by M M Buckner
Float
Thursday, March 17
4:17 PM
“You should’ve used marker dye!”
“That’s your specialty.”
“Why didn’t you suggest it?” Yue had been sniping at Peter since they lost the colloid.
“Maybe you should track the pure H20,” he said to rile her.
At the mention of pure water, Yue growled epithets in Chinese. Another of Reilly’s claims had proved correct—clean water trailed the slick like a comet’s tail, apparently a by-product of its internal chemical processes.
Peter studied the colloid’s last known location. The slick had lain stationary for hours, so he had good reason to assume it was still there. He wrestled the EMP generator into position, then duct-taped the cable connections. His skin smarted from sunburn, and his muscles smarted from manual labor, which was definitely NOT in his job description. The pulse generator’s batteries were drained, so he wired them to draw power from the yacht’s engine. That meant the pulse would have less kick, and he would have to fire more than once to cover the colloid’s swelling volume.
Not far away, the empty NovaDam bags floated like a crescent of stiff boxy jellyfish. Roman hadn’t obtained clearance yet to fill them. Ships filed slowly past the bags, blasting their horns and radioing their grievances. Once the bags were pumped full of water, they would cut off the shipping lane, trapping dozens of angry captains and pilots in the canal—and clearing the way for Peter to fire his gun. When the time came, he’d have to shoot fast. “Damn,” he muttered. The Refuerzo would have zero chance to net a live sample.
“Aren’t you ready yet?” Yue jabbed hairpins into her braid. “You are the slowest, most inept—”
“Screw yourself. Better yet, get Sacony to screw you. Maybe that’ll shut you up.” Peter didn’t see the CEO observing them from the doorway.
Roman drew back quickly so his presence wouldn’t slow their work. Overhead, helicopter rotors frapped the humid air. Channel 2 had returned for more footage. Roman pinched the bridge of his nose. He should release a statement to give the media a plausible explanation. He needed to return calls from his attorney, his CFO, the Baton Rouge Police, the mayor.
Steely clouds accumulated in the south, and moisture hung over the bay like a negative charge. The barometer kept plunging, and for a few seconds, people had to shout over the gusting wind to be heard. When the final barrier bag dropped into position, its sudden splash reverberated like thunder.
Coast Guard Captain Ebbs had ordered Roman to cease and desist deploying the barriers. “You have a permit for a cleanup. You do NOT have authorization to obstruct this canal.”
But Roman was tired of begging favors. All the finagling and cajoling had drained him. He needed a real Argentinean espresso. He needed Li Qin Yue’s amphetamines. He needed . . . to do something.
Abruptly, he marched to the bridge and radioed the crew to start filling the bags. The traffic helicopter buzzed low over the Chausseur’s stern with a sound like a drumroll, and storm clouds filtered the sunset to pewter. Roman paced back to the stern to watch Yue and Vaarveen aim their gun.
Hum
Thursday, March 17
6:03 PM
The lead story for the local Six O’clock News showed aerial footage of shipping traffic snarled in the Port Allen Canal. The reporter described the chemical spill as nontoxic refrigerant. “Harmless to humans,” he quoted from the Quimicron press release. As lightning blinked in the southern clouds, buffeting compression waves lent the helicopter’s video a choppy, combative edge.
Roman hated media attention. If his business associates caught wind of this, it could damage his standing. But for once, the media worked in his favor. Mounting public concern finally convinced the Corps to let him block the channel and clean up the spill. The Port Allen Lock would close for one hour, from 8:00 PM to 9:00 PM. That was Quimicron’s window. Roman heard the NovaDam pumps stammer awake. They had two hours to fill eight bags. Then at last they would close their trap on the colloid.
He paced the port deck and nearly tripped over a dark heap of clothing. “What the hell?”
“Sorry, sir.” Max got to his feet, palming his cell phone. He hadn’t been able to reach CJ.
“Why aren’t you working? Where’s Godchaux?”
“Rory, he took the speedboat over there.” Max pointed toward the NovaDam barge, half-wishing he’d gone along. He didn’t like being stuck on the yacht. CJ’s silence worried him. He tucked his phone in his jeans and hummed a broken snatch of melody out of sheer tension.
“Move along. Help the science team,” Roman barked.
“Yes, sir.” Max trotted away, scanning the dusky water as he went. He couldn’t spot the Viper anywhere. As soon as he’d passed beyond Roman’s sight, he ducked into a recess and speed-dialed CJ’s number again. All he got was her voicemail.
CJ didn’t hear her phone chime. She didn’t hear the thundering pumps. CJ lay folded up in the floor of her Viper cockpit, dead asleep. The field finder had slipped from her fingers and lodged under her neck like an edgy pillow. It was still registering signals from the water, and its battery emanated its own small EM field, irradiating her esophagus and larynx. The boat rocked, and a trickle of bilge water bathed her cheek. She sniffed and rolled over and didn’t wake.
Creep
Thursday, March 17
7:55 PM
“Breaker. This is Romeo Juliet. We have the lock shut.” Rick Jarmond loved radio talk. He loved using his initials in the NATO phonetic alphabet. RJ—Romeo Juliet, very cool.
“Roger that.” Meir closed his phone, sighed, and nodded to Roman.
In the damp gusty wind, Roman watched the yellow buoys bob in a wide uneven circle, marking the colloid’s most recent location. Yue rechecked the calculations for the fifth time. Vaarveen charged the EM gun. Max waited at the anchor hoist. On the Refuerzo, Creque and Spicer lowered their hose. At Yue’s signal, everyone would launch into action.
Seven carbon bags stood plump and full of water. Their round tops protruded across the channel like bright yellow melons. Only the eighth bag lay flaccid, and at glacial speed, a huge Japanese freighter was easing past it. As soon as this last freighter moved through, the channel would be empty and they could begin.
Meir puffed fragrant clouds of Cuban cigar smoke and watched his CEO stalk back and forth. This episode was taking a toll on their elegant CEO. NovaDam’s pumps howled, filling the eighth bag. Roman ground his knuckles in his eye sockets. The freighter crept through and cleared the channel. Minutes passed.
“Call those cabrónes,” Roman snapped. “That bag should be full.”
Meir keyed the number just as helicopter spotlights flooded their deck. “Mierda!” Roman rushed to the rail and tried to wave off the helicopter.
While Peter made snide comments, Meir worried about his plant and his people. With production still offline, his people would be anxious. Nobody was there to explain things or to sign their payroll checks.
A phone chimed, and when Roman pressed it to his ear, Meir watched his CEO’s expression change from concern to cold brutality.
“Fire the gun!” Roman shouted. “Their maldito bag leaks. It won’t hold water. Fire!”
Meir pitched his glowing cigar over the rail. “Shouldn’t we . . .”
But Yue had already shoved Peter aside and pressed the power control. The pulse generator blasted a hiss of energy that made everyone flinch. Max clapped his hands over his ears as the brilliant explosion strobed through the water. Then the Chausseur’s lights went out.
Overhead, the helicopter continued to rake them with its spotlight. The EM pulse hadn’t affected its electronics. Roman spun on his heels and counted the lights along the factory wharves. He checked the Pilgrim and the NovaDam barge. On the Refuerzo, Creque started up his vacuum pumps. Only the yacht had lost power. All the other lights glowed the same as before. Vaarveen had aimed the gun well. Roman rested his hands on the rail and counted his breaths.
Across the bay, CJ sat up in her boat and sneezed. Her short wet nap had congested her nasal cavities, but even half asleep, she recognized the hiss of the EM pulse. She couldn’t see the Chausseur. Her nose was running. She couldn’t read her watch. She wanted to slap herself for falling asleep. Where was her damned flashlight? In near darkness, she gathered the field finder to her chest as if she could read its signals by heart.
Two minutes later, the Chausseur flickered back to life. Peter Vaarveen patted the generator with an air of pride, and Max whispered gratitude to his gros bon ange. The pulse had drawn a serious energy load from the yacht’s battery, but its force had struck straight down into the water so it hadn’t damaged the Chausseur’s electronics.
“Lift that anchor,” Roman bellowed to Max. “Meir, move us to the next firing point. We have to make three more shots. Vaarveen, show him where.”
“I know where.” Meir hurried toward the bridge. Peter had already given him the firing coordinates.
“I think we already killed it.” Peter raised his arm, and everyone turned to see where he was pointing—not where they’d aimed but farther away, on the other side of their yacht. The helicopter spotlight revealed a thick column of vapor spiraling upward. Where the vapor neared the copter’s rotor blades, it mushroomed in whirling wheels of fog. Like silk moiré, the overlapping pinwheels rippled around the blades, cinnamon brown and purple.
“We killed it,” Yue repeated.
The pillar of gas revolved like a swarm of seething hornets. Max made the sign of the cross to ward off evil, while Yue watched the phantom patterns. “What kind of gas is that?” she said. “Move us closer. I want a sample.”
From the bridge, Meir watched the gas spew through his open porthole. Its sweet fruity taste caught in his throat like fire. Yue tasted it, too. As whiffs gusted over the starboard, she coughed and clutched her throat. Overhead, the helicopter dipped erratically. Then Peter caught the scent of bitter almonds. “It’s poison!”
Roman shoved Max toward the bridge. “Tell Meir to get us moving.” Then he rounded on Peter. “Recharge the gun.”
Max sprinted to the bridge, tying his paryaka over his nose and mouth. He found Meir slumped on the deck. Quickly, he revved up the engines and plowed away. At the stern, Peter and Roman were starting to gag, but Li Qin Yue still clung to the rail like a zombie, transfixed by the mesmerizing patterns and by anaphylactic shock.
“She’s going down!” Peter yelled, as the helicopter hit the water.
Drift
Thursday, March 17
9:33 PM
CJ swerved around the oncoming Coast Guard tender Pilgrim. Its siren blared like a banshee as it streaked toward the sinking copter, but CJ raced in the opposite direction. She had no time to watch the rescue. She crossed the bay, steered into the main river, then cut off her engine and drifted with the current. She was following the spectral bloom of the colloid’s energy field. She had watched it flow over NovaDam’s leaking bag, then dwindle and nearly fade as it merged with the mainstem river.
She didn’t know why Roman’s yacht remained anchored instead of chasing the colloid downstream. She couldn’t guess that Yue had inhaled a chemical nerve agent. She had no idea that the crews on both the Chausseur and the Refuerzo were vomiting and coughing. Her own eyes watered from staring at the field finder so long.
Around her, signals washed along the river, AM, FM, UHF, radar, sonar, and microwave. GPS buoys bounced coordinates. TV stations bounced commentary. Cell towers bounced urgent messages. And the moon bounced silver light. Overlapping waves of ethereal communication bathed the Mississippi and sliced through the water without causing a splash. Deep under the surface, the colloid ghost passed through them.
CJ watched the EM field slide down the riverbed like a long translucent comet. Around its massive head, a corona of diffuse suspended particles streamed off in spiraling fractals, only to be recaptured by its long thready tail. Unnoticed by anyone, CJ rode the troughs and crests of the thundering river. She zoomed past the industrial warrens of Beaulieu, the university campus, the low-roofed communities of Antonio and Cinclare.
As the lights of Baton Rouge disappeared behind her, dark southern clouds closed overhead, and her boat spun among colossal barges and freighters. Their roving spotlights flashed across her bow, and their ragged wakes tossed her like flotsam. She sat low in the cockpit to shelter from the wind and spray—and to keep the boat stable—while the Lubell speakers trailed behind like fishing lures.
“I won’t hurt you. Please talk to me.” She cooed to the liquid conglomerate as if to a frightened child. “You’ll like this music. I promise.” And she played the second in Max’s progression of disks. As the sound waves mixed and waffled through the booming current, she opened her cell phone and called Max.
“Ceegie. Praise the Lord.”
“You sound hoarse. Have you caught a cold?” she asked.
“Never mind that. Are you safe? You didn’t breathe those mechan fumes?”
“Why aren’t you guys following the colloid?”
They spoke at cross purposes, and it took a minute before they began to understand each other. Max told her the Chausseur’s decks were awash in vomit, piss, and diarrhea, caused by the wicked mechan fumes. Max had suffered the least exposure, but his throat still stung, and his heart hammered. The helicopter pilot was dead.
“God,” she whispered. “Are you okay, Max? Did you see a doctor?”
“Yeah, lam. Don’ worry.”
The phone felt sweaty in her hand. This was a bad development. Damn Roman Sacony with his seaplanes and water dams. This was his fault.
“They’ll want vengeance. They’ll kill the colloid for sure.”
“Kill or be kill,” Max answered.
CJ couldn’t answer that. Another death. From the symptoms Max described, she guessed the colloid had synthesized a nerve gas, but how did it understand the human nervous system? Then she remembered the icy fingers probing her flesh.
Her boat drifted toward a buoy, so she powered up the engine to veer around it. She didn’t want to think about the helicopter pilot’s death. Her prodigy had killed again. In the riverine heat, she shivered.
“Max, you’ve got to make them understand. We can’t judge the colloid by human standards. He won’t know we’re intelligent beings until we find a way to communicate.”
“Lamie, why you care so much about this devil water?”
Max had asked that question before, and she had tried to answer. But her reasons still felt as mixed and legion as the brown river. “He’s alive,” she said. “I want to find the reason behind the miracle.”
“Science,” Max said glumly.
His word choice surprised her. She pleated the hem of her cotton shirt between her fingers. “What draws you to music?” she asked. “It’s not for money. Why do you write songs?”
Max took a while to reply. “Music is how I breathe.”
“Ah.” She laughed.
“But music don’ spray mechan fumes.”
“No,” she said, “but music may save us. I’m playing your beginner lesson now. I hope he’s listening.”
Rain
Thursday, March 17
10:10 PM
Peter Vaarveen worked steadily in his field lab in the Chausseur’s galley. He was studying a drop of algae proplastid. When his microscope blurred out of focus, he took off his glasses and rubbed his rheumy eyes. An hour ago, Li Qin Yue had been rushed to the hospital in a state of near death, and since that time, Peter himself had been shivering and hawking phlegm. He wasn’t sure if his muscle tics came from the poisonous gas or from a growing rancor for all things Quimicron.
He focused again on the droplet of sap, then zeroed in one algae cell, and enlarged a snippet of its ribonucleic acid, its RNA. Like a minuscule memory card, this tiny messenger carried a code to build a new protein. Only, its memory had been wiped and rewritten to trigger rampant photosynthesis. Peter watched with fascination as the
enslaved algae spun sugar from sunlight at a staggering pace.
Alone with his microscope, the biochemist grew serene. He’d always wondered how the colloid generated the massive energy it needed to change states so fast. A few photovoltaic cells couldn’t account for it. Yue found heat stored in Freon microbubbles. And now, he found solar energy stored as sugar. The colloid certainly liked to diversify.
That was the weirdest, the colloid’s awesome multiplicity. The damned liquid reached out in totally nondiscriminant ways to acquire, assimilate, and exploit whatever technology it happened to find—be it natural or man-made. “Like a fucking transnational corporation,” Peter snickered.
Still, even the most advanced neural nets required time and experience to grow smarter. And living organisms mutated slowly over long millennia. But this hybrid colloid was evolving at Warp Nine.
“What kind of little buggers are you?” He squinted through the eyepiece at the commandeered algae cells. His face dripped sweat, and behind his thick glasses, his blue eyes glowed.
Far downriver, CJ was also thinking about energy. She had only one extra can of boat fuel left, so she cut the Viper’s engines and drifted to conserve her supply. Sprawled across the bench seat, she watched her field finder and cradled the phone to her ear, listening to the nameless washing static of cellular tide.
“What crap is Roman selling the news reporters?” she asked.
