Vigilantes (2 page)

Fortunately, today’s suit had no breaches. Yet.

After he’d put the suit on, he’d followed Muñoz into next part of the wing. Again, he was confronted with doors. And they had another layer of security. The manual had told him why: once he got assigned to one section, he couldn’t move into another section without a promotion or being accompanied by a supervisor.

These doors were labeled only on the internal links provided to the Collections staff. The labels spread across his vision in red, except for the one he was allowed to enter, which was green.

He had been assigned to the Dangerous Criminal Division. He would be one step above glorified prison guard here. The Dangerous Criminal DNA needed protection against cloning services. This division stored all of the collected material from mass murderers, serial rapists, and other very famous criminals. Nothing could leave this section because of the rampant identity theft that had started up two decades ago.

Some cloning companies, both legal and illegal, had started selling designer criminal clones—and not just as fast-grow clones, which couldn’t think for themselves. There was a disturbing trend in creating regular criminal clones and attempting to raise them in an environment that would make them into the same kind of criminal that their original had been.

Stott didn’t mind starting here. In fact, he was intrigued. Because in addition to his guard duties, he would be studying the DNA to answer a question that science had gone back and forth on since DNA was discovered: was criminality in the genes or was it just a product of environment and upbringing?

After hundreds of years of study, the answer still eluded everyone.

Stott took a deep breath, then coughed at the flood of pure oxygen into his lungs. He never used pure oxygen when he wore an environmental suit. He quickly changed the mix to something closer to Earth standard (even though he had never lived on Earth).

Muñoz watched him. Maybe she could see his hesitation. Or maybe his coughing unnerved her.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

Stott was glad she hadn’t asked if he had changed his mind, because he wasn’t sure how he would answer her honestly, not with his skin still stinging from those showers.

He glanced at the red-labeled doors.
Biohazard
,
Mixed Species
,
Experimental
, and
Unknown
. Those were only the doors he could see. He knew that another section had even more doors.

Most of the work on this side was done with 100 percent human DNA except in the Mixed Species area, where experimenters tried to see if different DNA were compatible. Corporations were doing the same thing, and much of the study in Mixed Species was of creatures that were nonviable or had been confiscated from some of the larger companies.

That division intrigued him, as well.

“Mr. Stott?” Muñoz asked him. “Are you all right?”

He nodded.

She ran through the five layers of security on the
Dangerous Criminals
door, and then it slid open. She walked in first. He followed slowly, half expecting a temperature change like he felt when he walked into the lab he’d been promoted out of.

But of course he couldn’t feel one; he worked in an environmental suit now.

And that was the only visible difference in setup. Work stations spread across the center of the room. Lab equipment was through a windowed door toward the back.

And the DNA was stored in various compartments built into the walls. The labels were funneled through his links, and all were in red. He was on probationary status: he wouldn’t have access to any of the criminal DNA for another year—unless given to him by a supervisor for analysis.

The only difference in this entire area from the lab he’d previously worked in was a small, round case built into the center of a pillar to the left of the door. That case had a double helix imprisoned within. He could see at a glance that this wasn’t an artistic rendering of a double helix: it actually belonged to someone.

“What’s that?” Stott asked Muñoz.

“A reminder for the humans in the room,” she said. Her answer startled him.

“There are aliens working here?” he asked.

“In this division, yes,” she said. “Criminals aren’t just human.”

“I thought the designer criminal clone phenomenon was human only,” Stott said.

She shook her head, her lips turned downward. “I wish,” she said.

Then her eyes narrowed, and met his. She seemed suddenly cool toward him.

“I know you haven’t worked with other species in your years here,” she said. “Was that by choice or circumstance?”

This was his chance to get out of the assignment. He had a split second to answer. If he answered honestly, he could avoid the eight daily showers. But he would either be stuck in that lower-level position forever, overseeing and testifying, or he would have to leave and work for a corporation, which was a hell of a lot riskier.

If he wanted to use his degree—and his brains—he would be better off here.

“Circumstance,” Stott lied. “I’ve had very little contact with other species since I left school, so I was surprised.”

Muñoz nodded. He wasn’t sure if she believed him, so he moved the conversation forward.

“You said this image was a reminder for the humans in the room?” he asked.

She crossed her arms and moved closer to the pillar. She studied the double helix for a moment, as if it spoke to her. Then she turned to him.

“You’re inside now, so you get a new level of security clearance. Before you leave, you’ll get a chip that’ll go in your elbow.”

“Not my hand?” he asked. That’s where most people wore their chips. The chips were so tiny as to be almost impossible to see (unless someone enhanced theirs as a fashion statement), but people seemed comforted by the chip’s proximity.

“No one puts chips in elbows,” she said. “So, if someone wanted to steal your security clearance, they wouldn’t find the chip easily—unless they made you talk.”

He shuddered. That would happen? Someone would try to steal his clearance?

She clearly saw the question on his face. “No one has tried for nearly fifty years,” she said. “But we remain vigilant.”

“I asked about the image,” he said, nodding toward that clear case, “and that prompted you to mention a chip.”

“Because, when you receive the chip, you’ll be able to read all the labels in this room, not just the level-one labels. And this one is of particular significance to humans.” Muñoz touched the edge of the case, as if she could reach inside it. “This double helix shows us everything we need to know about the physical make-up of PierLuigi Frémont.”

Stott frowned for a moment. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

And then he did. He’d heard about Frémont as a cautionary tale. Poor boys, like Stott had been, were considered prime targets for deluded messianic leaders like Frémont. Frémont had committed genocide, eliminating his followers in not one but three different attempts at starting his own colony.

Stott couldn’t remember if Frémont had been a religious fanatic or not, and doubted it mattered. Frémont was used as an example of the bad things that human beings could do if left to their own devices.

He wanted to ask if Frémont was truly an evil genius but wasn’t sure how Muñoz would take the question. Instead, Stott asked, “Is there anything in the DNA that later predicted Frémont’s behavior?”

“Good question,” Muñoz said. “In the twenty-five years since his death, the answer has changed more than once.”

She nodded toward the labs.

“Every now and then, someone in this division suggests slow-growing a batch of baby Frémonts, raising them differently from each other, and seeing which one of them ends up like the original. I’m sure you can understand the folly in the suggestion?”

Was this another test? If so, it caught him by surprise.

“If they phrase the purpose of the experiment the way you just did,” he said, “then they’ll skew the experiment to get the results they want.”

She smiled at him, as if he had just become her very best student ever.

“And that’s why this division doesn’t ever do that kind of experimentation,” she said.

But something in her tone caught him. If this division didn’t do that kind of experimentation, did that mean another division did?

Stott wasn’t going to ask. Not on his first day at this new job. But he stored the question for later.

If those teams existed, he wondered how hard it would be to join one. How many years of experience would he need in this division to get there? Or would he need to move his way through the other divisions, from
Biohazard
to
Mixed Species
and beyond?

He felt giddy. He had made the right decision after all.

His future was here.

He could use his abilities, grow, and become the person he had always wanted to be.

For the first time since he had been a child, he would be doing something useful. He might even make a discovery that would save lives.

Which was something he needed to do.

TWELVE DAYS AFTER THE PEYTI CRISIS

THREE

TORKILD ZHU STOPPED half a block away from Sevryn’s, and waited as two cops walked through the door. His stomach twisted. The day before, cops had assaulted him in that deli, deliberately pouring hot soup and some lemony drink all over him.

No one had defended him. The owner had actually thrown Zhu out as if it had all been his fault.

He wanted to go back in now and say something. He’d been turning it over and over in his mind ever since it happened. And what he wanted to say was this: He was as entitled to eat somewhere as those cops were. Hadn’t they ever done something difficult for their jobs?

But he wasn’t that tough, except in a courtroom. Defending someone else. Using his brain.

The moment he got to the point where he had to defend himself, particularly physically, he was the quiet kid in school all over again. The one who thought of the good lines
after
the fighting was over. The one who curled up into a fetal position whenever the bullies went after him.

He ran a hand through his dark hair. He kept it neatly trimmed now, just like he wore actual silk suits, paid for by his employers, the exclusive law firm of Schnable, Shishani & Salehi. S
3
, as everyone called it, made more money than Zhu could even imagine.

Other people dressed well on this street. The problem was that the ones who went to work early weren’t the well-dressed ones, but the ones heading to jobs that required uniforms.

Like cops.

Zhu sighed and adjusted the suit. It fit perfectly. Some employee of the clothing company that S
3
used had arrived at the office to confirm the measurements the holo system had sent. Probably because Zhu had lost so much weight in the last year. He suspected the company was making certain that the person who ordered the clothes was entitled to the clothes.

He was entitled to a lot through S
3
—or, at least, he had been.

He’d been a junior partner with the firm for nearly a decade, and six months ago he had nearly been fired. He’d left the S
3
offices to come home to the Moon, and had drunk himself silly. He’d expected to be out of a job.

Instead, it turned out that he was the only S
3
lawyer on the Moon when the Peyti Crisis occurred.

He went from being a sloppy about-to-be-fired drunk to running a branch of S
3
in the space of a few hours.

Of course, the price had been his soul.

The price in the law was always someone’s soul. Same old story, told since the law became a profession. Zhu had a moment of clarity right after his boss, Rafael Salehi, contacted him. Zhu could either stand by his principles and starve to death (or take some humiliating job for someone of his education and intelligence) or he could get filthy rich by representing thugs, killers, and mass murderers.

Zhu had said no initially. But his spine was wobbly. He’d changed his mind within an hour.

He was now representing
all
of the Peyti clones, the ones who had caused the Peyti Crisis. At least until Salehi got here, which would be Any Day Now.

Then Zhu could become a glorified office manager if that was what he wanted. Or at least, he could go back to being a junior partner instead of the guy who answered all the stupid questions that the staff was asking.

The thick yellow light of Dome Daylight covered the center of the street, missing the corner by a few meters. This part of Armstrong had a brand new dome (brand new, as of a few years ago), and its Dome Daylight program was more sophisticated than in other areas of the city. The daylight moved across the dome, mimicking the way that sunlight moved on Earth.