The Hard SF Renaissance

by David G. Hartwell

  “And your point is that agriculture, plant and animal breeding, that kind of manipulation of nature has been practiced by humans for millennia with no sophisticated equipment,” I said.

  “Right,” Sarah said. “But that’s hardly controversial, or reason to kill someone. What I’m saying is that some people have been doing this for purposes other than to grow better food—have been doing this right under everyone’s noses for a very long time—and they use this to make money, maintain their power, eliminate anyone who gets in their way.”

  “Sort of organized biological crime,” I mused.

  “Yeah, you could put it that way,” Sarah said.

  “And you have any examples—any evidence—other than your allergen theory?” I asked.

  “It’s fact, not a theory, I assure you,” Sarah said. “But here’s an example: Ever wonder why people got so rude to each other, here in the U.S. after World War II?”

  “I’m not following you,” I said.

  “Well, it’s been written about in lots of the sociological literature,” Sarah said. “There was a civility, a courtesy, in interpersonal relations—the way people dealt with each other in public, in business, in friendship—through at least the first half of the twentieth century, in the U.S. And then it started disintegrating. Everyone recognizes this. Some people blame it on the pressures of the atomic age, on the replacement of the classroom by the television screen—which you can fall asleep or walk out on—as the prime source of education for kids. There are lots of possible culprits. But I have my own ideas.”

  “Which are?”

  “Everyone was in the atomic age after World War II,” Sarah said. “England and the Western World had television, cars, all the usual stimuli. What was different about America was its vast farmland—room to quietly grow a crop of something that most people have a low-level allergy to. I think the cause of the widespread irritation, the loss of courtesy, was quite literally something that got under everyone’s skin—an allergen designed for just that purpose.”

  Jeez, I could see why this woman would have trouble with her doctoral committee. But I might as well play along—I’d learned the hard way that crazy ideas like this were pooh-poohed at one’s peril. “Well, the Japanese did have some plans in mind for balloons carrying biological agents—deadly diseases—over here near the end of the war.”

  Sarah nodded. “The Japanese are one of the most advanced peoples on Earth in terms of expertise in agriculture. I don’t know if they were involved in this, but—”

  The phone rang.

  McLuhan had once pointed out that the car was the only place you could be, in this technological world of ours, away from the demanding, interrupting ring of the phone. But that of course was before car phones.

  “Hello,” I answered.

  “Hello?” a voice said back to me. It sounded male, odd accent, youngish but deep.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Mr. Buhler, is that you?” the voice said.

  “Ahm, no, it isn’t, can I take a message for him?” I said.

  Silence. Then, “I don’t understand. Isn’t this the number for the phone in Mr. Buhler’s car?”

  “That’s right,” I said, “but—”

  “Where’s Mo Buhler?” the voice insisted.

  “Well, he’s—” I started.

  I heard a strange clicking, then a dial tone.

  “Is there a call-back feature on this?” I asked Sarah and myself. I pressed *69, as I would on regular phones, and pressed Send. “Welcome to AT & T Wireless Services,” a different deep voice said. “The cellular customer you have called is unavailable, or has travelled outside of the coverage area—”

  “That was Amos,” Sarah said.

  “The kid on the phone?” I asked, stupidly. Sarah nodded.

  “Must still be in shock over his father,” I said.

  “I think he killed his father,” Sarah said.

  We drove deep into Pennsylvania, the blacks and greys and unreal colors of the billboards gradually supplanted by the greens and browns and earth-tones I’d communed with just yesterday. But the natural colors held no joy for me now I realized that’s the way nature always had been—we romanticize its beauty, and that’s real, but it’s also the source of drought, famine, earthquake, disease, and death in many guises … The question was whether Sarah could possibly be right in her theory about how some people were helping this dark side of nature along.

  She filled me in on Amos. He was sixteen, had only a formal primary school education, in a one-room schoolhouse, like other Amish—but also like some splinter groups of the Amish, unknown to outsiders, he was self-educated in the science and art of biological alchemy. He was apprentice to his father.

  “So why would he kill him?” I asked.

  “Amos is not only a budding scientist, Amish-style, he’s also a typically headstrong Amish kid. Lots of wild oats to sow. He got drunk, drove cars, along with the best of them in the Amish gangs.”

  “gangs?”

  “Oh yeah,” Sarah said. “The Groffies, the Ammies, and the Trailers—those are the three main ones—Hostetler writes about them in his books. But there are others, smaller ones. Jacob didn’t like his son being involved in them. They argued about that constantly.”

  “And you think that led to Amos killing his father?” I asked, still incredulous.

  “Well, Jacob’s dead, isn’t he? And I’m pretty sure that one of the gangs Amos belongs to has connections to the bio-war Mafia people I’ve been telling you about—the ones that killed Mo too.”

  We drove the rest of the way in silence. I wasn’t sure what to think about this woman and her ideas.

  We finally reached Northstar Road, and the path that led to the Stoltzfus farm. “It’s probably better that we park the car here, and you walk the path yourself,” Sarah said. “Cars and strange women are more likely to arouse Amish attention than a single man on foot—even if he is English. I mean, that’s what they call—”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ve seen Witness. But Mo told me that Jacob didn’t mind cars—”

  “Jacob’s dead now,” Sarah said. “What he liked and what his family like may be two very different things.”

  I recalled the hostility of Jacob’s brother yesterday. “All right,” I said. “I guess you know what you’re talking about. I should be back in thirty to forty minutes.”

  “OK,” Sarah squeezed my hand and smiled.

  I trudged down the dirt road, not really knowing what I hoped to find at the other end.

  Certainly not what I did find.

  I smelled the smoke, the burnt quality in the air, before I came upon the house and the barn. Both had been burned to the ground. God, I hoped no one had been in there when these wooden structures went.

  “Hello?” I shouted.

  My voice echoed across an empty field. I looked around and listened. No animals, no cattle. Even a dog’s rasping bark would have been welcome.

  I walked over to the barn’s remains, and poked at some charred wood with my foot. An ember or two winked into life, then back out. It was close to noon. My guess was this had happened—and quickly—about six hours earlier. But I was no arson expert.

  I brushed away the stinking smoke fumes with my hand. I pulled out my flashlight, a powerful little halogen day-light simulation thing Jenna had given me, and looked around the inside of the barn. Whatever had been going on here, there wasn’t much left of it now …

  Something green caught my eye—greener than grass. It was the front cover, partially burned, of an old book. All that was left was this piece of the cover—the pages in the book, the back cover, were totally gone. I could see some letters, embossed in gold, in the old way. I touched it with the tip of my finger. It was warm, but not too hot. I picked it up and examined it.

  “of Nat” one line said, and the next line said “bank”.

  Bank, I thought, Nat Bank. What was this, some kind of Amish bankbook, for some local First Yokel’s N
ational Bank?

  No, it didn’t look like a bankbook cover. And the “b” in this bank was a small letter, not a capital. Bank, bank, hmm … wait, hadn’t Mo said something to me about a bank yesterday? A bank … Yes, a Burbank. Darwin and Burbank! Luther Burbank!

  Partner of Nature by Luther Burbank—that was the name of the book whose charred remains I held in my hand. I’d taken out a copy of it years ago from the Allerton library, and loved it.

  Well, Mo and Sarah were right about at least one thing—the reading level of at least some Amish was a lot higher than grade school—

  “You again!”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  I turned around. “Oh, Mr.—” it was the man we’d seen here yesterday—Jacob’s brother.

  “Isaac Stoltzfus,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  His tone was so unsettling, his eyes so angry, that I thought for a second he thought that I was responsible for the fire. “Isaac. Mr. Stoltzfus,” I said. “I just got here. I’m sorry for your loss. What happened?”

  “My brother’s family, thank the Deity, left to stay with some relatives in Ohio very early this morning, well before dawn. So no one was hurt. I went with them to the train station in Lancaster. When I returned here, a few hours later, I found this.” He gestured hopelessly, but with an odd air of resignation, to the ruined house and barn.

  “May I ask you if you know what your brother was doing here?” I hazarded a question.

  Isaac either didn’t hear or pretended not to. He just continued on his earlier theme. “Material things, even animals and plants, we can always afford to lose. People are what are truly of value in this world.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but getting back to what—”

  “You should check on your family too—to make sure they are not in danger.”

  “My family?” I asked.

  Isaac nodded. “I’ve work to do here,” he pointed out to the field. “My brother had four fine horses, and I can find no sign of them. I think it best that you go now.” And he turned and walked away.

  “Wait …” I started, but I could see it was no use.

  I looked at the front cover of Burbank’s book. This farm, Sarah’s bizarre theories, the book—there still wasn’t really enough of any of them at hand to make much sense of this.

  But what the hell did Isaac mean about my family?

  Jenna was overseas, and not really family—yet. My folks lived in Teaneck, my sister was married to an Israeli guy in Brookline … what connection did they have to what was going on here?

  Jeez—none! Isaac hadn’t been referring to them at all. I was slow on the uptake today. He’d likely mistaken me for Mo—he’d seen both of us for the first time here yesterday.

  He was talking about Mo’s family—Corinne and the kids.

  I raced back to the car, the smoky air cutting my throat with a different jagged edge each time my foot hit the ground.

  “What’s going on?” Sarah said.

  I waved her off, jumped in the car, and put a call through to Corinne. Ring, ring, ring. No answer.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked again.

  I quickly told her. “Let’s get over there,” I said, and turned the car, screeching, back on to Northstar.

  “All right, take it easy,” Sarah said. “It’s Saturday—Corinne could just be out shopping with the kids.”

  “Right, the day after their father died—in my arms,” I said.

  “All right,” she said again, “but you still don’t want to get into an accident now. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  I nodded, tried Corinne’s number again, same ring, ring, ringing.

  “Fireflies likely caused the fire,” Sarah said.

  “What?”

  “Fireflies—a few of the Amish use them for interior lighting,” Sarah said.

  “Yah, Mo mentioned that,” I said. “But fireflies give cool light—bioluminescence—no heat.”

  “Not the ones I’ve seen around here,” Sarah said. “They’re infected with certain heat-producing bacteria—symbionts, really, not an infection—and the result gives both light and heat. At least, that’s the species some of these people use around here when winter starts setting in. I had a little Mendelian lamp myself—that’s what they’re called—you know, the one that broke on the floor in my place last night.”

  “So you think one of those … lamps went out of control and started the fire?” I asked. Suddenly I had a vision of burning up as I slept on her couch.

  Sarah chewed her lip. “Maybe worse—maybe someone set it to go out of control. Or bred it that way—a bio-luminescent, bio-thermic time-bomb.”

  “Your bio-mob covers a lot of territory,” I said. “Allergens that cause low-level irritation in millions of people, catalysts that amplify other allergens to kill at least two people, anti-catalytic tomato sauce, and now pyrotechnic fireflies.”

  “Not that much distance at all when you’re dealing with co-evolution and symbiosis,” Sarah said. “Hell, we’ve got acidophilous bacteria living in us right now that help us digest our food. Lots more difference between them and us than between thermal bacteria and fireflies.”

  I put my foot on the pedal and prayed we wouldn’t get stopped by some eager-beaver Pennsylvania trooper.

  “That’s the problem,” Sarah continued. “Co-evolution, bio-mixing-and-matching, is a blessing and a curse. When everything’s organic, and you cross-breed, you can get marvelous things. But you can also get flies that burn down buildings.”

  We finally got to Mo’s house.

  “Damn.” There was no car in the driveway. The door was half open.

  “You wait in the car,” I said to Sarah.

  She started to protest.

  “Look,” I said. “We may be dealing with killers here—you’ve been saying that yourself. You’ll only make it harder for me if you come along and I have to worry about protecting you.”

  “OK,” she nodded.

  I got out of the car.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have my gun—truth is, I never used it anyway. I didn’t like guns. Department had issued one to me when I’d first come to work for them, and I’d promptly put it away in my closet. Not the most brilliant move I’d ever made, given what was going on here now.

  I walked into the house, as quietly as I could. I thought it better that I not announce myself—if Corinne and the kids were home, and I offended or frightened them by just barging in, there’d be time to apologize later.

  I walked through the foyer and then the dining room that I’d never made it into to taste Corinne’s great cooking yesterday. Then the kitchen and a hallway, and—

  I saw a head, strawberry blonde, on the floor poking out of a bedroom.

  Someone was on top of her.

  “Laurie!” I shouted and dove in the room, shoving off the boy who was astride her.

  “Wha—” he started to say, and I picked him up, bodily, and threw him across the room. I didn’t know whether to turn to Laurie or him—but I figured I couldn’t do anything for Laurie with this kid at my back. I grabbed a sheet off the bed, rolled it tight, and went over to tie him up.

  “Mister, I—” He sounded groggy, I guess from hitting the wall.

  “Shut up,” I said, “and be glad I don’t shoot you.”

  “But I—”

  “I said shut up.” I tied him as tightly as I could. Then I dragged him over to the same side of the room as Laurie, so I could keep an eye on him while I tended to her.

  “Laurie,” I said softly, and touched her face with my hand. She gave no response. She was out cold on something—I peeled back her eyelid, and saw a light blue eye floating, dilated, drugged out on who knew what.

  “What the hell did you do to her? Where’s her mother and sister?” I bellowed.

  “I don’t know—I mean, I don’t know where they are,” the kid said. “I didn’t do anything to her. But I can help her.”

  “Sure you can,” I s
aid. “You’ll excuse me if I go call an ambulance.”

  “No, please, Mister, don’t do that!” the kid said. His voice sounded familiar. Amos Stoltzfus!

  “She’ll die before she gets to the hospital,” he said. “But I have something here that can save her.”

  “Like you saved your father?” I asked.

  There were tears in the kid’s eyes. “I got there too late for my father. How did you know my—oh, I see, you’re the friend of Mo Buhler’s I was talking to this morning.”

  I ignored him and started walking out of the room.

  “Please. I care about Laurie too. We’re—we’ve been seeing each other—”

  I turned around and picked him up off the floor. “Yeah? That’s so? And how do I know you didn’t somehow do this to her?”

  “There’s a medicine in my pocket. It’s a tomato variant. Please—I’ll drink half of it down to show you it’s OK, then you give the rest to Laurie—we don’t have much time.”

  I considered for a moment. I looked at Laurie. I guess I didn’t have anything to lose having the kid drink half of whatever he was talking about. “OK,” I said. “Which pocket?”

  He gestured to his left front jeans.

  I pulled out a small vial—likely contained only five-six ounces.

  “You sure you want to do this?” I asked. I suddenly had a queasy feeling—I didn’t want to be the vehicle of some sick patricidal kid’s suicide.

  “I don’t care whether you give it to me or not,” Amos said. “Just give some to Laurie already! Please!”

  I have to make gut decisions all the time in my line of work. Only usually not about families I deeply care about. I thought for another second, and decided.

  I bypassed his taking the sample, and went over to Laurie. I hated to give her any liquid when she was still unconscious—