The Year’s Best Science Fiction (St Martin's) 26

by Gardner Dozois

  “Do it,” Markel told them.

  “You’ll be all right here?”

  The scientist lifted a pistol over his head. “We’re fine. Just go. Get my child out of that cage, now!”

  That left three people on the plaza, plus the monster locked inside the slowly revolving crystal egg.

  “The plague is just an insurance policy, huh?”

  Joe threw out the question, and waited.

  After a minute, the girl said, “To protect us from people like you, yes.”

  He put on an injured expression. “Like me? What’s that mean?”

  She glanced at Markel. Then with a cold voice, she said, “He showed me your history, Joe. After our first night together . . .”

  “And what did it tell you?”

  “When you were on the Demon Dandy, you saved yourself by leaving a Rebirth behind. And you did it in a cold, calculating way.”

  He shrugged, smiled. “What else?”

  “After joining the security arm of the corporation, you distinguished yourself as a soldier. Then you went to work for the UN, as a contractor, and your expertise has been assassinations.”

  “Bad men should be killed,” Joe said flatly. “Evil should be removed from the world. Get the average person to be honest, and he’ll admit that he won’t lose any sleep, particularly if the monster is killed with a single clean shot.”

  “You are horrible,” she maintained.

  “If I’m so horrible,” said Joe, “then do the world a favor. Shoot me in the head.”

  She began to reach behind her back, then thought better of it.

  Markel glanced at both of them, pulling his weapon closer to his body. But nothing seemed urgent, and he returned to keeping watch over the Grendel’s enclosure.

  “I suppose you noticed,” Joe began.

  The girl blinked. “Noticed what?”

  “In my career, I’ve killed a respectable number of Rebirths.”

  The dark eyes stared at him. Then very quietly, with sarcasm, she said, “I suppose they were all bad people.”

  “Drug lords and terrorists, or hired guns in the service of either.” Joe shook his head, saying, “Legal murder is easy. Clean, clear-cut. A whole lot more pleasant than the last few weeks have been, I’ll admit.”

  Markel looked at him. “I am curious, Joseph. Who decided you were the ideal person to investigate our little laboratory?”

  “You don’t have a little lab,” said Joe. “There aren’t ten or twelve better-equipped facilities when it comes to high-end genetic research.”

  “There aren’t even twelve,” the man said, bristling slightly. “Perhaps two or three.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t have found this item in any official file,” Joe said. “But a couple months ago, I was leading a team that hit a terror-cell in Alberta. Under interrogation, the Rebirth boss started making threats about unleashing something called Natural Killer on us. On the poor helpless sapiens. He claimed that we’d be wiped out of existence, and the new species could then take over. Which is their right, he claimed, and as inevitable as the next sunrise.”

  His audience exchanged looks.

  “But that hardly explains how you found your way to me,” Markel pointed out.

  “There was a trail. Bloody in places, but every corpse pointing in your general direction.”

  Markel almost spoke. But then came the creak of a heavy door being opened. Somewhere in the back of the Grendel’s enclosure, three pairs of goggled eyes were peering out into the jungle and shadow.

  “It’s an amazing disease,” Joe stated. “Natural Killer is.”

  “Quiet,” Markel warned.

  But the girl couldn’t contain herself. She bent low, whispering, “It is,” while trying to burn him with her hateful smile.

  “The virus targets old, outmoded stretches of the human genome,” Joe continued. “From what I can tell—and I’m no expert in biology, of course—but your extra genes guarantee you wouldn’t get anything worse than some wicked flu symptoms out of the bug. Is that about right?”

  “A tailored pox phage,” she said. “Rapidly mutating, but always fatal to sapiens genome.”

  “So who dreamed up the name?” Joe glanced at Markel and then winked at her. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  She sat back, grinning.

  “And it’s going to save you? From bastards like me, is it?”

  “You won’t dare lift a hand against us,” she told Joe. “As soon as you realize we have this weapon, and that it could conceivably wipe your entire species off the face of the earth . . .”

  “Smart,” he agreed. “Very smart.”

  From the Grendel enclosure came the sharp soft noise of a gun firing. One quick burst and then two single shots from the same weapon. Then, silence.

  Markel lifted his pistol reflexively.

  “So when do you Rebirths make your official announcement?” Joe asked. “And how do you handle this kind of event? Hold a news conference? Unless you decide on a demonstration, I suppose. You know, murder an isolated village, or devastate one of the orbital communities. Just to prove to the idiots in the world that you can deliver on your threats.”

  A voice called from the enclosure.

  “I have it,” one of the soldiers shouted.

  Joe turned in time to see the reddish glow rise of the ground, partly obscured by the strong hand holding it. But as the arm cocked, ready to throw the prize back into the plaza, there was a grunt, almost too soft to be heard. A terrific amount of violence occurred in an instant, without fuss. Then the red glow appeared on a different portion of the jungle floor, and the only sound was the slow lapping of a broad happy tongue.

  Markel cursed.

  The girl stood up and looked.

  Markel called out a name, and nobody answered. And then somebody else fired their weapon in a spray pattern, cutting vegetation and battering the high fence on the far side of the moat.

  “I killed it,” the second soldier declared. “I’m sure.”

  The Brilliance-Boy offered a few cautionary words.

  “I do feel exceptionally stupid,” Joe said. “Tell me again: Why exactly do you need Natural Killer?”

  The girl stared at him and then stepped back.

  “I didn’t know we were waging a real war against you people,” he continued. “I guess we keep that a secret, what with our political tricks and PR campaigns. Like when we grant you full citizenship. And the way we force you to accept the costs and benefits of all the laws granted to human beings everywhere—”

  “You hate us,” she interrupted. “You despise every last one of us.”

  Quietly, Joe assured her, “You don’t know what I hate.”

  She stiffened, saying nothing.

  “This is the situation. As I see it.” Joe paused for a moment. “Inside that one vial, you have a bug that could wipe out your alleged enemies. And by enemies, I mean people that look at you with suspicion and fear. You intend to keep your doomsday disease at the ready, just in case you need it.”

  “Of course.”

  “Except you’ll have to eventually grow more of it. If you want to keep it as a credible, immediate threat. And you’ll have to divide your stocks and store them in scattered, secure locations. Otherwise assholes like me are going to throw the bugs in a pile and burn it all with a torch.”

  She watched Joe, her sore jaw clamped tight.

  “But having stockpiles of Natural Killer brings a different set of problems. Who can trust who not to use it without permission? And the longer this virus exists, the better the chance that the Normals will find effective fixes to keep themselves safe. Vaccines. Quarantine laws. Whatever we need to weather the plague, and of course, give us our chance to take our revenge afterwards.”

  The red glow had not moved. For a full minute, the little jungle had been perfectly, ominously silent.

  Markel glanced at Joe and then back at the high fence. He was obviously fighting the urge to shout warnings to the o
thers. That could alert the Grendel. But it took all his will to do nothing.

  “You have a great, great weapon,” Joe allowed. “But your advantage won’t last.”

  The girl was breathing faster now.

  “You know what would be smart? Before the Normals grow aware of your power, you should release the virus. No warnings, no explanations. Do it before we know what hit us, and hope you kill enough of us in the first week that you can permanently gain the upper hand.”

  “No,” Markel said, taking two steps toward the enclosure. “We don’t have more than a sample of the virus, and it is just a virus.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Diseases are like wildfires,” he explained. “You watch them burn, and you can’t believe that anything would survive the blaze. But afterwards there are always islands of green surrounded by scorched forest.” The man had given this considerable thought. “Three or four billion sapiens might succumb. But that would still leave us in the minority, and your vengeance would be horrible and probably fatal.”

  The girl showed a satisfied smile.

  But then Joe said, “Except,” and laughed quietly.

  The red glow had not moved, and the jungle stood motionless beneath the stars. But Markel had to look back at his prisoner, a new terror pushing away the old.

  “What do you mean?” the girl asked. “Except what?”

  “You and your boss,” Joe said. “And who knows how many thousands of others too. Each one of you looks exactly like us. You sound like us.” Then he grinned and smacked his lips, adding, “And you taste like us, too. Which means that your particular species, whatever you call yourselves . . . you’ll come out of this nightmare better than anybody . . .”

  The girl’s eyes opened wide, a pained breath taken and then held deep.

  “Which of course is the central purpose of this gruesome exercise,” Joe said. “I’m sure Dr. Markel would have eventually let you in on his dirty secret. The real scheme hiding behind the first, more public plan.”

  Markel stared at the cuffed, unarmed man sitting on the bricks, too astonished to react.

  “Is this true?” the girl whispered.

  There was a moment of hesitation, and then the genius managed to shake his head, lying badly when he said, “Of course not. The man is telling you a crazy wild story, dear.”

  “And you know why he never told you?” Joe asked.

  “Shut up,” Markel warned.

  The girl was carrying a weapon, just as Joe had guessed. From the back of her pants, she pulled out a small pistol, telling Markel, “Let him talk.”

  “Darling, he’s trying to poison you—”

  “Shut up,” she snapped.

  Then to Joe, she asked, “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Because you’re a good decent person, or at least you like to think so. And because he knew how to use that quality to get what he wants.” Showing a hint of compassion, Joe sighed. “Markel sure knows how to motivate you. First, he makes you sleep with me. And then he shows you my files, convincing you that I can’t be trusted or ignored. Which is why you slept with me three more times. Just to keep a close watch over me.”

  The girl lowered her pistol, and she sobbed and then started to lift pistol again.

  “Put that down,” Markel said.

  She might have obeyed, given another few moments to think.

  But then Markel shot her three times. He did it quickly and lowered his weapon afterwards, astonished that he had done this very awful thing. It took his great mind a long sloppy moment to wrap itself around the idea that he could murder in that particular fashion, that he possessed such brutal, prosaic power. Then he started to lift his gun again, searching for Joe.

  With bound hands and feet, Joe leaped for the dead girl. And with her little gun, he put a bullet into Markel’s forehead.

  The blind, unborn monster watched the drama from inside its crystal egg.

  A few moments later, a bloody Brilliance-Boy ran up to the Grendel’s fence, and with a joyous holler flung the red putty and diamond vial back onto the plaza. Then he turned and fired twice at shadows before something monstrous lifted him high, shook him once, and then folded him backwards before neatly tearing him in two.

  THE TICKING BOMB

  “Goodness,” the prisoner muttered. “It’s the legend himself.”

  Joe said nothing.

  “Well, now I feel especially terrified.” She laughed weakly before coughing, a dark bubble of blood clinging to the split corner of her mouth. Then she closed her eyes for a moment, suppressing her pain as she turned her head to look straight at him. “You must be planning all kinds of horrors,” she said. “Savage new ways to break my spirit. To bare my soul.”

  Gecko slippers gripped the wall. Joe watched the prisoner. He opened his mouth as if to speak but then closed it again, one finger idly scratching a spot behind his left ear.

  “I won’t be scared,” she decided. “This as an honor, having someone this famous assigned to my case. I must be considered an exceptionally important person.”

  He seemed amused, if just for a moment.

  “But I’m not a person, am I? In your eyes, I’m just another animal.”

  What she was was a long, elegant creature—the ultimate marriage between human traditions and synthetic chromosomes. Four bare arms were restrained with padded loops and pulled straight out from the shockingly naked body. Because hair could be a bother in space, she had none. Because dander was an endless source of dirt in freefall, her skin would peel away periodically, not unlike the worn skin of a cobra. She was smart, but not in the usual ways that the two or three thousand species of Rebirths enhanced their minds. Her true genius lay in social skills. Among the Antfolk, she could instantly recognize every face and recall each name, knowing at least ten thousand nest-mates as thoroughly as two sapiens who had been life-long pals. Even among the alien faces of traditional humans, she was a marvel at reading faces, deciphering postures. Every glance taught her something more about her captors. Each careless word gave her room to maneuver. That’s why the first team—a pair of low-ranking interrogators, unaware of her importance—was quickly pulled from her case. She had used what was obvious, making a few offhand observations, and in the middle of their second session, the two officers had started to trade insults and then punches.

  “A Carroway-worthy moment,” had been the unofficial verdict.

  A second, more cautious team rode the skyhook up from Quito, and they were wise enough to work their prisoner without actually speaking to her. Solitude and sensory deprivation were the tools of choice. Without adequate stimulation, an Antfolk would crumble. And the method would have worked, except that several weeks would have been required. But time was short: Several intelligence sources delivered the same ominous warning. This was not just another low-level prisoner. The Antfolk, named Glory, was important. She might even be essential. Days mattered now, even hours. Which was why a third team went to work immediately, doing their awful best from the reassuring confines of a UN bunker set two kilometers beneath the Matterhorn.

  That new team was composed of Als and autodocs with every compassion system deleted. Through the careful manipulation of pain and hallucinogenic narcotics, they managed to dislodge a few nuggets of intelligence as well as a level of hatred and malevolence that they had never before witnessed.

  “The bomb is mine,” she screamed. “I helped design it, and I helped build it. Antimatter triggers the fusion reaction, and it’s compact and efficient, and shielded to where it’s nearly invisible. I even selected our target. Believe me . . . when my darling detonates, everything is going to change!”

  At that point, their prisoner died.

  Reviving her wasted precious minutes. But that was ample time for the machines to discuss the obvious possibilities and then calculate various probabilities. In the time remaining, what could be done? And what was impossible? Then without a shred of ego or embarrassment, they contact one of the only v
oices that they consider more talented than themselves.

  And now Joe stood before the battered prisoner.

  Again, he scratched at his ear.

  Time hadn’t touched him too roughly. He was in his middle forties, but his boyish good looks had been retained through genetics and a sensible indifference to sunshine. Careful eyes would have noticed the fatigue in his body, his motions. A veteran soldier could have recognized the subtle erosion of spirit. And a studied gaze of the kind that an Antfolk would employ would detect signs of weakness and doubt that didn’t quite fit when it came to one of the undisputed legends of this exceptionally brutal age.

  Joe acted as if there was no hurry. But his heart was beating too fast, his belly rolling with nervous energy. And the corners of his mouth were a little too tight, particularly when he looked as if he wanted to speak.

  “What are you going to do with me?” his prisoner inquired.

  And again, he scratched at his scalp, something about his skin bothering him to distraction.

  She was puzzled, slightly.

  “Say something,” Glory advised.

  “I’m a legend, am I?” The smile was unchanged, bright and full; but behind the polished teeth and bright green eyes was a quality . . . some trace of some subtle emotion that the prisoner couldn’t quite name.

  She was intrigued.

  “I know all about you,” Glory explained. “I know your career in detail, successes and failures both.”

  For an instant, Joe looked at the lower pair of arms, following the long bones to where they met within the reconfigured hips.

  “Want to hear something ironic?” she asked.

  “Always.”

  “The asteroid you were planning to mine? Back during your brief, eventful career as an astronaut, I mean. It’s one of ours now.”

  “Until your bomb goes boom,” he mentioned. “And then that chunk of iron and humanity is going to be destroyed. Along with every other nest of yours, I would guess.”

  “Dear man. Are you threatening me?”

  “You would be the better judge of that.”

  She managed to laugh. “I’m not particularly worried.”