Майкл Бламлейн - Longer

“That’s very beautiful, Cav,” said Dash. “Very eloquent. But you know what they say about harmony.”

“What do they say?”

“It’s like smoke.”

“Who says that?”

“Disharmony does. Second law of thermodynamics. You want it to last, you’ve got to tighten the screws. Recognize threats. Protect and defend. That’s also woven in. Bad things happen when we don’t.”

“A balance, of course. But how sad if we let ignorance and fear govern us. How counterproductive. We could miss the very things we’re looking for. Or could be looking for. Listen to this. Stop me if you’ve already heard.

“Our retrovirome is what? Eight percent of our genome? Sequences inserted randomly, or nonrandomly, as far back as fifty million years ago. A group has excised it in its entirety, piece by piece, and knitted the pieces together. And guess what? The chain is biologically active. It makes a virus of its own. Brand new, never before seen.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Gunjita. “What’s this virus do?”

“It reproduces.”

“That’s it?”

“They’re being very cautious. Very careful.”

“No doubt. Mice?”

He nodded.

“And?”

“The sample size is extremely small.”

“You’re stalling. What’s it do?” she asked.

“Hair on the tongue.”

“Say again?”

“Little tufts. Presumably because mice have little tongues.”

“Human hair?”

He hesitated. “Baboon.”

She was less than impressed. “You know these people?”

“I know the journal.”

“What’s it called?”

It had a long name, sprinkled with the words “Proceedings,” “Archive,” “Academy,” and “Experimental.”

“Never heard of it,” she said, who had heard of everything.

“Radical stuff,” said Cav.

She gave him a look. “Hair on the tongue? You think so? Maybe you want to join forces with them. Work on this radical project. Help them out. No. Wait. I’m sorry. We have our own work. How silly of me. You have a job to do here.”

“She means Gleem,” said Cav. “They’re expecting a miracle.”

“They’ve been more than generous. They deserve one.”

“What they’re doing is a crime. What they deserve is our contempt.”

“Really? In what sense is it a crime?” She hated him when he was like this. Sanctimonious. Naive.

“H82W8 is unnecessary. A waste of resources. In that sense. It’s redundant. Reiterative. What good will it do, and for whom?”

“Not for us to decide. Not as long as they’re paying the bills.”

“How is it redundant?” asked Dash. “You juved.”

“Once.”

“One time or a hundred. The principle’s the same.”

“I disagree.”

“Are you sorry? Do you regret it?”

“No. Not at all. I don’t.”

“Neither do I,” said Dash. “Some things are overrated. I think we’d all agree. Being young isn’t one of them. Look at me. What do you see? A black Viking god, I know. Apart from that.”

“What could we possibly see apart from that?” asked Gunjita, all innocence.

“My apologies. I’m blindingly bright, it’s true. Cover your eyes if you have to. Not you, Cav. Look at me. Look at Gunjita.”

“I know what youth looks like,” said Cav.

“Do you remember how it feels?”

“How can I forget, with the two of you to remind me? It’s a beautiful thing. Truly. I couldn’t be happier for you.”

“Then do it. Juve. What’s stopping you?”

Cav heaved a sigh. He had no ready reply. All he could think of was them—Gunjita, Dashaud—and the worry he was causing.

“I hate the thought of losing you,” he said. “I love you both so much.”

This stopped them in their tracks. Neither of them knew what to say.

Cav welcomed the silence. Then it got to be too much, their speechlessness and abashed, imploding faces yet another responsibility.

He had to distance himself. “You look different,” he told Dash.

Gunjita refused to be sidetracked. “You don’t have to.”

“You don’t,” said Dash.

“Paler. You look paler. Are you ill?”

“Not ill. Lighter-skinned. Just a shade or two.”

Gunjita had noticed at once. She shifted her attention. “Deliberately?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

Inevitably, she thought of his mother. No one prouder of her heritage than Ruby Kincaid, nor as outspoken against racism, which still festered in pockets around the globe, like untreated sewage. Not nearly as bad as it had been. The Hoax, ironically, had united people like never before.

But “not as bad” was not good enough, not by a long shot, not for people like Ruby Kincaid, a tolerant woman except when it came to bigotry and prejudice. Who could be tolerant, much less safe, when certain of humanity’s citizens “remained at war with themselves, drunk on some cockeyed, manufactured pecking order, clucking around like crazy chickens, lacking the decency to keep their mouths shut, and barring that, the common courtesy to have their heads cut off?” [2] From one of Ruby’s, aka Kleptomania’s, performances, for which she dressed as a white Leghorn hen. Gunjita was in the audience. She had been invited by her colleague and friend, Bjorn Mickelson, who was dating Ruby at the time. For Gunjita, it was love at first sight. The spectacle of a beaked and feathered grown woman strutting around and mouthing off had her rolling in the aisle. An eye-popping, mind-blowing, life-altering experience.

“The enhancement,” said Cav.

Dash nodded.

“Interfered with melaninization.”

Another nod. “More Meissner’s, Merkel’s, and Pacinian’s, less melanocytes. Crowded them out.”

“You took a risk,” said Cav.

“What are you talking about?” asked Gunjita.

Five minutes later, after a spirited lesson that began with mechanoreceptors—pressure and motion detectors—in the skin, and ended with one of them, the Meissner corpuscle, named for its discoverer, an accomplished researcher and illustrator, who studied electric fish, developed a technique to preserve organs for years without putrefaction (thereby advancing by leaps and bounds the science of antisepsis), and loved music, Dash returned to Cav’s comment about risk.

“A thousand to one.”

“Nonetheless,” Cav replied haughtily.

Dash was having none of it. “There’s a risk anytime you do anything. That includes doing nothing.”

“Words of wisdom,” said Gunjita. “Are you listening, sweetheart?”

He was, mostly to his own intuition. He sensed a subtle change in Dash, a shyness, a whisper of unhappiness and insecurity.

“Are you pleased with the outcome?” he asked, hoping the answer was yes.

Dash responded by studying his hand, front and back. He’d been so preoccupied with the change in sensation he hadn’t spent much time thinking about anything else. He was blessed with good looks and a strong sense of self. Too handsome by half. Mindful and proud of his roots. All this before juving. Now he looked like he’d been rinsed in skim milk.

A mild shock, like waking from a deep sleep. He felt exposed, defensive.

“I am,” he told Cav, puffing out his chest. “Completely satisfied. One hundred percent.”

“Then I’m glad. I have a question. Please don’t think me rude. You know me better than that.”

Dash did, and had no reservations about anything Cav might ask. Happy, even eager, to bare his soul.

Didn’t feel quite the same with Gunjita present.

His fingertips had started to throb, as though to remind him that his heart was beating rather hard and fast. At the same time the throb felt independent of his heart, his fingertips an entirely separate organ, restless, hungry for further stimulation and experience, desperate to touch something.