###
Beyond that point their route took them deeper and deeper into the forest. There were no more villages or even settlements, only isolated buildings where half-trained “scientists” strove to keep track of the biological explosion taking place around them. Their equipment was old and ill maintained; they reminded Sue, she said, of priests rehearsing rituals whose purpose was forgotten. No wonder something like “good-with-rice” could emerge without anybody grasping its significance . . . although oddly enough they saw no sign of it within the forest.
Wang would have wished to inquire further. By now, however, he had been overwhelmed by the majesty of their improbable surroundings, and he was not alone. Earlier the soldiers had been arguing via the radio, the subject being why strangers were suddenly making such a fuss about “good-with-rice,” which they had so long been accustomed to, but at length even the most talkative of them had been shamed into silence by the monstrous actuality of the Green Phoenix. He had had it in mind to make a good impression by commenting intelligently on what they were seeing—the intertwined branches that screened the sky, the creepers and mosses draping them, the birds, the insects, the snakes, the fungi, that polluted deliriously amid moist heavy-scented air a good five degrees warmer than at their starting-point. Sue, however, ignored him and everyone else, ordering the soldiers to take samples of this, that and the other, meantime recording comments of her own.
In the upshot Wang wasn’t sorry. Passing trivial remarks about this amazing achievement would have seemed blasphemous. No matter how artificial, how grafted-on, Green Phoenix might look from afar, once you entered it there was no doubt this was in a sense rebellion against the destructiveness of humankind—as though the clock had been turned back by millions of years, to a time when the biosphere teemed with unrealized potential.
Empty chatter in such a setting would have been like drunken ballads on a temple altar.
###
On their return to base, shortly before sundown, they found gangs of men lackadaisically mending potholes in the landing strip, as though Pao had realized he must make preparations for a flood of visitors but so far had not yet thought of anything more practical to do.
“Protective magic!” Sue said dismissively, and gave orders for the care of the samples they had brought back before hastening, with Wang in tow, to rejoin Bin at the communications center. By now it was so crowded with the additional equipment he had helped install yesterday that one had to sidle between a double row of monitors reporting incomprehensible data. Without a word Bin handed Sue a wad of faxes. She riffled through them, her near-white eyebrows rising higher and higher.
“This is incredible!” she burst out as she finished the last. “But there’s one point these messages don’t cover.”
“You mean: is ‘good-with-rice’ really not part of the Green Phoenix program?”
“Yes!”
“Apparently that’s true.” Bin, suddenly sounding very old, leaned back and stretched as far as the press of equipment would allow.
“Yet it can’t possibly be an accident!” Sue clenched her fists. “I can’t believe in the sort of voluntary mutation that would let a plant choose to become dependent on human intervention. Did you know it doesn’t spread by itself, but always needs to be planted, whereupon it just erupts even in the poorest of soils?”
“That fits with the predictions Allard has been making about it in Paris. You saw.”
Face the palest Wang had seen, she nodded. “He spent time in Indo-China, didn’t he? Knows a bit about Asian plants . . . Any ideas about its origins?”
“You’ve got everything there is so far.” Bin stretched again and this time dissolved into a frank yawn.
Sue re-read some of the faxes. Eventually, not looking up, she said, “I think I ought to take pity on Wang. It’ll help to clarify my mind if I spell things out to someone . . . Wang, has it struck you as odd that ‘good-with-rice’ has turned up in several countries—obviously spread by emigrés or sent to friends and relatives—yet not attracted much attention and certainly not the sort it deserves?”
Wang hesitated, then drew a deep breath.
“I don’t think it’s odd anymore,” he declared. “I did at first, but now I’ve seen how quickly and easily you can make it grow. No one needs to raise it commercially—”
“But you’d expect people to try,” Sue stabbed. “It’s something you could take to market, sell for a good price—”
“More and more of us Chinese,” Wang said, letting his voice dwell a moment on the last word, “have turned our backs on farming because our peasant ancestors led such hard lives. Yet there’s something symbolic about making things grow. I feel it. Dr. Bin, do you see what I mean?”
The older man had been studying him curiously. “You’re an unusual type for a policeman,” he grunted now. “It was smart of Sue to pick you out. Yes, I can well believe that in Singapore and Australia and the other places where ‘good-with-rice’ has turned up it’s been largely treated as a private treasure for the Chinese community. Do you have any inkling just what a treasure it may become?”
Wang hesitated anew. He said at last, “If it causes cancer—”
“Oh, that can probably be tailored out,” Sue said with a shrug. “In spite of what Allard says.”
“That being—?”
She was momentarily embarrassed. “Sorry! He thinks the carcinogenic factor is so integrated with its total genetic makeup that there’s no way of isolating it. But he’s only had samples for just over a week. I think he’s being pessimistic. Don’t you?”—handing back the faxes.
“In principle I have to agree,” Bin acknowledged.
“Fine. Now I need a shower and something to eat before I—”
“Just a moment.” Bin stretched for another sheet of paper. “Over in the States and Europe they set some of the search parameters extremely wide, and there’s a phrase that keeps cropping up right on the fringes. Does the term ‘peasant’s son’ mean anything to you?”
“I don’t think so,” Sue said, staring. “Origin?”
“Maybe the old USSR. But it’s deep stuff from multiply encrypted databanks.”
She frowned. “For a moment I seemed to recall . . . No, it’s gone. Maybe it’ll come back to me when I’m less tired. Coming with us?”
“No, I’m not hungry yet. I had a good lunch.”
“As you like. Come on, Wang! By the way, I don’t suppose ‘peasant’s son’ means anything to you, does it? No? Pity!”
###
During the meal Sue’s enthusiasm got the better of her fatigue. She enlarged on the possibilities inherent in “good-with-rice.” According to her it represented a credible solution to famine, and despite reservations Allard and other foreign scientists were coming to agree. Over and over she harked back to the astonishing circumstances that it had been under everybody’s nose certainly for several years without its significance being appreciated. She talked so much Wang dared to remind her that she needed to eat, as well, and eventually she remembered to.
Just as they were finishing their meal a girl brought a folded note from Bin. Sue erupted to her feet, oversetting her chair, and ran off. Perforce Wang followed. He caught up with her in the command center, leaning over Bin’s shoulder as he tapped at a keyboard beneath a monitor that showed . . .
Greenthumb’s face. Younger, clean-shaven, but unmistakable. And a name. Not a Chinese one.
A-er Mu.
“An inspiration, Wang,” Sue whispered softly. “Thank you.”
And promptly forgot him as, together with Bin, she embarked on the second extraordinary journey of today, this time through an electronic jungle as rife with strange amazing growths as was Green Phoenix.
###
“Amnesium! I didn’t know they’d perfected it!”
Wang snapped back to wakefulness. He had been leaning against a stack of computers just the right height to support him, luckily without doing any harm. What had Sue just said? H
e struggled to gather scraps of sense from Bin’s reply. The two of them were staring at a screen full of forking lines dense and various as the canopy of Green Phoenix. Under her breath Sue whispered, “God, look how it ramifies!”
“Leave it,” Bin said incisively. “Now we have a lead to ‘peasant’s son’ we’d better follow through.”
“Sure, go ahead . . . It was staring us in the face! I’d heard of it—even I had!—and I thought it was KGB disinformation!” Sue clenched her fists. “No wonder there’s no record of ‘good-with-rice’ in the Green Phoenix files!”
Wang could contain himself no longer. He burst out, “You’ve found out who Greenthumb is?”
“Just a moment!” Sue rapped, eyes fixed on a new display. It was in alphabet, not character, and it took Wang a moment to recognize it as puthonghua in pinyin, not some mysterious foreign tongue. But what could an ancient Russian legend have to do with the Green Phoenix?
Oh. Of course. It doesn’t. “Good-with-rice wasn’t part of the Green Phoenix program . . .
“That fits,” Sue sighed, turning away from the screen. “To think I was making all those wild predictions over dinner! Wang, I’m sorry! Bin has dug up the truth, and it’s not pleasant!”
Taking a deep breath, she drew herself to full height and turned to confront him.
“The old USSR boasted some of the world’s finest biologists. It also boasted some of the most paranoid politicians, ignorant of science but convinced that by threats they could force their scientists to produce any desired result. Given the speed with which the Soviets came up with an atom bomb and then an H-bomb they did have grounds . . .
“In the early days of bioengineering a group of enthusiastic young biologists volunteered to work at a base in Siberia where the dream was to develop organisms that could survive on Mars. This was the heyday of space exploration; their greatest hero was Gagarin.
“But that was under Khrushchev. Following his downfall the project was canceled. However, the scientists were not allowed to disperse. They were set to work on something new.
“On the Soviet Union’s eastern frontier loomed not so much an enemy as a rival. A political rival, certainly, but more importantly a rival for land. Never mind what politicians might say, sooner or later population pressure in China was bound to force an invasion to the west.
“If it wasn’t stopped.”
She passed a weary hand over her short hair. “Sorry if I don’t make perfect sense,” she interpolated. “Bin has found the way to such amazing data that I haven’t digested them yet.”
Forcing tension out of her limbs by sheer willpower, she resumed.
“And the way they settled on to stop that invasion was brilliant. What drives people to migrate? They are too numerous for the land to support. So a research program was decreed. Find a means, the orders said, both to feed these Chinese hordes despite the way they’re ruining their land, and at the same time to stop them breeding.
“And they did it.”
Wang hadn’t noticed, but several “good-with-rice” rested on a dish in reach of Bin, who now passed one to Sue.
“This,” she said, hefting it, “is the result. And I’m prepared to believe Allard now. Now that I know Greenthumb was once A-er Mu. That was a famous name in certain circles, last century. He was director of the research station where this stuff was designed. The estimate was that it would take about thirty years to do its work. Someone recalled the legend of the Russian hero who couldn’t walk till he was thirty-three and then became the greatest defender of his people: Ilya Mouromets. His surname means ‘peasant’s son.’ So that was what they called the research station—sited near the Chinese border, in Uighur country, which is where A-er Mu hails from.
“When the Soviet Union collapsed, the project was still incomplete. But it had progressed amazingly. Not only was the artificial fruit viable—it tasted good, it was genuinely nourishing, and it incorporated carcinogenic genes capable of surviving the digestive process.”
“And triggered in the host,” said Bin in a rusty-sounding voice, “by the hormones associated with pregnancy—any pregnancy, even one that doesn’t go to term. No wonder Pao can boast about the success of the one-child program in this area! All mothers develop carcinoma of the ovaries!”
“There were many ultra-secret projects,” Sue resumed, “that the ex-bosses of the USSR didn’t want to come to world attention. Prudently they had made preparations. I imagined—along with practically everybody else—that not only was ‘peasant’s son’ a disinformation exercise, but amnesium as well. Having found out who Greenthumb used to be, I now believe they had created exactly what they claimed: a drug to wipe the memory of higher faculties including speech while leaving intact basic ones like walking and eating. In the twilight of Soviet power they allegedly sent out KGB poisoners to administer it by force, lest research they had conducted on political prisoners might be exposed. It all sounds very Russian, hmm?”
Wang shook his head confusedly. This was too far beyond his everyday world. All he could think of was that he had shot the man they were talking about and no one had yet told him whether he had done wrong.
Suddenly Sue sounded bitter. “You were right,” she concluded, tossing up and catching the fruit Bin had passed her.
Wang shook his head in bafflement.
“This is not the cure for famine. It’s exactly what you took it for, exactly what you might expect from our sick species.
“It’s a weapon.”
THE HARE
. . . dwells in the moon and guards the elixir of immortality. But it was traded for the right to father sons; hence he is the patron of inverts, and only women celebrate his feast.
Wang thought about the hare for a while. Then he husked, “People are going to go on eating it, aren’t they?”
Sober nods. With feigned cheerfulness Bin said, “Yes, it’s spread too far to call it back. But there’s a chance that someday, pace Dr. Allard, we may eliminate the carcinogenic genes. Or invent a better version! And, you know, something that sterilizes people only after they have had the chance to breed . . . it could be no bad thing.”
But Sue wasn’t listening. She was turning “good-with-rice” over and over in her hands, much as she had the gnawed one Wang had shown her at the Tower of Strength, and whispering, “It’s a weapon. It’s a weapon, and we poor fools imagined it was food.”
SUNKEN GARDENS
Bruce Sterling
One of the most powerful and innovative new talents to enter SF in recent years, a man with a rigorously worked-out and aesthetically convincing vision of what the future may have in store for humanity, Bruce Sterling as yet may still be better known to the cognoscente than to the SF-reading population at large, in spite of recent Hugo wins. If you look behind the scenes, though, you will find him everywhere, and he had almost as much to do (as writer, critic, propagandist, aesthetic theorist, and tireless polemicist) with the shaping and evolution of SF in the ’80s and ’90s as Michael Moorcock did with the shaping of SF in the ’60s; it is not for nothing that many of his peers refer to him, half ruefully, half admiringly, as “Chairman Bruce.”
Sterling sold his first story in 1976. By the end of the ’80s, he had established himself, with a series of stories set in his exotic “Shaper/Mechanist” future, with novels such as the complex and Stapeldonian Schismatrix and the well-received Islands in the Net (as well as with his editing of the influential anthology Mirrorshades: The Cyberpunk Anthology and the infamous critical magazine Cheap Truth), as perhaps the prime driving force behind the revolutionary “cyberpunk” movement in science fiction, and also as one of the best new hard science writers to enter the field in some time. His other books include a critically acclaimed nonfiction study of First Amendment issues in the world of computer networking, The Hacker Crackdown: Law and Disorder on the Electronic Frontier; the novels, The Artificial Kid, Involution Ocean, Heavy Weather, and Holy Fire; a novel in collaboration with William Gibson, The Difference
Engine; and the landmark collections Crystal Express and Globalhead. His most recent books include the omnibus collection (it contains the novel Schismatrix as well as most of his Shaper/Mechanist stories) Schismatrix Plus; a new novel, Distraction; and a new collection, A Good Old-Fashioned Future. His story, “Bicycle Repairman,” earned him a long-overdue Hugo in 1997, and he won another Hugo in 1997 for his story “Taklamakan.” He lives with his family in Austin, Texas.
Here he gives us a ringside seat for a strange and deadly biotech contest between competing ecosystems, a literal battle of worlds, in which the stakes are life itself . . .
###
Mirasol’s Crawler loped across the badlands of the Mare Hadriacum, under a tormented Martian sky. At the limits of the troposphere, jet streams twisted, dirty streaks across pale lilac. Mirasol watched the winds through the fretted glass of the control bay. Her altered brain suggested one pattern after another: nests of snakes, nets of dark eels, maps of black arteries.
Since morning the crawler had been descending steadily into the Hellas Basin, and the air pressure was rising. Mars lay like a feverish patient under this thick blanket of air, sweating buried ice.
On the horizon thunderheads rose with explosive speed below the constant scrawl of the jet streams.
The basin was strange to Mirasol. Her faction, the Patternists, had been assigned to a redemption camp in northern Syrtis Major. There, two-hundred-mile-an-hour surface winds were common, and their pressurized camp had been buried three times by advancing dunes.
It had taken her eight days of constant travel to reach the equator.
From high overhead, the Regal faction had helped her navigate. Their orbiting city-state, Terraform-Fluster, was a nexus of monitor satellites. The Regals showed by their helpfulness that they had her under closer surveillance.
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