No Amber Waves of Grain

By Steven M. Moore

Why is Kalinin showing a good side? Why would the clones or the mutant even agree to help him? And how does crop genetics factor into the complex equation?

The clones and mutants make this a sci-fi novel. The plot and action make it a thriller. But the last questions give it the aura of a mystery. Hop on the rider's roller coaster for a thrilling ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven M. Moore
• Release date: Jan 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781927114773

Steven M. Moore

If you’re reading this, thank you. Not many people find me...or recognize me as an author of many genre fiction novels. Maybe it’s because my name is too common—I thought once about using a pen name...and probably should have. Maybe it’s because I don’t get many reviews. (It's not hard to write one once you've read one of my books: just say what you like and dislike in a few lines, and why.) I know you have many good books and good authors to choose from, so I’m honored and humbled that you are considering or have read some of mine.You’re here on Smashwords because you love to read. Me too. Okay, maybe you’re here to give someone the gift of an entertaining book—that’s fine too. I love to tell stories, so either way, you’ll be purchasing some exciting fiction, each book unique and full of action and interesting characters, scenes, and themes. Some are national, others international, and some are mixed; some are in the mystery/suspense/thriller category, others sci-fi, and some are mixed-genre. There are new ones and there are evergreen ones, books that are as fresh and current as the day I wrote them. (You should always peruse an author's entire oeuvre. I find many interesting books to read that way.)I started telling stories at an early age, making my own comic books before I started school and writing my first novel the summer I turned thirteen—little of those early efforts remain (did I hear a collective sigh of relief?). I collected what-ifs and plots, character descriptions, possible settings, and snippets of dialogue for years while living in Colombia and different parts of the U.S. (I was born in California and eventually settled on the East Coast after that sojourn in South America). I also saw a bit of the world and experienced other cultures at scientific events and conferences and with travel in general, always mindful of what should be important to every fiction writer—the human condition. Fiction can’t come alive—not even sci-fi—without people (they might be ET people in the case of sci-fi, of course).I started publishing what I'd written in 2006—short stories, novellas, and novels—we’d become empty-nesters and I was still in my old day-job at the time. Now I’m a full-time writer. My wife and I moved from Boston to the NYC area a while back, so both cities can be found in some novels, along with many others in the U.S. and abroad.You can find more information about me at my website: https://stevenmmoore.com. I’m also on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorStevenMMoore; and Twitter @StevenMMoore4.I give away my short fiction; so does my collaborator A. B. Carolan who writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. See my blog categories "Steve's Shorts," "ABC Shorts," and the list of free PDF downloads on my web page "Free Stuff & Contests" at my website (that list includes my free course "Writing Fiction" that will be of interest mainly to writers).I don't give away my novels. All my ebooks are reasonably priced and can be found here at Smashwords, including those I've published with Black Opal Books (The Last Humans) and Penmore Press (Rembrandt's Angel and Son of Thunder). I don't control either prices or sales on those books, so you can thank those traditional publishers for also providing quality entertainment for a reasonable price. That's why you won't find many sales of my books either. They're now reserved for my email newsletter subscribers. (If you want to subscribe, query me using [e-mail].)My mantra has always been the following: If I can entertain at least one reader with each story, that story is a success. But maybe I can do better than that? After all, you found me!Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Book preview

The Secret Lab (young adult novel)

The Midas Bomb

Angels Need Not Apply

Pop Two Antacids and Have Some Java (anthology)

Teeter-Totter between Lust and Murder

The Golden Years of Virginia Morgan

Full Medical

Evil Agenda

Soldiers of God

Survivors of the Chaos

Sing a Samba Galactica

Come Dance a Cumbia…with Stars in Your Hand!

Pasodobles in a Quantum Stringscape

Acclaim for some of Steve Moore’s other novels:

The Golden Years of Virginia Morgan:

Let me begin this review by saying that I really enjoy dystopic fiction. 1984, Fahrenheit 451, and the like are all favorites of mine. Without giving too much away, this book contains several elements of near-future dystopic fiction with a plotline that involves a conspiracy that is obviously science fiction, but is still just plausible enough to make you think.

This book is a page-turner that keeps you guessing until the end. Late in the story, a bombshell is dropped that will make you gasp if you've read the Chen and Castilblanco books. Even if you haven't, there's plenty of suspense and thrills to go around. Ashley Scott, despite her age, is a strong leading lady who you'll almost certainly develop an admiration for by the end of the book. —Serenity Carson, reader

Full Medical:

Moore has a solid grasp of the science behind his future, and it makes this book all the more frightening and believable. It's a cautionary tale, one that hopefully is not too late to take heed of. I strongly recommend this book. I immediately purchased the other book in his Clones and Mutants series. I hope it's close to being as good as this one was; if it is, I will be very satisfied. —S. D. Beallis, reader

Survivors of the Chaos:

Steve masterfully weaves layer upon layer of what appear—at first—to be disassociated people, until he immerses you with an uneasy feeling that his tapestry will unfold into a frightening picture of a universe struggling to virtually become one with machines. It does. Along the fear-provoking voyage, three hesitant heroes ascend beyond the madness. A mild Midwesterner becomes a vigilante, an astrophysicist struggles to save alien artifacts, and a mob enforcer finds a new life aboard a starship. The events of this novel launch you through a disquieted galaxy peppered with a roster of characters that would make a casting director envious, highly detailed space scenes, and an inspiring plot that will keep you on the edge of your seat. —David W. Menefee, Pulitzer-nominated author and reviewer for Book Pleasures

One

Busan, Korea

Paul Sonderman rubbed his eyes, scratched his head, and stared at his computer screen. What’s all this from Helmut Gottlieb? He slapped his cheeks to make sure he was awake. Although big workstations warmed the computer room to an uncomfortable level, a shiver now went through him—he feared he had painted himself into a tight corner. Holy shit!

With T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, he still looked like he might be in high school, maybe hoping he’d pass his upcoming driver’s test. His shirt sported the bust of a pop singer in blood red; the rest of the shirt was black. He leaned back and considered his options.

His straw-blond hair was in a buzz-cut because he liked to swim. His blue eyes often twinkled with mischief as if life was some cosmic joke where only he knew the punch line. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body although he knew how to enjoy food and drink, especially when the company was good.

As a child, he was precocious. He joined Mensa just for giggles at seven, graduated from UC Berkeley at fourteen, and received his PhD from Stanford three years later. The wunderkind attracted women, although some fled when they discovered he was a prodigy. After his degree, he took six months off to hike through the western U.S., but decided he needed to find a job. He had concluded he was tired of living like a graduate student.

He was now nearing the age when the famous French mathematician Évariste Galois had died in a duel. Is it my time? He was not the mathematical genius Galois had been, but he could hold his own. He needed to—his research, heavy on gene selection and prediction of enzyme activation times, used mathematical models many in his own field would not be comfortable with.

Kang-Dae Enterprises, holding company of Korean entrepreneur Park Kang-Dae, had hired him. They looked past his jeans-and-T-shirt personality, giving him free rein to work on their projects. Up to a point. Gottlieb, the Chief Scientist, had wasted no time putting him on several classified projects. Until now, Sonderman hadn’t understood all the need for secrecy because he worked without possessing the big picture.

As the American continued to read files the German had somehow failed to include in a classified directory, it seemed he didn’t have many options. Do I have the courage to be a whistle-blower? The fact that much of his own work had morphed into something so terrible amplified his horror. I’ll go down in history as another Dr. Moreau. But my sins are worse than his are.

He cursed Gottlieb for his slipup. If only I didn’t know! Now he was compelled to do something. But what?

***

Gottlieb called him to his office two days later. Park was with him. The old and wiry but muscular Korean with his scowl and penetrating gaze was in better shape than the fat German, whose eyes peered out from a fleshy mask complete with double chin, jowls, and assorted wrinkles and folds of fat. A heart attack waiting to happen, thought Sonderman, trying to read the scientist’s expression—he thought he could handle Park, who was not a scientist.

Sonderman hadn’t seen either one that much since joining K-D Enterprises. They had unpleasant personalities. He didn’t socialize with such persons. Park had a reputation for being smart and shrewd; Gottlieb’s was smart and lazy. They were not smiling. A definite chill in the room.

Have a seat, Dr. Sonderman, said the Korean. Although the voice was nearly a whisper, it was commanding. Sonderman knew the old man was in charge of his inquisition.

He took a chair, trying to look at ease, but he figured flop sweat on his lip and sweat stains in his armpits gave him away. Gottlieb and he were sweating in spite of the chill. Proximity to the Devil? I don’t smell any sulfur, only the German’s deodorant failing. Sonderman guessed Gottlieb’s slipup was going to be one of the topics discussed, but he wondered what was in store for him.

I’ve confessed my little error to Mr. Park, Gottlieb began. IT security on the nightshift picked up on it. It was careless of me, although it might turn out to be harmless. Park nodded, his eyes never leaving Sonderman’s face. He’s trying to read my mind! Mr. Park’s graciously written it off as being the mistake of a forgetful old scientist. These days it’s hard to keep up with young geniuses like you, although part of my job is to do so. Sonderman didn’t believe for one minute Gottlieb was repentant—his internal ego would crush such feelings, if publicly expressed. We very much admire your work, by the way.

I might perform better if you provided the big picture, said Sonderman. Prepare for an attack with a parry? He now figured Gottlieb was going to attack him as a way to minimize his own goof. He smiled at them. Maybe not the wisest thing to do, but what the hell? He had no other plan.

He was a young man who never underestimated senior personnel. Unlike some, he appreciated the fact they were survivors. They were at their place in life because of astuteness and, in the case of these two, ruthlessness. They had the advantage of experience. But maybe my advantage in wit trumps that?

Your genius didn’t need the big picture, said Park, but now you have it, thanks to Dr. Gottlieb’s regrettable error. Well, you have most of it. What do you think?

Sonderman shrugged, keeping up his act of brilliant boy scientist lost in his work. I live here now. What do I care what you do with my ideas? They’re so futuristic that I’ll never see consequences in my lifetime. Who are our real employers? The E.U.? Pentagon? He saw stony faces. Like I said, what do I care? We’re virtual actors in a hypothetical play before a hypothetical audience. I only want what’s due me if there’s some juicy defense contract involved. I’m tired of living like a graduate student. I told HR that when I interviewed here. I’m talking bonus, gentlemen. They probably understand young ambition and greed. Let them think I’m as corrupt as they are.

That eases our fears, said Park, glancing at Gottlieb, who looked surprised at the way the conversation was going. But the German recovered, nodded, and smiled. Park turned back to Sonderman. For now, let’s say we have rich clients and they’re interested in delivery of your hypotheticals. Would you like to be more involved? That would lead to a raise and bonuses, I’m sure.

***

Sonderman coasted for two more months, making essential contributions to research programs and waiting for a chance to blow the whistle. The evil inherent in their research gnawed at him, though. He slept badly. His appetite was gone. On some dates where he managed to hop into bed with a Korean girl, his usual energetic performance became lackluster. They never complained because lackluster still left them sated. But he knew, and that was enough.

In the end, he became so antsy he took a chance, sending an email to a group of people. One addressee shouldn’t have received it, although the mistake was intentional. He hoped Gottlieb wouldn’t notice and she would read into it what he intended. Is it enough? How can I do any more without being caught? He drank half a bottle of bourbon that night and finally slept, but his dreams were filled with imaginary scenes of what he expected would happen if Park was not stopped.

A day after the email, a man appeared at his apartment door. He flashed a badge, but Sonderman knew the face and reputation—he was Mihas Romanov, K-D Enterprises’ head of security.

He was an ugly thug. His brow was wrinkled so much that with the Marine buzz-cut, shorter than Sonderman’s, he looked like a Klingon dressed in an expensive, hand-tailored business suit. Rumor had it that the man was a psychopathic killer.

Can we talk, Dr. Sonderman? A high-pitched but throaty voice reminded Sonderman of fingernails on an old-style blackboard—there were still some at Stanford.

He nodded and opened the door wide to let the man in. Disarm the Devil’s henchman by embracing him? He closed the door behind him.

Coffee? said the researcher.

Romanov smiled. I’m not here for a social visit. There is a problem with an email you sent recently. Sonderman wanted to ignore the piece of paper the man placed on the coffee table. But he picked it up and pretended to study it. Who is Sonya Walton?

Sonderman put on a good show. Sonya? How do you know about Sonya?

Fifth name from the last. Who is she?

He pretended to see the name for the first time and shrugged. We dated when I was at Stanford. We were close for a while. I guess I was thinking about her that night. My subconscious must have played a trick on me. I’m sorry. She doesn’t speak Korean, so there’s no problem, right?

We’ll have to explore that, said Romanov. He pulled a gun from a shoulder holster hidden beneath his sports coat and aimed it at Sonderman. Let me assure you this is nothing personal.

The shot entered Sonderman’s forehead and exited through the back of his head. The gas-propelled and uranium-tipped bullet did maximal damage. His last thought was that he had outlived Galois by only six months.

Two

Beaune, France

Dr. Sonya, here’s the new data.

Sonya Walton looked up from her microscope at Denise Brazier, her intern. She took the computer printout and glanced over it. A quick look was enough to tell her the new plants were thriving.

She knew she looked terrible. She had a bad night, becoming wide-awake, reaching for Sonderman, and realizing he was not there. Their relationship had ended badly. She accused him of only thinking about science and sex. He accused her of trapping him, forcing him into a commitment he wasn’t ready for. But I still miss him.

A perceptive male would ignore her disheveled hair and bags under the eyes and see her underlying film star or model’s body. For that reason, she had struggled all her life to be admired for her brains and creativity, not her body.

Paul Sonderman was one of the few men that did. He put scientific prowess on the same level as sex. They had worked well together, compatible in both. Now they were continents apart. Because their relationship had ended so badly, he never called or wrote. As much my fault as his.

Her work in France was challenging. As early as 2007, scientists had published a draft genome sequence for Pinot Noir grapes and identified genes related to disease resistance. Now, years later, research continued on improving disease resistance without disturbing the complicated biochemistry of taste and grape quality.

The work went slowly. Two problems are that breeding of vines is difficult because they take several years to grow to maturity, and domesticated grapes tend to have very low fertility. For this reason, grapes are usually propagated by cuttings or grafting, filling vineyards with thousands of genetically identical clones, making vineyards susceptible to the emergence of aggressive microorganisms. The worst case was the phylloxera blight in the 19th century when grafts onto Californian blight-resistant rootstock saved the French wine industry.

Their own little experimental vineyard, financed by a consortium of Côte d’Or vintners, had been her life for the last four years, ever since she had graduated from Stanford and finished her post-doctoral research in genetics crop engineering. Her thesis and post-doctoral research was on disease prevention in cereal grasses. Her parents owned a small vineyard in California’s Sonoma Valley, so when she saw the ad for a position in France’s famous wine-growing district, she leapt at the chance to broaden her horizons and polish her French. The small research station leapt at the chance to hire a Stanford graduate. With three other scientists, all senior to her, two interns, and other staff, they struggled to improve Pinot Noir grape stock. It was a lean and mean operation, but she enjoyed every minute of her work.

She soon learned French vintners gave only a wink and nod at new methods. The consortium hedged their bets by financing her group’s research, but that was all. Because the French government subsidized the funding, they might as well be government employees. That meant they had to contend with bureaucrats from Paris in addition to vintners.

I’ll take a closer look at this data tonight, said Walton. Where’s René? He needs to brief me on what he’s doing.

René was another intern. We were going to get together with some friends, said Denise.

Walton nodded. Tomorrow, then. Give a cursory cleanup to the other labs and secure them. There are too many curious kids in the area. I love the little ruffians, but they’ll nose around everywhere if we let them. She was talking about the local children, many of them belonging to growers or people who worked for them. Village children, more citified and slaves to their electronic gizmos, were rarely seen unless one went to the village.

Why don’t you come with us? You need a break.

Walton shrugged. OK, maybe for a bit. I’ll drive my car because I want to come back early.

***

Beaune, once connected with the Dukes of Burgundy, is a walled city. The battlements, ramparts, and moat have survived. The ancient part of town is large.

Feeling a bit more presentable now after a quick shower and clothes change, Walton headed for a new café off the main square in the traditional shopping area. It was a bit rowdy on Saturdays, less so on Wednesdays, the two market days. Frenchmen often thought they were God’s gift to women, but that evening she hoped they wouldn’t be hitting on her. It was Sunday, and the only music heard wafting her way along with aromas of good home-style French cooking was from a local strumming a guitar.

"Sonya, ma cherie," René Morant called out when she paused at the entrance, "come dance with me, s’il vous plaît."

She smiled and headed to the table. Besides Morant and Brazier, there were four others she knew and two she didn’t. Morant made introductions. She was surprised to learn the strangers, a man and woman, were Interpol agents.

On a holiday, are you? Walton asked them a bit later after they had quaffed several pitchers of wine along with cold chicken, bread, and cheese.

Not a chance, said Leisel, the German woman. Jemond, the Frenchman, laughed. Just a long weekend with some R&R as the goal. We’re driving back to HQ tomorrow morning. Jemond has to be back by midday. I have a night shift.

And are your jobs exciting? Although she loved her job, Walton often thought hers was boring in comparison to jobs other people had.

We’re basically detectives who make a tenth of what we’d make in private practice, said Jemond. "Glorified gendarmes, I’d say."

It takes time to move up in the ranks, said Leisel, glaring at him. Some of us don’t take the work seriously enough.

It’s a bit more fun now, said Jemond. Many years ago, Interpol agents couldn’t make an arrest. Imagine. The war on terror changed all that. He nodded to the rest of the group, who were either dancing in pairs, triplets, or alone. Walton thought she recognized the music as jive. She had heard the French still loved it. Are you uncomfortable with us?

Walton smiled. A true detective—too damn observant. I’m always a fifth wheel. An old American girl and a nerdy scientist besides.

"So, dance with me, and I will make you feel young