this car?”

  He looked into the rearview mirror. “Many foreigners come. Some make bad decisions.”

  With that ominous-sounding comment, Thet brought the car silently forward, down the monastery’s drive, falling in behind a black SUV. Another just like it came up behind them—completing the appearance of a VIP security detail. Durand couldn’t see through the SUV’s blacked-out windows and had no idea who was coming along with them.

  Frey grabbed a scotch from the minibar. He raised his glass. “Here’s to good fortune.”

  Chapter 39

  They drove for nearly forty minutes, passing through rural military checkpoints without difficulty. Durand didn’t know whether that was because they were well-dressed in a chauffeured, million-dollar car with security escorts, or whether the soldiers were disloyal. In between the checkpoints they passed burned-out military vehicles and bullet-riddled police stations. In the distance he could hear occasional gunfire and explosions.

  To maintain appearances Thet had closed the glass partition between them. Durand pressed the intercom. “Thet, are those Shan forces?”

  Thet’s voice came over the speaker. “No. Some fighting every night. Army. Rebels.”

  Durand gazed out the window as they entered the capital itself. Here, the depth and complexity of the military cordon increased. Their leading and trailing security SUVs parted ways with them, returning back the way they’d come.

  Thet brought the Maybach toward the city, slaloming between speed bumps and concrete blast walls. Their car was scanned by automated devices. Mirrors were passed beneath its undercarriage by soldiers as well.

  But soldiers did not request Durand and Frey’s papers. Instead, they would briefly shine lights into the passenger compartment, only to see the case handcuffed to Durand’s wrist as he held up the Huli jing fob. Another flash onto his face and black-tie attire, and their car was invariably waved through.

  Apparently the Huli jing did not like their clients hassled and had the connections to make that so.

  Beyond the concentric rings of military checkpoints, the Maybach finally reached modern, wide, but nearly deserted city streets. Well-lit signs proclaimed in Burmese and English that they had arrived in the capital city: Naypyidaw.

  Suddenly the battered LFP glasses Durand had picked up at Vegas’s penthouse chirped from his pocket to indicate an Internet connection was available. It was the first time in days.

  He and Frey exchanged surprised looks.

  “Civilization.” Frey pulled a pair of LFP glasses out of his own coat pocket. “Might be interesting to see what’s transpired while we’ve been in the Middle Ages . . .” He started flipping through screens only visible to him.

  “Don’t connect to any accounts linked to you.”

  “I was evading the law well before I met you, Agent Durand. Besides, I’m just checking newsfeeds.”

  A thought occurred to Durand. He put on his own pair of LFP glasses and opened the device’s messaging client.

  He decided now was probably his last opportunity to send a message. He was, after all, still an Interpol agent. Durand couldn’t recall Inspector Aiyana Marcotte’s old-time email address, but he remembered her saying she used it because she wanted to be reachable by impoverished, trafficked people—which meant it had to be discoverable. Using a proxy, he did a brief search for Marcotte’s name and title and soon found her public email address and PGP key. He then began typing a message with the virtual keyboard.

  Detective Inspector Aiyana Marcotte:

  The trail to Marcus Wyckes has led me to Naypyidaw, Myanmar. The Huli jing is headquartered here, taking advantage of ties to the military to hide in plain sight. Tonight I will attempt to infiltrate the Huli jing labs to obtain a sample of a change agent capable of genetically altering live human beings.

  You once briefed me on the Huli jing and mentioned that the Nine Tails—the Huli jing’s inner circle—regularly die off. I now know that the Nine Tails are not dying; they are constantly changing. I suspect they genetically edit themselves and slay others—from among the many slaves they traffic—to take their places. Thus, you will not ever be able to bring a case against the Huli jing leadership. Focus on the chromatophores in their skin. This is their identification. This will provide the key.

  I have reason to believe the Huli jing are the remnants of an illicit biodefense project named False Apollo—shut down in 2032 (Sergeant Yi should be able to access records for it). It was created with the cooperation of powerful organizations and/or governments with the goal of creating a universal defense against human extinction. I’
m concerned that the Huli jing might have perverted this goal for some much darker purpose.

  I am going to destroy this device after I send this message, but I will contact you again from a different address if I survive. I trust you to pursue this matter with discretion and dedication no matter what my fate. I wish us all luck.

  Sincerely

  He left the signature blank, encrypted the message, and tapped “Send.” After it was confirmed, he removed his LFP glasses and bent them in two. He turned to Frey. “Yours, too. Destroy them. They won’t allow devices in there, and we don’t need the scrutiny.”

  Frey sighed. He pulled off the LFP glasses, and Durand twisted them into wreckage for him.

  They looked out at the downtown. It was weirdly posh, with towering, architecturally exotic office buildings but streets far too wide and empty. They saw only army vehicles and high-end luxury cars like their own on the road—and not many of these, either. Nor a pedestrian in sight.

  Thet’s voice came in over the intercom. “We are arriving. Good luck, Mr. Durand, Dr. Frey. I will look for you when you are ready to depart. It has been my pleasure knowing you gentlemen.”

  They both nodded to Thet through the etched partition glass.

  The Maybach turned down a cobblestone drive leading to an office tower, outlined in organometallic light. A trefoil knot logo glowed from nearby shrubbery. Soldiers in body armor with long guns and guard dogs roamed everywhere.

  The Maybach stopped under a marble portico. The armored doors unlocked.

  A suited valet opened the door and tipped his doorman’s hat to Durand as he got out. “Good evening, sir. Your invitation, please.”

  Durand bumped his invitation fob against a pad the valet held out to him. The man glanced at an unseen screen, then smiled. “Very good, sir.”

  Frey got out next to Durand.

  “Through those doors, gentlemen. The reception staff will assist you.”

  “Our car?”

  “We know which car you arrived in, sir. We will summon your driver when you are ready to depart.”

  Durand looked down at Frey. They both straightened their ties, then walked up marble steps along a red carpet runner, moving past lines of soldiers in randomized digital camouflage and carbyne helmets, standing to attention on either side. The soldiers appeared ethnically diverse but had a definite Soviet-era vibe. Staring ahead, unseeing. Automatic rifles slung across their chests. At the ready. There were scores of them.

  The glass lobby doors opened, and Durand and Frey crossed a surprisingly gaudy lobby, again lined with two dozen heavily armed soldiers standing at attention. A red carpet led down its length.

  At the end of the carpet stood an imposing reception desk of black marble. The trefoil knot symbol was set in brushed gold on the wall behind it. There was room to pass on either side.

  Standing before the desk in a full-length black gown and gloves was a gorgeous young blond. She wore a diamond necklace whose jewel-encrusted pendant was also fashioned into a trefoil knot.

  She smiled as they approached. “Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome.”

  Frey nodded happily. “Good evening, young lady.”

  “Are you seeking personal or third-party revisions this evening?”

  Durand and Frey looked at each other. Then the woman. They spoke in unison.

  “Personal.”

  “Very good. I see that neither of you are wearing electronics. Please be aware that no phones, cameras, or other recording devices are allowed anywhere within this facility. It is important that this rule be observed closely, and there will be no exceptions. Do you understand?”

  They both nodded.

  “Excellent. Allow me to assist you with your marker.” She gestured to Durand’s handcuffed case and patted the black marble countertop. “Please place and open the case here, sir. And unlock the cuff.”

  Durand placed the attaché case on the counter. He then produced a key to unlock the cuff, and clicked in a code to unlock the case itself. He then turned it toward her.

  As he did so, she deftly slipped a carbon fiber bracelet around his wrist, fastening it on him like a concert pass.

  “This device will identify you to staff members as well as track your movements throughout the facility.” She flipped open a cover to reveal a button. “If you have need of a staff member for any reason, simply tap this button. If you attempt to remove or tamper with the device, it will send out an alarm.” She smiled. “You don’t want that.”

  She viewed the contents of the ruby-filled case with the indifferent eye of someone accustomed to seeing vast wealth. She then wrapped a companion bracelet around the attaché case handle. “We will scan your gems for clarity, cut, and size to determine their value. It will only take a few moments.”

  She handed the case to another young woman in a gown who emerged from a side door. She then turned to Frey. “Your right wrist please, sir.”

  “Yes, of course.” Frey reached up, clearly enjoying her attention. “Miss, has anyone ever told you that you are the spitting image of a young Margot Robbie?”

  She smiled. “I should think so. I have 99.993 percent of her DNA.”

  Frey laughed good-naturedly. “You naughty girl.”

  She turned to Durand and motioned for him to look into a nearby, wall-mounted glim. “Here is your balance, sir.”

  He followed her gaze and saw the number “$40,293,083 USD” floating in midair next to the words “On Account.”

  Durand cast a steely look her way. “That’s about three million short by my calculation.”

  She smiled brightly. “You may, of course, depart with your jewels, sir. But this is the sum our systems are prepared to credit for what you’ve brought us today. Rubies are, after all, not as portable or fungible as cryptocurrencies.”

  Durand waved her off. “Fine. I’ll accept it.”

  She smiled again. “You are all set for consultations on personal revisions.” She gestured. “Please proceed to the elevator. And enjoy your time with us.”

  Frey grinned broadly. “I’m sure we will.”

  Durand and Frey walked around the massive stone reception desk and found a single elevator car done in mirrors and brass waiting for them. They entered and the doors closed. As expected there were no buttons. It began to ascend.

  Frey sighed. “Well, we’ve just been relieved of forty million dollars. Macao isn’t half as efficient.”

  Durand turned to see the view through the glass wall behind them.

  Frey fished in his pocket for a moment, and then produced a small chip case. He extended it to Durand.

  “What’s this?”

  “Some data you’re going to need. Your original genomic sequence, digitized.”

  Durand took the chip and held it in the palm of his alien hand. On the device was the key to getting back to himself.

  Frey pointed. Durand looked out at the city falling away beneath them as the elevator rose quickly and silently.

  Frey no longer seemed festive. “Ken, no matter what happens tonight, I want to thank you for bringing me here. For bringing me this far.”

  Durand nodded.

  The elevator slowed, and then the doors opened on the fiftieth floor.

  Chapter 40

  They emerged into a marble hall with crystal chandeliers and wood-paneled walls. A six-foot-high vase overflowing with fresh tropical flowers occupied the center of the room. Standing nearby was a tall, thin Caucasian man in his thirties in a dark blue suit, with flowing red hair. He had the orderly look, sharp features, and suave manner of a professional cocktail party guest.

  “Gentlemen. Welcome. You may call me Thomas.” He had a slight French accent. “I will be escorting you to your consultations and answering any questions you may have along the way.”

  Frey nodded. “Good evening, Thomas.”


  “I hear you’re considering personal revisions.”

  “Indeed we are.”

  “Excellent. I, too, have undergone considerable revision, and I could not be happier.”

  “Have you . . . ?”

  Durand and Frey exchanged looks. The man had a striking though not classically handsome appearance.

  He nodded. “I realize I look rather unique. However, Thomas Jefferson has been a lifelong passion of mine.”

  “Thomas Jefferson?”

  “Yes. The DNA was not easy to obtain, I assure you.”

  Before Durand could answer, a young Scarlett Johansson pushed past him, arm in arm with a young Charlize Theron. Both ladies wore sequin gowns, jeweled necklaces, and white gloves.

  Frey pivoted to watch them go. “Good Lord . . .” In backing up, he nearly collided with half a dozen more Scarlett Johanssons laughing and smiling as they moved past and around him, entering a crowded lounge.

  One of the Johanssons turned around and leaned over to pinch Frey’s cheek. She said with a thick Asian accent, “You ’dorable!” And moved off.

  Frey pointed. “That was a flock of Johanssons.”

  Thomas watched them go. “Yes, some of our most popular third-party revisions. For best results we recommend using a source individual who is a native speaker of your desired language.”

  Frey kept pointing. “Young Scarlett Johanssons.”

  “Of course, the age is dependent on the age of the recipient.” Thomas gestured, ushering them to the entrance of the lounge area.

  The room was furnished with a series of sofas and armchairs and a grand piano, where a pianist played jazzy, festive music. Standing or sitting on divans were multiple Hollywood and Bollywood celebrities, K-pop stars, and more—with multiple copies of each. Laughing and sitting among them were a few older men—Arabs, dour-looking Yakuza or Triads in business suits, and an Eastern European man in a ridiculously ornate military uniform.

  Frey stared in amazement. “Who on earth is this for?”

  Thomas stood next to them at the edge of the room. “We do not judge here. Slavery is perfectly legal in certain jurisdictions. Likewise, some willingly surrender their identity to further career goals. Our third-party revision team is able to accommodate almost all interests. Of course, they can offer secure confinement for involuntary revisions, where necessary. Such is the world.”