Little Deadly Things (25 page)

“Is it getting worse?” Jim asked, and then shook his head. “Dumb question. How bad will it be and can we really make a difference?”

“Actually, that’s a good question. I’ve been following the work of the lead researcher at the National Oceanic and Atmosphere Administration. NOAA is staying mum, but privately, its people predict that the drought will hit -8 by the end of the century. That’ll make the Dust Bowl look like a sauna.”

Jim and Marta absorbed this information in silence.

Eva said, “It gets worse. The Puerto Rican government dredged harbors to make bigger port facilities and managed to damage natural aquifers in the process. Same thing in every island that fancied a nice new port. Mother Nature spends a few million years to carve water-bearing bedrock caverns. Commercial agriculture and mining ruin the karsts in just a few decades.”

“Karsts?” asked Jim.

“Limestone caverns. Mama Nature builds ‘em. We drain ‘em.”

“What happened?” asked Jim.

“Acid rain. Over-pumping. Who knows? Who cares? It’s an opportunity for NMech. And the chance for you to do something in the public health arena.”

“So how does this place—Paraguaná? How does it figure in?” asked Jim.

“Well, before the drought, the desal plant was the margin of safety in the Caribbean. Now with the drought, and with other water sources ruined, Paraguaná can’t make up the difference.”

“What’s wrong with the plant?” asked Jim.

Eva said, “The key problem is that they use reverse osmosis.”

“We’ve been using RO for something over a half century. Longer even. Why is that an issue?” asked Marta.

Eva explained. “Old technology that made sense when energy was cheap. But you need a hell of a lot of energy to force water through a filtering membrane. Now it’s too expensive to filter water that way but they’re stuck with the plant. But the biggest problem is that RO works too well. It’s self-defeating. Water slips through the filter but salt and pollutants build up and clog the filters. The more water you try to process, the more the sludge builds up till it fails. Ironic, huh?”

“What’s the solution?” asked Jim.

“Nanomembranes,” said Eva, with an open hands gesture, as if the answer were so obvious a child could give it. “Nanopores made from carbon or boron nanotubes are about 50,000 times smaller than a human hair, but will process more water, by several orders of magnitude. The material is so slippery that the buildup sloughs right off. It’s like the difference between a cocktail straw and a fire hose. And since water races through the pores with almost no friction, the plant will be able to lower its energy consumption.”

“Can NMech do it?” asked Marta. “This would be fantastic.”

“Sure can. In fact, I have a plan for it.”

“Of course you do!” Even Marta laughed, caught up in her colleague’s enthusiasm.

Eva continued, “Look, we can build the filters in an assembler. That’s easy. We’ll have Paraguaná at capacity in four months. The initial yield may be ten times greater than what it is now. And the best part? We have a demonstration plant. We can turn around and sell the technology to industry.” She looked pointedly at Marta. “Are we all happy girls now?” then winked at Jim.

“What about logistics?” Marta asked, serious again. “Once production rises, can the existing pipelines handle the increased output?”

“Good point. We’ll need to make some upgrades but I think with the proper management, there’ll be enough transport capacity by the time the plant is ready.”

“Is that realistic?” asked Jim. “There must be thousands of miles of pipelines to carry water. If we up the production by a factor of ten, are we going to be able to get the water where it’s needed? It’s like expecting, oh, I don’t know...like expecting a bike path to handle a highway’s worth of traffic.”

“Actually, it is realistic. When the plant was built, the promoters overstated what RO could produce. Overstated it big time. So there’s been excess capacity since day one. We’ll need to do some building but nothing extreme.” Eva paused and looked to make sure she had their attention. The side of her mouth curled up in a half grin. “Besides, NMech just purchased the two local suppliers of pipeline and fittings so there’ll be some additional revenue.”

“Of course we did,” Jim laughed. “Great plan, Eva.”

The compliment cracked Eva’s impassive expression and a smile stole across her face and hovered for an instant like a hummingbird at a flower. A second later, her features resumed their characteristic impassivity.

“Well, I’m in, I guess,” Marta said. “But I want to get back together in, say, six months and look at what we accomplished. Lessons learned and all that.”

“Okay,” said Eva. “Anything else?”

“One thing,” said Marta. “I want you to meet an old friend of mine. She’s the developer of morphing nanocouture. I think there might be a place for her at NMech.”

“We have our own textiles division.”

“Exactly. But that’s military textiles. They’re tough and self-repairing, and the uniforms don’t change much. So that division is becoming less profitable. Think of nanocouture as cash flow. Styles change, and that means constant new business.” Marta smiled, her excitement evident at the opportunity to present a business case. “It also means that we’ll have a peaceful use for some of our military technology, and that’s important to me.”

“Well, well,” said Eva. “Listen to who’s talking like a business-woman. I like that. So you’ve got, what, a model for us? A fashion queen?”

“No, a scientist who’s interested in fashion. She’s an old friend of the family and I was waiting for just the right moment to suggest she join us.”

“You’ve known her long?” Eva sounded half-interested.

“She’s a close family friend. In fact, Dana calls her Aunt Colleen. But I’m suggesting you talk with her because of her science, not our friendship. Morphing couture can be huge, but she doesn’t have the capital to develop it and to compete with the established fashion houses.”

“What the heck is morphing couture?” asked Jim.

“It’s a way to use datasleeve and software rather than needle and thread. A command to a datasleeve and Colleen’s pieces reconfigure into various styles. Right now, you can only change the color and texture of a garment. With morphing couture, a single garment changes into a designer’s newest styles. It’ll be like nano-customized prêt-à-porter,” Marta said, her voice rising in excitement. “The styles can even be programmed to expire when each new line comes out. That means customers make multiple purchases.”

Marta said to Eva, “I told Colleen to meet me here so I could to introduce you two. She’s got a PhD in nanotextile materials engineering from Harvard. That’s where we met.”

Eva shrugged and returned to her model of the Paraguaná RO plant. Marta subvocalized and a moment later the boardroom door opened.

A young woman entered the boardroom and smiled. A lush cascade of auburn hair in a loose braid served to accent her slender neck. She’d brushed delicate metallic streaks into her hair that projected tiny electrical emissions like a subtle halo. They glowed and flickered to draw attention to an elegant face. Her features were precisely symmetrical—full lips, captivating green eyes, and an aquiline nose. The distance from eyes to lips formed a pleasing proportion.

Eva looked up and gasped involuntarily. She was looking at a woman who could have doubled for Gergana. The wide smile, the innocent eyes, the full hips, the perfect facial features. Eva blanched.

“Eva,” Marta began, “I’d like you to meet Dr. Colleen Lowell.”

Colleen stepped forward to accept Marta’s introduction. “I’m very honored to meet you, Dr. Rozen. You’re one of my heroes, an inspiration to women scientists, and—”

Colleen stopped and stared at Eva. “Dr. Rozen, are you all right?”

Jim and Marta turned to their colleague. She grimaced, as if in pain, and sat down heavily. She rested her elbows on the cherry wood conference table and held her head in her hands. She looked up again at Colleen.

“No,” muttered Eva, struggling to regain her poise.

“What’s wrong?” said Jim.

Eva looked at the bewildered trio on the other side of the table. She repeated, now in a firm voice, “No.” Then Eva rose and stalked towards the boardroom’s door.

“Eva?” Marta asked, concerned and confused.

Eva said nothing. She paused for a moment, and then turned back and scrutinized Lowell.

“No,” Eva said, for a third time.

“What the—?” Marta said. She turned to Colleen Lowell and spilled out an apology. “I’m sorry, Colleen, but our partner, uh, Dr. Rozen, she can be eccentric every now and then.”

“What’s going on, Marta?’ Lowell asked, an edge to her voice. “You said that NMech would take on my work.”

Before Marta could answer, Eva turned to the young woman. “Settle down, Ms. Lowell,” said Eva, in her customary flat voice. She had regained her composure.

“That’s
Dr.
Lowell, if you don’t mind,” Colleen huffed. “Materials engineering at Harvard. I believe that’s your alma mater.”

Eva stared at her, unblinking, and then said, “Marta, your idea is a good one. I do not want her up here in the executive suite. I do not want to come in contact with her.” Then, turning back to Lowell, Eva said, “Nothing personal.”

“Not personal? You tell me you don’t want to see me and that’s not personal? Well, it’s personal to me. I don’t care if you’re the smartest woman in the world. You dress like you’re going to a cattle auction—as the livestock. I deal with people in the fashion world who would eat you alive, you ugly runt! Marta, thanks for the invitation. Good luck with Raggedy Ann.”

The words,
ugly runt,
triggered a flood of memories for Eva. Others had hurled the same words. Mama did. Papa did, especially when he believed she did not hear. Schoolmates did. And Bare Chest did.

Each taunt cried out for recompense and Eva kept a ledger. Recording each offense was an automatic mental process, if not a conscious one. Each offense was tabulated with meticulous precision.

Eva remembered some of the offenses. There was the child—could she have been six? Seven?—who uttered those words. That child soon watched a shiny thing, half-hidden in Eva’s left hand, turn into a pair of scissors. Then she saw a hank of her pretty red hair fall to the playground tarmac...the boy, who returned from soccer practice shower to find every piece of his clothing glued together...the schoolmate who found her hair conditioner replaced by a depilatory.

The foulest and most memorable entry in her ledger was that of Bare Chest—Akexsander Yorkov—accomplice to Gergana’s murder. Eva remembered him clearly, and the price he’d paid.

Colleen’s angry retort may not have triggered a conscious memory of each violation. But it evoked an emotional response from a lifetime catalog of insults. This triggered a series of biological events. Eva’s endocrine system prepared her for fight or flight, flooding her with adrenaline and noradrenaline. Her heart raced and digestion slowed. Glucose pumped into her bloodstream and her pupils dilated.

Years of free-flowing rage found a target, not two feet away.

Eva smiled.

She touched Colleen on the forearm and spoke quietly, even soothingly. “Be careful, dear. You meet the same people coming down as you did when you were going up.” Eva held her hand on Colleen’s arm for a moment longer than necessary to make her point, and a series of software commands flowed from Eva’s sleeve into Colleen’s. She did not need to touch Colleen for the rogue software to jack into Colleen’s sleeve but the unexpected contact distracted the fashionista from Eva’s real purpose

Lowell jerked her arm away and stormed out of the boardroom.

“Well, that worked out nicely,” said Marta. “Thanks, Eva. Real professional. That was a very dear friend you just insulted. And one heck of an income stream you just threw out.”

“Disregard it. We have enough on our plate right now,” Eva snapped. “And nobody calls me that name to my face.”

Marta wanted to say,
Which name? Ugly? Or runt?
but she held her tongue.

Eva left the boardroom fighting to control her emotions. Something tugged hard at her memory, but it was frustratingly out of reach. Eva’s breathing became shallow, rapid breaths that drew in little air. She felt her pulse throb in her neck.

Eva was processing images, memories from her preverbal infancy. Lowell’s sculpted features matched Eva’s stored images of her sister and her onetime caregiver, Gergana, both alive and dead in Eva’s unconscious mind, where past, present, and future were indistinguishable.

Ego structures strained under the reanimated weight of memory and loss. Long-repressed images pushed insistently against the barriers that separated a violent past from a controlled present, like protestors overrunning a police barricade.

The din from the Table of Clamorous Voices had been dormant. Now it was an unquiet phenomenon.

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