Change Agent

  Glancing at the shower, Durand decided there was no time like the present.

  He took a long, hot soak, and felt relief cascade over him. He hurt all over, and the burn in particular was giving him trouble, but there was nothing like being home.

  Once out of the shower, he glanced in the mirror at this new body. He’d never been physically intimidating—Durand had more of a runner’s physique—but he now had a substantial chest, brawny arms, and a thick neck. He looked like some Eurasian middleweight wrestler. Looking more closely at his face, he was still amazed that his ethnicity had been changed. He was part Asian now.

  He turned forward and back and could find no trace of the massive array of tattoos that had reappeared on him just minutes before. Strange. But then, that was the least strange thing that had happened to him lately.

  He took out a first aid kit. The Naval Academy had drilled organization into him until it was habit. Durand knew where everything was in his flat, and it was well organized. He treated his burn with a synbio skin spray, then dressed his other wounds as best he could.

  Looking back into the mirror, he was glad he was bald. He didn’t want to see what Wyckes’s hair would look like. From the shadow of growth forming, it was probably going to be black. His own hair was a dusty brown.

  Durand entered the walk-in closet and could see that a portion of his wife’s wardrobe was gone, along with her luggage. Durand couldn’t help but wonder what her plan was. To get out of here for now, certainly, but what then?

  He contemplated what he would have done if the reverse had happened—if one day his wife suddenly went missing. He realized it would consume him—even as he would have to care for Mia’s well-being, too. He decided his wife had it tougher than he did right now.

  Durand moved aside some of his suits. He felt closer to his real identity again, touching the synthetic gabardine, but felt a pang of melancholy when he discovered his dress shirts no longer fit—too narrow in the neck and shoulders.

  Durand glanced at Nelson, who was shadowing him. He rubbed the cat under the chin. “Looks like we’re going casual.”

  He put on one of his looser-fitting tracksuits and a pristine Colorado Rockies baseball hat.

  Lastly, Durand went to the bureau dresser, where he took the family photo out of its frame. He examined the precious image of his wife, daughter, and finally his real self.

  He would get back to his family—and to himself. He folded the photo and slipped it into his pocket. Durand then went into his wife’s office and took one of her old-timey ink pens and quality vellum from a drawer where he knew she kept them. He glanced admiringly at her handwriting on a note there. It was something she did that he had always adored. Her writing was feminine and yet so confident—bold, graceful strokes.

  His own handwriting was childish and crude—but then, he was a technology guy. As Durand lifted the pen, he wondered if his wife (or anyone) actually had a sample of his handwriting with which to confirm the authenticity of this note.

  Durand placed the tip of the pen on paper, took a breath, and then wrote the following:

  Dearest Miyuki and Mia,

  I am alive and safe for now—but as you probably guessed, I’m on the run from very bad people. You must stay away from home and in protective custody—preferably back in the United States. Ask Claire and Michael for help if you need it. Please tell my mother, brother, and sister that I love them. Do not try to look for me. I promise you, I will come back to you both. You are all that I live for.

  Your loving husband and father,

  Kenneth Durand

  Durand left the note against the empty photo frame in the bedroom. With one last look at the stranger in his own bedroom mirror, he pointed at his reflection.

  “I’m coming for you, asshole.”

  With that, he exited his flat, and hoped it wasn’t for the last time.

  Chapter 16

  Now equipped with proper exercise clothes, Kenneth Durand flipped up his hoodie and jogged as though he intended to work up a sweat in the humid heat.

  The Singapore police were still looking for him, of course, but he knew where he needed to go. It was only a kilometer away. Durand aimed for the north waterfront and the line of farming towers covered in greenery. As he drew closer to the massive structures, he noticed aggie drones flitting around them like bees pollinating flowers.

  The exterior of the towers was mostly public relations—displaying walls of flowering plants and supporting bee populations. But the real business was inside—highly productive, automated, aquaponic urban agriculture. Plants not visible from out here.

  Soaked with sweat from his jog, Durand walked with an easy confidence toward the loading dock at the back of Farm Tower Four. It was owned by a company named Agriville—its logo a stylized flowering tree. Durand passed autonomous trucks and vans carrying racks of produce to local markets.

  He nodded to a security guard in a shack near the rear gate. “Headed in to see Mr. Desai.”

  “Very well, please sign in, sir.” He presented a ruggedized thirty-year-old tablet for Durand to sign.

  Durand tapped in a random name on the visitor form and handed the device back. “I know where it is.” He pushed through, and the bored security guard didn’t object. Instead the man went back to watching something on a light field device.

  Durand knew the route inside well enough, and he knew how to act among the very few human workers on the ground floor. He moved immediately toward a shipping clerk’s office and reached inside the open doorway. Without looking, he pulled a yellow composite hard hat from a rack next to the door. He also grabbed an ID badge on a lanyard from an unlocked locker and looped it around his neck. The photo on it distracted him momentarily—it showed his old self above the name Martin Peele.

  Durand then grabbed a work tablet and headed toward the large freight elevators. Autonomous forklifts moved pallets of produce to and fro, their warning lights flashing. He entered the elevator and watched as the button panel turned green to show he had access. Durand tapped the button for the seventy-fifth floor.

  As the open elevator car rose, he saw floor after floor of purplish light illuminating endless racks of lush, highly diverse plants. Purple was a frequency of artificial sunlight alien to human eyes, but divine to plants. Here, Agriville grew produce to order for restaurants and markets all over the city, with the entire operation managed by a data-driven logistics system. Each row and each shelf might grow a hundred different plants for a dozen different clients. Or a single client. Specialized, track-mounted robots managed seed retrieval, planting, germination, and plant care.

  As the floors zoomed past, Durand saw only one or two human beings moving about—monitoring autonomous operations mostly. On the whole, the entire facility and the surrounding towers just like it were almost completely automated. Not many people necessary, really. That created opportunities for the more enterprising.

  Durand glanced back at the impressive skyline behind him—Johor Bahru across the Strait. Autonomous ships plied the water. Security drones patrolled the coast. He had no doubt the search for Wyckes was still in full swing—that they were expecting Wyckes to flee the country. To get back to his people.

  The elevator came to a stop with a loud musical tone that could be heard halfway across the rack-filled floor. Durand exited and moved with purpose along the wide aisle at the head of the racks, glancing at the numbers.

  At aisle forty-two, he turned in, squeezing past several robots that rolled past on rails built into the shelving. They sprayed water, pruned leaves, and searched for blights and parasites with microscopic care.

  Durand walked a hundred meters to the end of the aisle, where he saw a cage door with no markings. He approached with his head down, eyes on the ruggedized tablet, knowing full well there was a camera watching the doorway. As he reached the gate, he raised his ID badge up to the lens.
br />   The gate clicked open and Durand pushed through. The metal cage slammed behind him as he slipped next through a fire-rated security door marked with a biohazard symbol and the text “Danger” in multiple languages.

  Durand entered a space where classical music played on hidden speakers. As the door eased shut behind him, he surveyed a sprawling laboratory where white lab robots holding racks of microtubes rolled past on rubber wheels. Centrifuges whirred, their payloads a blur. Cooling fans of DNA-sequencing machines hummed. This place was noticeably cleaner and more technical than elsewhere in the building.

  Durand walked past flowering plants growing in the shape of company logos or broad tropical leaves bearing advertising slogans. He nudged past another potted plant bearing juice boxes as fruit, replete with branded packaging, scan codes, and ingredients listed on their biodegradable skin.

  This was, in fact, an illegal embryo-editing lab—albeit one for making illegal edits to plants.

  Staring via LFP glasses into the virtual screen of an advanced-looking microscope, Malaysian geneticist Radheya Desai sat on a lab stool, his back to Durand. The man was slightly overweight, balding, and wore a white lab coat. Without turning, Desai held up a rubber-gloved hand. “Marty. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  The classical music continued to play.

  Durand cleared his throat and tossed his hard hat onto a nearby counter. “Rad, I need your help.”

  Desai turned in alarm, his face registering fear at the sight of this burly stranger in his lab. “Shit.” He killed the music with a wave of his hand. In the silence he glanced over at a wall-mounted alarm button several meters away.

  Durand moved to interpose himself between Desai and the alarm.

  The geneticist held up his hands. “You do know whose lab this is, right?”

  “Just listen.” Durand approached Desai and pulled the LFP glasses off his face. “No phone calls, either.”

  Desai held up his hands. “Okay. Okay.” He pointed to Durand’s ID badge. “What happened to Marty?”

  Durand pointed to a lab stool. “Sit down, and I’ll go over it.”

  Desai looked around for some way to call help. “Look, I can pay. Whatever gang you’re with, agreements can be struck. We’re businessmen, here.”

  “I’m not here to shake you down.”

  “How did you even know this lab was here and what to—”

  “Just calm down.”

  Desai was starting to hyperventilate. “I support my entire extended family. Okay? I’ve got kids. Nephews, nieces. Aunts, uncles. Grandparents. I—”

  Desai swept a metal tray off the counter toward Durand—and then made a run for the opposite end of the lab.

  Durand deflected the tray with his arm. Angry at the pain, he sprinted after Desai, his baseball cap flying off as he caught up to the fifty-year-old scientist with ease. Durand grabbed Desai by the collar and pulled him up sharply—shoving him back against the long lab counter and cabinets, rattling glass vials and beakers. “Would you calm down, goddamnit? I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to ask for your help.”

  Desai’s eyes went wide, and he suddenly looked more amazed than afraid. “Oh my god.”

  Durand looked up at his own reflection in the glass cabinet just behind Desai. His complement of tattoos was reappearing, arching across his scalp, neck, and hands. Apparently the sudden pain of getting hit with the metal tray had set it off. He looked menacing as hell—scowling with a bruised face and bloodshot eyes. He tried to soften his expression, but it was difficult.

  Desai stared closely. “What is that?” He straightened and held up his hands in a gesture of reconciliation. “My apologies. Apologies. My god—they’re getting darker.” Desai laughed in spite of himself. “Those are amazing.”

  Durand released Desai, who immediately tried to touch Durand’s face. Durand swatted his plump hands away. “Never mind the tattoos. I’m here for a different reason.”

  “But those are incredible. That synbio IP is worth more than this entire lab.”

  “I came here because you’re an informant for Interpol.”

  Desai suddenly went back into panic mode again. “Whoa! I don’t have any contact with Interpol, my friend. I swear to you. I am completely—”

  Durand grabbed Desai by his lab coat lapels once more. “Would you shut up? I’m trying to tell you something.”

  Desai fell silent, but Durand could feel the man shaking.

  “I’m not asking you whether you’re an informant. I know you are.”

  “No, I promise.”

  Durand pounded the counter. “Shut up!”

  Desai fell silent again.

  He jabbed a thick finger into the man’s face. “You are Radheya Desai, black market geneticist. You work for Pinjab, but you are a police informant.”

  Desai shook his head.

  “Your handlers are Ling Ho and Martin Peele—aliases for agents with Interpol’s Genetic Crime Division.”

  “No, no—”

  “I know this because I’m the man you know as Martin Peele.” Durand held up his ID badge, with the photo of Kenneth Durand on it, along with his alias name.

  Desai glanced at the two different faces. “I don’t understand.”

  Durand released his grip on the man’s coat. “Neither do I. That’s why I need your help.”

  “You look nothing like Martin Peele—if I even knew a Martin Peele. Which I do not.”

  “Rad, I instructed the Singapore police to raid this facility in March of last year. Since then, you’ve been passing me intelligence on chemical compounds, holding companies, and shipping addresses for embryo clinic suppliers.”

  Desai shook his head vigorously. “We don’t edit human embryos here.”

  “I know you don’t. But DNA is the same across all species. You use a lot of the same precursor materials as human embryo mills. Your usefulness to me is the only reason the SPF tolerates your existence.”

  Desai now looked grim-faced. “Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s pretend that was true. What do you want from me . . . ‘Mr. Peele’?”

  Durand got right into Desai’s face. “Someone edited my DNA. I think that someone was Marcus Wyckes—the leader of the Huli jing. You’ve heard of the Huli jing, right?”

  Desai nodded.

  “I need your help.”

  Durand was expecting more resistance, but instead Desai simply put a rubber-gloved hand to his mouth. “Wow . . .”

  Durand observed Desai warily.

  “The Huli jing edited your DNA.”

  Durand nodded.

  “You do realize that’s impossible—to edit a living, breathing organism. The changes would—”

  “Yes. I know. The template wouldn’t match. The organism would die before— I know all that. And yet apparently the Huli jing’s bioengineers figured out a way.”

  Desai just stood shaking his head slowly. “I still—”

  “Five weeks ago they injected me in the middle of a crowd of commuters. I woke up yesterday as a John Doe in an intensive care unit. Apparently the transformation happened while I was in a coma. They said I was all swelled up.”

  Desai considered this. He gestured toward Durand’s tattoos. “And those?”

  Durand examined his arm. “Whatever these are appeared at the same time. I don’t even know why they come and go. They seem to be linked to my emotional state.”

  Desai motioned tentatively. “May I see your arm?”

  “Sure.” Durand warily extended his arm onto the counter as Desai grabbed a head-mounted magnifying glass from a nearby shelf.

  “We’ll go old-school since you’ve taken my LFPs . . .”

  Desai peered closely at Durand’s skin. The tattoos were beginning to fade right before their eyes. “Remarkable. This is remarkable work.” He looked up. “May I
put your arm under my microscope, Mr. Peele?”

  Durand nodded.

  “I will need my LFP glasses. They’re linked to the device—but I assure you”—he held up his hand—“I will not misuse its connection. I simply want to confirm what I’m seeing.”

  Durand glowered but then passed the LFP glasses lying on the counter over to Desai. “I’m not in the mood for any tricks.”

  Desai put them on, and they both moved over to the sophisticated microscope.

  Looking gleeful, Desai removed samples he already had in place and expanded the viewing area. He motioned, and Durand eased his hand into place beneath its lens. “Palm down on the counter, please. There. Be still.” He examined the virtual imagery in his glasses. “What have we here . . . ?” He gasped. “My, my, my . . .” He looked up and smiled in genuine amazement.

  “What do you see?”

  “I did not think it possible. What year were you born?”

  “Two thousand ten.”

  He waved it away. “Of course, of course, way too old to have received these edits in vitro. CRISPR didn’t even exist then. Somehow you have specialized cells known as chromatophores seamlessly woven into your skin. My microscope just confirmed their structure.”

  “What are they?”

  “You could think of them as genetic tattoos. They appear identical in structure to that of a chameleon—the topmost layer transparent with subsequent layers containing various pigments; xanthophores for yellow, erythrophores for red, cyanophores for blue, melanophores for brown—you get the idea. In a chameleon the colors are locked away in tiny vesicles so they don’t normally appear. But they react to the central nervous system and are sensitive to chemicals in the bloodstream, making their colors visible when under duress or—”

  “Excitement. Emotion.”

  “Precisely. Mood. Most people think the color changes of a chameleon are for camouflage, but they’re actually to convey information to enemies and potential mates. Fascinating creatures, really.”