Change Agent

by Daniel Suarez

  There: the suspect was departing with the second man—getting into a very fine autonomous sedan. He’d affixed pin cams to the walls outside as well. He was getting good video. There must be big things afoot for his commander to be personally involved. Word was that Bangkok was behind this one. Some international manhunt.

  Bank calmly watched the Mercedes depart and then spoke into his LFP uplink. “The suspect rendezvoused with a second individual. Photos sent. Both suspects departed Sanctuary of Truth in autonomous vehicle, license number X2-3-82. Add this car to autotracking.”

  There. Bank had done his part. The devious little farang hadn’t lost him—though the bastard had certainly tried to shake any tails. If this dwarf was a big fish, perhaps Bank would get a commendation. Maybe it would give him the boost he needed to make sergeant. Better kickbacks as a sergeant.

  He decided he was buying this dove, after all. A sergeant could afford a pet dove for his daughter.

  Chapter 25

  After driving in silence for at least fifteen minutes through the sound of dense traffic, horns, and general city clamor, the Mercedes sedan entered a quieter place of screeches and echoes, heading down.

  A parking garage, Durand guessed.

  After rounding several ramps, the Mercedes came to a stop. The left door opened to reveal a smiling, attractive young Thai woman in a business suit, along with two smiling women in lab coats. They all bowed with their hands peaked before their hearts. “Sawasdee ka.”

  The woman in the business suit stepped forward. “Mr. and Mr. Anderson. So good to have you as our honored guests.” She motioned for them to follow. “Please. Enter. No need to remove your shoes. We follow the Western custom here.”

  Durand glared at Frey before exiting the car. Frey joined him on the red carpet as a server in a silk tunic extended a tray holding twin champagne flutes.

  “Champagne, sirs?”

  Frey smiled. “Don’t mind if I do . . .” He grabbed one and passed it toward Durand. “Champagne, dear?”

  Durand shook his head. “Let’s get on with this.”

  Frey returned one flute but sipped the other. “Right. Please keep an open mind . . .”

  They walked through tinted glass doors flanked by palms and a babbling water feature and fieldstones. Inside they found a stylish lobby done in grown materials, plants, and more natural stone, with soft, perfectly imitated sunlight streaming in from artificial skylights. The beams focused on the lab’s logo—a single Thai letter in the form of a small living tree, no doubt genetically engineered to spell out the name of the enterprise.

  Durand wondered if it was Desai’s handiwork.

  Another beautiful young Thai woman in a business suit approached them wearing designer LFP glasses. She performed a wai as well. “Gentlemen. Our sensors indicate you both possess mobile devices. We must hold these for the duration of your visit. They will, of course, be returned to you upon your departure.”

  She held out a metal lockbox and opened the lid.

  Durand and Frey looked at each other.

  Frey shrugged. “Of course . . .” He removed his LFP glasses and his belt processing unit, placing them both in the box.

  Durand tossed his cheap phablet into the box as well, to Frey’s obvious embarrassment.

  “He likes his burners. Bit of a privacy nut, my husband.”

  The young woman smiled sweetly as she locked the box and handed the key to Frey. “Not at all uncommon, Mr. Anderson. Enjoy your visit with us today.” She departed.

  The original hostess motioned for them to follow her.

  Durand had always had the impression that these embryo clinics were backroom affairs done in the dark. As he looked around, this place was nothing like what he had imagined. It looked like a high-end fertility clinic.

  They entered a sizable lounge area, where dozens of other would-be parents stood speaking with lab counselors—male and female—at small standing tables. The clients ran the gamut in age and ethnicity. There was the occasional pair where one partner was much older—either the man or the woman. He heard British-, American-, South African–, and Australian-accented English. There were Russian, Chinese, Arab, Indian, Japanese, and Korean couples. All of them fashionably dressed. These were no ordinary customers. People from the Bubble—executives, lawyers, bankers, and doctors.

  Another young Thai woman approached them as they were shown to a standing table. She wai’d. “Sawasdee ka. My name is Ms. Meow, and I will be your personal counselor. So good to meet you, Mr. and Mr. Anderson. We are honored that you consider entrusting us with your most precious gift. Since you’re our last arrival, we are now ready for the floor presentation.”

  Durand raised an eyebrow. “Floor presentation?”

  Frey tapped Durand’s arm. “Didn’t I mention that, darling? Ah . . . I should have.”

  The young woman smiled brightly. She spoke American English with no accent whatsoever. “You will need this . . .” She extended a thin film tablet framed in synbio ivory to Durand. The device had a slick-looking AR-based UI on its surface beneath the lab logo. It must have had an integrated glim because AR objects floated above the tablet in an impossible-looking, hyperrealistic way.

  “While you enjoy the show, this portal will permit you to mark your favorite genetic selections for later review during our personal one-on-one consultation. And of course, we can always replay the floor presentation afterward to find the genetic options you found most desirable.”

  Frey nodded. “Very much appreciated, my dear. This will be one of the most difficult choices of our lives. It’s nice to know we’re in capable hands.”

  She smiled engagingly again. “I am here to be of service.” She looked up to see that the other counselors were bringing their clients toward a double set of oxidized bronze doors. These opened noiselessly like the entry to some ancient temple. “I see we are ready to begin. If you’ll please come with me, gentlemen, I’ll bring you to your table.”

  Durand cast an impatient look at Frey.

  “After you, my dear.” He gestured for Durand to go first.

  Meow brought them into a ballroom dotted with dozens of small cultured-wood cocktail tables and matching chairs. They were clearly grown in their present shapes, since not a seam or joint was visible—a subtle demonstration of genetic mastery.

  The center of the room contained a fashion show catwalk and small stage with pinpoint lights illuminating its length. The entire showroom was decorated with the finest synbio hardwoods, glass, and grown fabric decor. Artificial sunlight poured in from skylights above. It was convincing enough to make it seem like this was all happening in the light of day, instead of several stories below ground.

  Ms. Meow escorted them to their table. As they sat, she placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “I will see you gentlemen after the show. I cannot wait to plan your special one.” She nodded toward a waiter standing by in a silk tunic, then departed.

  The Thai waiter wai’d to them. “Gentlemen, would you care for a cocktail or perhaps a light repast?” With a gesture, a menu appeared from thin air above their ivory tablet, turning toward them as they looked at it. “Might I recommend the beluga caviar?”

  Durand cast an annoyed look at the waiter. “Caviar? You’re serving caviar?”

  “The highest-grade degan caviar, sir—biofactured at our own facility and 100 percent carbon neutral.”

  Frey laughed dramatically. “Such a stickler about sustainability, but that’s one of the things I love about you.” He turned to the waiter. “Please bring us some. And also a mineral water for my husband, please. Preferably fresh from a fusion reactor.”

  Durand rolled his eyes.

  “Of course, sir.” With that the waiter moved off.

  Durand glowered at Frey.

  “Being married, I, of course, know you’re a degan, but I’m just a bit surprised tha
t you would make it an issue today—especially given everything else on your plate, so to speak.”

  “I’m trying to get back to myself. Abandoning my closely held beliefs isn’t going to help that.”

  Soft music rose, and a spotlight shone down on the stage.

  Durand leaned closer to Frey. “When are we—?”

  Frey held up a finger for silence and pointed to the tablet, whose AR magic was shrinking away, so as not to obscure the show about to begin.

  Durand held his tongue but sighed in irritation.

  The music expanded into earwormy K-pop music. Gorgeous Thai women in sequined leotards emerged from both wings of the stage—with huge, plumed headdresses of rare (though undoubtedly cultured) feathers.

  The audience applauded as spotlights focused on the center curtain, with a Thai-accented woman’s voice intoning, “Ladies, gentlemen, and transgender, give a warm hand for your host, Mr. Vegas!”

  A middle-aged Thai man with long, free-flowing black hair emerged from behind the curtain. He wore a perfectly tailored brocade tuxedo and a small headset microphone that in this day and age was wholly unnecessary—except that it identified him immediately as the emcee.

  The audience applauded as the emcee clapped right back at them, wai’d, then clapped some more. His black hair shimmered as it flowed down his shoulders. He resembled one of those magicians who don’t actually do tricks.

  “Very good! So good to see you today! Welcome to our dream factory.” He bowed slightly, smiling. “Sabai dee mai? You honor us with your presence.”

  The applause died down as he moved forward with confidence, walking the catwalk.

  “This day, we would like to help you conceive the child of your dreams.”

  The emcee studied his audience. “I see we have a wonderful group. You’ve come from all around this world to be with us today, and I think I know why. Where most clinics show you mere images of what could be—we bring you the real thing. Children who already have undergone the edits you desire. And what better way to begin than by turning over the emcee duties to . . .” He gestured stage left, where a spotlight shined down. “Kimberly!”

  At that moment an adorable six-year-old Caucasian girl with blond hair and blue eyes emerged wearing a sequined gown and her own microphone headset.

  Vegas welcomed her, clapping too. “Age six, recipient of our proprietary DLG and MPP line of intelligence and memory edits . . .”

  Kimberly smiled brightly and waved calmly to the crowd like a pro beauty contestant, speaking in one language after another: “Hello, everyone! Dobryy den´ vsem! Dàjiā xiàwŭ hăo! Kon´nichiwa, min´na! Buenas tardes a todos! Guten Abend allerseits! Bon après-midi, tout le monde!” Her pronunciation was flawless, and whenever she spoke another language, the ivory tablet on Durand’s table projected subtitles in English into his eyes. The little girl transitioned seamlessly from one language to the next as though it was second nature, finally settling back on English. “Welcome! We know you’re here because you want to give your future child the very best start possible. And from firsthand experience, I can tell you . . .” She grinned coyly, accentuating her perfect dimples. “It’s pretty darned nice having quality genes!”

  The audience laughed and clapped as the little girl soaked up the applause, encouraging them. She strode to the head of the catwalk beneath a spotlight as Vegas disappeared into the shadows and the adult showgirls melted away behind the sequined curtains. She stood alone.

  “As Mr. Vegas says, I benefited from proprietary in vitro modifications that greatly improved expression of my DLG3 and MPP6 genes, re-creating a rare natural mutation enjoyed by just a few. I’m told these genes play an essential role in intelligence and memory and are associated with the guanylate kinase protein family. Specifically, they manage clustering of NMDA receptors at excitatory synapses—which are required for learning and memory through their role in synaptic plasticity following NMDA receptor signaling.” She smiled disarmingly. “But then again, I’m only six—what do I know?” She held out her hands and shrugged adorably to uproarious laughter.

  Durand realized the little girl was his daughter’s age—and yet she seemed almost alien in her intelligence. Mia was inquisitive, hardworking, and intelligent. This Kimberly seemed effortlessly brilliant.

  The tablet on Durand’s table highlighted gene selections ready for “favoriting.”

  There was something too “uncanny valley” about this little girl. He leaned over to Frey and hissed into his ear, “Are you kidding me? This place needs to be shut down.” His finger jabbed into the table.

  Frey smiled and laughed lightly with the rest of the audience. “Now, now, my dear. You wanted to see the edge.” Frey stopped smiling and turned toward Durand, whispering back, “And this is it.”

  The show continued as the precocious Kimberly finished telling a dirty joke in Russian, delivering the punch line—which was immediately translated by superscript hovering above her in AR: “Whatever you do, don’t have the fish!”

  The audience laughed—especially the Russians.

  The little girl then spoke in Mandarin, with perfect accent and diction. This, too, was instantly translated to a language appropriate to the viewer and beamed into individual eyes by glims on every table.

  Durand guessed that software was monitoring his eye activity and pupil responses for interest—and a possible sale. But also perhaps for subversion and informants.

  Durand tried to watch without perceiving Kimberly as an abomination. After all, this was an actual, adorable little girl. None of this was her fault. She hadn’t asked to be created as a genetic wunderkind.

  Kimberly smiled as she moved to the side of the catwalk, still soaking up laughter from a joke she’d just told in French. Then she paused, getting serious. “But it’s not fair for me to take up all your time. You’ve come a long way to see the true potential for your own children. So without further ado, let me share with you our entire line of CRISPR edits for 2045!”

  The K-pop music returned. Laser lights flashed, and a spotlight shined down on the sequined rear curtain.

  “Please remember to mark your preference cards. Our trained counselors will advise you on the likely results of your preferred traits in combination with the unique genetics of your source embryo.” She gestured. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, Damen und Herren, Nshìmen xiānshēngmen, meet six-year-old Samson!”

  The curtain parted as a little boy with the physique of a bodybuilder strode onto the catwalk to music, lights, and applause.

  Kimberly accompanied his posing with sales patter. “Samson’s displaying the potential for our MYH3 and MYH11 line of smooth and skeletal muscle edits. Look at those arms! Samson has a glorious athletic career ahead of him. These muscles can also be made less voluminous, with greater power-to-mass performance, for those who prefer a sleeker runner’s physique.”

  The little boy posed, his muscles glistening under the lights as he flexed while the music pulsed in sync.

  He quickly made a return on the catwalk, passing twins—a little Asian boy and girl—emerging from the curtains. They appeared to be Han Chinese, but with blond hair and blue eyes. They wore lederhosen and dirndls. Their facial features and perfect, parchment-like skin were projected onto virtual screens that materialized to either side of the stage to provide an unmistakable close-up of the Aryan features of these Asian children.

  “For those who prefer lighter hues with Asian features, we present our hybrid ‘blond Chinese’ line of KRT75 edits. An exceptional combination of fair complexion and traditional Sino phenotypes.”

  Durand turned again to Frey. He felt the outrage starting to burn and struggled to prevent his tattoos from appearing. He glanced down and saw his hand begin to shade. Through focused concentration, he willed the genetic tattoos back into invisibility.

  Frey noticed. He pushed the tablet away from them and leaned
toward Durand, meeting his gaze. He whispered, “I needed you to see this.”

  Durand hissed back, “What on earth does this sick display have to do with changing me back?”

  “Who exactly do you think will be helping you do that? The very people who are capable of creating what’s on that stage are the same people you need. And it’s not just the proprietors. Look around you. Who do you see in the audience?”

  Durand glanced around. The room was filled with what the Thai would call farang—foreigners. In fact, he didn’t see any Thai people here beyond the staff.

  Frey continued. “No, they’ve all come—like you—from inside the Bubble. Out here to where the laws are stretched thin. To get what they want far from the all-seeing IoT eye. The Luk Krung didn’t invent CRISPR, and I’d be willing to wager they didn’t put up the investment capital for this enterprise, either. They’re just serving a ready market. And when your fashionable friends and neighbors go home with their perfect child implanted in their womb, everyone will pretend this never happened.”

  Durand returned his gaze to Frey. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I know you want to shut this place down. I can see the revulsion in your face. I’m guessing you will shut it down. But if I’m going to do this with you, I need to know you will fulfill your promise to me. That I will get what I came for.”

  “And for that you’re making me sit through this?”

  “I wanted you to see that what we want is the same—you and I. And it’s not unlike what these people want.”

  “I’m nothing like these people.”

  “You don’t get to judge.” He nodded toward the others around them. “You came here to be personally edited into the human you see in your mind’s eye. I came here for the same reason. Now, I’d agree that editing a helpless embryo to suit a parent’s personal tastes is pretty fucked up. I didn’t like my mother’s taste in drapes, so I sure as hell wouldn’t want her choosing my cheekbones . . .” He gestured to the stage.