Paul McAuley - The Secret of Life

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THE SECRET OF LIFE

Paul McAuley

<>NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and

destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

Edited by Ellen Datlow

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Tor* is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

ISBN: 0-765-34193-X

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2001027121

First edition: June 2001

First mass market edition: May 2002

Printed in the United States of America

0987654321

This is for Georgina

Acknowledgments

Ideas in this novel were derived in part from books and articles by John Barrow, Robert Cook-Deegan,

Peter Coveney and Roger Highfield, Paul Davies, Richard Dawkins, Armand Delsemme, Anders

Hansson, Murray Gell-Mann, James Gleick, Stephen Jay Gould, Bruce Jakosky, Stuart Kauffman, Kevin

Kelly, Christopher Langton, Lynn Margulis, Michael Parfit, Jeremy Rifkin, Ian Stewart, Edward O.

Wilson, and Robert Zubrin, and from the articles collected in Mars, edited by Hugh Kieffer, Bruce

Jakosky, Conway Snyder and Mildred Matthews.

Some races increase, others are reduced, and in a short while the generations of living creatures are

changed, and like runners relay the torch of life.

—Lucretius, De Rerum Natura

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Paul McAuley - The Secret of Life

PART ONE

LIFE ON EARTH

Shanghai, Chinese Democratic Union:

March 2, 2026

All human life is here.

It is almost midnight, yet dozens of barges still plough the black waters of the Huangpu Jiang, hazard

lights winking red and green, passing either side of streamlined robot cargo clippers that swing at anchor

in the midstream channel. The tall white cylinders of the clippers' rotary sails are fitfully illuminated by

fireworks bursting above a rock concert in an amphitheater on the Pudong shore, close to the minaret of

the Oriental Pearl TV Tower. Nets of white laser light flex against the dark sky. The howl of massed

guitars and the throaty roar of the audience carries over the river to Shanghai, where, along the

waterfront avenue of the Bund, beneath tiers of neon, crowds swirl past stalled lines of traffic.

Most of the old colonial department stores and banks have been torn down, replaced by skyscrapers with

organic facings like muscle fibers or wood grain seen under a microscope's lens, or coralline skins

fretted with porous knots and hollows and veins. The human crowds at their feet are like columns of ants

scurrying around the buttress roots of forest giants. People stream out of the Cathay Theater. Waiters in

starched white shirts move among the crowded tables of terrace cafes where roaring gas heaters keep out

the night's chill. Teenage police officers lounge sullenly at inter-sections, tugging at their white gloves

as they watch opposing streams of vehicles inch past with blaring horns and glaring head-lights. Huge

signs are flooded with new advertisements every twenty seconds. Corporate logos burn sleeplessly

inside glass-walled malls piled with electronics, silks, and exotic biotech.

Behind the Bund and the commercial sector, the gridded streets are narrower but no less crowded.

Traffic is jammed in a complex one-way system. Pedestrians and cyclists pour around lit-tle three-

wheeled trucks, bubble cars, the limos of high-ranking government officials or entrepreneurs or

gangsters. Electric scoot-ers tow trailers piled high with flat TV sets or melons or cartons of cigarettes.

Bars and clubs flaunt their wares in video loops cut to the hectic beat of slash funk. Hawkers thrust

animated adsheets into the hands of passersby. Stalls sell ramen or noodle soups, spices, tacky souvenirs,

bootleg spikes, cages of live birds, exotic tweaks. Here's an old woman tipping a handful of fish heads

into sesame oil smoking in a blackened wok. Here's a beggar with an extra head that lolls idiotically on

his left shoulder. Here's a crowd of shopgirls tripping along under a bouquet of colored paper um-

brellas. Tucked away in narrow alleyways are chop shops for stolen motorcycles, the offices of gray

biosurgeons and baby fanners, workshops where customized chips are hand-etched, traditional medicine

shops with dusty glass jars of bark or twigs or dried ber-ries, a shop selling cloned tiger penis and vat-

grown ivory.

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Anything that can be bought can be bought here, in Shanghai.

Pan and scan the restless crowds.

Here's a man ambling along with a slouch hat angled over his face. An American, a businessman—

peacock blue suit, rouged cheeks, blue eye shadow. He plunges down reeking steps into a cellar bar and

orders a beer he does not drink, watching the re-flection of the bar's entrance in the mirror behind the

pairs and trios of naked dancers who, in cones of smoky red laser light, mime rucking with the dazed

compliance of sleepwalkers. After an hour, the American checks his discreet Patek-Philippe tattoo and

moves on, anonymous in the crowds. There are many businesspeople and tourists here, many gwailos.

He passes a Cuban bar, a German bar, an Icelandic bar where customers are handed fur-lined parkas as

they enter—the inside's all ice. Another bar, this one a shack so small its half-dozen customers sit side

by side, serves only whiskey; more than a hundred bottles are racked up behind the bamboo-and-rattan

counter. The American waits until a stool is free and sits and orders a Braveheart on the rocks—despite

the name, it is made in Kenya. He doesn't drink but turns the tumbler around and around in his long,

manicured fingers. Three drunken salary-men are watching a postcard-size TV that shows baseball live

from Tokyo, betting on each pitch in a flurry of fingers and coins.

The bar squats under a sign advertising the Peking Disneyland.

This is the American century.

A young, skinny Chinese man sits beside the American and orders a Rob Roy. They don't talk, but when

the American stands up and leaves the other man gulps down his shot of whiskey and follows him into

an alley, where the American suddenly turns and embraces and kisses him.

The Chinese man is startled and angry and tries to push away, but the American holds him tight. "They

might be watching, so make it real," he says, and kisses the man again, tasting the whiskey on his breath.

They hire a room in a short-time hotel and go up the rickety stairs, stepping between the sleeping bodies

of an entire family, from shrunken grandmother to fretful baby.

The room is tiny and overheated, smells of disinfectant, mold, and sex. It is almost entirely filled by a

gel slab bed covered in purple, vat-grown fur.

The young Chinese man sits down and strokes the coarse fur and says, "My company makes this." His

long black hair is brushed back from his round face; his skin is sallow and shiny with sweat. The width

of his smile is a precise index of his discomfort.

The American tosses his hat onto the bed and says impatiently, "Let's do it."

The Chinese man, his eyes fixed on the American, slowly pulls a pair of flat-ended tweezers from the

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Paul McAuley - The Secret of Life

inside pocket of his snakeskin jacket. He uses them to lift up the nail of his left thumb, picks a glass

capillary rube from the pink bed of artificial flesh, and drops it into the American's palm.

The American stares at the sliver of glass. "What's this shit?"

"It is in there. Alive."

"I wanted the code."

"That is not possible. I tell you already it is not possible. This is the second generation, but it has the

essential property of the Chi. It is alive. You can sequence it yourself. Your people can. I do not cheat

you."

"If you're fucking with me."

"I have no access to the sequence libraries. I tell you that already. Not the sequence libraries, not the Chi

itself. I get you the second-generation lab prototype. I smuggle it past the sniffers. Very hard to do, very

difficult. But I do it. I bring it to you."

The American's hand closes over the capillary tube. "I can verify nucleotide sequences right here. I can't

verify this."

The Chinese man's smile is very wide now. "You sequence it. You see I do not lie. It is the essence of

the Chi."

"Second generation."

"Yes."

"And also a prototype."

"It is fully tested. It splices genes, self-selects at a very high rate. Evolution with a fast-forward button."

The American stares hard into the Chinese man's fixed smile and says again, "If you're fucking with me."

"No, sir. I do not. This is for my family—"

"Yeah, yeah." The American knows the story—dissidents ex-iled to a mining village in Antarctica, a

massive bribe needed to release them, blah blah blah. He says, "Before your family can wave bye-bye to

penguin land, we'll have to check this out."

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Paul McAuley - The Secret of Life

Now the Chinese man allows a hardness to show in his face. "Perhaps you fuck with me."

"Here, we shake on the deal. Okay? It's an American custom."

The Chinese man doesn't look at the American's hand. He says, "No. No, I don't think so."

The American scratches his nose. He's amused. "Suit yourself, Charlie. Maybe you want to fuck instead.

We have the room an-other twenty minutes. Plenty of time for a quick in and out."

The Chinese man stands. "You will sequence the organism and you will pay."

"You've already been paid."

"You will pay the rest."

"Yeah, sure. We done here? Fuck off then."

The American lies back on the fur-covered bed after the Chi-nese man has gone. The handshake doesn't

matter because the kiss did it; his saliva contains a toxin derived from puffer-fish liver, a toxin to which

he has been made immune. It will shut down his victim's nervous system in about twenty minutes: clonic

sei-zures, suffocation, heart failure.

The American leaves the room when the ayah taps on the door to indicate that the hour is up. He strolls

through the crowded streets, brushing off touts and pimps and beggars, toward the Bund. He sits at a

table in a terrace cafe and drinks a latte, watching the crowds from beneath the brim of his hat. Waiters

begin to stack chairs on the empty tables around his, but he takes his time, and it is four in the morning

when he takes a taxi several blocks, enters an infobooth in an all-night mall noisy with rock music, and

sends a dozen ecards, all but one to random addresses. He spends an hour in a games arcade, moving

restlessly from machine to ma-chine; then, as the day's first measure of light pours into the sky, hails

another taxi and goes to the airport.

Shanrytowns full of displaced peasants slope away on either side of the ten-lane freeway. Palms planted

along the center divider have died from a viral infection. Under a floodlit advertisement for the floating

pleasure palaces of the South China Seas, a ragged boy is beating a water buffalo with a stick.

The American meets the government courier in the American Airlines first-class lounge. Two minutes,

in and out. He's on the way back to Shanghai when the cherry lights of half a dozen police cruisers begin

to flash behind his taxi and he realizes who has been fucking who.

The government courier carries only a diplomatic pouch, its lock sealed with a roundel of security

plastic embossed with the eagle and shield of the U.S. government. There's a slight delay after he has

boarded the scramjet, something to do with a baggage count. In dawn light, on the wet concrete beneath

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Paul McAuley - The Secret of Life

the courier's oval window, men with white gloves sign each other's slates while a truck with a flashing

amber light goes past.

When it happens, the scramjet is climbing high above the Pacific. The courier has settled into his calf-

hide first-class seat, is trying not to stare at the TV anchorwoman across the aisle. Stew-ards are taking

back glasses in readiness for the interval of free fall at the top of the scramjet's suborbital arc.

And in the hold, the device planted by one of the baggage inspectors fires a single microwave pulse that

fries every processor in the scramjet's neural net. All power goes out. Cabin power, power to the fuel

pumps of the air-breather motors, power to the control surfaces. The scramjet tumbles in an uncontrolled

dive, the spine of its overstressed airframe shattering, the pressurized cabin exploding along welding

seams, breaking up a kilometer above the Pacific.

Over the next three days, U.S. Navy ships gather from the ocean's heaving skin luggage and life vests

and seats and clothing, carbon fiber shards from the scramjet's wings and fragments of its titanium hull,

and bodies and pieces of bodies.

The tiny glass capillary tube, its seal broken, drifts more than twenty kilometers north before it finally

sinks.

Oracle, Arizona:

October 12, 2026

When she arrives home, Mariella pulls on her sheepskin-lined denim jacket, saddles her bay mare,

Twink, and rides at a trot along the dry riverbed. A kilometer out, she turns the horse and urges her up a

trail that climbs between scrub pines and ju-nipers to the top of the ridge.

It is not quite six in the evening of this unseasonably chilly October day. Across the desert basin, beyond

the Batamonte Mountains, the huge sky is laddered with red clouds. Twink is sweating with the exertion

of climbing the trail, her flanks steam-ing gently in the cold, dry air. The pungent odors of saddle leather

and horse sweat mix pleasantly. Mariella twitches the reins when Twink drops her head to investigate a

patch of engineer grass. A scurf of snow clings to the shady side of rocks and ruts. The air pinches

Mariella's face and ears and fingers; she wishes she'd thought to put on her hat and gloves. She can feel

cold in the barbell through her left eyebrow, the copper wires sewn along the rims of her ears.

The lights of Oracle are scattered below the ridge, trailer homes and the translucent bubbles and

interlocked glass-and-steel cubes of newer houses. Lines of eucalyptus and acacia trees define unmade

streets which generally follow the contours of the low hills over which the little town sprawls. To the

south, Tucson twinkles like a pile of diamonds; in the middle distance, the perimeter lights of the

Arizona Biological Reserve define three hundred square ki-lometers in the darkening desert. The long

tented trench of Gaia Two is so brilliantly illuminated it seems more intensely real than anything around

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Paul McAuley - The Secret of Life

it, an interstellar ark floating in primeval darkness. Vapor from the tall steel chimney of the liquid-

nitrogen plant catches its glow, a feather of white pinned against the darkening land. Beyond the

northern end of Gaia Two are the lights of the commercial research laboratories, each separated from its

neigh-bors by landscaping and concrete ditches and revetments and wire fences, and in a checkerboard

pattern beyond the laboratories are the concrete blockhouses that cap the shafts, built to the same design

as ICBM silos, where frozen biocores are stored. Constel-lations of red warning lights wink among the

panels and cableways of the big solar energy field.

Mariella sits on her horse and watches as the sky darkens and the first stars come out. Thinking about

the phone call from Wash-ington. Thinking, not for the first time, that she has come full circle and that

it's time to break out, time to move on. She can't let this chance go.

The sliver of the new Moon is setting in the west. And there, in Leo, close to the bright point of Jupiter,

is what she has come to see.

Mariella rises in the saddle, reaches out with her right hand as if to clasp the red star of Mars to herself..

"Got you!" she shouts. "Got you at last, you bastard!"

Washington, D.C.:

October 13-October 14, 2026

Before dawn, Marietta drives her battered pickup to Tucson International Airport, collects her tickets

at the South Western desk, and moves from business class lounge to scramjet with a sense of huge

wheels invisibly meshing around her. All she carries is her slate, a set of clean underwear tucked into

one of the pockets of its sand-colored canvas case. She is wearing her best clothes, a magenta bias-cut

suit and a yellow silk shirt with pearl clasps she bought in Paris last year at the UNESCO conference on

sustain-ability.

The flight is shorter than the wait at the airport, an arc that briefly takes the scramjet out of the

atmosphere, half of. the con-tinent spread below, and then down, gliding in over the inter-locked curves

of the Potomac Barrier to Reagan National Airport, where it is already noon.

A limo is waiting for Mariella at the airport, and takes her to a hotel overlooking the river: the

Watergate. Where she discovers that her appearance before the special ad hoc subcommittee has been

delayed until the next morning. She can't get through to the NASA guy, Al Paley, but fuck it, it's just

some bureaucratic glitch, the old hurry-up-and-wait routine. That's what she tells herself. Don't make a

scene, don't screw up. Be a good girl and maybe they'll let you go to Mare.

She buys a toothbrush and makeup in the vending machines in the hotel lobby, showers and hangs her

suit and blouse in the steamy bathroom to remove their wrinkles, chooses something from the room

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service menu and tries to do some work. There is always work. There are a couple of slash clubs she

knows about in the central D.C. area—Studio 7, The Meatlocker—but she can hardly go tom-catting in

her business suit, and she will need a clear head for the next day.

Sometime in the night, she is awakened by the throb of en-gines. She gets out of bed, tells the room to

dim the light it con-siderately switches on, crosses to the tall window and parts the drapes and looks out

through the armored glass. An attack heli-copter with a shark's sleek profile hovers in the orange sky

above the river's dark bend, at about the same level as her hotel room. Muzzle flashes star the opposite

shore—a string of even, deliberate shots, the sustained crackle of a semiautomatic. The helicopter probes

the shore with threads of red laser light, then suddenly stands on its nose and stoops in low and fast,

disappearing between two megalithic office blocks.

Welcome back to civilization.

At seven, Mariella is awakened from uneasy dreams by her alarm call. Wearing unaccustomed makeup

like a mask, she is met in the lobby by a Secret Service agent. That is how the woman in-troduces

herself.

"Glory Dunn, Secret Service. I'm here to look after you, Dr. Anders."

"I didn't know I needed protection, Gloria."

The African-American woman is as tall as a basketball player, bulges with obviously enhanced muscles,

and wears a severely cut suit: a cartoon superhero poured into corporate tailoring. Hair cut short in a

bristly wedge, dyed the same red as the frames of her data spex. She cracks a frosty smile and says,

"That's Glory, Dr. Anders. Not Gloria. It's a common mistake. This way please. Are you enjoying your

stay?"

"It's nice to see where my tax dollars go."

A black limo is waiting outside, a gas-powered stretch Cadillac probably fifty years old. Mariella

wrinkles her nose at the half-forgotten yet instantly familiar stink of carbon monoxide and half-burnt

hydrocarbons. Like California, Arizona has air-pollution laws so strict you need to buy a license before

you can fire up a bar-becue. Agent Dunn holds the door open and climbs in after Mar-iella, folding her

long legs like a stork. As the limo purrs oft", Mariella asks about the gunshots last night.

"There was a helicopter, too. Chasing something on the other side of the river."

"Probably a sweep against draft dodgers. Some people would rather die than work. I understand you're

easier on them in Ari-zona."

"We certainly don't shoot at them, Agent Dunn."

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The limo's tinted windows darken the crisp fall sunlight. Huge white buildings, the shoulder of the

Potomac's levee and the arc of a bridge float past in ghostly procession. A construction crew is working

across from the White House, returfing a raw wound in a level stretch of grass. Where that light plane

crashed a week ago, shot down by a handheld stinger missile fired from the White House roof. The

plane flew up the Potomac under radar, a wild-man suicide bomber sitting on a hundred kilos of

plastique. The President went on TV to tell the nation that he refused to be intimidated, that unlike his

predecessor he would not move inside the heavy fortifications of Camp David, but it hasn't stopped the

rumors that he sleeps in a Cold War bomb shelter two hundred meters underground.

The special ad hoc subcommittee of the Science, Space and Technology Committee is meeting at the

labyrinthine Raybum House Office Building, which houses the staffs of most of Con-gress's standing

committees and subcommittees. There's a compli-cated negotiation at the security barrier involving

retinal scans and passing a chemical sniffer and a metal-detecting wand over Mar-iella's body, then a

ride in a small, slow elevator. She has been here several times before, for it is typical of Washington that

com-mittees assess programs under their control by considering reports prepared by outsiders, and she

knows to ask the secretary who takes her name at the reception desk on the second floor about briefing

documents.

"This is just an informal session, Dr. Anders. Would you prefer coffee or iced tea?"

"Could you rustle up some hot tea?"

The secretary is a slender, immaculately groomed man with a prissily formal manner and silver eye

shadow. He purses his lips and says doubtfully, "I suppose we could try."

Mariella has suffered numerous cultural misunderstandings over the proper way to make tea and long

ago learned to accept that Americans willfully fuck it up, probably because they still un-consciously

resent British colonialism. They make it with ice; they make it with hot water from the tap; worst of all,

they flavor it. Her first Christmas with Forrest's family, she made the mistake of asking for a cup of tea.

A dusty canister of tea bags was trium-phantly produced after her mother-in-law noisily ransacked the

kitchen for ten minutes, and at last the steaming cup was brought in and presented to Mariella with as

much ceremony as if she was Queen Bess and it was the first potato. There was no milk and she asked

for some, producing puzzled looks and another flurry. A measure of milk was stirred in. She took a sip.

It was peach tea.

So she says now, "Never mind. Coffee. Black, two sugars."

"I'll bring it directly. Would you please sign this?"

Several pages of close-printed paragraphs of legalese. The sec-retary points to the dotted line at the

bottom of the last page.

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Paul McAuley - The Secret of Life

"What exactly is it?"

"A document of nondisclosure, Dr. Anders."

"Perhaps I should consult my lawyer."

The secretary purses his lips again. "Well, you could, of course, but it would considerably delay

proceedings."

"I was joking."

"I see. Sign here, please, and initial the other pages. Here, yes, and here. Thank you, Dr. Anders. You'll

have to leave your slate with me, but don't worry, it will be quite safe. I fix this seal, just so, and you

press it with your thumb. That's right. Now no one but you can open it without the seal discoloring. This

way please. The subcommittee is ready for you."

It is the same room where she gave evidence about the viability of a permanent Moon colony a few

years ago. Low ceilinged and windowless, although floor-to-ceiling drapes at the far end make a

pretense that there are windows, worn blue carpet, the air vibrant with the subliminal hum of air

conditioning, the lights bright, a long table with three men and two women seated behind it, and more

than a dozen secretaries and advisors and chiefs of staff crammed behind them like courtiers in a

medieval throne room.

A flag furled on a staff to the right, a woman at a stenographer's table to the left. Cameras up in the

corners of the room, on metal brackets under the white acoustic tiles. A straight-backed chair in front of

the table, to which the secretary ushers Mariella.

Mariella knows the NASA representative, Al Paley, and the white-haired African-American woman who

chairs the subcom-mittee—Senator Mae Thornton, chair of the Science, Space and Technology

Committee, a notable champion of the space program and a regular on talk shows and government

infomercials—but not the others. There's a congressman from the Energy and Com-merce Committee, a

member of the White House Science Co-ordinating Committee, the director of the congressional Office

of Technology Assessment. One of the advisors is nursing both a slate and a young baby, and Mariella

remembers afterward how the baby fretted throughout the meeting.

There are the usual formalities, her swearing in, the polite thrust and parry that establishes that yes, she

really is Dr. Mariella Anders, that she is forty-one, that she is a recognized expert in microbial ecology,

that she is presently working at the Arizona Biological Reserve, that although born in Britain she has

been a citizen of the United States for fifteen years, naturalized by mar-riage but widowed, currently

single.

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