Evolution

"You are all infected. We are infected. Without treatment, in a few days most of us will die. If this situation is resolved to our satisfaction, perhaps we will all survive. But we are prepared to die for what we believe. Are you?"

Joan considered. "Do you want the table?"

He stalked up and down before the coffee table, thinking it over. The absurd little table was the focus of power in this room: Of course he wanted it. "Yes. Get down."

With Alyce’s help, she clambered down to the floor. Elisha leapt with some agility on to Joan’s improvised podium and began to bark commands in what sounded like Swedish to his colleagues.

"Classic primate behavior," Alyce murmured. "Male dominance hierarchies. Paranoia. Xenophobia verging on schizophrenia. That’s what’s going on here, under the horse feathers."

"But it’s only dealing with the horse feathers that is going to get any of us out of here—"

She was drowned out by a huge flapping noise, as if some vast pterosaur were coming in to land on the roof of the hotel. It was a helicopter, of course, suspended in the sky beyond the roof. And now an amplified voice boomed through the walls, announcing itself as the police.

The terrorists blasted their weapons at the roof, bringing down even more of the ceiling. The conference delegates cowered and screamed — thereby adding to the din the bad guys wanted to create, Joan thought, her hands pressed to her ears. When the police stopped trying to communicate, the guns were shut down.

Joan stood up carefully, brushing away dust. She was oddly unafraid. She looked up at Elisha, who stalked his coffee table podium, flushed, breathing hard, his gun resting on his shoulder. "You haven’t a chance of getting what you want, whatever it is, unless you let them speak to you."

"But I don’t need to speak to police, or their mind-twisting psychological advisors. Not when I have you here — you, the self-styled head of the new globalization, this holon."

Alyce sighed. "Why do I get the feeling that such an innocent word is suddenly going to become the name of a new demon?"

"We listened to your grandiose speech in the ceiling space, excluded from the light — how fitting!"

Joan said, "You really—" You really don’t understand. Wrong words, Joan. "Please. Tell me your concerns."

He eyed her. Then he clambered down off his table. "Listen to me," he said more quietly. "I heard what you said about the global organism into which we must soon be submerged. Very well. But any organism must have a boundary. What about those beyond the boundary? Doctor Joan Useb, the three hundred wealthiest people on the planet own as much as do the poorest three billion of their fellow human beings. Beyond the bastions of the elite, some poor regions are effectively enslaved, the people mined for their labor and bodies — or body parts. How is your global nervous system to be made aware of their misery?"

Her mind raced. Everything he said sounded rehearsed. Of course it did: This was his moment, the crux of his life; everything she did had to be governed by understanding that. Was he a student? If he was some kind of latter-day cultural colonial type on a guilt trip, maybe she could find weak spots in his commitment.

But he was a murderer, she reminded herself. And he had killed so casually, with not a moment’s hesitation. She wondered what drug regime he was using.

"Excuse me." A new voice. It turned out to be Alison Scott. She was standing before Elisha, her two terrified daughters at her side, their hair of blue and green shining in the meaningless, flickering light of the walls.

Joan felt a stab of pain in her lower belly, hard enough to make her gasp. She had a sense of things escalating out of control.

Bex was staring at her accusingly.

"Bex, are you OK?"

"You said Rabaul wasn’t going to hurt us. You said it was so unlikely, while we were here. You said we were safe."

"I’m sorry. Really. Alison, please go sit down. There’s nothing you can do here."

Scott ignored her. "Look, whoever you are, whatever you want, we are hot, we are tired, we are thirsty, we are already starting to feel sick."

"That’s ridiculous," Elisha said evenly. "Psychosomatic. You’re being neurotic."

Scott actually snarled. "Don’t you psychoanalyze me. I demand—"

"You demand, you demand, yammer, yammer, yammer." He approached Scott. She held her ground, her arms tightly wrapped around her girls. Elisha lifted Bex’s aquamarine hair, tugged it gently, rubbed it between his fingers. "Genriched," he said.

"Leave her alone," Scott hissed.

"How beautiful they are, like toys." He ran his hand down Bex’s hair to her shoulder, then squeezed her small breast.

Bex yelped, and Scott pulled her away. "She’s fourteen years old—"