Twelve Tomorrows - Visionary stories of the near future inspired by today's technologies

by Neal Stephenson

  “Working for GreenHex.” And then, at the sight of Dora’s raised eyebrows, “I said you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “There is no GreenHex. Not any more.”

  “Names change. GreenHex goes on. There was GreenHex before it was GreenHex, there is GreenHex after.”

  “What’s that, some kind of corporate benediction?”

  “You know how these things work.”

  “It mutated.”

  Gayle chuckled. “Pretty much has to, doesn’t it? Genetic engineering’s what we do.”

  “So what do you do there?”

  “Engineering, kid. Just like everyone else.”

  “When did you get a degree in genetics?”

  “Not genetic. Although genes are just—words, I guess. Information. And engineers are just editors. And the one thing both of us crawled out of E&I with was first-class editing skills. They even gave you an award for it, as I recall.”

  Two, actually. “Not the same thing. Those guys are rewriting life.”

  “Actually, you’re making my point. People care more about packaging than contents. It’s all just information, but you get—emotional—about the kind that happens to be wrapped up in genes. So any business built on optimizing one kind of info is naturally going to value folks who know how to optimize the other. Some of our most life-changing products would never get to market otherwise.” She finally seemed to notice the cigarette pack in her hand, extracted one. “They’re hiring, you know.”

  “Really,” Dora said.

  “I could put in a word.”

  “Thanks, I—thanks. That means a lot to me.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “I don’t know, though. GreenHex by any other name, and all. And if you’ll remember, our last editing gig didn’t turn out so well for either of us.”

  “Things change, Dory. Gotta change with them. That’s what life does.” She raised cupped hands against the breeze, lit up, dragged. Wisps of gray smoke trailed back out of her mouth as Dora stared in disbelief.

  “It adapts.”

  She left her card behind. And the memory of that cigarette, flaring to life in the light of the clear blue flame that danced from the tip of her tongue. ■