For the next few hours, she did her real work, analyzing the samples she’d taken from Zigzag Lake’s sulphide-tainted deeps. It wasn’t very physical, and Michelle figured it was only worth a few hundred calories.
A wind floated through the treetops, bringing the scent of night flowers and swaying Michelle’s perch beneath her as she peered into her biochemical reader, and she remembered the gentle pressure of Darton against her back, rocking with her as he looked over her shoulder at her results. Suddenly she could remember, with a near-perfect clarity, the taste of his skin on her tongue.
She rose from her woven seat and paced along the bough. Damn it, she thought, I watched you die.
Michelle returned to her deck and discovered that her spiders had located the police file on Cristea’s death. A translation program handled the antique French without trouble, even producing modern equivalents of forensic jargon. Cristea was of Romanian descent, had been born in the old USSR, and had acquired Ukranian citizenship on the breakup of the Soviet Union. The French files themselves had translations of Cristea’s Ukranian travel documents, which included receipts showing that he had paid personal insurance, environmental insurance, and departure taxes from Transnistria, a place of which she’d never heard, as well as similar documents from Moldova, which at least was a province, or country, that sounded familiar.
What kind of places were these, where you had to buy insurance at the border? And what was environmental insurance anyway?
There were copies of emails between French and Ukranian authorities, in which the Ukranians politely declined any knowledge of their citizen beyond the fact that he was a citizen. They had no addresses for him.
Cristea apparently lived in Transnistria, but the authorities there echoed the Ukranians in saying they knew nothing of him.
Cristea’s tickets and vouchers showed that he had apparently taken a train to Bucharest, and there he’d got on an airline that took him to Prague, and thence to Paris. He had been in the city less than a day before he was killed. Found in Cristea’s hotel room was a curious document certifying that Cristea was carrying medical supplies, specifically a vaccine against hepatitis A. Michelle wondered why he would be carrying a hepatitis vaccine from Transnistria to France. France presumably had all the hepatitis vaccine it needed.
No vaccine had turned up. Apparently Cristea had got into the European Community without having his bags searched, as there was no evidence that the documents relating to the alleged vaccine had ever been examined.
The missing “vaccine”—at some point in the police file the skeptical quotation marks had appeared—had convinced the Paris police that Cristea was a murdered drug courier, and at that point they’d lost interest in the case. It was rarely possible to solve a professional killing in the drug underworld.
Michelle’s brief investigation seemed to have come to a dead end. That Terzian might have witnessed a murder would rate maybe half a sentence in Professor Davout’s biography.
Then she checked what her spiders had brought her in regard to Terzian, and found something that cheered her.
There he was inside the Basilica di Santa Croce, a tourist still photograph taken before the tomb of Machiavelli. He was only slightly turned away from the camera and the face was unmistakable. Though there was no date on the photograph, only the year, though he wore the same clothes he wore in the video taken outside the church, and the photo caught him in the act of speaking to a companion. She was a tall woman with deep brown skin, but she was turned away from the camera, and a wide-brimmed sun hat made her features indistinguishable.
Humming happily, Michelle deployed her software to determine whether this was the same woman who had been on Terzian’s arm on the Place Dauphine. Without facial features or other critical measurements to compare, the software was uncertain, but the proportion of limb and thorax was right, and the software gave an estimate of 41 percent, which Michelle took to be encouraging.
Another still image of Terzian appeared in an undated photograph taken at a festival in southern France. He wore dark glasses, and he’d grown heavily tanned; he carried a glass of wine in either hand, but the person to whom he was bringing the second glass was out of the frame. Michelle set her software to locating the identity of the church seen in the background, a task the two distinctive belltowers would make easy. She was lucky and got a hit right away: the church was the Eglise St-Michel in Salon-de-Provence, which meant Terzian had attended the Fête des Aires de la Dine in June. Michelle set more search spiders to seeking out photo and video from the festivals. She had no doubt that she’d find Terzian there, and perhaps again his companion.
Michelle retired happily to her hammock. The search was going well. Terzian had met a woman in Paris and traveled with her for weeks. The evidence wasn’t quite there yet, but Michelle would drag it out of history somehow.
Romance. The lonely mermaid was in favor of romance, the kind where you ran away to faraway places to be more intently one with the person you adored.
It was what she herself had done, before everything had gone so wrong, and Michelle had had to take steps to re-establish the moral balance of her universe.
Terzian paid for a room for Stephanie for the night, not so much because he was gallant as because he needed to be alone to think. “There’s a breakfast buffet downstairs in the morning,” he said. “They have hardboiled eggs and croissants and Nutella. It’s a very un-French thing to do. I recommend it.”
He wondered if he would ever see her again. She might just vanish, particularly if she read his thoughts, because another reason for wanting privacy was so that he could call the police and bring an end to this insane situation.
He never quite assembled the motivation to make the call. Perhaps Rorty’s I don’t care had rubbed off on him. And he never got a chance to taste the buffet, either. Stephanie banged on his door very early, and he dragged on his jeans and opened the door. She entered, furiously smoking from her new cigarette pack, the athletic bag over her shoulder.
“How did you pay for the room at my hotel?” she asked.
“Credit card,” he said, and in the stunned, accusing silence that followed he saw his James Bond fantasies sink slowly beneath the slack, oily surface of a dismal lake.
Because credit cards leave trails. The Transnistrians would have checked the hotel registry, and the credit card impression taken by the hotel, and now they knew who he was. And it wouldn’t be long before they’d trace him at this hotel.
“Shit, I should have warned you to pay cash.” Stephanie stalked to the window and peered out cautiously. “They could be out there right now.”
Terzian felt a sudden compulsion to have the gun in his hand. He took it from the bedside table and stood there, feeling stupid and cold and shirtless.
“How much money do you have?” Terzian asked.
“Couple of hundred.”
“I have less.”
“You should max out your credit card and just carry euros. Use your card now before they cancel it.”
“Cancel it? How could they cancel it?”
She gave him a tight-lipped, impatient look. “Jonathan. They may be assholes, but they’re still a government.”
They took a cab to the American Express near the Opéra and Terzian got ten thousand euros in cash from some people who were extremely skeptical about the validity of his documents, but who had, in the end, to admit that all was technically correct. Then Stephanie got a cell phone under the name A. Silva, with a bunch of prepaid hours on it, and within a couple of hours they were on the TGV, speeding south to Nice at nearly two hundred seventy kilometers per hour, all with a strange absence of sound and vibration that made the French countryside speeding past seem like a strangely unconvincing special effect.
Terzian had put them in first class and he and Stephanie were alone in a group of four seats. Stephanie was twitchy because he hadn’t bought seats in a smoking section. He sat uncertain, unhappy about all the cash he was carrying an
d not knowing what to do with it—he’d made two big rolls and zipped them into the pockets of his windbreaker. He carried the pistol in the front pocket of his jeans and its weight and discomfort was a perpetual reminder of this situation that he’d been dragged into, pursued by killers from Trashcanistan and escorting illegal biotechnology.
He kept mentally rehearsing drawing the pistol and shooting it. Over and over, remembering to thumb off the safety this time. Just in case Trashcanian commandos stormed the train.
“Hurled into life,” he muttered. “An object lesson right out of Heidegger.”
“Beg pardon?”
He looked at her. “Heidegger said we’re hurled into life. Just like I’ve been hurled into —” He flapped his hands uselessly. “Into whatever this is. The situation exists before you even got here, but here you are anyway, and the whole business is something you inherit and have to live with.” He felt his lips draw back in a snarl. “He also said that a fundamental feature of existence is anxiety in the face of death, which would also seem to apply to our situation. And his answer to all of this was to make existence, dasein if you want to get technical, an authentic project.” He looked at her. “So what’s your authentic project, then? And how authentic is it?”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
Terzian couldn’t stop, not that he wanted to. It was just Stephanie’s hard luck that he couldn’t shoot anybody right now, or break something up with his fists, and was compelled to lecture instead. “Or,” he went on, “to put this in a more accessible context, just pretend we’re in a Hitchcock film, okay? This is the scene where Grace Kelly tells Cary Grant exactly who she is and what the maguffin is.”
Stephanie’s face was frozen into a hostile mask. Whether she understood what he was saying or not, the hostility was clear.
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“What’s in the fucking bag?” he demanded.
She glared at him for a long moment, then spoke, her own anger plain in her voice. “It’s the answer to world hunger,” she said. “Is that authentic enough for you?”
Stephanie’s father was from Angola and her mother from East Timor, both former Portuguese colonies swamped in the decades since independence by war and massacre. Both parents had, with great foresight and intelligence, retained Portuguese passports, and had met in Rome, where they worked for UNESCO, and where Stephanie had grown up with a blend of their genetics and their service ethic.
Stephanie herself had received a degree in administration from the University of Virginia, which accounted for the American lights in her English, then she’d gotten another degree in nursing and went to work for the Catholic relief agency Santa Croce, which sent her to its every war-wrecked, locust-blighted, warlord-ridden, sandstorm-blasted camp in Africa. And a few that weren’t in Africa.
“Trashcanistan,” Terzian said.
“Moldova,” Stephanie said. “For three months, on what was supposed to be my vacation.” She shuddered. “I don’t mind telling you that it was a frightening thing. I was used to that kind of thing in Africa, but to see it all happening in the developed world … warlords, ethnic hatreds, populations being moved at the point of a gun, whole forested districts being turned to deserts because people suddenly need firewood ….” Her emerald eyes flashed. “It’s all politics, okay? Just like in Africa.Famine and camps are all politics now, and have been since before I was born. A whole population starves, and it’s because someone, somewhere, sees a profit in it. It’s difficult to just kill an ethnic group you don’t like, war is expensive and there are questions at the UN and you may end up at the Hague being tried for war crimes. But if you just wait for a bad harvest and then arrange for the whole population to starve, it’s different—suddenly your enemies are giving you all their money in return for food, you get aid from the UN instead of grief, and you can award yourself a piece of the relief action and collect bribes from all the relief agencies, and your enemies are rounded up into camps and you can get your armed forces into the country without resistance, make sure your enemies disappear, control everything while some deliveries disappear into government warehouses where the food can be sold to the starving or just sold abroad for a profit ….” She shrugged. “That’s the way of the world, okay? But no more!” She grabbed a fistful of the Nike bag and brandished it at him.
What her time in Moldova had done was to leave Stephanie contacts in the area, some in relief agencies, some in industry and government. So that when news of a useful project came up in Transnistria, she was among the first to know.
“So what is it?” Terzian asked. “Some kind of genetically modified food crop?”
“No.” She smiled thinly. “What we have here is a genetically modified consumer.”
Those Transnistrian companies had mostly been interested in duplicating pharmaceuticals and transgenic food crops created by other companies, producing them on the cheap and underselling the patent-owners. There were bits and pieces of everything in those labs, DNA human and animal and vegetable. A lot of it had other people’s trademarks and patents on it, even the human codes, which US law permitted companies to patent provided they came up with something useful to do with it. And what these semi-outlaw companies were doing was making two things they figured people couldn’t do without: drugs and food.
And not just people, since animals need drugs and food, too. Starving, tubercular sheep or pigs aren’t worth much at market, so there’s as much money in keeping livestock alive as in doing the same for people. So at some point one of the administrators—after a few too many shots of vodka flavored with bison grass—said, “Why should we worry about feeding the animals at all? Why not have them grow their own food, like plants?”
So then began the Green Swine Project, an attempt to make pigs fat and happy by just herding them out into the sun.
“Green swine,” Terzian repeated, wondering. “People are getting killed over green swine.”
“Well, no.” Stephanie waved the idea away with a twitchy swipe of her hand. “The idea never quite got beyond the vaporware stage, because at that point another question was asked—why swine? Adrian said, Why stop at having animals do photo-synthesis—why not people?”
“No!” Terzian cried, appalled. “You’re going to turn people green?”
Stephanie glared at him. “Something wrong with fat, happy green people?” Her hands banged out a furious rhythm on the armrests of her seat. “I’d have skin to match my eyes. Wouldn’t that be attractive?”
“I’d have to see it first,” Terzian said, the shock still rolling through his bones.
“Adrian was pretty smart,” Stephanie said. “The Transnistrians killed themselves a real genius.” She shook her head. “He had it all worked out. He wanted to limit the effect to the skin—no green muscle tissue or skeletons—so he started with a virus that has a tropism for the epidermis—papiloma, that’s warts, okay?”
So now we’ve got green warts, Terzian thought, but he kept his mouth shut.
“So if you’re Adrian, what you do is gut out the virus and re-encode to create chlorophyll. Once a person’s infected, exposure to sunlight will cause the virus to replicate and chlorophyll to reproduce in the skin.”
Terzian gave Stephanie a skeptical look. “That’s not going to be very efficient,” he said. “Plants get sugars and oxygen from chlorophyll, okay, but they don’t need much food, they stand in one place and don’t walk around. Add chlorophyll to a person’s skin, how many calories do you get each day? Tens? Dozens?”
Stephanie’s lips parted in a fierce little smile. “You don’t stop with just the chlorophyll. You have to get really efficient electron transport. In a plant that’s handled in the chloroplasts, but the human body already has mitochondria to do the same job. You don’t have to create these huge support mechanisms for the chlorophyll, you just make use of what’s already there. So if you’re Adrian, what you do is add trafficking tags to the reaction center proteins so that they’ll target the mitoc
hondria, which already are loaded with proteins to handle electron transport. The result is that the mitochondria handle transport from the chlorophyll, which is the sort of job they do anyway, and once the virus starts replicating, you can get maybe a thousand calories or more just from standing in the sun. It won’t provide full nutrition, but it can keep starvation at bay, and it’s not as if starving people have much to do besides stand in the sun anyway.”
“It’s not going to do much good for Icelanders,” Terzian said.
She turned severe. “Icelanders aren’t starving. It so happens that most of the people in the world who are starving happen to be in hot places.”
Terzian flapped his hands. “Fine. I must be a racist. Sue me.”
Stephanie’s grin broadened, and she leaned toward Terzian. “I didn’t tell you about Adrian’s most interesting bit of cleverness. When people start getting normal nutrition, there’ll be a competition within the mitochondria between normal metabolism and solar-induced electron transport. So the green virus is just a redundant backup system in case normal nutrition isn’t available.”
A triumphant smile crossed Stephanie’s face. “Starvation will no longer be a weapon,” she said. “Green skin can keep people active and on their feet long enough to get help. It will keep them healthy enough to fend off the epidemics associated with malnutrition. The point is —” She made fists and shook them at the sky. “The bad guys don’t get to use starvation as a weapon anymore! Famine ends! One of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse dies, right here, right now, as a result of what I’ve got in this bag!” She picked up the bag and threw it into Terzian’s lap, and he jerked on the seat in defensive reflex, knees rising to meet elbows. Her lips skinned back in a snarl, and her tone was mocking.
“I think even that Nazi fuck Heidegger would think my project is pretty damn authentic. Wouldn’t you agree, Herr Doktor Terzian?”
Got you, Michelle thought. Here was a still photo of Terzian at the Fête des Aires de la Dine, with the dark-skinned woman. She had the same wide-brimmed straw hat she’d worn in the Florence church, and had the same black bag over her shoulder, but now Michelle had a clear view of a three-quarter profile, and one hand, with its critical alignments, was clearly visible, holding an ice cream cone.
The Year's Best SF 21 # 2003 Page 42
