I push the door inward with great curiosity and enter a combination living space and kitchen area split by a holo-wall to give the illusion of separation. A large window frames a view of the Capitol and its golden spire. Great—I won’t be able to get away from it even when I’m not serving. The single bed is on a raised platform above a built-in couch and end tables. A door opens onto a tiny hyfac. I estimate the whole space is not much more than three hundred square feet. It should feel cozy, but somehow it feels like I’m on display in an aquarium. That’s partly due to the light shining through the building’s translucent composites that gives an aqueous feel, and partly because I know there are imagers and recorders in all the billets. I surreptitiously scan the room, trying to spot the imagers Minister Fonner hinted would be there. I know he only clued me in because he doesn’t want me betraying him accidentally, but I’m grateful.
Footsteps pass overhead and I wonder briefly about my neighbors. I’m too tired to make any effort to meet them and, frankly, the fewer people I talk to, the less chance I have of betraying myself. The refrigerator yawns emptily when I open it; I’ll have to find one of the distributors Minister Fonner talked about, who collect food from Atlanta’s domes and supply it to citizens with ration cards. I have one now, or rather, Derrika does. I resolve to stop thinking of “me” and “Derrika” as separate people—it’s too confusing. I’m still me, regardless of the name I go by, the color of my hair, or the shape of my chin. An Everly by any other name . . .
I drift around the billet, trying out the seating options, inspecting the bed, unable to settle. I wonder how long I’ll be here, how long I’ll wear this new look and lie continually. Until we come up with a locust solution. It might be weeks or months; if it’s much longer than that, it may well be too late.
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, I report to the lab after doing my exercises, making my way through the building with a bit more ease than yesterday, but still tense with anxiety that I’ll betray myself. Some of my tension dissipates when Dr. Zimmerman—“Call me Torina”—beckons me. I greet the others and head to her workstation. She runs her fingers over the computer display and brings up images and reports on locusts eating mammals, complete with graphs and maps and dates of what she calls “incidents.” She also has data on what percentage of the locust swarms are carnivorous based on the amount of the mammalian victim consumed. It is grisly stuff, and it shows a clear upward trend.
Watching me absorb the implications, she leans back in her chair. “With the locust life cycle being approximately twelve weeks between egg incubation and sexual maturity, depending on climatic conditions, we estimate it will only be twelve to eighteen months, approximately four to six generations, before up to ninety percent of the locusts are carnivorous and we can consider the adaptation ‘fixed.’ Of course, alleles—no matter how advantageous – sometimes never become completely fixed in the course of an adaptive evolutionary response, as I’m sure you realize. However, if only seventy-five to eighty percent of the locust population becomes carnivorous, the very existence of humanity is at risk. You understand the urgency of our work, Derrika?”
She is slightly condescending and I wonder if that’s because I’m a nat, or if it’s just her usual manner. I swallow my annoyance and answer. “I’ve always understood it.”
“One of the solutions we’re investigating is speeding up the locusts’ metabolic rate so their life span is shortened. Ideally, that could make it impossible for them to reproduce; more likely, it will result in a shortened span of time for feeding and growing, reducing the damage that each individual insect inflicts.”
An interesting approach. She sets me to doing calculations on my computer based on various models.
At the Kube, we had only two computers for the whole lab. Here, every scientist and technician has his or her own. I had no idea so many computers existed. When Keegan assigned me to a workstation and I saw the computer, I have to admit that the first thought in my head wasn’t of locusts—it was of locating my parents and unknown sibling. I don’t know what databases my computer accesses, but I plan to find an opportunity before too long for exploring. Not until I establish myself, though, and figure out what alarms I might trigger by trolling through the files. Since the RESCO DNA database indicated there was no record of my parents, I’m not counting on finding anything, but there must be some way to track them. I need to think creatively . . . but not now.
For now, I concentrate on performing the task Torina has given me. I take it upon myself to sort the data four different ways, graph it, and analyze the results, even though she only asked for raw numbers. Even so, I’m done before noon, and I notify her. Raising her brows, she asks me to bring up my report on the display. I do and wait with some trepidation for her comments. She absorbs it all at light speed and gives me a look.
“Very impressive, very impressive, indeed. We thought Minister Alden was paying off a political debt of some kind by foisting you on us, but clearly you have real ability. Real ability. Dr. Usher.” She calls Keegan over and motions for him to examine my work. He does so, lips pursed, and nods when he’s taken it in.
He challenges me on one of my conclusions and we go back and forth about it for five minutes. “Unusual perspective, Ealy,” he says finally. “Clearly, you’re someone to keep an eye on.”
The look that goes with his comment makes me wonder how he means it.
Torina waits until he’s out of earshot and murmurs ambiguously, “Keegan Usher is an ambitious man. I’m sure he has his sights on Minister Alden’s job some day. He’s unlikely to tolerate anyone or anything that gets between him and the recognition and position he’s sure he deserves.”
“Are you telling me I’m in danger?”
Perhaps my tone is too sharp, my conclusion unexpected, because she raises her brows. “Dear me, no. Let’s just say that any discoveries made in this lab are likely to get credited to Dr. Keegan Usher and no one else.”
“I’m okay with that. It doesn’t much matter who gets the credit, as long as we can eradicate the locusts.”
“Such a naïf,” she says, turning away.
On our lunch break, I leave the ministry building in search of a food distributor. Torina has given me directions to the closest one and I use my ration card to procure enough items to last three or four days, stash them in my billet and head back. As I’m crossing the street, the Premier’s cavalcade sweeps around the corner again, IPF outriders preceding and following her ACV. I’m in the middle of the street and I hurry to finish crossing as they halt and escort the Premier into the building. I’m almost to the Capitol side when the nearest soldier suddenly snaps his head toward me. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk, and I unconsciously pick up my pace, and bow my head as if watching my feet.
He can’t recognize me, he can’t recognize me, I chant under my breath, as if that will make a difference. Surely he’s not alert enough to spot the scared girl on trial beneath the dark curls and bangs I now sport. I risk a glance at him but he’s helmeted and I can’t see his features or expression. Maybe he’s just appreciating a pretty girl, I tell myself. Telling myself I can’t cower every time someone looks at me, I stick my chin up and march past the Capitol to the MSFP building. I don’t look back, but the prickling hairs on my neck tell me he watches until I disappear inside.
The afternoon passes quickly as I immerse myself in work, and I begin to think that this life might be bearable if I can only make a difference. As I’m leaving for the day, a message pops up on my display. “Notelmo: My team and I have made a substantial breakthrough using the retrovirus we discussed. Get in touch ASAP. Fergus.” I wrinkle my brow, trying to decipher the message’s heading and figure out where it came from.
Since Keegan is passing my workstation, I ask him, “Sir, can you tell me what this means and who it’s from? Who’s Notelmo?”
“Notelmo was a virologist,” he says, leaning over me to read my display. His hand rests lightly on my shou
lder, and it is all I can do not to bolt. “He’s gone. This is from Dr. Fergus Allaway, nutter in residence at the Royal Australian College of Biological Research. His work is too theoretical to have practical applications in this millennia.” He straightens and his hand drops away.
Breathing easier, I ask, “Australia? Like in Australia? There are people there, alive, and we collaborate with them?” I can't process it. Exhilaration bubbles through me at the thought of scientists working in other countries—where else beside Australia?—and collaborating with us at the MSFP. How could I not have known this? Did Dr. Ronan know? It makes me wonder what else I don't know.
He gives a dry chuckle. “I’d forgotten you’re fresh from the Kube where they keep you isolated from the real world. It’s best if the majority of citizens, especially those outside of governmental and military circles, keep their focus on quotidian activities and don’t worry about wider affairs. They’re happier that way, more . . . settled. Of course there are people and nations functioning outside Amerada. Australia, as a matter of fact, was hit very lightly by the flu pandemic so their infrastructure is reasonably intact. They’ve been studying locusts far longer than we have, since they’ve had swarm problems from before we could even spell ‘locust,’ and we’ve learned a lot from them. This Allaway guy, though—” He makes a dismissive gesture. “Ignore the message, Ealy and he’ll quit bothering you.”
I nod, but I’m so amazed by this contact from what seems like another world, another planet, that I know I’m going to reply. I’ll do it tomorrow, when Keegan’s not looking over my shoulder. I wish I could tell Wyck. He is the one who wants to leave Amerada and explore the world. The thought of Wyck makes me remember the Defiance and Idris and the promise I made him. So far, I’ve not seen or heard anything that would interest him, I don’t think.
I stand, ready to leave for the day, but Keegan’s still hovering. “Was there something else, Dr. Usher?” I ask him, reluctant to rub past him.
He smiles, and I notice his incisors are a smidge too long. With his auburn hair, they give him a vulpine look. “I was thinking, Ealy—Derrika—that it might be nice to get to know each other better since we’ll be working together. Perhaps dinner tomorrow night? I’m a member of the Crystalwind club—you can dine with me as my guest.” He’s relaxed, confident; it never crosses his mind that I might refuse.
And I don’t. Even though the idea of spending time with him repulses me, I’ve got to get past that if I’m going to make any progress in this lab. No matter what he did as a boy, he’s my boss now, a respected scientist, and an up-and-comer in the political hierarchy. I can’t risk offending him and getting kicked out of the lab. Besides, I tell myself as I accept his invitation, maybe he’s changed. He was only eleven . . . maybe he’s grown out of his anger, gotten better hold of his impulses.
I walk back to my billet, caught up in my thoughts, more or less certain that one doesn’t “outgrow” being a sociopath. When I make the turn onto my street, I get a prickly feeling between my shoulder blades, like I’m being watched, and I whirl around. A man walking behind me almost bumps into me and I murmur, “Sorry.”
I don’t spot anyone suspicious, anyone who seems to be focused on me. A handful of people are walking home from serving, several alone, two paired up and talking animatedly. No one pays attention to me. I scan the nearby buildings as I resume walking, but don’t spot anyone staring from a window. A microdrone buzzes by overhead and I decide it’s the ubiquitous surveillance that gave me the prickly feeling. You’re getting paranoid, I tell myself as I let myself into my building.
Something shoves me from behind. I stumble forward and come up in a crouch, hands ready, but the blond woman standing there with bags from the food distributor weighing her down says, “Oops, lost my balance. So sorry! I don’t know you—you must be new. My name’s Marizat. I serve in the Ministry of Information. I’d shake, but—” She laughs and hefts the bags an inch. She’s got geneborn gold eyes framed by the lushest lashes I’ve ever seen. A dimple flirts in her cheek, and it’s impossible not to find her engaging.
“No problem,” I say, relaxing a tad. “I’m Derrika.”
“Where do you serve?”
“The MSFP.”
“Ooh, you must be really smart, especially for a nat.”
When some geneborns say "nat," it feels like they're saying "gnat," but Marizat's words aren't offensive. I figure she was engineered for gregariousness and empathy, traits that would be useful in the communications arena. “You must work with Minister Fonner,” I say. “He was the Supervising Proctor at the Kube I grew up in.”
She shivers, her whole body rippling. “I get absolutely tongue-tied whenever he’s around, which is strange because I’m almost never at a loss for words. Was he always so intimidating?”
“Pretty much.”
She uses her elbow to summon the elevator. “I’m on the fourth floor. Want to eat dinner with me tonight? I just stocked up and I’m a pretty good cook. Not as good as my brother—he’s got amazingly sensitive taste buds and a sense of smell like you wouldn’t believe, and serves as the Premier’s personal chef, but he’s taught me a few things.”
I’ll have to watch what I say if I spend time with Marizat, but I’m tired of being on my own. “Sure. Thank you.”
She gives me her billet number and disappears into the elevator. I head for the stairs and find myself smiling as I climb.
Dinner with Marizat is fun. Her billet is a clone of mine, except it’s filled with mementoes from her home in the Mid-Atlantic Canton and feels much warmer than my aquarium, as I’ve come to think of my billet. She babbles on endlessly and I learn that her mother is an administrator in the canton government and her father an engineer. In addition to the chef brother, she has another who is in the IPF. She’s been in Atlanta for eighteen months and loves her service which seems to entail connecting with her equivalents in various foreign countries.
“You know, until today, I didn’t even know for sure that there were survivors in other countries,” I admit. “And you talk to them every day?”
“By satellite feed.”
“I thought that technology was unsustained, that the communications satellites were decaying in orbit.”
“Oh, no. Well, that might have been true some years back, before I got to the Ministry, but there was a launch just last year and there’s another one planned for later this year. You know, I don’t know if I was supposed to tell anyone that. Forget I said it! The minister calls our contact with other countries ‘essential.’ Some of them speak English, but most don’t. I’m an extraordinary linguist,” she says without a hint of vanity. “I speak fourteen languages fluently and another eleven competently, which is why I serve where I do.”
“I’m lucky to be coherent in English,” I say. “I mostly speak bio-chemistry.”
She giggles.
I descend the stairs to the second floor later that evening, aware that I at last possess a piece of intelligence that might interest Idris. He probably knows about the communications satellites already, but I want him to think I’m actively gathering intelligence for him so he won’t harm Wyck or try to recall me, so I’m planning to leave an infrared mark on the statue in Centennial Olympic Park per Griselda’s instructions. I got Marizat to tell me where it is by asking about the city. It’s not far, and I think I can walk over there before total dark falls. I’m only stopping by my billet to get the infrared pen. I put my finger against the pad. The door opens and I’m distracted from my thoughts by a piece of paper on the floor. Someone has slipped it under the door while I was upstairs with Marizat. Looking over my shoulder at the empty hall, I hastily close the door and stand staring down at the white splotch.
It’s not going to bite me. I bend and pick it up. The side facing me is blank, so I flip it over.
2241 Lithonia Court, DeKalb
That’s it. What does it mean? Who left it? It’s an address, but whose? Am I supposed to go there? Maybe it’s a trap
. There’s no name on the page—maybe someone slipped it under the wrong door. It might be meant for one of my neighbors. If it’s really for me—who left it? I’m back to that question, which seems to be the most important one. Hardly anyone knows I live here. Could it be from someone in Idris's network? He could have given them my new name and they could have tracked me down . . . somehow. Has something happened to Wyck or Fiere? Alexander?
I try to stop my thoughts spiraling toward disasters. If it’s from Idris, he wants me to meet him or one of his Defiers at Lithonia Court. If it was about someone getting hurt or killed, he wouldn’t need a meeting; the note could just relay the news. I rub the paper absently between my thumb and forefinger. The paper is onion skin-thin, already wilting from the sweat and oil in my fingers. There’s no date or time with the address, which seems to rule out a meeting since I can’t imagine someone hanging out there, possibly for days, until I show up. The whole thing is a mystery I won’t be able to solve unless I go to Lithonia Court. Well, I’m not risking it. The work I’m doing is too important. The address is at best a distraction and at worst a trap. I crumple the paper in my fist, feeling the edges crinkle against my palm. I decide to postpone my trip to the Olympic park until tomorrow.
Chapter Nineteen
The next day passes in a blur of busy-ness broken only by a brisk walk to Centennial Olympic Park during my lunch break. The bronze statue of our first premier is easy to spot and I manage to use the special pen to mark his shoe by stooping to read the plaque about his accomplishments. When I return to the lab, flushed and out of breath, wondering who will contact me and how they’ll do it, I get sucked into a long exchange of ideas with the Australian biologist, Fergus Allaway. I’m cautious at first, conscious of Keegan’s opinion, but Allaway forwards me some papers to read, and some partially thought-out equations and drafts and I feel my enthusiasm growing. It subsides a bit when Allaway signs off for the day with a message that says, “What happened to Notelmo?”
Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2) Page 13