Eve and Adam. Майкл Грант
Plissken. Google just the word “Plissken” and that’s who you come up with. I don’t appear in Google. I am invisible. That’s deliberate.
FerryRat7734: Is it just me or are they teaching us how to make an atomic bomb?
SnakePlissken: The science is easy enough. The engineering’s a bitch.
FerryRat7734: So can you do me a favor? Send me your notes on the next week’s lectures?
SnakePlissken: You going on vacay?
FerryRat7734: I wish. I have a procedure.
I sit back. The teacher is droning on. A second dialog box opens up with someone saying, “How do you spell Openhimer?” I should answer that question, not ask FerryRat one of my own. I can sense I’m opening a can of worms. But how do you not follow up on something like that?
SnakePlissken: What procedure?
FerryRat7734: You don’t want to know. Trust me.
I say that’s not true, although it is. And I repeat the question.
Lung transplant. FerryRat has cystic fibrosis, a genetic disease. Lung transplant is the final, desperation move.
SnakePlissken: F–.
FerryRat7734: Exactly. So take notes, okay? I’m not dead yet.
SnakePlissken: Will do.
What else am I going to say? Someone tells you they’re dying what do you say? You say yes, I’ll take notes.
It dawns on me for the first time that a lot of these online students that I know only by their handles, only from pop-up chat boxes, may be sick in one way or another.
It embarrasses me that I’ve never even considered this before.
“Slightly self-absorbed are you, Solo?” I mutter.
I sit through the rest of the lecture and then the natural history lesson after that.
Then I have work. Today I’m helping to prep visitors’ suites for a conference. We have those about once a month. A bunch of Big Brains and Even Bigger Bucks fly in and we wine and dine and lecture them about the wonders of biotech and what a great investment Spiker is.
I’m distributing cut flowers to the rooms, checking the mini-bars, that kind of thing. Then I’ve got to fill in for the coffee cart guy for a few hours while he attends a wedding in Monterey.
I don’t have to do this kind of work. Terra would let me stay here, keep a low profile, whatever. But the grunt work gives me access, and access is what I’m after.
When I’m done, I get into the system, mask my identity, and start looking around for cystic fibrosis. Because as full of crap as Terra might be, and as much of a criminal as she might be, Spiker does do some amazing work.
There are lots of hits for CF. The company has done some research on it. But all files have been moved. They’ve all been transferred to Project 88715.
I Google “genetic diseases” and get a list.
Back to the Spiker database. I search for hemophilia. Many files. It seems we may be close to a gene-based cure. Transferred to Project 88715.
Neurofibromatosis. Ditto.
Sickle cell disease. Ditto.
Tay-Sachs disease. Ditto.
Not every genetic disease, but a lot. Too many for it to be some kind of fluke. Half a dozen major genetic diseases that Spiker has worked on have been suddenly transferred to Project 88715.
Why transfer all this info about genetic diseases to some ridiculous classroom software project?
I know the budget for all of Project 88715 is 12 million dollars. That’s a lot of money, but it’s not a lot of money at Spiker. At Spiker, anything under a billion is loose change.
I pull up the log entries – the brief descriptions – for CF and hemophilia and the rest. Rough addition in my head: the total budget is over twenty-eight billion dollars.
Billion. With a “B”.
Twenty-eight billion dollars’ worth is suddenly under the aegis of a 12 million dollar project?
That’s like saying your local grocery store chain will be managed by the kids selling lemonade on the street corner.
Terra Spiker’s up to something. I don’t know exactly what yet.
But I will find out.
12
EVE
“MMMMM. CAVIAR,” AISLIN says.
It’s one of her phrases.
It’s late afternoon, and Solo has just entered my room. He’s holding Aislin’s shoulder bag.
Aislin has no self-editing function. She is incapable of ever not saying what she’s thinking.
“I’m sorry?” Solo says.
“It’s expensive. It’s . . . delicious. And I could eat it with a spoon.” She’s employing her purring, hair-tossing, flank-stroking voice, one that brings an alarmed expression to Solo’s face. He’s probably not used to girls like Aislin.
Come to think of it, almost no one is used to girls like Aislin because there’s only one Aislin.
God, I’ve missed her.
“Leave him alone, Aislin,” I say mildly.
What can I say? I like the girl. She’s the polar opposite of me.
“Oh, is he yours, E.V.?” Aislin asks innocently. She’s about six inches away from Solo. “Can I at least have . . . the leftovers?”
Aislin is tall, taller than I am, and I’m not short. She’s wearing shorts which, if they were any shorter, would qualify as the bottom of a bathing suit, and she has about a mile of leg. Her T-shirt might as well be spray paint. She has sleek, short, stylish copper hair and eyes that slant up, giving her an exotic, feline look.
And breasts. Which she deploys with absolutely cynical yet devastating effect.
I love myself and my body and I’m proud of being who I am blah blah blah. But there are times when I would give a lot to have Aislin’s body and her boldness.
She knows no fear, Aislin.
No, that’s not true. She shows no fear.
“Your bag,” Solo says, leaning back with eyes wide. “It’s uh . . . security . . . you know.” He shoots a panicky look at me.
I shrug. I’m not rescuing you, dude. I look down to conceal an anticipatory grin because I know what’s coming.
Aislin takes the bag from Solo, but before he can escape, she clamps a hand on his wrist. She opens the bag and examines its contents. “So I guess they took my flask.”
“They said something about your personal property being returned when you leave.”
Good boy, Solo: a complete sentence.
“Wait!” Aislin says. She reaches into the bag and then, yes, draws out a long string of condoms. “At least,” she says, “they didn’t take anything I really . . . need.”
A slightly strangled sound comes from Solo. He backs out of the room, smirking but clearly thrown.
Aislin laughs, delighted. She perches on the edge of my bed and I say, “You are such a bitch.”
“I know, aren’t I?”
“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” I sigh. “I miss everything. I miss homework. I miss the very special stench that is the girls’ locker room.”
“You