Long Eyes and Other Stories

by Jeff Carlson

  "No. Listen. I need property records and access to your criminal database."

  "What?"

  "I'm onto something bigger than robbery," she said. "Can you help me with property records?"

  It was a place to start. How were the two buildings linked? The saboteur might be attacking rival businesses in order to destroy the competition — or was it personal? Maybe he was nothing more than a disgruntled employee. Julie's instincts said no, but they needed to test that theory, too.

  Reaves frowned at her. "What exactly are we talking about here, Miz Bo-Chain?"

  "Someone's planting bugs in the city."

  "You mean bringing them in?"

  "Yes."

  Reaves lifted one hand and shouted across the room. "Leber! Hey, Leber!"

  The other guy was white, too. They were all white, except for the Hispanics and blacks in the Army and a few Asians and Hispanics among the federal agents. Montana was not a diverse state, certainly not like Florida. Julie was accustomed to being the only black woman for miles around. New acquaintances usually stumbled over her Bayou name, mostly in an effort to get it right but sometimes only to mock her. Missus Boo-Kayne. Miz Boy-Shane. That the governor had pronounced it correctly spoke of his willingness to invest in her, but Julie always felt the stigma of being an outsider.

  "Leber, this is Bo-Kayne," Reaves said. "She says she saw someone bringing bugs into the city. I want to know where they hit, how hard, and why. Look at our DTs again. Get me something fast."

  "Sure," Leber said. "Come over to my station."

  DTs weren't a new thought for Julie, either. The media was rife with speculation that domestic terrorists had released the machos despite announcements to the contrary by government officials. These white boys in their five hundred dollar suits had all the answers — they said they knew who'd created the termites and why — but Julie didn't trust them. Not entirely.

  Highsong joined her in the HQ as Leber walked her through the same questions half a dozen times, challenging everything they'd seen. That was his job. He was a federal investigator. Leber wasn't condescending but he didn't take her at her word, either. Too often, he doubted her. Was she imagining it? Yes, she had a problem with authority that could be traced all the way back to her mother, ol' bourbon brains, and her father, who'd skipped when she was five. That wasn't the issue. Julie preferred to think she was simply a perfect fit for the American West, loaded with independence, spirit, and know-how.

  For example, it was deeply quixotic for her to make fun of Dr. Lance Machovsky's name, but Julie had been suspicious of this whole plate of worms since the DHS briefings, which, well, had been too brief.

  "You're certain you saw the same man?" Leber said, trying again to deflect her.

  "Yes. Look." Julie was losing her temper. "Someone's either trying to take out the competition or settling a grudge or both, and they don't care who else gets hurt."

  "I understand your concern," Leber said.

  She fumed while he tapped blandly at his computer. Was he delaying her? Why? Maybe they just didn't want her causing a fuss. DHS seemed to specialize in turning out these smooth, unflappable men, who, in turn, conveyed only calm and confidence to the public.

  DHS said the termites were just one of many gene-splices under development by private and government bio research teams in response to the agriculture industry's issues with blight and pests. Global warming would increase crop threats throughout the twenty-first century. Manmade attacks were also a real possibility, and DHS and the White House officially — quietly — supported efforts to meet such dangers.

  Machovsky worked for DawnTech. The field test they'd chosen first was directed against a comparatively humble foe, so-called pine rust, a fungus that had decimated Montana's holiday economy for three years running. It infected blue spruce and every species of fir — in other words, the most popular Christmas trees in the nation. Between the blockades and the lawsuits out of California, Oregon, and Colorado, where the rust had spread with imported trees and seeds, Big Sky Country was taking a huge beating. Nurseries made up fifteen percent of Montana's economy. Not all of them were Christmas tree farms, of course, but the entire industry had suffered.

  Heterotermes aureus was a desert termite. It could not survive in the damp, cold north, not for long — not even in the summer. That was its failsafe. Machovsky had crossed his bugs with the black fly and with the rust itself. Fly genes accelerated the machos' metabolism. The rust genes meant they were dependent on the fungus as a nutritional source. H. aureus machovsky was intended to pick and choose its way through a diseased farm at a hysterical pace, then weaken and collapse after exhausting the supply of rust-sick wood.

  Breed fast, spread fast, die fast. That the machos could survive without the rust was a surprise adaptation. Whoops.

  "So what happens next?" Julie asked, gesturing at Highsong and herself. "We want to help — before this guy brings more bugs inside the quarantine. We both know the city, and we're good with our hands. an you put us on the team?"

  "I'll be in touch," Leber said.

  "When? Today?"

  "I'll be in touch," Leber said.

  #

  It was a brush-off. Julie and Highsong left headquarters with no answers. She was only generating more questions, such as where did the saboteur get not just one queen colony, but several? How would he gather thousands of bugs in order to pack them into the city? One man alone couldn't collect and preserve a colony.

  Julie didn't like the over-reaction to the gang of bandits, either. Yes, an entire Army division was in-state, but there were also 60,000 refugees and the fires and a pandemic on their to-do lists. No one had twenty men to spare unless they were nervous about what she and Highsong might uncover at the site. Who was worried? The feds? Somebody local? Could she trace the orders to send a full platoon back into the tangled chain of command?

  As soon as they were outside, Julie pulled her iPhone and tapped in a Los Angeles-area number, gazing up through the ash.

  It only rang once.

  "Beauchain?" A young man.

  "Em, you're going to like this," she said.

  His voice rose in pitch. "Am I hallucinating or are you calling me on a cell phone?"

  "Listen, I just—"

  "Idiot." He hung up.

  "Oh boy." Julie turned to Highsong and slung her arm around his waist, feeling tired and lost and glad to have him. "We should just go back to my place," she said.

  "Nah." Highsong squeezed her. "Let's get in some trouble first."

  #

  Her place was a cot in a big tent surrounded by big tents where DHS was housing civilian law enforcement groups on the north side of town. Highsong had been assigned to a men's tent nearby, but they walked to his pick-up truck instead, which hardly offered any more privacy, lost in a sea of vehicles that other cops, rangers, firefighters, and workmen were using as sleeping quarters and offices. People were everywhere in the vast parking lot.

  "You pervert," Julie said.

  Highsong didn't react, opening the cab and waving her inside. His laptop was squirreled away behind his seat. He gave it to her and scratched her back as she typed at the machine. DHS had wi-fi over most of the camp. It was sluggish with traffic, but that was good. Julie's emails would be like one little mouse in the on-going circus.

  It's your favorite idiot, she typed.

  Forgiven. I've seen the news. You're stressed. What's up?

  I need some background, she typed. Can you poke around for me?

  Poking is my middle name.

  Em was a friend she'd made on the usenets, trading tech advice and buyer tips. She was pretty sure he didn't actually live in Los Angeles. For all she knew, he was right here in Missoula or in Maine, Milan, or Moscow, but he'd weathermanned his lines through L.A. for cover. He said he was wanted by the FBI. That was probably just geek posturing, but Em was good at what he did.

  Julie typed up the two buildings' addresses and a run-down on Machovsky. Maybe h
er hacker buddy would draw some connections she couldn't.

  He didn't test her patience. A mere twenty minutes passed. If she was worth her weight, she would've jumped Highsong or at least smooched a bit, but she wasn't nineteen anymore, she was thirty-four, and it had been a long day. They both napped. Other people came and went through the parking lot, shouting, banging doors, as Julie curled on the long bench seat with her head on Highsong's thigh. Then his laptop chimed.

  You're neck-deep in slime, Em emailed. A lot of DawnTech's records are sealed. FEDERALLY sealed. Ready for the good news?

  "Oh boy," Julie said. There's good news? she typed.

  Em dumped a handful of files on her. Enjoy, he said. I'm out. You don't know me.

  "Oh boy," Julie said again.

  DawnTech was so familiar with termites because they'd been experimenting with the bugs as a clean energy source. Termites could produce as much as two liters of hydrogen from digesting a single piece of paper. The highly specialized microbes in their digestive tracts made each bug an efficient bioreactor, which was why Julie's TI guns worked so well.

  It was also why Em thought gene-spliced termites could be used as living firebombs. A mating pair might infiltrate enemy territory — tiny, insignificant, organic, untraceable — then breed until they hit critical mass. Termites made love three times a day, Em noted, and some of DawnTech's funding came from DARPA, which meant the Pentagon. Top secret.

  "Where did you say you knew this guy from?" Highsong asked, reading over Julie's shoulder.

  "Okay, so some of it's nuts."

  "Some of it?"

  "Here's the good news. Next file. Look at this."

  The first building where they'd met the saboteur held the national ordering center and sales offices of Holiday House, a billion dollar name in Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and Easter supplies. The embargo on Christmas trees had halved their earnings in past years. More interestingly, the same parent corporation that controlled Holiday House also owned the second building and more in Missoula. Em hadn’t been able to draw a link between that corporate blind and DawnTech, but he suggested it was obvious. Who else could be supplying the saboteur with bugs? According to Em’s numbers, the whole thing looked like an insurance scam. They were infesting their own business holdings and testing an insanely lucrative weapons program at the same time.

  Highsong just shook his head. "How do we get into stuff like this?" he asked.

  "Oh my god. You can say that again."

  "You, uh, you want to tell Agent Leber?"

  "No." Julie met his eyes and said, "No. This is our city."

  #

  They slipped back into Missoula as dusk fell. Driving Highsong's truck through Army lines was easy enough. They had ID and their partly-completed chart and maps. "We're just trying to finish up," Julie told the lieutenant who inspected her DHS-issued pass, and it wasn't a lie. She wanted revenge.

  Things got more complicated after dark. To start with, they worked without lights. Worse, there were only two of them, and Em had provided four addresses to stake out. Highsong suggested splitting up, but Julie said no. The city was quieting down, but there were still looters and Army patrols and God Knew Who Else poking around. It was better to stick together. If they got bored, maybe she'd get up the courage to offer him a key to her house. Too bad the first hour was anything but dull as they raced from site to site with his headlights off, rifling through the truckbed for their packs, TI guns, and other gear.

  Once they crunched over an abandoned bike lying in the street. Another time they nearly flattened a stray dog. Julie wanted to go after it. She had soft spot for animals, but Highsong convinced her to stay on mission.

  Then the waiting began. They'd hidden his truck alongside a bakery across the street from a mortgage brokers' offices, which seemed the most valuable of their four targets.

  "What do you think the paperwork is worth if the machos eat it?" Julie asked, holding his hand.

  "Everything's electronic now, isn't it?" Highsong said. "I think the insurance might pay them more for lost business and damaged real estate than paper files. Maybe they can also play loose with their taxes if a bunch of receipts disappear. I dunno. If they wipe out every place they own, it's gotta be worth bazillions."

  "And meanwhile the bugs are chewing up other people's homes. What a bunch of—"

  Beep! His radio lit up.

  "That's channel two," Highsong said. "We're in the wrong place."

  "Go!" Julie shouted, even as he hit the ignition. She figured they had five minutes, even ten, but she didn't want to miss the kill. In her excitement, she lifted her camcorder from the seat beside her and hugged it like a mad scientist. "Ha! Ha ha ha! We got the son of a bitch!"

  Highsong careened through town with his lights on. They were sure their trap was foolproof and unconcerned with scaring their man off. Speed was only slightly less important than getting there alive.

  "Whoa!" Julie screamed as Highsong swung around a corner only to find the road peppered with stand-still cars. The fender on her side banged against a white Buick, throwing sparks. The side mirror splintered. Then he pinballed through the other vehicles and slammed on his brakes, squashing Julie's chest against her seatbelt.

  "Where is he?"

  "I don't— There!" Julie flung her door open and dragged her pack onto her shoulders as she ran. Above her loomed one of Missoula's "skyscrapers," a six-story office complex with lower buildings on either side.

  A dark Lexus hidden in one of the garage entrances must have belonged to their victim. He'd opened the driver door before it was too late. Their trap had attracted machos from all directions.

  The frenzy enshrouding him looked like a nine-foot tornado. He shrieked and kicked inside it, creating brief, man-shaped holes in the gleaming yellow termite storm. One glimpse was enough for Julie to see that his clothes were coming away in shreds.

  "Can he breathe!?" Highsong yelled behind her.

  Who cares? Julie thought. "It'll be over in seconds!"

  Half-blind, disoriented, and naked — and God save him if he was ticklish — the man flailed helplessly against his car as the machos ripped into its luxury interior. Wet masses of bugs surged against the glass.

  Julie was jubilant. Got you! she thought, trying to point her camcorder at him as she dashed onto the sidewalk.

  But it was too late for her, too.

  A long spiral of termites swept away from the bad guy and dimmed the corona of Highsong's headlights, enfolding Julie in the nasty fluttering swarm.

  "Gaaaaaaa!" she shrieked.

  They'd obviously hidden their beacons well enough for the man to set off the tripwire in the building's entrance, and no one but evil-doers should be entering this office complex tonight. The same electrical impulse that alerted Highsong via radio had also opened a handful of chem packets, covering the man with an invisible fog. The machos' sex pheromones were too subtle for a human nose, even laced with the molecular signature of pine rust, but the bad guy probably heard the beacons pop and then saw Julie's wiring and radio transceiver.

  Unfortunately, neither Julie nor Highsong had noticed the leaking beacon they must have broken or triggered inside his truck. They were coated with sex juice, too, and the machos were in a confused, rapturous craze. The bugs tried to eat anything that was plant-based — like cotton.

  Julie grabbed at her top as she dropped and thrashed on the sidewalk, hoping to crush the termites, but it was no good. She was grateful just to get enough air. Then her shirt came apart in her hands and her pants sagged away from her hips. Her bra went next and she staggered up, bewildered and choking.

  The bad guy got clear of the swarm first. Maybe he'd lost his keys. Maybe jumping into the bug orgy inside his car was too horrible to contemplate. Either way, his pale white hiney broke into a sprint down the street, each cheek shining in Highsong's headlights.

  "Don't move or I'll shoot!" Julie shouted, swimming through the machos after him. Highsong was on his feet, too,
but tripped over the ragged fabric of his jeans. Julie was lucky her pants had separated completely — and her nylon shoes were intact. It was only by the grace of God that she'd worn her leather jacket, which survived. Otherwise she would have been wearing less than a stripper, and she wasn't a small girl. She felt herself bounce as she charged after the bad guy, armed only with her camcorder. What if he had a gun?

  "Julie!" Highsong yelled.

  The canisters left beside the bad guy's car were vital evidence — could they trace this equipment back to the people who'd packed more termite colonies into those steel tubes for him? — but she wanted this lunatic to pay personally for he'd done, so she didn't stop.

  The naked chase was on.

  They quickly left the headlights, but the bad guy wasn't getting enough sun. His back had some color, yet his buttocks were like round little ghosts churning in the night. He ran like he still had a few bugs where it counted.

  Bouncing, Julie began to fall behind. Cold, she hollered in frustration: "Freeze! I said freeze!"

  The world went supernova. In front of them, the street flared with two dazzling flood lamps and the 4th Infantry pinned the bad guy with fifteen rifles, several glue guns, and a bullhorn. "HALT! PUT YOUR HANDS UP! THIS IS THE UNITED STATES ARMY AND YOU ARE—" The voice turned away. "They're not wearing any clothes," it said before swinging back again at full volume. "YOU'RE UNDER ARREST!"

  Julie caught up with the bad guy as he stood motionless in the brilliant light, casting a thin shadow like a rat with his hands crossed over his goodies. Behind her, Highsong's truck joined the scene, but stopped when the bullhorn shouted again.

  "HALT!"

  A dozen soldiers ran forward, their smooth helmets bobbing through the glare. Julie tried her best to pull her jacket down past her waist, but she was more interested in making sure the bad guy saw her grin.

  It was the same brown-haired dude from before.

  "Gotcha," she said.

  #