"Why me? I'm new… barely wet behind the ears as you've never ceased to tell me."
"Language aptitude, military background, biochemistry degree," answered Caruthers, simply enough.
"John," Mary added, "let me tell you about something that makes this so important that no level of violence is too much. No… first, let me ask you how much you know about disease?"
"What any biochemistry major would, I suppose," Hamilton answered.
"That may not be enough," Mary said, unconsciously wringing her hands. "I'll give you the quick version. There are several reasons why the human race has survived epidemics and pandemics, but the biggest are these: The strongest strains of any given disease kill quickest and do not spread so readily. The weakest do spread, and the weaker they are the more and the faster, overall, they can spread. Therefore, diseases tend to spread immunity before them because once you've survived the weaker strain, you are very likely to be highly resistant to the stronger. Secondly, the human body is capable of dealing with a very wide range of diseases. But it has to know that it is under attack. A truly new disease is very difficult for the immune system to deal with because it doesn't recognize it as a disease. Thirdly, and related to the other two, the ideal disease, from a weapons point of view, is spread via air, has a very long time it can be communicated between initial infection and onset of serious symptoms, enters a stage where it could not be communicated, and then kills more or less quickly, dying out itself. Fourthly, an ideal disease would not mutate and would exempt one's own population. We think that such a disease can be created from scratch. We know that if any group of three men can do it, these three can."
"These men are working on such a disease?" Hamilton asked.
"We think so… for a number of reasons."
Hamilton looked at Caruthers and sighed. "All right; sign me up."
"You have a long and intense training program ahead of you, then."
"I have one question: Why would someone be willing to do this? Money?"
"No," Mary said, "not money."
Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 22 Sha'ban, 1536 AH (18 June, 2112)
Ling waited until the fat man had left before easing into Petra's room and crawling into bed next to her, conforming her own body to Petra's like one spoon to another. When Ling put her arm around her, Petra was stiff and unresponsive. Then again, she always was whenever that grotesquery in vaguely human form came to visit her.
"Bad, honey?" Ling asked.
Petra sniffled, "He didn't even grease my ass first… and I had to pretend I liked it. Oh, God, Ling… I hate my life."
"There are worse things," Ling said, thinking of the computercontrolled creatures down below.
"That's the worst part," Petra wailed. "I know there are worse things and I'm terrified of them." She spun within Ling's arms and buried her head in the Chinese slave's neck and hair.
Under the circumstances, Ling didn't even try to make love to Petra. Instead she just held her tightly and softly kissed her hair while the sixteen-year old houri cried herself to sleep.
When the Ministry of State Security recalls me, Ling thought, I will take this girl with me.
For while Ling had told the truth about having been sold when she was four, she'd neglected to mention that she had a chip in her head as well, one planted there when she was purchased by MSS and just before she was "sold west." In her case, however, nothing had been removed from her brain. Instead, she'd had a whole suite of things implanted-little things, mostly: loyalty, duty… code words and phrases… field craft.
Not even the Hindus did better human programming than did the Celestial Kingdom of the Han, once known as the Peoples Republic of China.
If possible, said a small voice in Ling's head.
OSI Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, 19 June, 2112
"My local contact is a what?"
Caruthers sighed. "She's a slave girl, a prostitute. More specifically, she's an implanted agent. She has a chip in her head. The Chinese have been doing this kind of thing for thirty years. It's the major reason we stopped allowing immigration from China."
"That's abominable."
Caruthers gave a characteristic shrug. "We do the same things with convicted criminals. So they don't bother with convictions? Not our problem."
"But we're at war with them."
Caruthers put out one hand, palm down and fingers spread. He wagged it, saying, "Not by declaration. Almost everybody is at war with almost everybody, these days, and all the time, too. What that means in practice though is that nobody's at war-not emotionally, anyway-unless bullets are actually flying. So, yeah, we're at war with them but, also yeah, we can cooperate."
"Do we know anything else about this woman?"
"We have a picture, sort of," Caruthers answered, then produced a hologram of that. The hologram was… decidedly odd, out of focus, as if taken through a bad lens.
"Awfully white, for a Chinese. Unusually large breasts, too. Why is the picture so fuzzy?"
"She's also relatively tall. The chinks were coy. We think she was specially bred, maybe even genengineered, for exoticism. As for the picture… our best guess is that the camera was her own eye, tapped by the chip in her head."
Hamilton had a sudden thought and as suddenly looked ill. "Jesus, that's vile. This poor girl was chipped, then sold as a hooker, and everything she does is recorded for anyone to see. And she knows this? Knows she's performing for a camera?"
"Look, I didn't make the world," Caruthers said testily. "I don't even approve. I just observe and report. They sell us-we buy from them- redundant human organs and we should balk over a little incidental voyeurism?"
Rocking his head from side to side, Hamilton grudgingly agreed. "Okay. Sure. Go on. What's her name, by the way?"
"Zheng Ling."
Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 22 Sha'ban, 1536 AH (18 June, 2112)
"Petra, Honey, wake up," Ling said, while gently shaking the girl awake.
"What is it, Ling?" Petra asked sleepily.
"I just got the word. There's a big group of new-minted janissaries coming to the castle for their graduation party. We have to prepare. It's going to be a busy few nights."
Petra groaned. After all, she was still sore.
"Oh, stop it, you. At least they'll be young, strong and virile, with normal urges, and not grotesque, smelly, perverted old men. Now get up, lazy bones, and start making yourself gorgeous. There's money to be made and fun to be had."
"I don't want to have any 'fun.' The money, on the other hand… "
" Exactly! " Ling said. "Now pull on a robe and let's get down to Costuming and Jewelry before all the nice things are taken."
Sometimes Petra thought she could see elaborate paintings under the plain, off-white of the walls. Certainly the gilt, the blue and purple columns of what some of the staff still called "the Throne Room," suggested that the original builder-of whom Petra knew precisely nothing-had intended something very elaborate. Yet the masters insisted on "no graven images," and took this to include paintings of living creatures. She understood that if there ever had been paintings on the walls, these would have been covered up or destroyed.
Hurrying with Ling along one covered and arched walkway, framed by blue columns on one side and walls covered with erratic geometric shapes on the other, Petra stopped for a moment to gaze down at the "Throne Room."
It's makes no sense… it was not part of the builder's design… that this room should be only color. It calls out for something… more… something alive.
"Hurry, silly!" Ling demanded, impatiently.