by Greg Bear
“No,” Kaye said.
“You two get along?”
“We disagreed,” said Kaye, “but we worked together.”
Bloch made a fleeting face of dubiety.
“We’ll take our chances,” Gianelli said with a snuffle.
“You should never take chances,” Bloch advised, producing another handkerchief from her purse.
“I always take chances,” Gianelli said. “That’s why I’m here.” He blew his nose. “Goddamned allergies,” he added, and watched Kaye’s reaction. “Washington is full of snotty noses.”
“No problem,” Kaye said. “I’m a mommy.”
“Good,” Bloch said. “We need a pro.”
6
NEW MEXICO
Dr. Jurie’s office was small and crammed with boxes, as if he had arrived only a few days before. Jurie pushed back his old Aeron chair as Dicken and Turner entered.
The shelves around the office were lightly populated with a few battered college texts, favorites for quick reference, and binders filled with what Dicken assumed were scientific papers. He counted seven metal lab stools in the small room, arranged in a cramped half-circle around the desk. The desk supported a flat top computer with two panels popped up, displaying results from two experiments.
“Acclimatizing, Dr. Dicken?” Jurie asked. “Altitude treating you well?”
“Doing fine, thank you,” Dicken said. Turner and Presky assumed relaxed hunched positions on their stools.
Jurie motioned for Dicken to sit in a second old Aeron, on the other side of the desk. He had to push past a stack of boxes to fit into the chair, which bent his leg painfully. Once he sat, he wondered if he would be able to get up again.
Jurie wore brown oxfords, wool slacks, a dark blue shirt with a broad collar, and a sleeveless, cream-colored knit sweater, all clean but rumpled. At fifty-five, his features were still youthfully handsome, his body lean. He had the kind of face that would have fit well right above the collar of an Arrow shirt in a magazine ad. Had he smoked a pipe, Dicken would have thought him a cliché scientist. His body was too small, however, to complete the Oppenheimer effect. Dicken guessed his height at barely five feet three inches.
“I’ve invited more of our research group heads to join us. I apologize for showing you off, Dr. Dicken.” Jurie reached over to send the flat top into sleep mode, then rotated in his chair, back and forth.
A woman’s head poked through the door and pushed a fist in to rap on the inside wall.
“Ah,” Jurie said. “Dee Dee. Dr. Blakemore. Always prompt.”
“To a fault,” the woman said. In her late thirties, comfortably rotund, with long mousy hair and a self-assured expression, she pushed through the door and sat with some difficulty on a stool. In the next few minutes, four others joined them in the room, but remained standing.
“Thank you all for coming,” Jurie started the meeting. “We are all here to greet Dr. Dicken.”
Two of the men had entered holding cans of beer, apparently cadged from the party. Dicken noted that one—Dr. Orlin Miller, formerly of Western Washington University—still favored Bud Light over Heineken.
“We’re a relaxed group,” Jurie said. “Somewhat informal.” He never smiled, and as he spoke, he made small, unexpected hesitations between words. “What we’re essentially interested in, here at Pathogenics, is how diseases use us as genetic libraries and reservoirs. Also, how we’ve adapted to these inroads and learned to use the diseases. It doesn’t really matter whether viruses are rogue genes from inside us, or outside invaders—the result is the same, a constant battle for advantage and control. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose, right?”
Dicken could not disagree.
“I’ve listened to all the media babble about virus children, and frankly I don’t give a damn whether they’re the products of disease or evolution. Evolution is a disease, for all I know. What I want to learn is how viruses can recombine and kill us.
“Not coincidentally, if we learn how that works, we have a pretty important weapon for both national defense and offense. This is the age of gene and germ, and whatever subtle little perversions we can think of, our enemies can also think of. Which is a pretty good reason to keep Sandia Pathogenics funded and running at fool steam, which we all will benefit from.”
“Amen,” said Turner.
I heard “fool steam,” Dicken thought, and looked around the room. Did anybody else? Fool steam ahead.
“Dr. Presky, shall we show Dr. Dicken our zoo?” Jurie asked.
7
NEAR LUBBOCK, TEXAS
Mitch had lost everything important, but once again he had dirt and bone chips and pottery. He was back in the field, carrying a small spade and a kit full of brushes. Starting from scratch was an archaeologist’s definition of workaday life, and he was definitely starting from scratch, all over again.
Around him, a neat square hole in the earth had been sculpted into many terraces on which sat fragments of flint, the crushed remains of what might have once been a wicker basket, a rough oval of shards from a small pot, and the thing that had absorbed his attention all day: an engraved shell.
The sun had set several hours ago and he was working by the light of a Coleman lantern. Down in the hole, all colors had long since turned to gray and brown. Brown was the color he knew best. Beige, gray, black, brown. The brown dust in his nose made everything smell like dry earth. A brown, neutral smell.
The shell lay in three pieces and was crudely engraved with what looked like a crosshatched bird’s wing. Mitch had a hunch it might be similar to the shells found at the Craig mound in Spiro, Oklahoma. If it was, that might generate enough publicity that they could persuade the contractors to pause for a few weeks.
The generator in the back of the truck had broken down the night before. Now, the lantern’s gas was running out.
With a sigh, he turned the lantern off, laid his spade and kit on the side of the hole and climbed out carefully, feeling his way in the dark, putting a strain on his good arm.
As with most university-sponsored digs, the budget was minimal and equipment was precious, usually secondhand, and seldom reliable. Time was important, of course. In two more weeks bulldozers would move in and cover hundreds of acres with fill and concrete slabs for a housing tract.
The twelve students working the site had gathered under a tent and were sipping beer in the cooling twilight. Some things never changed. He accepted a freshly popped can from a twenty-year-old brunette named Kylan, then sat with a groan in a camp chair reserved for him in part because he was the most experienced and in part because he was the oldest and the kids thought he might require the bare minimum of comfort to keep functioning.
The gimpy arm drew sympathy, too. Mitch could only dig effectively with one hand, propping the handle of the shovel under his armpit.
The others squatted on the dirt or on the two rugged wooden benches pulled from the back of the single battered pickup, the same one that held the useless generator.
“Any luck?” Kylan asked. They were not very talkative this evening, perhaps because they saw the imminent dashing of their hopes and dreams. This dig had become their lives in the past few weeks. Two couples were already lovers.
Mitch held up his hand, made a grasping motion. “Flashlight,” he said.
Tom Pritchard, twenty-four, skinny, with a head of dusty and tousled blond hair, tossed him a black aluminum flashlight.
The students looked at each other, blank-faced in the way kids have of hiding what might be an inappropriate emotion: hope.
“What is it?” asked tall, stout Caitlin Bishop, far from her native New York.
Mitch lifted his head and sighed. “Probably nothing,” he said.
They crowded around, all pretense and weariness gone. They needed hope as much as they needed rehydrating fluids. “What?” “What is it?” “What did you find?”
Mitch said it was probably nothing; probably not what he thought it was. And even if it wa
s, how did that figure into his plans? There were hundreds of shells from Spiro scattered in private and university collections. So what if he had just found one more?
What sort of prize was that to replace his family?
He waved them off with the flashlight, then aimed the beam up at the first star to appear in the sky. The air was dry and the beam was only visible because the dust they had been raising all day lingered in the still air.
“Anyone know about Spiro, Oklahoma? The Craig mound?” he asked.
“Mississippian civilization,” said Kylan, the best student in the group but hardly the best digger. “Opened during the nineteen thirties by the Pocola Mining Company. A disaster. Burials, pottery, artifacts, all gone, all sold to tourists.”
“A famous source for engraved conch shells,” Mitch added. “Decorated with birds and snakes and such, vaguely Mesoamerican designs. Probably part of an extensive bartering community spread through a number of cultures in the East and South and Midwest. Anybody know about these shells?”
They all shook their heads.
“Show us,” said Bernard Rowland and stepped forward, as tall as Mitch and broader across the shoulders. He was a Mormon and did not drink beer; Iced Sweat, a wickedly green drink in a large plastic bottle, was his liquid of choice.
Mitch led them back through the ranks of holes in the ground. Flies were starting to zizz and hum after hiding out during the heat of the day. The cattle feed lots near Lubbock were less than ten miles away. When the wind was right, the smell was impressive. Mitch wondered why anyone would want to build homes here, so close to that smell and the flies.
They came to his hole and the students stood a foot back from the dry edges. He climbed into the hole and pointed the flashlight at the terrace that held the shell, painstakingly revealed by his brush and dental pick work of the last six hours.
“Wow,” Bernard said. “How did it get out here?”
“Good question,” Mitch said. “Anybody have a camera?”
Kylan handed him her digital, Dyno-labeled “Potshooter.” Mitch drew out the marker strings with length measurements in small squares of tape, handed them to the students, who set them at right angles and weighted them with rocks, and then snapped a series of flash pictures.
Bernard helped Mitch out of the hole. They stood solemnly for a moment.
“Our treasure,” Mitch said. Even to himself, he sounded cynical. “Our only hope.”
Fallon Dupres, a twenty-three-year-old from Canada, who looked like a fashion model and kept severely aloof from most of the men, handed him another can of Coors. “Actually, the Craig mound shells weren’t conchs,” she told Mitch in an undertone. “They were whelks.”
“Thanks,” Mitch said. Fallon tilted her head, blasé. She had made a pass at Mitch three days before. Mitch had suspected her of being the type of attractive woman that instantly gravitated to age and authority, however weak that authority might be. In the near vacuum of the little dig, he was the most authoritative male, and he was certainly the oldest. He had politely declined and told her she was very pretty, and under other circumstances he might oblige. He had hinted, in as roundabout a way as possible, that that part of his life was over. She had ignored the evasions and told him bluntly that his attitude was not natural.
In fact, Mitch had not had a woman since he and Kaye had parted last year in Phoenix, shortly after his release from prison. They had agreed to go their strategic ways. Kaye had gone to work for Americol in Maryland, and Mitch had gone on the road, looking for holes in the Earth to hide in.
“I thought Spiro was, like, a corrupt vice president,” said Larry Kelly, the dimmest and funniest of the crew. “How’s a shell going to save our dig?”
Fallon, surprisingly, set herself to gently explain.
Mitch wandered off to check his cell phone. He had turned it off for the morning work hours, and forgotten to switch it on during the nap he had taken at the burning center of the day. There was one message. He vaguely recognized the number. With an awkward pass, he punched in the retrieval code.
The voice was instantly recognizable. It was Eileen Ripper, a fellow archaeologist and friend. Eileen specialized in Northwestern digs. They had not spoken in more than ten years. “Mitch, something dishy. Are you busy? Better not be. This is, as I said, dishy. I am stuck here with a bunch of women, can you believe it? Want to upset some more apple carts? Call me.”
Mitch looked across the darkening plateau and the black ditches to where Fallon was explaining the Spiro shells to a group of bone-weary students, about to have their dig closed and covered over by lawns and concrete slabs. He stood with the phone in his weak hand, clenching his strong hand. He could not stand the thought of having this dig closed, however trivial it was, of having another part of his life be judged useless.
He had been put away for two years for assault with a deadly weapon—a large wood chip. He had not seen Kaye for more than a year. She was working on viruses for Marge Cross, and in Mitch’s judgment, that was a kind of defeat as well.
And there was Stella, stashed away by the government in a school in Arizona.
Fallon Dupres walked up behind him. He turned just as she folded her arms, watching him carefully. “It isn’t a whelk, Mitch,” she said. “It’s a broken clamshell.”
“I could have sworn,” he said. He had seen the Mesoamerican design so plainly.
“It’s scratched up like a doodle pad,” the young woman said. “But it’s not a whelk. Sorry.” She turned away, glanced at him one more time, smiled perhaps more in regret than pity, and walked off.
Mitch stood under the blue-black sky for a few minutes, wondering how many wish-thinks he had left in him before he lost it completely. Another door closing.
He could head north. Drop off and visit Stella along the way—if they let him. You could never find out in advance.
He called Eileen’s number.
8
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Gianelli entered at the back of the chamber, carrying a stack of papers. Thomasen looked up. Augustine glanced over his shoulder. The last senator on the committee was followed by a Secret Service agent, who took a position with another agent by the door, and then by a small, intense-looking woman. Augustine recognized Laura Bloch. She was the main reason Gianelli was a senator, and she was a formidable political mind.
Augustine had also heard that Bloch was a bit of a spymaster.
“Glad you could make it, Dick,” Chase called out across the chamber. “We were worried.”
Gianelli smiled foxily. “Allergies,” he said.
Kaye Lang Rafelson entered after Bloch. Her presence surprised Augustine. He recognized a setup and suspected that the current director of EMAC would regret not arriving on time.
Kaye moved up to the witness table. A chair and microphone awaited her. She was introduced to the committee, all of whom knew her by name and reputation.
Senator Percy looked disconcerted. He, too, could smell a setup. “Dr. Rafelson is not on our list, Dick,” he said as Bloch helped Gianelli settle himself at the dais.
“She brings important news,” Gianelli said brusquely.
Kaye was sworn in. Not once did she look at Augustine, though he sat fewer than five feet away.
Senator Thomasen stifled a yawn. She seemed perfectly happy to take her cues from Gianelli. There was some procedural wrangling, more interruptions by Percy and counterarguments by Chase, and finally Percy held up his hands and let her testimony proceed. He was clearly unhappy that the director was still not present.
“You work at Americol, correct, Dr. Rafelson?” Thomasen said, reading from the witness sheet handed to her by Gianelli.
“Yes, Senator.”
“And what is your group doing?”
“We’re studying ERV knockout techniques in mice and chimpanzees, Senator,” Kaye said.
“Bravo,” Senator Percy said. “A worthy effort, to rid the world of viruses.”
“We’re working to und
erstand the roles viruses play in our genome and in our everyday lives,” Kaye corrected. The distinction seemed lost on Percy.
“You also work with the Centers for Disease Control,” Thomasen continued. “Serving as a go-between for Marge Cross and Fern Ridpath, the director of SHEVA affairs at the CDC?”
“Occasionally, but Dr. Ridpath spends more time with our PI.”
“PI?”
“Principal Investigator.”
“And that is?”
“Dr. Robert Jackson,” Kaye said.
Thomasen looked up, as did the others, at the sound of the door at the back of the chamber opening once more. Rachel Browning marched down the aisle, wearing a black dress with a wide red belt. She glanced at Augustine, then looked over the senators on the dais with what she meant to be a puzzled smile. To Kaye, the smile appeared predatory. Two steps behind walked her counsel, a small, gray-haired woman in a beige cotton summer suit.
“You’re late, Ms. Browning,” Senator Thomasen said.
“It was my understanding Dr. Browning was to be testifying alone to the committee, in closed session,” the counsel said, her voice commanding.
“The hearing is closed,” Gianelli said with another sniff. “Senator Percy invited Dr. Augustine, and I invited Dr. Rafelson.”
Browning sat at the end of the table and smiled calmly as her counsel leaned over to set up a small laptop on the desk. The counsel then unfolded blinders, to prevent the computer display from being visible to either side, and took her seat on Browning’s left.
“Dr. Rafelson was interrupted,” Senator Gianelli reminded the chair.
Thomasen smirked. “I’m not sure which tune we’re supposed to be dancing to. Who’s the fiddler?”
“You are, as always, Madam Chair,” Gianelli said.
“I sincerely doubt that,” Thomasen said. “All right, go ahead, Dr. Rafelson.”
Kaye did not like going up against the director of Emergency Action in this way, but she clearly had no choice. She was being squeezed between lines of scrimmage in a game far rougher than football.
