by Anne Harris

In a near-future Detroit, the living polymer industry has the city in its grip. While vat-divers struggle to organize, the GeneSys Corporation works on making human workers obsolete. An escaped mutant, a con-artist and a techno-geek team up to unravel corporate blackmail, deceit and murder. One thing is certain: the city and the world will never be the same once the latest R&D development is unleashed.

Chapter 5 — Wronged By God

Nathan Graham walked to the elevators, suncells in fan-shaped wall sconces brightening at his approach, signalled by his tread on the bioweave carpeting. It had taken research and development years to come up with a bacteria that would put forth a spectrum of light even approaching sunshine. These were the latest achievement, and their bright warm light was gradually spreading through the consumer market, edging out incandescent and fluorescent bulbs.

The elevator doors were covered in etched brass, a holdover from the original decor. Much of the building had been remodeled repeatedly in order to showcase the latest developments in GeneSys materials, but they saved these — oriental etchings of birds and flowers intermixed with geometric designs — and the murals on the first floor.

The doors parted and he stepped inside. “Good morning, Mr. Graham,” said the elevator, and Graham rode it down to the tenth floor. In the lobby of the research and development department he asked a vending machine for an apple juice and swiped his card through the pay slot. He downed the juice in one long gulp, and tossed the little can into the welcoming mouth of a motion sensitive trash canister.

Martin’s lab was a large, white tiled affair, strewn with instruments. Martin and his two remaining lab assistants were there; Slatermeyer, a tall, anemic-looking fellow with sandy, badly cut hair, and Greenfield, shorter and stockier, his dark hair receding at his temples. They looked at him like a trio of startled rabbits.

Graham walked along the counter-lined perimeter of the room, glancing at this instrument and that. Everything was gleamingly spotless. Graham had no doubt that Martin had spent the better part of the week preparing for this visit. He had probably also rid the lab of anything he really wanted to see.

“The biopolymer being produced in test vats shows some remarkable properties,” said Martin. "Look at these electron holomicrographs." He walked to the holomicroscope. In its viewing platform rested a shallow pan containing a vibrant blue strip of biopoly. He fiddled with the dials of the scope until a three-dimensional holographic schema of the biopoly’s cellular matrix appeared in the air; vivid green, yellow and blue shapes representing mitochondria, endoplasmic reticulum and secretory granules.

“It’s an aromatic amino acid with a fullerian side group — a bucky ball with trapped silver ions,” said Martin enthusiastically. “It’s extremely versatile and has a high rate of synthesis.”

“What?”

“It grows fast,” said Slatermeyer.

Was that all? Graham rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“And that’s not all,” interjected Greenfield, “Because of the trapped silver ions, it conducts electricity very efficiently, making it quite suitable for a range of applications where other biopolys have been ruled out.”

Hector walked over to the biostat cabinet and took out a tray. “Here, feel it,” he lifted out a handful of the stuff and held it out to him.

Gingerly, reluctantly, Graham took the stuff in his hands. It was faintly warm, smelled yeasty and felt smooth, but what struck him most about the stuff was its color. A bright, deep blue that almost seemed to glow. It had a power of its own, that color. It was the color blood would be, if blood were blue, and there was something at once beautiful and repellant about it.

Graham handed it back to Hector. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands together, “what say you show me the vats where this miracle material is being produced.”

Hector glanced at his two assistants, and then back to Graham. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Impossible? Nonsense, I want to see the vats now. All this lab business is very well, but you must admit, it’s a bit off goal for the project. Remember the project? It wasn’t to make new biopolys. It was to cut labor costs. Now take me to those vats.”

“We can’t,” said Hector. “We’re in the middle of an isolation study. Any interference now would put the project back months.”

“An isolation study? What for?”

“To determine the long range impact on productivity.”

Graham gritted his teeth. “When will the test be finished?” he asked.

Martin hesitated. Graham could see him thinking it through before he answered, “By the end of the month.”

“The end of the month. And you’re absolutely sure it’s necessary.”

“Oh yes, if we’re going to provide you with any figures at all concerning long term production levels.”

Graham nodded. That was exactly the data Martin’s report had lacked. He didn’t trust him, didn’t believe him, but to interfere directly with Martin’s research at this stage would only antagonize him. He didn’t want Martin going to Anna, telling her that he, Nathan Graham, wouldn’t let him do his job. Especially since he had worked so hard to rid himself of his reputation as a heavy operator, a legacy from his production days.

“Very well Dr. Martin.” Graham glanced at his watch. “I’d like to discuss the project with you in further detail, but I have a dinner appointment at the club this evening. Perhaps we can do lunch, tomorrow?” Intense and prolonged attention might cause Martin to disclose whatever it was he was hiding, just to get Graham off his back.

“Lunch? Um, sure.”

oOo

Hector threw himself into the back of his maglev and sank into the soft, butter colored vathide cushions which ringed the ovoid riding parlor. He activated the navigation system, and it showed him a holographic list of frequent destinations. He closed the list and called up an area map, keying in the route to his sister’s house by hand. The levcar emerged from the parking garage and took a left onto Grand River, heading east towards the I-88 levway. He dialed the stereo for Vivaldi and set the retinal glass of the cabin’s windows to transparent.

The traffic was heavy but well-behaved. Levcars wove amongst each other seamlessly, guided by the surface of the road. Despite the beauty of the day, the tranquil music and the lush stands of trees gliding by on the banks of the levway, Hector could not relax. Graham’s visit to the lab that morning had left him deeply uneasy. Graham had accepted the excuse about the isolation study, for the moment, but sooner or later he would uncover the truth about the project, and Hector couldn’t even bring himself to think about what would happen then.

He had tried calling Lilith, but as usual she would not take his call. Lilith — she was named for the first woman, the one God made along with Adam, before Eve. Created equal to Adam, she demanded equal treatment, and became a demon in the eyes of the religion Hector was born into. A religion he turned to now, despite its faults, for the reassurance of the familiar rituals of the Sabbath.

Bloomfield Hills was a forest of oaks and demi-elms, riddled with small maglev lanes that wove like twisting streams around the ample yards of the houses. Many of the homes here were in the late eco style, barely discernable from the hills and fields surrounding them. His sister’s place was one of these, three-quarters underground and surrounded by terraced gardens.

The driveway cut into the hillside. The maglev parked itself and Hector reached into his suit pocket and took out his yarmulke. It had been given to him by his father at his bar mitzvah. The once-sumptuous blue velvet had faded and taken on a silvery sheen, much like his hair, but the feel of the worn fabric as he slipped it over his bald spot recalled to him the awkwardness of puberty and his nervousness at standing before his family’s congregation to read from the Torah.

Setting the memory aside, Hector got out of the maglev and climbed the flagstone steps to the doorway of his sister’s house. Recessed in an alcove and overshadowed by the low hanging roof, the entrance was virtually invisible from the road. He raised his hand to the knockpad but the door opened before he could strike it.

“Hector, gebubulah!” His sister Cerise greeted him with outstretched arms. Hector paused on the threshold to kiss the mezuzah, and entered her welcoming embrace. “Come in, come in,” she said, drawing him down the hallway. “I’m so glad you could break away from your busy schedule to visit us.”

The roof over the living room was dotted with colored glass tiles which painted the floor and walls with a kaleidoscope of light. Cerise’s husband, Paul, was there, and their children, Rachel and Naomi. Cerise brought a tray of vegetables and walnut dip from the kitchen and set it down on the coffee table. “So, Hector,” she said, “What’s new with you?”

“Oh nothing much,” he lied, “working hard, as usual.”

Cerise shook her head. “Working, that’s all? There aren’t any nice middle aged ladies at GeneSys to go to the movies with, or take out to dinner?”

Hector shrugged, “I suppose there are, but-”

“But what? What does a woman have to do to get your attention? Split an atom?”

“Cerise-” Paul gave her a warning glance. “And she wonders why you hardly ever visit,” he said to Hector. “Would you like a whiskey?”

“Thanks, with soda, please,” he said.

The girls showed him the holo pictures they’d been painting, and Cerise told him of the latest happenings at her job at Detroit Edison. “There’s a very nice woman in the finance department. She’s about your age, Hector, and she’s single too. Her name is Ilene, and she’s always reading Scientific American. I’m sure you two would hit it off. If you’d like me to set something up...”

“Cerise,” Paul lifted his eyes to the kaleidoscope ceiling, which was growing dim in the fading light. Cerise smiled, “It’s time to light the candles.”

They went into the dining room, where the sabbath candles stood waiting on the side board beside the wine, the kaddish cups, and the challah bread. Cerise lit the candles, covered her eyes, and recited the blessing. “Baruch Atah Adonai Elohanu Melech ha’olam asher kidshanu bemitzvotoav vetzivanu lehedlikner shel Shabbat.”

Hector’s Hebrew was rusty, but he had no difficulty remembering the meaning of those words. “Blessed are You, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us by commandments and commanded us to kindle the Sabbath candle.”

Paul said the kiddush blessing over the wine, and poured a cup for each of the adults, and smaller portions for the girls. They drank, and then Paul lifted the white cloth covering the challah, and recited the berachah, “Baruch Atah Adonai Elohanu Melech ha’olam hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz.” Each of them grabbed hold of the braided loaf, pulled a piece off and ate it.

Paul and Cerise then turned to their daughters, “May God make you as Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah. May the Lord bless you and care for you. May the Lord cause the light of His countenance to shine upon you and be gracious unto you. May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace,” they prayed.

Hector prayed too, though silently and not to God. He prayed to one who he knew would answer his prayer, because she had the time before, when he hadn’t even known he was beseaching her. She had heard him then, and given him the dream. With all the fervency of a parent praying for his child he prayed to her, the first person wronged by God, to deliver his project from the arbitrary judgement of Nathan Graham.

oOo

They were all there when Graham got to the table; Russ Giacona and Tina Marples and Pauline Zimmerman, all of them sparkling in their suits like the polished crystal goblets on the table. And then there was Kent, leaning back in his seat, his jacket unbuttoned, lazily swirling the scotch in his glass. He didn’t sparkle, he didn’t have to, he was the chief executive of Detroit operations and he answered to no one but Anna Luria herself.

“Oh good, Nathan’s here,” said Tina brightly as he approached, and they all stood.

“Hi Kent, it’s good to see you again,” he said shaking his hand, “Russ, Tina, Pauline.” Everybody shook his hand, everybody avoided knocking over any goblets or candlesticks. As he sat down, Graham glanced surreptitiously at his watch. He was on time, goddamn it. They were early. It was probably Tina’s doing, trying to make him look bad. At least they’d had the decency to leave a seat next to Kent open so he didn’t have to talk to the man from the other side of the floral centerpiece.

“The waiter was on us like a starved vulture the minute we sat down,” said Kent, leaning over and speaking conspiratorially out of the side of his mouth, “so we went ahead and ordered drinks.” He waved his hand, and a red jacketed waiter hurried to his side. “What would you like, Nathan?”

“Scotch and soda,” he said to the waiter, who scurried off again. He could have stood a double, without the soda, but it wouldn’t have looked good, to order the same thing Kent drank.

Kent opened his menu, and everyone else followed suit. “I’ve heard that the salmon is very good here,” Graham told him. Actually, he’d called up the chef this morning and demanded that he have it sent in fresh from Alaska. Salmon was Kent Carlysle’s favorite fish.

He pursed his lips, his grey eyes scanning the menu. “Mmm, not really in the mood for fish tonight. Think I’ll have the filet.”

“They get it straight from Mitsubishi’s own farms,” said Russ, leaning over his menu, “it’s very fresh.”

Graham stared at him. The conniving little assassin. He’d probably known Kent wasn’t in the mood for fish today, and had exploited that knowledge by talking to the chef, finding out where he got his beef, maybe even demanding that he order it from Mitsubishi. Of course he pretended not to understand the significance of Graham’s look, sitting there gazing at the menu, smugly, innocently, knowing all the while what he’d done. What was worse was that the chef knew all about it, and had, in fact, sided with Russ. They were probably laughing at him right now in the kitchen. When the waiter returned for their dinner selections, Graham could swear he was smirking.

Pauline had the wild mushroom flan, an appropriate choice for her position. Tina ordered prawn souffle, a bit of a risk, but she was a climber. Russ and Kent both ordered the filet mignon, which left Graham in a difficult position. He could stick by his guns and have the salmon, or he could back off and opt for some neutral entree; roast duck or pork loin. There was a nice leek and chestnut saute on the menu, but a vegetarian choice was out of the question. He didn’t know which way he’d go until he said it, “I’ll have the salmon.”

After dinner they retired to the club bar. To Graham’s surprise, Kent took him by the arm and led him away from the others, to the opposite side of the room. They sat on stools, Graham facing the length of the bar. He saw Russ and Tina and Pauline at the far end, in an irresolute little knot, casting pathetic glances of resentment his way. He looked back at Kent.

“They’ll find out about it soon enough, let them sweat in their little bean counter undies for one night. I’ve got a favor to ask.”

“Shoot, boss,” said Graham.

He grimaced, “I’ve got a situation brewing down in Wichita, that new plant that went in about a year ago. Labor problems. It’s not like here, where we’re working with second and third generation vatdivers, people who, by and large, know what to expect from the job. These greenhorns in Kansas still think we owe them something more than a steady job at a living wage. They’re making all kinds of fuss about environmental standards and safety and so on. They’ve even gotten the IEPA in on the act. Meanwhile the people I’ve got out there don’t seem to know how to handle the situation. I’d like you to go down and show those cowboys how it’s done.”

Graham’s alarm was so great it must have leapt out of his eyes.

Kent held up a hand, “I don’t mean permanently, you understand. Just get that jackass Nichols pointed in the right direction. Hell, it probably won’t take more than a week. Not for you, with the way you handled that labor movement nonsense we had five years ago. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that. I don’t forget anything like that. In fact, it’s why I thought of you. I need a reliable, results-oriented man on the job down there.”

“I’m not a production manager anymore,” Graham said carefully.

Kent waved his hand in annoyance, “I know that, Nathan. I’m just asking you to do this as a favor to me, understand?” His eyes were flinty and hard, their gleam belying his light tone of voice.

Graham understood. He would go, because to refuse would be to set himself against Kent, and he couldn’t afford to do that yet. “Of course,” he nodded. “Of course, I’d be happy to help.”

“Great,” said Kent, shaking his hand. “There’s a review meeting with the IEPA Monday morning at eight, but I want you out there over the weekend so you can scope everything out beforehand. I can have my driver pick you up at your place in an hour and take you to the airport.”

oOo

In his first class compartment on the GeneSys airliner, Graham poured over the school records, family histories, love affairs and purchasing habits of Hector Martin’s two assistants, searching for a weakness he could exploit.

People could be controlled if you knew their secrets, and companies, as his mother had said, were made up of people. Where she’d been wrong was in thinking there was anything more to it than that. In her obsession with the organism of her company, she had neglected its constituents. She had allowed herself to forget that she was dealing, after all, with people. It was not a mistake her son would repeat.

Henry Theodore Greenfield graduated magna cum laude from Lawrence Technical Institute, did his graduate study in lysis proteins and injection processing at MIT and then returned to Detroit to work with Dr. Martin in a doctoral fellowship program conjunct with the University of Detroit Mercy College. He broke up with his high school boyfriend while at Lawrence, had three affairs at MIT and was now seeing a second year radiology intern at Beaumont Hospital. He had experimented with a variety of drugs over the years, but had never developed a habit for anything more serious than cocaleaf. His mother lived in Dearborn, and worked for Blue Cross/Blue Shield. The identity of his father was unknown. There certainly wasn’t much to go on with the respectable Mr. Greenfield. Perhaps his colleague Colin Arbegast Slatermeyer would be more forthcoming.

In fact, his file did show more promise. His parents were married, were, in fact, members of the downriver fundamentalist enclave ALIVE! Colin grew up there, attended school in the compound’s youth center, and at the age of eighteen was recommended by one of his instructors to be sent out of the community for further education.

Graham raised one eyebrow. Usually such magnanimity on the part of ALIVE! was expected to be repaid, either by returning and benefiting the community as a doctor, lawyer, or some such, or by a tithe of 30% of the individual’s income. It was contractual, and in fact, Slatermeyer had signed, opting for the tithe. He didn’t want to go back, apparently.

Graham pulled up his pay stubs, and scanning them, smiled. Slatermeyer was taking a pre-tax deduction of $500 off every check, and squirreling it away in an escrow account. It would be reported to the IRS as investment income, not earnings, and therefore, it would be invisible to ALIVE!’s auditors.

“Clever, clever,” breathed Graham under his breath, and he scanned ahead to his quarry’s current profile records. He had an economy model maglev, dark brown. Its navigation module revealed sporadic trips to bars and restaurants around town, an occasional foray up north, no trips downriver whatsoever, and every Sunday like clockwork, a visit to the Belle Isle Aquarium.