Change Agent

by Daniel Suarez

  It suddenly dawned on Durand: That’s why Wyckes did this.

  Durand pulled the cheap phablet from his coat pocket and searched public newsfeeds. Durand saw his new face all over the headlines. The top item on the Straits Times described the Singapore Police Force’s massive manhunt aimed toward preventing Marcus Wyckes from escaping Singapore.

  Durand quickly found the Interpol Red Notice, too.

  There he was—the man reflected in the water’s surface.

  The Huli jing had literally made Durand into the criminal he was hunting. Durand recalled Marcotte’s briefing. How arrests and turnover of Huli jing ringleaders had no effect on the cartel’s rapid expansion.

  He lowered the phablet in sudden realization.

  The Nine Tails of the Huli jing weren’t dying—they were changing their DNA. Perhaps killing someone else in their place.

  Then a startling idea occurred to Durand: if the Huli jing could edit him once—they could do it again.

  Couldn’t they? If they changed his DNA, then they could probably change him back.

  Durand caught his breath.

  There still might be a way to get back to his family. Back to his life. Durand’s mind raced, despite his exhaustion. He looked at the stranger’s reflection in the water.

  He nodded, and the stranger nodded back. “The Huli jing could change me back.”

  However, it would require one critical component he was currently missing. Some of his original DNA . . .

  A slight grin creased the stranger’s mouth. He knew just where he could get that.

  Chapter 13

  Detective Inspector Aiyana Marcotte approached heavily armed Singapore police tactical units guarding a subbasement corridor. The masked sentry there noted her Interpol ID with suspicion but nodded her through.

  She walked toward bright lights and evidence technicians 3D-scanning the scene of two dead policemen in a blood-spattered elevator car. Several Singapore police detectives conferred nearby. Hospital attendants waited with gurneys since the scene was just down the hall from the hospital morgue.

  Detective Sergeant Michael Yi Ji-chang stood beyond the yellow police tape and saw her approach. “Evening, Inspector.”

  Marcotte stopped alongside. “I had planned on congratulating you for locating Marcus Wyckes.”

  “You still can.” He grimaced. “Though he got away again.”

  She nodded toward the scene. “I’m told the Singapore police had two dozen men managing the transfer.”

  “I personally watched them chain Wyckes hand and foot.” He pointed at the unlocked cuffs still wrapped around the rails of a toppled gurney.

  “Have they found the gun?”

  “No. No idea how he got one, either. Probably a polymer piece—maybe printed here in the hospital. They’re checking printer logs.” Yi shook his head. “I had Wyckes. I should have just stayed with him.”

  “Then you’d be dead, too. If I’m not mistaken, you have no gun.”

  Yi said nothing.

  “Too bad we don’t have police powers here.” Marcotte studied the scene. “It’s pretty clear Wyckes had inside help.”

  “I’d agree with you except there’s street camera imagery of Wyckes fleeing alone, barefoot and bare-assed—looking confused and afraid.”

  Marcotte pointed. “Elevator security camera cut out during the escape.”

  Yi considered this news. “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “And one of the police drones was taken off station at a crucial moment due to some ‘mysterious’ malfunction—giving Wyckes a blind spot to escape into.”

  Yi looked around and spoke softly. “You really think Wyckes had inside help?”

  “I think the Huli jing is a multibillion-dollar transnational criminal organization with eyes and people all over.”

  “But you think people inside the SPF helped?”

  “I don’t know. But I do know the Huli jing crossed a line on this one. The rest of the SPF is on the warpath—as we speak, they’re raiding every Huli jing safe house, bordello, and lab on the island looking for Wyckes.”

  Yi grunted. “Suddenly the SPF has actionable information.”

  “I think even the crooked cops are with us on this one. Wyckes can’t murder SPF without consequences—they’ll tear apart Huli jing operations until the gang coughs him up.”

  “Nice to have their full cooperation.”

  They stood for a moment in silence.

  “I read Inspector Belanger’s report on your initial interview with Wyckes.”

  Yi just stared.

  “That Wyckes claimed he was really Kenneth Durand.”

  Yi remained stone-face. “None of it made sense.”

  “That Wyckes knew personal information about you, her. That he knew classified information about the GCD.”

  Yi hesitated before responding. “It was uncanny. That’s the only word for it. He knew things. He knew . . .” Yi paused. “It wasn’t just that, Inspector. He had Ken’s mannerisms—you know what I mean? I used to do a wicked impression of Ken—to make fun, like you do. But this guy . . . he had Ken down cold.”

  Marcotte studied Yi’s expression. “And then he killed two cops and fled on foot.”

  Yi deflated. “Okay, maybe part of me wanted to believe him. Like I said, none of it makes sense.”

  “For the record, Sergeant, what he claimed isn’t possible with any known technology.”

  Yi looked at her sideways. “So you checked into it?”

  “Didn’t have to look far.”

  Yi hissed, “When I saw that DNA match for Wyckes, I thought: Dae bak. This is my chance to find Ken.”

  “Inspector Belanger says you haven’t given up the search for Agent Durand.”

  “I’m not an idiot. I know Ken’s dead. I know. But I still need to find him. I owe him that.” He searched for words. “Have you ever heard of the concept of Han, Inspector?”

  She shook her head.

  “We Koreans have been invaded and tossed around by forces beyond our control for centuries. It’s built in us a feeling of resentment about our helplessness—a desire to strike back against any injustice, no matter how futile it might seem.”

  “That’s Han?”

  He nodded. “And we Koreans all have it. I will find Ken. I won’t rest until I do.”

  She studied him for several moments. “You knew him how long?”

  “Since before Interpol. Coalition forces, Africa. We were bug hunters together.”

  “Biological weapons—like the one released in Paris.”

  Yi nodded. “Clearly there were failures. Ken usually blamed himself.”

  “Is that why he left the service?”

  “He met Miyuki. Saw a future worth living. Miyuki and Mia were everything to Ken.” Yi’s expression clouded.

  “Sergeant, I’ve asked Inspector Belanger to loan you to me.”

  Yi looked up.

  “I know you want to locate your partner, and I respect that. But frankly, you’re no use to the Genetic Crime Division in your current state. However, you did locate Marcus Wyckes once. I’d like you to help me find him again.”

  The determination on Yi’s face was obvious. “That’s convenient—because I was planning on doing that anyway.”

  “Where do you suggest we begin?”

  “By trying to find out what Wyckes was doing here in Singapore . . .”

  Chapter 14

  What Otto liked most about the capital was its lack of humanity. Its buildings were empty monuments. More akin to a mausoleum than a city.

  From inside the autonomous Tesla Model-L limousine, he watched through blacked-out, bulletproof windows as the sanitized streets passed by. The sprawling, ultramodern metropolis glittered in the sunlight, boasting sixteen-lane boulevards and gargantuan, outlandish ar
chitecture—each building separated by wide, ornamental parks. All of the pathways and park benches devoid of people. Robotic landscaping machinery roamed here and there, trimming hedges and lawns. Cleaning windows. Sweeping streets. Tending flower beds.

  No cafés or bodegas. No shops. No billboards or logos. No pedestrians. A planned cityscape utterly bereft of human beings.

  It was a marvelous achievement.

  Otto noticed his own reflection in the window glass. Somewhat Slavic this month—perhaps Russian-Mongolian extraction. Last month he had appeared more Southeast Asian than Mongolian. The genetic engineers could tell him his current genetic mix, but in truth, it didn’t interest him. He smiled an alien smile. Whoever this face belonged to did not matter. Change itself defined Otto now. His only immutable feature, gray eyes, anchored him. Helped him know his own reflection. Eyes, after all, were the windows to the soul.

  The Tesla rolled to a stop beneath the marble portico of a fifty-story building hundreds of meters from its nearest neighbor. The tower had organometallic lights bright enough to trace its outline even in daytime.

  The gull-wing limo door rose automatically. Otto emerged into the sunlight. He wore a well-tailored gray suit. His pastel pink double-Windsor knot, as always, perfect. He might not choose his face, but he carefully chose his wardrobe.

  Otto mounted wide marble steps, atop which stood uniformed, heavily armed soldiers of indeterminate Central Asian nationality and ethnicity. They bore no insignias or unit patches on their randomized, digitally printed urban camouflage uniforms. Were they Kazakh? Turkmen? Mongolian? It was difficult to know.

  As he reached the top of the steps, a K-9 patrol passed on its circuit of the building. Two vicious mastiffs snarled and strained against their masters’ leashes.

  But as they drew near Otto, the dogs raised their ears, drew back, and then whimpered before straining with all their might to flee. Soon the soldiers were shouting commands as the dogs pulled free and fled in terror into the wide, empty street, yelping like puppies.

  The feeling was mutual, as far as Otto was concerned. Animals were simply more honest than humans.

  The entire line of soldiers avoided Otto’s gaze, and glass doors hissed open to admit him into a high-ceilinged lobby hung with ornate crystal chandeliers. The world’s gaudiest gold-and-mirrored service robot vacuumed rich red carpets that were trimmed in gold tassels.

  Otto trailed his hand affectionately over the robot’s polished surface as he passed by. He had a soft spot for robots. They weren’t as off-putting as humans.

  He entered an elevator car paneled in mahogany, crystal, and brass. Without his selecting a floor, its doors closed and whisked him to the penthouse. There, Otto exited, walking between grim security men in blue suits bulging from gel body armor. The final two guards stood before closed oak doors richly carved with Asian dragon motifs.

  The guard on the left, a six-foot-eight, bearded mountain of a man, held his hand up to stop Otto. “He’s in a private meeting, Mr. Otto. He asked not to be disturbed.”

  Otto let a crooked smile crease his face. He then walked right up to the guard while the man’s colleague gazed nervously elsewhere. Otto held out his hand as if to shake. “And who are you?”

  Uncertain, the first guard extended his own massive hand. “I’m—”

  Otto swiftly clasped the guard’s hand, watching closely as a sheen of sweat appeared almost immediately on the guard’s face. Seconds later a dark wet stain spread from the guard’s crotch, urine dripping onto his dress shoes.

  The man pulled free from Otto’s grip and backed away from the door—and then away from Otto entirely. Existential dread was written on his face. He gasped for air. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry! Please . . .”

  The other guard swung the doors open without a word, still avoiding Otto’s gaze.

  Otto calmly entered the penthouse office. It had a sweeping view of the unpopulated city below. The double doors closed behind him.

  He heard voices to his right and turned to see an Indian bioengineer in a white lab coat speaking to the owner of the office—who stood with his back turned inside a large, ornately fashioned conservatory. The enclosure was alive with fluttering silver, black, white, and orange butterflies and was easily twenty feet wide. It contained potted trees, a fountain, and flowers.

  Otto would recognize Marcus Wyckes anywhere by his commanding presence. He didn’t need to see the man’s face. In fact, Wyckes’s face, like Otto’s, was forever changing. But Wyckes’s presence never changed. And it was why this human was the closest thing to a father that Otto would ever have.

  Otto approached silently.

  The researcher spoke haltingly to Wyckes. “We did as instructed . . . prepared a . . . a lethal change agent . . . a revision to your birth DNA.”

  Wyckes observed a silver-gold-and-black butterfly crawl across the back of his hand as he replied with an Australian accent, “I didn’t instruct you to include my chromatophores. Now this man apparently has my unique mark of rank. He’s already displayed it in public.”

  The bioengineer stammered. “We . . . we have never performed a lethal transformation outside this facility, Master Wyckes. And it has never been raised as an issue before.”

  Wyckes’s voice remained calm. “Was I born with chromatophores?”

  “No. Of course, you were not, Master Wyckes. But I assumed you wanted him to be mistaken for you.”

  “After he was dead—not before he was dead.”

  “But, Master Wyckes, the added processing to remove chromatophores would have been—”

  As Otto quietly came alongside the researcher, the man drew back as if he sensed something wrong nearby.

  The butterflies within the conservatory suddenly took flight en masse, fluttering from the back of Wyckes’s hand. Every one of them clustered at the farthest point from Otto that they could manage.

  Wyckes spoke without turning. “Otto.” He turned and smiled, revealing a mix of Slavic and Chinese features—ruddy-faced with short black hair. He wore a cashmere sweater and tailored slacks. “Humanity’s last hope has returned.”

  Otto smiled slightly.

  Wyckes nodded to the researcher. “Leave us.”

  The man happily complied, clearly eager to get away from Otto.

  Otto opened the conservatory door for Wyckes. They did not touch as Wyckes exited, but Wyckes smiled warmly before moving toward a massive mahogany desk a dozen meters away, near the tall bank of windows. The desk was carved with Chinese dragon motifs and entirely out of keeping with the modern architecture of the office.

  “I’m glad you’re back so soon.”

  Otto’s voice was measured. Calm. “Our new partners were very cooperative.”

  “Well, that’s fortunate, because a problem has come up that requires your unique talents.” Wyckes sat in an ancient-looking leather wing chair.

  Otto sat in one of the two modern guest chairs in front of the desk, unbuttoning his suit jacket.

  “Do you recall administering a very important injection for me in Singapore last month? Into the Interpol agent responsible for locating so many of our partner labs?”

  Otto considered the question for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. In a crowded train station, I recall.”

  Wyckes nodded. “Yes. The dose was meant to be a lethal change agent to transform the man into someone very special: me.”

  Otto contemplated the event. “That was uncomfortable—being among so many humans.”

  Wyckes’s expression softened. “You know how much I appreciate your sacrifices, Otto. Our research would not be possible without you.”

  “Has there been a complication?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, the target did not perish after the transformation completed. He survived. And what’s worse, he’s now running around loose.”

  Otto pondered this news. �
�As you?”

  Wyckes shrugged. “As what I once was. At least partially so. And worse still, he’s got this . . .”

  With that, a full complement of green, blue, black, and orange tattoos faded into existence on Wyckes’s neck, forearms, and knuckles. Within seconds they stood out in vibrant color. From a mild-seeming businessman, he now had the appearance of an arch Yakuza or Triad warlord.

  As if by reflex, Otto’s chromatophores responded in kind. He saw his own Huli jing tattoos surface on his hands, but knew they were activated across his chest, back, arms, neck, and legs, too.

  They both had unique patterns. Their own signature.

  Otto nodded. “Your marks of rank. That is a problem.”

  Wyckes nodded back. “Yes. It’s a problem. One I need you to resolve.” He made several hand gestures and a desk-mounted LFP beamed virtual images into Otto’s retinas.

  Internet newsfeeds floated before Otto. One headline read, “Cartel Kingpin Kills Officers in Dramatic Escape,” with a scan of police boots sticking out of an elevator door. The other article showed an Interpol Red Notice and photo of a bald, fierce-looking man that in no way resembled the Marcus Wyckes sitting in front of him. That headline read: “Infamous Gangster Loose in Singapore.”

  Wyckes nodded toward the images. “I’m not sure how he did it, but this Interpol agent is now on the run. Our friends in the police failed to do their job.”

  “Will they find him?”

  “We can no longer rely on the police. But the media should make it easier to locate this person. His face—that is, my old face—is all over the news. I’m now wanted in nearly two hundred countries. It’ll be difficult for him to hide.” Wyckes passed the virtual Interpol Red Notice to Otto—who examined the image carefully.

  “I want you to do what the police could not: find this imposter, kill him, and leave his body where it’ll be quickly found by the authorities. It’s high time for Marcus Demang Wyckes to finally die—and his lengthy criminal record along with him.”

  Otto nodded. “It also eliminates our most troublesome enemy. There is a beautiful symmetry to your plan. I will see it done.”