Change Agent Read online

  Chapter 35

  Morning brought rain again and low cloud cover, but the men broke camp in good spirits because it wasn’t drone weather. The column marched in silence along freshly hacked trails and into a broad jungle valley, parsed by streams and swamps. The ground churned almost immediately to mud with the passage of hooves and feet.

  Midmorning Durand came alongside Thet’s litter. Two soldiers carried the man on a folding carbon fiber frame.

  Thet smiled broadly. “Mr. Durand. They say you saved me.”

  “Then we’re even, Thet; you and your sister are saving me right now.”

  Thet pointed. “Your tattoos—they are visible today.”

  Durand looked down at his arms and nodded—unsure whether they’d ever go away again.

  “The men believe your tattoos protected you from the drones—back at the river.”

  Durand said nothing. Instead, he bowed a wai to Thet and moved ahead.

  Soon Frey, riding Tuk, fell in behind Durand. “What’s going on with you exactly?”

  Durand walked in silence.

  “It’s rather easy to notice when you’re upset. You wear it on your sleeve.”

  Durand cast an annoyed glance at Frey. “I can feel myself slipping away. That’s what’s going on.”

  “Are you losing your connection to the chromatophores?”

  “I’m having trouble remembering what I was like. How it felt to be Kenneth Durand.” He examined his arms. “There are things I don’t even think about anymore . . .”

  Frey contemplated this. “So, tell me something about Kenneth Durand.”

  “I told you I—”

  “Surely you remember Kenneth Durand’s life. Experience makes us who we are. So where did Kenneth Durand come from anyway? And what possessed him to go to the Naval Academy, of all things? It seems a rather jingoistic choice. Enlighten me.”

  Durand walked in brooding silence for a bit. “It wasn’t a choice. It was a goal. We were poor. I told myself that my mother and my brother and sister were counting on me to succeed.”

  “Well, you did succeed. You should be proud.”

  “But I never really came back.” Durand picked up his pace and moved ahead in the column.

  • • •

  That evening they camped in a narrow defile with a waterfall and idyllic pool of water nearby. Durand moved through the camp to smiles and nods. He noticed that Thet was sitting up and drinking tea now, laughing as he spoke to the other men.

  While helping to string up the anti-drone nets, Durand put his comprehensive knot skills to use and demonstrated a quick-release highwayman’s knot several times to the Shan fighters, who observed his hands closely. The language barrier made it easier to focus on his actual hand movements. The men were fast learners, and they soon put that clever knot to use, smiling at him.

  While crossing camp, Durand passed Bo Win. They nodded and continued—though he felt their shared gaze linger a moment longer than necessary. He spent the remainder of the night with an unsettled feeling. In the darkness he pulled out the photo of his family, but he could not see it. Instead, he thumbed its surface.

  • • •

  After a fitful sleep, Durand awoke in the predawn. The chorus of insects drowned out the thin waterfall nearby. He eased out from between the other sleeping fighters and walked toward the pool of water. He splashed the cool water over his face and ran his hand through it. In the evening he hadn’t noticed that the water was so clear—the first clear water he’d seen in this mountainous, mud-filled jungle.

  Predawn and it was already in the high seventies, and he could see tunics drying on branches. He pulled off his own tunic and eased into the water. It was only a couple meters deep. He swam along the bank, feeling the coolness seep into him. He rolled over to gaze at the canopy above. He listened to the calls of tropical birds. Water cascaded down from a cliff face fifty meters high.

  He suddenly wondered if there were poisonous snakes in the pool. It startled him upright in the water. Durand turned toward the bank and noticed Bo Win standing there.

  At first he thought she might be angry with him for taking a swim, but her expression remained neutral.

  He reached for the bank and pulled himself up through the brush. He wai’d to her silently. She still stared at him.

  Durand looked around to see if the camp was stirring, but the sun had not yet touched the eastern horizon. Only the sentries on the perimeter were awake.

  He felt her hand brush his arm, and he looked down to see she was there next to him, a head shorter than he. Close.

  Win spoke softly in the Shan dialect. Just then Durand wanted more than anything to understand her as he watched her beautiful eyes catch reflected light. The desire he felt began to consume him. With effort he recalled his family. His wife and daughter.

  He knew it shouldn’t require effort, but at that moment Kenneth Durand seemed more like a man he once knew than his true self. This was becoming his real life.

  And it fit him. He felt at home in chaos.

  But that wasn’t true. He knew it wasn’t. He’d loved everything about his old life—even if he couldn’t see it now.

  But a realization nearly crushed him.

  Was he going through the motions? Striving toward a goal because Kenneth Durand wanted it? There was a void where his rage had once been. He felt the driving force of it fading.

  This had to be some evolved trait. Some plasticity of the human mind to adapt to new circumstances. He felt his grip on Durand weakening.

  Win was looking with concern into his eyes, and she seemed to sense that he was struggling with intense emotions. She clasped his hand.

  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine his wife’s face.

  He could not.

  He opened his eyes to see Win. If she moved to him, he could not resist her. He knew that now. And he knew she sensed it, too.

  Win gazed at him for several moments and then leaned her head against his shoulder. He stroked her hair as they stood this way for a moment.

  And then she pushed slowly away from him, looking up with eyes that seemed to say, In some other life.

  Win then turned and moved silently toward the camp.

  Durand felt as if he teetered on the edge of a precipice he had only just now noticed. He knelt on the ground—the faces of his wife and daughter coming to him clearly now.

  The realization that he’d been ready—willing—to leave them behind brought tears to his eyes. He wept silently.

  He needed—needed—to get his identity back. The anger had returned. But he could not help wonder how much longer it would remain. How long would he be able to perceive his current self as the “other”—before his old self started to fade?

  But then he noticed his arms in the dim light.

  The Huli jing tattoos had faded. Suddenly gone.

  He stood and focused his mind. He was Kenneth Durand. Kenneth Durand.

  • • •

  Durand marched with the lead fighters that day, staying near the front, keeping his thoughts to himself as they came down out of the Burmese highlands. Through occasional gaps between the trees he could see low foothills and a broad valley ahead—miles across with the far side lost in haze.

  The men seemed more at ease here, and sure enough, Durand could see a patchwork of rice paddies on the valley floor ahead.

  By evening they walked along a berm with rice paddies to either side. Water buffalo wallowed in brown creeks nearby, and they could see farmers knee-deep in water waving welcome.

  The fighters waved back.

  Eventually, the column entered a small village like something from a bygone age. The thatched roof huts were raised on bamboo stilts, and yet there were solar panels and satellite dishes, too. Durand could see 3D printers in tool sheds and a gray-haired ma
n wearing LFP glasses, motioning with his hands as he manipulated virtual objects.

  Bo Win moved past Durand, heading to the front to meet the village elder, who came out to greet them, along with barking dogs and lots of barefoot children in T-shirts and tunics. There was smiling and hugging.

  Frey’s donkey came up along with the rest of the pack train, and he laboriously dismounted to the great amusement of the children, who gathered around him, laughing.

  “Ah, yes, the funny little dwarf. The honesty of children. How refreshing.” He smiled at them.

  Durand watched Bo Win. She saluted a trim, dignified-looking man in military uniform who had emerged from a corrugated metal building with several other soldiers, automatic rifles slung over their shoulders. After listening for a few moments, they invited her inside.

  “What do you figure that’s all about?”

  Frey walked up alongside. “Reporting in. She’ll pass along information about us, no doubt.”

  Durand watched the door close behind her.

  • • •

  That night the resistance fighters sat around a long wooden table, sharing platters of rice, stir-fried vegetables, wooden bowls of soup, and bottled beer. The men laughed and spoke over one another. They seemed elated to have survived another supply run. Glad to be near home.

  Durand watched them, envious.

  Frey sat next to Thet—who was up and walking now, though with a line of pale blue wound sealant running across his scalp.

  “Tell me, Thet, where do we go from here?”

  “Most of these men will head north tomorrow. My sister awaits instructions from superiors.”

  “Regarding us?”

  Thet nodded.

  Frey gestured to the pork rice Durand was eating. “I thought you were a degan.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Thet raised his eyebrows. “You prefer deathless meat, Mr. Durand?”

  Durand looked up. “I didn’t become a degan for spiritual reasons. It was for my daughter. It’s better for the environment.”

  Frey snorted. “Our environment, he means—not the pig’s, clearly. Because that’s what we mean when we say ‘the environment,’ right?”

  Durand cast an annoyed look Frey’s way.

  “Though I suppose transhumanists might use this ‘change agent’ technology to edit their lungs to metabolize a different gas mixture—then there will indeed be a big struggle over saving the environment. Whose environment? I’d say we’re heading toward an increasingly disordered world, Thet. Though the local picture in places like Singapore and London might be very pleasant indeed, I don’t imagine we are going to remain a single species for much longer. Pity.”

  Thet pointed.

  Durand and Frey turned to see Win emerge from the communications shed. She motioned to her brother in coded hand signals.

  He nodded back at her. “I will need to make preparations. Apparently you are going north.”

  Chapter 36

  The next morning they boarded a long-tail boat on a nearby canal under a sky that threatened rain, thunder rumbling ominously in the foothills. Most of the other fighters had moved on before dawn. Accompanying Durand and Frey were Bo Win, Thet, three resistance fighters, and a farmer piloting the boat. All of them were dressed in indigo-dyed tunics made of homespun fabric, with baggy pants cinched beneath their shirts. More importantly, they all wore the conical bamboo hats as they clambered aboard, with Durand and Frey shielding their faces from the sky.

  Given the resolution of drone surveillance platforms—and the amount of both Western and Eastern equipment sold to the regime—Durand knew that security was a real concern.

  Moments after boarding, the powerful engine of the long-tail roared to life, and they soon raced down the canal at a considerable speed. Water buffalo fled onto the banks as they approached.

  Keeping the kup on his head took considerable effort with the wind, but Durand poked his head up high enough to gaze out onto mist-filled rice paddies to either side.

  He noticed Bo Win doing the same. She met his gaze without intent. Whatever had passed between them two days before, she had moved on.

  Bo Win must have made the case to bring Durand and Frey to her leadership. She had put her reputation on the line for him.

  The boat soon joined a narrow river that snaked through the low foothills of the Burmese highlands. Reeds and bamboo forests closed in on either side. Ruins of ancient brick temples rose from the bush—overgrown and shattered from either time or earlier conflicts. Durand guessed they must have been centuries old.

  The temple ruins increased in number, and as they came around a bend in the river, they soon emerged into a large lake. They left the coast behind and raced out over the dark blue water.

  Durand could make out rounded hills kilometers away on the far shore. Traditional fishermen were already out on the lake, standing on one leg in their narrow wooden boats and rowing a stern oar with the other leg as they cast homemade nets.

  It was a scene that must have been occurring here every morning for a thousand years. The sense of permanence calmed Durand.

  In the water behind these fishermen stood whitewashed domed stupas and chedis. They rose from the water’s surface, creating a maze. Some lay in ruins; others were still bright white. Some even had gold pinnacles, catching the sun’s light as it crested the horizon.

  They passed between the holy sites, their wake lapping against the aging brick at the waterline.

  By midday, the boat approached a large Buddhist monastery with curving tiled roofs. Saffron-robed monks walked the grounds, and a massive, vine-choked stone temple rose behind it.

  The boat slowed, and the farmer eased the bow onto a gravel beach. Young, bald-headed monks came to assist them in disembarking, reaching to hold hands as the passengers hopped down. Yet they did not touch Bo Win, instead keeping a respectful distance—whether by social custom or due to her position, Durand did not know.

  The monks had no outward response to Frey’s dwarfism, and assisted him out of the boat and onto shore with great care.

  Frey joined Durand on the beach, looking back at the young monks. “They seem nice.”

  Durand nodded toward Thet, who was motioning for them to follow.

  Win was already well ahead. Her men remained back in the boat, weapons concealed. Durand and Frey caught up with Thet.

  Durand took in the enormity and age of the ornate structure as they walked beneath its stone arches. He could see dozens of robed monks of all ages watching them and smiling, some of them bowing in greeting. “Where are we, Thet?”

  Thet put his hands together. “So sorry. I cannot say, Mr. Durand.”

  He brought Durand and Frey deeper into the ancient building. Soon the sights and smells changed from incense to something more like a hospital. As they followed Win, Durand was shocked as they passed wards containing deformed children playing on the wooden floors, or sleeping in cribs, while robed monks cared for them.

  The children ranged in age from infancy to six or seven years old—Bamar, Shan, or Karen, Durand couldn’t tell. But their genetic deformities made him wince despite his best efforts. Double-faced or with multiple extra arms and legs, misshapen bodies that curled upon themselves. This wasn’t some random situation. He knew it was the result of reckless genetic editing. His heart sank at the sight of them. Children crying in discomfort and intractable confusion tore at his parental instincts.

  “Thet . . . My god, what is this?”

  “The Huli jing. They experiment on embryos to . . . how do you say? Map gene expression. They allow all their experiments to gestate to birth, and carefully record the results. Most are destroyed. Some, like these, are discarded.”

  Frey moved into one of the doorways, and looked as though he was on the edge of a breakdown. He gazed out upon the children, his mouth moving wordlessly.<
br />
  There were dozens of children in view, and possibly many more in the rooms and wards beyond.

  Frey finally said, “The monks care for them.”

  Thet nodded. “They say they are trapped in these bodies for this life.”

  Frey appeared on the verge of tears. “This wasn’t karma. They didn’t deserve this. No child deserves this.” He turned to Thet. “I have some medical training. Some may be suffering from disorders that can be ameliorated. My skills might be of some use.”

  “I am certain the monks would be very glad of your assistance, Dr. Frey.”

  Frey looked out at the ward again. “To be an active intellect imprisoned in a nonfunctioning body. I sometimes forget how fortunate I am.”

  Thet tugged at Frey’s sleeve. “We must follow Bo Win, please.”

  Frey nodded, and they all three continued down the corridor, past genetically monstrous children playing with smiling monks.

  They walked through towering, carved wooden doors into a room lined with representations of the Buddha in many manifestations, some fashioned in gold, jade, and opal, others in wood or stone.

  Bo Win had removed her kup, and both Durand and Frey did likewise. She turned and spoke rapidly in the Shan dialect as they approached.

  Thet translated. “My sister asks that you release your final payment, Dr. Frey.”

  Frey’s face fell and then morphed into irritation. “Standing as we are in a place of spiritual enlightenment—and so recently passing through a place of severe human suffering—I’m not particularly of a mind to discuss money right now, Bo Win.”

  Thet relayed Frey’s words, and Win’s face hardened. She replied immediately.

  “My sister says that—”

  “You can tell your sister that the deal was that I would arrange for payment when Mr. Durand and I were both safely arrived in Naypyidaw. This does not look like Naypyidaw.”

  Thet spoke for several moments, exchanging terse words with Win.

  “My sister says that the arrangement changed when Mr. Durand revealed that he has been genetically transformed into the leader of the Huli jing.”