The Caryatids - Bruce Sterling [27]
Montalban removed his fancy spex and framed them against the faint light overhead. He removed an imaginary fleck of dust with a writhing square of yellow fabric. “Her body flora,” he remarked.
“Yes?” said Radic.
“Are her body flora still viable? Do you think they might grow?”
“There’s no further decay within this specimen,” said Radic.
“I don’t mean the decay organisms. I mean the natural microbes that once lived inside her while she was still alive. Those microbes have commercial value. This woman is medieval, so she never used antibiotics. There’s a big vogue in California for all-natural probiotic body flora.”
Vera found herself blurting the unspeakable. “Do you mean the germs inside the corpse?”
Montalban pursed his lips. “ ‘Germs inside the corpse.’ That’s not the proper terminology.”
“You want to sell the germs inside this corpse?”
“This is a public-health issue! It’s more than just a market opportunity!”
“He’s right, you know,” Radic piped up. “Archaeo-microbiology is a rapidly expanding field.”
“At UC Berkeley,” said Montalban, donning his spex again, “they call their new department ‘Archaeo-Microbial Human Ecology.’ ”
“Very apt.” Radic nodded.
“A whole lot of hot start-up labs around UC Berkeley now. Venture money just pouring in.”
“Oh, yes, yes, it was ever thus in California,” said Radic.
“Microbe work is huge in China, too. The Jiuquan center, reviving the Gobi Desert … Microbes are the keystone of sustainable ecology.”
“I don’t understand this,” said Vera.
Radic shrugged. “That’s because you’re Acquis!”
The old man’s tactless remark hung in the damp air. It died and began to stink.
“I would never dismiss the microbe technology of the Acquis,” said Montalban, demonstrating a tender concern. “Acquis medical troops lead the world at public sanitation.”
Vera felt her blood begin to simmer.
Despite his lack of accurate neural information about her emotions, Montalban sensed her discontent. “The skill sets differ within the global civil societies. We should expect that: that’s a source of valuable trade.”
“So, what do you call this business? ‘Frankenstein genetic graverobbing’?”
Montalban contemplated this insult. He twirled the earpiece of his spex gently between his fingers. “I suggest that we break for lunch now. I’m sure Little Miss Mary Montalban is hungry.” Montalban carefully placed his spex inside his flowered shirt.
“Don’t you want to use your fancy spex to scan the corpse here?” said Vera.
“Yes, I do. Still, it might be wiser if we ate first.”
“You make quite a fuss about your scanning capabilities.”
Montalban lifted one suntanned hand and plucked at his lower lip. “No, I don’t ‘make fusses,’ Vera. I’m a facilitator.”
“How could you eat? How could you eat today, now, after staring at this rotten woman and her rotten flesh? And then planning to sell it? How can you do that?”
Now even Radic knew that somebody had put a foot wrong. “Please don’t get angry at our foreign guest, dear Vera, my domorodac! After all, this is your heritage!”
“Are you always like this, John? You invent all kinds of lies, and big fake words, to cover up what you do in secret?”
Montalban was suddenly and deeply wounded. A flush ran up his neck. His face was turning both red and white at the same time, like a freshly sliced turnip.
Vera realized, with a giddy intuition, that yes, John Montalban was always like this. She wasn’t the first woman to tell him that about himself. Because he was married to Radmila.
Vera had touched him on some sore spot that Radmila had lacerated.
Montalban had never yet breathed a word about Radmila, yet Vera could almost smell Radmila now. Radmila was very near to them. It was as if Radmila were lying there in the coffin somehow. Disgustingly undead.
That black intuition—so true, and so immediate—panicked Vera. She felt a strong urge to strike Montalban, to hit him right across his handsome face.
Dr. Radic looked from her, to Montalban, and back again. The old man was completely bewildered