“Holy crap,” Highsong said.
Julie had almost lost track of the fifth bandit, the one on the far side of the bugs, but he flinched and looked back at the noise. She saw his brown hair and beard and recognized the extra large pack.
“That's the same guy from the Christmas place!” Julie yelled, running toward the billowing swarm.
Highsong caught her arm. “Let him go,” he said.
“What!?”
“These people are hurt. I need help.”
Julie glanced at the moaning schmoe in the street and the dazed bandits inside the truck. None of them had fled in the same direction as the fifth guy. Was he even with them? “Highsong, we can't let him get away! Something's not right about—”
“Get on the radio or I'll glue you myself,” he said.
The state police and 4th Infantry platoon who responded came in two patrol cars, two gun-mounted Humvees and a half-ton Army truck. Julie was taken aback. She wouldn't have expected more than the patrol cars even if they'd captured Butch Cassidy and the Hole in the Wall gang.
The arrests derailed them from their bug hunt. Julie hated to give up on her grid, but the police sergeant wanted their statements and the platoon captain dispatched his men into the infested building. “I guess that's enough fun for one day,” Julie said to Highsong, leaning close as she watched the cuffed, bruised, and bandaged robbers led into the back of the truck. “Um. Wanna take a bath?”
“Yep.”
No nonsense. That was what she liked about him. Lord knew she generated enough malarkey for the two of them. Is that why you haven't asked me to move in with you? she wondered as they got into the sergeant's patrol car. One of his men would drive their FW&P jeep back to HQ.
The outskirts of the business district looked like a war zone. Five huge fires crackled in the Wal-Mart's parking lot, sending smoke over the city like winter clouds. Civilian truck rigs and Army vehicles jammed the streets, forcing Julie's escorts to stop and start through the traffic—empty trucks leaving, full trucks arriving.
Ash ticked against the windshield as she stared out, biting her lip. All of the incoming rigs were swaddled in ungainly fat bulges of plastic. The soldiers unloading the trucks wore respirators, goggles, and jackets despite the summer heat. Others patrolled the lot with glue guns and flamethrowers.
They were burning Christmas trees—hundreds upon hundreds of Christmas trees. The whole scene looked like a demented Satanic fantasy. Say something funny, Julie thought, but her mind had gone blank. She loved Christmas. Growing up, the holidays were the best times in her life, when she and her mother visited her cousins in Tampa and Mom put on a convincing veneer of normality, drinking less, hugging her more, even joining in for carols and cooking and corny old movies like It's A Wonderful Life.
Watching the trees ablaze was like incinerating those memories. Worse, Julie knew this was one of the smallest burns in Montana. Rumor was there were uncontrolled fires in wide swaths of forest just east of Missoula on the Continental Divide. This hell consisted of a tiny number of trees. By the last count she'd heard, barely a thousand had been reduced to charred stumps on the Wal-Mart's flat asphalt lot. These trees had been cut from city parks and open spaces—not only to be destroyed but tested for termite samples.
Each pyre had a white tent set beside it. Technicians in yellow protective gear strode back and forth from the incoming trees and their tents with clippers, jars, chem kits, rakes, nets, spectrometers, and laptops.
“It's like Plan 9 from Outer Space,” Julie said at last, turning in her seat to keep her eyes on the Wal-Mart as they broke through the heavy traffic.
“You all right?” Highsong asked.
He must have heard the slightest hitch in her voice, which left Julie both unsettled and pleased. “Sure,” she said. “I'm great. Hungry. Can't wait to get out of these clothes.”
That drew a glance from the cop at the wheel, a white guy with freckles. Julie smiled to herself, feeling better.
The trees aren't my fault, she thought.
Headquarters was in a preschool around the corner, which seemed goofy, but the school offered a neat space with lots of tables for the DHS and military officials who were running the show. They'd also wanted to be close to their field labs.
As soon as the cop parked his car, Julie hopped out and beelined inside, looking for Agents Coughlin or Reaves. Once again she felt that jarring sense of the surreal. Hard-voiced men and women sat among laptops and radio gear, surrounded by rainbow-colored charts of the ABCs, the solar system, and smiling cartoon dinosaurs.
She found Reaves first, a tall, thin man with thick wheat hair. He was on the phone but Julie said, “We have a problem.”
Reaves recognized her without a second glance. He covered his phone with one hand and nodded. “Hey, sure, we heard about your little gang of banditos. Nice work. Just help the cops and I'll do what I can to keep the paperwork to a minimum. Thanks.”
“No. Listen. I need property records and access to your criminal database.”
“What?”
“I'm onto something bigger than robbery,” she said. “Can you help me with the records?”
It was a place to start. How were the two buildings linked? The saboteur might be attacking rival businesses in order to destroy the competition—or was it personal? Maybe he was nothing more than a disgruntled employee. Julie's instincts said no, but they needed to test that theory, too.
Reaves frowned at her. “What exactly are we talking about here, Miz Bo-Chain?”
“Someone's planting bugs in the city.”
“You mean bringing them in?”
“Yes.”
Reaves lifted one hand and shouted across the room. “Leber! Hey, Leber!”
The other guy was white, too. They were all white, except for the Hispanics and blacks in the Army and a few Asians and Hispanics among the federal agents. Montana was not a diverse state, certainly not like Florida. Julie was accustomed to being the only black woman for miles around. New acquaintances usually stumbled over her Bayou name, mostly in an effort to get it right but sometimes only to mock her. Missus Boo-Kayne. Miz Boy-Shane. That the governor had pronounced it correctly spoke of his willingness to invest in her, but Julie always felt the stigma of being an outsider.
“Leber, this is Bo-Kayne,” Reaves said. “She says she saw someone bringing bugs into the city. I want to know where they hit, how hard, and why. Look at our DTs again. Get me something fast.”
“Sure,” Leber said. “Come over to my station.”
DTs weren't a new thought for Julie, either. The media was rife with speculation that domestic terrorists had released the machos despite announcements to the contrary by government officials. These white boys in their five hundred dollar suits had all the answers—they said they knew who'd created the termites and why—but Julie didn't trust them. Not entirely.
Highsong joined her in the HQ as Leber walked her through the same questions half a dozen times, challenging everything they'd seen. That was his job. He was a federal investigator. Leber wasn't condescending but he didn't take her at her word, either. Too often, he doubted her. Was she imagining it? Yes, she had a problem with authority that could be traced all the way back to her mother, ol’ bourbon brains, and her father, who'd skipped when she was five. That wasn't the issue. Julie preferred to think she was simply a perfect fit for the American West, loaded with independence, spirit, and know-how.
For example, it was deeply quixotic for her to make fun of Dr. Lance Machovsky's name, but Julie had been suspicious of this whole plate of worms since the DHS briefings, which, well, had been too brief.
“You're certain you saw the same man?” Leber said, trying again to deflect her.
“Yes. Look.” Julie was losing her temper. “Someone's either trying to take out the competition or settling a grudge or both, and they don't care who else gets hurt.”
“I understand your concern,” Leber said.
She fumed while he tapp
ed blandly at his computer. Was he delaying her? Why? Maybe they just didn't want her causing a fuss. DHS seemed to specialize in turning out these smooth, unflappable men, who, in turn, conveyed only calm and confidence to the public.
DHS said the termites were just one of many gene-splices under development by private and government bio research teams in response to the agriculture industry's issues with blight and pests. Global warming would increase crop threats throughout the twenty-first century. Manmade attacks were also a real possibility, and DHS and the White House officially—quietly—supported efforts to meet such dangers.
Machovsky worked for DawnTech. The field test they'd chosen first was directed against a comparatively humble foe, so-called pine rust, a fungus that had decimated Montana's holiday economy for three years running. It infected blue spruce and every species of fir—in other words, the most popular Christmas trees in the nation. Between the blockades and the lawsuits out of California, Oregon, and Colorado, where the rust had spread with imported trees and seeds, Big Sky Country was taking a huge beating. Nurseries made up 15 percent of Montana's economy. Not all of them were Christmas tree farms, of course, but the entire industry had suffered.
Heterotermes aureus was a desert termite. It could not survive in the damp, cold north, not for long—not even in the summer. That was its failsafe. Machovsky had crossed his bugs with the black fly and with the rust itself. Fly genes accelerated the machos’ metabolism. The rust genes meant they were dependent on the fungus as a nutritional source. H. aureus machovsky was intended to pick and choose its way through a diseased farm at a hysterical pace, then weaken and collapse after exhausting the supply of rust-sick wood.
Breed fast, spread fast, die fast. That the machos could survive without the rust was a surprise adaptation. Whoops.
“So what happens next?” Julie asked, gesturing at Highsong and herself. “We want to help—before this guy brings more bugs inside the quarantine. We both know the city, and we're good with our hands. Can you put us on the team?”
“I'll be in touch,” Leber said.
“When? Today?”
“I'll be in touch,” Leber said.
* * * *
It was a brush-off. Julie and Highsong left headquarters with no answers. She was only generating more questions, such as where did the saboteur get not just one queen colony, but several? How would he gather thousands of bugs in order to pack them into the city? One man alone couldn't collect and preserve a colony.
Julie didn't like the over-reaction to the gang of bandits, either. Yes, an entire Army division was in-state, but there were also sixty thousand refugees and the fires and a pandemic on their to-do lists. No one had twenty men to spare unless they were nervous about what she and Highsong might uncover at the site. Who was worried? The feds? Somebody local? Could she trace the orders to send a full platoon back into the tangled chain of command?
As soon as they were outside, Julie pulled her iPhone and tapped in a Los Angeles-area number, gazing up through the ash. It only rang once.
“Beauchain?” A young man.
“Em, you're going to like this,” she said.
His voice rose in pitch. “Am I hallucinating or are you calling me on a cell phone?”
“Listen, I just—”
“Idiot.” He hung up.
“Oh boy.” Julie turned to Highsong and slung her arm around his waist, feeling tired and lost and glad to have him. “We should just go back to my place,” she said.
“Nah.” Highsong squeezed her. “Let's get in some trouble first.”
* * * *
Her place was a cot in a big tent surrounded by big tents where DHS was housing civilian law enforcement groups on the north side of town. Highsong had been assigned to a men's tent nearby, but they walked to his pick-up truck instead, which hardly offered any more privacy, lost in a sea of vehicles that other cops, rangers, firefighters, and workmen were using as sleeping quarters and offices. People were everywhere in the vast parking lot.
“You pervert,” Julie said.
Highsong didn't react, opening the cab and waving her inside. His laptop was squirreled away behind his seat. He gave it to her and scratched her back as she typed at the machine. DHS had wi-fi over most of the camp. It was sluggish with traffic, but that was good. Julie's emails would be like one little mouse in the on-going circus.
It's your favorite idiot, she typed.
Forgiven. I've seen the news. You're stressed. What's up?
I need some background, she typed. Can you poke around for me?
Poking is my middle name.
Em was a friend she'd made on the usenets, trading tech advice and buyer tips. She was pretty sure he didn't actually live in Los Angeles. For all she knew, he was right here in Missoula or in Maine, Milan, or Moscow, but he'd weathermanned his lines through L.A. for cover. He said he was wanted by the FBI. That was probably just geek posturing, but Em was good at what he did.
Julie typed up the two buildings’ addresses and a run-down on Machovsky. Maybe her hacker buddy would draw some connections she couldn't.
He didn't test her patience. A mere twenty minutes passed. If she was worth her weight, she would've jumped Highsong or at least smooched a bit, but she wasn't nineteen anymore, she was thirty-four, and it had been a long day. They both napped. Other people came and went through the parking lot, shouting, banging doors, as Julie curled on the long bench seat with her head on Highsong's thigh. Then his laptop chimed.
You're neck-deep in slime, Em emailed. A lot of DawnTech's records are sealed. FEDERALLY sealed. Ready for the good news?
“Oh boy,” Julie said. There's good news? she typed.
Em dumped a handful of files on her. Enjoy, he said. I'm out. You don't know me.
“Oh boy,” Julie said again.
DawnTech was so familiar with termites because they'd been experimenting with the bugs as a clean energy source. Termites could produce as much as two liters of hydrogen from digesting a single piece of paper. The highly specialized microbes in their digestive tracts made each bug an efficient bioreactor, which was why Julie's TI guns worked so well.
It was also why Em thought gene-spliced termites could be used as living firebombs. A mating pair might infiltrate enemy territory—tiny, insignificant, organic, untraceable—then breed until they hit critical mass. Termites made love three times a day, Em noted, and some of DawnTech's funding came from DARPA, which meant the Pentagon. Top secret.
“Where did you say you knew this guy from?” Highsong asked, reading over Julie's shoulder.
“Okay, so some of it's nuts.”
“Some of it?”
“Here's the good news. Next file. Look at this.”
The first building where they'd met the saboteur held the national ordering center and sales offices of Holiday House, a billion dollar name in Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and Easter supplies. The embargo on Christmas trees had halved their earnings in past years. More interestingly, the same parent corporation that controlled Holiday House also owned the second building and more in Missoula. Em hadn't been able to draw a link between that corporate blind and DawnTech, but he suggested it was obvious. Who else could be supplying the saboteur with bugs? According to Em’ numbers, the whole thing was an insurance scam. They were infesting their own business holdings and testing an insanely lucrative weapons program at the same time.
Highsong just shook his head. “How do we get into stuff like this?” he asked.
“Oh my god. You can say that again.”
“You, uh, you want to tell Agent Leber?”
“No.” Julie met his eyes and said, “No. This is our city.”
* * * *
They slipped back into Missoula as dusk fell. Driving Highsong's truck through Army lines was easy enough. They had ID and their partly completed chart and maps. “We're just trying to finish up,” Julie told the lieutenant who inspected her DHS-issued pass, and it wasn't a lie. She wanted revenge.
Thing
s got more complicated after dark. To start with, they worked without lights. Worse, there were only two of them, and Em had provided four addresses to stake out. Highsong suggested splitting up, but Julie said no. The city was quieting down, but there were still looters and Army patrols and God Knew Who Else poking around. It was better to stick together. If they got bored, maybe she'd get up the courage to offer him a key to her house. Too bad the first hour was anything but dull as they raced from site to site with his headlights off, rifling through the truckbed for their packs, TI guns, and other gear.
Once they crunched over an abandoned bike lying in the street. Another time they nearly flattened a stray dog. Julie wanted to go after it. She had a soft spot for animals, but Highsong convinced her to stay on mission.
Then the waiting began. They'd hidden his truck alongside a bakery across the street from a mortgage broker's offices, which seemed the most valuable of their four targets.
“What do you think the paperwork is worth if the machos eat it?” Julie asked, holding his hand.
“Everything's electronic now, isn't it?” Highsong said. “I think the insurance might pay them more for lost business and damaged real estate than paper files. Maybe they can also play loose with their taxes if a bunch of receipts disappear. I dunno. If they wipe out every place they own, it's gotta be worth bazillions.”
“And meanwhile the bugs are chewing up other people's homes. What a bunch of—”
Beep! His radio lit up.
“That's channel two,” Highsong said. “We're in the wrong place.”
“Go!” Julie shouted even as he hit the ignition. She figured they had five minutes, even ten, but she didn't want to miss the kill. In her excitement, she lifted her camcorder from the seat beside her and hugged it like a mad scientist. “Ha! Ha ha ha! We got the son of a bitch!”
Asimov's SF, December 2009 Page 3
