“You said you like hazelnuts.”
“Doesn’t everybody? You didn’t bring that jar of that fab chocolate hazelnut spread over from your lab, did you?”
Dana produced a small jar. “Voila!”
“You sure you don’t want to do a postdoc with me if I ever go back to academia?”
“Nope. Just got nabbed by Cornell for next year. Associate professor posting.”
“Bravo! Well done, m’dear. We can celebrate. Drinks on me. However, I do need a bit of a favor and quickly.”
“Sure. I mean—”
“I need a DNA assay and I can’t—”
Dana cocked an eyebrow. “Why do you need me for that? You have privileges. And I’ve already—”
“Two reasons. First, your machine has the magic. You told me yourself. How much that cost, again? And, second, it’s not for the project I’m on . . . not exactly. And to be honest, I really don’t wish my employer to know.”
“It’s an experimental machine. The only one in existence. Genetic mojo magic.”
“Ha!”
Dana sat. “Sounds nefarious. Is it?”
“No. Not really. Can you do it?”
“I guess. It will cost. Someone’s gotta pay for the magic. Sure you don’t want to ask your client?”
“Yes, I’m quite certain about that. I can pay how many ever thousands of dollars required. Out of my own pocket. Cost is no object. Let me know, I will write the check. Just tell me to whom.”
“Deal. Okay, what is it? Can you tell me that at least?”
“Just a DNA sample. Blood. Legally obtained. With consent.”
“It can’t be ‘just a blood sample.’ C’mon. What is it? I’m not interested in getting involved with anything illegal or unethical—”
“Nor am I, and it’s neither.” Anne considered whether to tell her the truth. Fine. “It’s Gaelan’s blood.”
“Gaelan? Why? Where did you get it? I’d heard a rumor about a couple of samples destined for the biohazard disposal that went missing after the accident. They asked everyone about it, from techs to docs and nurses—even the maintenance guys.”
“No. This one he gave to me.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s a longer story than I want to tell right now. Will you do it, then?”
“Sure. Gaelan’s blood? Oh, I get it.” Dana smiled. “A paternity test?”
Anne closed her eyes. “Like that would require your machine? But I suppose it’s as good as any reason, and I’ll need those cool super high-res scans.”
She trusted Dana, but she barely knew the woman. “Hey, on second thought, do you mind if I run the scans myself? It’s a bit delicate, as you might imagine. I want to make certain—”
“Privacy. Sure.” Dana shrugged. “Whatever. Really? Gaelan? I thought he was completely celibate . . . sworn off women, men, sex of any kind.”
“People change.”
“No. They don’t!”
“I suppose not, but . . . And thanks. I’d like to get started ASAP.”
“I’ll check the schedule and let you know.”
Three days. An eternity, and finally she had the results. They were as she’d feared, but were now fixed onto paper, proven. Anne reran the tests three times before believing it. The “enhanced” hepatic TERT cell strain and Gaelan’s blood were from the same person. No doubt remained.
Gaelan had suffered liver damage in his fall down the bluff in the ravines—that much she knew from his hospital chart. The hepatic TERT had been most definitely rendered from his liver tissue.
Anne aimlessly wandered the main floor of Simon’s house, room to room, conscious of it only when her boot heels clacked on the marble tiles in the foyer. Weary of the effort, she threw open the French doors of the refrigerator, scanning the shelves for something palatable to eat. The blueberry pie looked good, and she sat at the table, staring into the tin, for several minutes until she shoved it away. No appetite.
She should text Alcott. She had been delaying it for a day, holed up, hiding from him, from Dana, from everyone. She had no idea of what to do, and no one to talk to about it. That was a lie. She knew exactly what she needed to do. And it would not get easier in an hour or five. Or five months.
Anne’s fingers trembled on her phone as she ran her finger over the keyboard. “I’ve changed my mind about dinner. I would very much like to meet your friends, including the . . .” How should she put it? She backspaced, erasing the sentence she’d begun. “I would like to meet the scientist who . . .”
Who what? Stole a tissue sample? Exploited the DNA of a private human being without consent? Sought to discover the key to human immortality? Well, that was a leap she was unwilling to make, at least not yet.
Perhaps it was all innocent; the tiniest niggle of doubt remained. A scientist with access, coming to the aid of a friend with a dying child, not out of the question . . . She didn’t believe it, but until she was absolutely certain . . . Dinner would hopefully land her on one or the other side of the question.
She continued typing. “ . . . was kind enough to supply the extraordinary cell line. Never have I . . .” More backspacing. No need to overdo it. “I am hopeful this discovery may lead to a way to approach Erin’s illness.” She hit “send.”
She was in way too far over her head with no idea what would come of it. She pulled the report from her briefcase for the fifth time that day, rereading, highlighting, making more notes, before shoving it back in.
It was almost beside the point, given the simultaneously stunning and terrifying results. The addition of Gaelan’s cells to Erin’s corrected the telomeres—as if by magic. And with a rapidity that . . . The points of light, what Dana called phages, migrated to the telomere loops and repaired the mutation to the guanine pairs. It was like no genome editing, no manipulation she’d ever seen before, even on paper. Had she not witnessed it herself, had not repeated it, filmed it, and watched and re-watched the process too many times to count over the past three days, she would not believe it possible.
The “phages” were possibly protein complexes, activating enzymes to supercharge the cell, but bonded, somehow, to something more mechanical. Like submicroscopic spiders, they reworked and reconfigured the telomeres at a molecular level.
But how? What was the mechanism? The work to study the process of these tiny objects would require months, perhaps years. How was it possible at all that an extract from Gaelan’s immortal tissue—presumably part of his physiology for nearly half a millennium—contained materials so technically advanced to be beyond what she knew to be possible, given the current state of research in her field?
And that material, Gaelan insisted, had itself been rendered from a book centuries older than that. The technology appeared to be so far ahead of its time, scientists were only now just beginning to experiment with that sort of biomechanical complexity. But in the lab, not in vivo. Nanobots. Or something like them embedded into the inks of an ancient manuscript? Who would believe such an absurd thing?
Anne went through to the garden, welcoming the fresh air. Her necklace refracted the midmorning sun, sending sprays of colored dots in an array all about the ground. Taking the dirt path, she made her way down to the beach and sat on a large pitted boulder, listening to the waves rushing up against the gravel, hauling it up the sand and back out into the lake, watching a family of mallard ducks meander along the water’s edge in a neat row. Imprinting. Learning bit by bit. How it was supposed to go. In research as well, each step earned with sweat and repetition. Not with magic leaps. That’s when the pratfalls happen, and worse.
Gaelan had bequeathed her a sample of his blood so she could carry on her work, heal the world if she desired, after he was gone. His notes on the ouroboros book were to be his legacy, her guide. He didn’t want her to ignore the discovery, to toss it away, but to use it. Sensibly, for good.
He couldn’t have understood the mechanism of his immortality. Had he known, what would he have done? Would
he have given her the key and opened the door, or would he have plunged it all into the fire, burned it, destroy it, rather than risk it being used and weaponized, as it well might be? The prospects were more than terrifying. The consequences of such technology misused could be catastrophic.
Anne’s mobile rang. Alcott. She wasn’t ready to talk to him. Not yet. She hit “ignore,” and with a sigh, climbed the steep path back to the garden, stopping for a moment to breathe in the green-spicy aroma of pine needles and the earthy mustiness of decaying leaves left over from last autumn.
A sharp ping. Voice mail. Alcott. Could he not simply text her back? She sat on an iron bench at the edge of a flower bed. Irises in full bloom. “Dinner would be great. Pick you up at six. I have a much better dinner place than the Frothy Pint. Bad memories for us, right?”
Fuck. No. He was not going to pick her up. She had a car. She could bloody well get there herself. She texted him. “Name of the restaurant? Address? I will meet U.”
Did Alcott’s friend have the faintest comprehension of what he was dealing with? If he did, there’d been no need to involve her at all. So, no. They must not really have a clue about bots. And Anne was determined to keep it that way. Perhaps the friend suspected something about Gaelan’s tissue, and that’s where she came in. Enter Erin Alcott—victim.
But what to do about her? With conventional treatment, Erin Alcott might live another thirty years. Forty—if the disease didn’t accelerate. Until then, she would live a relatively normal life—and with the chance that medicine might yet develop an effective treatment . . . ? Who knew?
Anne saw three possibilities. She could use the enhanced TERT cells on Erin. The girl would be cured, and the path to a cure for short telomere diseases, perhaps all diseases, would be shortened by years. Her advances in the field would be Nobel-worthy at the least, but once out in the wild, there would be no way to take it back.
Or she could do nothing at all; tell Alcott his friend’s “special superhero” cell line was worse than useless. That it actually further damaged the chromosome, and using it on Erin would kill her far quicker than GPC. Snake oil. A complete fabrication, but Anne was a terrible liar. Hopeless at poker.
Or she could simply tell Alcott she’d treated the girl and leave it at that. Give her a placebo to complete the ruse. Eventually it would be apparent the treatment hadn’t worked, but that happened in medicine all the time. No magic cure. No miracle. The “enhanced” cell line was useless and any additional samples, stolen or otherwise, derived from it would likely be headed forthwith to the bio-recyclers. End of tale.
In the meantime, Anne would burn the h-TERT, Gaelan’s blood samples. And the labyrinth necklace along with all the scans, the reports. Everything. Let science take its regular course. No shortcuts. No playing God with technology beyond the scope of our wisdom. Is that not what Gaelan would have wanted?
Erin’s illness was no lie, and failing to treat her when she had the key in her hand . . . ? Where were the ethics in that?
Scientists had already begun to unlock the puzzle of telomere expression. Where could her discovery lead them? Eradication of cancers? That would be amazing. Could it lead to a genuine fountain of youth and make us all live a little longer, healthier?
It came to her in a flash. Clarity, at last. Anne understood exactly what she needed to do.
New text from Alcott. “Fine. Verna’s Crab Shack. In the city, right on the water. GPS it. Great seafood. Palatable steaks. Fantastic mai tais. And the best salad bar in town.”
LONDON, 1826
CHAPTER 34
The very air breathed death as Gaelan stepped from his shop into the market. A scant few animals wandered about empty stalls, bewildered at the absence of their owners. Few about but for the undertakers.
A young woman moved drunkenly toward him, weaving amongst the dead. “Lookin’ for the apothecary. Seen him?”
“You’ve found him, Miss.” She was sick, and better off treated at the shop than in the streets. Perhaps get this one back and then go to the Owl. “Let me see you to my premises. How long have you been ill?”
“Mr. Tremayne told me about you. I was to come to you when—”
So, she was one of Tremayne’s girls.
“Don’t want to go to your shop. Need to get back to my . . . business.”
“Not today, I’m afraid. You are ill. How long have you been . . . like this?”
Her gaze widened as she took in scene, as if for the first time. “All those . . . sick, like me?”
“Dead. Which you will be as well if we do not—”
She laughed bitterly. “Better off, they are.”
“How long?” he repeated. “How long have you been sick?”
“Hours now. Last night, I think. Felt strange, dizzy, like. Seeing m’dad standing right in front of me while . . . servicing . . . shall we say. M’dad’s transported, two years past. Left me mum to take care of. The sods . . . Died on the ship, but there he was, threatening to kill me if I didn’t stop . . . Girl’s gotta make a living, right, Dad?” She drew her hands into fists, throwing wild punches in Gaelan’s direction. Her entire body seized up, and he caught her just before she fell to the ground.
Cradling her neck in his left arm, he reached into his bag, removing a vial and the inoculation device. Rivulets of dirty sweat dripped down her arms, her face. He hoped to locate a clean spot to insert the needle. Pulling down her bodice slightly, he found a spot slightly less filthy than the rest of her, and pulled the lever, watching the medicine collect beneath her skin.
“Mr. Erceldoune, what are you doing cuddling up to old Betts, and in the middle of the market?”
Tremayne! Damnation! When had he slithered into the street?
“Have you no shame, Mr. Apothecary? Most especially with all these dying hereabouts! Think you’d be round making a . . . killing . . . in all this.” Laughing raucously, Tremayne waved toward the people lying in the street.
Gaelan hid away the device, quickly as he could. “And you, sir? Are you and your . . . employees . . . unaffected? It appears not.” He gestured to the young woman.
“So, I should send them round to you, then? You’ve got the magic cure?”
“I do what I can—”
The young woman opened her eyes, flinching as she noticed Tremayne standing at Gaelan’s side. She sat up, trying to wrest herself from Gaelan and stand. “Do not try to stand just yet. Give it a bit, and then we’ll get you to the apothecary.”
Tremayne reached for her arm. “I see no need for that. Don’t you see, see she’s quite recovered. The roses are already back in her cheeks. Go on, Betts, back to work with ye.”
The only thing Gaelan noticed on her cheeks besides the pallor was a smudge of scarlet face paint. “She cannot, I am afraid, Mr. Tremayne. She needs to rest.”
“Maybe she weren’t sick at all. Drunk on her feet most like.” He bent over the girl. “My money, Betts. Did he give it ya?”
“Mr. Tremayne, he went running from the room, crazy-like, like he were being chased by the devil himself, he was. Didn’t leave me a farthing. And I showed him a good time, I did. I promise I did.”
“You lying little bitch.” He raised a large hand, and Betts cringed, ready for the blow.
Gaelan placed himself between the two of them. He grabbed Tremayne’s hand to forestall the blow.
“Hear me now, Mr. Tremayne. This woman is ill. Barely half an hour past, she was good as dead.”
Tremayne was breathing heavily, rage in his eyes, but he seemed to be backing down, if only a bit. “Don’t trust this one, Erceldoune. None of ‘em’s trustworthy far as you can . . . She better now?”
“Not today, I’m afraid. She’ll need rest. I will take her to the apothecary, and she can recover her strength in my facilities.” Gaelan did not want to release her to Tremayne, fearing he’d either beat her or force her back to her work, which would possibly make things worse—for everyone. As if there was anyone hereabouts willing to procu
re a girl’s . . . services . . . in the middle of a maelstrom.
“No. She’s mine . . . my responsibility—”
“Not today.” He still needed to get into the White Owl. He had no more time to argue with Tremayne. “Mr. Tremayne. I do believe you might do some good. You’re strong, clearly, and clever. Perhaps you might make yourself useful as they clear the bodies . . . what to do with them. I’d suggest they be placed in a pit, covered with quicklime, then burned. Perhaps there’s empty plot can be dug up . . . somewhere.” If anyone knew of one, Tremayne certain did. “Would you be so kind?” The undertakers had likely already thought of it, but it would rid himself of Tremayne, for the moment at least.
When Tremayne finally disappeared around a corner, Gaelan helped the young woman stand. The stench about her was overpowering, but he’d seen and smelled worse. Much. “We must get you to my shop. I’ve a small infirmary there, and we ought to get you cleaned up a bit. Sally Mills is there, and she can see to it. I must leave soon as you’re through the door. Is that all right, then?”
She nodded weakly.
“It’s right across the way, Miss—”
“Betts is all right. You’re very kind, you know. Any time you want . . .” She winked. “You know . . . taking care of . . . yourself, come ‘round. No charge.”
Not likely. “Never mind that right now.”
She grew stronger by the moment. It had to be the medication. Four cases then, treated successfully. Evidence, if not proof, that it worked.
“Here we go . . . Betts. Home we are.”
Mrs. Mills was waiting just outside the door. “What’s this, now? Did you find this one at the White Owl? I don’t recall—”
“She is alive, but I’ve got to get back to it. Would you be so—?”
Sally wrinkled her nose. “Good God, girl, what’ve you got yourself into, rolling about like a pig in shit? Well, no matter.”
Gaelan showed them to a room he hoped to make his apprentice’s quarters and drew a laver of water from a rain barrel. “There’s more if you need it. Rags are . . .” He pointed to a long bar hanging by the window. “Make certain she drinks. Water from the barrel.” He’d run short of the salt solution. It would be hours until he’d time to make more. Perhaps, with the medicine, it would be unnecessary. “Now if you’ll both excuse me . . .”
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