Little Deadly Things (23 page)

A mat of dirty blond curls clung to her scalp like coiled worms. Her hands trembled, her legs kicked, and her eyelids fluttered uncontrollably. The 33-year-old face betrayed emotion for the first time in over a quarter-century. She’d pushed her body and mind beyond the limits that evolution had designed and her endocrine system rebelled.

Confused steps replaced her once-certain movement. Only days ago, her muscles had obeyed with a speed and precision beyond normal human capabilities, but now, on the rebound, she was riddled with tics and twitches. As she lost control within, she sought greater control in the world outside her.

Eva had a plan. The task was a difficult one, to create a master switch that would control every NMech product, every NMech customer. She was a scientist, so she would experiment. She would learn. She’d picked her test subjects carefully, as any good scientist would. Emery Miller was first on her list.

Miller had no family, no friends, no one to miss or to mourn him, none to question his death—a perfect test case. She peered into a heads-up display and then grunted in approval at her short list. Like Miller, the other three on the list lacked family or close friends. The soldier’s entire world was his army. The scientist’s was her career, and the tea expert’s, his employer.

An electronic back door gave her control—not to the actual medical, recreational, military, and environmental nanoagents; any tinkering there would immediately be flagged to the systems that monitor product safety. No, Eva would control the
accounting
for these applications. It was simple: a bookkeeping entry thwarted all of the safeguards built into the company’s products. It simply cancelled his life-support subscription for nonpayment. One stroke of a pseudo-accountant’s pen had transformed Emery Miller from preferred customer to deadbeat, and then from deadbeat to...dead.

All NMech’s products were rigorously tested to ensure the safety and satisfaction of its subscribers. But
bookkeeping
entries? Insignificant. They were of no more interest to the ardent sentinels of product safety than an ant would be to Cerberus, the three-headed beast that guards the gates to the underworld.

Eva Rozen’s face twitched again, this time into a smile. Control was in her grasp. Cerberus was her pet, and programmed to do her bidding.

___________________________________________

AN UNEASY ALLIANCE

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
MAY 19, 2038, 7:00PM

W
hen Jim Ecco told Marta about Eva’s unexpected visit to the shelter earlier that day, he recounted her dramatic entrance, the receptionist’s flight, and Eva’s willingness to wait for Jim to finish his rounds with the dogs. Marta was skeptical, and at first refused even to listen to Eva’s proposal. When Jim outlined Eva’s plan to fund public health projects that Marta would administer, Marta immediately grasped the relationship between commercial nanomeds and paying for the costs of developing public health applications. But she was unmoved.

“I don’t even want to hear the details,” she said. “I don’t trust her.”

“Marta, if we can hold Eva to her word, you can save remedies that might be lost. You’ve said yourself that the cost to find the plants that have medicinal value, to isolate the active compounds, and then to synthesize the drugs means the pharmaceutical corporations are not interested in developing. Many of the remedies you’ve catalogued will be extinct before the drug companies think to fabricate them.”

“I can’t argue with that. But I haven’t spoken with Eva in years. Why should I suddenly trust her now?”

“This is not the same Eva Rozen. And if she and you can manufacture with nanoassembly, you’ll save some of the cures that will be lost if the rainforests die out. Maybe they’ll recover, maybe not. But we’ll have the medicines.”

“And make Eva rich,” said Marta brusquely.

“That’s the deal. She gets what she wants, and you get what you want.”

“What I want is for her to stay away from me. From us.”

“Marta—”

Marta held up a hand to stop Jim. “Sorry. My answer is no.”

“No? How can you say no?”

“I’ve been collecting plants since my first summer in Puerto Rico. There are still millions of hectares of rainforest to explore. I want to find and catalog what I can before the forests are destroyed.”

“You sound more like a librarian than a scientist. At least people use the information that a librarian files away so neatly.”

“That’s not fair,” Marta protested, but she knew that it was beyond fair: it was accurate. Worse, it was not what she wanted. She remembered Abuela’s words,
“What becomes of adults? Do they follow their hearts or are they filled with discontent? Why not do what’s in your heart?”

Marta paced, considering the opportunity. Then she spoke. “Eva always says, ‘I have a plan.’ I can’t see doing this unless we have a plan to make sure that Eva keeps her word.”

Jim said, “You could insist on being equal partners.”

“That’s an idea,” Marta allowed, “but I don’t know if I can do it myself. I do like her idea of using commercial applications to fund public health, but I don’t think I can do this unless you have a role at NMech, too. And not just some sinecure. I want all three of us to be involved. I can’t square off with her by myself when we disagree. I don’t do well with confrontation.”

“But what about my work at Haven Memorial?” Jim protested.

“Querido, I know it’s important to you, more than important. And so is my research into rainforest-based medicines. But you’re right. This is a chance to do something that could change the world.”

“I don’t want to leave my training work behind. Leave me out of this,” said Jim.

“And I don’t want to abandon my exploration.” Suddenly, both were breathing hard. Marta pressed on. “You’ve built a terrific staff. That’s the mark of a good leader—your team could carry on without you. But I can’t face Eva alone. If you become part of NMech, then we’re two to one. Or she can have forty-nine percent of the stock and you and I split fifty-one percent so we have a voting majority.”

“Why would she give me that kind of a role at her company?” he asked.

“Jim, think about it. You’re great at organizing and leading people. I don’t have much in the way of people skills—”

“Yes, you do,” Jim interrupted.

“That’s sweet of you to say. But I’m not a leader. I like to be gracious, but you have a knack for getting people to want to do the hard tasks. I’ll consider working with Eva but I won’t do it without you.”

Jim sat and subvocalized and invoked a heads-up display. He saw his son tinker with an old dataslate. Dragonfly monitors—insect-sized sensors that combined specks of processing power—produced visual images and sound readings in Dana’s room. “What about Dana? Look at him. Eight years old and he’s taking apart and reassembling his slate like it was a construction toy. Haven Memorial lets me set my hours so I can be with Dana. I want to stay connected with him. He’s special, and I’m not just being a proud papa. He has a gift. What about that?”

Now Marta was silent. She paced their small apartment. The walls were drab, without the benefit of brightwalls—paint embedded with light emitting nanoparticles that allowed the walls, ceiling, and floors to provide variable lighting and heat at a command from a datapillar. There was no pillar, for that matter. Even something inefficient and underpowered was beyond the means of a family whose income was based on two soul-satisfying but low-paying jobs that kept a roof over their heads but little more.

She paused at a window. At least it had nanoglass, thanks to building codes rather than to any generosity on the part of their landlord. She touched the pane and it darkened. Looking out at an alley and a convenience store was dispiriting.

“There are afterschool programs at NMech,” Marta said.

“How do you know that?” asked Jim.

“I follow things,” she allowed.

Jim took a moment to digest that information. “So, let me get this straight. Eva knows about your exploration of rainforests in places like Brazil and Borneo. You know about kids’ programs at NMech. You two haven’t spoken in years, and yet you each know all about each other’s careers?” Marta nodded and Jim shook his head. “You’re like the boy and the girl in an old movie—fighting like cats and dogs throughout the film and lovey-dovey at the end.”

“Don’t count on lovey-dovey. I know about her because it’s hard not to notice what she’s doing. It seems like every scientific journal has a paper she wrote. Then there’s the financial press. She spent four years at Harvard telling me that she was going to be the richest woman in the world and she appears to be well on the way. As far as her knowing about me, well, she spies on people.”

“Is it any good?” asked Jim.

“Is what any good?”

“NMech’s afterschool program.”

“It’s supposed to be. Apparently, Eva put some decent money into it,” Marta replied. “You can look into it.”

“What do I know about kids’ programs?” asked Jim.

Marta smiled. “Guess you’re going to find out.”

“You mean you’ll do it? Work with Eva?” he asked.

“Yes, but only if you join me, Querido.”

Jim and Marta paced for a few minutes, mulling over the opportunity. They were excited. But the apartment was small, and they had to pick their paths carefully.

Finally, Jim said, “Will Eva want me as a partner?”

Marta looked at him for a moment, shook her head and smiled ruefully. “Men are so blind,” was all she said.

After dinner, Marta took a deep breath and held up her hand to receive a file. “Okay, let me see what Eva has in mind.” Jim reciprocated the gesture and subvocalized a command. Marta’s datasleeve pinged receipt of Eva’s proposal.

Marta invoked a heads-up holographic display and began to read through Eva’s plan in stony silence. When she finished, she looked up at Jim, careful to keep her expression neutral.

She took another deep breath, muttered, “I know I’m going to regret this,” and touched her commpatch and subvocalized a link to Eva. At first, her voice was controlled. Soon it became more animated and rose from an inaudible subvocalization to a clenched-teeth whisper, the commpatch equivalent of shouting.

She touched her commpatch and suddenly Eva’s voice was projected into the room so that Jim could hear both sides of the conversation.

Marta was angry. Her voice dripped with scorn. “I want to attack morbidity, and you want to cure lactose intolerance? So that people can eat ice cream?
This
is public health? You want to cure
farting?”

“Don’t preach to me.” Eva’s disembodied voice shot out of the holograph that displayed her avatar. She sounded calm, as if she’d anticipated Marta’s response. She said, “Just listen. I know that lactose intolerance isn’t schistosomiasis, but who’s going to pay for that kind of medicine? Who cares about any of that besides you?”

Eva continued evenly before Marta could interrupt. “You’re right. Lactose intolerance? So what?
But people love milk
even though it’s indigestible for most adults. Ice cream consumption alone is nine billion gallons a year. You’re looking at a third of a trillion-dollar-market.”

Marta broke in. She bit off each word and joined them into a staccato indictment. “I don’t care about the money. Why did I link with you in the first place? I wanted nothing to do with you once we finished the Harvard project and now I remember why that was. You remind me of Humpty Dumpty—you make words mean what you want them to mean. You say, ‘public health’ and you mean ‘get-rich scheme.’”

Eva’s voice turned flat, matching Marta’s passion with an affectless recitation. “Just listen. Have you ever known me to act without thinking? Ever? Just keep your mind open for two damn minutes.”

“Of course, it’s not a medical issue,” Eva spoke with uncharacteristic vigor. “That’s why it’s our starting point.
It’s not going to be regulated.
You’ve got to see that. We can get it to market fast and make money—a lot of money. Then we can afford to do public health. I explained all this to Jim.”

Marta shot daggers at her husband. “What else did you two talk about?”

“Give it a rest, Marta. That’s ancient history.”

Marta drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly through pursed lips. “Okay, sorry. Go on. Say your piece.”