Peter Watts - Starfish

"You're going to talk about antibiotics. Most of them don't work. The rest kill the patient. And we can't tailor a virus to fight it because ßehemoth uses a unique genetic code." Scanlon opened his mouth: Rowan held up one hand. "Now you'll suggest building something from scratch, customized to ßehemoth's genetics. We're working on it. They tell me in another few weeks we may actually know where one gene ends and the next begins. Then we can start trying to decipher the alphabet. Then the language. And then, maybe, build something to fight it. And then , when and if we let our counterattack loose, one of two things happens. Either our bug kills their bug so fast it destroys its own means of transmission, so you get local kills that implode without making a dent in the overall problem. Or our bug kills their bug too slowly to catch up. Classic chaotic system. Almost no chance we could fine-tune the lethality in time. Containment's really our only option."

The whole time she spoke, her eyes had stayed curiously dark.

"Well. You seem to know a few details after all," Scanlon remarked quietly.

"It's important, Yves."

"Please. Call me Dr. Scanlon."

She smiled, sadly. "I'm sorry, Dr. Scanlon. I am sorry."

"And what about the others?"

"The others," she repeated.

"Clarke. Lubin. Everyone, in all the deep stations."

"The other stations are clean, as far as we can tell. It's just that one little spot on Juan de Fuca."

"It figures," Scanlon said.

"What does?"

"They never got a break, you know? They've been fucked over since they were kids. And now, the only place in the world this bug shows up, and it has to be right where they live."

Rowan shook her head. "Oh, we found it other places too. All uninhabited. Beebe was the only—" She sighed. "Actually, we've been very lucky."

"No you haven't."

She looked at him.

"I hate to burst your balloon, Pat, but you had a whole construction crew down there last year. Maybe none of your boys and girls actually got wet, but do you really think ßehemoth couldn't have hitched a ride back on some of their equipment?"

"No," Rowan said. "We don't."

Her face was completely expressionless. It took a moment to sink in.

"The Urchin yards," he whispered. "Coquitlam."

Rowan closed her eyes. "And others."

"Oh Jesus," he managed. "So it's already out."

"Was," Rowan said. "We may have contained it. We don't know yet."

"And what if you haven't contained it?"

"We keep trying. What else can we do?"

"Is there a ceiling, at least? Some maximum death toll that'll make you admit defeat? Do any of your models tell you when to concede ?"

Rowan's lips moved, although Scanlon heard no sound: yes .

"Ah," he said. "And just out of curiosity, what would that limit be?"

"Two and a half billion." He could barely hear her. "Firestorm the Pacific Rim."

She's serious. She's serious. "Sure that's enough? You think that'll do it?"

"I don't know. Hopefully we'll never have to find out. But if that doesn't work, nothing will. Anything more would be— futile. At least, that's what the models say."

He waited for it to sink in. It didn't. The numbers were just too big.

But way down the scale to the personal , that was a whole lot more immediate. "Why are you doing this?"

Rowan sighed. "I thought I'd just told you."

"Why are you telling me , Rowan? It's not your style."

"And what's my style, Yv—Dr. Scanlon?"

"You're corporate. You delegate. Why put yourself through all this awkward one-on-one self-justification when you've got flunkies and döppelgangers and hitmen to do your dirty work?"

She leaned forward suddenly, her face mere centimeters from the barrier. "What do you think we are, Scanlon? Do you think we'd even contemplate this if there was any other way? All the corpses and generals and heads of state, we're doing this because we're just plain evil ? We just don't give a shit? Is that what you think?"

"I think," Scanlon said, remembering, "that we don't have the slightest control over what we are."

Rowan straightened, pointed at the workpad in front of him. "I've collated everything we've got on this bug. You can access it right now, if you want. Or you can call it up back in your, your quarters if you'd rather. Maybe you can come up with an answer we haven't seen."

He stared straight at her. "You've had platoons of tinkertoy people all over that data for weeks. What makes you think I can come up with anything they can't?"

"I think you should have the chance to try."

"Bullshit."

"It's there, Doctor. All of it."

"You're not giving me anything. You just want me to let you off the hook."

"No."

"You think you can fool me, Rowan? You think I'll look over a bunch of numbers I can't understand, and at the end I'll say, ah yes, I see it now, you've made the only moral choice to save life as we know it, Patricia Rowan I forgive you ? You think this cheap trick is going to win you my consent ?"

"Yves—"

" That's why you're wasting your time down here." Scanlon felt a sudden, giddy urge to laugh. "Do you do this for everyone? Are you going to walk into every burb you've slated for eradication and go door-to-door saying We're really sorry about this but you're going to die for the greater good and we'd all sleep better if you said it was okay ?"

Rowan sagged back in her chair. "Maybe. Consent. Yes, I suppose that's what I'm doing. But it doesn't really make any difference."

"Fucking right it doesn't."

Rowan shrugged. Somehow, absurdly, she looked beaten .

"And what about me?" Scanlon asked after a while. "What happens if the power goes out in the next six months? What are the odds of a defective filter in the system? Can you afford to keep me alive until your tinkerboys find a cure, or did your models tell you it was too risky?"

"I honestly don't know," Rowan said. "It's not my decision."

"Ah, of course. Just following orders."

"No orders to follow. I'm just— well, I'm out of the loop."

" You're out of the loop."

She even smiled at that. Just for a moment.

"So who makes the decision?" Scanlon asked, his voice impossibly casual. "Any chance I could get an interview?"

Rowan shook her head. "Not who."

"What are you talking about?"

"Not who," Rowan repeated. "What."

They were all absolutely top of the line. Most members of the species were lucky to merely survive the meatgrinder; these people designed the damned thing. Corporate or Political or Military, they were the best of the benthos, sitting on top of the mud that buried everyone else. And yet all that combined ruthlessness, ten thousand years of social Darwinism and four billion of the other kind before that, couldn't inspire them to take the necessary steps today.

"Local sterilizations went— okay, at first," Rowan said. "But then the projections started climbing. It looked bad for Mexico, they could lose their whole western seaboard before this is over, and of course that's about all they've got left these days anyway. They didn't have the resources to do it themselves, but they didn't want N'AmPac pulling the trigger either. Said it would give us an unfair advantage under NAFTA."

Scanlon smiled, despite himself.

"Then Tanaka-Krueger wouldn't trust Japan. And then the Columbian Hegemony wouldn't trust Tanaka-Krueger. And the Chinese, of course, they don't trust anybody since Korea…"

"Kin selection," Scanlon said.

"What?"

"Tribal loyalties. Never give the competition an edge. It's basically genetic."

"Isn't everything." Rowan sighed. "There were other things, too. Unfortunate matters of— conscience. The only solution was to find some completely disinterested party, someone everyone could trust to do the right thing without favoritism, without remorse—"