Read Nebula Awards Showcase 2006 for Free Online Page B

well, biotech . They’ve got companies creating cheap generic pharmaceuticals that evade Western patents. . . .” Her look darkened. “Not that I’ve got a problem with that, not when I’ve seen thousands dying of diseases they couldn’t afford to cure. And they’ve also got other companies who are ripping off Western genetic research to develop their own products. And as long as they make their payoffs to the elite, these companies remain completely unregulated. Nobody, not even the government, knows what they’re doing in those factories, and the government gives them security free of charge.”
    Terzian imagined gene-splicing going on in a rusting Soviet factory, rows and rows of mutant plants with untested, unregulated genetics, all set to be released on an unsuspecting world. Transgenic elements drifting down the Dniester to the Black Sea, growing quietly in its saline environment . . .
    “The news,” Stephanie reminded, and pointed at the television.
    Terzian reached for the control and hit the mute button, just as the throbbing, anxious music that announced the news began to fade.
    The murder on the Ile de la Cité was the second item on the broadcast. The victim was described as a “foreign national” who had been fatally stabbed, and no arrests had been made. The motive for the killing was unknown.
    Terzian changed the channel in time to catch the same item on another channel. The story was unchanged.
    “I told you,” Stephanie said. “No suspects. No motive.”
    “You could tell them.”
    She made a negative motion with her cigarette. “I couldn’t tell them who did it, or how to find them. All I could do is put myself under suspicion.”
    Terzian turned off the TV. “So what happened exactly? Your friend stole from these people?”
    Stephanie swiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. “He stole something that was of no value to them. It’s only valuable to poor people, who can’t afford to pay. And—” She turned to the window and spun her cigarette into the street below. “I’ll take it out of here as soon as I can,” she said. “I’ve got to try to contact some people.” She closed the window, shutting out the spring breeze. “I wish I had my passport. That would change everything.”
    I saw a murder this afternoon, Terzian thought. He closed his eyes and saw the man falling, the white face so completely absorbed in the reality of its own agony.
    He was so fucking sick of death.
    He opened his eyes. “I can get your passport back,” he said.

    Anger kept him moving until he saw the killers, across the street from Stephanie’s hotel, sitting at an outdoor table in a café-bar. Terzian recognized them immediately—he didn’t need to look at the heavy shoes, or the broad faces with their disciplined military mustaches—one glance at the crowd at the café showed the only two in the place who weren’t French. That was probably how Stephanie knew to speak to him in English, he just didn’t dress or carry himself like a Frenchman, for all that he’d worn an anonymous coat and tie. He tore his gaze away before they saw him gaping at them.
    Anger turned very suddenly to fear, and as he continued his stride toward the hotel he told himself that they wouldn’t recognize him from the Norman restaurant, that he’d changed into blue jeans and sneakers and a windbreaker, and carried a soft-sided suitcase. Still he felt a gunsight on the back of his neck, and he was so nervous that he nearly ran headfirst into the glass lobby door.
    Terzian paid for a room with his credit card, took the key from the Vietnamese clerk, and walked up the narrow stair to what the French called the second floor, but what he would have called the third. No one lurked in the stairwell, and he wondered where the third assassin had gone. Looking for Stephanie somewhere else, probably, an airport or train station.
    In his room Terzian put his suitcase on the bed—it held only a few token items, plus his