by Marjorie Liu
But these pulsing, undulating worms are as thick as Alexander’s arm, and it is not soil they are consuming.
“Have you added mercury to the mix yet?” Alexander asks.
Dr. Reynolds, a tall woman of middle years, quirks her lips. “Mercury, toluene, and just about every other heavy metal we can think of. They eat it right up, with no visible side effects. It’s incredible, Mr. Lutheran. That sludge is so toxic the fumes alone could probably kill a person.”
Alexander cannot tell if Dr. Reynolds is joking; the amusement in her voice does not reach her eyes. This is worrisome, because Alexander trusts her judgment.
“Kathy,” he says. “What’s wrong? Are the quarantine protocols—”
“No, nothing like that.” Dr. Reynolds stares at the tank. One of the worms momentarily swells, ridges flaring in response to some mysterious biological cue. Its slick bulk disappears beneath a rolling heave of supple bodies that slip sideways to strain against the sludge-packed glass. “I hate looking at these things,” she finally says. “Some days I’m even afraid of them.”
“Good,” Alexander says. “We’re playing God, Kathy. We should be afraid.”
“And here I thought God was fearless.”
“The only fearless God is the one who doesn’t have to live with His mistakes. If that were us, I wouldn’t be forced to keep more than a hundred lawyers on the company payroll.”
“Yes,” agrees Dr. Reynolds. “That is indeed a sign of dark times.”
There is little more to discuss. Alexander ends his meeting with Dr. Reynolds. The red lights and the red worms are best taken in short stints, and it will be lunch in an hour, and at the end of the day there will be interviews with the press about other, less secret, less controversial innovations. RanTech had been a slumping prospect when Alexander took over—now it is one of the technological backbones of the global economy, its products and services so much a part of everyday life that even in an apocalypse—a line that still makes Alexander’s father chuckle—RanTech would be a sure bet.
That sort of meteoric success has led to the kind of attention Alexander does not crave, although in his desk he keeps a copy of a high-profile business magazine with his grimacing face on the cover.
But only for the headline: MEET THE SUPERHERO OF THE BIOTECH BOOM.
It’s not what he’d call himself. It’s not what he believes he can ever be. And yet. . . .
So Alexander wanders, moving through each floor of his building. He has a purpose, which is to make sure all the lead projects are progressing smoothly, these benign endeavors that he will be discussing with journalists, and that will guarantee fat Christmas bonuses—but he does not care how he gets there. It is enough that his legs are moving.
He is still thinking about worms.
It is a long-known fact that certain kinds of bacteria eat toxic waste and sewage, but such organisms are slow and require sensitive environments. More than two years ago, RanTech was given a government contract to develop creatures that are not so . . . sensitive. Not so slow. And now Alexander’s team has succeeded. Or so he thinks.
Alexander will not lose sleep, either way. The government has paid for a genetically engineered solution to toxic spills, and that is what it shall receive. Only, there is a tiny fear in Alexander’s heart. His alter-ego, after all, is unscrupulous. An unscrupulous man, without any counterpart in the world to balance his darkness.
There is no Superman. Alexander must be his own moral compass.
The wandering continues into lunch. Alexander had planned to eat his Niçoise in his office, but the sun is shining and his mind is still trapped in a red-lit room. He leaves the building and hits the sidewalk, carried by the crowd toward a destination unknown. A few people glance at his bald pate but he barely notices.
He knows why the worms frighten Dr. Reynolds. It has nothing to do with the way they look. It is enough that they are new and powerful and man-made. Evolution favors the strong, but these creatures are products of disparate evolutions. Distant biological paths, forced to collide into one body.
The government calls them Bio Machines: a deceptive term, meant to soothe. There are more planned, for various purposes; the contracts and proposals are locked within Alexander’s safe, awaiting his signature. The government likes to dream big and it favors RanTech because the company is discreet, because it emphasizes results over everything. No fuss, ever. RanTech does not raise moral objections. Not when the price is right.
But Alexander knows there are all kinds of prices to pay—a price for every action—and he wonders about lines and points of no return, how far he can go before he becomes the man he pretends to be, how far he can push before myth becomes reality. He wonders, not for the first time, if creating that reality will not invite another collision of coincidence. Darkness, after all, often summons light.
Alexander wonders what he will attract if he becomes, in truth, him.
The sidewalk ends; he can turn left or right, but ahead of him is a vast expanse of green, and he decides that grass might be a nice change from concrete and glass. He crosses the street, passes through the open iron gate, and enters the park. The sounds of traffic fade instantly. Alexander feels cocooned by sunlight and the scent of fresh-turned soil.
Alexander finds a concession stand and buys a wilted sandwich, chips, a large soda water. The surrounding benches are taken, so he wanders off the path onto thick grass, plopping down in the shade cast by a gnarled oak. He does not sit there long before he feels a presence at his back, the subtle hint of shuffling feet.
The man is middle-aged, with a dusting of silver in his hair. He has a feral sort of look, which has nothing to do with his somewhat scruffy clothes, his tangled beard, or the limp backpack in his hand. His eyes are hollow, hungry, but there’s a hint of grief beneath that gaze, and Alexander feels an impulse to run from that sorrow. But then he remembers the worms and the papers in his safe, the other projects percolating in his labs, and he thinks, I am much more frightening than this man’s sadness. And he, at least, is human.
Alexander nods at the man, who hesitates for just one moment before setting down his backpack and slumping to his knees in the grass. Alexander does not make him ask; he gives the man half his sandwich, and pushes over the drink and chips.
“Thanks,” he says. Alexander can hear the desert in that voice, which carries the dry timbre of sand. Elegant and coarse, like its owner. “My name is Richard.”
“Alexander.”
Richard nods. The two men say nothing more. They eat and watch joggers and mothers with strollers; children on leashes and dogs running without; teenagers slinging Frisbees, shouting obscenities at each other with adolescent affection. It is a very nice afternoon.
“Tell me about yourself,” Richard finally says, finishing the last of the chips. “What kind of man are you?”
Alexander studies Richard, but the man’s eyes are stronger now, more full. He even looks belligerent. Defiant. Alexander smiles.
“I’m not a very nice man,” he says.
Richard grunts. “So, you’re an honest man.”
“When it suits me.”
“My statement still stands.”
Alexander chuckles. “What about you?”
“Ah, see, I’m a very good man.”
“Liar.”
“Oh, the insult.” Richard slurps down the soda and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What are you? Thirty, thirty-five?”
“Around there.”
“You’re wearing a nice suit. Bespoke, by the thread count. And yet you’re sitting in the grass, getting it dirty. If I had on that suit I wouldn’t even drink water, I’d be afraid to mess it up. You must be doing all right.”
“You could say that.”
“I thought you were an honest man.”
“I own half this city.”
“That’s more like it.” Richard grins. “Did you earn it?”
“I plan to.”
“Well, we all have to dream.” Richard climbs to his feet, brushing crumbs off his clothes. Alexander stands with him; he senses their conversation is over, and it leaves him awkward. He has not asked his own questions.
Alexander feels like they were just getting started, but that is not right, either.
Richard holds out his hand and Alexander takes it.
“You have a good life, kid. Stay honest.” Richard releases him, stoops to pick up his backpack, and begins shuffling away with a good deal more dignity than at his arrival. Alexander stares after him. Something moves through him, so faint it could be easily brushed off, ignored. He imagines that’s how the entire world gets by—by ignoring intimations of their hidden selves. But he’s not a normal man, he reminds himself.
“Wait,” he calls out. “Do you . . . do you need money?”
Richard fixes Alexander with a pointed stare. “I’d rather have a job.”
Alexander thinks for a moment, and says, “I can do that.”
Richard will not talk about himself, who he was before losing home and livelihood. Alexander finds him work at the physical plant. He is probably overqualified to empty bins and mop floors, but that does not matter. According to Richard, the past—that life—is done. Besides, being a janitor at RanTech pays well. Alexander takes care of his employees. Even the private school down-with-the-man types don’t bring up unionizing after they see the healthcare benefits.
And Richard, in turn, attempts to show his gratitude. Small things, only. Words more than actions. Alexander does not have many friends—actually, he has no friends. Sometimes he has drinks with the woman who perfected the process of regenerating human skin—a former herpetologist turned doctor—and she’s kind and reads comics, and tells funny stories about the pythons she still keeps—but she’s the one who does all the talking. He almost never tells her anything about himself that matters.
His own family rarely speaks to him unless they want a salary hike, or access to some Hollywood event—or maybe a week at the estate he bought in Hawaii, which is the only property he’s told them about. They never ask how he’s doing. They’re afraid of him and now that he’s taken the company into the stratosphere they can hide it under envy.
Which is one of the reasons Alexander enjoys talking with Richard. He might not count as much more than an acquaintance, but Richard always, with zero malice, ridicules him to his face.
“You have problems,” Richard says, the first time he sees Alexander’s office, the poster of the Great Hero on the wall.
“I like comics,” Alexander says, stung. “How is that a problem?”
Richard gives him a look. Alexander suddenly feels as though he has been caught in church with both hands on his dick.
“Kid.” Richard stares at Alexander’s naked scalp, still moist from a recent shave. “It’s not the comics. It’s everything else. You can’t help your name, but the rest . . . it’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”
“It’s how I keep things fun.”
Richard studies him a moment. “I think you’re the last person in this building enjoying yourself.”
He might as well have kicked him in the teeth. Alexander says nothing.
Richard points at the poster. “Why, really?”
Alexander hears himself say, “Because I believe men can fly.”
The worms are ready.
They have passed all initial tests, and except for their size—which is startling, unusual, and somewhat disturbing—they are ready for a real-world scenario. The government has selected a field inspection, and if the worms succeed within the parameters set for them, the government will take possession of the creatures, and what happens next even Alexander can’t imagine.
Which is why Alexander is encased in a rubber suit, standing thigh deep in open sewage, trying not to gag behind the oxygen mask strapped over his face.
He is not the only one struggling for balance in the sludge. Dr. Reynolds and her team are present, along with “experts” from the federal government. This section of the city sewer system is completely blocked off, sealed tight to prevent any of the worms from escaping into the main line. Alexander objects to the use of a public facility for this test, but the government wants to make sure the worms will thrive outside a controlled environment.
Alexander does not worry about them thriving. Quite the opposite.
These particular worms, which are waiting to be released from the plastic containers carried by Dr. Reynolds and her assistants, are young and small, fresh from the incubator. The others, the mammoths of Batch #381, have been destroyed, their bodies conserved for study. Alexander’s skin prickles, remembering those massive bodies, heavy with sludge, resting torpid at the bottom of their enlarged tanks. Still alive, still healthy, and still growing.
Alexander catches Dr. Reynolds’ worried glance. They share a moment of perfect doubt. This is a lot of sludge and they are releasing a lot of worms. When the experiment is over, the government’s plan is to carefully drain the remaining sludge from the system, thereby revealing—and trapping—the worms for easy collection. Alexander does not think it will be so easy, but the government scientists have insisted.
For the first time, Alexander wonders if evil villains are only beards to hide what’s truly septic about the world.
Dr. Reynolds inches close. “You really don’t have to be here for this, Mr. Lutheran. Once they have the containment calibrated, all we’re going to do is insert the worms into the sediment.” Alexander hears an odd thumping sound. Dr. Reynolds tightens her grip on the container.
“Me, leave?” Alexander drawls, eyeing the cloudy plastic. “And miss all the fun? You shock me, Kathy.”
Dr. Reynolds snorts, but her face is pale, her eyes just a little too large beneath her mask. She has seen what the creatures become; her fears have outgrown them.
“Kathy,” he says, touching her arm.
“I’m all right,” she says. “I just don’t know what we’re doing.”
“Science, Kathy. We’re doing science.”
“Science.” She draws the word out, low and hard. “And here I thought we were playing at theology.”
Dr. Reynolds turns away toward the other scientists. Alexander watches her go, unable to call her back. She is right, of course, and he wishes he had chosen this moment to be honest, to speak again the truth voiced in the red-lit room when he told her it was all right to be afraid because yes, what they were doing was too big for mere mortals, too much responsibility to put on human shoulders.
We’re doing more than science, Alexander thinks. He watches Dr. Reynolds flip the locks on her rattling container. We’ve crossed the line into something bigger.
But we can’t go back. Not now.
Dr. Reynolds opens the lid and Alexander hears a hiss that is not human, a sound that exists only because he pressed a button and moved resources from one line item to another.
The worms fall free in a tangle, smacking the sludge, writhing against the surface before sinking, sinking, out of sight. The other containers open: worms are unceremoniously dumped. Alexander imagines them working their way through the darkness, feeding, growing. He feels something brush his ankle and it takes all his strength not to shudder.
Everyone begins to clamber out of the sludge. Alexander realizes he is being left behind. It is a short climb up the ladder to the wide shelf jutting from the sewer wall. Dripping shit, Alexander is greeted by a man wearing a yellow rain slicker over a dark suit. A nameless government liaison paying his dues in a crappy assignment. His eyes are bloodshot and he keeps swallowing hard. Even better, then. A puker.
Alexander rips off his mask; he almost doubles over from the smell, but manages to maintain his composure better than the other men and women removing t
heir facial protective gear. Amidst a symphony of gagging, Alexander forces a smile. The puker grunts, his gaze sliding sideways to the sludge below them.
“So those things really eat heavy metal and human shit?”
“Like the finest chocolate,” Alexander says, still smiling. He wants to run, to scratch this man from his path and fight for sunlight. He hates this place.
The puker grimaces. “No kidding? So what comes out the other end?”
A stupid question. Alexander imagines the worms in their liquid heat, sucking in filth and growing large and strong. It is the bacterial strain in them, this unexpected and fortuitous ability to process sludge without creating any. Alexander would say that it defies the laws of nature, except Dr. Reynolds has assured him there is waste—only, it is processed at an extremely slow rate, released in non-toxic dribbles. Very alluring. Very practical.
Very dangerous.
The government has been given reams of intel on this subject: data, photographs, samples, and even more data. Nothing has been held back, nothing, but this fool—this dangerous fool who is their liaison—remains ignorant. Alexander cannot stand it.
He steps close and it works; the man retreats, unwilling to entertain shit on his rain slicker and shoes. Alexander keeps moving, faster and faster, dangerous on this narrow path, these close quarters, his smile wider and brighter and the puker’s eyes narrow, hands fumbling for air, for a gun, for something to stop this strange, strange, man from coming too near.
The puker stumbles. He cries out. Alexander grabs his rain slicker, keeps him from falling off the ledge into the sewage with its hidden worms. He holds the puker close, smearing him with filth, and whispers, “Nothing, you idiot. Nothing comes out the other end. The worms just suck it in and keep it there, growing pregnant on the stuff. They could probably eat you, when they get big enough. Imagine that.”