by Jamie Metzl
The magnitude of what Gillespie is saying overwhelms me. Genetic engineering. Rewriting the human code. Eugenics. “So then what?”
“We tracked someone we’d identified as a Unit 8341 intelligence officer entering the country. That’s your friend Min.”
“Hardly my friend.”
“She tripped our wire with her fingerprint scan at the LA airport. We watched her move to Kansas City, start her Master’s program at UMKC, cozy up to MaryLee Stock.”
My mind is now racing a mile a minute. How had I so easily cast aside the implications of Min’s disappearance? Is Neary in danger?
Gillespie pushes on, his eyes bearing into mine. “We didn’t know about Bright Horizons until Min Zhao showed up there with MaryLee Stock. Then we started looking at the organization. I’m sure you wondered just as much as we did why a fertility clinic would need to be registered in the Cayman Islands. That’s why we’ve been probing their registration materials.”
“Wait a second,” I say. “Some of those materials point to you.”
“I know you think that,” Gillespie says. “That’s why I’m telling you this. We’ve been trying to get at this from all sorts of angles. We even set up a company to try to wire funds to their holding company as a way of getting inside.”
“And?”
“We didn’t make big progress so we kept watching Min Zhao. Then everything happened at once. MaryLee was found dead. Zhao slipped out of the country. You showed up, and we still don’t completely know what’s going on.”
I can’t hide the look my face. I’ve been sneaking around thinking I’ve been clever, and he speaks as if he’s been residing in my head. “And the autopsy?”
“It’s obvious. We needed to figure out what’s going on here before we risked making people crazy. This isn’t just about one girl. It’s about facing the Chinese threat. It’s about the future of this country.”
Gillespie stares into my skull without a hint of warmth. “That’s why we can’t have you running around like a chicken with your fucking head cut off,” he says sharply. “You’ve actually done us a service. That’s why I’m talking to you now and not just hauling you in.”
I nod cautiously.
Gillespie leans closer toward me from across the table as he continues. “But I just want to make one thing completely clear, Dikran.” He pauses for effect. “If you tell anyone a thing I’ve told you, if you keep meddling in this case, I will not hesitate. I will drag you and anyone, anyone helping you into a FISA court, and I guarantee you that your life will be hell. Do I make myself clear?”
A thousand pounds of tension congregates at my sphincter.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he says before standing and walking out.
Collins holds his chilling, hawkish gaze on me from afar a few moments longer before following suit.
50
Where does idiot end and shithead begin? I wonder as I stagger out the hotel entrance.
An idiot doesn’t appreciate the magnitude of his ignorance. A shithead puts other people at risk in support of his half-baked schemes.
Toni, Joseph, Jerry, Neary: I’d stupidly compromised them all.
I get into my car and drive to the Denny’s on 113th and Metcalf. Maurice follows me in and sits across the booth.
“You don’t look very good,” he says.
I sink into the bench and relay our conversation word for word.
Maurice rubs his temples with a hand stretched across his face after I finish. “Do you believe him?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to heed his warning?”
“I’m not sure.”
“FISA courts are serious. He’s right that he can put you in jail pretty quickly if he wants.”
My mind is whirling. “It’s Plato’s Republic,” I say softly. “Plato calls on the state to selectively breed the guardian class of Athens. The breeding committee would decide who goes with whom, and then their kids would be taken away from their parents and trained from early on.”
“So this would be Plato’s Republic on steroids?”
“Plato’s Republic is essentially operation Yao Ming,” I say. “That’s basically phase one. Mix it with genetic enhancement and other human augmentation technologies that could, in principle, make people better, smarter, stronger, faster than their natural counterparts ever could be, and it’s definitely a step further.”
“So where does Becker fit into all of this?’
“I don’t know,” I say, my mind shifting different configurations together.
“Let’s take a step back and play it out,” Maurice says.
We explore the various options for the roles the Department of National Competitiveness, the Chinese government, and Becker might play. Each of them is somehow connected, but which of them would have a motive to kill?
Maurice puts his hands together in front of his face as he thinks.
“But if Becker might be responsible because of his link to MaryLee, what does that say about Megan?” I ask.
“All we know right now is that Megan was about the same age as MaryLee, told her mother she was pregnant, then died unexpectedly. If the two deaths are connected, we’ve got to figure out what the two women had in common.”
“And if there are more MaryLees out there who could be already dead or next,” I add.
“But to know that, we’ve got to figure out what it is that we’re looking for, and where we look. Put yourself in their shoes.”
“Whose?” I ask.
“Whoever killed MaryLee. What were they looking for?”
“Depends on who killed her.”
“Start with whoever decided to impregnate her with the mutated embryo.”
“If it was Becker, I’d imagine I’d want someone young and virginal, a Christian, single.”
“Why single. Wasn’t Virgin Mary married?” Maurice asks.
“Not many guys these days would settle for Joseph’s deal. Too complicated. I also get the feeling Becker wouldn’t want another guy around.”
“Go on,” Maurice says.
“If I’m the Chinese, it depends on what I’m up to. If I’m just testing a new technology, I’ll take pretty much anybody.”
“But why do that here when they have a billion people at home they’re willing to experiment with? Go on.”
“If I’m trying to breed some kind of special person, I guess I’d look for a special kind of mother.”
“In what way?” Maurice prods.
“Single, to keep things simple. Young, because that’s what biology wants. And I’d pick based on what I was trying to do. I’d go tall if I was looking for a Yao Ming, or musical, or smart.”
“But if you were just starting, experimenting?”
“I’d probably just go for single, young, and smart.”
“How would you define young?” Maurice fires.
“Under thirty. That’s what the risk tables say.”
“And smart?”
“It seems like the most generalizable positive trait. And Gillespie told me the Chinese were putting huge resources into identifying the genetic patterns that make up intelligence.”
“So how would they find it?”
“Intelligence tests,” I say, “but the IQ tests aren’t standardized, and most people don’t take them.”
“So?”
“The best proxy in the US would probably be SAT scores.”
“But how do we know how much genetics is responsible for those scores? I did well on those tests because Momma was behind me with a stick,” Maurice says with a rare humor.
The growing intensity of our interchange builds toward an idea. “There are probably three databases we’d need to access to try to triangulate all this,” Maurice says thoughtfully, “the police database about young women who’ve died in the last year, the Bright Horizon’s database if we can ever get access to that, and the databases with SAT scores that have got to be somewhere.”
“So,
what? We cross-reference the databases without the ability to define exactly what it is we’re looking for?”
“Seems like the only option we’ve got to begin narrowing things down,” Maurice says urgently, “but we’re going to need help. And we’re going to need to figure this out before whoever killed MaryLee realizes what we’re up to.”
51
The two students sitting in front of Jerry look up, startled, as we barge into his office.
“We’re going to need to talk later,” he says, sending them out the door.
“There may be more than one person who could have been impregnated with a mutated embryo,” I say, getting right to the point.
“By Bright Horizons?”
“That’s our hunch, but we need to get into the Bright Horizons database to confirm it. What’s happening?”
“I’m working on it. Their database is very well protected.”
“What are the chances you can get in?” Maurice asks.
“I’m working on it,” he snaps. “These things take time.”
“I hope we have it,” I say. “If there are more women out there, they could be in serious danger. And the more people know that we’re poking around—”
“We need to put together a database search to see if there are other MaryLees out there,” Maurice interrupts.
“All right,” Jerry says. “The basic principles of search are define your terms and define your fields. The more we can do both the better off we’ll be.”
“Which means?” Maurice asks impatiently.
“We have to decide what we’re looking for and where we want to look for it,” Jerry says.
“We know that MaryLee Stock went to Bright Horizons and then was killed,” I say. “If and when we get into the database, we need to see whether Megan Fogerty’s name shows up there too and what they and any others may have in common. If we can build a profile of those two and any others who may also have been killed, we might then be able to understand what kind of women we’re looking for who may still be alive.”
“So define the terms,” Jerry repeats.
“We need to search in the databases for women in the United States under the age of thirty who died in the last year. Let’s say that the women are single, have no criminal records—”
“Why no criminal records?” Jerry asks.
“I’m guessing there would be some kind of screening process. We also need to factor out street people and runaways.”
Maurice gives me a strange look. I get the feeling he thinks I’m saying that we’re looking for white people.
“We’re looking for smart people,” I continue, “let’s say with good SAT scores.”
I tap my u.D to start flipping through my notes on my monitor. “Joseph told me that MaryLee had SAT scores of 640 English, 680 math, 640 writing.”
“Pretty good,” Maurice says.
“So let’s make it lower to be safe. Let’s say six hundred or above on each section.”
“Okay,” Jerry says. “What else?”
“I want to say pregnant, but—”
Maurice cuts me off. “MaryLee wouldn’t have shown up under that screen. We need to make sure the terms we set would at least apply to her.”
“Is that it?” Jerry asks.
“I think so,” I say unconvincingly, “for now.”
“So the next question is, where do we look?” Jerry says. “The first obvious place is in the police database.” We both turn to face Maurice.
“We’re going to need a live link,” Jerry says. “We need to be able to play with the numbers, move them around to try to find what we’re looking for.”
“And we do that how?” Maurice asks suspiciously.
“Um, with live access. I need you to plug a PCM stick into your base station when the database is open, then download a file into your network.”
“You want me to infect the KCPD computer system with a virus?”
“I guess when you put it that way, yes,” Jerry says.
Maurice blows heavy air out through his nose, his by-the-book nature clearly conflicting with our off-the-book needs. “How long would it take to transfer?”
“About a minute,” Jerry says. “It’s a big file. It directs your network system to share the database with me. That’s the easy part. The hard part is for the file to camouflage itself so it doesn’t get picked up by the security system.”
Maurice shoots me an I-can’t-fucking-believe-this look.
Jerry turns to face his screens, his hands dancing in the air, moving code around frantically.
After a few minutes he hands Maurice a tiny cyberstick. “Open the database, plug this in, and open the one file loaded on the drive. After it opens, pull the drive and close the file. Clear?”
Maurice nods.
“What about the SAT scores?” I ask.
“Those are pretty easy. Every student includes them in their college applications,” Jerry says.
“So we’ll cross-reference the police database with the SAT scores, and Bright Horizons if you get through,” I say. “What else?”
“uSN,” Jerry says. “Once we start narrowing the list, we can get a lot of information from the universal Search Network, but that will take time and I’ll need help.”
“Joseph?” I say.
“He’d be great,” Jerry replies.
“Jerry, there’s another thing,” I say. “When I met with Gillespie this morning, it seemed like they’ve got pretty good access to our communications.”
Jerry thinks for a moment before speaking. “We’ll have to go Battlestar Galactica.”
Huh?
“It’s a long story,” Jerry says, responding to my surprise. “A sci-fi TV series from twenty years ago about a battle in space between humans and robots.”
I never watched but vaguely remember it.
“The robots figured out how to break into the humans’ networks,” Jerry continues, “and the only defense the humans have is to use old technology. If someone is tracking us on high tech, maybe all we can do is go low tech.”
“Carrier pigeon?” I ask.
“Something like that,” Jerry says. “Bicycle taxi works just as well. I’ll send Joseph a note.”
“Maurice,” I say, “when can you get that cyberstick into the computer?”
“Within an hour.”
“Jerry, how much time will you need after that?”
“It depends. At least all night. Maybe more.”
“As quickly as possible,” I say with a strange feeling in my gut we may be racing against a clock we can’t even see, frantically searching for dead people as signposts pointing toward other young women who might be in mortal danger.
52
There are times when I feel simultaneously awake and asleep, charged yet dulled. I’ve hardly slept, yet feel a nervous, almost manic energy running through my veins.
The late Czech writer Milan Kundera wrote that we live our lives as a first draft that is also the final text, a dress rehearsal that is itself our final performance. We stitch little pieces of knowledge together to create understanding, but these flashes come too late to prevent the mistakes we’ve already made along the way. By the time we’ve learned enough about something to handle it properly, we’ve probably already fucked it up beyond repair. I’m learning more about MaryLee’s death, but at what cost? How many mistakes am I making along the way? How many people am I putting in danger?
And then, of course, my vibrating u.D interrupts my reflection.
“Hi, Mother,” I say, trying to cover my tracks.
“Dikranigus, you sound tired,” she says. “What’s going on?”
“Everything’s good, Mom.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? This is your mother you’re talking to.”
“How are you?” I say, trying to change the subject.
She won’t be so easily diverted. “I’m worried about you, Dikran.”
“I’m fine, Mother,” I say. “How is Shoonig?”
Neither Shoonig the Second nor Shoonig the First, whom he replaced six years ago, filled the void left by the loss of Astrid and my father, but each yelp, each demand to be walked or fed, each attack on an errant pillow, chases the ghosts, for a brief moment, out of my mother’s head.
She plays along grudgingly. “Barking away at the cars as if he’s never seen them before. The kids take the mufflers off, which drives him even more crazy.” She tacks back. “How was your visit with—”
“Fine, Mother,” I say, cutting her off then feeling badly for it. I’ve always started to worry when my mother latched on to a name of a former girlfriend, even one like Toni, whom she’s never met in person. I again feel guilty and alter my tone. “Toni is fine, Mother, thank you for asking. How is Mrs. Gregorian doing?”
My mother ignores the question. “It’s just that I don’t want you to be alone, my janeegus.”
“I know, Mother.”
“Are you eating enough?”
I translate her words in my head, my mother again channeling her sadness into an intense, loving focus on me.
“Yes, Mother,” I say.
“Five servings of fruit and vegetables every day,” she says, rallying.
“Yes, Mother. For you, six.”
“You’re a good boy, Dikran,” she says after a pause.
“Thank you, Mom.”
“Just call your mother once in a while.”
“Love you,” I say with all the positive energy I can muster as I tap my u.D. I don’t know if I’m more worried about her or she’s more worried about me.
The u.D clock reads 2:48 p.m. I want to call Martina from my u.D, but my conscience gets the better of me. I speed toward the Quik Trip convenience store on Forty-Fourth and Main and arrive a few minutes late for the call.
“Where the hell have you been?” she chides belligerently.
“Sorry.”
“What have you got for me?”
