by Peter Watts
"Of course they did. Otherwise you'd never get an accurate sig."
"Well, I can't find half the stuff that's supposed to be there. No phospholipids, even. Lots of nucleotides, but I can't get them to fit a DNA template. So your bug's probably RNA-based."
"Uh-huh." No surprises there—lots of microbes got along just fine without DNA.
"Also I've managed to reconstruct some simple enzymes, but they're a bit too stiff in the joints to work properly, you know? Oh, and this is kind of weird: I've found a couple of D-aminos."
"Ah." Desjardins nodded sagely. "That means what, exactly?"
"Right-handed. The asymmetric carbons stick off the wrong side of the molecule. Like your usual left-handed amino, only flipped."
A mirror image. "So?"
"So that makes 'em useless; all metabolic pathways have been geared for L-aminos and only L-aminos, for the past three billion years at least. There's a couple of bacteria that use R-aminos because they're useless—they stick them onto their cell walls to make 'em indigestible—but that's not what we're dealing with here."
Desjardins pushed back in his chair. "So someone built this thing completely from scratch, is that what you're saying? We've got another new bug on our hands."
Jovellanos shook her head, disgusted. "And that corpse didn't even tell you."
"Maybe she doesn't know."
Jovellanos pointed at the GIS overlay. Two dozen crimson pinpoints sparkled along the coast from Hongcouver to Newport. Two dozen tiny anomalies of soil and water chemistry. Two dozen visitations from an unknown microbe, each presaging a small fiery apocalypse.
"Somebody knows," Jovellanos said.
Afterburn
On all sides Hongcouver licked its wounds.
The city had always been a coward, hiding behind Vancouver Island and a maze of local bathymetry. That had spared it from the worst effects of the tsunami. The quake itself had been another story, of course.
In an earlier day, before Maelstrom and telecommuting and city centers half-abandoned, the death toll in the core would have been three times as high. As it was, those who'd been spared vivisection downtown had merely died closer to home. Whole subdivisions, built on the effluvial sediment of the Fraser Delta, had shuddered into sudden quicksand and disappeared. Richmond and White Rock and Chilliwack didn't exist any more. Mount Rainier had awakened overnight in a bad mood; fresh lava continued to flow over most of its southern face. Mount Adams was stirring and might yet blow.
In the Hongcouver core, damage was more heterogeneous. Streets stretched for blocks without so much as a broken window. Then, across some arbitrary intersection, the world became a place of shattered buildings and upended asphalt. Bright yellow barriers, erected after the fact, drew boundaries around the injured areas. Lifters hung above the dark zones like white blood cells on a tumor. Fresh girders and paneling descended from on high, reconstructive grafts of metropolitan skin and bone. Heavy machinery grumbled in the canyons where they touched down.
In between, patches of cityscape hummed at half-power, emergency Ballard stacks jumpered into convenient substations. Those streets that hadn't upended, those buildings that hadn't been shrugged into False Creek, had been swept clean and reactivated. Field crematoria belched ash from the corner of Georgia and Denman, keeping—so far—one step ahead of the cholera bug. More barriers than buildings, these days. Not that there was anywhere else to go; CSIRA had sealed the border at Hell's Gate.
Benrai Dutton had survived it all.
He'd been lucky; his splitfit condo was halfway up Point Gray, an island of granite in a sea of sand. While neighborhoods on all sides had vanished, the Point had merely slipped a little.
Even here there was damage, of course. Most of the houses on the lower face had collapsed; the few still standing listed drunkenly to the east. No lights shone from them or the lamp-posts lining the street, even though night was falling. A jury-rigged line of portable floods shone from poles separating wrecked homes from standing ones, but they had a defensive air about them. They existed, not to bring light to the ruins, but as a perimeter against them.
They existed to blind Benrai Dutton when a crazy woman leapt at his throat from the shadows.
Suddenly he was transfixed: cold bright eyes without pupils, glaciers embedded in flesh. A disembodied face, almost as pale as the eyes it contained. Invisible hands, one around his neck, one at his chest—
—no not invisible she's in black she's all in black—
"What happened?"
"What—what—"
"I am not going to give up!" She hissed, slamming him against a chain link fence. Her breath swirled between them like backlit fog. "He took his shots, he took a thousand fucking shots, and I am not going to let him just walk away!"
"Who—what are you—"
She stopped, suddenly. She cocked her head as though seeing him for the first time.
"Where the fuck did you come from?" she said, absurdly.
She was a good fifteen centimeters shorter than he was. For some reason it did not occur to him to fight back.
"I don't, I—I was just going home…" Dutton managed.
"That place," the woman said. Her eyes—nightshades of some kind?--drilled his own.
"What place?"
She slammed him back against the chain link. "That place!"—jerking her chin at something over his left shoulder. Dutton turned his head; another splitfit, intact but empty and dark all the same.
"That place? I don't—"
"Yes, that place! Yves Scanlon's fucking place. You know him?"
"No, I—I mean, I don't really know anyone here, we kind of keep to—"
"Where did he go?" she hissed.
"Go?" he said weakly.
"The place is absolutely empty! No furniture, no clothing, not so much as fucking light bulb!"
"Maybe—maybe he left—the quake—"
She knotted her fists more tightly into his clothing, leaned in until they were almost kissing. "His place doesn't have a fucking scratch on it. Why would he leave? How could he? He's nobody, he's a fucking pissant, you think he could just pick up and walk past the quarantine?"
Dutton shook his head frantically. "I don't know—really, I don't—"
She stared into him for a few moments. Her hair was wet; it hadn't rained all day. "I don't—I don't know you…" she murmured, almost to herself. Slowly her fists unclenched. Dutton sagged back against the fence.
She stepped back, giving him room to move.
It was what he'd been waiting for. One hand swept briefly beneath his jacket. The taser jabbed her in the ribcage, just below a strange metallic disk sewn into her uniform. It should have dropped her in an instant.
Within that instant:
She blinked—
Her right knee came up, hard. Naturally he wore a cup. It hurt like hell anyway—
Her right hand slipped forward, against her upraised calf. Something sprang into it—
The crazy woman stepped back, arm extended. Two centimeters from his face, an ebony wand with a tiny spike at its tip stared at Dutton like a one-toothed mamba.
Over the pain in his crotch, sudden wet warmth.
She smiled a small, terrifying smile. "Use a microwave, little man?"
"Wh—what—?"
"Kitchen appliances? Sensorium? Keep your house warm in winter?"
He bobbed his head. "Yes. Yes, of course I—"
"Huh." The mamba wiggled over his left eye. "Then I was wrong. I know you after all."
"No," he stammered. "We've never—"
"I know you," she repeated. "And you owe me."
Her thumb moved against something on the wand's handgrip. Dutton heard a small click.
"Please…" he prayed.
And amazingly, something answered him.
* * *
Hongcouver was still a disaster zone, of course; the police had more pressing concerns than an unlikely apparition reported by some panicky dickwad. Still, the server took Dutto
n's report when he called it in. The server wasn't human, but it was smart enough to ask follow-up questions—like, had he noticed anything, anything at all, that might have caused his assailant to suddenly break off the assault?
No.
Could he think of any reason why she would be suddenly start babbling about dad like that? Did the reference to monsters make any sense, in context?
Maybe she was just crazy, Dutton replied, although as the server noted he was not qualified to make medical diagnoses.
Had he seen where she had gone, exactly?
Just downhill. Into the wreckage, toward the water.
And he sure as shit hadn't been going to follow her down there.
Stockpile
Vancity CU/N'AmPac Transaction Server
Personal Accounts, Broadway ATM-45, 50/10/05/0551
Transaction Begins:
Welcome to VanCity. Are you a member?
"I couldn't link, before. Using my watch."
Remote access curfew is in effect until 10:00am. At present this terminal can only process on-site transactions. We apologise for any inconvenience. Are you a member?
"Lenie Clarke."
Welcome, Ms. Clarke. Please remove your corneal overlays.
"What?"
We cannot open your account without eyeprint confirmation. Please remove your corneal overlays.
Thank you. Scanning.
Complete. Thank you, Ms. Clarke. You may proceed.
"What's my total balance?"
$Q42,329.15
"I want to download it all."
Has Vancity's service been satisfactory?
"It's been fine."
We can see your wristwatch, and a subcutaneous money-chip in your left thigh. How would you like the funds distributed?
"Forty thousand sub-q, the rest to the watch. Automatic transfer of all funds sub-q if I'm attacked."
That condition can't be evaluated. Your watch is not equipped with a biotelemetry plug-in.
"Automatic transfer on voice-linked password, then."
What password?
"Sh—shadow…"
Please repeat the password.
Please repeat the password.
Please—
"I said, shadow."
Done. Would you like another transaction?
(inaudible)
Vancity thanks you for your business.
Transaction ends
* * *
Sears Medbooth 199/Granville Island/Hongcouver
Transaction record, vocal, 50/10/05/0923
(Test results filed separately.)
Session begins:
Welcome to Sears Medical Services. Please open your account.
Thank you. Do you wish to limit your charges?
"No."
What can we do for you today?
"My right shoulder. Sprained or broken or something. And a blood scan. Paths especially."
Please provide blood sample.
Thank you. Please provide your medical history or your WestHem ID#.
"Forget it."
Access to your medical records will help us provide better service. All information will be kept strictly confidential except in the event of a public health or marketing priority, and in such cases we may be legally required to sequence-ID your sample anyway.
"I'll take my chances. No thanks."
Your shoulder has been recently dislocated, but is presently reseated. You will continue to experience pain and stiffness for approximately two months without treatment. You will experience reduced mobility for at least a year without treatment. Would you like treatment for the pain?
"Yeah."
We're sorry, but recent heavy user demand has depleted our stock of painkillers. Anabolic accelerants can reduce the healing period to three to five days. Shall I administer anabolic accelerants?
"Sure."
We're sorry, but recent heavy user demand has depleted our stock of accelerants. Your blood shows minor deficiencies in calcium and trace-sulfur. You have elevated levels of the hormones serotonin, oxytocin, and cortisol; elevated platelet and antibody counts consistent with moderate physical injury within the past three weeks. None of these findings should cause you serious concern, although the mineral deficiencies may reflect poor dietary habits. Would you like dietary mineral supplements?
"You actually have any?"
Sears medbooths are regularly maintained and resupplied to ensure that you have reliable access to the best in quality medical care. Would you like dietary supplements?
"No."
Cellular metabolites are high. Your blood lactate is low. Blood gases and amine count—
"What about diseases?"
All pathogen counts are within documented safe ranges.
"You sure?"
The standard blood panel tests for over eight hundred known pathogens and parasites. More extensive analysis is available for a small additional charge, but the analysis would take up to six hours. Would you like—
"No, I—but that can't be it, I mean—is that it?"
Is there some specific symptom that concerns you?
"Aren't there some kinds of infections that cause hallucinations?"
Can you describe these hallucinations?
"Visions only. No sound or smell or anything. I've been having them for a few weeks now, on and off. Once every few days, maybe. They go away by themselves, after a minute or two."
And can you describe what you see in these visions?
"Who cares? It's just bad biochemistry, right? Can't you do a brain scan or something?"
The NMR helmet in this booth is presently out of service, and there are no detectable psychoactives in your blood. However, different conditions can give rise to different types of hallucinations, so I may still be able to offer a diagnosis. Can you describe what you see in your visions?
"A monster."
Could you be more specific?
"This is bullshit. You think I don't know you charge by the second?"
Our rates are strictly
"Tell me what's wrong with me or I disconnect."
I don't have enough information for a proper diagnosis.
"Speculate."
Neurological damage is a strong possibility. Strokes—even very small ones that you may not be consciously aware of—can sometimes trigger visual-release hallucinations.
"Strokes? Ruptured blood vessels, that kind of thing?"
Yes. Have you recently undergone a rapid change in ambient pressure? For example, have you spent some time at high altitude or in an orbital environment, or perhaps returned from an underwater excursion?
Client disconnect 50/10/05/0932
Session ends.
Icarus
There were people who would have described Achilles Desjardins as a murderer a million times over.
He had to admit there was a certain truth to that. Every quarantine he invoked trapped the living alongside the dying, ensured that at least some of those still alive soon wouldn't be. But what was the alternative, after all? Let every catastrophe run free, to engulf the world unchecked?
Desjardins could handle the ethics, with a little help from his chemical sidekicks. He knew in his heart of hearts that that he'd never really killed anyone. He'd just—contained them, to save others. The actual killing had been done by whatever pestilence he'd been fighting. It may have been a subtle distinction, but it was a real one.
There were rumors, though. There'd always been rumors: the next logical step. The unconfirmed tales of deaths caused, not in the wake of some disaster, but in advance of it.
Preemptive containment, it was called. Path scans would pinpoint some burb—superficially healthy, but we all know how much stock you can put in that— as Contagion Central for The Next Big Bug. Monte Carlo sims would show with 99 percent confidence that the impending threat would get around conventional quarantines, or prove immune to the usual antibiotics. LD90s would estimate the mortality rate at 50%, or 80%, or whatever w
as deemed unacceptable that week, over an area of so many thousand hectares. So another one of those pesky wildfires would spring up in the parched N'American heartland— and Dicksville, Arkansas would tragically drop off the map.
Just rumors, of course. Nobody confirmed it or denied it. Nobody even really talked about it, except for Alice when she went on one of her rants. On those occasions, Desjardins would reflect that even if the stories were true—and even if such measures were a bit farther down the slippery slope than he was comfortable with—well, anyway, what was the alternative? Let every catastrophe run free, to engulf the world unchecked?
Mostly, though, he didn't think about it. Certainly it didn't have anything to do with him.
But certain items in his own in-box were starting to look really ugly. A picture was forming, a mosaic assembling itself from clouds of data, news threads drifting through Maelstrom, bits of third-generation hearsay. They all came together to form a picture in his mind, and it was starting to look like a seascape.
ßehemoth was correlated with subtle blights of photosynthetic pigment. Those blights, in turn, generally correlated with intense fires. Seventy-two percent of the blazes had occurred at seaports, in shipyards, or on marine construction sites. The rest had taken out bits and pieces of residential areas.
People had died. Lots of people. And when, on a whim, Desjardins had cross-referenced the residential obits by profession, it turned out that almost all of the fires had killed at least one marine engineer, or commercial diver, or sailor.
This fucker hadn't escaped from anybody's lab. ßehemoth had come from the ocean.
The California Current nosed down along N'AmPac's coast from the Gulf of Alaska. It mixed it up with the North Pacific and North Equatorial currents way off to the east of Mexico; those, in turn, bled into the Kuroshio off Japan, and the Eastern Counter and Southern Equatorial Currents in the South Pacific. Which ended up nuzzling the West Wind Drift, and the ankle bone's connected to the leg bone, the leg bone's connected to the knee bone, and before you know it the whole fucking planet is encircled.