Alchemy of Glass

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Alchemy of Glass Page 34

by Barbara Barnett


  Gowned and gloved, masked in the appropriate ritual gear of the act, it was her turn to play God, decide who shall live and who shall die. Who by fire? Who by withholding medical treatment?

  What sort of a place was this to make an impossible decision? She held the key to unimaginable progress—a world free of disease. But equally possible was a world destroyed in a mad quest to possess the secret to immortality and the power and riches it would unlock. The discovery of a lifetime, and she was primed to shove it all into the flames. Incinerate it to ash.

  She had decided, but did she have that right? Power, politics, the extreme pressure on the already-strained limits of the world’s natural resources should immortality become a commodity. The secret would be sold to the highest bidder, held closely in the hands of a few to control the fate of all. Keep the good stuff for themselves, unleash untold horrors upon perceived enemies, whoever they may be at any given time and place. No one deserved that much power.

  The autoclave was inadequate to the task of destroying the tiny machines she’d discovered intricately woven into Gaelan’s telomeres, as dangerous in their own way as any pathogen. For this, she needed the destructive power of fire. Incinerate the bloody suckers.

  She flipped the wall switch and listened as the grinding thump of the ignitor brought it to life. As she waited until the red light turned to yellow, the heat trickled beads of sweat from beneath her mask, even from across the room, where she waited in the dull glow that leaked from the door, which painted the basement dull red-orange. Half expecting security to burst through the basement doors any second, she counted the minutes until it was ready.

  But could she really carry it through? Destroy Erin Alcott’s life? Ignore world-altering discovery that might change medicine forever? Change the world? Bring people out of poverty? What if those little phages could be used to create viable crops in drought regions? In places flooded out where cholera and Zika reigned like the angel of death? And polio, which had only just begun to rear its deformed head, mutated and immune to vaccination? Did she have the right to deprive the world of this bizarre phenomenon, whatever its source?

  She could not afford this indecisiveness, not hours before she was to meet Alcott and company. But the choice was grave, and not so easy as she thought it would be just an hour ago. What would be the more significant violation of her oath? To condemn Erin Alcott to an early death or cure her and take the risk that Gaelan’s DNA, and those tiny machines attached to it, might escape into the wild—by error or design? They were not viruses, much as they resembled phages, didn’t behave like them either, so what made her believe they would spread like a virus on a rampage? Gaelan had lived for centuries, and he was the only immortal chap she’d ever heard of. Not that it was dispositive.

  Anne guessed that the material needed to be injected directly into the bloodstream. Gaelan had been seriously injured nearly two centuries ago, tortured, his fingers severed. His blood, she imagined, was everywhere in that horrible place. Yet, none of those with whom he’d been in contact were immortal like him, were they? Of course not. It would be known, certainly by now, would it not?

  Alcott’s friend had already experimented with Gaelan’s liver tissue—enough to create the superhero cell line. How far a leap would it be to extract the nanobots and customize them into some sort of bio-genetic weapon? Arms dealers would be salivating over such a weapon. Hell, what about DARPA? Or Qinetiq, the UK’s very own chamber of biological horrors? How many research posts had she been offered by both over the years to apply her research? She’d even toyed with the notion herself—once.

  She had to destroy all the samples. Find out how many more there were. Maybe offer to buy them up—she had the money to do it, after all—a shell startup, perhaps. Better, offer a partnership. Full funding. Anne Shawe—venture capitalist at your service, gentlemen!

  The LED light glowed steady green. Go.

  She stood at the mouth of the incinerator, letting the heat coming off it scorch her cheeks through the metal door. Asbestos gloves hung nearby, and with shaking hands, she slipped on the left glove. Setting the Styrofoam box on the cart, she removed the top. Wisps of CO2 vapor wafted up, chilling her face.

  Still, she hesitated. Was she being impulsive? Perhaps she should wait, consider. Ask Dana what she thought about it. Call her mother . . . scratch that.

  Each test tube had its value, its potential for good; its potential to unleash humankind’s worst impulses. Yet, to hold the key to immortality is to rule the world; it was a myth spawned thousands of years ago. The Holy Grail. The philosopher’s stone. Vampire legends. Gilgamesh.

  She opened the door; the fire singed, the light blinding as it was compelling, the roar of flame consuming anything daring to cross its path. The fire played off the stones in her labyrinth necklace; they hummed with energy. Or was it her imagination as it grew hot against her collarbone?

  From the flames, Anne saw him, and it nearly knocked her from her feet: Gaelan Erceldoune rendered in reds and oranges as he had been in the glass panel. Fighting the Minotaur still. The image melted before her, the monster now a pool of light at the base of the image, and Gaelan stood victorious over it, the remnant glass pouring like water through his fingers.

  She was confident of her plan. At last.

  Bed had never looked so inviting. Drained and exhausted, Anne fell asleep within seconds of crawling beneath the duvet in her room.

  A full six hours’ sleep. When had been the last time that happened? Anne looked out her bedroom window, opening it to the lovely spring afternoon. She’d done it. Felt right about it. Regret that Erin Alcott, perhaps her father, would suffer for her decision made her feel like shite. That she’d have to lie about all of it made her feel worse.

  She showered, trying to wash away the entire month as the hot water pounded needles into her neck and shoulders. Not even that managed to relax the tension.

  Anne had no appetite to be wined and dined by Alcott or his friends, but the meeting was essential to the plan. Dana had pointed out the restaurant the first day—an unassuming little café, she’d noted, with “amazing” seafood and fantastic cocktails. Right next to the Ferris wheel.

  Her mobile rang just as she was toweling off.

  “It’s Dana. What did you end up doing with those weird samples? The phages, the nanobots . . . whatever you said they were?”

  Anne sucked in a breath. She couldn’t tell her the truth. She couldn’t tell anyone. “I did more tests, and whatever was in those cell lines, whatever they were, didn’t propagate. After . . .” Anne calculated a reasonable number of hours to observe the effect. “After four hours in vitro . . . they basically consumed Erin’s cells and died. Little buggers shredded the entire cell, turned it into some . . .” What? She knew she was making it up as she went along. “Gelatinous goo.” Overkill? Hopefully not.

  “Wow. Too bad for that kid. Would’ve killed her.”

  “Yes. And very quickly. I destroyed everything. No choice. Whatever they were, however innocuous in that cell line . . .”

  “And your necklace?”

  Fuck. “Chalk it up to weird coincidence. Like . . . like the Virgin Mary in a toasted cheese sandwich.” She’d heard about that one on the news. “That one fetched a tidy sum, by the way. Like $30,000, if memory serves.”

  Anne didn’t think the story, as she told it to Dana, would work as well with Alcott’s friends, who had, after all, worked with the stolen tissues already. Grown cell lines from it, even if they didn’t quite know what they had. They suspected they had something extraordinary. For them, she would need to enhance the lie. Make it perfect.

  Anne stepped from her rideshare and into the Ferris wheel plaza. Excited children waited with their parents for the opportunity to soar high above the city’s lakefront, feel the adrenaline rush, terror, and delight. Everywhere, all along the shimmering promenade, were smiling people, laughter. A somber counterpoint to Anne, her heart a black stone, freezing her from within, despit
e the balmy late afternoon.

  She checked her watch. An hour until dinner. A charade to be played out to its macabre end. Surrounded by Preston Alcott and his host of ghouls. No matter his noble intention—a grieving husband, a father wanting only to save his little girl—Alcott was complicit in it. The only sacrifice in this would be one little girl, his daughter.

  The sun was beginning to make its descent behind the skyscrapers along Michigan Avenue. It gleamed against the black of monolithic monuments to commercial achievement and sparkled against the alabaster marble. To the east, a cloud bank from a storm that blew through an hour ago.

  She walked out to the far edge of the pier, looking out at the expanse of water, watching the gulls fight each other over the detritus floating atop the oily surface of the harbor. A boatful of partiers waved as a large sightseeing yacht passed her at the edge of the dock, sounded its klaxon horn. Alone, finally, at the edge of the world.

  A glimmer of yellow light played against the indigo backdrop of sky and water, and she watched it grow, its lazy arc emerging from the clouds as rain droplets refracted the sun’s rays. Yellow, then orange, red, purple, green, blue, and darker, materialized, as if the heavens themselves were giving birth. A double rainbow right at her eye level. She sat on the edge of the dock and gazed into the horizon. A moment of peace before her stomach took to churning again as she went over again and again the tale she would weave to the assembled group. Or the disaster yet to unfold over crab legs and mai tais.

  Tomorrow, she would finish what she had to do with Gaelan’s belongings and Simon’s estate, and turn the whole thing over to her solicitors. Then home to the UK.

  She had just enough time for a final visit to the glass museum. There, she would say her goodbye to Gaelan and try to get back to her life, knowing she never could, not knowing what she now knew. What she had passed up.

  She’d never before noticed the Pier Glassworks, a small outdoor kiosk tucked away in an obscure corner of the promenade. A glass-blower toiled, barely acknowledged by passersby, seeming not to care if he sold anything or not as he crafted fantastical trinkets in all the colors of the rainbow. Unicorns, fairies, castles, pumpkin coaches. The realm of myth and tall tales. She selected a burgundy rose, the edges of its glass petals dipped in gold, and went down the stairs into the museum.

  By now the guard at the glass museum must be somewhat amused by her frequent stops over the past few days.

  “Back again, huh?”

  Anne shrugged sheepishly. “Who could stay away?”

  “Yeah. Well, I think I know who might be able to answer all those questions you had back a few days ago.”

  “Questions—?”

  “About those pieces you’re always gawking at. Anyway, he’s in the back office. I’d knock first. He’s a little moody today.” The guard indicated a small passageway in the corner of the museum. “It’s just below the stairs.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  Pausing a moment at the Minotaur panel, she thought to place the rose there, her own memorial. But no, that wasn’t right. The Diana’s Tree. A reminder of that first moment he’d shown her how his book worked as she stood in amazement at his shoulder. The magician at his trade. The moment her life irrevocably altered. For better or worse.

  She set down the fragile rose, crouching low to the ground, touching the small circle etched with his initials. “I hope you find peace at last, my dear Gaelan.” No vibration. No strange sensation through her fingers. It was a silly notion to even think it would happen again. Sniffling back tears, Anne inhaled deeply and walked through the door.

  Gaelan Erceldoune sat behind a long desk scattered with a colorful array of cut-glass pieces, which much resembled a giant unassembled jigsaw puzzle. He picked up one piece, then another, setting each loosely in a metal frame behind him as he worked. He had not looked up.

  Anne stood at the doorway, observing, waiting. Her anger bubbled and boiled until it threatened to explode full throttle. How dare he sit there, fine as can be? Not a care in the fucking world. Finally, she could wait no longer and came to stand directly in front of the desk. “You bastard! How dare you show up—”

  “Anne. I—”

  “No word, not a bloody text message, no phone call. Nothing. Leaving me with the task of sorting it all—” Anne knew she wasn’t being fair, but she couldn’t stop herself. How long had he been in Chicago? The entire time? Hiding? Where? Here? What a fucking . . . You sure know how to pick ‘em.

  “I couldn’t do it, stay with you. Knew it would end badly, eventually. I would watch you grow old, our children, their children. Long before that, you would have resented me . . .”

  He was too calm, too bloody reasonable, and she couldn’t stand it. “Well, I bloody resent you now. You . . . you are worse than—”

  He went on as if he hadn’t heard her at all. “It’s not that. Nothing . . . It’s the loss, you see. The grief, over and over, of losing everything . . . everyone you love, yet again and again. I told myself you would be better off. But, you see, the joke was on me. It didn’t work. And here I am.”

  “Asking for my forgiveness.”

  “No. Only your understanding. Anne, we must talk. There is something you need to know. And you will not believe it. I barely believe it myself, yet, no matter how hard I try, I cannot dismiss it. As much as I would like to do so.”

  She breathed in deeply, really looking at him for the first time. He did not look well. She approached the desk, sitting opposite him. He was pale and looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Dark circles smudged the area beneath his eyes. “What happened to you?”

  “I stared into the abyss. I have seen the future, and it has shaken me to the core.”

  It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. “Am I to believe you’re some sort of prophet come back to life?”

  “No! No. Please hear me out.” He removed a glass object from his pocket, laying it on the desk. “This . . . bauble . . . is a key that unlocks . . . a portal. A door into the future.”

  What the fuck had happened to him? Had he lost his bloody mind? “What? What kind of nonsense—”

  “I used it,” he continued, “and I have seen what terrible misery and anguish—ruin—lie ahead. My accident. The one that brought you, your company, to Chicago. Tissue samples were taken from me during surgery. They were stolen. It led then, years later, to—”

  “Wait. What did you say? Stolen? How . . . ?”

  It wasn’t that he was calm; he was suffering shell shock. He could barely look up; his hands were trembling as he spoke. She wasn’t ready to relent, but she was prepared to hear him.

  “So? What of it?” She looked at her watch; she would be late for her dinner meeting if she stayed much longer. “I have a dinner engagement. Make it quick.”

  “With whom?”

  “It’s none of your bloody business, is it? Look, Gaelan. I understood what you did, maybe even why you lied to me, gave me the vial of poison, led me to believe you wouldn’t—”

  “You must listen to me. Call your friend. Tell whoever it is you’ll be late. I must tell you what I came to tell you. Implore you to do what I ask, even if it is beyond your belief. Even if you think I’ve gone insane, which might very well be true. Then do what you must. I will leave you to your life; never bother you again.”

  He was pleading with her. His earnestness, the desperation in his gaze . . . He seemed lost, like a child wandering alone, adrift. “Fine.” She texted Alcott, telling him to have drinks, and she would be there in not more than forty-five minutes.

  “You have half an hour.” She set the timer on her phone. “Starting now.”

  CHAPTER 40

  How to make Anne believe when he barely did himself? He had not yet begun to grapple with the notion he was no longer immortal. Half a millennium he had lived with—survived—the curse and the wonder of it. And now . . . ? But that was for later. After they’d done what needed to be done.

  Start wit
h the science, something he couldn’t have fabricated, dreamed, hallucinated. Something provable to her, here, now. Something he could not have known but by looking into the future. “My cells have . . . had the ability within them to infinitely repair themselves. It’s what made it impossible for me to age, to die.”

  “This is hardly news. And you know I know it. So?”

  “But not the ‘why.’”

  “Your telomeres—”

  “My telomeres are bound up with . . . I find it hard to say it, for it sounds ridiculous, considering how long ago it would have happened . . . nearly half a millennium . . .” How to say it and make her believe? “My DNA is bound with submicroscopic machines. Very specific, infinitesimally tiny machines that had been embossed onto graphene membranes saturated with inks. The intense colorations in the ouroboros book illuminations. The inks, by themselves, are benign, inactive until bound with the correct substrates . . . I realize you don’t . . . I—”

  “Nanobots. They’re called nanobots.”

  She’d made the discovery already. “Yes. You know, then.”

  “I observed them. But how could you know? I saw what you’d been working on in your flat. The karyograms. Over and over, annually, I think, looking for changes, anomalies, anything to help explain your condition. But you never would have been able to see—”

  Perhaps this would not be as difficult as he thought. “You saw them? How?”

  “Your friend Dana Spangler helped. You see, I was contracted to help a young girl with a terminal genetic disease.”

  “Yes. That’s how it had started.” What Arie . . . Airmid told him. “You used my blood to develop a cell strain?”

  “No. Yes, but not the way you think.”

  It began with the treatment of a little girl, he’d been told. An altruistic motive gone wrong when greed got its filthy paw prints all over it. “Samples of my tissues . . . surgical samples set for disposal were stolen, yes?”

 

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