Change Agent

by Daniel Suarez

  Durand pulled his now normal-looking arm clear. “And you’ve seen this type of thing before?”

  Desai lifted up his LFP glasses and rubbed his eyes. He shook his head. “No. And up until this moment, I didn’t think such a thing was technologically possible.” He turned to regard Durand. “You say that someone genetically edited you?”

  “These tattoos are the least of it. They changed my ethnicity. My body. My face.”

  Desai examined Durand closely. “You mentioned your body swelled up—after receiving an injection?”

  “I could barely breathe. Then I blacked out. The doctor said my skin got scabrous while I was in the coma.”

  Desai pondered this. “Like a chrysalis.”

  “I don’t know. The hospital staff couldn’t ID me. It’s like my DNA got scrambled. I woke up to this . . .” Durand gestured at his reflection in a nearby glass cabinet.

  Desai picked up the ID on Durand’s lanyard and held the photo up alongside Durand’s new face. “No obvious likeness. At all.”

  “My vocal cords. My hands. My body. Look, I know this sounds insane, but somehow the Huli jing figured out how to edit the living. Do you realize what this means for humanity?”

  Desai seemed focused on his own thoughts. “I’d heard whispers in certain circles.”

  “What kind of whispers?”

  “About in vivo edits.”

  “Hold it—you’ve heard of this?”

  Desai nodded. “They say the increased processing power of photonic computing provided a window into epigenetics.”

  Durand didn’t know whether to hug the man or punch him in the face. “Why the hell didn’t you tell Interpol?”

  Desai shrugged. “Because it was ridiculous. The type of thing one hears from synth addicts. From wishful-thinking trustafarian transhumanists.”

  “Back up. What did you hear, when, and from whom?”

  “Whispered rumors of an elite black market where they edit the living.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  He nodded sheepishly. “The Huli jing . . . I’ll grant you the rumor was about the Huli jing.”

  Durand pulled his phablet out and displayed the Interpol Red Notice on its screen. It displayed Durand’s new DNA, photo, and listed his name as Marcus Wyckes.

  “Apparently the Huli jing edited me to match the DNA profile of their leader, Marcus Wyckes. So now I’m wanted for all his crimes in one hundred and ninety countries. They turned me into the criminal I was hunting for.”

  Desai picked up the phablet, studying the Red Notice. “I saw the news. And here you are.”

  “I’m not this man, Rad. You have to believe me.”

  “Something tells me that if you were this man, I would already be dead. And the real Marcus Wyckes wouldn’t need my help, in any case.”

  Durand looked at his reflection again in the cabinet glass. “I need to get back to who I was. Is that possible?”

  Desai studied the photo on the front page of the Red Notice. Then he looked up. “Wait a minute. I think I know your real name. You’re that Interpol agent who disappeared a month or so ago.” He started searching the news. “It starts with a ‘D.’”

  Durand grabbed the phablet.

  Desai held up his hands in peace. “You must forgive me, but your cover is, as they say in America, ‘blown.’ It is just a search away.”

  Durand sighed. “Durand. Kenneth Durand.”

  “Ah, Mr. Durand. Pleasure to finally meet you. And I might have good news for you.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “The good news is that a GlobalFiler DNA profile consists of a minuscule percentage of a person’s entire genomic sequence—just forty-six letters out of three billion. And that’s all noncoding DNA—meaning it doesn’t have any effect on physical appearance.”

  “Okay. So . . .”

  “To make your DNA profile a preliminary match for Marcus Wyckes’s, the Huli jing wouldn’t need to change your physical appearance at all. They’d just have to change forty-six noncoding letters in all of your thirty-five trillion cells—a tall order, of course, but it’s all relative.”

  “But they did change my appearance, and it’s obvious why: to rob me of my identity and to make me a wanted man.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I was a threat to them. I’ve been shutting down their labs.”

  Desai nodded. “And yet a complete transformation to this Wyckes fellow would not be necessary to frame you. They would likely restrict their edits to purely phenotypical traits—skin color, facial features, eye color, musculature—because changes to your organs would probably start to kill you.”

  “Meaning you don’t think I’m completely changed.”

  “Right.” He raised the Red Notice and pointed at the DNA ladders. “This minuscule GlobalFiler DNA profile would usually be sufficient to convict you. But I think a more complete sequencing would reveal that much of your original internals remain.”

  “How much of my DNA do you think the Huli jing edited?”

  Desai studied Durand closely. “If I had access to some of your original DNA, I could tell for certain. But you must realize that all of humanity is 99.8 percent genetically identical. Just one-fifth of a percentage point is all that comprises our individual genetic identity.”

  “That little?”

  Desai shrugged. “But we could compare your current genomic sequence to that of the real Marcus Wyckes—assuming the authorities have his original DNA.”

  “They do.”

  “I’m guessing there’ll be a difference. That should prove to the authorities that you aren’t Wyckes. But to prove your identity as Kenneth Durand we’d need a sample of your original DNA.”

  Durand produced the plastic bag containing his original hair. “I lifted it from my flat just before I came here.”

  “Marvelous.” Desai held the bag up to the light. “It’ll take a few hours to sequence. I’ll need to draw blood from you as you are now—we can run the sequencing in parallel. Afterward, assuming I’m correct, I could approach the authorities with the evidence—perhaps your partner, Mr. Ling?”

  Durand took a moment to consider his options. After several seconds he shook his head. “No.”

  Desai looked surprised. “No?”

  “We’re not doing that.”

  “I thought you wanted to get your identity back.”

  “It’s not just my identity I want back. I want my physical form back. My own DNA.”

  Desai put a hand to his chin. “Well, if this sort of change is occurring somewhere in the world, then the technology will eventually—”

  “You don’t seem to understand the full implications of live editing.”

  Desai laughed ruefully. “Oh, I do. I realize how much this innovation is worth, certainly.”

  “Think beyond that. The ability to edit living people undermines the very foundation of authority—namely the ability to uniquely identify human beings. If DNA can be edited in living people, there’s no way to hold anyone accountable anymore. For anything. This procedure will be far more illegal than embryo edits ever were—by a long shot.”

  Desai contemplated this.

  “I know the law. They won’t make an exception for me, Rad. They might promise to help me, but they’ll never do it. I’ll be a casualty in the war on genetic edits. They’ll tell me to just accept it.”

  Desai said nothing.

  “How can I make love to my wife as Marcus Wyckes? Or have my six-year-old daughter accept me? I must get back to the way I was. I need to get this man’s DNA out of me. Do you understand?”

  Desai proceeded cautiously. “Is it the Asian aspect that—?”

  He pounded the counter again. “My wife and child are Asian, you idiot. I’m not a racist—I just want my self back.”

 
“I see.” Desai spread his hands. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see how that’s possible, Mr. Durand.”

  “The Huli jing already showed it’s possible. They edited me once. It must be possible to be edited again.”

  Desai paced his lab. “Look. To be entirely honest, I’m not an actual geneticist. Not really.”

  Durand narrowed his eyes at the man.

  “I’m more of a glorified technician. I tell people I’m a geneticist because—”

  Durand felt himself getting mad. His tattoos began to reappear.

  Desai held up his hands. “What you need to do is talk to a full-fledged genetic engineer. Fortunately, I know an excellent one. He could tell you whether it’s possible to get changed back.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A man who can be trusted.”

  “How do you know he won’t turn me in?”

  “Because, like you, he’s a wanted man. One problem, though: he’s not in Singapore.”

  “Can we get him on an AR conference line?”

  Desai winced. “He avoids phones.”

  “Can you get him to come here?”

  “Mmm . . . that’s the thing. Singapore is one of the countries where he’s wanted.” Desai clapped. “Fortunately, though, he’s just across the Strait in Johor Bahru.”

  “You expect me to cross the border into Malaysia? How the hell can I get across the Strait? Every cop in Singapore is expecting me to cross the border.”

  Desai patted Durand’s shoulder. “Not to worry. We cross the border all the time.”

  Chapter 17

  Radheya Desai and Kenneth Durand arrived via a freight elevator at a subbasement of the Agriville farm tower. They then moved through several locked doors, and finally through a hidden panel disguised as a plain cement wall.

  They entered a large concrete chamber with an open pool of water in the center. The space was lined with metal shelving packed to overflowing with fiber-optic and electroactive polymer extruders, photonics boards, and rebreather gear. Likewise, an entire aquarium of lifelike robotic fish hung on racks or splayed across shelves. It was like a robotic theme park storage room.

  “What’s all this?” Durand sifted through the shelves as two Hoklo workers entered from a doorway on the far side of the room.

  Desai barked at the men in Hokkien. Then he turned to Durand. “Underwater air lock. Leads right into the Strait of Johor. We use this to smuggle biotech wares out of Singapore via autonomous subs.”

  Durand felt the rubbery fin of an artificial marlin. “Robotic fish?”

  “Electroactive polymers. Soft robotics.” Desai shrugged. “The SPF and Malaysian officials have lots of drones searching for other drones. But fish—especially endangered species—get a free pass. Except with poachers, of course, but our fish are not likely to wander into purse seine nets because they monitor fishing trawler radar signals—and avoid them. Something real fish do not do.”

  Durand studied the shelves and wall pegs overflowing with robotic fish. “How does this get me to Johor?”

  “Ah . . .”

  Durand turned to see that the two Chinese workers had left, and now he heard the scraping rattle of metal as they pushed open twin rusting metal doors to a neighboring room—revealing a life-sized replica of a great white shark. It was at least twenty feet long and suspended in a harness, secured by chains to a rusting overhead rail system that squealed as the men pushed the artificial shark along the track.

  “You have got to be shitting me.”

  “No! We’ve only rarely used it. Most of our shipments are deliberately small. However, ‘Bruce’ here sometimes comes in handy.” Desai motioned for the men to bring the soft robotic shark all the way into the room and alongside the opening to the pool of water.

  “You’re yanking my chain.”

  “No, indeed.”

  “You’ve sent a human being in that thing across the Strait of Johor?”

  Desai hesitated. “Not a living person, no. But at least we know you’ll fit.” He clapped Durand on the back. “We’ll set Bruce to a neutral buoyancy for your weight.” He escorted Durand onto a scale.

  Durand was fifteen kilos heavier than he’d ever been. Given his build, it certainly wasn’t fat.

  “You’re a bit heavier than our last passenger, and neither did he need breathing apparatus. But I’m sure we can get it to work.”

  One of the Chinese workers opened a locker and pulled out rebreather equipment.

  “You know how to use a rebreather?”

  “Yes. I learned in the navy.” Durand eyed the robotic shark skeptically. “How do I know you’re not just trying to kill me?”

  “There are cheaper ways to kill you. But you must also realize that I have more than a passing interest in whether this in vivo editing of yours is real. I’m every bit as eager as you are to learn more. And my friend will be able to tell us both a great deal.”

  Durand felt irritation at Desai’s implication, but he decided not to say anything. Instead, he stared at the robotic shark as one of the workers tapped at an old, ruggedized computer tablet—causing the shark’s mouth to open wide.

  Durand could see all the way down its gullet.

  Desai turned to him with a smile. “It can accept a payload of a hundred and fifty kilos. And we haven’t lost it yet.”

  Durand looked into the creature’s mouth and tested its rows of teeth with his finger. They flexed. Rubber.

  Desai leaned in next to him and winced at the odor coming out of the depths. “Wang, you should have kept it stored with its mouth open, lah. It never dried out from last time. There are puddles inside.”

  They began to argue in Hokkien.

  Durand studied the interior. “You disposed of a body with this. Who and why?”

  “A Yakuza—mortally wounded in a gun battle with Singapore police. His family wanted him back in Japan for burial. We helped spirit his remains out of the country, so to speak.”

  “All the way to Japan?”

  Desai laughed. “Of course not. Just across the Strait. It’s just a few kilometers. Liquid metal batteries give this a range of approximately sixteen kilometers, so you’ll have plenty of power. We have a matching underwater airlock in Johor. You’ll be able to get past all the underwater scanners, border control drones. You name it.”

  Durand again leaned into the shark’s mouth. The reek was revolting—a mix of rotten fish, dirty socks, and ozone. He could see a pallet-like platform six feet long and two feet wide, with straps for securing a load. It was perhaps a foot high. It was going to be tight indeed—especially with his new body. “I lie down on that?”

  Desai nodded. “Have any fear of closed spaces?”

  “No.”

  “You will.” He then reached in and pulled out the platform like a drawer—although it more accurately resembled a shark’s tongue depressor.

  One of the workers behind him held up the rebreather gear and spoke with a thick Hokkien accent. “Ready, lah?”

  • • •

  It took about fifteen minutes for Durand to get suited up. He then lay on his stomach on the pallet platform as Desai went back over the procedure yet again. Durand was filled with anxiety; lying in the mouth of a great white shark brought to mind the end of some classic movie.

  Desai patted Durand’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. The shark will take care of everything. It will evade boats and drones on its own. It’s programmed to know where to go. We think we’ve got the buoyancy calculations right, so you shouldn’t sink to the ocean floor.”

  “You think you’ve got them right?”

  “It’s math. You trust math, right?”

  “It’s not math I’m worried about.”

  “You’ll travel at a depth of ten meters—roughly two atmospheres of pressure. So decompression won’t be a problem. That is, unless som
e major evasive action is necessary—in which case you might need some decompression time. But not to worry! We’ll sort all that out if necessary. There’s a VR display in your face mask that’s hooked into cameras in the front and sides of the machine—so you can get a solid visual of the swim.”

  “How long?”

  “Twenty minutes—give or take depending on tides, currents, and evasion of authorities, smugglers, poachers, and fishing nets.”

  “The little details.”

  “I’ll be honest with you: this will not be pleasant. I want to be clear on that. But given how wanted you are by the police, it’s the only way to smuggle you across the border.”

  Durand reluctantly nodded.

  “I’ll meet you on the other side.”

  With that, Desai slapped Durand on the shoulder one more time and put his full-face rebreather mask on, which Durand began to adjust. Desai made a circular motion with his hand to the Chinese workers.

  Durand felt the pallet platform move slowly into the gullet of the shark—and the rubbery electroactive polymer material suddenly squeezed in on him from all sides. He felt a growing panic of confinement. It was like climbing into a rubber coffin. Massive electroactive polymer muscles constricted on him as the machine went through its diagnostics.

  And then the mouth of the shark closed. Complete blackness.

  Durand heard whirring winch motors and felt the shark swaying back and forth. A moment later a video image projected into his retinas—and light streamed in. He could see a wide-angle view forward and to the sides of the shark’s head.

  Desai stood near the air lock, next to a worker holding the winch controls. He smiled and gave a thumbs-up sign.

  Durand could hear only his heart pounding in his ears. Air had started flowing from the rebreather, but he still felt like he was suffocating.

  And then the bottom dropped out.

  From the video he could tell that someone had detached the harness and let the synthetic shark drop into the pool of water. Durand nearly panicked as the artificial musculature of the robotic fish launched into action, noiselessly squeezing him like a vise as it twisted right, then left.

  And then cold water poured in all around him.