Emily had told him why the gengineers had bothered. Jets like the Junco needed much less in the way of the metals that cost so much to mine and process. They were more efficient and safer as well. Though they could not normally fly on their own, in emergencies they could manage a few flaps of their wings. They could control their machine-powered flight, and they needed very short runways. They were also self-building, once the gengineers were done with the design work, and self-repairing.
The landing was smooth. Nick followed Andy’s pointing finger to the side, where an Alitalia Cardinal, free for the moment of its passenger pod and engines, preened its plumage. Bright red feathers littered the grass around it, most of them too big to blow in the wind.
Nearby were an American Bald Eagle, a Canadian Pacific Snow Goose, and a British Caledonian Chimney Swift, its morning-coat tails recalling the formalities of another age. A fat-bodied Wild Turkey bore the Delta logo, and Nick remembered that that was the complimentary bourbon they served on board. He and Emily had flown Delta on their honeymoon. United, with its Lovebirds, had seemed too cute to appeal to them.
“What’s that, Daddy?”
“That” was a metal box much like the trailer of an eighteen-wheel semi. As the Junco 47 approached the terminal, it converged on the same destination, drawn by a squat, heavy-muscled, squash-faced creature whose rootstock had clearly been a bulldog. Its top was covered by pleats of heavy fabric, and liquid dripped from its base onto the ground.
“Watch,” said Nick. The Junco was in position. As the passenger tunnel snugged its mouth, lampreylike, against the jet’s pod, the trailer drew under its nose. The ground crew turned cranks mounted on the trailer’s ends, and the fabric rose on an internal frame to surround the Junco’s head. The motions that promptly began to shake the fabric could not be misinterpreted. The jet’s—the bird’s—refueling was under way.
“What kind of seeds is it eating?” asked Andy. He had seen ordinary juncos on the ground beneath the bird feeder at home. He had even thrown out the sunflower seeds for them.
Nick shook his head. “Uh-uh,” he said. “It’s like the Chickadee. When they’re this big, they have to eat meat.” It was cheaper than any alternative, for it was obtained from worms and slugs gengineered to thrive on human wastes and garbage. They had been among the first of the large-scale bioforms to be developed when the gengineers had stepped beyond single-gene changes in bacteria, viruses, and plants.
“See the litterbugs?” he added. The rattle of cloven hooves reached them even on the observation deck as a trio of strange-looking creatures raced toward the liner’s other end from the service bay that had disgorged the feed trailer. They vaguely resembled pigs, but their limbs were longer and their snouts were distorted into broad scoops. Smaller versions patrolled city streets, seeking out and devouring the leavings of other genimals. They did not neglect banana peels, paper scraps, and beverage containers.
They did not interest Andy. The boy glanced at them briefly, dismissed them as common, and looked skyward again. Nick chuckled quietly, thinking that someday the boy might see some small, wild bird release its wastes in flight.
Perhaps he would wonder, then, about the airliners. They had, Nick knew, been gengineered to discharge their wastes while feeding. Many mammals—even humans—did it without the gengineering. It was, Emily had told him once, a simple “make-room” reflex.
Andy shouted. He was pointing toward the horizon once more. In a moment, they could identify a Northwest Albatross. Once the jet was on the ground, Nick took Andy by the hand and they headed for the gate.
Emily was the third person to come striding up the ramp from the plane, grinning, eyes scanning the small crowd for her family. A slender, dark-haired woman whose wide mouth often showed its teeth in a smile that would have done justice to a veedo evangelist, she exuded alertness and energy. One hand held in place on a shoulder a garment bag and a purse. The other clutched a briefcase and a plastic bag from whose top protruded a few green leaves.
Nick, grinning as broadly as she, took the garment bag. She knelt then, to wrap her free arm around their son. “Ah, Andy,” she said. “You need to blow. And look what I’ve got right here.”
She opened the bag she carried to reveal a plant whose dark green leaves alternated with white oblongs. One of the latter she picked and held to Andy’s nose. “Blow!” The boy obliged, laughed, and cried, “A hanky bush!”
“Right!” She looked at her husband. “Something new. They’re working on more productive models for the bathroom and kitchen.”
“That should save a few trees,” he said.
Her mouth twisted into a rueful grin, and she shook her head. “It won’t help the paper industry. But …”
She didn’t need to tell him more. The technology was changing. The gengineers had already changed the sewage treatment, aircraft, highway, housing, and automobile industries beyond recognition. Now it was the turn of the pulp and paper industry. Yet, in the nature of things, as old jobs vanished, new ones appeared. He did not believe what some claimed, that the Biological Revolution would in time free people entirely of the need to labor. He did believe that, eventually, the labor market would stabilize and the unemployment rate would fall. Then their taxes need not be so high, and more of Emily’s income could be theirs.
“Let’s go,” said Emily. “I want to put my feet up.”
“How’d it go?” The patent hearing had concerned what she hoped would be her company’s latest product, a jellyfish modified to inflate itself with hydrogen. It was the size of a blimp, and its tentacles gave it a built-in cargo-handling system.
She shook her head as she stood. Andy seized her hand. “I got some heavy interest from a van company. But no patent.”
They were nearing a souvenir kiosk, and Andy was pointing at the jet feathers on display. “l wanta red one!”
Emily shrugged. “The Pentagon said they’d already grown some. Very few details.”
Nick snorted and reached for his wallet. A moment later, Andy had his feather—longer than his father was tall—and their Tortoise was in sight.
* * * *
The expressway never seemed so crowded as when they were on their way home. While Emily cuddled Andy and listened to him chatter about his two days alone with Daddy, Nick swore at the Roachsters and other Buggies that dawdled in front of their Tortoise, the Mack trucks that strained to keep their heavy trailers up to speed, the Hoppers that plunged past them into whatever gaps opened up in the flow of traffic, the occasional old-style automobile whose noise made the Tortoise lurch aside. It occurred to him that if he were just a little paranoid, it would be very easy to believe in some vast conspiracy of other drivers: They knew he was in a rush to get home, and every slowcoach, every lane jumper, every flare of brake lights, was one more deliberate, intended effort to drive him nuts!
“Can I have a soda? Please?”
A small cooler was built into the dashboard, beside the map compartment. Emily unlatched its door and peered inside. “Ginger ale or root beer, honey. Take your pick.”
“Root beer.” She passed the can into the back seat, and there was silence except for the small noises that went with opening and draining a can of soda. The odor of root beer drifted toward the front seat, and in a moment there was a loud burp and a giggle. “That was a good one,” she said.
Fortunately, for all the apparent crowd, the expressway journey never seemed so short either. Even as Nick swore and Andy drank, while the tip of his feather fluttered in the wind outside his window, Emily talked of what had gone on in Washington—the general who had wanted to classify both the patent application and the Bioblimp it described, the vice president of Mayflower Van Lines who had asked whether Emily’s lab could give the Bioblimp built-in cargo pockets, the official from the Bioform Regulatory Administration who had wanted a more detailed Environme
ntal Impact Statement, the … it seemed impossible that their journey from the airport could give her the time she needed to tell it all.
She was talking about the sort of environmental impacts a giant jellyfish could have when a gust of wind sent the Hopper before them staggering and a shadow fell across the road. She craned her neck to look out her window and up. “It’s a Sparrow!”
The sound of the Sparrow’s jet engine swelled until it dominated the air. The shadow swept past the Tortoise, and the airliner was plainly visible. Long and sleek, the size of an old Boeing 707, its extended feet as large and stark as elm trees, stripped by death of all but major branches and turned upside down, it did not much resemble its rootstock. But its eye had the perky ancestral gleam and the feathers that showed on the wings and below the passenger pod were the proper streaky brown. Written along the side of the passenger pod, in both English and Arabic, was the Palestine Airways motto: “No Sparrow Falls.”
The Sparrow sideslipped, swung broadside to their view, and landed in the road ahead. Its body spread across all six traffic lanes, its feet squashing a Roachster and a Hopper. “What the …?” The brake pedal was in the traditional place, and Nick stepped on it, hard. As the Tortoise stiffened its legs and skidded toward a halt, the man’s voice rose to a shout: “What are those idiots doing?”
Emily’s broad mouth hung open. She shook her head, both in disbelief and in admission that she too knew nothing about the motivations of idiots. The Tortoise slowed and stopped, as did the traffic around it. A cacophony of Buggy voices rose as traffic began to pile up and drivers leaned on their horns.
The Sparrow cocked its head, first one way, then the other, casting its eyes by turns upon the chaos it had created. Its beak thrust, and a Hopper went down its throat, in pieces, one by one. A Roachster quickly followed.
Nick swore more genuinely as he reached for the panel hiding a control he had never dreamed he would have to use. Drops of sweat appeared on his forehead. “Where … Ah.”
The panel stuck, gave way to the bang of Nick’s fist, and opened. He pushed the switch behind it, and the Tortoise lowered its belly-plate, or plastron, to the pavement. Then it drew its head and legs as far into its shell as possible. Unfortunately, it was not a box turtle and it could not protect itself entirely. Its nose and feet remained exposed.
The doors locked, and the windows slid smoothly all the way up, sealing the Tortoise’s passengers into as safe a redoubt as foresighted engineers could manage to provide. As a side effect, the severed tip of Andy’s jet feather fell to the pavement outside.
“Wow!” said Andy. He ignored what on any other day would have been a major disaster. His nose was plastered to the window, just as it had been at home when Nick had collared him for this trip.
The day’s heat wasted no time in making itself felt. The Tortoise had no air-conditioning, and its interior quickly became intolerable despite the best efforts of the ventilation system. But they dared not leave their shelter or open its windows. Nor did they want to. Nick thought that the ventilator admitted quite enough of the metallic scent of fresh blood.
Fortunately, the carnage and the chaos outside the Tortoise were more than enough to keep their minds off their suffering inside it. Buggies struggled to reverse in the middle of the road. But the traffic jam was now too thick. A few, luckily near the shoulder, tried to use the embankment to make the turn or as a route to off-road freedom. But soon that lane too was blocked. Drivers and passengers fled their gridlocked vehicles. But nothing helped.
As soon as anyone left their Buggy, the Sparrow’s eye turned their way. Split seconds later, the beak thrust, clamped down on wildly struggling limbs, and choked off screams. Few who were within the Sparrow’s reach escaped successfully.
Even those who cowered within their buggies were not safe. When the Sparrow saw no prey fleeing, it accepted the vehicles with every appearance of relish. Its ancestors had been opportunists, dining on seeds, crumbs, and insects as they found them. Now it faced a wealth of insectile creatures, all of a size proportionate to itself. Its satisfaction was obvious.
Only the few Tortoises on the road, each one pulled as much as possible into its shell; the old-style automobiles, even more hard-shelled; and the trucks, too huge, seemed immune to the terrifying attack.
“Jesus!” Nick knew they were as safe as possible, given the circumstances, but that did not comfort him. When a limb—it might have been a Buggy’s—bounced off the Tortoise’s shell below the windshield, he clutched the tiller with a grip that death alone would slacken.
“They probably still want the Israelis out of Tehran.”
“The Palestinians?”
“Whoever.” Emily shrugged and pointed at the logo on the airliner’s flank. “We should never have let Palestine Airways into the country. Once a terrorist, always a …”
“Look!” cried Andy. “Here come the cops!”
As the sound of sirens split the air, Nick peered upward through the windshield. Three Sparrowhawks were just coming out of their dives and sweeping into tight turns above the expressway.
Chapter Two
The land spread out below, wheeling, turning, pivoting now on some skyscraper near the city’s core, now on the crossing of two major roadways, now on the airport control tower. Small white clouds swung above. Broad, steel-gray wings swept through the peripheries of the pilot’s vision, immense feathers twitching from time to time in response to the flow of air or to the muscles that controlled his path through the sky.
The pilot’s name was Bernie, Bernie Fischer, and he was letting his Hawk soar at will while he bathed morosely in the whirling views. His hands rested lightly on the control yoke as he stared out over the sheet-metal cabinets, round-cornered, gray-enameled, of the vehicle’s console. Behind one of the panels, he knew, was the computer that translated his bendings of the yoke, his treadings of the pedals, and his twistings of knobs into landings, liftoffs, and smoothly sweeping turns to left and right.
His seat was enclosed by a broad bubble or pod of clear plastic, marked only by an oval doorframe, and, within that, a small porthole. The porthole seemed superfluous, unnecessary for vision when the door itself was transparent. It was there, he guessed, because the door’s manufacturer used the pattern for all its doors, clear or not.
Bernie’s field of view was interrupted only beneath his feet, for only there did his vehicle turn opaque. There was the bird itself and, behind him, the engines and fuel tanks strapped near the base of its tail. There were the metal fittings that bore the Hawk’s serial number and to which attached the heavy straps that held the pod to the bird’s back. There was no need for metal structural members in the pod itself, or for rotor-mountings, as in the helicopters that still were used at times.
Bernie was seeking comfort in the clean peace of the sky, reluctant to return to Earth, even though his shift was nearly over, even though he could soon go home to his small apartment and pour a drink or two and try to forget what he had seen this day. He wished he had someone waiting for him, someone he could talk to, someone whose touch could ease him when things went so badly awry in the world with which he must deal each day.
He had had chances, yes, he had. He had loved and been loved. He had come close to proposing. He had been proposed to. But he had held back, said no, temporized. He didn’t dare, he told them all, to impose his life on anyone. They had tried to talk him out of his refusal to run the risk of hurting, but he had insisted. It wouldn’t be fair, he had told them, for one day he might not come home.
Bernie Fischer was a cop. At times, he wished he wasn’t, for only as a cop, or a physician or a paramedic, could he possibly encounter horrors such as the one that preoccupied his mind at the moment. Unless he or his should become a victim. He shuddered at the thought. Today’s horror was too much for sanity.
His father had been a profess
ional soldier. A peacetime soldier until the Venezuelan Crisis, when he and ten thousand others had parachuted in to help a presidente and his cronies escape their thoroughly justified slaughter. He hadn’t come back, and Bernie had seen the effects of the pain of his loss on his mother. She had lived only five years more.
There had been Bernie’s own pain too. He had learned to handle it, yes. He had survived. But every time he encountered atrocities like today’s, he felt it anew.
Someone had enticed a young black girl into a newly grown house in the suburb of Greenacres. There he had taped her mouth shut and put tourniquets on both her arms. He had removed the arms, just below the elbows, with an axe. He had raped her, fore and aft, with the amputated limbs. And finally, he had removed the tourniquets and left her to bleed to death. She had.
Bernie had heard of such things. There were people who were turned on by amputees. There were even people who were turned on by being amputees—to the extent that they would try to persuade surgeons to remove a leg, a foot, “At least a finger, please!” But this?
Her name had been Jasmine. Jasmine Willison. An old family name, her mother had said, again and again in those moments when she could talk half sensibly. Her grandmother’s name, as Bernie’s had been his grandfather’s. She had been pretty, a good student, going steady, thinking of college. And some monster … Bernie couldn’t help it. It was unprofessional, he knew. But the bastard was a monster. He was even worse a monster because he had left no clues. No fingerprints. Not even any semen.
What other horrors were happening below him even now? He watched the concrete cityscape as it wheeled across his gaze. He stared at the greener suburbs, and the green, crisscross strips of the airport, with the big birds, big enough to dwarf his Hawk, landing and taking off in the distance.
His mouth began to water, his throat to tighten. He sniffed, suddenly aware of the rankness of his sweat. He needed, he thought, a shower. Then he opened the small port in the door beside him, knowing for the first time what it was there for, glad that it was there, leaned, and vomited into space.
Thomas A. Easton’s GMO Future MEGAPACK® Page 16
