Little Deadly Things (33 page)

“Eva’s a good scientist and she’s been a friend to us,” my mother said to no one in particular. She was starting to sob, gulping in big draughts of air, shoulders shaking. “But she’s been under such a strain. I shouldn’t have questioned her. I have no proof, no evidence other than her reaction, and that’s not evidence at all.”

My father spoke sharply. “Are you saying she gets a break because she’s been under a strain? If she did this, that is?” I think he had already made up his mind. He’d been cool to Eva since NMech submitted its bid and he seemed disinclined to give her the benefit of any doubt.

“I’m not saying that,” my mother replied, struggling for composure. “But I’m a doctor, not a judge. Doctors heal sinners and saints. If there’s a chance for Eva, we have to help her.”

“She gets a pass if she’s nuts?” I watched his anger grow. His body stiffened as his muscles tensed. I wondered if this was how it was before he learned to control his temper.

“Jim, would you please listen to me? All I mean is that I’m a bohique. I heal, not punish. If Eva broke the law, then Eva pays the price. But that’s up to law enforcement, not me. If there’s some way to make sense of this, I’d sure like to know.”

My mother and father turned away from each other and lapsed into stony silence. Everything was upside-down. Normally, my father would be defending Eva, not my mother.

I retreated into my own thoughts. Nothing moved in the boardroom except the dust motes. I watched them, drifting lazily about the room. Something about them held my attention more than the moment-by-moment vid coverage at Rockford. The way they twinkled reminded me of tiny diamonds. The way they moved reminded me of an avian flock. They seemed to move with purpose.

They were Eva’s eyes—surveillance motes—tinier cousins of the miniature video cameras that the datastreams used. Each of the motes was a half-micron in size—about 300 times smaller than a human hair. Individually, each possessed the ability to process only a minute piece of information. Collectively, they captured our every word, gesture, and expression.

Eva was studying us from her office, deciding what she would do.

NEMO ME IMPUNE LACESSIT
’TOUCH ME NOT WITHOUT HURT’ OR
‘NO ONE PROVOKES ME WITH IMPUNITY’

—Motto of the Order of the Thistle
—See also, “A Cask of Amontillado”
Edgar Allen Poe

___________________________________________

PUBLIC WORKS

CAMEROON. SRI LANKA. VENEZUELA
2045

STAFF SERGEANT MIKE IMFELD, NEAR WAZA NATIONAL PARK, CAMEROON

“Okay, gentlemen and ladies, listen up. I’ve got a mission briefing for you. We deploy at 0500 hours, so check your kit before you rack out.”

The grumbling started and subsided at once. Mission orders on short notice were the rule rather than the exception. The United Nations EcoForce squad consisted of a dozen infantry troops. In the past twenty-four hours, they’d been assembled in Rotterdam, briefed, equipped, and dropped into equatorial Africa.

In combat boots, Sergeant “Big Mike” Imfeld stood five feet, four inches. He was married to the military—no wife, no children. The chain of command was his family, the barracks was his home.

“What are we doing here, Sarge?” a voice called out from the small assembly.

Imfeld’s troops operated with an easy camaraderie. Although the men and women scrupulously observed rank, they considered themselves equals in combat. Imfeld maintained razor-sharp discipline, but fostered an esprit de corps that allowed for informality in the question-and-answer session during the briefing.

“Gentlemen and ladies, we’ve got a reconnaissance mission to observe a pirate army that’s looking to take over a natural treasure. Estimates put the pirates at battalion size—five hundred or so ragtag child-soldiers under the command of a sixteen-year-old leader who calls himself General Ade Aluwa. Don’t underestimate this boy. Alexander the Great wasn’t much older when he conquered most of his world.

“Open up a heads-up display and invoke a map of Africa. I’ll give you a bird’s-eye view of the area we’re going to recon.”

The soldiers complied and peered at the African continent.

“Okay, look along the west, right where the continental coastline juts out westward. Cameroon straddles the equator and looks like a sorcerer’s cap. Due west, you’ve got the nation of Nigeria, which is where Aluwa was born and where he recruited his army.”

“Any help from the neighbors?” The soldier’s clipped speech marked him as South African.

“No. We’ll be operating on our own.”

“What makes this here Aluwa a threat?” called out a thick Alabama accent.

“Good question. He was orphaned at age ten, courtesy of the local police. At the time, there were about two million homeless children in the country. Aluwa did the math and figured that he could outnumber the police if he could organize the street kids. He started with a fistful of children and picked off policemen, one at a time, using rocks and luck. Within a few months, he had a platoon of three dozen child-soldiers, a taste for fighting, and a small cache of weapons.

“That was six years ago. Now his army is five hundred strong. He wants to occupy a national park in Cameroon, and we’re going to scout the young general’s operations. An EcoForce battalion will follow us and persuade Aluwa to find other quarters.”

“What are we facing?” called out another voice.

“That’s what we’re tasked to find out. We think he has precision-guided, rifle-fired munitions—50-caliber explosive rounds with GPS chips and guidance. Our job is to find out what other toys the boys plays with.

“Let me tell you what Aluwa doesn’t have: smart uniforms. His troops are vulnerable. You make sure your smart wear is running properly. Your uniforms have enhancements that will keep you invisible, armored, and alive. That and my good leadership, of course.”

“Hoo-yah!” A dozen voices shouted out in affirmation.

“Gentlemen and ladies, we are going in full stealth mode. This is recon only. Make sure you check sensors, power, electronic control systems, and armor in your uniforms. You’ll be safe as long as you follow me and keep your gear in working order. Your shirtsleeves and pant legs will transform into bandages and splints if you’re injured. Run diagnostics on your biomed sensors. You do
not
want those going silent if you need a medic. You
will
stand inspection before we move out and may the good Lord may have mercy on you if your gear isn’t perfect, because I will not.”

It was a familiar speech. Imfeld would rather drill his soldiers to death than let them suffer even a scratch from the enemy. And so Imfeld took them through their preparations, like a parish priest leading a responsive reading. He might have given this speech fifty times, and his troops could recite the words back verbatim, but none dared ignore a single syllable.

“Gentlemen and ladies. You have magnetic shearing fluid embedded throughout the uniform. It will turn to armor upon impact from bullets, bayonets, or shrapnel. But it does you no good if it’s not working. Check the ferrites twice tonight before you hit your racks. Your uniforms include plastic and glass fibers. They will change color to match the environment and provide camouflage. Do not even yawn before your gear is checked. Some of you might like to survive this little expedition and I will personally wring your neck if you don’t.”

“Hoo-yah!” The troops called again with one voice. They knew from experience that the worst danger they would face was not the enemy, but Imfeld, if their gear wasn’t ready.

“Gentlemen and ladies, fall out!” Imfeld shouted.

Imfeld’s orders were crystal clear. His troops took the upkeep of their equipment and uniforms seriously. None of the gear was more critical to their survival than the nanoarmor provided by NMech’s military products division as part of the company’s commitment to environmental protection projects. Dr. Marta Cruz started the program. She would not have known Sergeant Imfeld in particular. But Eva Rozen did, and tracked his movements, feeding the information to her fledgling Cerberus program.

JAGEN CATER, COLUMBO, SRI LANKA

Nine thousand, nine hundred forty miles due east, and at nearly the same latitude as Cameroon’s Waza National Forest, Jagen Cater boarded a train at the Colombo Fort Railway Station in the Democratic Socialist Republic of Sri Lanka. He fell, more than sat, into his customary window seat on the left side of the train. He travelled this route repeatedly, and never failed to gaze in wonder at the rugged hill country, waterfalls, misty peaks, and neatly-clipped tea estates as he travelled the eighty-six-mile route to Badulla. From Badulla, he would travel north to a tea plantation in Kandy, near the ancient royal capital.

Today Cater stared straight ahead, exhausted, and noticed none of the scenery. He slipped off his shoes and noticed that his feet were swollen. Leaning back, he closed his eyes as the locomotive pulled its train out of the station, first by straining inches, and then gathering momentum. The morning was young, yet Cater was fatigued. His muscles cramped and twitched, and his dark skin itched. And his feet!
It must be all this travel,
he thought. This was Cater’s third trip to Kandy in as many weeks. There were troubles in the fermenting plant and the tea harvest could be lost. MacNeil Tea Brokers, Ltd., employed Cater to ensure a successful harvest, and so Cater was headed to Kandy.

The harvesting and fermenting of tea is a delicate process that combines farming practices unchanged for thousands of years with technology that was no older than Cater’s own five decades. The best plants were reserved for the fine plucking. Harvesters searched for plants with silvery-white fuzz and painstakingly picked only those buds, gathering the tiny blossoms in the early morning to ensure the most delicate flavors for which MacNeil was famous. A healthy bush might produce three thousand buds, enough for just one pound of tea.

When the fine plucking reached the factory it was dried.
It must be the baking equipment,
Cater thought. If the equipment were overheating, the entire spring flush could be lost. And Cater, who never failed to watch the scenery with delight, closed his eyes. He leaned his head against the window and drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep as the train glided east.

Cater felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up, confused. The conductor had roused him. He handed his ticket to the attendant, a man with whom Cater had shared this journey for several years.

The conductor looked at his friend with amusement. “Oh, there must be something going on for you, sir. You will be staying in Badulla? Maybe you have a woman there, eh?”

“What are you talking about? I haven’t been with a woman since my wife, bless her soul, passed away two years ago.”

The conductor pointed to the ticket, “One way.”

Cater stared at the ticket. “Saints preserve me. I’ve been so tired I cannot think straight. I’ll buy another one way for the return.”

The conductor peered at his passenger and his voice softened. “Tell you the truth, you don’t look so good today. Your face is puffy. Are you all right, old friend?”

Cater heaved a sigh. “Not so good today. I haven’t felt this tired since I got the filter to clean my blood.”

A thumb-sized packet replaced cumbersome dialysis sessions that required him to sit connected to a machine for several hours each week. Researchers had tried for decades to develop an implantable filter. The problem was that the better the filter worked, the faster it became clogged.

Absolute efficiency in a self-contained module eluded nephrologists until an NMech scientist took a whale-watching boat from Boston to Nantucket and marveled at the giant beasts’ feeding habits. The whale’s baleen caught his attention. The feeding filters that sieve plankton and small animals from seawater to provide food for the beast reminded him of something. He invoked a heads-up display and studied the anatomy of the baleen. Its elongated pores resembled nephrons, the kidney’s filtering cells.

The solution to an implantable kidney filter was slit-shaped pores, modeled on the whale’s baleen. The NMech approach permitted a self-contained unit to process variable-sized nutrients and wastes in the blood. Dr. Marta Cruz had been able to insist that NMech provide 10% of its filters to poorer countries as part of NMech’s commitment to public health.