The Plague Policeman

Part 1 : Monsoon Season

Chapter 1 - Paris Monsoon

His Majesty King Louis XX today formally opened the new fount facility that forms part of the Department of Physics at the Université d'Auvergne in Clermont-Ferrand. The largest and most advanced of its kind in the French Empire, the vast nuclein-based founts, housed in buildings that are believed to cover an area of more than a thousand acres, will vastly increase the computing power available to the Department and is expected to facilitate progress in many areas. Unofficial speculation links the new facility with the French nuclear programme. Like the rest of the world this is still struggling to catch up that of Sweden following the events of the War of the Bomb.

La Gazette de France, Versailles, 15th January 2002

***

Outside my window, the Paris Monsoon beat down on the city. It had been raining hard for days now, hiding the distant towers of Versailles, far off to the south-west beyond the Seine, the nearer tower-farms of St Marcel and even coming close to obscuring the statue of Joseph François Dupleix just across the Place below me. The city was drenched.

Of course it was not truly a monsoon, but it was certainly an appropriate name for the January weather that had replaced the normal Parisian winter cold this last decade or so.

Inside, I sipped a cup of strong, rich Mysorean coffee as I contemplated the latest report on the Blue Goat Blight that was sweeping through the Congo region. I nodded to myself. The evidence confirmed my original findings. Fortunately for all concerned the Congo Blue Goat Blight was not a biological warfare, but only a natural outbreak of disease. Thank Nkulunkulu for that.

I looked at the electric clock hanging on the green wall and sighed. I had to go. The office was calling and I had to obey, even if I had not seen her in three days.

I turned off the radiant, silencing the finale of the new machine chanting symphony I been listening to, and rose to my feet. Walked to the coat stand by the apartment door. I was half-tempted to go into the office barefoot. It was mild outside and it would certainly save on wet footwear. And my feet retained the toughness I had had forced on me by my childhood in Zululand. On the other hand, my Wellseleys would be much more comfortable, and had I not left Zululand to get away from a world where that stupid degree of toughness was the norm? I think I had. Wellseleys it was.

Wellseleys on. Waterproof shoulder holster and weapon on. Jacket on. Rain cape from the hooks above the drip tray. Cordobés from its hook onto my head. Waterproof bag with purse, shoes, gaiters and other essentials. Time to go.

I glanced into the mirror to check all was in order before I departed. Male. Slim. Never as tall as I would have liked. Dark brown skin. Brown eyes with, so I am told, a slightly haunted look to them. Thin oval face, starting to look older than its thirty-four years. Neatly trimmed goatee. Medium length frizzy hair in a neat ponytail, both starting to show a few threads of grey in among the black. I appeared presentable.

My eyes flicked over the empty apartment, lingering for a moment on the crucifix and zomhlaba hanging side by side above the window. Then I turned and opened the door into the shared hallway to the stairs and ascender. The clean white walls of the hall were nearly glowing in the slanting light of dawn and the bioluminescent tubes that lined the ceiling.

My shadow preceded me down it to fall on a figure emerging from the doors of the ascender in front of me. My height. Wide hips. Large bosom. Beautiful, even wearing a dripping wet rain cape and Wellseleys. My pace quickened.

'Tilde! I greeted my wife with a smile.

She looked up, her expression exhausted. My heart went out to her.

Jab, she replied, with a flicker of a smile herself, though one quickly submerged under her tiredness. Good morning.

I've missed you. I'm sorry, I waited as long as I could, but now I must get to the office, I told her unhappily. Sorry.

She nodded, a mixture of resignation and annoyance crossing her face. Sorry myself, she sighed. It's been insane at the hospital. The monsoon is making everyone at Pitié-Salpêtrière so busy. They needed me to stay. I knew you'd cope.

I nodded, if a little sadly, and hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed her on the lips.

You should get to work, she said somewhat snappily. Don't get in trouble on my account. I'll see you when you get back.

I nodded again. I'll see you later. I love you.

But 'Tilde did not answer. She continued on along the hallway.

I considered going after her. But we would just end up arguing and I would end up going to work anyway, only with more bad feeling between us. I sighed and turned towards the stairs. A sad lump sat in my stomach. I missed my wife, and I could not help feeling once again that we were growing apart.

She had risen higher than me up the tree at Pitié-Salpêtrière, to the position of Head of Hygiene there. It was her passion. Whereas my work was ... just my work. Not my life.

We still loved each other. At least, I still loved her and thought she still loved me. But our professions kept us apart, mine as much as hers. We both worked unsocial hours, and mine also included frequent foreign travel at short notice. Not good for a marriage, it had turned out.

But there seemed to be no way to change our route through life. At least we had no children to be caught between our conflicting lives.

Shaking my head sadly, I passed the ascender and pushed through the door into the underwater light of the stairs, lit by the blue-green glow of the bioluminescent tubes that ran along the angle of the walls and ceiling. I jogged quickly down from the fourth floor to street level.

Good morning, Madame Diakite, I said politely, turning the corner at the bottom of the stairs to find the seemingly ageless concierge of our apartment block heading upstairs with a toolbox in one hand and an electric drill holstered at her belt.

Monsieur de Voggeveen, she replied with a nod as she passed me. You're out late today. Did you see your wife on your way down?

Yes, I did thank you, I replied to her retreating back. And flexible hours, Madame Diakite.

None of that for me! she replied brusquely, turning the corner halfway up the stairs.

No indeed, I nodded, reaching the lobby. Outside the glass doors the Place Dupleix was still suffering the Paris Monsoon. The rain roared through the glass. The streets of the parish of Clamart were submerged nearly to the level of the kerb. The wheels of the many wasps and velos moving slowly through the rain pushed up wakes that sloshed over the pavement nearly to the foot of the steps below the door.

There was more traffic than usual today and I recalled that it was being disrupted by the major and urgent Paris-wide works to expand the storm sewer network that were digging up roads across the city.

Lovely. I braced myself and stepped outside.

The rain instantly weighed on my head. The broad brim of the waterproof cordobés kept my head dry, but could do nothing to stop the force of the falling water transmitting directly to my neck.

I joined the other pedestrians who were unlucky enough to be out in this, splashing towards for the nearest entrance to the cross-topped dome of the Place Dupleix Souterraine station. No one was happy to be out, every shoulder hunched against the weather. The newspaper seller in her kiosk looked particularly unhappy. She was dry, but no one was stopping to buy.

The relatively mild weather and extreme dampness meant that I began to sweat almost immediately. How we all loved the Paris Monsoon. Roll on spring, as they say in the Union!

As miserable as the pedestrians were, they looked far more cheerful than the velovalier[1] who were both drenched and having to pedal their velos through the deep water in the road, while also being in danger of being washed away by the wakes the passing wasps were generating.

The other travellers and I climbed the rough and ready steps over the hastily built wall around the station entrance, constructed after the first few times it was flooded by the Paris monsoon. The scarlet-uniformed Marshalcy Sentinel in her shelter by the entrance, mini-autorifle at the ready, looked thoroughly miserable, even though she was out of the rain. The scarlet crest of her ancient-Greek-styled golden helmet[2] rose enthusiastically into the moist air, looking very out of place in the dark and wet day. The domed concrete roof of the thankfully dry hall of the station muffled the sound of the rain.

A gaggle of young women wearing this year's ridiculous fashion of low multi-coloured transparent conical witches hats and matching patterned transparent rain capes pushed past me, splashing me and the other travellers with water as they rushed into the station. I glared after them as they showed their tickets and descended the moving stairs ahead of me.

The inspector on the gate glanced at my season ticket, and I descended the moving stair to the platform of La Souterraine, Alpha Line, southbound to Versailles.

Even over the rumble of the moving stair I could hear the deep drone of the pumps straining to keep the tunnels dry. I prayed to the amadlozi that they did not fail here as they had on the Eta line before Christmas. Twelve people had drowned. Even with the pumps water was visible below the tracks. I hoped this was not a bad sign, but I could not help wondering how much of the water on the tracks was genuine Monsoon leakage and how much had just dripped off thousands of sodden passengers.

I spent the time idly gazing at the advertising posters adorning the concrete wall opposite the platform. Beach holidays in la Somalie. Holiday apartments to buy in Algeria. The latest televisions and radiants from Ozguc-Adivar in the OSU. Eugenic and genetic consultancy from Pradiet, Réjane et Yourcenar. Huli brand coffees from Mysore, their tiger logo prominent on the poster. Expensive children’s goods from Guyotat, Mérode and Éluard. One poster directly opposite me caught my eye; it advertised 'The Rise of French Power in India', a major new exhibition at Annex Beta of the Louvre showing how the conflicts of the 1750s irrevocably broke British power in India and allowed France to take control of the subcontinent.

Despite the Monsoon the trains were running the usual fast, frequent and efficient service that Paris and Versailles required to survive. After only a couple of minutes, the bulbous-nosed brushed alumium length of a train roared into the station, its brass fittings gleaming under the lights. But even the wind of its passage could not displace the wet smells of the station.

My myriad fellow travellers and I climbed aboard as the doors hissed open. After one or two annoying false starts as people and their belongings blocked the doors the train finally accelerated out of the station and off to the south-west.

It would have been nice, as it would have been nice every day, to have a seat and be able to read, or even think, while travelling. But the Alpha Line was the main route between the government centre of Versailles and the residential and commercial ones of Paris. Clamart lay between the two. The train was crowded. So, like the rest, I endured.

Five stops later, this half of the daily torment ended at the Avenue de Saint-Cloud station. With many of my fellow travellers I politely shouldered my way off the train onto the platform where we joined the equally large crowds from the Epsilon and Zeta line platforms to ascend the moving stairs. As I rose, my eyes drifted over the posters lining the walls. In particular the latest ones from the government exhorting everyone to become vegetarian, or at least to eat less meat, caught my eye. A worthy sentiment, given the state of the world, but I remained too ... Zulu ... to want to give up my meat. Many others shared my view, so that although most people - ourselves included - did eat less meat than we once did we were still hardly vegetarians. Unfortunately for the world.

I had read in the newspapers that the regular coming of the Paris Monsoon meant that there was a serious risk that Versailles would sink and revert back to the malarial swamp it had been before the Palace and surrounding city were built there. The city government - and the Crown - were doing their best to prevent this. This did not stop the more radical newspapers from implying that if it did happen it would be due to the city sinking under the weight of its corruption and what they considered its overactive red tape rather than anything to do with the climate.

A poster labelled 'France's Greatest Servant' caught my eye, reminding me of one I had seen earlier. It advertised another biography of Joseph François Dupleix, in association with the new exhibition at the Louvre. It claimed to tell the full story of the man who in 1751 broke Anglo-Saxon power in India at the Battle of Trichinopoly and established French control of the subcontinent. To be honest I was not that interested; it all seemed far too long ago to be relevant.

Another advertisement for Baccarin mechanical calculators caught my eye. I had seen them before and I liked the look of them. Perhaps next payday I would replace my old Zakaria-made one.

I passed through the vast entrance hall of Avenue de Saint-Cloud and out into the street. The two Marshalcy Sentinels, armed with both pistols and mini-autorifles, were more alert and watchful than the one at Place Dupleix. Their scarlet uniforms were highly visible, and thus hopefully discouraged any trouble. I could not say I disapproved. The cheerful scarlet crests of their helmets were still out of place, though.

Fortunately, it was only a short walk to my destination and the two rows of trees along the pavement of the Avenue de Saint-Cloud provided some degree of shelter. Unfortunately, the intensity of the Paris Monsoon made the length of the walk almost irrelevant to how wet one got. This was not helped by the traffic. There were fewer wasps, velos and carts on the streets of Versailles than in Clamart - there were no major diggings being undertaken there, and in any case fewer vehicles were allowed into the areas around the Palace and government buildings. The velovalier here were no happier than their counterparts in Clamart. Not a form of transport for me...

I was glad to see the grey striped reddish-grey brick façade of the 1950s Neo-Byzantine skyscraper that was my destination looming before me, its top fading into the low clouds. I had been told that when it was built it had been white-striped red brick, but some fifty years of fumes and pollution has taken their toll on the colours. As I always did, I glanced above the doors as I approached. Conférence Permanente De Militaires Du Monde. My place of work. I stepped between the flagpoles on either side of the entrance where the limp and dripping pink CPMM flags hung, their circle-filled black hexagon insignia obscured by the wet folds in which they hung.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I entered the vaulted lobby of CPMM headquarters. The lights inside easily outshone the subdued daylight entering through the arched windows. As usual there was a faint smell of disinfectant in the air, mixing with dampness. I hoped I would not have to leave the building until it was time to go home.

I presented my papers to the guards on duty in the lobby, their pristine white uniforms with black gloves and CPMM-pink trim making my drenched state slovenly by comparison. After a moment I was admitted and waited for the ascender to the tenth floor, dripping gently onto the marble floor tiles.

Eventually the ascender arrived, its two passengers giving me a wide berth as they exited. I stepped inside. The doors slid shut as I accelerated upwards.

The tenth floor was very quiet this late in the working day. I made my way down the brick red hall to the locker room, its white stripe an idealised mirror of the brickwork outside. Inside, I dried myself and swiftly changed out of my wet street clothes into a dry set I had brought with me. More comfortably dressed in the dry, dark red breeches and jacket of my conservative suit, today's collar with its symmetrical yellow, black and white butterfly-wing pattern suitably attached and arranged to show its best, shoes and gaiters on, I hung my rain cape on the hooks to dry and placed my Wellseleys by the drain to do the same before exiting the locker room and making my way down the hall to the office.

'Investigation Branch - Sub-Section 26' read the familiar sign above the door.

Heads turned as I entered the large open-plan office beyond. The familiar clacking of autowriters and calculators filled my ears as the scent of coffee, disinfectant and correction fluid did the same to my nostrils. I nodded to my colleagues as they glanced over. Good morning, I announced.

You're late, snapped Adelina Bissainthe, our section leader, looking up from the televox handset she had pressed to her ear as I passed her desk close to the door, her voice tinged by the Hispaniolan accent of her origins.

Err, no, Professor Bissainthe, I pointed out mildly. I have the worked up hours for it.

I expected you earlier, she retorted, then looked away and back to her televox call.

I sighed, and walked across the woven beige bambou floor matting, receiving a few sympathetic glances from my co-workers as I passed by.

I respected Professor Bissainthe as a doctor and scientist, but I did not like her. I was not sure anyone did. She was too strange. Female in the biological sense, but very much not a normal human. Clever, yes. Much more so than myself. But her lack of social skills, dress sense, how she wore exactly the same clothes every day. Not dirty clothes, just identical ones. I imagined she had wardrobes at home filled with sets of exactly the same clothing. How she basically lived between the laboratory and office and expected everyone else to do the same, disappointed and shocked when we showed signs of a life outside of the job.

I sat down at my desk, one of a group of four new bambou fibreboard desks beside a high arched window, beside a planter of ferns and palms that helped to condition the air in the office[3]. I twirled the combination lock of my document safe and for once got it right on the first attempt. It opened with a clunk.

The sound of typing from the next desk stopped. Did you see her? I was interrupted before I could get any further. I turned in my chair and smiled wanly. Abdisalam Gouled Indhobuur, an Ajanian. One of my friends in the office. We chatted about most things and I had mentioned why I was going to be in late to him the previous day.

Briefly, I replied. But she was so late I was going out as she was coming in. And she was exhausted. So yes, but no. I sighed. Maybe next time.

Sorry to hear it, said Abdisalam sympathetically.

Me too, I said. I should work. The Professor is watching.

He nodded, and turned back to his desk.

I did the same. Reaching into my document safe, I extracted the papers relating to my current case - a new strain of cholera first detected in north-western Brazil four months ago - and continued writing my report on it. The case was over and fortunately there was no sign that it was anything more than a natural change in the disease, not the act of biological warfare we were all forever afraid of.

It had been the usual tense, tiring and unpleasant month there. Not at all helped by the remoteness of the location, its primitive facilities, and, of course, the unpleasantness of cholera itself, what it did to its victims, and where its results tended to be found.

One more reason to be grateful for the vast array of vaccinations all members of the CPMM underwent. Not just to protect against the cholera, but against everything else we might be exposed to in the course of our work.

In the end the evidence had accumulated and I had tracked the outbreak to its source across the border in Libertatia. Which, had of course, made things that much more complex. It had taken a good deal of pressure applied to the Libertatian government by the CPMM and its members to overcome the argumentative and stubborn Libertatian national character. But eventually the Libertatians had agreed to let the CPMM in. Once there it was relatively easy to track the source of the infection to Lorcaville on the Rio Negro and its extremely shoddy waste treatment facilities.

At least the Libertatians had seen sense when presented with the incontrovertible evidence. They had quickly voted through permission for the CPMM to intervene. Thank the amadlozi, this allowed the disease to be suitably contained, isolated and treated.

Now all I had to do was complete my documenting of it all. Even if not an act of war it still needed to be reported and filed. A bureaucratic, if necessary, task that I never enjoyed. But now it was nearly complete. All four hundred and fifty pages of it. Just a few more pages to go then I would send it off for proof reading, correct the proofs and issue it.

Spreading my notes out on the desk I flicked through to where I had left off the previous night. Then I pulled forward the heavy block of my autowriter, inserted fresh paper and gathered my thoughts.

Nothing came instantly to mind, so I rose and made my way over to the coffee machine. The machine that in all my years in this office I had never once seen turned off. Or cleaned. That still contained the same coffee as when it was first switched on, in the sense that a regiment today is the same regiment as that when it was founded centuries ago. We joked that if anyone or anything was going to create the super-disease we all feared, it would be this machine. But it was a necessity in the office, and I needed a cup now. I poured one and sipped on the way back to my desk. The familiar strong, black and intensely bitter brew helped me gather my thoughts as I sat down again.

All right. My hands hovered over the hemispherical ball of keys for a moment, then as the words of the report began to solidify in my mind, I typed, the clatter of the autowriter keys merging with that from my colleagues as the report began to near completion.

Chapter 2 - Summoned

As she has done since her first flight in 1995 Sandra Biggin, the first kosmosnaute, today appeared before the governing committee of the Science Direktorate in Hanover to press for increased funding of space research and space flight in particular. She warned of the dangers inherent in allowing other powers - and the French Empire in particular - to take the lead in these areas. The chairmen of the committee pledged that they would consider her words with all seriousness.

The Times, London, the Union, 15th January 2002

The double helix structure of the nuclein molecule, discovered in 1928 by Lazare Braconnot at the University of Versailles, forms the basis of all life on Earth and it is this that is manipulated to Engineer living things.

Introductory Nuclein Engineering, Cambridge University Press, 8th Edition 2001

***

By early afternoon I was within a page or two of finishing my report when I sensed a presence behind me.

I raised my hands from the autowriter and looked around, irritated. Something I did my best to smooth away when I saw who it was.

An annoyed-looking Professor Bissainthe stood there. This was unlike her; she almost never left her desk other than to attend meetings.

Jab, she said. I've been told to send someone to the Foreign Ministry. They have need of someone from the CPMM. As I understand it you are closest to finishing your current job, so you will go. You are wanted there immediately. If not sooner.

Err... What for? I asked.

"I don't know, Jab, she snapped, brushing a strand of curly grey-streaked black hair from her thin, brown-skinned face. But be sure to tell me about it when you get back. You are wanted here. Here are the details of where you need to go."

She handed me a slip of paper, then without another word turned abruptly and stalked away in the direction her desk.

I sighed. It never failed. Just when you had nearly completed something, something supposedly more important - or at least more urgent - came along and interrupted it. So you finished nothing. I had been in this business long enough that I should be inured to it by now, but nonetheless each time it irritated me afresh.

Still, there was nothing else for it. I looked down at Professor Bissainthe's slip of paper. It was an address, or rather a location within the Foreign Ministry, off the Avenue de Sceaux, not too far away in the south of Versailles.

I turned and glanced out of the window beside me. Still the Monsoon. Curses. Oh well, there was nothing to be done about it. I had my orders.

I shuffled my papers together and placed them back in my document safe, closed it and twirled the combination lock, hearing the bolts slide home with a satisfying thump.

I stood up. See you later, Abdisalam, I nodded to him as I walked towards the door.

The sound of autowriters faded as the door swung shut behind me. In the locker room I removed my shoes and gaiters and slipped back into my still-wet Wellseleys, rain cape and cordobés before clumping off to the ascender.

While I waited for it to arrive, I considered the travel options to the Foreign Ministry. They were limited to say the least. All of them involved going out in the rain.

As the doors opened I stepped inside and pushed the button for the ground floor.

As I descended, I nodded to myself. I would defy the Paris Monsoon and walk. It was not too far to the Foreign Ministry, after all.

The ascender halted and I stepped out into the CPMM lobby. Those who were coming had come in by now, and the floor was cleaner and dryer. I did not envy the concierges the evening departure.

I nodded to the guards on duty, their white uniforms still pristine. Just off to the Foreign Ministry, I told them as I passed.

They nodded uninterestedly.

I stepped out into the rain. It was as I descended the stairs and crossed the Avenue de St Cloud beyond that I began to reconsider the prudence of walking in this weather, especially after the bow wave from the wheels of a passing wasp deluged me with even more water than the clouds were delivering.

Even fewer people were on the streets than earlier. Those who were looked damp and miserable, as I imagined I did. In a few places walls of sandbags had been built up around low doors, windows and vents to keep out the water. I felt briefly sympathetic to the people who had done so, and offered a quick prayer to their amadlozi that their efforts would not prove fruitless.

I turned off the Avenue de St Cloud down the narrower Rue Voltaire. The rain gradually seeped through my rain cape. I walked faster in the vain hope that I might arrive at the Foreign Ministry a little dryer if I did so. It did not help.

I crossed the tree-lined expanse of the Avenue de Paris and continued.

The sound of autogyro engines from overhead was not matched by any sight of a skycraft despite the face-full of rain I received for my trouble. It must have been low to be audible through the pounding rain, but the clouds were too low for it to be visible. The noise faded away in the direction of the Palace.

I had never been to Rome, but I was told that the Foreign Ministry was Romanesque in style. Even in the Paris Monsoon it was quite impressive. Each wall was an array of three storey fluted pillars of dirty rain-streaked granite rising to a shallowly sloping roof, each pair of pillars linked by tall, wide windows revealing the open offices beyond. Apparently this was the style of the post-Societial Wars period, when the ministry moved here from the Louvre and openness in government was considered necessary to avoid a repeat of the Wars.

From a long central building, identical perpendicular wings sprouted at regular intervals. At the end of each wing a set of steps led up to double doors under a pillared portico.

In the centre of the square formed by the central spine and each pair of wings stood an opticon, a public viewing platform allowing people to see into the building, see their government in action.

Although as far as I could see the view from the opticons must be quite obscured these days. As part of the government's efforts to undo the effects of rising carbon dioxide levels, the public squares inside the wings of the Foreign Ministry had been planted with tall stands of bambou. It must have blocked views into at least the lower floors of the Ministry.

I supposed that the public need to see into government buildings had lessened with time. People had got used to the status quo and let the government get away with more now than they did then.

A discreet sign next to the portico and doorway that adorned the end of the first wing of the Ministry read 'Entrance 16'. Above the steps a French flag hung heavily from a horizontal flagpole, its royal blue field and three gold fleur-de-lis darkened by the rain. I glanced at the note Professor Bissainthe had given me, doing my best to keep it dry. 'Entrance 4', it read. Now, where was that?

I passed the stand of bambou to the end of the next wing. 'Entrance 12' its sign read. Another two wings then.

A small van was parked beside next stand of bambou. Its bed beside the large cargo-side wheel was piled with bambou poles. I could hear the sound of sawing and chopping from inside the thicket as it was pruned to allow more to grow.

A woodsman emerged from the thicket with a bundle of poles balanced on his shoulder. He dumped them onto the bed of the van with a clatter then disappeared back into the bambou.

Miserable work in this weather, I thought to myself as I continued on. Someone had to do it, but I was glad it was not me.

Entrance 8. Another stand of bambou. And, thankfully, Entrance 4.

Gratefully I climbed the steps and paused a moment under the portico. I felt through my clothes for the comforting shape of my zomhlaba, running my fingers over the outer square, diagonals and inner circle while calling on the amadlozi of my ancestors to petition Nkulunkulu for success in whatever enterprise this turned out to be. And on the amadlozi of Shaka the Great, Father of Zululand, founder of the nation in its modern form, for the perception and skill that enabled him to live a long life and bring Zululand to greatness despite assassins and the best efforts of Europeans.

Even though I was only asking the amadlozi internally and showed nothing externally, I felt slightly embarrassed to be doing so. Despite my estrangement from the Zulu nation, some things still lingered from my childhood there, even if I kept them inside my thoughts.

With my prayer complete, I stepped forward, pushed open the glass and dark wood doors and entered the lobby of the Foreign Ministry.

It was not unlike that of the CPMM, if somewhat grander. Calm and spacious, with tall windows separated by white pillars surrounding it on three sides, and a white wall ahead, all under a high white ceiling dotted with dangling electric light globes. Large planters overflowing with tall displays of different types of vegetation were dotted about the floor softening an otherwise stark and sterile space.

My eyes gravitated to the most obvious difference. The two guards here wore the scarlet uniforms and golden helmets of the Marshalcy rather than the pink-trimmed surgical white of the CPMM guards. But then, the CPMM was not part of the French government. This was.

Leaving a trail of puddles behind me I squelched over to the guards' desk behind the armoured glass screen that blocked the inner end of the lobby. The guards watched me impassively.

Good morning, Monsieur, said the Marshal on the left as I approached. Can we help you?

Yes, I nodded to her. My name is Njabulo de Voggeveen. I have been told to report here. Here are my papers. I slid them in their waterproof wallet through the slot in the glass above the counter.

Thank you, Monsieur, she nodded, taking my papers from the wallet and scrutinising them.

CPMM, eh? chipped in the other Marshal, glancing at my papers himself. Caught any good diseases lately? he asked, grinning jovially. He seemed to think this was the funniest thing ever said. His colleague just rolled her eyes resignedly as if this was just part of his normal repertoire.

That all appears to be in order, Monsieur, nodded the first Marshal, passing my papers back through the slot to me. Please have a seat over there while we call upstairs. You can hang your wet things on the hooks there.

I walked over and gratefully removed my rain cape and cordobés, hanging them on one of the indicated hooks.

Behind me, the female Marshal spoke inaudibly on the televox, then replaced the handset.

I took a seat in a group of elegant but uncomfortable-looking bambou chairs around an equally elegant bambou table to one side of the lobby. I perused the Foreign Ministry pamphlets artfully arrayed on the table as I waited.

To pass the time, calm my mind and help me think, I pulled the bundle of wool from my bag and began to knit. The movement of the needles quickly had its desired effect, smoothing my thought processes and helping to focus my mind. With luck there would be time to finish my current project - a knitted smallpox organism in iridescent blue bambou-wool. I hoped the children in the Pitié-Salpêtrière would like it when it was done.

Time passed. Rain streamed down the tall windows beside me. Somewhere a clock ticked.

In the quiet I could hear the Marshals murmuring to one another, and the dripping of my wet clothing.

***

Only a short time passed before footsteps approached behind me. I turned to see a handsome stockily built woman in her forties with short black hair striding across the lobby towards me, her coat tails brushing the back of her trouser legs at each step. She stopped across the bambou table from me. I stood politely. She glanced at my knitting and raised an eyebrow.

Njabulo de Voggeveen? she asked. I am Emilie Mallarmé, a Subdelegate here at the Foreign Ministry. You are here to meet with me, I believe?

I packed the knitting back into my bag, feeling as though I had been caught doing something unseemly.

Yes, I nodded. At close range she had strong features and a firm gaze from dark brown eyes, giving her an uncompromising and somewhat intimidating air. A pleasure to meet you.

If you will come with me I will explain why you are here and what we wish of you, Madame Mallarmé told me. Please wear this temporary pass while you are in the building. She held out an identity badge on a chain, which I took and placed around my neck. Follow me, she said, turning and walking off across the lobby.

I followed as she led me towards the guard post. The male Marshal opened an armoured glass door in the security screen as we approached, shutting it immediately once we had passed through. Beyond a pair of large wooden double doors in the inner wall of the lobby was a wide stairwell, granite stairs leading up then splitting at a landing and turning back above our heads. Painted on the wall above the landing was a vast stylised map of the world, the French Empire - France itself, north-west Africa, India, southern Australia, southern Japan, the coastal enclaves in Manchu China and other places besides - picked out all in blue, the rest - the OSU and its allies in the Middle East and east Africa, Quebec, Columbia and Louisiana in North America, the Union and the Dutch Empire dotted across the world - a variety of other colours, surrounded by representations of the other planets - Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Herschel, Lyotard and Cevherí.

Our footsteps echoed as Madame Mallarmé led me up the stairs to the left and onto the first floor landing. A second set of large wooden double doors led into an open plan office that I estimated stretched most of the length of this wing of the Foreign Ministry. Like my office at the CPMM, it was filled with bambou desks, potted plants, and the sound of autowriters and muted conversation.

Several people looked up as Madame Mallarmé and I came through the door, then returned to their work.

This way, Monsieur de Voggeveen, said Madame Mallarmé, gesturing me to the right.

Call me Jab, I told her.

She nodded. Very well.

We passed around the white walled block containing the stairwell and between a number of desks towards the window, where a somewhat larger bambou desk in an 'L' shape cordoned off enough space to contain a pair of chairs and a small table.

I glanced out of the window at the bambou grove in the square below. It was true. The opticons would give a very poor view in.

Please sit down, Jab, said Madame Mallarmé, indicating one of the pair of chairs. Would you care for something to drink?

No, thank you, I replied, sitting.

Very well, she nodded. But before we begin, you need to sign this. She opened a desk drawer and extracted a large envelope that she handed across the table to me. I opened it and reached inside to remove the contents. I was quite sure I knew what this was, and sure enough inside was a single sheet of thick, expensive paper. The large words 'Royal Secrets Order' glared across the top of the sheet in blood red ink, with a page of closely printed text beneath them. I had seen - and signed - forms like it before in the course of my work at the CPMM, though none recently.

I scanned it quickly, then nodded. It looked much like the others I had seen. A commitment not to reveal anything about this investigation and its allied findings without permission, and severe penalties for infringement. Do you have a pen? I asked Madame Mallarmé.

She nodded and passed me a pen.

Thank you, I replied, signing the Order then handing it and the pen back across the table to her.

She took them from me, glanced at my signature, and smiled briefly. Welcome aboard, she said. Jab, I have read your file, of course, but tell me about yourself in your own words.

I hesitated, then gathered my thoughts. I was born in 1968 in the Yisikhombisa Indlela Umuzi - Seven Roads district - of Umgenitheku in Zululand, I began. "The sixth of seven children.

I never had the killer instinct one needs to thrive in Zululand and because of that I did not have ... the happiest childhood. It was made clear from an early age that I was never destined for one of the prestigious ibutho - regiments.

I know what ibutho are, Monsieur, interrupted Madame Mallarmé sharply.

My apologies Madame, I replied, somewhat taken aback. Not everyone does. I paused. But my family did not have the influence - or the desire to help a child they considered the runt of the litter - that might have placed me with the Inyanga where I might have been well-suited, or the Smiths or Sangoma where I might have found a place. I would have been doomed to a minor industrial ibutho at best. So in 1983 I left, as soon as I was old enough for Zululand law to allow it, or perhaps a little sooner. Very much against the wishes of my family. But I had no future there.

I did not say that I had had, like many Zulus, a choice. Remain in Zululand and have my soul gradually beaten away as very much a lesser member of society in service in some low-ranked non-military Ibutho. Or leave and find a new life elsewhere. For me, in truth, it was not much of a choice. Though in hindsight had I known in advance how difficult it would be to make a new life for myself outside Zululand, the prices paid ... I would still have emigrated. So I went. And suffered the disapproval and disownment of my family as a result.

Madame Mallarmé glanced down at the papers on her desk as I spoke, nodding to show she was paying attention.

"I made my way to France where I was permitted to immigrate. Apprenticed myself at the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital where I was able to work my way up to doctor by the age of 26, in 1994. That allowed me to pay back the debt to the Empire I incurred for my citizenship, education and training in the normal way by performing National Service for five years. In the course of this I met, courted and eventually married the woman who became my wife in 1998, not long after the start of the Incorporation War.

"I found I had a talent for epidemiology, infection control and tracing breaches of hygiene rather than pure medicine. My talent for this led the office of the Secrétaire d'État à la Santé to have me assigned to the Section des Enquêtes of the Conférence Permanente De Militaires Du Monde by the Ministry of Health in 1997. I have worked there ever since, even after my National Service ended, and I am currently a Senior Field Agent in the CPMM. My wife has risen to the Chief of Hygiene at Annex 2 of the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital over the same time. She is a little older than I am.

"I have travelled to various parts of the world in the course of my duties. I have not been fortunate enough to prevent any major epidemics but my work has prevented some outbreaks, most recently the Blue Goat Blight in the Congo.

And of course I have had all of the extra vaccinations against the lesser known diseases and cancers as part of my induction into the CPMM, as well as the usual ones everyone has.

Would you consider yourself suited for covert work? asked Madame Mallarmé.

Yes, I replied. Though it is by no means my main area of expertise. I have operated undercover while investigating in a number of countries in Africa and South America, though never for more than a week at a time.

She nodded, then continued. If I might ask, your surname is Dutch rather than Zulu. Why is that?

I have one of my paternal great-grandfathers to thank for that, Madame. He was Cornelius de Voggeveen, a Dutchman from Cape Colony. A sailor and a violent drunkard. He killed a man in a brawl - he always claimed he fought alone against a mob, and it was all an entirely unjust accusation - and fled to Zululand to avoid the law. He joined an ibutho and made a new life there, marrying and fathering five children, though his temper and drinking prevented him from rising beyond the lowest levels of the ibutho and led to his early death long before I was born. Some of his children did better, and their children too, though not my father, who also drank and fought to excess - Zululander excess, that is - and my brothers, all older than me, to whom his violent memory made him the ancestral spirit they most venerated. I do not venerate him, but nonetheless I do my best not to offend him, as part of which I continue to bear his name and would not change it. I gave my Inkoloqinisile symbol a discreet rub as I did so, to ward off my grandfather's spirit should he be listening.

Very well. Thank you, said Madame Mallarmé. She opened her apparently unlocked document cabinet and pulled out a thick expensive-looking brown leather folder before sitting down in the other chair, placing the folder on the table between us.

And now to business. I assume you have no idea why you are here, Jab? she asked without preamble.

I shook my head. No. The message I was given did not mention anything as to why.

She opened the folder and took out a pair of photographs that she placed on the table facing me. It is to do with this person.

I picked up the pictures and examined them. They both showed the same thin, swarthy, androgynous figure, one a head and shoulders image, the other a whole body photograph. Clearly quite, quite dead. The close up picture showed wide sightless dark eyes with mouth slightly agape showing teeth that were in good condition other than being un-cleaned, other than some broken and a few missing. His face was clean-shaven, slightly bruised around one eye, one ear swollen and with a few small scars on the left cheek. The whole body image showed the figure lying sprawled clumsily in what appeared to be an alley in the centre of what appeared to be a pool of rain-diluted blood, presumably their own, judging by the obvious stab wounds in their rib cage. They wore a ragged overcoat over equally ragged breeches and cheap cloth shoes with no socks. All in all they appeared to be a dead vagrant.

"I assume this is not simply a dead vagrant?" I asked Madame Mallarmé.

Correct. He - and it is a he - is not, she replied. This body was discovered on the seventh, eight days ago, not far from here, actually, in Versailles. He is being called Monsieur Inconnue, that being the incongruously jovial name the Marshalcy pathologists give to all such unidentified corpses.

We need to know who he is - who he was - and much more importantly, where he came from before he reached his end here. Because the evidence we have indicates that Monsieur Inconnue is a new type of nucleically Engineered human - the fourteenth such type we are aware of. What makes him different to the previous thirteen is that we believe he is the first nucleically Engineered human to have been successfully given enhanced mental abilities. Ones over and above those of natural human beings such as ourselves, even ones subject to the most intensive eugenics programmes of countries like Sweden, Quebec or Zululand. I take it I do not need to explain the significance of this?

I shook my head. The significance was entirely clear. If what she said was true, this was huge. Something governments and fiction writers had been speculating about for years. Even going so far as to speculate that it was the beginning of the end of the human race.

"If someone - some government - can engineer stable mentally enhanced engineered human beings then we must know who, and how. This has happened sooner than the worst case estimates of our analysts. And because of that, before any of the counters they had suggested to guard against this are in place.

"We now need to act without them.

"Quickly and effectively. The CPMM is the closest thing to what we require but more than that we need a loyal French subject - yourself - to ensure that the job is done properly.

We have arranged for you to be seconded here from the CPMM under the auspices of the Council of Conscience. You will find out who Monsieur Inconnue is, who Engineered him, and where. You will be given as much help as is practical in this, and of course what documentation and equipment you may require to ensure the cooperation of the French government and as many others as we can. I would hope you do not need me to tell you that the Marshals who discovered the body would probably be the best place to start.

I nodded.

You should also be aware that should any opportunity or evidence arise to further support the idea of a ban on human Engineering, then that would also be highly beneficial.

I was taken aback - stunned even - by her words. Something of this import and the government considered me the best choice for it?!

They were either desperate, I underrated myself, or they needed a scapegoat. Given my lack of options, I hoped for the second of those possibilities.

Monsieur de Voggeveen, do you have any questions about this task? Do you feel you are capable of undertaking it successfully? asked Madame Mallarmé.

Err... No. And yes. Respectively, Madame Mallarmé, I replied slowly.

She nodded. Good. You will work here until this investigation is concluded, she continued. We have arranged a desk or you, just here.

She indicated an unoccupied, new-looking bambou desk nearby. You have televox and priority with the founts in Vernon should you need it; talk to the operators there for whatever the investigation needs, she continued.

I nodded. I could see the televox from where I was sitting, but other than that the desk was empty.

You will be on the same salary as you are with the CPMM, but using the Foreign Ministry schedule of payments for travel and out-of-the-ordinary assignments. I think you will find them very similar to those of the CPMM. The benefits that go to your dependants in case of your demise are slightly more generous.

Very good, I nodded.

If you begin, we will see how quickly we can get you back to the CPMM, eh? said Madame Mallarmé.

I nodded again.

This is the information we have, she continued, handing me the folder she had placed on the table. Examine it and we will see where we go from there. Make sure you return it to me when you are done or at the end of the day. We are also having a synopsis of what France knows of human Engineering assembled for you. It should be completed today and should provide you with some background on the Engineering projects that have taken place around the world, as well as an idea of what you may need to be looking for.

Thank you, Madame, I replied, taking it, though without a vast amount of enthusiasm.

In addition, Jab, there are two approaches being taken into discovering more about Monsieur Inconnue. His body has been handed over to a team at the Hôpital Necker in Paris, led by Professeur Jean-Louis de Taillefer. He is considered to be the top neurologist in the French Empire, and so he is leading the work to find out as much as we can about what Monsieur Inconnue could do, based on his brain structure in particular. There is a televox number here. Secondly, genetic samples have been taken and, now that this matter has become so important, been handed over to the most senior advisor of the Secrétaire d'État à la Santé. Who is … let me see now … Professeur Noemie Taillefesse, who is a Professor of Human Genetics at the University of Avignon. She has been told to find out what changes were made to the human genetic code to create Monsieur Inconnue, and what those changes might imply. There is a televox number for her, also.

Thank you, I said again. I will speak to them. Before I begin, is it permissible for me to call the CPMM and let them know I may be a while?

Of course, she nodded. I would not expect anything less. If anything remains unclear I am sure we can find additional scientists to explain it. Feel free to ask if necessary.

Thank you, I nodded again. I walked to my new desk. Its empty bambou surface felt strange and rather lonely as I sat, placed the folder in front of me and pulled the televox closer.

Lifting the handset, I typed out the televox code of Professor Bissainthe.

My call was answered on the second ring. Bissainthe here, came the abrupt voice of Professor Bissainthe. Who is this?

Jab here, Professor, I replied, rather abrupt myself. I'm calling from the Foreign Ministry. I have been informed that I am seconded here until further notice, so I am afraid you will need to find someone to carry on my work. The Lorcaville case report is nearly done, so that should be simple enough for someone else to finish off.

There was silence on the other end of the line as she considered this. That is very disappointing, Jab, she said, her tone implying it was my fault. How long? she asked sharply, sounding particularly annoyed.

I don't know, I said apologetically. It could be anything from quite quick to very slow. It is too soon for me - or anyone else here - to be able to tell.

Another ominous silence. I see. Well, I suppose we shall just have to struggle on as best we can, she said.

Yes. I am sorry, I said, nodding into the televox, even though I knew she could not see me. Oh yes, I was reviewing the report on the Congo Blue Goat Blight. That is nearly complete. Almost anyone should be able to finish it off quite quickly. Though I would recommend someone try to find any reports from the little kingdoms inland from the Congos. I think it probably originated in one of them.

Thank you, she replied rather grudgingly. Let us know when we can expect you back as soon as possible.

I will, I promised. Goodbye.

Goodbye. There was a click as Professor Bissainthe replaced her handset.

I sighed as I replaced my own. It could have gone far worse...

***

I slowly opened the folder Madame Mallarmé had given me and began to read.

The body had been discovered eight days ago, in the early hours of the 7th January 2002. A patrol of two Marshalcy Sentinelles - Jean-Pierre Benbouali and Donatien Goulue - had heard a scream from an alley off the northern end of the Rue de Sataury[4], not far from the cemetery of the Saint-Louis cathedral there. They had run to the scene and come upon it there.

They had called in their discovery and guarded it until investigators and the pathologist had arrived. Because of the circumstances, a post-mortem had been conducted back at the Marshalcy station. According to the report the pathologist - a Doctor Locard - had confirmed the cause of death as multiple stab wounds, inflicted not long before the body was discovered.

In the process they had discovered that the body showed signs of disease, malnutrition, lack of hygiene and a number of old injuries, consistent with a few beatings at different points in the not too distant past, some of them serious enough to break ribs. He also had a roughly rectangular burn scar on his left forearm, which seemed to the oldest wound of all. As part of discovering all of this, Dr Locard had discovered a number of physical oddities unrelated to the cause of death.

She had dutifully sent samples off to analysis by the Interior Ministry laboratories at Vernon[5]. And it was when the results of that analysis had been examined that alarm bells began to ring higher and higher in the ministries and the government until they had become sufficiently loud to summon me here.

There was a good deal more technical information. However, it all boiled down to the fact that the analysis showed that the dead 'vagrant' had been nucleically Engineered. He was almost a separate species from we Homo sapiens. The victim had a few genetic changes to do with more rapid physical maturation but the most worrying majority of the changes were the ones made in areas relating to brain function. In particular ones relating to creativity and empathy, memory, various savant abilities. Ones never seen in combination like this before, which seemed to be the main worry of the analysts. What a person with these abilities might be capable of. The analysis was continuing, with all the resources that could be brought to bear, but that was the summary so far. And enough to worry a great many people...

France needed to know who he was. Where he came from. Who did this? How? Why? And how could it be prevented from being done again?

The only clue so far was that the preliminary genetic analysis indicated that the corpse was of Indian descent. Not very helpful, but better than nothing, and at least start a starting place.

I was half-way through my study of the Monsieur Inconnue case file when the doors into the large open-plan office opened and a young blonde woman in a formal suit entered carrying a large document satchel. She looked around then made her way through the desks to that of Madame Mallarmé. The two women exchanged words, and Madame Mallarmé pointed in my direction. The young woman followed the indicated direction, and quickly arrived by my desk.

Monsieur de Voggeveen? she asked seriously. She was quite young, dressed in highly conservative black jacket and skirt, with a plain white collar and her hair cut very short.

I nodded.

My name is Liliane Finkielkraut, she said seriously. I am an archivist here. I was asked to assemble a summary of the current state of human Engineering for you, to brief you for your current work.

Ah, I see, I said. Yes, I was told you should be coming today. Thank you.

Human Engineering - indeed, Engineering of anything above the level of bacteria - was very much a new field for me and apparently for the CPMM as a whole as I had heard very little about it while working there. I could see why Madame Mallarmé had arranged for this package to be compiled.

Here you are then, Monsieur de Voggeveen, replied Madame Finkielkraut, holding out the bulky document case. I took it, feeling the weight of the papers within.

She pulled a folded sheet of