"Paul J. McAuley - Gene Wars" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mcauley Paul J)

His goggles flashed icons over the view, tracking the target. Two villages a klick apart, linked by a red
dirt road narrow as a capillary that suddenly widened to an artery as the helicopter dove.

Flashes on the ground: Evan hoped the peasants only had Kalashnikovs: last week some gook had
downed a copter with an antiquated SAM. Then he was too busy laying the pattern, virus-suspension in
a sticky spray that fogged the maize fields.

Afterwards, the pilot, an old-timer, said over the intercom, “Things get tougher every day. We used just
to take a leaf, cloning did the rest. You couldn't even call it theft. And this stuff ... I always thought war
was bad for business.”

Evan said, “The company owns copyright to the maize genome. Those peasants aren't licensed to grow
it.”

The pilot said admiringly, “Man, you're a real company guy. I bet you don't even know what country this
is.”

Evan thought about that. He said, “Since when were countries important?”

***

5

Rice fields spread across the floodplain, dense as a handstitched quilt. In every paddy, peasants bent
over their own reflections, planting seedlings for the winter crop.

In the centre of the UNESCO delegation, the Minister for Agriculture stood under a black umbrella held
by an aide. He was explaining that his country was starving to death after a record rice crop.

Evan was at the back of the little crowd, bareheaded in warm drizzle. He wore a smart onepiece suit,
yellow overshoes. He was twenty-eight, had spent two years infiltrating UNESCO for his company.

The minister was saying, “We have to buy seed genespliced for pesticide resistance to compete with our
neighbours, but my people can't afford to buy the rice they grow. It must all be exported to service our
debt. Our children are starving in the midst of plenty.”

Evan stifled a yawn. Later, at a reception in some crumbling embassy, he managed to get the minister on
his own. The man was drunk, unaccustomed to hard liquor. Evan told him he was very moved by what
he had seen.

“Look in our cities,” the minister said, slurring his words. “Every day a thousand more refugees pour in
from the countryside. There is kwashiorkor, beri-beri.”

Evan popped a canape into his mouth. One of his company's new lines, it squirmed with delicious
lasciviousness before he swallowed it. “I may be able to help you,” he said. “The people I represent have
a new yeast that completely fulfills dietary requirements and will grow on a simple medium.”

“How simple?” As Evan explained, the minister, no longer as drunk as he had seemed, steered him onto
the terrace. The minister said, “You understand this must be confidential. Under UNESCO rules...”