Solaris Rising 3 - The New Solaris Book of Science Fiction

by Ian Whates

  Maybe it was, but possible didn’t translate to prudent in any way, shape, or form.

  Regulations couldn’t begin to keep up with the inventiveness of people who could now change themselves. Wasn’t long before clin-mods were necessary to reduce the harm done by poorly planned friv-mods. Changes piled up like garbage during a strike.

  Case in point? Well before my time, synth clinics advertised a friv-mod to remake feverish young fans into the ‘type’ reportedly preferred by their teen idol. Enough took the plunge that there was a bump in honey-toned skin and round dark eyes in the populations of every city.

  No one knew – or rather no one paid attention to those who did – that some of those ‘tweaks’ would prove epigenetic and express themselves happily, or not so much, in their children.

  And grandchildren. Within two generations of such modifications, human diversity had blown the old racial distinctions away. Newborns still had their genomes tagged and registered at birth and clinics were supposed to update records with any mods. Right. These days, who could prove they had 100% virgin DNA, or be sure it would express as it had in their ancestors?

  I’m fond of my grandfather. We look alike simply because we’re related and that’s not only old-fashioned, it’s rare. My other half, Daisie, insists on carrying a dige of him in his forties in her grab to flash any doubters. A sweetheart, Daisie, and the light of my life. She’s also 60 kilos of pure genius, spiked with enough drive to power one of those starships she’s busy designing, which goes to prove love don’t always make sense.

  ’Cause me? I’m the definition of bland in a world gone to extremes. Unlike my to-the-future-and-beyond darling, the only drive I’ve got is to do the job and make it home at the end of my shift – oh, and to retire with my original parts. That’ll be in eleven years, five months, and twenty-two days. I plan to sit on a dock with a keg of beer, watching folks with more money than sense struggle with boat ties and sails.

  Till then? Well, being a cop is one of the professions that keeps going no matter how the world changes around us. Easy to see why. Mods or not, people don’t change. Not in the ways that make them bump into each other or into walls. Stupid is what keeps us employed. I see that more than most, being a beat cop. Never wanted a desk. I like my streets. My people – decent, dregs, something between – and I have an understanding. This, I might put up with; that, the hell I won’t. Good days, some need an ear; others to be told where to go. And how.

  The bad days? All I’ll say is mine end better than theirs.

  I go home.

  So long as it stays that way – and they, meaning most everybody, stays out of my way – I’m as happy as can be. Daisie claims I’m a throwback to a time before we – the civilization ‘we’ – began moving faster than we could parse our course. That’s how she talks; I don’t always get it. Me, I go by what I see. Her smile. The look in her eyes when I come through the door.

  Yup, I’ve a good life.

  Life had been good to Marie-Jeanne Baptiste too, until its end. That had been nasty.

  I stood in rose-scented shade, close enough to the cluster of funeral staff to be mistaken for one of them, and watched the Who’s Who of synthetic graft and genetic transfection mill around the open grave. I knew these phonies. Those gawking at their neighbour’s mod were the ones strutting their first extremes in public. Those who’d missed the trend boat did their pathetic best not to appear envious or dismayed, though I was amused to see the hornies edge almost by instinct away from one another. Too late, I’d have told them. Antlers were over. It was all about skin this season. The pleasant weather arranged for Baptiste’s graveside service meant most of that skin was exposed.

  I got looks because mine wasn’t. What was different about him, they wondered, certain something was. Who didn’t have a mod of some kind, if only to avoid wearing sunglasses or having to – shudder – carry a cell?

  Oh, I’d my share. They just weren’t flesh. Department-issue ceramic soles on my feet, department-issue liner in my gut, swallowed this morning. I could walk forever and my body exist on any combo of fast food and caffeine without harm. More importantly, calls of nature waited till I was off the clock. Basic cop tech. The union paid for it. If I wanted the homicide desk for good, they’d haul me in for scene analyzer implants, truth serum spit, and who knew what other nonsense.

  Not that I needed any of it today. There were department eyes among the media for the routine record. Me? Try as they might, despite union protest, nothing performed an on-the-fly analysis of human behaviour better or cheaper than another human. My report would be more impression than detail, but it mattered. A quick scan of the crowd gave me the faces I’d flag later. My gut – the real one – told me which of those to keep watching now.

  Like Kamea Hale, Baptiste’s former boss. The Hales had started in cattle – not that she owned any now. Free range animals were scarce and pricey, not to mention the idea of consuming parts of one nauseated the majority. Instead, Hale owned All Your Favourite Strains, the world’s largest producer of vat-meat, patent-protected and available in any flavour of fish, fowl, or mammal desired. A success due in large part, according to the background, to the infallible taste buds of Marie-Jeanne Baptiste.

  Baptiste was – had been – an epicure. Made her rep as a food critic, then moved on to become premiere taster for ‘Strains. Their slogan was ‘We feed you too’ and it wasn’t a boast. After fifty plus years in uniform not much surprised me, but I’d whistled at the company’s size and scope, then again at Baptiste’s reported salary. Before perks.

  Hale’s mods were tame for this group. Enlarged eyes, purple feathers on her head. Her skin – more likely its hairs – had grown overlapping scales that sparkled like the side of a dying fish on a sunny dock.

  Was she here to mourn Baptiste or her valuable mouth?

  Another A-lister, Sir Bolivar Walczak of Star Power Inc, stood nearby, his none-too-subtle security a step behind and glowering. His presence accounted for most of the crowd and all of the media. Walczak was the prime mover behind Star Power Inc’s latest ‘We Can Make You A Star’ campaign: part reality show contest and part re-makeover; he was rumoured to have single-handedly created the current skin-mod craze. Me, I like my DNA as it is, thanks. Okay, as a teen I’d kept Star Power brochures under my pillow and dreamed about becoming a superhero. Or taller. Who hadn’t? But my family was too poor – or too sane – to mod me. Once I gained some years and smarts of my own, most notably Daisie’s, I was fine with the existing me.

  Walczak was a virgin himself – or had everyone believing it. In this crowd, his bald head and ample girth looked more exotic than Hale’s feathers and scales. A busy man and a notoriously media-shy one.

  Until today. What was he doing here?

  Despite the circus atmosphere – helped along by the vintage calliope being played quietly but with a snappy beat – there were a few sincere mourners graveside. I’d done my checks during the sermon. Baptiste left two daughters, both in their teens, and two husbands, only one in his teens, the other possibly my age or more. The older man had gone for blond and stalwart – or was it elf? – with pointed ears and sweeping eyebrows. The younger looked to be a trope – one of the unfortunates who continued to express their grandmother’s idol choice. Or round dark eyes and honey skin were making a comeback. Odder things happened.

  Dual spouses weren’t odd. Marriage had come to accommodate any combination who wanted a lifelong commitment. Many did. According to my Daisie, when what was human began to change almost daily, relationships had to expand as well. As a cop, let me tell you domestic violence went along for the ride. Don’t get me started on families torn apart by one partner’s mod-addiction, which they’d want me to fix in a ten minute visit. As if.

  Among other minor mods, the daughters’ arms and legs were in different primary colours, which made them look like poorly assembled dolls. All four seemed appropriately unhappy and uncomfortable.

  Other than the human sc
enery, Baptiste’s funeral was as dull as any of the others I’d attended until the unicorn showed up.

  HE WAS LATE, in a rush, and I knew him. Who didn’t? All-star goalie Kris Rebane had been fans’ MVP pick when a stick took out his mask and most of his face in game seven of the playoffs. Instead of regrowing what he’d had, he’d taken a buy-out and opted for full unicorn, complete with horse nostrils, goat beard, and the trademarked spiral horn erupting between now-violet eyes. His skin was covered in fine white hair, what showed beyond the kilt, and he’d added a mane since I’d seen him last. A gold, sparkly one. Heroic as hell.

  Ridiculous on a lesser man; Kris had the shoulders and bearing to make it work. Not to mention attitude.

  He was one of mine. Grew up in a tiny apartment below the clinic where his mom worked as night sterilizer. Hot-headed, impulsive, with a heart bigger than his brain, he’d find trouble faster than any kid I knew. Won’t say I got him into hockey, but I helped make sure he stayed there.

  Unicorn. I’d told his mother it was better than bull.

  He spotted me and changed direction, charging through a trio of bunny boys who scattered, then regrouped, noses atwitch with interest.

  “Constable Martin, sir.” When a unicorn comes to attention, it causes a stir.

  A stir I didn’t need. I didn’t bother mentioning I was ‘Inspector Martin’ for the funeral. I glowered up at him. “Piss off.”

  “But... M.J...”

  Belatedly, I realized the mauve streaks down his cheeks had to be from tears. How his path crossed Baptiste’s I didn’t know; celebs had their own circles. “Sorryforyourloss,” I grumbled.

  “I’m just glad to see you,” Kris assured me a little too happily. “I didn’t think anyone took me seriously.”

  That couldn’t be good. One of the daughters looked our way, a green hand drifting to her purple throat in almost theatrical dismay. I gave her my “move along” glare and she glanced away quickly. “No one’s taking you seriously yet,” I warned Kris. “What’s this about?”

  “M.J. was murdered.” The whites of his eyes fluoresced. It didn’t look like grief, but that was the problem with many mods: the unexpected extras. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  No, I was here because Ortmer hadn’t kept his fingers out of a drunk’s mouth. “You didn’t file a statement.” It wasn’t a question. If he had, and it’d reached homicide, I wouldn’t have been sent.

  “They wouldn’t listen!” He snorted like a horse.

  Which wouldn’t have helped the be-taken-seriously part. I sighed. Even before growing a horn with a sharp point, Kris in full righteous rage had never been good for those around him. And he was, as I said, one of mine.

  Maybe all he needed was to vent. I resigned myself to the inevitable. “Thirty seconds. Don’t waste them.”

  “However they said M.J. died, it’s a lie.”

  I’d seen the autopsy report. The term was CMF. Catastrophic Modification Failure. In other words, the unexpected. Techs from the synth clinic responsible had been questioned and her DNA examined; nothing culpable, concluded the department biotechs before moving to the next case. Between the ever-present risk of a new change interacting with something previously unexpressed, and the simple reality that we still didn’t know everything about our own coding, it was no wonder the waivers required before any mod were the tightest legalese known to humanity.

  “CMFs happen, Kris. You know that.”

  “Not like this. It was murder.”

  It was gruesome, I’d admit, which didn’t make it murder but did make me question the competence of the clinic. Baptiste had wanted to enhance her ability to taste – maybe someone was on her heels for the same job – and had ordered a forked tongue with a greater surface area for tastebuds.

  What they’d done was ciliate her tongue, using the portion of her DNA that coded cilia for the inner ear and many other parts. Vid from the clinic, a cheery voiceover describing the design features, showed a tongue made of separate thickened threads able to spread apart during tasting, then to collapse into a normal-looking tongue once done. Handy.

  Unfortunately for Baptiste, her cilia abruptly grew past their intended design limit. They’d filled her mouth, sinuses, and throat then punched through to her brain. The younger husband had found her when he’d gone to her bed that morning. His screams had set off the building alarm.

  “CMFs don’t happen weeks after the mod’s settled. Not without some warning. Someone did this to her,” Kris insisted.

  So much for the details of Baptiste’s death being kept to immediate family, the department, and... “The clinic.” I nodded to myself, putting it together. “It was one of yours.” His mother had insisted he invest; she hadn’t foreseen the unicorn.

  Kris shuddered, mane sparkling in the sun. “Yes. I asked to see the – they showed me –” Beneath the white hair, he turned green. His throat worked convulsively, jiggling the goat beard.

  Baby. The funeral staff came to the alert, presumably ready with a bucket. I waved them off and, grabbing his arm, marched my unsettled unicorn to the chapel building. We weren’t alone. Media drones now hovered over the arched door, hunting tears as the mass of funeral goers were cued to retire to the waiting reception. Serve them right if Kris vomited on the marble steps. Then again, he’d probably hit my boots.

  Murder?

  They’d have sent someone else – anyone else – if that’d been remotely on the radar. My job was to observe the people drawn to this death. Who talked to whom. Who wouldn’t and why. Gossip was grist for the department info mill; funerals made for easy pickings. The most private of people would talk to a stranger, given a sympathetic look. I wasn’t great at sympathetic. The look I could fake.

  I was bored. I was curious. Okay, and Ortmer’d been a pain in my ass since his promotion to almighty inspector. The notion of asking a few questions of my own was irresistible.

  Should have known better.

  GLENDALE’S FOREVER GARDENS’ chapel lay within a sprawling edifice of reused stone, glass, metal, and wood, each and every component labelled with its source. Maybe they meant to be respectful. Historic, even. Ask me, it was a nuisance. When I finally located the restroom for Kris, it was unhelpfully labelled the ‘Old Montrose Railway Depot.’ Though I did like the coat check. Its long polished counter had once graced ‘Darby’s Fine Meats.’ Nice.

  The reception was in the main hall, named the ‘Bradley Greenhouse No.6,’ presumably for the glass ceiling. The hall itself was a maze of tables covered in soon-to-be-compost flowers and unrecognizable food. Beverage fountains tinkled gloomily. Windows, curtained in dark velvet, were set deep within semi-private alcoves for those overcome. I’d have said by grief but it was doubtful most of those here had met Baptiste or her family. Eaten food she’d tasted for them, yes.

  Eat the food here, definitely. Hungry work, a funeral. And thirsty, by the swarm around each fountain. Other means of dealing with sadness were changing hands or whatever in the Railway Depot. I wished them luck. Sex-mods were no more reliable than the basic model and some required a manual to even rev up.

  I’d parked my unicorn with two of the bunny boys. Turned out they were hockey fans and Kris, rightly figuring I didn’t want him underfoot, resigned himself to adulation.

  I walked around, listening more than watching. Most conversations, predictably, were about anything but the woman now dead. The few of interest to the department I noted as I passed, feeling more ridiculous by the moment. Kris had no motive or suspects, just his guilt and an overblown desire for justice. The same desire had got his face rearranged, truth be told. Unicorn.

  After half an hour. I’d made one circuit of the tables and alcoves and was starting my next when,

  “– you know it’s your fault she’s dead.”

  I feigned a craving for some green goo and crackers on the nearest table. Whatever was in it, my gut liner could manage. I hoped.

  Who’d spoken?

  “Don’t be r
idiculous. I never blamed M.J.”

  That voice I recognized. Kamea Hale had given a short eulogy at the service. She was holding court in the alcove behind and to my left.

  “What’d you lose – billions? You couldn’t afford another mistake.”

  Male, older. I reached for a napkin, managing to avoid the red-dappled ribcage of the nearly naked lady doing the same. Skin-mods. The air was cooler in the hall – for the food and flowers, I assumed – and gooseflesh marred most of her pattern. Still, it was prettier than some. Almost like rose petals.

  As we exchanged the requisite tight-lipped nods of funeral-goers, I got the glimpse I was after.

  Hale was sitting with Walczak. His security, stationed on either side of the alcove opening, noticed my interest and gave me the eye. Three each.

  Morons. I lifted a green-smeared cracker at them and popped it in my mouth before turning away again.

  The taste curdled my toes in their ceramic soles. Wishing I could spit, I swallowed hastily, then helped myself to something bubbly from the closest fountain.

  From the mouthful, it had a good kick to it, if I hadn’t already guessed from the rising volume of voices to every side. Oh, I wasn’t drinking on duty. You kidding? Another so-called perk of my cop’s gut. Alcohol’s just another source of hydration.

  I smelled unicorn – cloves and day-old armpit, I kid you not – before I glanced sideways to confirm that yes, Kris had run out of patience and found me.

  His eyes glowed white around the violet again. Not a sign of calm. “He could have done it.” Which ‘he’ wasn’t in question, given the swing of that wickedly pointed horn towards Walczak.