The Darwin Variant

by Kenneth Johnson

  Jimmy-Joe Hartman. . .

  I seen that they was a lotta new cops, and they wuz crackin’ down way harder, bustin’ heads big-time ugly—and gettin’ away wid it, too. But it didn’t bother me none. I wuz street smart and knew how to dance right past them suckers. And I wuz always on the lookout for any cool new dealio that’d line my pockets. The moment I seen a new angle, I quick figured how to make it work fer yours truly.

  So this one night I wuz scurryin’ through a back alley in this pricey ’hood on the north side with this wiry black kid, Tyrone. We’d met up when we wuz both kids vacationin’ in juvie. He liked cool-ass baggy gangsta threads and hoodies just like me. Tyrone sometimes gived me some crystal meth and other shit to resell. But that night we wuz after some waaaay better stuff. I said to him, “You really seen ’em, Ty?”

  “Yeah, man!” Tyrone said. Them brown eyes o’his wuz flashin’ with dollar signs. “They wuz these like incredible Godzilla tomatoes growin’ in this old guy’s garden.”

  “And he’s one of the A’s, huh?”

  “Damn right,” Tyrone said as we dodged round some trash cans. “Them tomatoes got the good stuff in ’em, man. C’mon up here.” We stood up on a wooden crate to peer over a fence into the backyard of a fine lookin’ house.

  There wuz a little garden. Growin’ in one corner wuz a tomato plant. One look at the gi-normous size o’them tomatoes got my heart hoppin’. Tyrone gimme this told-you-so look.

  Five minutes later we wuz comin’ round the alley corner on a dead run, breathin’ hard, and laughin’ our asses off. I grabbed at the tomato Tyrone was eatin’. “Gimme it, man! Gimme!” I took me a huge, sloppy bite. The red juice ran down my chin. I took a deep breath. I didn’t feel nothin’ special right that second, but it wuz the best damn tomato I ever tasted. “Yes! Man, this has gotta be it!”

  “Fuckin’ A, bubba.” Ty took another big bite. I was lookin’ into the plastic bag at the half dozen tomatoes we’d stole. I seen a gold mine.

  “Gotta dry the seeds, man! We gonna grow our own! Deal this shit! You know what people’ll pay?!” I wuz like exhil-i-arated. I slapped Ty a huge high-five, and we scurried off onto the dark street, totally stoked.

  Simone Frederick. . .

  As a state press liaison I was constantly moving through the halls and offices of our Atlanta capitol building. My suspicions about Bradford Mitchell’s influence were increasingly confirmed. Governor Stanton maintained his smooth diplomatic external persona, his warm political smile, but many of us noticed a new aloofness. The governor, and one after another of his closest advisors, had developed an attitude of condescending superiority that was barely disguised behind the bright glow in their eyes. People who hadn’t known them long wouldn’t notice, but their change was clearly discernable to us who had. The private, often humorously knowing glances they shared between themselves underlined their airy, confident supremacy.

  But it was equally clear how their superiority fell away abruptly whenever Bradford Mitchell and his entourage swept in. I was often in an office with Governor Stanton or one of his key staff when that happened. It was disturbing to see how they all, governor included, were quick to jump up to greet Mitchell or his inner circle. Of course I’d seen deep-pocket contributors get fawned over by politicians seeking campaign cash. But this was different. This was body language from both quarters that bespoke exactly who was where on the totem pole.

  Mitchell was square shouldered, imposing. But I noticed how those around him, even the governor, while not exactly bowing, tended to slouch, to make themselves seem slightly less than they really were. They’d lean deferentially toward him. It was clear who was subservient to whom.

  Bradford Mitchell never leaned toward anyone.

  Clarence Frederick. . .

  Simone had that dark cloud over her head again, unaware that I had troubles of my own. She rambled on, worried that a “shadow government was undermining our democracy, that some kind of ‘deep state’ was turning our police into a quasi-military force,” and so on. I was packing my carry-on while patiently listening.

  “A couple of my colleagues tried to leak their impressions about this Mitchell business to the press,” Simone said.

  “Well, I don’t approve of leaks, so—”

  “Two days later they were gone. One was reassigned to the basement and the other fired. And not because the public heard about it, Clarence. It happened because the press people who received it reported it back to the governor’s staff!”

  “Well,” I sighed, hoping to end her rant, brighten her mood. “Maybe we don’t know the whole story. But I can tell you one thing, whatever’s going on at the capitol, this state is having one of its most prosperous years ever. The plant’s hired a bunch more new people and—”

  “That’s not the point!”

  “It oughta be. Hey, you remember Akiyama, the manager of that Japanese plant like ours, who was strutting around the convention last year? He was back yesterday with his tail between his legs asking for help ’cause our stuff’s so much better now, and there’s no way they can keep up with our technology. I love it. And so does Shelly. She was really—”

  “It’s Shelly now?” Simone quietly sniped, “Thought she preferred ‘Ms. Navarro.’”

  “She does. And I still know my place, believe me.” I snapped my case closed.

  “How long will you two be in Columbus?”

  “Just overnight.”

  “This about all that new chemical you’re producing?”

  “Simone,” I sighed patiently, “I’ve told you how that’s all proprietary. And how . . . Ms. Navarro made me sign—”

  “That nondisclosure agreement. Yeah,” she said, tight-lipped, as she walked away, “you’re getting pretty good at nondisclosure, Clarence.”

  I sighed. She was more right than she knew.

  Katie McLane. . .

  Back at Ashton High I’d never taken Eric’s English class but heard that his students liked and trusted him. He was a teacher who’d be fondly remembered when kids thought back on who’d given them light bulb moments, made ’em think. Now I was one of those lucky kids. First when he was homeschooling me, then—with help from Eric’s school district friend plus some suitably official-looking papers created by another of Fernando’s “cousins”—Eric registered me under the false name Katie Bartlett at his school so I wouldn’t feel so isolated. We had to be reeeeeally careful about the whole deal. I had to stay low key. Never that easy for me.

  When Eric’s AIDS got cured, he really blossomed. His new smile was brighter than his trademark suspenders. His sense of humor combined with his teaching talents made even the grumpiest sophomore respond. We students found ourselves laughing and learning a lot. But I never laughed as much as the others. It was nice to be out in the world a little, but sitting there with my brown pixie cut, brown contact lenses, goofy glasses, and never being myself made me miss my hometown school and my old life all the more.

  Dr. Susan Perry. . .

  On March 28, the last evening before I set out on my near-lethal swamp adventure, Eric was making primavera sauce as I came in from our garage lab. He saw my frown. “Meeting didn’t go well, Suse?”

  I leaned against the kitchen counter, rubbing my forehead. “Actually it went great. Those people are the most gifted scientists I’ve ever worked with.”

  “And dedicated,” Eric added. “Working in shifts, pulling all-nighters. You, too.”

  “Yeah. But it’s just not enough. We need something else.”

  Eric looked toward the door as journalist Nate entered, fidgeting with his Afro. “Uh-oh,” Eric warned, “nicotine fit approaching.”

  Nate nodded grudgingly. “Just hurry up the pasta, huh?” He grabbed a pencil from the table where Lilly was sitting and chewed on it.

  Lilly’s nervous eyes flitted up from her volume of Spinoza. “Oopsie.”

  “Nate,” I explained gently, “that’s one of Lilly’s.”

  “Oh. Sorry, Lilly. Here
y’go.” He wiped the pencil off and handed it back.

  Lilly carefully replaced it in line with others. “’Course it’s got t-teeth marks now.”

  “Hey, Eric,” Katie said, entering, “that book, Animal Farm? Not in the library.”

  He looked over sharply. “Was it out or—”

  “Unavailable. Yeah. Another one.”

  “It’s worse at the paper, too,” Nate said. “Subtle, insidious, low-key censorship.”

  “How do you deal with it?” Eric asked.

  “A few quit and left the state. But most of us have family and deeper roots here. So either you don’t work—not an option with two kids in school—or,” Nate sighed, disgruntled, “you do the best you can to keep the publisher happy while you try not to feel like a damn propagandist.”

  “In our meeting we just talked about another choice,” I said. “We expand what we’ve started. Keep researching, but also organize coordinated resistance.” I saw Eric’s eyes drift downward. “I know how you feel, Eric, but—”

  “Seems like the only way,” he said. “When they start banning Orwell, the handwriting’s on the wall.”

  “Like what you told us about Animal Farm,” Katie piped up. “How the handwriting on the barn wall said ‘All animals are equal—’”

  “‘But some animals are more equal than others,’” Lilly quoted flatly while still reading her Spinoza. “George Orwell, 1945, chapter ten.”

  Nate looked at Lilly in amazement. “Jesus, has she read everything?”

  “Just about!” Katie, Eric, and I said it in unison, surprising ourselves and laughing. God, it felt good to laugh once in a while. Then I went on, “Gwyneth, the geneticist from Edinburgh with that great ginger hair, and Gerald, from Yale, I think . . . today they may have finally hit on a simple test to screen for the CAV in food.”

  “Whoa! Are you serious?” Nate’s eyes flashed to mine. “That’s great!”

  “Yeah. But it’s only a beginning,” I cautioned. “That’s why we’ve decided to spread the net. It’s dangerous, but we need to gather more researchers, more equipment, get a bigger place to work. Maggie and Fernando know a man whose son got hospitalized because the cops had beaten him so badly for something he didn’t do. The man’s got a ramshackle warehouse on the west side. Said he’d even help us move over there.”

  Katie was enthused. “Your own CDC!”

  “I wish. They’re gonna move our gear tomorrow. But our basic search for an antidote seems really bogged down even with all those great brains we’ve got.”

  “What else can you do?” Eric wondered out loud. “Get more powerful computers or—?”

  “Chunhua’s working on that. But what we really need the most is one of the very best human brains who could give us industrial-strength help. We need Christopher Smith.”

  Eric was puzzled. “But didn’t he drop out of sight a couple years back?”

  And Katie questioned tentatively, “Weren’t you and he sorta like . . . um . . .”

  “Yes and yes. But when I mentioned Chris’s name a couple days ago, Rachel Weinstein, the Israeli microbiologist, remembered that she’d heard from a scientist who’d heard from another one that he’d recognized Chris at a diner down in Folkston two years ago.”

  Nate’s face twisted up. “Wow. And only three degrees of separation. But what the hell was one of the great biomedical minds doing in Folkston?”

  “Chris told the guy he was going on a long sabbatical . . . in the Okefenokee.” I took a breath. “So I’m gonna go find him.”

  “Uh, Susan . . .” Katie blinked slowly. “That’s kind of a big swamp. How’re you ever—”

  “Rachel tracked down the guy Chris talked to. I’ve got an idea where to look. But I’ll need you guys to keep an eye on . . .” I glanced toward Lilly, who had moved on to reading Sir Thomas More’s Utopia. The others nodded, understanding. I went on quietly, “Once our equipment goes to that warehouse tomorrow, our research team will be down there and not here. You’ve already seen how she’s okay being alone for short spells, but maybe between Justinia and . . .” I saw from their loving expressions I didn’t have to say any more than “Thanks.”

  Katie seemed worried, though. “Do you really think you can find him in there?”

  “I’ll find him, Kate.” I said it with complete confidence. Hoping it would turn into a self-fulfilling prophesy.

  It turned into a whole lot more than that.

  20

  DECEPTIONS

  Jimmy-Joe Hartman. . .

  I wuz starin’ at myself in the mirror, blinkin’, still tryin’ to get my head around it all. A coupla nights earlier, I’d chowed down on that super tomato. Hoo-weee, man! That wuz some amazin’ shit. Like fireworks shootin’ off in my brain. Like I’d went from bein’ a little kid ridin’ a trike to bein’ a NASCAR superstar blazin’ round the track at two hundred miles an hour. Whoosh! And with my blond hair all spiked up like fire, I wuz thinkin’ ’bout callin’ myself Blaze! All kindsa thoughts wuz zinging every whichaway in my brain, like hundreds of them shiny balls in a pinball machine, bouncin’ round like crazy. And it still felt the same lookin’ in the mirror at Poppa’s house, admirin’ that kick-ass glint in my eyes—and the thick gold chain round my neck. Already got me some serious bling.

  I seen my sister, Claire, movin’ by behind me. She was wearin’ her nurse’s scrubs with bunnies and decorated eggs on the top ’cause it wuz almost Easter, but when she seen me, she got this disgusted look on her face. I give her a smirk. “You know what it is, doncha? . . . You jealous.”

  “Sure, James Joseph.” She was drillin’ me with them laser eyes. “I’m jealous.”

  “Miss Hot Shot Registered Nurse,” I said, feelin’ smart. “What you make in that job?”

  “Enough.”

  “Not by a long shot,” I laughed. “And you jealous ’cause you cain’t feel so suu-perior no more. ’Cause now I got me this king-size brain!”

  “Which is just as empty as ever.”

  I bristled. “Whatchu talkin’? Listen, Claire—”

  “No, you listen.” She got right in my face but didn’t shout. Her voice wuz low, steady. “More intelligent? Yes, brother, you are. That comes with the infection. But more educated? Not at all. You’re still headed toward the white trash heap.”

  I turned away, givin’ off how that wuz stupid. “Get outta here.”

  But Claire kept her calm. “Have you ever read more than a comic book in your life, James? Studied or tried to learn anything?”

  Funny how I could feel my eyes wuz shinin’. “Don’t need that shit when you got ’tude!” I brushed past her and started out. “Now, if the lecture’s over, I got me a ’pointment.”

  “With your business partner, Tyrone? Now there’s another winner.”

  “Nuh uh.” I laughed. “He ain’t in it wid me no more.”

  “Don’t tell me he wised up.”

  “Naw. I did. He wuz comin’ on ’bout how, since he found them tomatoes, he wanted more seeds than me, wanted the biggest cut.” I laughed again. “I give him a cut, awright: up the side o’his head.”

  She got worried. “What are you saying?”

  “Told him, screw that shit, I wuz gonna take whatever I wanted. So he pulls a blade and comes at me, but I wuz ready. Had me a bigger blade.”

  She went pale. “Tell me you didn’t stab him.”

  “Naw, just nicked him a little, then kicked the shit outta him, left him lyin’ in a heap. Told him stay clear, or next time I pop a cap in his ass.”

  That’s where she lost it. Throwed her hands up, angry. “Do you even know what that gangsta talk means? Do you know what anything means?!”

  “Fuck yeah, I do!” I dug in my baggy pocket, pulled out a handful of tiny bags the size of a postage stamp. “These mean I’m a winner.” I headed on out. “Catch ya later, sista. I gotta go get paid.”

  I knew she was standin’ there all tight-lipped, watchin’ me go. But I didn’t look back. I didn’t give
a shit. Later on I wished I hadda.

  From: Capt. Brendan DeForrest, FBI, ATL

  To: Dr. R.W. Hutcherson

  Date: 03/29/21 Time: 17:45:20

  Subject: New Update DOJ/FBI FRAID Software

  Dear Dr. Hutcherson,

  I hope this finds you well, sir. Let me again say what a great honor it was to have you visit our comm center last month. Your comments were tremendously encouraging to our personnel. Per your inquiry about the status of DOJ’s new facial recognition analysis and identification software (FRAID) which I pioneered and brought to your attention, we’ve made considerable progress. As I demonstrated to you, FRAID is able to scan any reasonable fragment of a person’s face from life, video, or photo and compare it against DOJ and other photo databases using my FRAID algorithms. Per your challenge for beta testing, we used photos of the two suspects you supplied. We commenced a specific search utilizing both public and private street-view security cameras and those in public transportation vehicles throughout the Atlanta area.

  After running over 4,763,977 comparisons over forty-three days, we believe we’ve had success. We believe the suspects you seek have been spotted, first in the Marietta/Roswell area of NW Atlanta, and further analysis narrowed the field. We believe they may reside on the SE side of Rigby Street NE between Lawrence and Lemon.

  FRAID is still at beta level, so we can’t claim 100 percent positive ID, but the two female suspects shown in the attached document seem to be the ones you’re seeking.

  Please advise if I can be of further service. I am very proud to consider you a Friend whom I can continue to serve.

  Courtesy FBI

  Dr. R.W. Hutcherson. . .

  Soon after I received that info from the eagerly subservient FBI captain, I went for a slow drive along Rigby Street to take a gander. My new ride was a silver Mercedes roadster, purchased with dividend income I was enjoying as one of the topmost Friends. A misty rain was glazing the working-class street in this mostly Hispanic area. Looking over the various house fronts, I was simultaneously trying to work out a recombinant DNA formula in my buzzing head while also recalling a very hot hookup the previous night with a ripe and succulent grad student. That filly’d given me the best romp I’d had since my calf-roping days, and I was eager to take her on again—and hopped up just thinking about it.