Distraction - Bruce Sterling [13]
“You get used to it.” Their guide shrugged. “You get used to the people who live in here, and even the cafeteria food.… The Collaboratory gets to be home, if you stay in here long enough.” Their guide scratched at his furry jaw. “Except for East Texas, outside the airlocks there. A lot of people never get used to East Texas.”
“We really appreciate your demo-ing the local livestock for us,” said Pelicanos. “It was good of you to spare us the time from your busy research schedule.”
The zoologist reached eagerly for his belt phone. “You want me to call back your little minder from Public Relations?”
“No,” said Oscar suavely, “since she was kind enough to pass us on to you, I think we’ll just make our own way around here from now on.”
The scientist brandished his antique and clunky federal-issue phone, which was covered with smudgy green thumbprints. “Do you need a lift to Spinoffs? I could call you a buggy.”
“We’ll stretch our legs a bit,” Pelicanos demurred.
“You’ve been very helpful, Dr. Parkash.” Oscar never forgot a name. There was no particular reason to remember the name of Dr. Averill Parkash, among the BNC’s two thousand federal researchers and their many assorted gofers, hucksters, krewepeople, and other associated hangers-on. Oscar knew, though, that he would soon accumulate the names, the faces, and the dossiers of no end of the local personnel. It was worse than a habit. He truly couldn’t help himself.
Their guide sidled backward toward the Animal Management Center, clearly eager to return to his cramped and spotty little office. Oscar waved a dismissal with a cheery smile.
Parkash tried a final yelp. “There’s a pretty good wine bar nearby! Across the road from Flux NMR and Instrumentation!”
“That’s great advice! We appreciate that! Thanks a lot!” Oscar turned on his heel and headed for a nearby wall of trees. Pelicanos quickly followed him.
Soon they were safely lost in the tall cover. Oscar and Pelicanos made their way along a crooked, squelchy, peatmoss path through a cut-and-paste jungle. The Collaboratory boasted huge botanical gardens—whole minor forests, really—of rare specimens. The threatened. The endangered. The all-but-technically extinct. Wildlife native to habitats long obliterated by climate change, rising seas, bulldozers, and the urban sprawl of 8.1 billion human beings.
The plants and animals were all clones. Deep in the bedrocked stronghold of the Collaboratory’s National Genome Preservation Center lurked tens of thousands of genetic samples, garnered from around the planet. The precious DNA was neatly racked in gleaming flasks of liquid nitrogen, secured in a bureaucratic maze of endless machine-carved limestone vaults.
It was considered wise to thaw out a few bits from the tissue samples every once in a while, and to use these bits to produce full-grown organisms. This practice established that the genetic data was still viable. Generally, the resultant living creatures were also nicely photogenic. The clones were a useful public relations asset. Now that biotechnology had left the hermetic realm of the arcane to become standard everyday industries, the Collaboratory’s makeshift zoo was its best political showpiece.
The monster underground vaults were always first on the list for the victims of local tourism, but Oscar had found their Kafkaesque density oppressive. However, he found himself quite enjoying the local jungle. Genuine wilderness generally bored him, but there was something very modern and appealing