Cocoon

    COCOON
    Greg Egan
      "Cocoon" was purchased by Gardner Dozois, and appeared in the May 1994 issue of Asimov's, with an
illustration by Steve Cavallo; the story went on to appear on the Hugo Final Ballot in 1995, and to win both the
Ditmar Award and the Asimov's Readers Award. Egan has had a string of powerful stories in Asimov's througho
the '90s. In fact, it's already a fairly safe bet to predict that Australian writer Greg Egan is going to come to be
recognized (if indeed he hasn't already been so recognized) as being one of the Big New Names to emerge in SF i
nineties, and one of the most inventive and intriguing of all the new "hard science" writers. His first novel,
Quarantine, appeared in 1992, to wide critical ac-claim, and was followed by a second novel in 1994, Permutation
City, which won the John W. Campbell Memorial Award. His most recent books are a col-lection of his short fic
Axiomatic, and a new novel, Distress. Upcoming is another new novel, Di-aspora.

    In the powerful story that follows-one of 1994's most controversial-he unravels a suspenseful and provoca
mystery that revolves around sexual pol-itics, corporate intrigue, and high-tech eugenics, all set against the
background of a troubled future Aus-tralia ...

    The explosion shattered windows hundreds of meters away, but started no fire. Later, I
discovered that it had shown up on a seismograph at Macquarie University, fixing the time
precisely: 3:52 a.m. Residents woken by the blast phoned emergency services within minut
and our night shift oper-ator called me just after four, but there was no point rushing to the
scene when I'd only be in the way. I sat at the terminal in my study for almost an hour,
assembling background data and monitoring the radio traffic on headphones, drinking cof-fe
and trying not to type too loudly.
     By the time I arrived, the local fire service contractors had departed, having certified th
there was no risk of further explosions, but our forensic people were still poring over the
wreckage, the electric hum of their equipment all but drowned out by birdsong. Lane Cove
a quiet, leafy suburb, mixed residential and high-tech industrial, the lush vegetation of
cor-porate open spaces blending almost seamlessly into the ad-jacent national park that
straddled the Lane Cove River. The map of the area on my car terminal had identified
suppliers of laboratory reagents and Pharmaceuticals, manufacturers of precision instrumen
for scientific and aerospace applications, and no less than twenty-seven biotechnology
firms-includ-ing Life Enhancement International, the erstwhile sprawling concrete building
now reduced to a collection of white pow-dery blocks clustered around twisted reinforcem
rods. The exposed steel glinted in the early light, disconcertingly pris-tine; the building wa
only three years old. I could understand why the forensic team had ruled out an accident at
first glance; a few drums of organic solvent could not have done anything remotely like this
Nothing legally stored in a resi-dential zone could reduce a modern building to rubble in a
matter of seconds.
    I spotted Janet Lansing as I left my car. She was surveying the ruins with an expression
stoicism, but she was hugging herself. Mild shock, probably. She had no other reason to be
chilly; it had been stinking hot all night, and the temperature was already climbing. Lansing
was Director of the Lane Cove complex: forty-three years old, with a Ph.D. in molecular
bi-ology from Cambridge, and an M.B.A. from an equally rep-utable Japanese virtual
university. I'd had my knowledge miner extract her details, and photo, from assorted databa
before I'd left home.
    I approached her and said, "James Glass, Nexus Investi-gations." She frowned at my
business card, but accepted it, then glanced at the technicians trawling their gas
chromato-graphs and holography equipment around the perimeter of the ruins.
   "They're yours, I suppose?"
   "Yes. They've been here since four."
    She smirked slightly. "What happens if I give the job to someone else? And charge the l
of you with trespass?"
    "If you hire another company, we'll be happy to hand over all the samples and data we'
collected."
    She nodded distractedly. "I'll hire you, of course. Since four? I'm impressed. You've ev
arrived before the insur-ance people." As it happened, LEI's "insurance people" owned 49
percent of Nexus, and would stay out of the way until we were finished, but I didn't see any
reason to mention that. Lansing added sourly, "Our so-called security firm only worked up
courage to phone me half an hour ago. Evi-dently a fiber-optic junction box was sabotaged,
disconnecting the whole area. They're supposed to send in patrols in the event of equipmen
failure, but apparently they didn't bother."
   I grimaced sympathetically. ' 'What exactly were you peo-ple making here?"
   "Making? Nothing. We did no manufacturing; this was pure R & D."
    In fact, I'd already established that LEI's factories were all in Thailand and Indonesia, w
the head office in Monaco, and research facilities scattered around the world. There's a fin
line, though, between demonstrating that the facts are at your fingertips, and unnerving the
client. A total stranger ought to make at least one trivial wrong assumption, ask at least one
misguided question. I always do.
   "So what were you researching and developing?"
   "That's commercially sensitive information."
    I took my notepad from my shirt pocket and displayed a standard contract, complete wit
the usual secrecy provisions. She glanced at it, then had her own computer scrutinize the
document. Conversing in modulated infrared, the machines rapidly negotiated the fine detai
My notepad signed the agreement electronically on my behalf, and Lansing's did the same, t
they both chimed happily in unison to let us know that the deal had been concluded.
   Lansing said, ' 'Our main project here was engineering im-proved syncytiotrophoblastic
cells." I smiled patiently, and she translated for me. "Strengthening the barrier between the
maternal and fetal blood supplies. Mother and fetus don't share blood directly, but they
exchange nutrients and hor-mones across the placental barrier. The trouble is, all kinds of
viruses, toxins, pharmaceuticals and illicit drugs can also cross over. The natural barrier c
didn't evolve to cope with AIDS, fetal alcohol syndrome, cocaine-addicted babies, or the n
thalidomidelike disaster. We're aiming for a single intra-venous injection of a gene-tailorin
vector, which would trig-ger the formation of an extra layer of cells in the appropriate
structures within the placenta, specifically designed to shield the fetal blood supply from
contaminants in the maternal blood."
   "A thicker barrier?"
    "Smarter. More selective. More choosy about what it lets through. We know exactly wh
the developing fetus actually needs from the maternal blood. These gene-tailored cells wou
contain specific channels for transporting each of those substances. Nothing else would be
allowed through."
    "Very impressive." A cocoon around the unborn child, shielding it from all of the
poisons of modern society. It sounded exactly like the kind of beneficent technology a
com-pany called Life Enhancement would be hatching in leafy Lane Cove. True, even a lay
could spot a few flaws in the scheme. I'd heard that AIDS most often infected children durin
birth itself, not pregnancy-but presumably there were other viruses that crossed the placent
barrier more fre-quently. I had no idea whether or not mothers at risk of giving birth to chil
stunted by alcohol or addicted to cocaine were likely to rush out en masse and have
gene-tailored fetal barriers installed-but I could picture a strong demand from people terrif
of food additives, pesticides, and pollutants. In the long term-if the system actually worked
and wasn't prohibitively expensive-it could even become a part of rou-tine prenatal care.
   Beneficent, and lucrative.
    In any case-whether or not there were biological, eco-nomic, and social factors which
might keep the technology from being a complete success ... it was hard to imagine any-one
objecting to the principle of the thing.
   I said, "Were you working with animals?"
    Lansing scowled. "Only early calf embryos, and disem-bodied bovine uteruses on
tissue-support machines. If it was an animal rights group, they would have been better off
bomb-ing an abattoir."
    "Mmm." In the past few years, the Sydney chapter of An-imal Equality-the only group
known to use such extreme methods--had concentrated on primate research facilities. They
might have changed their focus, or been misinformed, but LEI still seemed like an odd targe
there were plenty of laboratories widely known to use whole, live rats and rabbits as if the
were disposable test tubes-many of them quite close by. "What about competitors?"
    ' 'No one else is pursuing this kind of product line, so far as I know. There's no race bei
run; we've already obtained individual patents for all of the essential components-the
membrane channels, the transporter molecules-so any com-petitor would have to pay us lic
fees, regardless."
   "What if someone simply wanted to damage you, finan-cially?' '
   "Then they should have bombed one of the factories in-stead. Cutting off our cash flow
would have been the best way to hurt us; this laboratory wasn't earning a cent."
   "Your share price will still take a dive, won't it? Nothing makes investors nervous quit
much as terrorism."
    Lansing agreed, reluctantly. "But then, whoever took ad-vantage of that and launched a
takeover bid would suffer the same taint, themselves. I don't deny that commercial sabotage
takes place in this industry, now and then... but not on a level as crude as this. Genetic
engineering is a subtle business. Bombs are for fanatics."
    Perhaps. But who would be fanatically opposed to the idea of shielding human embryos
from viruses and poisons? Sev-eral religious sects flatly rejected any kind of modification
human biology ... but the ones who employed violence were far more likely to have bombe
manufacturer of abortifa-cient drugs than a laboratory dedicated to the task of safe-guardin
the unborn child.
    Elaine Chang, head of the forensic team, approached us. I introduced her to Lansing. El
said, "It was a very pro-fessional job. If you'd hired demolition experts, they wouldn't have
done a single thing differently. But then, they probably would have used identical software
compute the timing and placement of the charges." She held up her notepad, and dis-played
stylized reconstruction of the building, with hypo-thetical explosive charges marked. She h
button and the simulation crumbled into something very like the actual mess behind us.
    She continued, "Most reputable manufacturers these days imprint every batch of explos
with a trace element sig-nature, which remains in the residue. We've linked the charges use
here to a batch stolen from a warehouse in Sin-gapore five years ago."
   I added, "Which may not be a great help, though, I'm afraid. After five years on the blac
market, they could have changed hands a dozen times."
    Elaine returned to her equipment. Lansing was beginning to look a little dazed. I said, "
like to talk to you again, later-but I am going to need a list of your employees, past and pres
as soon as possible."
    She nodded, and hit a few keys on her notepad, transferring the list to mine. She said,
"Nothing's been lost, really. We had off-site backup for all of our data, administrative and
scientific. And we have frozen samples of most of the cell lines we were working on, in a v
in Milson's Point."
    Commercial data backup would be all but untouchable, with the records stored in a doz
or more locations scattered around the world-heavily encrypted, of course. Cell lines soun
more vulnerable. I said, "You'd better let the vault's operators know what's happened."
    "I've already done that; I phoned them on my way here." She gazed at the wreckage. "Th
insurance company will pay for the rebuilding. In six months' time, we'll be back on our fee
So whoever did this was wasting their time. The work will go on."
   I said, "Who would want to stop it in the first place?"
    Lansing's faint smirk appeared again, and I very nearly asked her what she found so
amusing. But people often act incongruously in the face of disasters, large or small; nobody
died, she wasn't remotely hysterical, but it would have been strange if a setback like this ha
knocked her slightly out of kilter.
   She said, "You tell me. That's your job, isn't it?"
    Martin was in the living room when I arrived home that eve-ning. Working on his costu
for the Mardi Gras. I couldn't imagine what it would look like when it was completed, but
there were definitely feathers involved. Blue feathers. I did my best to appear composed, b
could tell from his ex-pression that he'd caught an involuntary flicker of distaste on my face
he looked up. We kissed anyway, and said nothing about it.
   Over dinner, though, he couldn't help himself.
   "Fortieth anniversary this year, James. Sure to be the big-gest yet. You could at least co
and watch." His eyes glinted; he enjoyed needling me. We'd had this argument five years
running, and it was close to becoming a ritual as point-less as the parade itself.
    I said flatly, "Why would I want to watch ten thousand drag queens ride down Oxford
Street, blowing kisses to the tourists?"
   "Don't exaggerate. There'll only be a thousand men in drag, at most."
   "Yeah, the rest will be in sequined jockstraps."
   "If you actually came and watched, you'd discover that most people's imaginations have
progressed far beyond that."
    I shook my head, bemused. "If people's imaginations had progressed, there'd be no Gay
Lesbian Mardi Gras at all. It's a freak show, for people who want to live in a cultural ghett
Forty years ago, it might have been ... provocative. Maybe it did some good, back then. But
now? What's the point? There are no laws left to change, there's no politics left to address.
This kind of thing just recycles the same mo-ronic stereotypes, year after year."
   Martin said smoothly, "It's a public reassertion of the right to diverse sexuality. Just
because it's no longer a protest march as well as a celebration doesn't mean it's irrelevant.
And complaining about stereotypes is like ... complaining about the characters in a medieva
morality play. The cos-tumes are code, shorthand. Give the great unwashed hetero-sexual
masses credit for some intelligence; they don't watch the parade and conclude that the avera
gay man spends all his time in a gold lame tutu. People aren't that literal-minded. They all
learnt semiotics in kindergarten, they know how to decode the message."
    "I'm sure they do. But it's still the wrong message: it makes exotic what ought to be
mundane. Okay, people have the right to dress up any way they like and march down Ox-fo
Street... but it means absolutely nothing to me."
   "I'm not asking you to join in-"
   "Very wise."
   ''-but if one hundred thousand straights can turn up, to show their support for the gay
community, why can't you?"
   I said wearily, "Because every time I hear the word com-munity, I know I'm being
manipulated. If there is such a thing as the gay community, I'm certainly not a part of it. As
happens, I don't want to spend my life watching gay and lesbian television channels, using
and lesbian news sys-tems ... or going to gay and lesbian street parades. It's all so ...
proprietary. You'd think there was a multinational cor-poration who had the franchise right
homosexuality. And if you don't market the product their way, you're some kind of
second-class, inferior, bootleg, unauthorized queer."
    Martin cracked up. When he finally stopped laughing, he said, "Go on. I'm waiting for y
to get to the part where you say you're no more proud of being gay than you are of having
brown eyes, or black hair, or a birthmark behind your left knee."
   I protested. "That's true. Why should I be 'proud' of some-thing I was born with? I'm no
proud, or ashamed. I just accept it. And I don't have to join a parade to prove that."
   "So you'd rather we all stayed invisible?"
   "Invisible! You're the one who told me that the represen-tation rates in movies and TV
year were close to the true demographics. And if you hardly even notice it anymore when a
openly gay or lesbian politician gets elected, that's because it's no longer an issue. To mos
people, now, it's about as significant as ... being left or right handed."
    Martin seemed to find this suggestion surreal. "Are you trying to tell me that it's now a
non-subject? That the inhab-itants of this planet are now absolutely impartial on the ques-ti
of sexual preference? Your faith is touching-but..." He mimed incredulity.
    I said, "We're equal before the law with any heterosexual couple, aren't we? And when
was the last time you told some-one you were gay and they so much as blinked? And yes, I
know, there are dozens of countries where it's still illegal- along with joining the wrong
political parties, or the wrong religions. Parades in Oxford Street aren't going to change tha
   "People are still bashed in this city. People are still dis-criminated against."
    ' 'Yeah. And people are also shot dead in peak-hour traffic for playing the wrong music
their car stereos, or denied jobs because they live in the wrong suburbs. I'm not talking abo
the perfection of human nature. I just want you to ac-knowledge one tiny victory: leaving ou
few psychotics, and a few fundamentalist bigots ... most people just don't care."
   Martin said ruefully, "If only that were true!"
    The argument went on for more than an hour-ending in a stalemate, as usual. But then,
neither one of us had seriously expected to change the other's mind.
    I did catch myself wondering afterward, though, if I really believed all of my own
optimistic rhetoric. About as signifi-cant as being left or right handed? Certainly, that wa
the line taken by most Western politicians, academics, essayists, talk show hosts, soap ope
writers, and mainstream religious leaders ... but the same people had been espousing equal
high-minded principles of racial equality for decades, and the reality still hadn't entirely ca
up on that front. I'd suffered very little discrimination, myself-by the time I reached high
school, tolerance was hip, and I'd witnessed a constant stream of improvements since then
but how could I ever know precisely how much hidden prejudice remained? By interro-gati
my own straight friends? By reading the sociologists' latest attitude surveys? People will
always tell you what they think you want to hear.
   Still, it hardly seemed to matter. Personally, I could get by without the deep and sincere
approval of every other member of the human race. Martin and I were lucky enough to have
been born into a time and place where, in almost every tan-gible respect, we were treated a
equal.
   What more could anyone hope for?
    In bed that night, we made love very slowly, at first just kissing and stroking each other
bodies for what seemed like hours. Neither of us spoke, and in the stupefying heat I lost all
sense of belonging to any other time, any other reality. Nothing existed but the two of us; the
rest of the world, the rest of my life, went spinning away into the darkness.
    The investigation moved slowly. I interviewed every current member of LEI's workforc
then started on the long list of past employees. I still believed that commercial sabotage wa
the most likely explanation for such a professional job-but blowing up the opposition is a
desperate measure; a little civ-ilized espionage usually comes first. I was hoping that some
who'd worked for LEI might have been approached in the past and offered money for inside
information-and if I could find just one employee who'd turned down a bribe, they might ha
learnt something useful from their contact with the presumed rival.
    Although the Lane Cove facility had only been built three years before, LEI had operate
research division in Sydney for twelve years before that, in North Ryde, not far away. Man
the ex-employees from that period had moved inter-state or overseas; quite a few had been
transferred to LEI divisions in other countries. Still, almost no one had changed their perso
phone numbers, so I had very little trouble tracking them down.
    The exception was a biochemist named Catherine Mendel-sohn; the number listed for h
the LEI staff records had been canceled. There were seventeen people with the same surnam
and initials in the national phone directory; none ad-mitted to being Catherine Alice
Mendelsohn, and none looked at all like the staff photo I had.
    Mendelsohn's address in the Electoral Roll, an apartment in Newtown, matched the LEI
records-but the same address was in the phone directory (and Electoral Roll) for Stanley G
a young man who told me that he'd never met Men-delsohn. He'd been leasing the apartmen
the past eighteen months.
     Credit rating databases gave the same out-of-date address. I couldn't access tax, bankin
utilities records without a warrant. I had my knowledge miner scan the death notices, but th
was no match there.
    Mendelsohn had worked for LEI until about a year before the move to Lane Cove. She'd
been part of a team working on a gene-tailoring system for ameliorating menstrual side-effe
and although the Sydney division had always spe-cialized in gynecological research, for so
reason the project was about to be moved to Texas. I checked the industry publications;
apparently, LEI had been rearranging all of its operations at the time, gathering together
projects from around the globe into new multi-disciplinary configurations, in ac-cordance w
the latest fashionable theories of research dy-namics. Mendelsohn had declined the transfer
and had been retrenched.
   I dug deeper. The staff records showed that Mendelsohn had been questioned by securit
guards after being found on the North Ryde premises late at night, two days before her
dismissal. Workaholic biotechnologists aren't uncommon, but starting the day at two in the
morning shows exceptional ded-ication, especially when the company has just tried to shuf
you off to Amarillo. Having turned down the transfer, she must have known what was in sto
   Nothing came of the incident, though. And even if Men-delsohn had been planning some
minor act of sabotage, that hardly established any connection with a bombing four years lat
She might have been angry enough to leak confidential information to one of LEI's rivals... b
whoever had bombed the Lane Cove laboratory would have been more in-terested in some
who'd worked on the fetal barrier project itself-a project which had only come into existen
year after Mendelsohn had been sacked.
    I pressed on through the list. Interviewing the ex-employees was frustrating; almost all
them were still working in the biotechnology industry, and they would have been an ideal
group to poll on the question of who would benefit most from LEI's misfortune-but the
confidentiality agreement I'd signed meant that I couldn't disclose anything about the re-sear
in question-not even to people working for LEI's other divisions.
   The one thing which I could discuss drew a blank: if any-one had been offered a bribe,
weren't talking about it- and no magistrate was going to sign a warrant letting me loose on a
fishing expedition through a hundred and seventeen peo-ple's financial records.
    Forensic examination of the ruins, and the sabotaged fiber-optic exchange, had yielded
usual catalogue of minutiae which might eventually turn out to be invaluable-but none of it
going to conjure up a suspect out of thin air.
    Four days after the bombing-just as I found myself grow-ing desperate for a fresh angle
the case-I had a call from Janet Lansing.
   The backup samples of the project's gene-tailored cell lines had been destroyed.
    The vault in Milson's Point turned out to be directly under-neath a section of the Harbor
Bridge-built right into the foundations on the north shore. Lansing hadn't arrived yet, but the
head of security for the storage company, an elderly man called David Asher, showed me
around. Inside, the traffic was barely audible, but the vibration coming through the floor fel
like a constant mild earthquake. The place was cavernous, dry and cool. At least a hundred
cryogenic freezers were laid out in rows; heavily clad pipes ran between them, replenishin
their liquid nitrogen.
    Asher was understandably morose, but cooperative. Cellu-loid movie film had been
archived here, he explained, before everything went digital; the present owners specialized
bi-ological materials. There were no guards physically assigned to the vault, but the
surveillance cameras and alarm systems looked impressive, and the structure itself must ha
been close to impregnable.
   Lansing had phoned the storage company, Biofile, on the morning of the bombing. Ashe
confirmed that he'd sent someone down from their North Sydney office to check the freezer
question. Nothing was missing-but he'd promised to boost security measures immediately.
Because the freezers were supposedly tamper-proof, and individually locked, cli-ents were
normally allowed access to the vault at their con-venience, monitored by the surveillance
cameras, but otherwise unsupervised. Asher had promised Lansing that, henceforth, nobody
would enter the building without a mem-ber of his staff to accompany them-and he claimed
no-body had been inside since the day of the bombing, anyway.
    When two LEI technicians had arrived that morning to carry out an inventory, they'd fou
the expected number of culture flasks, all with the correct bar code labels, all tightly sealed
the appearance of their contents was subtly wrong. The translucent frozen colloid was more
opalescent than cloudy; an untrained eye might never have noticed the difference, but
apparently it spoke volumes to the cognoscenti.
    The technicians had taken a number of the flasks away for analysis; LEI were working o
of temporary premises, a sub-leased corner of a paint manufacturer's quality control lab.
Lansing had promised me preliminary test results by the time we met.
   Lansing arrived, and unlocked the freezer. With gloved hands, she lifted a flask out of th
swirling mist and held it up for me to inspect.
   She said, "We've only thawed three samples, but they all look the same. The cells have
been torn apart."
   "How?" The flask was covered with such heavy conden-sation that I couldn't have said
was empty or full, let alone cloudy or opalescent.
   "It looks like radiation damage."
    My skin crawled. I peered into the depths of the freezer; all I could make out were the t
of rows of identical flasks-but if one of them had been spiked with a radioiso-tope...
    Lansing scowled. "Relax." She tapped a small electronic badge pinned to her lab coat,
a dull gray face like a solar cell: a radiation dosimeter. "This would be screaming if we w
being exposed to anything significant. Whatever the source of the radiation was, it's no long
in here-and it hasn't left the walls glowing. Your future offspring are safe."
    I let that pass. "You think all the samples will turn out to be ruined? You won't be able
salvage anything?"
    Lansing was stoical as ever. ' 'It looks that way. There are some elaborate techniques w
could use, to try to repair the DNA-but it will probably be easier to synthesize fresh DNA f
scratch, and re-introduce it into unmodified bovine pla-cental cell lines. We still have all th
sequence data; that's what matters in the end."
    I pondered the freezer's locking system, the surveillance cameras. ' 'Are you sure that th
source was inside the freezer? Or could the damage have been done without actually break
in-right through the walls?"
    She thought it over. "Maybe. There's not much metal in these things; they're mostly plas
foam. But I'm not a ra-diation physicist; your forensic people will probably be able to give
a better idea of what happened, once they've checked out the freezer itself. If there's damag
the poly-mers in the foam, it might be possible to use that to recon-struct the geometry of th
radiation field."
    A forensic team was on its way. I said, "How would they have done it? Walked casuall
by, and just-?"
    "Hardly. A source which could do this in one quick hit would have been unmanageable
far more likely to have been a matter of weeks, or months, of low-level exposure."
   "So they must have smuggled some kind of device into
   their own freezer, and aimed it at yours? But then... we'll be able to trace the effects rig
back to the source, won't we? So how could they have hoped to get away with it?''
   Lansing said, "It's even simpler than that. We're talking about a modest amount of a
gamma-emitting isotope, not some billion-dollar particle-beam weapon. The effective rang
would be a couple of meters, at most. If it was done from the outside, you've just narrowed
down your suspect list to two." She thumped the freezer's left neighbor in the aisle, then did
same to the one on the right-and said, "Aha."
   "What?"
     She thumped them both again. The second one sounded hollow. I said, "No liquid nitrog
It's not in use?"
   Lansing nodded. She reached for the handle.
   Asher said, "I don't think-"
   The freezer was unlocked, the lid swung open easily. Lan-sing's badge started beeping-
worse, there was some-thing in there, with batteries and wires....
     I don't know what kept me from knocking her to the floor-but Lansing, untroubled, lifted
lid all the way. She said mildly, "Don't panic; this dose rate's nothing. Threshold of
detectable."
    The thing inside looked superficially like a home-made bomb-but the batteries and time
chip I'd glimpsed were wired to a heavy-duty solenoid, which was part of an elabo-rate shu
mechanism on one side of a large, metallic gray box.
    Lansing said, ' 'Cannibalized medical source, probably. You know these things have tur
up in garbage dumps?" She unpinned her badge and waved it near the box; the pitch of the
alarm increased, but only slightly. ' 'Shielding seems to be intact."
   I said, as calmly as possible, ' 'These people have access to high explosives. You don't
have any idea what the fuck might be in there, or what it's wired up to do. This is the point
where we walk out, quietly, and leave it to the bomb-disposal robots."
    She seemed about to protest, but then she nodded contritely. The three of us went up ont
the street, and Asher called the local terrorist services contractor. I suddenly realized that
they'd have to divert all traffic from the bridge. The Lane Cove bombing had received some
perfunctory media cover-age-but this would lead the evening news.
    I took Lansing aside. "They've destroyed your laboratory. They've wiped out your cell
lines. Your data may be almost impossible to locate and corrupt-so the next logical target i
you and your employees. Nexus doesn't provide protective services, but I can recommend a
good firm."
    I gave her the phone number; she accepted it with appro-priate solemnity. "So you final
believe me? These people aren't commercial saboteurs. They're dangerous fanatics."
   I was growing impatient with her vague references to "fa-natics."
   "Who exactly do you have in mind?"
   She said darkly, ' 'We're tampering with certain ... natural processes. You can draw yo
own conclusions, can't you?"
     There was no logic to that at all. God's Image would prob-ably want to force all pregna
women with HIV infections, or drug habits, to use the cocoon; they wouldn't try to bomb the
technology out of existence. Gaia's Soldiers were more concerned with genetically enginee
crops and bacteria than trivial modifications to insignificant species like humans-and they
wouldn't have used radioisotopes if the fate of the planet depended on it. Lansing was
beginning to sound thoroughly paranoid-although in the circumstances, I couldn't really blam
her.
    I said, "I'm not drawing any conclusions. I'm just advising you to take some sensible
precautions, because we have no way of knowing how far this might escalate. But... Biofile
must lease freezer space to every one of your competitors. A commercial rival would have
found it a thousand times easier than any hypothetical sect member to get into the vault to pl
that thing."
    A gray armor-plated van screeched to a halt in front of us; the back door swung up, ram
slid down, and a squat, multi-limbed robot on treads descended. I raised a hand in greeting
the robot did the same; the operator was a friend of mine.
   Lansing said, "You may be right. But then, there's nothing to stop a terrorist from having
day job in biotechnology, is there?"
    The device turned out not to be booby-trapped at all-just rigged to spray LEI's precious
cells with gamma rays for six hours, starting at midnight, every night. Even in the unlikely e
that someone had come into the vault in the early hours and wedged themselves into the nar
gap between the freezers, the dose they received would not have been much; as Lansing had
suggested, it was the cumulative effect over months which had done the damage. The
radioisotope in the box was cobalt 60, almost certainly a decomissioned medical
source-grown too weak for its original use, but still too hot to be discarded-stolen from a
"cooling off" site. No such theft had been reported, but Elaine Chang's assistants were phon
around the hospitals, trying to persuade them to re-inventory their concrete bunkers.
    Cobalt 60 was dangerous stuff-but fifty milligrams in a carefully shielded container wa
exactly a tactical nuclear weapon. The news systems went berserk, though: ATOMIC
TERRORISTS STRIKE HARBOR BRIDGE, et cetera. If LEI's enemies were activists, wit
some "moral cause" which they hoped to set before the public, they clearly had the worst P
advisers in the business. Their prospects of gain-ing the slightest sympathy had vanished, th
instant the first news reports had mentioned the word radiation.
   My secretarial software issued polite statements of "No comment" on my behalf, but
camera crews began hovering outside my front door, so I relented and mouthed a few
news-speak sentences for them which meant essentially the same thing. Martin looked on,
amused-and then I looked on, astonished, as Janet Lansing's own doorstop media conferenc
appeared on TV.
   "These people are clearly ruthless. Human life, the envi-ronment, radioactive
contamination ... all mean nothing to them."
    ' 'Do you have any idea who might be responsible for this outrage, Dr. Lansing?"
    "I can't disclose that, yet. All I can reveal, right now, is that our research is at the very
cutting edge of preventative medicine-and I'm not at all surprised that there are powerful
vested interests working against us."
    Powerful vested interests? What was that meant to be code for-if not the rival
biotechnology firm whose involvement she kept denying? No doubt she had her eye on the
publicity advantages of being the victim of ATOMIC TERRORISTS- but I thought she was
wasting her breath. In two or more years' time, when the product finally hit the market, the s
would be long forgotten.
     After some tricky jurisdictional negotiations, Asher finally sent me six months' worth of
files from the vault's surveil-lance cameras-all that they kept. The freezer in question had b
unused for almost two years; the last authorized tenant was a small IVF clinic which had go
bankrupt. Only about 60 percent of the freezers were currently leased, so it wasn't particula
surprising that LEI had had a conveniently empty neighbor.
    I ran the surveillance files through image-processing soft-ware, in the hope that someon
might have been caught in the act of opening the unused freezer. The search took almost an h
of supercomputer time-and turned up precisely nothing. A few minutes later, Elaine Chang
popped her head into my office to say that she'd finished her analysis of the damage to the
freezer walls: the nightly irradiation had been going on for between eight and nine months.
    Undeterred, I scanned the files again, this time instructing the software to assemble a
gallery of every individual sighted inside the vault.
    Sixty-two faces emerged. I put company names to all of them, matching the times of eac
sighting to Biofile's records of the use of each client's electronic key. No obvious
incon-sistencies showed up; nobody had been seen inside who hadn't used an authorized ke
gain access-and the same people had used the same keys, again and again.
    I flicked through the gallery, wondering what to do next. Search for anyone glancing s
in the direction of the ra-dioactive freezer? The software could have done it-but I wasn't
quite ready for barrel-scraping efforts like that.
    I came to a face which looked familiar: a blonde woman in her mid-thirties, who'd used
key belonging to Federa-tion Centennial Hospital's Oncology Research Unit, three times. I
certain that I knew her, but I couldn't recall where I'd seen her before. It didn't matter; after
few sec-onds' searching, I found a clear shot of the name badge pinned to her lab coat. All
had to do was zoom in.
   The badge read: C. MENDELSOHN.
    There was a knock on my open door. I turned from the screen; Elaine was back, looking
pleased with herself.
   She said, "We've finally found a place who'll own up to having lost some cobalt 60. W
more... the activity of our source fits their missing item's decay curve, exactly."
   "So where was it stolen from?"
   "Federation Centennial."
    I phoned the Oncology Research Unit. Yes, Catherine Men-delsohn worked there-she'd
done so for almost four years- but they couldn't put me through to her; she'd been on sick le
all week. They gave me the same canceled phone num-ber as LEI-but a different address, a
apartment in Peter-sham. The address wasn't listed in the phone directory; I'd have to go the
in person.
    A cancer research team would have no reason to want to harm LEI, but a commercial
rival-with or without their own key to the vault-could still have paid Mendelsohn to do the
work for them. It seemed like a lousy deal to me, whatever they'd offered her-if she was
convicted, every last cent would be traced and confiscated-but bitterness over her sacking
might have clouded her judgment.
   Maybe. Or maybe that was all too glib.
    I replayed the shots of Mendelsohn taken by the surveil-lance cameras. She did nothing
unusual, nothing suspicious. She went straight to the ORU's freezer, put in whatever sam-pl
she'd brought, and departed. She didn't glance slyly in any direction at all.
    The fact that she had been inside the vault-on legitimate business-proved nothing. The f
that the cobalt 60 had been stolen from the hospital where she worked could have been pur
coincidence.
   And anyone had the right to cancel their phone service.
   I pictured the steel reinforcement rods of the Lane Cove laboratory, glinting in the sunli
   On the way out, reluctantly, I took a detour to the basement. I sat at a console while the
armaments safe checked my fin-gerprints, took breath samples and a retinal blood
spectro-gram, ran some perception-and-judgment response time tests, then quizzed me for f
minutes about the case. Once it was satisfied with my reflexes, my motives, and my state of
mind, it issued me a nine-millimeter pistol and a shoulder holster.
     Mendelsohn's apartment block was a concrete box from the 1960s, front doors opening
onto long shared balconies, no security at all. I arrived just after seven, to the smell of cook
and the sound of game show applause, wafting from a hundred open windows. The concrete
still shimmered with the day's heat; three flights of stairs left me coated in sweat.
Men-delsohn's apartment was silent, but the lights were on.
    She answered the door. I introduced myself, and showed her my ID. She seemed nervou
but not surprised.
   She said, ' 'I still find it galling to have to deal with people like you."
   "People like-?"
   "I was opposed to privatizing the police force. I helped organize some of the marches."
   She would have been fourteen years old at the time-a precocious political activist.
   She let me in, begrudgingly. The living room was modestly furnished, with a terminal o
desk in one corner.
    I said, "I'm investigating the bombing of Life Enhance-ment International. You used to w
for them, up until about four years ago. Is that correct?"
   "Yes."
   "Can you tell me why you left?"
    She repeated what I knew about the transfer of her project to the Amarillo division. She
answered every question directly, looking me straight in the eye; she still appeared nervous
but she seemed to be trying to read some vital piece of information from my demeanor.
Wondering if I'd traced the cobalt?
   "What were you doing on the North Ryde premises at two in the morning, two days befo
you were sacked?''
   She said, "I wanted to find out what LEI was planning for the new building. I wanted to
know why they didn't want me to stick around."
   "Your job was moved to Texas."
    She laughed drily. "The work wasn't that specialized. I could have swapped jobs with
someone who wanted to travel to the States. It would have been the perfect solution-and the
would have been plenty of people more than happy to trade places with me. But no, that wa
allowed."
   "So ... did you find the answer?"
   "Not that night. But later, yes."
   I said carefully, ' 'So you knew what LEI was doing in Lane Cove?"
   "Yes."
   "How did you discover that?"
   "I kept an ear to the ground. Nobody who'd stayed on would have told me directly, but
word leaked out, eventually. About a year ago."
   "Three years after you'd left? Why were you still inter-ested? Did you think there was
market for the information?''
    She said, "Put your notepad in the bathroom sink and run the tap on it."
   I hesitated, then complied. When I returned to the living room, she had her face in her
hands. She looked up at me grimly.
    "Why was I still interested? Because I wanted to know why every project with any les
or gay team members was be-ing transferred out of the division. I wanted to know if that w
pure coincidence. Or not."
    I felt a sudden chill in the pit of my stomach. I said, "If you had some problem with
discrimination, there are avenues you could have-"
    Mendelsohn shook her head impatiently. "LEI was never discriminatory. They didn't sa
anyone who was willing to move-and they always transferred the entire team; there was
nothing so crude as picking out individuals by sexual pref-erence. And they had a
rationalization for everything: projects were being re-grouped between divisions to facilita
'syner-gistic cross-pollination.' And if that sounds like pretentious bullshit, it was-but it wa
plausible pretentious bullshit. Other corporations have adopted far more ridiculous scheme
perfect sincerity."
   "But if it wasn't a matter of discrimination ... why should LEI want to force people out o
one particular division-?"
    I think I'd finally guessed the answer, even as I said those words-but I needed to hear he
spell it out, before I could really believe it.
    Mendelsohn must have been practicing her version for non-biochemists; she had it dow
pat. "When people are subject to stress-physical or emotional-the levels of certain sub-stan
in the bloodstream increase. Cortisol and adrenaline, mainly. Adrenaline has a rapid,
short-term effect on the ner-vous system. Cortisol works on a much longer time frame,
modulating all kinds of bodily processes, adapting them for hard times: injury, fatigue,
whatever. If the stress is pro-longed, someone's cortisol can be elevated for days, or weeks
months.
    "High enough levels of cortisol, in the bloodstream of a pregnant woman, can cross the
placental barrier and interact with the hormonal system of the developing fetus. There are p
of the brain where embryonic development is switched into one of two possible pathways,
hormones released by the fetal testes or ovaries. The parts of the brain which control body
image, and the parts which control sexual preference. Female embryos usually develop a b
wired with a self-image of a female body, and the strongest potential for sexual attraction
toward males. Male embryos, vice versa. And it's the sex hormones in the fetal bloodstream
which let the grow-ing neurons know the gender of the embryo, and which wiring pattern to
adopt.
    "Cortisol can interfere with this process. The precise in-teractions are complex, but the
ultimate effect depends on the timing; different parts of the brain are switched into
gender-specific versions at different stages of development. So stress at different times dur
pregnancy leads to different patterns of sexual preference and body image in the child:
homosexual, bisexual, transsexual.
    "Obviously, a lot depends on the mother's biochemistry. Pregnancy itself is stressful-bu
everyone responds to that differently. The first sign that cortisol might have an effect came
studies in the 1980s, on the children of German women who'd been pregnant during the mos
intense bombing raids of World War II-when the stress was so great that the effect showed
through despite individual differences. In the nineties, researchers thought they'd found a ge
which de-termined male homosexuality ... but it was always maternally inherited-and it turn
out to be influencing the mother's stress response, rather than acting directly on the child.
    "If maternal cortisol, and other stress hormones, were kept from reaching the fetus ... th
the gender of the brain would always match the gender of the body in every respect. All of
present variation would be wiped out."
    I was shaken, but I don't think I let it show. Everything she said rang true; I didn't doubt
word of it. I'd always known that sexual preference was decided before birth. I'd known tha
was gay, myself, by the age of seven. I'd never sought out the elaborate biological details,
though-because I'd never believed that the tedious mechanics of the process could ever mat
to me. What turned my blood to ice was not finally learning the neuroembryology of desire
The shock was discovering that LEI planned to reach into the womb and take control of it.
    I pressed on with the questioning in a kind of trance, put-ting my own feelings into
suspended animation.
   I said, "LEI's barrier is for filtering out viruses and toxins. You're talking about a natur
substance which has been pres-ent for millions of years-''
   "LEI's barrier will keep out everything they deem non-essential. The fetus doesn't need
maternal cortisol in order to survive. If LEI doesn't explicitly include transporters for it, it
won't get through. And I'll give you one guess what their plans are."
    I said, "You're being paranoid. You think LEI would in-vest millions of dollars just to t
part in a conspiracy to rid the world of homosexuals?"
     Mendelsohn looked at me pityingly. "It's not a conspiracy. It's a marketing opportunity
LEI doesn't give a shit about the sexual politics. They could put in cortisol transporters, and
sell the barrier as an anti-viral, anti-drug, anti-pollution screen. Or, they could leave them o
and sell it as all of that-plus a means of guaranteeing a heterosexual child. Which do you th
would earn the most money?"
   That question hit a nerve; I said angrily, "And you had so little faith in people's choice t
you bombed the laboratory so that no one would ever have the chance to decide?"
    Mendelsohn's expression turned stony. "I did not bomb LEI. Or irradiate their freezer."
    "No? We've traced the cobalt 60 to Federation Centen-nial."
   She looked stunned for a moment, then she said, "Con-gratulations. Six thousand other
people work there, you know. I'm obviously not the only one of them who'd discovered wh
LEI is up to."
   "You're the only one with access to the Biofile vault. What do you expect me to believe
That having learnt about this project, you were going to do absolutely nothing about it?"
    "Of course not! And I still plan to publicize what they're doing. Let people know what i
will mean. Try to get the issue debated before the product appears in a blaze of
misinfor-mation."
    "You said you've known about the work for a year."
    "Yes-and I've spent most of that time trying to verify all the facts, before opening my big
mouth. Nothing would have been stupider than going public with half-baked rumors. I've on
told about a dozen people so far, but we were going to launch a big publicity campaign to
coincide with this year's Mardi Gras. Although now, with the bombing, everything's a thous
times more complicated." She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "But we still h
to do what we can, to try to keep the worst from happening."
    "The worst?"
    "Separatism. Paranoia. Homosexuality redefined as path-ological. Lesbians and
sympathetic straight women looking for their own technological means to guarantee the
survival of the culture ... while the religious far-right try to prosecute them for poisoning th
babies ... with a substance God's been happily 'poisoning' babies with for the last few thou
years! Sexual tourists traveling from wealthy countries where the technology is in use, to
poorer countries where it isn't."
   I was sickened by the vision she was painting-but I pushed on. "These dozen friends of
yours-?"
    Mendelsohn said dispassionately, "Go fuck yourself. I've got nothing more to say to you
I've told you the truth. I'm not a criminal. And I think you'd better leave."
    I went to the bathroom and collected my notepad. In the doorway, I said, "If you're not a
criminal, why are you so hard to track down?"
   Wordlessly, contemptuously, she lifted her shirt and showed me the bruises below her
cage-fading, but still an ugly sight. Whoever it was who'd beaten her-an ex-lover?-I could
hardly blame her for doing everything she could to avoid a repeat performance.
    On the stairs, I hit the REPLAY button on my notepad. The software computed the
frequency spectrum for the noise of the running water, subtracted it out of the recording, and
then amplified and cleaned up what remained. Every word of our conversation came throug
crystal clear.
   From my car, I phoned a surveillance firm and arranged to have Mendelsohn kept under
twenty-four-hour observation.
     Halfway home, I stopped in a side street, and sat behind the wheel for ten minutes, unab
to think, unable to move.
   In bed that night, I asked Martin, "You're left-handed. How would you feel if no one wa
ever born left-handed again?''
   "It wouldn't bother me in the least. Why?"
   "You wouldn't think of it as a kind of... genocide?"
   "Hardly. What's this all about?"
   "Nothing. Forget it."
   "You're shaking."
   "I'm cold."
   "You don't feel cold to me."
    As we made love-tenderly, then savagely-I thought: This is our language, this is our
dialect. Wars have been fought over less. And if this language ever dies out, a people wi
have vanished from the face of the Earth.
    I knew I had to drop the case. If Mendelsohn was guilty, someone else could prove it. T
go on working for LEI would destroy me.
   Afterward, though ... that seemed like sentimental bullshit. I belonged to no tribe. Every
human being possessed their own sexuality-and when they died, it died with them. If no one
was ever born gay again, it made no difference to me.
    And if I dropped the case because I was gay, I'd be aban-doning everything I'd ever
believed about my own equality, my own identity ... not to mention giving LEI the chance to
announce: Yes, of course we hired an investigator without regard to sexual preference-bu
apparently, that was a mis-take.
   Staring up into the darkness, I said, ' 'Every time I hear the word community, I reach for
revolver."
     There was no response; Martin was fast asleep. I wanted to wake him, I wanted to argu
all through, there and then- but I'd signed an agreement, I couldn't tell him a thing.
   So I watched him sleep, and tried to convince myself that when the truth came out, he'd
understand.
   I phoned Janet Lansing, brought her up to date on Mendel-sohn-and said coldly, "Why w
you so coy? 'Fanatics'? 'Powerful vested interests'? Are there some words you have troub
pronouncing?"
   She'd clearly prepared herself for this moment. "I didn't want to plant my own ideas in y
head. Later on, that might have been seen as prejudicial."
    "Seen as prejudicial by whomV It was a rhetorical ques-tion: the media, of course. By
keeping silent on the issue, she'd minimized the risk of being seen to have launched a
witch-hunt. Telling me to go look for homosexual terrorists might have put LEI in a very
unsympathetic light... whereas my finding Mendelsohn-for other reasons entirely, despite m
ignorance-would come across as proof that the investi-gation had been conducted without a
preconceptions.
   I said, "You had your suspicions, and you should have disclosed them. At the very least
you should have told me what the barrier was for."
    "The barrier," she said, "is for protection against viruses and toxins. But anything we do
the body has side effects. It's not my role to judge whether or not those side effects are
acceptable; the regulatory authorities will insist that we pub-licize all of the consequences
using the product-and then the decision will be up to consumers."
     Very neat: the government would twist their arm, "forcing them" to disclose their major
selling point!
    "And what does your market research tell you?"
    "That's strictly confidential."
    I very nearly asked her: When exactly did you find out that I was gay? After you'd hir
me-or before ? On the morning of the bombing, while I'd been assembling a dossier on Jane
Lansing ... had she been assembling dossiers on all of the people who might have bid for th
investigation? And had she found the ultimate PR advantage, the ultimate seal of im-partiali
just too tempting to resist?
    I didn't ask. I still wanted to believe that it made no dif-ference: she'd hired me, and I'd
solve the crime like any other, and nothing else would matter.
    I went to the bunker where the cobalt had been stored, at the edge of Federation
Centennial's grounds. The trapdoor was solid, but the lock was a joke, and there was no ala
system at all; any smart twelve-year-old could have broken in. Crates full of all kinds of
(low-level, shortlived) radioactive waste were stacked up to the ceiling, blocking most of t
light from the single bulb; it was no wonder that the theft hadn't been detected sooner. There
were even cobwebs-but no mutant spiders, so far as I could see.
   After five minutes poking around, listening to my borrowed dosimetry badge adding up
exposure, I was glad to get out... whether or not the average chest X-ray would have done t
times more damage. Hadn't Mendelsohn realized that: how irrational people were about
radiation, how much harm it would do her cause once the cobalt was discovered? Or had
own-fully informed-knowledge of the minimal risks distorted her perception?
    The surveillance teams sent me reports daily. It was an expensive service, but LEI was
paying. Mendelsohn met her friends openly-telling them all about the night I'd ques-tioned h
warning them in outraged tones that they were almost certainly being watched. They discus
the fetal bar-rier, the options for-legitimate-opposition, the problems the bombing had caus
them. I couldn't tell if the whole thing was being staged for my benefit, or if Mendelsohn w
deliberately contacting only those friends who genuinely be-lieved that she hadn't been
involved.
    I spent most of my time checking the histories of the people she met. I could find no
evidence of past violence or sabotage by any of them-let alone experience with high
explosives. But then, I hadn't seriously expected to be led straight to the bomber.
   All I had was circumstantial evidence. All I could do was gather detail after detail, and
hope that the mountain of facts I was assembling would eventually reach a critical mass-or
Mendelsohn would slip up, cracking under the pressure.
    Weeks passed, and Mendelsohn continued to brazen it out. She even had pamphlets prin
ready to distribute at the Mardi Gras-condemning the bombing as loudly as they con-demne
LEI for its secrecy.
    The nights grew hotter. My temper frayed. I don't know what Martin thought was happen
to me, but I had no idea how we were going to survive the impending revelations. I couldn'
begin to face up to the magnitude of the backlash there'd be once ATOMIC TERRORISTS m
GAY BABY-POISONERS in the daily murdochs-and it would make no difference whether
was Mendelsohn's arrest which broke the news to the public, or her media conference blow
the whistle on LEI and proclaiming her own innocence; either way, the investigation would
become a circus. I tried not to think about any of it; it was too late to do anything differently
drop the case, to tell Martin the truth. So I worked on my tunnel vision.
    Elaine scoured the radioactive waste bunker for evidence, but weeks of analysis came u
blank. I quizzed the Biofile guards, who (supposedly) would have been watching the whole
thing on their monitors when the cobalt was planted, but nobody could recall a client with a
unusually large and oddly shaped item, wandering casually into the wrong aisle.
    I finally obtained the warrants I needed to scrutinize Men-delsohn's entire electronic
history since birth. She'd been ar-rested exactly once, twenty years before, for kicking an-
unprivatized-policeman in the shin, during a protest he'd probably, privately, applauded. Th
charges had been dropped. She'd had a court order in force for the last eighteen months,
restraining a former lover from coming within a kil-ometer of her home. (The woman was a
musician with a band called Tetanus Switchblade; she had two convictions for as-sault.) T
was no evidence of undeclared income, or un-usual expenditure. No phone calls to or from
known or suspected dealers in arms or explosives, or their known or suspected associates.
everything could have been done with pay phones and cash, if she'd organized it carefully.
   Mendelsohn wasn't going to put a foot wrong while I was watching. However careful s
been, though, she could not have carried out the bombing alone. What I needed was some-o
venal, nervous, or conscience-stricken enough to turn in-formant. I put out word on the usua
channels: I'd be willing to pay, I'd be willing to bargain.
   Six weeks after the bombing, I received an anonymous message by datamail:
   Be at the Mardi Gras. No wires, no weapons. I'll find you.
   29:17:5:31:23:11
    I played with the numbers for more than an hour, trying to make sense of them, before I
finally showed them to Elaine.
   She said, "Be careful, James."
   "Why?"
   ' 'These are the ratios of the six trace elements we found in the residue from the explosi
    Martin spent the day of the Mardi Gras with friends who'd also be in the parade. I sat in
air-conditioned office and tuned in to a TV channel which showed the final preparations,
interspersed with talking heads describing the history of the event. In forty years, the Gay a
Lesbian Mardi Gras had been transformed from a series of ugly confrontations with police
local authorities, into a money-spinning spectacle advertised in tourist brochures around th
world. It was blessed by every level of government, led by politicians and business
identities-and the police, like most professions, now had their own float.
    Martin was no transvestite (or muscle-bound leather-fetishist, or any other walking clic
dressing up in a flam-boyant costume, one night a year, was as false, as artificial, for him a
would have been for most heterosexual men. But I think I understood why he did it. He felt
guilty that he could "pass for straight" in the clothes he usually wore, with the speech and
manner and bearing which came naturally to him. He'd never concealed his sexuality from
anyone-but it wasn't instantly apparent to total strangers. For him, taking part in the Mardi G
was a gesture of solidarity with those gay men who were visible, obvious, all year round-a
who'd borne the brunt of intolerance because of it.
    As dusk fell, spectators began to gather along the route. Helicopters from every news
service appeared overhead, turn-ing their cameras on each other to prove to their viewers t
this was An Event. Mounted crowd-control personnel-in something very much like the old
uniform that had van-ished when I was a child-parked their horses by the fast-food stands, a
stood around fortifying themselves for the long night ahead.
    I didn't see how the bomber could seriously expect to find me once I was mingling with
hundred thousand other peo-ple-so after leaving the Nexus building, I drove my car around
block slowly, three times, just in case.
    By the time I'd made my way to a vantage point, I'd missed the start of the parade; the fi
thing I saw was a long line of people wearing giant plastic heads bearing the features of
famous and infamous queers. (Apparently the word was back in fashion again, officially
declared non-perjorative once more, after several years out of favor.) It was all so Disney
could have gagged-and yes, there was even Bernadette, the world's first lesbian cartoon mo
I only recognized three of the humans portrayed-Patrick White, looking haggard and suitabl
bemused, Joe Orton, leering sardonically, and J. Ed-gar Hoover, with a Mephistophelian
sneer. Everyone wore their names on sashes, though, for what that was worth. A young man
beside me asked his girlfriend, "Who the hell was Walt Whitman?"
   She shook her head. "No idea. Alan Turing?"
   "Search me."
   They photographed both of them, anyway.
   I wanted to yell at the marchers: So what? Some queers were famous. Some famous
people were queer. What a sur-prise! Do you think that means you own them?
    I kept silent, of course-while everyone around me cheered and clapped. I wondered ho
close the bomber was, how long he or she would leave me sweating. Panopticon-the
sur-veillance contractors-were still following Mendelsohn and all of her known associates
most of whom were somewhere along the route of the parade, handing out their pamphlets.
   None of them appeared to have followed me, though. The bomber was almost certainly
someone outside the network of friends we'd uncovered.
    An anti-viral, anti-drug, anti-pollution barrier, alone-or a means of guaranteeing a
heterosexual child. Which do you think would earn the most money? Surrounded by cheer
spectators-half of them mixed-sex couples with children in tow-it was almost possible to la
off Mendelsohn's fears. Who, here, would admit that they'd buy a version of the co-coon wh
would help wipe out the source of their enter-tainment? But applauding the freak show didn
mean wanting your own flesh and blood to join it.
     An hour after the parade had started, I decided to move out of the densest part of the cro
If the bomber couldn't reach me through the crush of people, there wasn't much point be-ing
here. A hundred or so leather-clad women on-noise-enhanced-electric motorbikes went rid
past in a crucifix formation, behind a banner which read DYKES ON BIKES FOR JESUS.
recalled the small group of fundamentalists I'd passed earlier, their backs to the parade rou
lest they turn into pillars of salt, holding up candles and praying for rain.
    I made my way to one of the food stalls, and bought a cold hot dog and a warm orange
juice, trying to ignore the smell of horse turds. The place seemed to attract law enforcemen
types; J. Edgar Hoover himself came wandering by while I was eating, looking like a
malevolent Humpty Dumpty.
    As he passed me, he said, "Twenty-nine. Seventeen. Five."
    I finished my hot dog and followed him.
   He stopped in a deserted side street, behind a supermarket parking lot. As I caught up w
him, he took out a magnetic scanner.
   I said, "No wires, no weapons." He waved the device over me. I was telling the truth. "
you talk through that thing?"
    "Yes." The giant head bobbed strangely; I couldn't see any eye holes, but he clearly was
blind.
   "Okay. Where did the explosives come from? We know they started off in Singapore, b
who was your supplier here?"
    Hoover laughed, deep and muffled. "I'm not going to tell you that. I'd be dead in a week
    "So what do you want to tell me?"
    "That I only did the grunt work. Mendelsohn organized everything."
    ' 'No shit. But what have you got that will prove it? Phone calls? Financial transactions
    He just laughed again. I was beginning to wonder how many people in the parade woul
know who'd played J. Edgar Hoover; even if he clammed up now, it was possible that I'd b
able to track him down later.
   That was when I turned and saw six more, identical, Hoov-ers coming around the corne
They were all carrying baseball bats.
    I started to move. Hoover One drew a pistol and aimed it at my face. He said, "Kneel d
slowly, with your hands behind your head."
    I did it. He kept the gun on me, and I kept my eyes on the trigger, but I heard the others
arrive, and close into a half-circle behind me.
    Hoover One said, "Don't you know what happens to trai-tors? Don't you know what's go
to happen to you?"
   I shook my head slowly. I didn't know what I could say to appease him, so I spoke the tr
"How can I be a traitor? What is there to betray? Dykes on Bikes for Jesus? The Wil-liam S
Burroughs Dancers?"
   Someone behind me swung their bat into the small of my back. Not as hard as they migh
have; I lurched forward, but I kept my balance.
    Hoover One said, "Don't you know any history, Mr. Pig? Mr. Polizei? The Nazis put us
their death camps. The Rea-ganites tried to have us all die of AIDS. And here you are now,
Mr. Pig, working for the fuckers who want to wipe us off the face of the planet. That sound
like betrayal to me.""
   I knelt there, staring at the gun, unable to speak. I couldn't dredge up the words to justify
myself. The truth was too dif-ficult, too gray, too confusing. My teeth started chattering. Na
AIDS. Genocide. Maybe he was right. Maybe I de-served to die.
     I felt tears on my cheeks. Hoover One laughed. "Boo hoo, Mr. Pig." Someone swung th
bat onto my shoulders. I fell forward on my face, too afraid to move my hands to break the
I tried to get up, but a boot came down on the back of my neck.
    Hoover One bent down and put the gun to my skull. He whispered, "Will you close the
case? Lose the evidence on Catherine? You know, your boyfriend frequents some dan-gero
places; he needs all the friends he can get."
    I lifted my face high enough above the asphalt to reply. "Yes."
    "Well done, Mr. Pig."
    That was when I heard the helicopter.
   I blinked the gravel out of my eyes and saw the ground, far brighter than it should have
been; there was a spotlight trained on us. I waited for the sound of a bullhorn. Nothing
happened. I waited for my assailants to flee. Hoover One took his foot off my neck.
    And then they all laid into me with their baseball bats.
    I should have curled up and protected my head, but curi-osity got the better of me; I turn
and stole a glimpse of the chopper. It was a news crew, of course, refusing to do any-thing
unethical like spoil a good story just when it was getting telegenic. That much made perfect
sense.
   But the goon squad made no sense at all. Why were they sticking around, now that th
cameras were running? Just for the pleasure of beating me for a few seconds longer!
    Nobody was that stupid, that oblivious to PR.
   I coughed up two teeth and hid my face again. They wanted it all to be broadcast. They
wanted the headlines, the backlash, the outrage. ATOMIC TERRORISTS!
BABY-POISONERS! BRUTAL THUGS!
    They wanted to demonize the enemy they were pretending to be.
    The Hoovers finally dropped their bats and started running. I lay on the ground drooling
blood, too weak to lift my head to see what had driven them away.
   A while later, I heard hoofbeats. Someone dropped to the ground beside me and checke
my pulse.
   I said, "I'm not in pain. I'm happy. I'm delirious."
   Then I passed out.
   On his second visit, Martin brought Catherine Mendelsohn to the hospital with him. The
showed me a recording of LEI's media conference, the day after the Mardi Gras-two hours
before Mendelsohn's was scheduled to take place.
    Janet Lansing said, ' 'In the light of recent events, we have no choice but to go public. W
would have preferred to keep this technology under wraps for commercial reasons, but
in-nocent lives are at stake. And when people turn on their own kind-"
   I burst the stitches in my lips laughing.
    LEI had bombed their own laboratory. They'd irradiated their own cells. And they'd ho
that I'd cover up for Men-delsohn, once the evidence led me to her, out of sympathy with he
cause. Later, with a tip-off to an investigative re-porter or two, the cover-up would have be
revealed.
   The perfect climate for their product launch.
    Since I'd continued with the investigation, though, they'd had to make the best of it: send
in the Hoovers, claiming to be linked to Mendelsohn, to punish me for my diligence.
    Mendelsohn said, "Everything LEI leaked about me-the cobalt, my key to the vault-was
already spelt out in the pamphlets I'd printed, but that doesn't seem to cut much ice with the
murdochs. I'm the Harbor Bridge Gamma Ray Ter-rorist now."
   "You'll never be charged."
   "Of course not. So I'll never be found innocent, either."
    I said, ' 'When I'm out of here, I'm going after them.'' They wanted impartiality? An
investigation untainted by prejudice? They'd get exactly what they paid for, this time. M
the tunnel vision.
   Martin said softly, "Who's going to employ you to do that?"
   I smiled, painfully. "LEI's insurance company."
   When they'd left, I dozed off.
   I woke suddenly, from a dream of suffocation.
    Even if I proved that the whole thing had been a marketing exercise by LEI-even if half
their directors were thrown in prison, even if the company itself was liquidated-the
tech-nology would still be owned by someone.
   And one way or another, in the end, it would be sold.
     That's what I'd missed, in my fanatical neutrality: you can't sell a cure without a disease
even if I was right to be neutral-even if there was no difference to fight for, no dif-ference t
betray, no difference to preserve-the best way to sell the cocoon would always be to inven
one. And even if it would be no tragedy at all if there was nothing left but heterosexuality in
century's time, the only path which could lead there would be one of lies, and wounding, an
vilifica-tion.
   Would people buy that, or not?
   I was suddenly very much afraid that they would.