Change Agent

  “Very good. A full sequence will be finished in four hours or so, and we’ll know how much of you is Durand and how much Wyckes.”

  Durand brooded. “You do realize that this change agent will eventually make it impossible to hold anyone responsible for anything? It will render identity meaningless.”

  “I know that commanding the tides to cease does not work. That’s what I know.”

  Durand felt ashamed that he had so readily crossed this line. It was something he’d thought he’d never do. But then something else occurred to Durand. He focused his gaze on Frey. “Why are you going with me?”

  Desai laughed. “I should think that’s obvious, Mr. Durand.”

  “I thought you were nervous about going into competition with the Huli jing?”

  “I’m not competing against the Huli jing—I’m bringing it to the Luk Krung.”

  “And you really think this Luk Krung is going to cut you in after you hand it over?”

  Frey tapped the table impatiently. “I’ll negotiate a sizable finder’s fee.”

  “Which you could do without going with me.” Durand stared at Frey. “Why are you so intent on coming along?”

  Desai frowned after a moment’s thought and turned to Frey.

  Frey still tapped the table with his fingers. Then he stopped. “Look around you, Mr. Durand. You’re not the only person who would like to make some changes. This supposed ‘change agent’ would finally allow me to address my own condition. I could finally have my achondroplasia corrected—even as an adult. I could become morphologically normative. What I want in exchange for making this introduction to the Luk Krung is to cure my condition. Which is why my presence at any meeting is mandatory. And that’s nonnegotiable.”

  Durand realized that perhaps his and Frey’s interests were aligned, after all—regardless of whether the man could be trusted. He again nodded in agreement.

  Desai leaned forward. “You’ll still request a finder’s fee, Bryan, yes? I did bring Mr. Durand to you, after all, at some considerable risk to myself.”

  Frey cast a look at Desai. “Yes—especially since your risk is not yet over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll need to figure out how to get Mr. Durand across the Thai border.”

  Durand shook his head. “I’m not climbing into that goddamn fish again.”

  Frey laughed. “I won’t even ask.”

  “Mr. Durand, Bruce has very limited range. It wouldn’t help.”

  They both looked to Frey.

  Frey shrugged. “Don’t look at me. All I send across borders is encrypted data.”

  Durand gestured. “How are you getting to Thailand?”

  “Qantas business class. I’m not a wanted man in Thailand. Meet me in Pattaya City, on the Thai coast.”

  “Pattaya City.”

  “That’s right.” Frey jotted something down on a piece of paper. “When you get there, message me at this number—no names. Do not use it more than once. Memorize the number, then destroy it. Hell, recycle it—love Mother Earth. But definitely do not keep it on your person. I don’t want any connection between you and me until you’re safely over the border.”

  “All right.” Durand examined the number. “You write like a doctor.”

  “I am a doctor.”

  Desai looked concerned. “Smuggling people isn’t what I do, Bryan. It took everything I could think of to get Mr. Durand across the Strait.”

  “Well, if you watch the news, there seem to be tens of millions of undocumented migrants on the move. Spend some money with the right people, and you should be able to get Mr. Durand to Pattaya City. That’s like smuggling someone to Las Vegas—they rather want you to be there.”

  “What right people? I don’t know human traffickers.”

  “You could get him a fake passport with sufficient investment.”

  “A false passport is not going to help Mr. Durand. He’s all over the news, and they’ve got three-dimensional scans of his head, face, everything. He can’t go through airports or border crossings.”

  Frey shrugged. “Traffickers it is, then. Ask your smuggler friends. They must know somebody. Offer a 100 percent bonus once our friend reaches Thailand safely. That will incentivize whoever takes him to make sure he arrives safely.”

  “And who will pay for that?”

  “Consider it an investment, Rad. After all, I’m the one putting my neck on the line to meet with a criminal element in Thailand.”

  Desai leaned in. “Perhaps I should go with you as well?”

  Frey shook his head. “My contacts are my contacts, Rad. Certainly you don’t anticipate that I’d cheat you?”

  Desai said nothing in reply.

  Frey scowled. “What do you know about me?”

  Desai considered the question. “That you are a highly talented, undisciplined genetic engineer who consistently overpromises and underdelivers. That you eventually wear out your welcome in whatever country you find yourself, and must eventually flee upset clients.”

  “But I do deliver. Maybe not precisely what the client wanted or when . . . but I deliver.”

  Desai nodded reluctantly. “Yes. Yes, you do.”

  “Good. Then you and I will be equal partners in whatever results. Are we agreed?”

  With some hesitation Desai finally extended his hand.

  They shook on it.

  Durand sighed in irritation. “Already dividing the spoils, I see.”

  “Yes, and after you take advantage of this technology for your personal gain, I’m sure you’ll see it declared illegal.” Frey leaned back in his chair. “Now for god’s sake, get Mr. Durand out of here—and use the rear exit. I’ve no doubt that the management of this establishment—and possibly others—recognized Mr. Durand on the way in.”

  Desai shook his head. “I don’t think any of them would be foolish enough to betray the Huli jing, Bryan.”

  “Regardless. Keep him out of sight and get him to Thailand.”

  Desai grimaced. “I’ll figure it out.”

  Frey raised his absinthe glass. “I will next see you in Pattaya City, Mr. Durand. Safe travels.”

  Chapter 18

  A pounding noise roused Durand. He rolled onto his side. He lay on a sofa in a living room that seemed familiar—though it was new to him.

  The sound came again. Boom. Boom-boom.

  Durand looked up to see Mia. She was just a toddler in a purple jumper embroidered with dinosaurs. She stood on a stuffed chair on the far side of the room, pounding a wooden spoon on an African djembe drum that stood as decoration in the corner.

  Boom-boom-boom.

  Durand rubbed his face, awaking from a nap. “Mia. Honey.”

  Boom. Boom-boom-boom.

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “Mia, sweetie. Please stop.”

  Boom-boom-boom.

  Durand’s head cleared, and suddenly he realized he wasn’t in a living room at all.

  Mia was nowhere to be seen. A spartan microtel room surrounded him. He leaned up to see an intimidating stranger’s reflection in the mirror on the far wall—just a meter from the foot of his bed.

  Reality came rushing back to him. But the pounding sound remained.

  Boom-boom-boom.

  Durand looked to the microtel room door. Someone was beating on it.

  Durand sat up. The dream had left him with devastating homesickness. He thought about Miyuki and Mia. About his mother. His brother and sister back in Colorado, too. About his friends. His colleagues. What were they doing about his disappearance? He knew the authorities were searching for him, but did they already believe he was dead? He couldn’t imagine what that would do to his little girl. Or to his wife.

  And how long would it take for someone to find the note he’d left in his flat?

 
The pounding on the door came again. Boom-boom-boom.

  Durand glanced up at blackout curtains. He had no idea what time it was—or even what day it was. A glowing red clock face in the darkness told him it was 7:22 something. Morning? Night?

  Boom-boom-boom.

  Durand took a deep breath. He felt more rested than he had since this had all begun. He noticed daylight under the door and could see the shadow of two feet shifting impatiently. It was morning, then. He must have slept about twelve hours. He wasn’t even undressed.

  Durand went to the curtain and peered through. Desai was out front preparing to pound on the door again. The man held a plastic bag and a cardboard tray of takeout coffee. Durand opened the door and stepped aside.

  Desai entered quickly, locking the door behind him. “Ko ni lubang pantat betul, lah. I’ve been hammering on the door for five minutes.”

  “I was asleep.”

  “More like a second coma.”

  Durand stretched and looked in the mirror. He noticed that the majority of his bruises seemed to have faded in the night.

  “Well, you look better, at any rate.” Desai peered through the door’s peephole warily. Satisfied, he turned and offered a coffee cup and a plastic bag sealed with a strip of raffia. “I bring refreshment.”

  Durand grabbed the bag, tearing it open. “Excellent. Roti canai. Thank you.” He dipped the grilled flaky flatbread into a container of lamb curry that came with it—then paused. “Is this deathless?”

  Desai raised an eyebrow. “You’re a degan? You surprise me, Mr. Durand. But yes, it is cultured lamb.”

  Durand tucked in and spoke with an overstuffed mouth. “Thank you.” He chewed noisily.

  “Go slow. Your system might still be in distress.”

  Durand suddenly realized that the food tasted odd to him. He slowed his chewing.

  “What?”

  “This doesn’t taste right.”

  “It’s from the best mamak stall in Johor, man.”

  Durand smelled the curry again. “Oh god . . .”

  Desai snapped his fingers. “I’ll bet your taste buds have changed, too. That must be it.”

  Durand closed his eyes. “When will this end?”

  “Fascinating. You must have the taste buds of this Wyckes fellow. Things you once enjoyed may no longer be palatable to you—or at least they may taste differently.”

  “Yeah. Fascinating.” Durand resumed eating. He was just too hungry. Roti canai was among his favorites, but this simply tasted okay. Even that small pleasure had been robbed from him.

  “Arrangements have been made.”

  “How and where?” Durand opened the coffee lid and scowled at the contents. “This isn’t coffee.”

  “Soya cincau—you Americans call it a ‘Michael Jackson,’ soy milk with little strands of grass jelly.”

  “Whatever. Maybe Wyckes will like it . . .” Durand took a sip. To his consternation, he did like it.

  “There’s an autonomous hire car waiting in the alley out back, to take you north.”

  “A car? To Thailand? That’s at least a thousand kilometers.”

  “It’s two thousand to Pattaya City, but the car is just to the state of Kelantan here in Malaysia. There you’ll be hidden in a truck by smuggler friends of mine and smuggled over the border.”

  “I won’t get that far. Hire cars have interior cameras. Facial recognition. I won’t get out of Johor.”

  Desai patted him on the back. “This isn’t Singapore, Mr. Durand. The car service is owned by smugglers. This car makes a trip up the coast a couple times a week. There’ll be some contraband in the panels, but that’s the price of pseudonymous travel.”

  Still eating, he cast an annoyed look at Desai. “Don’t even start with me, Rad.”

  “Custom plant embryos in cryo. Nothing to be overly concerned about.”

  “I’m trying to avoid the police, not attract them.”

  “Smugglers make their living with the cooperation of the police. This way you’re just another mule among many. Your journey will arouse no suspicion.”

  Durand considered this. “What did you tell your smuggler friends about me?”

  “Only that I’ve a shipment and an associate willing to go along with it. It saves them the trouble of finding a mule. Empty hire cars on long-distance runs are routinely stolen.”

  Durand tossed the bag in the trash as he finished the roti canai. “Why not a boat across the Gulf of Thailand like all these refugees? A straight shot.”

  “The Gulf is risky. And I have no contacts with human traffickers.”

  “Still, the Malaysian peninsula is crawling with climate refugees. The southern provinces of Thailand are under martial law. Muslim separatists. Bombings. There are military checkpoints. It’s not exactly a Sunday drive.”

  “It’s not a war. It’s just a ‘zone of heightened security,’ is all. Thai soldiers are looking for terrorists, not smugglers. Which is why they accept bribes. You’ll be on the back of a military truck all through Southern Thailand.”

  Durand contemplated this. “How many days?”

  “Two. Three at most.”

  Durand had to admit that it sounded like a reasonable plan. He stood. “What’s in the other bag?”

  “Oh . . .” Desai opened the bag he held in his hand and produced a theatrical-quality hairpiece with dramatic sideburns. “I thought it best to alter your appearance. I’ve a friend who works for a low-budget film studio near here.”

  Durand went to the mirror and tried on the hairpiece. He turned this way and that. He resembled a Eurasian Clint Eastwood. Desai passed him a false mustache and a container of spirit gum.

  “Really? A mustache.”

  “You want to look as different as possible to casual inspection.”

  Durand used the spirit gum to affix the mustache and then slipped on the mirror glasses Desai had given him the day before. Looking at his reflection, he now resembled a Bollywood action hero. “Won’t fool near-infrared facial recognition systems.”

  “Of which there are few to zero in rural Malaysia.”

  “Nor is it likely to fool the police.”

  “Then don’t talk to any.”

  • • •

  Stepping out into the morning heat, Desai led Durand around the side of the prefab microtel to an alley where a budget autonomous car was parked. The humidity—even this early—was stifling. A fetid stew of odors emanated from nearby overflowing dumpsters. It was gag-inducing. Crowds of Bangladeshi and Burmese immigrants lucky enough to have found illegal employment walked through the alley on their way to work.

  Desai extended his hand to bump bitrings with a preteen kid who was sitting on the car—apparently watching it. With that the kid scurried off. “Here we are.”

  Durand examined a blue grown-shell chitin car wedged in with a row of other poorly parked vehicles—part of the haphazard pattern of life in Johor. The car was a two-seater—a popular low-budget model called a Shrimp (because the body was grown from the same chitinous material as shrimp shells). Painting them wasn’t necessary since they were grown with their shells in many colors. Lightweight. Strong. Eventually biodegradable. This one was blue with a mother-of-pearl iridescence and OLED headlamps.

  Desai waved a prepaid credit fob to unlock it, and then handed the fob to Durand, who climbed inside. Glancing around, he saw no one taking any notice of them. But then, almost everyone in the city seemed to be from somewhere else.

  Desai handed Durand a new phablet device. “Take this—and give me that old one.”

  Durand hesitated. “Why?”

  “Because I’ve loaded a substantial amount into a digital wallet on this one. You can access the funds here.” He pointed. “For god’s sake, secure it with a passkey. I’ve given you far more money than you’ll need just in case anything
goes wrong. But I expect to be paid back.”

  Durand handed over the junkie’s phablet and took the new one.

  “I can also track that device in a pinch if I need to—although I’m going to avoid that if at all possible. I’m not keen on being linked to you.”

  Durand nodded.

  Desai offered his hand. “I wish you luck in returning to your former self, Mr. Durand.”

  Durand took Desai’s hand and shook it. “I appreciate your help, Rad. I really do.”

  “If you succeed, remember: we could convert this live editing technology into billions of American dollars. The three of us. Literally billions, Mr. Durand. Imagine retiring young to your own compound.”

  Durand stared coldly for a moment—then smiled tightly. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  Desai shut the door. He saluted, then merged into the foot traffic passing around the Shrimp.

  Durand looked at the vehicle number on the front visor and spoke to the car without taking his eyes off Desai. “Comcar 6362, start current journey.”

  A synthetic voice with a male Indian accent said in English, “Commencing journey from . . . Johor Bahru to . . . Endau. Estimated travel time, two hours and nineteen minutes, charged to your Sinco card. Please relax and enjoy your journey. You can request to pull over at any time by announcing ‘Unscheduled Stop.’ Stops will incur extra charges.”

  A digital map appeared on a cheap video sticker screen adhered (slightly crooked) to the car’s dashboard. No light field projectors here. The interior was as low-budget as they came.

  The car began to roll forward, lightly honking its horn to alert the undocumented workers to make way.

  Advertisements started playing on the map screen almost immediately. There was no mute button.

  • • •

  The tiny, bulbous Shrimp car cruised among other autonomous and manually driven cars and trucks on the AH18, headed north and out of the dense urban sprawl of Johor. Morning rush hour was a mix of crowded autonomous buses, a few Shrimp cars like his own, and colorful dump trucks and freight haulers—most still diesel.