Change Agent

  Durand opened the door and clinked around for a bit, and removed one marked with an inscrutable client code. As he stared at the AR label, it soon expanded into the image of an African man with accompanying physical stats.

  Durand held the ampoule up to the light. He could see a short needle encased in glass on the nib end. Like the old morphine injectors used in the military.

  Durand slipped the ampoule into the side pocket of his suit jacket.

  Suddenly there was the sound of a distant explosion. The ampoules in the rack in front of him shivered.

  Durand looked up. The chatter of machine gun fire followed.

  He closed the refrigerator and exited the glass-walled lab, walking calmly and turning back toward the client consultation lab.

  The staccato crackling of multiple machine guns and booms of explosions echoed over the city. A larger explosion made the floor vibrate.

  Suddenly Durand noticed several heavy-set, suited security men move into his path in the corridor ahead. He walked forward confidently—imperiously. Relying on his markings to complete his disguise. He gestured for them to get out of his way.

  Instead, they drew nonlethal weapons and aimed them at his chest. Shock devices from the look of them.

  Durand slowed to a halt. “Out of my way.”

  He heard the door to a lab behind him open, and a familiar sensation of dread came over Durand. He heard more heavy footsteps and turned to see half a dozen security men there as well, nonlethal weapons also raised.

  These men parted as the familiar uncanny sensation increased. Otto emerged from between them, wearing a charcoal suit with a red tie. His double Windsor as perfect as ever. However, he sported a slight bruise under his right eye.

  “Mr. Durand.”

  Even Durand’s newfound calm during a crisis crumbled in the enantiomorph’s presence. “False Apollo.”

  Otto’s confident expression momentarily cracked. “I have never liked that name. There is nothing false about me.”

  Distant machine gun fire rattled.

  Otto stared at Durand—and then Otto’s own tattoos faded into sight across his neck and the back of his hands.

  “Those marks don’t belong to you.”

  Durand gazed down at his own hands. The tattoos burned on his skin. He felt hatred coursing through him. “I didn’t ask for them.”

  “Nonetheless.” He stared at Durand but spoke to the guards. “Mr. Wyckes wants to see him.”

  Another distant explosion.

  The guards moved in on Durand from both directions—hitting him with shock devices before he could rush them. His muscles frozen by spasms, Durand let out a howl of rage, but a dozen sets of hands grabbed him and held him down. He was soon zip-tied.

  “Otto, I know what you are!” Durand’s face was pressed against the floor. “I know why they made you.”

  Otto said nothing.

  The security men dragged Durand away. As they emerged from the lab, he saw another group of men escorting a stone-faced Bryan Frey down the corridor. Frey’s own hands were also zip-tied behind him.

  “Bryan.”

  Frey did not respond. He stared ahead as if catatonic.

  The doors to a freight elevator opened. There was room for them all.

  Chapter 43

  The elevator doors opened onto a lavish rooftop patio area. Planted palms lined a walkway, waterfalls flowed into pools of indigo-lit water. Swarthy men in navy blazers stood nearby, weapons ready.

  Behind them, the night sky was stitched by orange and green tracers. The echo of distant gunfire. The occasional flash and delayed BOOM of an explosion.

  The security escort pulled Durand and Frey past an empty rooftop cocktail lounge, up a series of short stone steps toward a viewing platform equipped with a covered telescope. Along the steps stood eight men, four to either side. They wore tailored business suits and ran the gamut of human diversity—from Asian to African to Caucasian to Latino. They all stared as Durand and Frey were dragged past.

  Each had Huli jing tattoos running along his hands, neck, and scalp.

  When Otto walked to the top of the steps and took his place there, Durand realized these were the Nine Tails of the Huli jing.

  Standing at the railing was a man in a red sweater and slacks. Smoke curled around him as he observed the city below.

  The security guards halted and pushed Durand and Frey down to their knees.

  Frey looked miserable, with his head drooping toward the ground.

  The man at the railing turned. He was in his thirties, his face giving hints of many different ethnicities. Durand had never seen someone so resolutely . . . everything. The man’s eyes were almond shaped, but his complexion was fair. His hair was curled, but his nose aquiline. And he had a complement of Huli jing tattoos identical to Durand’s.

  The man tossed his cigar over the railing and blew out the last of the smoke.

  In the distance gunfire continued.

  The man approached Durand, unperturbed. “Now, that’s a face I haven’t seen in some time.” He looked up. “Well done, Otto. Well done as always.”

  Durand hissed, “Wyckes.”

  Wyckes leaned down some distance away, hands on his knees. “You can’t prove that.” He laughed.

  So did the Nine Tails around him.

  “But you—well. Sucks to be me.” His hands swept across the city view. “You’re just in time to see the fireworks. Seems the locals had a bit of a plan. Completely pointless, of course. As you might imagine, we have people inside their organization. We can be anyone.”

  Otto handed Wyckes a sheet of paper.

  Wyckes laughed and held it up. It was the Interpol Red Notice with Durand’s current likeness on it. “Interpol’s biometric scan made it very easy to identify you. And of course, Otto knew you were coming. So all your long journey did was cost me billions of dollars in lost equipment and business. Do you realize how many people are looking for Marcus Wyckes right now?”

  He tossed the paper aside. “Perhaps your own colleagues will identify your body.”

  “They’ll arrest you eventually, Wyckes.”

  Wyckes stared down on Durand. “Arrest whom? And why? There isn’t even a legal basis to arrest me anymore. In fact, I’m going to use your laws against you.”

  He moved around Durand. “Laws are so inflexible. Personally, I find constant, incremental change to be a tremendous advantage—both in Nature and in business. I’m surprised you’ve made such a fuss about it. I gifted you my own original DNA—I’m like a father to you.”

  Rage caused Durand to struggle to his feet and against his bonds. Unseen hands pushed him back down. Durand seethed. “I came all this way just to get your DNA out of me.”

  “Ah. You make me sad.”

  “Change me back, Wyckes!”

  “Personal transformation is very much our business, but in your particular case I’m afraid that’s not possible. It’s vital that you remain exactly the way you are. Mr. Wyckes has committed heinous crimes, and it’s important that he face justice.”

  Wyckes took notice of Bryan Frey. Frey stared far off at a remote dais on the roof. Wyckes followed Frey’s gaze toward two clawed, half-horse, half-eagle, pony-sized monstrosities growling on chains there.

  “Dr. Frey, I see you’re admiring our latest product.”

  Frey stared in utter shock. “Hippogriffs.”

  “You know your mythology.” Wyckes walked down the steps and halfway toward the beasts. “A hybrid of two distinct species. Big seller with Arab sheiks. They love these things.” Wyckes leaned over to a nearby barrel and grabbed a raw piece of meat—which he tossed toward the hippogriffs.

  The monsters shrieked and clawed at each other, fighting for the meat. Tearing it to pieces in seconds. “Unsurprisingly, they can’t fly. Ancient people had no sense of aerody
namics. Sterile. Unpredictable as hell, batshit crazy. It’s their braincase—too small. Probably in constant pain. But then, after a certain age, aren’t we all?”

  Durand shouted at the ground, “The world will put a stop to what you’re doing!”

  Wyckes laughed. “No, the world won’t, Mr. Durand. Everyone wants to reinvent themselves. In this world of mass surveillance and constant tracking, who wouldn’t want the chance to become a new person? After all, anyone of consequence has done one or two things they’d rather put behind them.”

  Wyckes walked around behind Durand, gripping his shoulder. “That’s true of you, too, I think. Isn’t it?” He leaned next to his ear. “How many people had to perish so you could be you?”

  Durand tried to pull away from Wyckes’s grip, and from the memory of the people he’d killed or caused to be killed.

  “None of this would be necessary if it wasn’t for the ubiquitous surveillance of the modern world. People used to be able to reinvent themselves the old-fashioned way—but now? Now I’m the only game in town.”

  “You’re changing people who have no choice.”

  “The slaves, you mean? Very profitable. They tell me it’s legal in some places—and soon enough elsewhere, too. And even if it isn’t, who’s to say I did it?” He thought for a moment. “In fact, I think you did it. The law will back me up on that.”

  Frey replied before Durand did. “Life without personal accountability.”

  Wyckes turned to Frey.

  Frey met his gaze. “A bit like turning the entire world into an Internet chat room, isn’t it?”

  Wyckes laughed. “Yes. Certainly the powerful will no longer have to keep apologizing for their behavior.”

  Durand gritted his teeth again. “They’re going to stop you.”

  Just then a large explosion lit up the downtown area. Gunfire crackled, followed by several more explosions.

  Wyckes walked toward the edge of the rooftop and surveyed the city. “Isn’t this a charming country? It’s uncanny how many of my close associates are blood relatives to powerful men in the unstable precincts of the world. Blood has an almost mystical power over warlord cultures.”

  Helicopter lights approached in the distance.

  Frey looked up at the approaching chopper. “I’m surprised you’re not sticking around, Wyckes. Don’t you have a squad of genetic supersoldiers to protect you?”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Dr. Frey. These attacks happen all the time. Didn’t the insurgents tell you that? And by the way: the world doesn’t care about what goes on here. That’s why this place suits us.” He surveyed the tracers arcing across the skyline. Then he turned back toward Frey. “And supersoldiers? That whole supersoldier thing is overrated. Biology is all about trade-offs. Great strength comes with great caloric and hydration requirements. And let’s face it: bullets kill elephants—so what’s the point of a supersoldier? Give me twenty thousand skinny guys with AKs. We’re making so much money, we can always buy more.

  “Speaking of money . . .” Wyckes walked up to Frey. “I should point out that, although I cannot help Mr. Durand here, you, Dr. Frey, we can certainly help. And you’ve got plenty of money on account.”

  Frey furrowed his brow. “I’d appreciate it if you did not toy with me.”

  Wyckes motioned to a nearby guard and accepted a glim from the man. Wyckes tossed it on the ground in front of Durand and Frey. Moments later a glowing thermal image of Frey expanded in front of them. It was video of the moment Frey first saw his potential genetically corrected self in the lab.

  Red colors flowed through every corner of Frey’s face in thermal view.

  “You see that, Dr. Frey? Right there. That is what joy looks like from a physiological perspective. Pure, unadulterated joy. There’s no concealing it.”

  Frey gazed longingly at the image of himself viewing himself cured.

  “You’re a genetic engineer. You can be of use to us. And what else do you have to look forward to? You are wanted everywhere in this world. We could change that.”

  Frey stared at the image for several moments more.

  “Why not make a change, Dr. Frey?”

  Frey nodded, tears running down his face. “Yes.”

  Durand felt his heart sink.

  Wyckes nodded to a guard, who lifted Frey to his feet. The sound of steel, and Frey’s zip-ties were cut free.

  “Bryan! What are you doing?” Durand glared at him.

  Frey rubbed his red wrists. “You have no right to judge me—I told you from the beginning what I wanted. Between the two of us, at least I haven’t killed anyone to get here. And thanks to you, I’m wanted by the police everywhere.” He grabbed the Interpol Notice fluttering near his feet. “Even here, apparently!”

  Durand hissed, “You know what they plan to do.”

  Frey raged at Durand. “And what exactly do you expect me to do about it? It’s not just them. It’s the tide of the world. This is what’s happening, and I can either stand in front of it and get crushed—with you—or I can get on board. Those are my only choices. And I’ve made my choice.”

  Durand slumped down.

  Frey reacted to Durand’s expression. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened to you. But that isn’t my fault. I tried. You know I tried. I risked my life for you. But what makes your life more important than mine? Or the lives of anyone else?”

  “They’re going to enslave you.”

  “The other genetic engineers didn’t look particularly miserable. And being six foot fucking two will go a long way toward relieving my depression.”

  With that, Frey nodded toward a guard who came up to him. “Good-bye, Ken. I’m truly sorry. But it’s too much for you to ask me to die with you.”

  Frey headed back toward the elevator with several guards.

  Chapter 44

  After Frey had gone, Durand knelt in despair.

  Wyckes turned to Otto. “Best not to have his body found in Myanmar. Too close to our operations.”

  Otto nodded. “I will bring him to—”

  “You won’t be leaving this facility. The ‘Angel of Death’ is still on every newsfeed. Until your face changes more, it will be difficult for you to move about.” A grin escaped. “Boy, she really gave you a shiner, didn’t she?”

  Otto didn’t laugh. “Marcotte will pay for it.”

  “I’m sure she will. But not quite yet.” Wyckes turned back to Durand but addressed the guards restraining him. “Interpol must log Marcus Wyckes as finally and truly dead.

  “His DNA must be intact. Take him anywhere rule of law holds and kill him. Toss him out of a helicopter over Hong Kong, for all I care, just make sure the police find his body. And put your eyes on his corpse. Make sure he’s dead.”

  The guards all nodded solemnly.

  A helicopter touched down on a helipad on the far end of the roof.

  Durand looked up. “Wyckes. How did False Apollo go from preventing human extinction—to this?”

  Wyckes reacted in surprise. But then he laughed. “False Apollo! My god . . .” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Durand. “That’s right. You were a bug hunter. Navy intelligence. I’m impressed you made the connection.”

  “It was intended to stop genetic terrorism.”

  “Who’s to say what its purpose was?” Wyckes shrugged. “Besides, I was just a contractor. And what would have happened to poor Otto’s people if I hadn’t been around? Who would have preserved all those embryos?”

  Durand narrowed his eyes. “What embryos?”

  “Ten thousand mirror people.” He turned to Otto.

  Otto nodded grimly.

  Durand was momentarily speechless. He finally said, “Why?”

  “Because Armageddon is getting cheaper every year, that’s why. There is a die-off coming. Billions of angry people—one of them is b
ound to do something stupid with pathogens. Otto’s people will continue the human race. You and I will go the way of the dinosaurs.”

  Wyckes nodded to the guards and rough hands pulled Durand to his feet.

  “Is that what you tell Otto, Wyckes? Or does he already know he’s obsolete?”

  “Get him out of here.”

  Durand shouted, “Otto! The change agent means that nothing can wipe out humanity anymore. Don’t you realize that? Humanity can change at will. No pathogen or virus can wipe us out!” Durand shouted even louder as they pulled him toward the helicopter, “Armageddon isn’t coming!”

  Otto stared hard after Durand.

  Wyckes moved as if to clap Otto on the shoulder—but apparently could not bring himself to do so. Instead he simply said, “He’s desperate, Otto. He’ll say anything.”

  Otto continued staring.

  Several guards dragged Durand toward the chopper. They pushed Durand aboard and climbed in after him. The chopper lifted off, heading away on the far side of the building from the fighting—racing across the eerily empty, well-lit city.

  • • •

  Durand sat, hands zip-tied, watching the city blocks roll past below. In a few minutes, they circled over a large modern airport with conspicuously little activity. The chopper descended toward the tarmac and a waiting private jet.

  Before Durand could fully realize what was happening, he was on the ground and being half dragged, half carried toward the jet, up its steps, and shoved into a comfortable leather seat. The security detail closed the door and spoke briefly with the pilots. The engines started to spool up.

  Durand stared into a mirror, set—by some cruel irony—right in his line of sight. Wyckes’s original face stared back at him, as if mocking. Durand wanted to smash his own teeth in.

  He gazed around as the security men strapped themselves into their seats in preparation for takeoff.

  It occurred to Durand that he could do more than simply wait for death.

  Durand stared back toward the mirror. He shook his head slowly as he shifted to the side to grab at the autoinjector ampoule in his jacket pocket. He started smiling—laughing, in fact, as he gazed at the reflection of Wyckes’s face.