by Shanon Hunt
Nick dropped onto his stomach and wormed his way under the branches until he reached an eight-inch screened vent. He peered inside.
His first thought was that he was looking into a World War II trauma center, with rows of occupied hospital beds neatly lined up. He exhaled and looked down at the sleeping face below the small window.
The woman’s eyes snapped open and stared straight at him.
Nick jumped, bumping his head on the tree branch above him. He stifled a groan.
All down the row of beds below him, patients stirred and turned their heads toward his window. No one made a sound.
He slithered backward a couple of inches as two bodies sat upright, slowly rose from their beds, and approached the window. They moved stiffly and their hospital gowns were crumpled from sleep, but there was something else constraining their movements. He squinted to get a closer look. A long yellow tube passed from the back of their gowns over a hook on an IV rack. His eyes followed the yellow line to a unit on the wall, where it connected to a digital display. It looked like they were on a leash.
Oh, Jesus. It hit him then. They were attached at the base of the spine, just like Pete Malloy’s victims. The spinal port.
The woman below Nick’s vented window stopped abruptly. She reached back and unhooked her tube, which had snagged on the bedpost, and stepped closer until she stood directly under the vent, her leash pulled so taut, it should have ripped from her body. She craned her neck to look straight up at him. Her eyes were unfocused with dilated pupils, as if she were intoxicated, and the eerie smile that transformed her long ashen face was so unsettling that a whimper escaped his throat. He was transfixed by her glassy stare.
It seemed as though minutes passed before either of them breathed.
Her melodious voice was barely above a whisper. “Phoenix.”
His breath hitched. How did she know? Did she recognize him?
“The pray pharaoh will rise like the Phoenix, with new life. A new purpose.” She spoke so softly he wasn’t sure he was hearing her correctly. “A pharaoh’s mission cannot be fulfilled until it is fully acknowledged and embraced.”
She lifted both hands toward him as if she were asking for a hug.
That was it. Nick scrambled back from beneath the juniper tree. His skin crawled, and he shuddered, stumbling through the gravel until he was back on the paved path. His muscles were so stiff, he could only tremble. Sweat dripped into his panting mouth as he gaped at the dim yellow light radiating from the vent. At any moment, the vent cover would fly off and that ashen-faced woman would come crawling through, a demon from a horror movie.
Finally, his breath slowed and his head cleared. The crickets turned on like a switch, chirping from every direction. The night temperature had to be thirty degrees colder, characteristic of springtime in the desert, and his damp linen pajamas against his body sent an icy chill right through his bones. It took another moment to get his bearings before he began strolling, glancing back over his shoulder every few seconds, then speed walking, and finally full-on sprinting back to the wall.
He found the evil.
45
October 2022, China
James downed three glasses of Pellegrino, hoping the cool water would calm his overactive sweat glands, and appraised the council members waiting for the meeting to start. It had been a long morning of touring the China site, and his colleagues looked exhausted. Even after two days in Beijing, he hadn’t fully adjusted to the time difference, and he was certain the rest of the council members were jet-lagged as well. He’d tried to get Stewart to schedule the meeting in the US, but he’d lost. They’re dying to host us. It’s a cultural thing, James. You have to be more sensitive to that kind of thing.
Stewart had also insisted on the facility tour. James had to admit the site was impressive. With the import of colonists from the Americas and Western Europe, it was now the largest and most diverse colony on the planet. He couldn’t help being a little jealous.
The twenty Eugenesis council members were also enthusiastic about the growth of the China site and the progress of the carrier program. The sensus strain had so far proven remarkable. The children, all younger than four years, were exhibiting the anticipated characteristics: higher intelligence, lower aggression, more cohesiveness and harmony. They were the true success story.
The praefuro strain was a different story. While the council was aware of the praefuro carriers, as well as the dozens of subjects who had been transfused with the praefuro stem cells, he wasn’t sure they fully understood just how dangerous the praefuro were. That was Stewart’s doing. Stewart downplayed the outliers, waved a dismissive hand every time they observed something unexpected. His boss wanted to steamroll ahead at any cost, while he wanted to hit the brakes. Somehow, he’d have to convince the council that the praefuro program needed more time to understand the wide range of rage and aggressive behavior they were seeing, and he had to do it without provoking Stewart to question his motives.
He stood at the window, pretending to admire the ellipsoidal National Grand Theater while studying Stewart in the reflection. The man worked the room like a seasoned politician despite the lack of social lubricants. There was a time when Stewart had made alcohol available at all council meetings—The drunker they are, the more agreeable they are—but the council must’ve wised up, because they recently requested that meetings be dry.
Stewart tapped his glass with a pen to get everyone’s attention. “Shall we get started? The sooner we finish our business, the sooner we can hit the bar.”
It got a snicker from the room, but the remark was a bad sign. Stewart was in one of his less-work-more-play moods, in which he was likely to cut off healthy discussion in order to move faster through the agenda. James took his seat at the end of the long boardroom table, opposite Stewart. 1:04 p.m. Back in Mexico, it was after midnight. If he were home, he would be lying in an empty bed, hugging Layla’s pillow to inhale the scent of her face cream. An invisible claw gripped his heart and squeezed.
“I’d like to start by thanking Mr. Li Jian and his team for sharing his beautiful city with us.” Stewart nodded to the Chinese council representative, one of a half dozen who managed the China site. “Today we want to provide an update and decide our next steps for a program that’s near and dear to me, the praefuro program. James?” He sat down, his mouth curved in a wry smile.
James found Stewart’s expression to be unsettling. Was he just excited or was he hiding something?
He picked up the slide advancer. “Thank you for being here today. It’s the first time in a while that I recall seeing all twenty of us here in person. And today’s discussion couldn’t be more critical to the overall program. We’ve talked a lot about the praefuro program and some of the challenges we’ve faced with this strain. But today I want to take you back to the beginning. I want to remind you of our initial observations and how the program evolved because I think that will help all of us decide our next steps.”
He felt Stewart glaring at him as he clicked to the first slide. This history lesson was not part of the original plan.
Gasps filled the room at the bloody scene, an infirmary room with a staff member crumpled on the floor and a pregnant woman looming over him. “This is Case Study One. Lucinda was implanted with a sensus strain embryo, which as you know is a genetic model featuring enhanced intelligence. She was in her third trimester, under medical observation for minor cramping, when she viciously attacked a food service worker who was delivering a meal. The worker had just set down her tray when she grabbed the butter knife and pounced, stabbing him several times. Once the knife got too slippery to hold, she tossed it aside and proceeded to shred him using her teeth and fingernails, continuing long after he stopped moving and breathing.”
Hugo Lopez, from La Colonia near Madrid, crossed himself. It was a strange thing for a Eugenesis council member to do. How could a God-fearing Catholic participate in the blasphemy of playing God themselves?
; “When interviewed later, the carrier claimed she had an overwhelming urge to kill and simply couldn’t help herself. When we showed her a video of the attack, she vomited. But even then, she claimed—despite the gruesomeness—that she’d done the right thing. ‘He was poison,’ she said.”
The next slide showed Lucinda in an interview room.
“We isolated Lucinda and ran genetic analyses of both the fetus and the carrier. We found a genetic mutation, a variant of the original sensus strain, which we named praefuro, the Latin word for storm or rage. The mutation resulted from a mistake; CRISPR, the gene editing tool, had edited the wrong gene. It had targeted and modified a gene called MAOA, which is associated with aggression.”
Stewart was already giving him the move-it-along gesture, but James ignored him. The council wasn’t here to drink. They were here to learn and understand, then weigh in on the path forward.
“Identifying the praefuro mutation was a good first step, but the strange attack remained a mystery. We exposed the carrier to a variety of other colonists—males, females, younger, older, Black, White, and so on—but she didn’t react. Since we were unable to learn anything more, we transferred the carrier to salvage because her behavior was unpredictable.”
He clicked again to an organized lineup of animal carcasses. “Our second case was a subject named Hui-chin. Hui-chin was found eating live rabbits and mice and storing their remains in her room. She claimed she craved meat. She was tested and the same genetic mutation was found, but when we asked her if she ever felt like killing a human, she said no.”
The next slide, two corpses with dark purple rings around their necks, elicited another ripple of reaction around the table. “A month later, Hui-chin was admitted to the medical center for migraine pain, where she slaughtered two patients who were receiving IV treatments for hepatitis B. Her methodology was entirely different. She didn’t attack in an uncontrollable rage, as Lucinda had. She patiently waited outside the treatment room, making small talk with the nurses until she was alone, and then casually strangled both of them with IV tubing pulled from a drawer. When a nurse ran into the room, she immediately relinquished her hold on the tubing and apologized.”
Stewart was now thumbing his phone under the table. Good. The more distracted Stewart was, the better.
“When we questioned Hui-chin, she said the two patients were zombies and she could smell their decomposing flesh. We ran more tests and finally hypothesized that the phenotype we were seeing, expressed via these attacks, was being triggered by the presence of disease. Specifically a proliferative disease.”
All eyes but Stewart’s were on James. Pictures had a way of getting attention that plain old storytelling didn’t. Time to slide in the finishing detail. “It was determined that the food service worker attacked by the first subject, Lucinda, had previously been diagnosed with a genetic cancer.”
“Wait, cancer? That’s not a—would that be considered a proliferative disease?” asked Jack Downs, a trillionaire oil tycoon. Jack’s lack of medical background was an asset; he tended to ask clarifying questions that helped everyone at the table.
Jonathan Chambers, the council physician, answered first. “Yes. We consider any disease to be proliferative if the abnormal cells grow so rapidly that the healthy immune system can’t destroy them. Cancers are a good example. We’re also seeing the phenotype relative to viruses like HIV and HCV.”
“Exactly.” James nodded. “The discovery of the praefuro presents an ethical dilemma that comes with significant consequences.”
Stewart looked up from his phone and stiffened. He didn’t like it when James allowed the council to consider the ethics of what Eugenesis was doing. But they both knew better than to strong-arm these wealthy, influential people. The council members were ethical professionals with clarity of conscience and enough power to pull the plug on Eugenesis’ work if they didn’t like where it was headed. It was better to bring them along willingly than drag them to the next level.
“On the one hand,” James continued, “we could say that every human is equally deserving of a happy life with reproductive potential, regardless of their genetics or health. That’s the socially accepted norm in most of the world. However, because humanity’s profound medical advancements have extended the lives of those with proliferative diseases, their unfavorable genetic traits have propagated into the generations to follow. Our population continues to rise, but our species is weakening. Disease rates are climbing. We’re getting sicker. Through technology, we’ve all but halted natural selection—and the evolution of the human race.”
There was no contesting this fact. They’d all seen the data.
“On the other hand, every species since the beginning of life on earth has competed for its survival. Humans are no different. Natural selection posits that the fittest will live to procreate and the unfit will die out. This is necessary for evolutionary success. Depending on where you sit on this issue—whether you believe in protecting every human being at any cost or advancing our stalled evolutionary process—is how much of an opportunity you might see in the exploitation of the praefuro model.”
Stewart sat up straight and surveyed the others at the table before fixing his narrowed eyes on James. His expression clearly read, watch it.
James got to the point. “As Stewart so eloquently told us years ago, ‘Improving the human race means driving favorable genes into the world.’ We can all agree that the sentiment aligns with our strategy. Our broad distribution of the sensus strain offspring is our very successful first step.” He looked from face to face, gathering momentum from their attentiveness. “But we find ourselves now faced with the reciprocal opportunity, eradicating unfavorable genes from the gene pool. This is the other side of the coin, the parallel strategy for improving the fitness of the human species.”
The concept of negative eugenics wasn’t new to the council, but Stewart had painted a different picture all those years ago, harshly criticizing the vision of Adolf Hitler of being profoundly misdirected. Yet, here they all were, creating their own definition of unfit to justify their actions and realize their vision.
But the council had to remember that the praefuro were killers. Killers of disease, sure, but also killers of human beings. Someone’s mother, someone’s spouse. He wanted to say those words aloud, but if he did, Stewart would see clearly which side of the ethical dilemma he’d chosen.
“So, I’ll ask the council again, are you in favor of continued development of the praefuro model?”
Not one person in the room spoke up against the idea. Every head nodded except the impassive Li Jian’s. James hoped he wasn’t speaking too fast for him to follow.
Seeing the flock of bobbing heads, Stewart relaxed back into his chair and returned to his phone.
The council’s reaction left him feeling utterly deflated, and he fought the impulse to slump over the table. He had hoped the immorality of killing people might be enough to slow the whole program down. Discord among the council would require time to settle. Weeks probably. And those precious weeks would get him closer to his reversion therapy.
“Very good, then.” Moving on to Plan B.
“Our next discussion and decision is around the implementation of the strategy. The reason I described the two cases, Lucinda and Hui-chin, is to demonstrate the unpredictability of the rage effect.”
Stewart’s eyes shot back up. James was moving into uncharted territory, and Stewart hadn’t approved this level of transparency. He specifically didn’t want concrete data presented to the council.
“At the moment, we’re seeing that carriers with the mutant gene aren’t expressing the rage behavior in the same way,” James said. “Lucinda’s vicious brain stem rage attack represents the choleric extreme. Or in lay terms, Lucinda is a rager. Hui-chin’s more thoughtful, calculated attack is the phlegmatic extreme. She’s known as a predator. If only it were that simple.” He clicked the slide advancer and pulled up a scatterplot. “This is the cur
rent state of our praefuro carriers, including early data on those who’ve undergone praefuro cord tissue transplants. What we learn from this plot is that time and aggression are inversely correlated. If a praefuro has a slower predatory phase before the kill, they tend to have a less aggressive attack. The opposite is also true. The more driven they are to kill quickly, the more brutal the slaughter. This is consistent across gender, race, and age.”
He pointed his laser at the middle of the scatter plot, the area with the most dots. “But our praefuro don’t fall perfectly into two camps, the ragers and the predators, as you’ve been told in the past. Most fall in the middle, between the two. It’s a sliding scale. So ethically and practically, where do we draw the line? Which praefuro carriers do we believe are safe to send into the world to fulfill their mission and propagate? The top ten percent of the more thoughtful, less aggressive predators? The top half?”
“Why are we even having this discussion?” General Harding, a retired five-star general from the US Army, was by far the most influential person in the room, and most votes tended to follow his view on any topic. “Who said anything about sending them out into the world? How do we know that even the best of them will destroy our true gene pool enemies? We don’t even know the whole list of diseases.”
Exactly! James wanted to hug him.
“I agree.” Jack Downs leaned in on his elbows, his face drawn with deep concern. “I think it’s far too early to be asking this question, James.”
Stewart flinched, and James felt his own confidence returning. Jack’s funding of the program was essential. If Jack pulled out, the program would slow significantly.
James pretended to be surprised by the dissension. “Well, folks, like any experimental program, we need to start collecting real-world data. Simulations can only get us so far.”