Drakon (27 page)
And each other, particularly each other—
drakensis
are
drakensis's
main cause of death."
She stripped the tunic off over her head and threw the sodden fabric to the stone pavement with a wet
smack.
The swimming pool was fed from a cast-bronze lion's mask set in a semicircle of rough stone blocks. Gwen bent her head into the stream of water from the lion's mouth and drank hugely. Cairstens felt his breath catch at the sight. Naked, she looked far less human; the sleek perfection of long bones and flat-strap muscle was somewhere between machine and animal. He caught the smell of her sweat, like musk mixed with flowery perfume, and gave an involuntary gasp.
Gwen raised her head. Her nostrils flared slightly, taking his scent. "You've been good," she said, and flicked her hand toward one of the loungers. "But quickly."
His fingers trembled slightly as he dropped his shorts and lay back on the padded deck-chair. He reached behind his head and gripped the framework as Gwen came to stand over him, her mahogany curls outlined against the rising sun.
"Another built-in drive," she said, and straddled him.
Her hands clamped over his. The weight of her body came down on him, always shocking; the denser bone and muscle made it heavier than his, and hot—fever hot with the superactive metabolism. Lips moved across his as her tongue probed his mouth. Her hips moved, and he felt his penis seized and clamped and held in a warm internal grip just short of pain, like a wet heated glove of flesh. The steel frame of the lounger creaked rhythmically as she rode him, harder and harder. She growled with pleasure as she moved, a sound unlike anything he'd ever heard. The musk of her scent and the crushing strength that held and moved him brought an exquisite sense of yielding helplessness. When she stiffened and arched over him he spasmed and cried out in abandon.
Gwen lay on him for a moment, smiling. "Best way to start the day," she said kindly, chucking him under the chin.
Cairstens lay limply. "God, I'm ruined," he said.
"Not at all," Gwen replied, picking him up and tossing him casually overarm into the pool.
He thrashed and sputtered for a moment as she arrowed past him. When he turned, she was standing on the bottom of the deep end looking up at him—the sight was a little eerie, until you remembered she was naturally denser than water. Then she crouched and leapt and barreled by, her wake buffeting him aside. They climbed out and put on beach robes; the maid was there with breakfast, and Alice had brought the files.
"No problems with the Belway people about the other night?"
"Coleman and Klein didn't even wake up, according to the monitors. Feinberg was up, and went out in the garden. I told her it was a minor disturbance among the construction workers, and she bought it."
"She called her policeman friend again," Gwen said. "I wonder just why he was so concerned. We'll have to look into that." She grinned. "I think she's fonder of him than he knows, judging by her behavior in the bath after that."
Alice giggled. "Not quite as much the ice-maiden as she puts on."
"There's no conflict between libido and ambition," Gwen said. "Quite the contrary. Now. It's been a very productive week," she went on thoughtfully, loading her plate with johnnycake and local dishes—fire engine, chicken souse, slices of fresh avocado. She began to feed. "I think we've achieved a preliminary rapport with Primary Belway Securities."
"Got them around your finger, you mean," Alice said.
"Not exactly. Not yet. But their eyes are definitely full of dollar signs," Gwen said. She chewed thoughtfully on a piece of johnnycake. "Pass those grits, please. We'll need a secure line into Belway, somehow . . . definitely a hold on one of their executives."
"Which one did you have in mind?"
"The youngest, Feinberg. She seems to be more mentally flexible; that'll be useful if we can bring her fully on-side eventually. You humans tend to ossify mentally by forty."
"We've got a few months before the action moves to New York," Cairstens pointed out.
Gwen frowned slightly. "Yes, but that damned Samothracian is a complicating factor. I'll have to be very cautious there, with him around."
She murmured something in her native dialect; Cairstens thought he caught
damnyank,
but he couldn't be sure. It was too different from English as he'd been raised to understand it, and she rarely used it.
"You should set up a meeting with Amier and Lather," Cairstens said. "Their influence could be extremely helpful in the U.S. I think I impressed them, but you should consolidate it."
"An excellent suggestion," Gwen said thoughtfully. "Speaking of risks, it's time to prepare a fallback strategy, just in case," she added.
"Just in case what?" he asked.
"Just in case the Samothracian manages to kill me," she said. Cairstens swallowed, feeling his stomach lurch. Alice had the same stricken look. "Oh, don't worry—it's a low probability. But it exists."
"What will you do?" he asked.
"Clone myself," she said. "I had Singh do up a viable embryo, and it's ready for implanting any time."
Cairstens frowned, searching for details; his background in genetics had improved considerably over the past few years, since that was one of IngolfTech's main lines. A clone was a genetic duplicate of the original, a cell-nucleus inserted into an ovum and stimulated to divide. This Earth still couldn't do it with higher animals, but he supposed it was routine in Gwen's timeline.
"But a clone wouldn't have your memories, would it? It wouldn't be
you.
"
Gwen tapped herself behind the ear. "Not normally. But I can download a lot to my transducer,"
she said. "It's quasi-organic itself and the memory's stored holographically; we can extract a piece and implant it
in embryo
at about seven months, that's standard procedure, except that they usually use a blank one. That'll provide a lot of the background. No, it won't be me, a different personality . . . but it'll be fairly close. With the right upbringing, it—she—would be ready to start taking over in about twenty, thirty years.
We mature about the same rate you do; the homeostasis doesn't kick in until then. I've drawn up a plan for a schedule of clandestine investments, safe houses, that sort of thing. You can start implementing it after the bankers leave. That way if everything goes sour, the clone can be reared in safety and have a base to start from."
Alice paused with a piece of pineapple on her fork. "Won't it be inconvenient, being pregnant?" she said.
Gwen chuckled. "Not for me, my dear. Not for me."
The Australian's fork dropped to her plate with a clatter. Her face went white around the eyes and mouth as the Draka reached over to pat her on the cheek.
"Don't worry," she said. "The procedure's painless, and once the embryo implants in the uterus you'll feel fine. Slightly euphoric, in fact. It's all designed that way. Special diet, of course—she'll need more minerals and so forth than a human fetus—but it's not dangerous if you're careful. And I can guarantee that you'll absolutely
adore
the baby. That's built-in too."
Alice stifled a scream. Gwen rose and pulled her to her feet, half-supporting her.
"It's all ready. No time like the present." She stroked the Australian's blond hair. "It's a very special relationship," she said soothingly. "Being a brooder for a Draka, that is. Come on now, don't fuss."
***
Jennifer blinked. The sun threw sparkles of metallic brightness back from the water in the concrete holding tank. Sand gritted on the paving stones beneath her sandals. A succession of broad football-field-sized concrete holding tanks stood along the seafront, stepped down one from the other. There was a muted hum of pumps, and a hissing as bubbles rose through the water in the first four tanks; a heavy algae smell rose from them—but this last one was filled with something as transparent as distilled water.
Gwen dipped a glass into it and drank. "Try it," she said.
The Belway Securities executives followed suit. The water was sun-warm but nearly tasteless.
"Four days ago, that was sea water. A tailored algae-bacteria combination—solar-powered, bioengineered desalinization."
"You're serious?" Jennifer blurted. The other two executives looked at her, and she flushed.
Well,
at least I'm not following her around with my tongue lolling out,
she thought.
Talk about
unprofessional,
give me a break.
"Perfectly serious. The algae extract the sodium from the seawater, encapsulate it, sink to the bottom, then die. You drain the algae from the bottom of the tank, and the fresh water from the top. That's an oversimplification, of course; the technical data is in your briefing kit. Basically the algae produce a carbon-based ion-exchange polymer which holds the sodium and chloride ions in an insoluble chemical bond."
The managing director ran a handkerchief over his balding head. The Australian assistant made a hand motion, and a Haitian servant in a white jacket came forward with a tray of iced lemonade. Jennifer gave the blond a second's attention. Wearing a high-collared dress despite the heat, and looking rather peaked.
Back to business.
"EPA approval might be a bit of a problem."
Everyone nodded. Gwen shrugged.
"It's not viable in the open ocean, no resistance to predators; and we built in a cellular failsafe to limit reproduction. Besides sun, it needs sulfur, nitrogen, and ammonia at much higher concentrations than in the sea. The bubbles"—she nodded toward the tanks—"are aeration. It's a photosynthetic process, of course, so atmospheric carbon compounds are a source and oxygen is a byproduct, just like any other plant life. The necessary nitrogen is taken from the atmosphere via symbiotic nitrogen-fixing bacteria, and two other bacteria also concentrate metallic salts. Incidentally, raw sewage would do fine as a source of bulk nutrients for the process."
"Ah," the managing director said. "And the byproducts?"
"Salts of various types. To be precise, a concentrated saline sludge with organic polymers. There's another process which recycles the sulfur and so forth for reuse, and the rest is chemical feedstock for a number of processes. In fact, the sale price of the byproducts would more than cover the installation costs—you could run this process at a profit
without
using the fresh water, just dumping it back in the ocean.
"But yes," she went on, "regulatory approval—particularly in the U.S.—may take some time.
However, think of the potential once it is approved; and in non-American markets, as well. We've had expressions of interest from Saudi Arabia, among others. And Singapore."
"What are the costs?" Coleman said, swallowing.
"Minimal. Building the tanks, pumping, and adding the nutrients to the water. Then add the algae, stir, and wait. We calculate the overall cost to be less than five percent of conventional vacuum distillation or osmotic filter treatments. Cheap enough to replace any but the most abundant natural sources for coastal cities; cheap enough to use for irrigation anywhere under 100 meters above sea level."
Gwen was wearing a fairly conservative outfit, blazer and pleated skirt; she leaned one hand against the rough concrete of a lab building. The vice-president was still having trouble tearing his eyes away. Jennifer frowned in puzzlement.
Yes, he's a letch, but he doesn't let it get in the way of business,
she thought. Coleman evidently thought so too; or perhaps the implications had just begun to sink in, because he straightened and put a hand to his tie.
"Good
God!
" he blurted, staring at the water.
My God,
Jennifer thought.
My
Greed!
They all nodded. There were billions in that market, even if the costing estimate was overoptimistic by a factor of ten. If it was anywhere near accurate . . . Los Angeles alone would make the patent holder richer than J. P. Getty had ever been. Anywhere with bright sunlight and a shortage of fresh water. No energy costs, and no expensive tech necessary.
Damn,
anyone
could use this. Places too primitive for
elevators
could use this.
She felt her face flush. If it really was cheap enough for irrigation, it could upset economies all over the world. Every low-lying coastal desert in the tropics could become a garden. Israel was importing drinking water by tanker from Europe—now the Negev would become wall-to-wall orange groves and wheatfields. Californians could water their lawns until they turned into rice paddies. Libya would become the Kansas of the Mediterranean.
"You have the patents?" she said, in a tone that held the hush of reverence.
"Pending, and I mean pending everywhere. Full proprietary rights, of course; this was done in-house."
"This looks . . . ah . . . too good to be true."
No
overheads at all! Just send them packets of algae like baker's yeast!
On
the
other hand, how would you prevent piracy? Forget that, this would be big even
with
piracy. Sit back and collect the royalties. Set them low, really low, so people would be less tempted to cheat, then get your revenue on high volume.
Jennifer looked at the vat of water with a feeling of awe.
I think,
she mused,
that this may just be
the Perfect Investment.
It was a little like finding the Holy Grail.
Gwen nodded. "And things which look too good to be true generally are; however, you can study this to your hearts' content and you'll find nothing but hard, profitable fact."
***
Lafarge thought. Martinique had places much more upscale than the one where he'd first met Captain Lavasseur. This one looked out over the hills of Fort-de-France with white buildings shining below, the foam-capped purple waves of the Caribbean beyond, mountains behind . . . and nobody was wearing a weapon as far as the AI could tell. He attacked the food with gusto. The
New America