The Moreau Quartet: Volume One: 1 by S. Andrew Swann
He was beginning to hear sirens in the distance. Stephie ran after him. “Where are you going?”
“NuFood. This isn’t over—”
He slumped up next to the car. “Did they wire the car?”
“No—”
“What’s the combination?”
“Nohar, you can’t! You’re in no condition . . .”
“The damn combination!”
Stephie backed up a bit at Nohar’s growled command. Nohar shook his head. “Please, God damn it.”
Stephie heard the sirens now as well.
She stepped up and punched the combination on the driver’s door. Nohar watched the numbers. She looked up at him afterward. She was crying. “You are not going to die on me.”
Nohar hugged her with his good arm. “I don’t intend to.”
• • •
The Maduro had pulled out of the parking lot and was going down Mayfield by the time a convoy—Chersterland and Cleveland local cops, sheriffs from Cuyahoga and Geauga, six ambulances, two police wreckers, a fire rescue vehicle, and three Haviers—shot by going in the opposite direction. Everything but the National Guard.
Nohar drove by them going a sedate sixty klicks an hour. He was squeezed in the sports car, but the gentle ride of the undamaged suspension made up for it.
Everything came together for him when he saw that NuFood label. He had been right along. Despite the hyped violence, the morey terrorism, the Johnson killing came down to one little piece of information in Binder’s financial records.
The precognitive letter from Wilson Scott was only part of it. That only proved MLI had a hand in planning the Zipheads’ terrorism. MLI was trying to hide something else.
Their origin.
Johnson used to be a chemistry major. It made sense he would figure this mess out.
It had all started thirteen years ago. Midwest Lapidary would have approached Young, Binder’s new finance chairman. It would have been a very tempting offer. Young took the offer, and the bucks poured into the campaign.
And Binder’s position became more and more reactionary.
Over the next few years, other, similarly unpopular candidates had made some sort of deal with the shadowy diamond merchants working out of Cleveland—candidates that weren’t supposed to win. Their positions would evolve as well.
Then, in 2042, morey communities across the country exploded into a week of riots and burning that took the National Guard to control. Led by the psychopathic rhetoric of a morey tiger named Datia Rajasthan.
The violence created a convenient wave of anti-moreau sentiment that catapulted most of MLI’s candidates to office.
MLI had about seventy hard-core puppets in the House now, all incumbents. They only had a few men in the Senate, though, and a large percentage of their men, including Binder, wanted to be Senators.
The rogue agents in MLI, without Smith’s knowledge, recruited the Zipheads to step in to create their own “Dark August.” The Zipheads were happy to comply, considering the profits they made on flush on the street level.
Daryl Johnson knew or suspected all of this. At first he must have condoned it. You couldn’t keep that kind of conspiracy secret from the campaign manager. The whole Binder inner circle must have known about the illegal financing. That’s why it was so tight. Harrison, Thomson, Johnson, and Young stuck with Binder through his radical shift to the right. They all had been bought.
Johnson was the first to have second thoughts. Nohar suspected that it would probably have originated with the whole duplicitous situation with Stephie. It must have grated badly. He stewed for years. Even tried to drug himself out of an untenable situation.
MLI must have thought they had him under control because he was hooked on flush that they supplied—though indirectly. If he did anything to break the silence, his supply would be cut.
Three weeks before his death Johnson found a new supplier. Nugoya.
That wasn’t what got him killed. The flush still came from MLI, they still controlled his supply even though Johnson didn’t know that. What killed Johnson was why he was trying to get out from under the thumb of his supplier. Johnson’s problem was curiosity. He thought too much.
He had thought too much about NuFood.
He thought too much about Kathy Tsoravitch’s letter.
Johnson made the mistake of wondering, as Isham had just a few hours ago, why MLI would be interested in preventing NuFood from succeeding. Tsoravitch lobbied to prevent FDA approval. Denial of that approval bankrupted NuFood.
Whereupon, MLI bought out the company, and the patents.
Why?
The question must have nagged Johnson for years. Especially when MLI simply sat on the company. He might even have realized that MLI was using NuFood as its flush lab. A very expensive drug lab.
He finally figured out the real reason. When he did, he made his second, and last, mistake. He told Young. And Young had told the creatures running MLI—
That’s when the shit went ballistic. That’s why Young was so scared, as well as guilty. He knew MLI’s secret—they would have killed him once he had served his purpose, IDing the people in the campaign whom Johnson had talked to, those who read the letter.
But Young toasted himself, so MLI had to use their agents— Hassan and the Zipheads—to waste anyone who could have read that letter.
All from Kathy Tsoravitch’s letter, and her pleading that the FDA reject NuFood’s application to mass market their dietary supplements. Supplements that were based on synthetic proteins derived from the mirror image dextro amino acids. Proteins a creature based on a levo amino acid biology—like the fat pinks at whom the food would be targeted—couldn’t metabolize.
Johnson had looked too closely at MLI’s agenda. He saw NuFood, moreys as a hot issue to be counted on to get MLI’s people elected, and the budget. And the letters about government waste always mentioned NASA.
Johnson must have seen the creatures running MLI—the humanoid things that could only be franks. Otherwise, Nohar doubted Johnson would have come to the conclusion he must have. Because the truth was quite a leap.
Nohar’s Maduro had glided into the suburbs again. He began watching the left side of Mayfield. NuFood’s R&D complex was at 3700 Mayfield, near the minimum security prison he had passed earlier. NuFood’s plot was cheap property, little-traveled.
The conclusion was simple, if hard to accept. Johnson must have asked himself the same question as Nohar did when Smith told him MLI supported Binder.
Why were a bunch of franks backing right-wingers like Binder?
They weren’t franks.
Why the hell were they involved with something like NuFood?
Johnson must have inferred what Nohar had told Stephie. These things were based on a dextro amino acid biology. Manny had discovered that from Smith’s remains. Manny had known, but he had never gotten the chance to double-check the results. He never got the chance to make sure the analyzer wasn’t broken.
That was what MLI had to cover up.
The prison came up on the left.
Nohar pulled the Maduro over and parked on the sidewalk across from it. NuFood was next to the prison’s barbed wire topped chain link. It sat in the midst of a grove of trees and bushes that nearly hid the two lab buildings from sight.
They couldn’t let anyone know they were based on a mirror image biology. It was because of that they needed NuFood. They literally couldn’t live without it. Normal living things couldn’t metabolize NuFood’s products, but the converse was true. NuFood’s production was the only thing they could eat.
No gene-tech, even as an experiment, would give their work such a bizarre handicap. Johnson would know that. It left one conclusion.
These things weren’t bioengineered.
They had evolved naturally.
It was a f
They were aliens.
Nohar hobbled across the street.
Chapter 26
The storm that had been threatening all night finally came as Nohar crossed Mayfield. It was a sudden deluge that washed some of the blood off of him. His makeshift cane was thumping an erratic counterpoint to the click of his claws. It was slow progress, but it was nearly three in the morning and there wasn’t any traffic. The street was dead.
He made it across. To his right was the prison hiding behind its electrified chain link. Its yard was bathed in arc lights.
To his left was a line of shrubs and trees that almost hid an old, low slung, office complex from the street. Ahead of him, between the overgrown shrubs and the five-meter tall electric chain link, was a dirty-gravel driveway. It looked like a landscaping afterthought.
He began worrying about the pink guards at the prison. They weren’t involved in this, but it wouldn’t be good if they noticed a morey with a shotgun skulking just outside their grounds.
He limped a dozen meters down the gravel path, all the while cursing his knee and wishing he could move faster. He made it to a point where the hedges got sickly. He turned away from the prison and pushed through a small gap between the bushes. He immediately tripped over a rusted “No Trespassing” sign. He managed to land on his left side, but the fall still hurt his knee.
He was sprawled on a shaggy, uncut lawn, looking across at a parking lot of broken asphalt. The only light came from the arcs of the prison behind him. Half the NuFood complex was wrapped in glaring blue light, the other half in the matte-black shadows of the surrounding trees.
Two remote vans were parked in the lot, the only vehicles there. There were two buildings in NuFood’s complex, both old two-story studies in metal, glass, and dark tile. The tiles had been falling off in clumps, helped by ill-looking ivy. The glass was sealed shut from the inside. A few panes were cracked and broken—real glass—allowing Nohar a good look at the white plastic that covered the windows from the inside.
Between the two buildings were an overgrown lawn and a crumbling driveway. A fountain was choked by an advancing rose-bush—and even in the rain, he could smell the stagnant water filling it.
These guys weren’t big on maintenance.
Nohar pushed himself up and got unsteadily to his feet. The makeshift cane sank about half a meter into the sod when he put his weight on it. He squished to the asphalt parking lot.
The remotes were parked next to each other. Nohar hobbled between them. He decided if the guards back a the prison started hearing gunfire, the worst thing they could do was call the cops.
He eased himself down on the ground and looked under the chassis of one of the vans. The inductor housing was nestled in front of the rear axle. Nohar leveled the shotgun at it, the barrel a few centimeters from the housing. He turned his face away, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.
The blast popped the pressurized housing, and the air was filled with the smell of freon, ozone, and the dust from a shattered ceramic superconductor. There was a wave of heat as the housing sparked and began to melt.
He did the same to the other one.
There went their transport. If they were still here, they’d stay here.
The guards back at the prison had heard the gunfire. Sirens began sounding behind him.
Nohar hauled himself upright and limped up the circular driveway to the first NuFood building. The door was glass and black enamel. Gold leaf on the glass announced this was indeed NuFood. Its slick modern logo was flaking off. A chain was padlocked around the handle, the one thing that looked new and well maintained.
Locks on glass doors made about as much sense as an armored door in a wooden door frame.
Nohar hunched up against the wall for support and raised the curtain rod. He put the end of the rod through the logo, shattering the glass—real glass again. There was another plastic sheet sealing the window. It tore away from the frame, loosing the bile-ammonia smell Nohar associated with Smith.
Bingo.
There was a crash bar on the inside of the door, halfway up. The plastic caught and bent over it. Nohar had to lean the curtain rod up next to the doorjamb so he had a hand free to knock the plastic out of the way. In response to Nohar’s break-in, an alarm inside the building did an anemic imitation of the sirens at the prison.
Because of his leg, Nohar put down the shotgun and scrambled under the crash bar on both hands and his good leg. He sliced open his right palm on a stray piece of glass.
Once he pulled the cane and the gun after him, he pushed himself up to a standing position.
Inside, the place was much better maintained—and strange. He could smell their odor, as well as the odors of chemicals—there was a strong hint of sulfur and sulfur dioxide—and disinfectant that had a fake pine odor. The hall he was in was brightly lit with sodium lamps. They cast an unnatural yellow glow over the hallway. There were filters on the lamps that seemed to increase the effect. The floor he was hobbling along had been stripped to the concrete. It had been polished and felt slightly moist under his feet. Not water. It was damp with something more viscous that made it hard to keep his footing.
The first door to his right was open. He looked in and saw a storage area. The room must have filled half the building, both floors. It was stacked with white plastic delivery crates. It was lit with normal fluorescents, and to the rear was a rolling metal door that must open onto a truck-loading bay. Nohar could smell the flush—even through the packaging, there was so much of it—a rotten, artificial fruit smell, like spoiled cherries.
Nohar continued to limp down the hallway. The doors he passed on his left were new, solid, air lock doors. He looked through the round porthole windows, and saw clean rooms containing glass laboratory equipment filled with bubbling fluids. Here was the damn flush lab the DEA wanted. Nice sterile environment. The stuff must be real pure.
He kept walking, following the ammonia smell. They were here. He could feel it. He kept going down the corridor. It took a right turn near the far wall. More labs, older, not behind air lock doors. Nohar noticed familiar items that matched the genetics lab at Metro General. Especially the hulking form of the chemical analyzer. This had to be part of the food production, R&D anyway. Any real volume processing must happen in the other building.
Nohar rounded the corner and faced a stairwell, up and down. Same slick polished concrete. The sulfur and the ammonia were worse going down. That’s where he went.
The steps went slowly, one at a time. Each step felt like he was going to slip and break his neck. As he descended, the atmosphere became thicker, denser. The sodium lights faded to a dusky red, and Nohar was beginning to feel the heat—the temperature down here must be around 35 or 40. The atmosphere was heavy with moisture that clung to his fur.
The heat and the heavy atmosphere were making his head throb.
He could feel his pulse in his temple.
Down, he was in the basement. Here, there was no pretense at normal construction. The hall was concrete that had been polished to a marblelike sheen. All the right angles had been filled in and polished smooth, giving an ovoid cross section. The walls were weeping moisture that had the viscosity of silicone lubricant.
There were pipes and other basement equipment, but all had been molded into the walls. Nohar looked up and saw a length of white PVC pipe just above his head. Concrete had been molded around the ends where it came in through the wall so the wall’s lines melded smoothly with the length of pipe. It looked like some organic growth. Nohar looked at one wall, and from the di
There was only one way to go. He followed the hall. He hobbled down and left the last of the yellow sodium lights, and entered the world of green-tinted red. The ammonia smell was very close now.
He rounded a very gradual turn in the hall. It felt like he was hobbling through a wormhole in the bowels of the earth. He completed the turn, and saw a perfectly round door. Out the door was pouring an evil bluish-green light and that bile-ammonia smell.
Nohar stumbled through the opening and covered the room with a shotgun held, clumsily, in his left hand. He didn’t realize the floor was a half-meter lower than the floor in the hall until it was too late. His good foot slipped away. He tried to catch himself with the cane in his right hand, but the pipe was slick with blood from his palm and slid off into the room, beyond his reach. He slid down a steep concrete curve sitting on his bad leg. He heard a crack. A shiver of agony told him he was not going to walk again for a long time.
He did manage to keep a grip on the shotgun.
Through his pain-blurred vision, he realized that if there had been any doubt Smith wasn’t the product of some pink engineer, one look at this room put all doubts to rest. The room was a squashed sphere nearly ten meters in diameter. Eight evenly spaced round holes were in the walls, doors like the one he had come through. In the center of the room was a two-meter-tall cone, molded of concrete, shooting up a jet of blue-green flame. From it came most of the oppressive heat in the room, and the smell of burning methane.
The wall had niches carved into it. Hundreds of them, all the same size, a meter long by half a meter high. They were concave, oval pits that angled down into the wall slightly. From nearly half of them came the glitter of MLI’s wealth, diamonds, rubies, emeralds. Thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of stones—
And, of course, there were Smith’s kinsmen. The creatures that ran Midwest Lapidary. Four, in all, were facing him. They were wearing pink clothing, like Smith had. They all had the same blubbery white humanoid form that Smith wore.