“How do you make that construct?” I asked, pointing at the oval labeled ‘CRISPR’ on her diagram.
“That’s more organic chemistry than molecular biology,” she said, “it’s…actually not that different from how Shift works.”
“Wait, so this treatment could rot your flesh out like Shift?”
“Well…yeah…” Akira shrugged, looking somewhat sheepish, “if you took way more than you’re supposed to. But you only take eighteen treatments and you spread each injection out over several days so your body can heal whatever damage it causes. Shift addicts keep pumping more and more into themselves.”
“Can a person become addicted to this?”
“No,” she shook her head, “no. Shift is so addictive because the manufacturers attach gene editing molecules that alter brain receptors to make them bind to the drug exclusively. The part that rots flesh is the dendrimer. Everything – the drug, the CRISPR/Cas9/gRNA, and the guide molecules – are all attached to the dendrimer. The problem is that the dendrimer breaks down and oxidizes fatty tissue.”
“And we’re using the same dendrimer,” I said.
“Yes,” she nodded, “it’s slightly modified, so its less reactive with fatty tissue. This also makes it slower to produce. Shift makers use the fast version, though, because they want to make as much of it as they can. Even if it rots their customers out faster.”
“I see.”
“I thought you knew this already,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
I shrugged, “I guess I hadn’t really thought about it before,” I turned my head to the fume hood where Akira had several reactions going at once, “is that what you’re making over there? The dendrimer?”
“Not at the moment,” she said, signaling for me to follow her. I got off the stool and wormed my way through all the equipment behind her until we both stood before the fume hood. She continued, “I’m actually trying to synthesize the molecule found inside you.”
“Ah,” I nodded slowly.
“It’s…a first step,” she said, “in what could be a long process, trying to figure it out. Especially not knowing what Benecorp has figured out yet.”
“That’s a work in progress,” I said, “but it’ll be priority one after we rescue those other children.”
She forced a smile, but it faded quickly. “This molecule is strange,” she said, preferring to talk science, “it’s actually at a very high energy level and kinetically reactive. Very unstable. Which is why I’m having a hell of a time synthesizing it. Yet…”
“The stuff from me somehow seems stable, I take it?”
She nodded, “which is why Benecorp wants one of you immortals around. So they can harvest the stable version of the molecule. But I’ve tried reacting your molecule with pure fluorine. With pure caesium. It does react with those things, but when I analyze the structure…it’s not reacting where it should. It’s like having a dam built of thick, reinforced concrete except for a five-meter-by-five-meter square at the bottom made of a single layer of tissue paper. Yet the water breaks through the concrete before the tissue. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Magic?”
As soon as I said that, something magical did happen – Akira laughed. The sound almost surprised me, but it was nice to see joy in her for a change. It did not last long.
“I doubt it,” she said, looking almost embarrassed to have shown even a measure of enjoyment, “I’m going to have to look deeper than chemistry to understand what’s going on. I already have Salia looking into it.”
“You mean quantum physics?”
She nodded, “I’m teaching myself more advanced theoretical physics, but…I just…anyway, I’ll be able to figure something out.”
I smiled, “I know you will,” and then looked to one of the other reactions, seeing a maze of glassware connected by tubes, “what about this?”
“That’s…that’s a different project,” she said.
“Doing what?”
“It’s for someone else,” she said, “I told them I wouldn’t tell anyone about it.”
I stood for a moment, furrowing my brow, until it hit me. She’s doing something for Laura. Probably trying to cure her sleeplessness.
“I understand,” I said, giving a knowing nod.
Akira forced a smile. “This is a reflux,” she pointed to the different setups, “for certain types of chemical reactions. This is fractional distillation, for purifying liquid substances. This is a continuous flow reaction on a series of polymer-supported organometallic catalysts in order to-”
“We can teach me organic chemistry later,” I said.
Was she trying to change the subject away from her other project?
“Sure,” she said, turning and walking toward the stairway, “I have some things I need to take care of, anyway. You’re alright down here now?”
“Yeah,” I said, “just going to follow your protocol as usual.”
“Good,” she said.
“The podcast Masaru and Regina are on should be streaming soon,” I said, “I was hoping to listen to it.”
“That’s good,” she said, exhaling slowly as she started climbing the stairs out of the basement. She didn’t seem interested. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Talk to you later,” I said, squeezing my way back to the biochemistry bench.
I opened the browser on my ARs and went to Todd Hopkins’s website. His podcast with Masaru and Regina hadn’t started yet.
Masaru had taken to travelling the LoC recently. Former child slave Regina – the eighteen-year-old girl who looked to be eight – was his frequent companion. The two made a sympathetic pair, with Masaru’s limp and cane and Regina’s harrowing tale. They were given interviews by podcasters all over the LoC, and even in the Republic of Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho – which also contained the eastern parts of Washington and Oregon and was usually shortened to just The Republic – and even one in the Socialist Union of Washington and Oregon – which consisted of the western parts of those two states along with northern California.
Masaru hammered home descriptions of what was going on at the U.S.-Mexico border, making Benecorp and the CSA government look bad. People in the CSA, despite their news media’s best efforts to put things in a better light, had started calling for more humane treatment of the refugees, while starting a campaign to blame the Brazilian occupiers for the current conditions. The CSA government dispatched a missionary group to bring food and first aid to the refugees, spending more on publicity than supplies, and that seemed enough to assuage many CSA residents.
Regina became somewhat of a local celebrity and grew into the face of the rescued children. A role she fit into quite well. People were amazed by the fact that she was eighteen years old but looked like she was eight. Her childlike appearance mixed with her grownup mannerisms made her story pull on people’s heartstrings all the more. And she was smart enough to realize this and use it to her advantage.
After ten minutes, the podcast began. The host, Todd Hopkins, went through his introductory and sponsorship rigamarole for another ten minutes before diving to the interview.
“You were taken by the cartel?” his voice coming through my earpieces as I moved about the basement laboratory.
“Yeah,” Regina’s diminutive voice answered, speaking in English. This was a story she had recited many times, yet she was still able to work up the same emotion behind it. “I was on my way home from school. I got off the bus. I was walking down the street. A street I walked down every day after school. It wasn’t far from my house. Both my parents worked. I had to walk by myself. I was used to doing it. Even when I was in second grade. Everyone in the neighborhood knew me. They saw me every day. But one time…it happened so fast.”
“This was ten years ago,” the host said.
“This would have been around the time the cartels were running into trouble,” Masaru cut in, “the Sinaloa and Zetas cartels had merged a while before, secretly brokered by the U.S. gov
ernment.”
“Yes,” the host said, “a scandal that still hangs over the impotent federal government to this day. They lost all legitimacy when the Mexico Memos were released by the forty-eights.”
“I didn’t know about any of that,” Regina said.
“We can get into that more later,” the host said, “but please, continue.”
“Okay,” Regina said. “I was taken by men in a gray car. They acted nice. At school they told us this happens sometimes. They told us we needed to be patient. To do what we’re told. So I did.”
“You figured you would be ransomed off,” the host said.
“I dunno if I really knew what was gonna happen to me,” Regina said, “except…I thought I’d be back with my parents soon.”
“But that wasn’t the case, was it?”
“No,” Regina said, the pain in her voice conspicuous. “I was…I was taken to different houses. Then I was in a big van. There were other kids.”
“Were any of the kids you met there part of the so-called Masaristas?”
“No,” Regina said, “I…I don’t know what happened to those kids. I…the kids I met in that van. We were taken across the border. They were still building that big wall.”
“What happened after you got north of the border?” the host asked.
“The people driving were switched,” she said. “White people. Americans. I didn’t speak English back then. No earpiece.” She paused a moment, only soft sounds of breathing over the audio. Finally, she continued. “They drove for a long time. I don’t know where we were. Sometimes…sometimes the other kids would cry. Sometimes men would yell at us. I remember…I remember I peed my pants cuz the drivers wouldn’t stop for us.”
There was a pause with the sound of shuffling about. Then the host said, “it’s okay. You can take your time.”
“Just to be clear,” Masaru said, “this isn’t something new the cartels did. They had been making tons of money on human trafficking for a long time before this. The difference is that this was mostly carried out largely by Americans.”
“I’m very curious about who these Americans trafficking children are,” the host said, “You say that Americans are still involved?”
“Very much so,” Masaru said, “Americans have all but taken over the operation from the cartels now. Border guards were the ones who brought me over. We’re still collecting specifics on how well connected this all is, but I can say right now that the CSA government is involved. And our investigation shows that Benecorp receives money to allow the people to be moved through the wall and then through cities owned by Benecorp.”
“And you’re planning on releasing secret documents outlining this?”
“As soon as we have all the specifics figured out,” Masaru said.
After another brief pause, the host said, “You feel like continuing?”
“Yeah,” Regina said. She hesitated a moment and then said, “We were all taken to a house. Out in the desert.”
“We think it was somewhere in northern Texas,” Masaru said.
“That’s when they started sticking needles in me,” she said, “so I don’t grow up.”
“Shift?” the host asked.
“No,” Regina said, pausing a moment before moving on, “I dunno how long I was there. Sometimes…sometimes kids were brought upstairs. I never saw them again. Then I was taken upstairs. There was a white man there. He took me away. To another house. Two girls were already there,” she sniffled, “that’s where they…that’s where they made us…”
“We don’t have to go into details,” the host said in a soothing voice, “how long were you there?”
“I dunno,” she said in a wavering voice, “maybe…maybe five.”
“Years?”
“Yeah…”
“And this…what they made you do…it went on quite often?”
“Mostly no,” she said, “Mostly we were alone. Me and the other girls. We were chained. In the basement. None of us got older. The men would come around sometimes. Usually the same white men. Sometimes new ones.” She stopped talking a moment, taking in a deep breath before continuing. “One of the other girls there. Mora. She tried running. They…they caught her,” Regina sniffled again, “he choked her. He choked her too long and…”
There was another pause, more shuffling in the background.
“Keep in mind this story isn’t unique,” Masaru said in a quiet voice, “there are twenty-eight other kids – mostly girls, but some boys, too – that we rescued. And there are still many more in captivity.”
“We’re gonna free them,” Regina said, her petite voice defiant, “we hafta free them.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” the host said, his voice growing louder, “the fact that this shit is happening in our own back yard should outrage people. It outrages me! It’s sick and disgusting, and I for one will not stand for it. That’s why I’m donating to the Masaristas crowdsourcing fund to free the children! You can find information on how to do it yourself in the show notes. Please, please, listeners! Do your part to end child slavery now! The fact that slavery is still a problem in this day and age is unconscionable. Now get off your asses and do something!”
I switched the podcast off as I began cleaning up in the lab.
This is all very strategic to you, isn’t it? Evita asked as I loaded utensils and glassware into the autoclave tub before shoving it into the humid machine.
“It is strategic,” I said as I wiped the counter off, evaporating ethanol aroma filling the cramped space, “the more attention we can get on these things, the better my plan will work.”
Even if you have to sacrifice Regina to do it?
“How is it sacrificing her?”
You think all this publicity is going to be good for her? She’s psychologically traumatized. Fame is not going to help with that.
“She’s eighteen,” I said, throwing the paper towel into the trash, “she’d old enough to make these kinds of decisions for herself.”
She has been alive for eighteen years. But emotionally she’s probably as mature as she looks. She’s been enslaved for almost her entire life.
“It won’t last forever,” I said.
Yeah, and what happens then? Evita asked. All her life she was used like an object. Now she’s famous, and to her that’s what love feels like. What happens when that fame goes away? She’ll feel like she isn’t loved anymore…
I shook my head and took the rubber gloves off, throwing them in the biohazard bin. Whatever ended up happening with Regina, she was having the exact effect on people that I’d hoped. People from all around the former state – and in other regions – were willing to donate money to our cause. This would help me afford paying one of the private security firms to help with the rescue.
More than that, it got people listening. And interested. Already we were being contacted by computer hackers and biohackers asking how they could help. Being able to leverage them into a force capable of obtaining everything Benecorp knows about reincarnation was first priority. And it was already underway.
It’s interesting that not everyone used Shift to keep the kids from escaping, Evita said.
“I find it more interesting that anyone used it at all,” I said, walking back over to the incubator to look at the bacterial growths.
Why is that?
“Because of what it does to people,” I said, “people addicted to that shit…it doesn’t take long and their bodies start to break down. Rotting from the inside out. That doesn’t seem like a good way to treat your product, whether its chattel slaves or sex slaves.”
The traffickers might not care what happens to the kids after they’re sold…
“But who’s going to buy someone addicted to Shift?” I asked, walking back to Akira’s desk and sitting down in front of the computer.
I opened the file containing the LoC Security report on the twenty-nine surviving kids. It was as much history as anyone could get out of them, but it didn’
t contain any of the hospital’s lab results. Just what the kids had said happened to them.
Most were vague, usually incomplete. The stories were all fairly similar though – either grabbed by strangers or sold by their parents, moved about in dark vehicles. They were stuck with needles – getting injections, having blood drawn – and passed from place to place, staying in cramped quarters. Descriptions of people were all similar – men with guns talking in English, nondescript clothes. None of the kids knew where they had been.
But some had a common theme. A farm with large windmills, which struck me because none of the trafficker’s houses down south had windmills. They were all solar power.
I copied the reports for each of the nine kids who witnessed the farm with windmills. Just as I suspected, seven had Shift withdrawal, another had low exposure to Shift, and the last reported going through Shift withdrawal about a year prior. There had been one kid who died of Shift withdrawal before she could be questioned. But it didn’t matter. All the kids who had been exposed to Shift also reported seeing the farm with windmills.
“But who owns the farm?” I asked, “and where is it?”
I scanned over each child’s testimony. Other than the farm, and the fact that they had been exposed to Shift, their stories were fairly typical. Dark, cramped spaces. Physical and sexual abuse. Being passed around from person to person before and after the farm. The hot days and the-
“Snow,” I said.
Five of the kids remembered seeing snow while they were on the farm, which ruled out the draught-stricken southwest and most of the CSA.
“Were they in the PRA? Why?”
After several more minutes of scanning testimonies and thinking, nothing occurred to me. I would have to incubate on it a while.
When I got to the top of the stairs, I found Akira in the kitchen gathering ingredients to make a sandwich. She had showered and changed her clothes for the first time in about a week, but her gloomy countenance continued to resist being washed away.
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