Year's Best Scifi 8 Part 47

My GP directed me to your research facility along I-270, saying he "thought he heard they were trying to develop a med." I went there, and samples of my blood and bodily tissues were taken. The researcher said I would hear from you if the samples were ever used for anything, but I never did. Will you please check your records to verify my partic.i.p.ation in this new medicine, and tell me what share of the profits are due me.

Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely, Jonathan J. Meese From the Desk of Robert b.a.l.l.ston Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston Corporation To: Martin Blake, Legal Re: attached letter Marty- Is he a nut? Is this a problem?

Internal Memo To: Robert b.a.l.l.ston From: Martin Blake Re: gene-line claimant Jonathan J. Meese Bob- I checked with Records in Research and yes, unfortunately this guy donated the tissue samples from which the gene line was developed that led to Halitex. Even more unfortunately, Meese's visit occurred just before we inst.i.tuted the comprehensive waiver for all donors. However, I don't think Meese has any legal ground here. Court precedents have upheld corporate right to patent genes used in drug development. Also, the guy doesn't sound very sophisticated (his dog?). He doesn't even know Kegelman's been dead for ten years. Apparently Meese has not yet employed a lawyer. I can make a small nuisance settlement if you like, but I'd rather avoid setting a corporate precedent for these people.

I'd rather send him a stiff letter that will scare the bejesus out of the greedy little twerp.

Please advise.

From the Desk of Robert b.a.l.l.ston Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston Corporation To: Martin Blake, Legal Re: J. Meese Do it.

Martin Blake, Attorney at Law Chief Legal Counsel, Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston Corporation Dear Mr. Meese:

Your letter regarding the patented Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston drug Halitex has been referred to me. Please be advised that you have no legal rights in Halitex; see attached list of case precedents. If you persist in any such claims, Kegelman- b.a.l.l.ston will consider it hara.s.sment and take appropriate steps, including possible prosecution.

Sincerely, Martin Blake Jonathan Meese 538 Pleasant Lane Aspen Hill, MD 20906 Dear Mr. Blake, But they're my genes!!! This can't be right. I'm consulting a lawyer, and you can expect to hear from hershortly.

Jonathan Meese Catherine Owen, Attorney at Law Dear Mr. Blake, I now represent Jonathan J. Meese in his concern that Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston has developed a pharmaceutical, Halitex, based on gene-therapy that uses Mr. Meese's genes as its basis. We feel it only reasonable that this drug, which will potentially earn Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston millions if not billions of dollars, acknowledge financially Mr. Meese's considerable contribution. We are therefore willing to consider a settlement and are available to discuss this with you at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely, Catherine Owen, Attorney

From the Desk of Robert b.a.l.l.ston Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston Corporation To: Martin Blake, Legal Re: J. Meese Marty- d.a.m.n it, if there's one thing that really chews my b.a.l.l.s it's this sort of undercover sabotage by the second-rate. I played golf with Sam Fortescue on Sat.u.r.day, and he opened my eyes (you remember Sam; he's at the agency we're using to benchmark our compet.i.tion). Sam speculates that this Meese b.a.s.t.a.r.d is really being used by Irwin-Lacey to set us up. You know that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Carl Irwin has had his own Ulbarton's drug in development, and he's sore as h.e.l.l because we beat him to market. Ten to one he's paying off this Meese patsy.

We can't allow it. Don't settle. Let him sue.

Internal Memo To: Robert b.a.l.l.ston From: Martin Blake Re: gene-line claimant Jonathan J. Meese Bob- I've got a better idea. We sue him, on the grounds he's walking around with our patented genetic immunity to Ulbarton's. No one except consumers of Halitex have this immunity, so Meese must have acquired it illegally, possibly on the black market. We gain several advantages with this suit: We eliminate Meese's complaint, we send a clear message to other rivals who may be attempting patent infringement, and we gain a publicity circus to both publicize Halitex (not that it needs it) and, more important, make the public aware of the dangers of black market subst.i.tutes for Halitex, such as Meese obtained. Incidentally, I checked again with Records over at Research. They have no doc.u.mentation on any visit from a Jonathan J. Meese on any date whatsoever.

From the Desk of Robert b.a.l.l.ston Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston Corporation To: Martin Blake, Legal Re: J. Meese Marty- Brilliant! Do it. Can we get a sympathetic judge? One who understands business? Maybe O'Connor can help.

The New York Times HALITEX BLACK MARKET.

CASE TO BEGIN TODAY.

This morning the circuit court of Manhattan County is scheduled to begin hearing the case of Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston v. Meese. This case, heavily publicized during recent months, is expected to set important precedents in the controversial areas of gene patents and patent infringement of biological properties. Protesters from the group FOR US: CANCEL KIDNAPPED-GENE PATENTS, which is often referred to by its initials, have been in place on the court steps since last night. The case is being heard by Judge Latham P. Farmingham III, a Republican who is widely perceived as sympathetic to the concerns of big business.

This case began when Jonathan J. Meese, an accountant with The Pet Supply Catalog Store....

Catherine Owen, Attorney at Law Dear Mr. Blake, Just a reminder that Jon Meese and I are still open to a settlement.

Sincerely,

Martin Blake, Attorney at Law, Chief Legal Counsel, Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston Corporation Martin Blake, Attorney at Law Chief Legal Counsel, Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston Corporation Cathy- Don't they teach you at that law school you went to (I never can remember the name) that you don't settle when you're sure to win?

You're a nice girl; better luck next time.

The New York TimesMEESE CONVICTED PLAINTIFF GUILTY OF "HARBORING" DISEASE-FIGHTING.

GENES WITHOUT COMPENSATING DEVELOPER.

KEGELMAN-b.a.l.l.sTON.

From the Desk of Robert b.a.l.l.ston Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston Corporation To: Martin Blake, Legal Re: Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston v Meese Marty- I always said you were a genius! My G.o.d, the free publicity we got out of this thing, not to mention the future edge.... How about a victory celebration this weekend? Are you and Elaine free to fly to Aruba on the Lear, Friday night?

The New York Times BLUE GENES FOR DRUG THIEF.

JONATHAN J. MEESE SENTENCED TO SIX MONTHS FOR PATENT INFRINGEMENT.

From the Desk of Robert b.a.l.l.ston Kegelman-b.a.l.l.ston Corporation To: Martin Blake, Legal Re: Halitex

Marty! I just had a brilliant idea I want to run by you. We got Meese, but now that he's at Ossining the publicity has died down. Well, my daughter read this squib the other day in some science magazine, how the Ulbarton's virus has in it some of the genes that Research combined with Meese's to create Halitex. I didn't understand all the egghead science, but apparently Halitex used some of the flu genes to build its immune properties. And we own the patent on Halitex. As I see it, that means that Dr. Ulbarton was working with OUR genes when he identified Ulbarton's flu and published his work. Now, if we could go after Ulbarton in court, the publicity would be tremendous, as well as strengthening our proprietors.h.i.+p position....

Lost Sorceress of the Silent Citadel

MICHAEL MOORc.o.c.k.

Michael Moorc.o.c.k (www.multiverse.org/ and www.eclipse. co.uk/sweetdespise/moorc.o.c.k/) lives in Bastrop, Texas. Once the firebrand editor of New Worlds, and the polemicist behind the British New Wave of the 1960s, and still one of the great living SF and fantasy writers, Moorc.o.c.k is known more for his avant-garde work, and his support of other writers pus.h.i.+ng the boundaries of genre, than for his genre work. He is now a recognized literary figure in the UK, a significant contemporary writer. Nevertheless, he has deep roots in genre fiction, and his love for certain genre works and writers (for instance Leigh Brackett, Charles Harness, and Alfred Bester) is long-term and enduring.

"Lost Sorceress of the Silent Citadel" is another story from Mars Probes. It is an exercise innostalgia, a swash- buckling planetary romance that brings back Mars as an exciting setting for SF adventure for an audience that knows better but is still willing to indulge in it. It is primarily an homage to Leigh Brackett, but also to her honorable tradition, which now (we say with some regret) prospers more in the media than in the SF literature-though not entirely: see the Neal Asher story earlier in this book. Moorc.o.c.k succeeds both because of his sincere feelings for Brackett's achievements and because of his sheer talent and experience at writing fantasy and science fiction adventure.

(Homage to Leigh Brackett)

They came upon the Earthling naked, somewhere in the s.h.i.+fting Desert when Mars' harsh sunlight beat through thinning atmosphere and the sand was raw gla.s.s cutting into bare feet. His skin hung like filthy rags from his b.l.o.o.d.y flesh. He was starved, unshaven, making noises like an animal. He was raving-empty of ident.i.ty and will. What had the ghosts of those ancient Martians done to him? Had they traveled through time and s.p.a.ce to take a foul and unlikely vengeance? A novella of alien mysteries-of a G.o.ddess who craved life-who l.u.s.ted for the only man who had ever dared disobey her. A tale of Captain John MacShard, the Half-Martian, of old blood and older memories, of a restless quest for the prize of forgotten centuries....

CHAPTER ONE.

Whispers of an Ancient Memory

"That's Captain John MacShard, the tomb-thief." Schomberg leaned his capacious belly on the bar, wiping around it with a filthy rag. "They say his mother was a Martian princess turned wh.o.r.e, and his father-"

Low City's best-known antiquities fence, proprietor of the seedy Twenty Capstans, Schomberg murmured wetly through lips like fresh liver. "Well, Mercury was the only world would take them. Them and their filthy egg." He flicked a look toward the door and became suddenly grave.

Outlined against the glare of the Martian noon a man appeared to hesitate and go on down the street.

Then he turned and pushed through the entrance's weak energy gate. Then he paused again.

He was a big, hard-muscled man, dressed in spare ocher and brown, with a queer, ancient weapon, all baroque unstable plastics and metals, prominent on his hip.

The Banning gun was immediately recognized and its owner identified by the hardened s.p.a.cers and krik traders who used the place.

They said only four men in the solar system could ever handle that weapon. One was the legendary Northwest Smith; the second was Eric John Stark, now far off-system. The third was Dumarest of Terra, and the fourth was Captain John MacShard. Anyone else trying to fire a Banning died unpleasantly.

Sometimes they just disappeared, as if every part of them had been sucked into the gun's impossible energy cells. They said Smith had given his soul for a Banning. But MacShard's soul was still apparent, behind that steady gray gaze, hungering for something like oblivion.

From long habit Captain John MacShard remained in the doorway until his sight had fully adjusted to the sputtering naphtha. His eyes glowed with a permanent feral fire. He was a lean-faced, slim-hipped wolf's head whom no man could ever tame. Through all the alien and mysterious spheres of interplanetary s.p.a.ce, many had tried to take the wild beast out of Captain John MacShard. He remained as fierce and free as in the days when, as a boy, he had scrabbled for survival over the unforgiving waste of rocky crags and slag slopes that was Mercury and from the disparate blood of two planets had built a body which could withstand the cruel climate of a third.

Captain John MacShard was in Schomberg's for a reason. He never did anything without a reason.He couldn't go to sleep until he had first considered the action. It was what he had learned on Mercury, orphaned, surviving in those terrible caverns, fighting fiercely for subsistence where nothing would grow and where you and the half- human tribe which had adopted you were the tastiest prey on the planet.

More than any Earthman, he had learned the old ways, the sweet, dangerous, old ways of the ancient Martians. Their descendants still haunted the worn and whispering hills which were the remains of Mars'

great mountain ranges in the ages of her might, when the Sea Kings ruled a planet as blue as turquoise, as glittering red as rubies, and as green as that Emerald Isle which had produced Captain John Mac- Shard's own Earth ancestors, as tough, as mystical and as filled with wanderl.u.s.t as this stepson of the shrieking Mercurian wastelands, with the blood of Brian Borhu, Henry Tudor, and Charles Edward Stuart in his veins. Too, the blood of Martian Sea Kings called to him across the centuries and informed him with the deep wisdom of his Martian forebears. That long-dead kin had fought against the Danes and the Anglo-Saxons, been cavaliers in the Stuart cause and marshals in Napoleon's army. They had fought for and against the standard of Rhiannon, in both male and female guise, survived blasting sorcery and led the starving armies of Barrakesh into the final battle of the Martian pole. Their stories, their courage and their mad fearlessness in the face of inevitable death were legendary.

Captain John MacShard had known nothing of this ancestry of course and there were still many unsolved mysteries in his past, but he had little interest in them. He had the instincts of any intelligent wild animal, and left the past in the past. A catlike curiosity was what drove him and it made him the best archaeological hunter on five planets-some, like Schomberg, called him a grave-looter, though never to his face. There was scarcely a museum in the inhabited universe which didn't proudly display a find of Captain John MacShard's. They said some of the races which had made those artifacts had not been entirely extinct until the captain found them. There wasn't a living enemy who didn't fear him. And there wasn't a woman in the system who had known him that didn't remember him.

To call Captain John MacShard a loner was something of a tautology. Captain John MacShard was loneliness personified. He was like a spur of rock in the deep desert, resisting everything man and nature could send against it. He was endurance. He was integrity, and he was grit through and through. Only one who had tested himself against the entire fury of alien Mercury and survived could know what it meant to be MacShard, trusting only MacShard.

Captain John MacShard was very sparing in his affections but gave less to himself than he gave to an alley-brint, a wounded ray-rat, or the scrawny street kid begging in the hard sour Martian sun to whom he finally tossed a piece of old silver before striding into the bar and taking his usual, which Schomberg had ready for him.

The Dutchman began to babble something, but Captain John MacShard placed his lips to the shot gla.s.s of Vortex Water, turned his back on him, and surveyed his company.

His company was pretending they hadn't seen him come in.

From a top pocket MacShard fished a twisted pencil of Venusian talk-talk wood and stuck it between his teeth, chewing on it thoughtfully. Eventually his steady gaze fell on a fat merchant in a fancy fake skow-skin jerkin and vivid blue tights who pretended an interest in his fancifully carved flagon.

"Your name Morricone?" Captain John MacShard's voice was a whisper, cutting through the rhythmic sound of men who couldn't help taking in sudden air and running tongues around drying mouths.

His thin lips opened wide enough for the others to see a glint of bright, pointed teeth before they shut tight again.

Morricone nodded. He made a halfhearted attempt to smile. He put his hands on either side of his cards and made funny shrugging movements.

From somewhere, softly, a shtrang string sounded.

"You wanted to see me," said Captain John MacShard. And he jerked his head toward a corner where a filthy table was suddenly unoccupied.

The man called Morricone scuttled obediently toward the table and sat down, watching Captain John MacShard as he picked up his bottle and gla.s.s and walked slowly, his antique ghat-scale leggings c.h.i.n.king faintly. Again the shtrang string began to sound, its deep note making peculiar harmonies in the thin Martian air. There was a cry like a human voice which echoed into nowhere, and when it was gone the silence was even more profound.

"You wanted to see me?" Captain John MacShard moved the unlit stogie from one side of his mouth to the other. His gray, jade-flecked eyes bore into Morricone's s.h.i.+fting black pupils. The fat merchant was obviously hyped on some kind of Low City "head chowder."

There wasn't a drug you couldn't buy at Schomberg's where everything was for sale, including Schomberg.