Change Agent

  “Interesting. Your CV says you spent eight years with US Naval Intelligence—hunting down gene-drive bioweapons. Why’d you leave?”

  Durand felt an emotional scar itch somewhere deep. “I can’t discuss that.”

  Yi interjected, “Ken did his share, Inspector.”

  Marcotte relented. “Of course. In any event, it’s Interpol’s gain. Mr. Durand, your group has achieved more against the Huli jing in the past six months than the rest of Interpol combined. You’ve seriously hampered their lab network.”

  Durand nodded. “Good.”

  “Your success is one reason I’ve come. I’d like you to focus your data-mining skills on the effort to locate Marcus Wyckes.”

  Durand exchanged looks with Yi, then Belanger. Then he looked back to Marcotte. “We find criminal activity, not individuals.”

  “My task force wants to stop human trafficking, and you want to stop genetic crime. The Huli jing are now at the center of both. And Marcus Wyckes is its driving force. Without him, we’re confident his group will splinter.”

  There was silence for a few moments.

  “Without question we’ll assist you any way we can, Inspector. But regardless of what you’ve heard, geospatial analysis is not suited to locating specific individuals. I learned that the hard way. What it is useful for is identifying a pattern consistent with certain activities.”

  “Wyckes must have a pattern.”

  “Which we can’t possibly know.” Durand felt old fears awakening. “Individuals are far too variable. Too specific. You will get false positives. Innocent people will die.”

  Yi touched Durand’s shoulder. “Ken.”

  Durand took a moment. “My algorithms have located hundreds of illegal CRISPR labs in dozens of countries—but we weren’t looking for individuals. We were looking for a pattern of illicit commercial activity—a specific location that attracted would-be or existing parents who matched a consistent profile. Parents who had recently deviated from their established behavior patterns. Spent money on fertility treatments. Changed their usual travel and social patterns—especially after meeting with friends who’d recently done the same. We’ve issued Orange Notices to police agencies based on that analysis, but not Red Notices calling for individual arrests. That lies beyond the data.”

  “There must be some way to narrow down the search area for Wyckes or for his center of operations, like you did with your serial killer algorithms.”

  Durand was already shaking his head. “Again, organizations don’t behave like individuals, and in any event, I doubt that Wyckes is taking part directly in crimes. Those would most likely be these Nine Tails you showed us.”

  “Then the activities of the Huli jing create a pattern.”

  “Yes, and if the Huli jing are selling new edits to illicit genetic editing labs on several continents, then our efforts will impact their business. However, locating Marcus Wyckes cannot be part of our mission—not directly.” Durand looked up to realize he was raising his voice. “I’m sorry, Inspector. Perhaps in one of these lab raids we’ll get lucky, and intel on Wyckes’s whereabouts will be found.”

  Yi added, “You must understand, Inspector, Ken’s analysis has been forced to fit a pressing need before. Didn’t turn out so well.”

  Marcotte relented. “I understand.”

  Belanger stepped in. “Inspector Marcotte, what you’ve shown us today makes the Huli jing our most pressing priority.”

  Marcotte nodded. “Sorry if I pressed you, Mr. Durand. I’d heard that you have a knack for locating things hiding in the data. But I also respect that you know the limits of your tools.” She reached into her coat pocket. “If by chance anything does occur to you—a moment of inspiration perhaps—don’t hesitate to contact me directly.” She handed Durand an actual physical business card.

  Puzzled, Durand took it and examined the inscrutable email address on it.

  “I gather you don’t get handed a lot of business cards.”

  He laughed. “No. It’s kind of quaint. So you still use email?”

  “It’s helpful for informants. Some of the people who need to reach me are very poor and don’t trust social media platforms.”

  Durand blinked at the card, and his LFP glasses scraped the data into his contacts.

  Before she turned to go, Marcotte touched Durand’s elbow. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did a guy who can’t locate individual criminals wind up finding so many of them?”

  Durand thought for a moment. “No offense, but I think the mistake of traditional law enforcement technique is its focus on individuals. Here, we try to limit the damage and spread of criminal activity—and that’s what drives arrests at the local level. Individual criminals are in some ways beneath our notice here. What we defeat are rising trends. That’s why guys like Wyckes never see us coming—because, in many ways, not even we realize we’re looking for them.”

  Marcotte stared. “I see. Well, I look forward to working with you in the future, Mr. Durand.”

  “Likewise, Inspector.”

  Chapter 5

  Early evening, and Durand sat in the conditioned air of a private, autonomous comcar as it merged into the close coordination of rush hour. His daughter’s wrapped birthday gift sat on the seat beside him. He leaned back and felt the stress of the day leave him.

  In the distance he could see the glowing logos of synbio firms on the Singapore skyline. Licensed AR video ads played across the surfaces of several skyscrapers—although they were really only being beamed into Durand’s retinas by his own LFP glasses. The contract for his LFP glasses required exposure to specific layers of public advertising. At least he’d opted out of the low-end ads, but opting out of all AR advertising was prohibitively expensive.

  Just the same, Durand frowned at the shoddy data management employed by advertisers. He was clearly not in the target demographic for an ad gliding across neighboring buildings, alive with images of Jedis, Starfleet officers, and steampunk characters: “Singapore’s premier Star Wars™, Star Trek™, and steampunk cosliving communities . . .”

  Cosseted young professionals at the big synbio firms were a more likely demo for their product—single people with a couple million to blow on living in a theme park.

  But by then the ad had shifted to CRISPR Critters. Gigantic, adorable neotenic cats cavorted from building to building, pursuing a virtual ball of yarn.

  Durand decided to close his eyes.

  He knew it was extravagant to have his own private comcar, but it was one of the perks of the job. And in fact, he treasured this time each day. He had never really had time alone growing up. Not enough space for that. No privacy at the Naval Academy, either, and certainly not in the service.

  Durand considered turning on some music when he heard the car’s familiar voice.

  “Rerouting . . . Revised travel time one hour and six minutes.”

  Durand sat up. His commute had suddenly tripled in length. The comcar was stopped at a traffic light. Hundreds of people passed on the crosswalk in front of it. He turned around to look through the rear windshield at smaller, older building facades. The towering buildings of the Central Business District stood behind him—which meant he wasn’t heading toward the BKE anymore. The car was taking a new route.

  “Shit.”

  Traffic must be backed up somewhere. In his LFP glasses he brought up the car’s virtual map and expanded it. The new route brought him around a line of red traffic warnings on the expressway.

  “Damnit . . .” Durand tapped his LFP glasses to phone home.

  In a moment Miyuki’s voice came on the line. “Hi, hon.”

  “Hi, Mi.”

  “I’m scrambling to get ready. Please tell me you remembered the gift.”

  “Yes, got it right here.” He put a hand on the package. “Just wanted to let you know the comcar is routing
around traffic. If it keeps going this way I’m going to be late.”

  “What’s your ETA?”

  Durand winced. “Over an hour, but I’m working on it. Just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

  “Okay. Do what you can. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  He clicked off and watched in surprise as the comcar signaled and pulled slowly over to the left curb. The car’s interior lights illuminated as if he’d opened the door.

  The car’s AI voice said, “This vehicle is experiencing technical difficulties. Please exit.”

  He shouted at the ceiling liner. “Oh, come on!”

  “Please exit the vehicle. This vehicle is now out of service.”

  “Goddamnit . . .” Durand grabbed Mia’s gift and got out. He glanced around to get his bearings. He was clearly in an older part of the city. He instantiated the virtual map again with his LFP glasses and studied it as it floated before him.

  He then launched his car-hailing app and noticed that it had terminated his ride due to an unspecified vehicle malfunction. Oddly, the app had not summoned a replacement car. He clicked through and was rewarded with an estimated pickup time of forty-five minutes from now.

  “No, no, no.” The car service had just dumped him here, far off the main expressways. In the middle of rush hour he knew damn well the algorithms were going to triage him as the odd man out. There was no efficient way to collect him where he was.

  “Not today. Goddamnit.” He checked the time. Guests were showing up in an hour and a half.

  Commuters passed him on foot. They, too, were focused on or talking to their own devices.

  Just then the supposedly out-of-service comcar he’d exited closed its doors and drove away—merging into the traffic.

  “Are you shitting me?” Durand ran alongside the car on the sidewalk, pushing through the foot traffic. “Excuse me. Pardon me.”

  But the car didn’t stop. He glanced at the ride-hailing app again, but no, he’d definitely lost his link to the vehicle. It drove off with an out-of-service AR sign rotating above it.

  Durand sighed in frustration as other commuters continued to swarm past him. In a moment it occurred to him that they all seemed to be walking with purpose. He opened the map again and zoomed in to his current location. He was close to the new Tekka wet market—and an MRT station. If he couldn’t get a car, he could take the MRT. He examined the street detail.

  There. MRT station two blocks away. Durand oriented himself and now realized why the passersby were turning down a narrow pedestrian lane between historic brick buildings of the Little India district. It was the shortest path to the train station.

  The north-south line stopped just a few blocks from his building. This was salvageable.

  He tapped his LFP glasses to make a call as he fell in line with the rest of the foot traffic.

  Miyuki answered. “How’s it looking?”

  He laughed. “You’re not gonna believe this. My comcar crapped out.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Stranded me in Little India before it shut down, and it’ll take forty-five minutes for another car to pick me up.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s an MRT station nearby. I can hop a train. This might turn out better actually. I might not even be late.”

  “Well, make sure they give you a credit.”

  “I have to pay attention to where I’m going, though. So I’m going to hang up. See you soon, hon.”

  “Bye.”

  He clicked off and followed other commuters down a narrow lane between old brick buildings. This MRT crowd skewed young—twenties and early thirties. Lots of expats. Well dressed and all talking to people who weren’t there. Snatches of conversation floated past him in Hokkien, Mandarin, Malay, Tamil, English, Russian, Swahili, German, Korean—and more he didn’t recognize. They’d no doubt come to Singapore to make their killing. To work threads in a blockchain corporation or license their own cellular machinery. XNA programmers. Genetic engineers. Entrepreneurs. And they all had to have impressive CVs to get a work visa in the city.

  Looking up, Durand noticed the old Indian and Hokkien storefronts around them. He wondered how these shops and tiny exporters were hanging on. Singapore was not a town paralyzed by nostalgia. Durand had never seen poorly designed public spaces in the city, and that’s what this historic district was. He got jostled and held tightly on to Mia’s gift as the crowd grew dense. It surged toward the MRT station entrance. Streams of commuters pushed and shoved.

  Carried along with the crowd, Durand suddenly felt a sharp sting at the back of his right arm.

  It took a second or two to pivot around in the crush of people, but all he saw behind him was a sea of diverse faces wearing LFP glasses, pushing relentlessly forward and past him, headed toward the station entrance. No one reacted to his stare.

  Durand tugged at the back of his jacket sleeve but could see nothing. The pain was still there. In fact, it was getting worse.

  Shit.

  He recalled reading an Interpol report a few months back on jab-stick attacks in dense crowds—that they could happen right in front of security cameras without revealing the perpetrator. Psychologists theorized it was a form of rebellion against ubiquitous surveillance. Durand didn’t recall any of the incidents occurring in Singapore, though.

  He started to doubt himself. But damn, his arm hurt.

  Durand struggled across the river of commuters to get to the nearest wall. Just downstream of a support pillar, he took off his suit jacket and checked the back of his shirtsleeve.

  A spot of blood soaked through the synthetic silk.

  He felt adrenaline surge. Shit . . .

  Someone in the crowd had stabbed him. An accident? A random psycho? But then Durand realized he could feel more than just adrenaline. He recalled the first time he’d experienced a mortar attack in a CLU at Camp Lemonnier. Alarms wailing as thumps rattled the walls. That was adrenaline.

  This was something else.

  The urge to vomit. Trembling hands, yes. But something else was coursing through him, too. A burning sensation. He could feel it spreading. Was it psychosomatic?

  I haven’t been stabbed—I’ve been injected.

  An injection under high pressure.

  The Huli jing use synbiotoxins.

  That’s what Marcotte had said. Wasn’t that what she’d said? He needed to get help.

  Durand tried to tap his LFP glasses to instantiate a phone—but his arm muscles had begun to spasm. The more he tried to move them, the more disconnected they seemed to become. And then he noticed his fingers were swelling.

  He tried to speak to his virtual assistant, but his tongue didn’t obey him, either—it was swelling fast. His throat constricted.

  Durand staggered out into the flood of passing commuters. He stepped in front of them, pleading wordlessly. Workers pushed past him as he howled at them for help, raising a swelling hand. He began to drool uncontrollably, his face suddenly numb. His muscles began to clench in excruciating spasms, causing him to call out in pain.

  The commuters looked away—intent on their own lives and virtual interactions. Not wanting to get involved in his reality.

  Durand looked up at the ceiling and parapets around and above him—where he knew security cameras would be. But in this precise spot, he could see none.

  That’s not a coincidence.

  Only then did he realize just how well planned this had been.

  Durand pitched forward and collapsed onto the concrete floor. He rolled onto his back, staring upward at the graceful, arched ceiling of the wet market.

  Passing commuters finally reacted, shouting in several languages, edging around him, some holding the crowd back so he didn’t get trampled.

  Durand’s throat continued to c
onstrict. He struggled for air. Looking up at the concerned faces all around him, he could tell by their expressions that he was in trouble. He could feel the skin of his face tightening.

  Someone had intentionally injected him. The Huli jing use synbiotoxins. He recalled the gallery of dead.

  Still clutching his daughter’s gift with a paralyzed arm, he struggled to raise his free hand. His fingers were now so badly swollen that his wedding ring had become a tourniquet.

  A group of commuters cleared space around Durand, shouting. Curious onlookers knotted around the scene.

  “Call ambulance, lah!”

  “Serangan jantung?”

  “Mite, sugoku hareteiru!”

  “Stay back! He looks contagious!”

  Durand stared at people’s feet. So many expensive shoes. Sneakers were not popular in Singapore. His breathing became more and more labored. Men knelt close to him, loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Usake paas se door hato!”

  Durand soon became aware of uniformed paramedics arriving. They wore visored helmets. One of them leaned in close, checking Durand’s vitals.

  Durand tried to speak, but his swollen tongue and constricted throat rendered him mute.

  Mia and Miyuki would be so disappointed. His mother, too. She’d never wanted him to travel here. Durand also realized how disappointed he was. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

  Please, not this way. Not now.

  Radio chatter in an unknown language. The whole world was looking and sounding strange now. Distorted. Leering faces of professional men and women.

  He couldn’t move. His entire body was swollen in a violent reaction to something. His shirtsleeves and shoes squeezed him mercilessly. Unbearable muscle spasms increased. He groaned.

  One paramedic pried the birthday gift from Durand’s frozen arm. Durand’s eyes tried to follow it, only to see the other paramedic lift metal clippers to Durand’s hand—and snip the wedding band off of Durand’s swollen index finger, leaving a red indentation where it had been choking off blood flow.

  A toy poodle in the arms of a nearby elderly Chinese man started barking madly—and then struggled to escape as if in terror. It hopped out of the man’s hands and fled between the feet of onlookers. The man shouted after it.