Joanna’s horse nickered and she patted it absently on the neck. Then she looked back at him and grinned. “Come on. Let’s ride!” she said, and with a war-whoop, she galloped down the hill.
His heart rejoicing, with not a care in the World to intrude upon his happiness, Edward Maret followed after her.
The police arrived in the morning.
Chapter 4
“I am sorry, Madame.”
Inspector Deseret seemed to mean it. The look in his hooded eyes was honestly regretful. He used the polite form of the old Greco-French aristocracy. His thin, waspish figure was tightly controlled, his gestures few, attentive and precise. By himself, the Inspector would perhaps have put them all at their ease, but he was not alone. Three helmeted, armored cyborgs surrounded him.
The cyborgs stood stiffly, their rifles held slant-wise across their chests. They were silent and almost motionless, looking, in their gleaming armor, more like gigantic alien insects than real men.
Cecile Maret eyed the little group doubtfully and tried not to let her consternation show. The Maret family had nothing to hide. Whatever it was, it was without doubt all a mistake.
“Can I offer you a cup of tea, Inspector?”
“Regretfully, no, Madame.” The Inspector sighed and pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Certain accusations have been made, and you must understand that it is my responsibility to investigate them. We have been informed that one Edward Maret, residing at this house, is an accomplice to the recent traitorous revolt by the group calling themselves ‘Irredentists.’ I hope, for all your sakes, Madame, that this information is incorrect, but you will understand that we cannot ignore it.”
Cecile and Idris exchanged blank looks. Then Cecile cleared her throat and coughed, covering her mouth with a hand that tried without success not to tremble. “No,” she whispered. “Of course not. But it is a mistake. It has to be. Edward would never be a party to such a thing. Never!”
The Inspector bowed gracefully, then nodded toward the cyborgs. “Search the house,” he said. “Harm nothing.”
Still silent and expressionless, the three huge figures separated and left by separate doors. Their exit seemed somehow to lift a pall from the room. Idris, whose spirits could never remain dampened for long, turned toward the Inspector with narrowed eyes and a set jaw and said, “This is absolutely disgraceful! Your superiors shall be informed of this outrageous incident!”
The Inspector favored her with a sour smile. “My superiors, Madame, have already been informed. You may be certain that such things are not done lightly.” He held up a hand as she was about to protest further. “Please, Madame,” he said gently. “Let us await the results of the search. Perhaps we shall find nothing. Believe me, I share your hope that this is so. In that case, I shall apologize to you most sincerely and we will be on our way.” The Inspector frowned and seemed to see the newly gleaming wood for the first time. “I understand that you are about to celebrate a happy event.”
“Yes,” Cecile whispered.
“Ah…” The Inspector frowned and shuffled his feet, seeming for the first time to be uncomfortable. “Well, let us hope.”
They waited together in strained silence. Idris’ face was tense and she glanced often at the Inspector as if barely able to restrain herself from some violent act. Cecile sat without moving in a hard-backed chair, her face very pale. The Inspector stood stiffly, his expression distant and implacable.
They waited silently for nearly thirty minutes. Occasionally Cecile would glance at the clock hanging on the wall: the only movement in the little room during all this time. Finally, abruptly, a door opened. One of the cyborgs, all hard, gleaming armor, stood in the doorway. Then, like a silent, relentless juggernaut, he walked over to the Inspector, reached out a shining, armored hand and handed him a single sheet of white paper.
The Inspector glanced at it briefly, sighed, frowned, peered first at Idris, then at Cecile from under furrowed brows, then said, “I am sorry, Madame, but this matter must be pursued further. Where is your son?” A small cry escaped Cecile’s lips and she slumped back in her
chair, her face white. A soft, hissing sigh came from Idris. She seemed about to protest, but then her jaw tightened and she rose abruptly. “I’ll send the servants to find him,” she said in a tight, clipped tone.
“No,” the Inspector said, and held up a hand. “I regret that I cannot allow that. We shall find him. I must ask you not to leave this room.”
Idris’ face grew red and her breathing rapid. For a moment it seemed that she would explode in rage, but then her face too, grew pale. She nodded and stood to the side of the door.
The Inspector turned to the cyborg. “Find Edward Maret.”
The refining sheds gleamed brightly. Rows of enormous, polished metal vats stood on the floor and reached almost up to the high ceiling thirty meters away. Railed catwalks clung high up on the walls and busy, purposeful workers swarmed over the inside of the installation wearing insulated suits with independent air tanks on the back.
Edward and Joanna sat on a soft couch in a pleasant, carpeted observation booth and looked down through thick glass upon the busy scene below.
“Organic dust is a by-product of the process. The dust can cause an inflammatory reaction in the lungs,” Edward said, “similar to cotton dust, flax or red cedar. That’s why they wear the protective suits. Otherwise, there are no particular risks involved.
“Cilium is only a convenient vector, as I’m sure you know. The virus was originally incorporated into the DNA of an enteric bacteria, a normal part of the intestinal flora; then the bacteria was re-introduced into selected volunteers. The idea was to use the already established symbiosis between the bacterium and man as a way of maintaining a constant serum level of the product.” Edward shook his head regretfully and sighed. “It was a great idea, but it had unfortunate consequences.”
Joanna shook her head. “I hadn’t known this,” she said. “What happened?”
“It’s one of those mistakes that corporations don’t like to admit and people don’t like to talk about. It was hushed up at the time and the relevant computer files were only re-discovered years later. By that time, it was ancient history and of no particular public interest, but it was one of the catalyzing factors in the Consortium legislation against human gene-engineering for other than therapeutic purposes.
“This was a long time ago, you understand. Retrovirus technology was not very well developed. It couldn’t happen today.
“Everything was fine for awhile, but after a few generations of bacterial reproduction the incorporated viral genome had mutated. The bacteria stopped producing cell-scavengers and anti-oxidants and started to make toxic free-radicals, which caused progressive DNA breakage in the human hosts. Instead of prolonging life, the result was a plague of cancers.” Edward shook his head and sighed. “Luckily, they had had enough sense to keep the volunteers isolated. They died. The bodies were burned and the mutated bacteria never had a chance to escape into the general population.
“Then they hit upon the approach we use today. They incorporated the genes for the required substances into a common plant virus, altered so that it was no longer infectious, and inserted the viral fragment into the DNA of a rapidly growing grain—cilium. Of course, this reduced the whole process from its originally intended role as a part of normal human physiology—a process not subject to the laws of supply-and-demand— and turned it into a business. The product has to be grown, harvested, isolated, refined and marketed. Businesses require outlays-of-capital and outlays-of-capital mean risk. And risk means that somebody better make a profit or why take the risk?”
“Lucky you,” observed Joanna.
“Well, yes. We were lucky. One of my ancestors was a member of the project team and had a share in the original patents, and my family owned some of the most fertile farm land on the planet. The crop was a natural. We’ve been growing it ever since.”
And froze.
Huge, that was his first conscious impression—and gleaming. And still. None of the little movements, the eyes flickering from side to side, the rise and fall of the chest, the minute shifts of balance that even the most motionless human displays. The cyborg stood in the doorway, motionless, and Edward could look at nothing else.
Joanna drew in a loud, ragged breath.
“Edward Maret?” The voice was an inhuman voice, inhuman in that it had no obvious inflection, and it issued from no obvious orifice, the cyborg’s mouth, like all the rest of it, covered by the bright, chrome armor.
“Yes,” Edward said.
“Come with me.” That was all. It was enough. Without a word, Edward rose. As he walked toward the door, the cyborg stepped to the side, its motion smooth, swift and silent, like the motion of a well-oiled machine, and at the sight of it, Edward felt something clench inside his chest. As he passed by, the cyborg said, “To the house. You will precede me.”
Edward glanced back at Joanna. She stood, face white, staring after him with anguished, bewildered eyes, until the door to the observation booth slid abruptly shut and blocked her from his view. Edward blinked. I didn’t say goodbye, he thought. The thought was vague and distant. He glanced again at the tall, insectile form of the cyborg.
“Come,” said the cyborg.
About the Author
Robert I. Katz is the award winning author of Edward Maret: A Novel of the Future, as well as the Kurtz and Barent mystery series, Surgical Risk, The Anatomy Lesson and Seizure. He graduated from Columbia College with a degree in English before attending Medical School at Northwestern University and has had a long career in academic medicine and administration. He has been writing science fiction and mysteries for many years. His next book, a science fiction novel entitled The Game Players of Meridien will appear in early 2018.
For more information, please visit the author’s website, http://www.robertikatz.com or his Facebook page, https://www.facebook.com/Robertikatzofficial/. For continuing updates regarding new releases, author appearances and general information about the author’s books and stories, sign up for his newsletter/email list at http://www.robertikatz.com/join and also receive two free short stories. The first is science fiction, entitled, “Adam,” about a scientist named Fischer who uses a tailored retrovirus to implant the Fox P2 gene (sometimes called the language gene) into a cage full of rats and a mouse named Adam, and the unexpected consequences that result. The second is a prequel to the Kurtz and Barent mysteries, entitled “Something in the Blood,” featuring Richard Kurtz as a young surgical resident on an elective rotation in the Arkansas mountains, solving a medical mystery that spans two tragic generations.
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