The global response to this crisis was to seek newer and more powerful forms of weaponry. Some governments poured resources into nuclear research, but most turned to biological weapons.
This, as Malcolm explained to David, was where the history grew murky. The written record of history before the Great Genetic War had remained intact, and some fifty years after the War, it resumed again, as civilization began to reform and rebuild. But the conflict itself had been so complete and so devastating that little evidence of it remained in the form of journalism or private eyewitness accounts. Nearly everyone and anyone who could have reported on what was happening perished. The world went dark and silent for more than half a century.
It was known that a powerful government—likely that of the former United States of America—had developed a virus that carried mRNA molecules engineered to interrupt gene expression. When the virus infected an organism, it released its mRNA cargo, which in turn wreaked havoc on cellular replication in the organism’s body. In short, the researchers had developed a means of weaponizing genetic mutation.
The infected organism’s cells, mutated by the rogue mRNA, would sabotage the organism from the inside, attacking its healthy cells even as the mRNA worked to create more mutated attack cells, which in turn devastated more healthy cells. The effects were exponential, so that within mere minutes of the mRNA’s release, the organism’s body would devour itself. As cell after cell turned on its fellows and subsumed them, the organism’s body simply disappeared. It vanished without a trace, erased by the super-infection within it.
This virus was initially blood-borne, and the government researchers who had developed it seemed to have intended for it to be deployed via insects such as mosquitos. There was some evidence that they had even begun such a deployment in key, terror-blighted regions. And there was also evidence that they had begun a top-secret line of experimentation to render the virus airborne—not because they ever wanted to use it in its indiscriminately deadly airborne form, but because such a powerful weapon could act as a deterrent, the implicit threat of its mere existence stifling terrorist activities.
The gamble went horribly awry. Oral histories of the Great Genetic War, passed down by its few survivors, recounted that the lab where this killer virus was developed was somehow breached by a terrorist organization. The virus was stolen, and—whether purposefully or accidentally—released. Replicating in the air, it traveled from host to host, the bodies of whom were obliterated by their own cells within minutes.
The virus spread rapidly and globally, and the devastation was total.
When the virus was released, there had been close to fifteen billion human beings on the planet, and by the time it had run its course, there were perhaps ten or twenty million, a comparative handful of survivors lucky enough to carry natural immunity.
And perhaps most horrifying of all was that there was no sign left behind of what had been lost. Because of the nature of the virus, no bodies remained. The one percent of one percent of humans who survived on the earth found themselves completely, cataclysmically alone.
Streets howled with soundlessness. Entire cities were emptied. Swaths of countryside were uninterrupted by vehicles or voices.
It is hardly surprising, then, that those who remained rarely, if ever, spoke of what had happened. Very slowly, over years and then decades, the survivors began to find each other and regroup in small pockets around the globe, quivering with horror and hope.
The virus had left many organisms less complex than humans unscathed. And so there was food: produce and even livestock. And there was infrastructure. The Great Genetic War had been fought without a single bomb or bullet. Buildings remained just as they had always been. The advancements of civilization, too, were preserved. Among the survivors were teachers, engineers, chemists, mechanics, people with all manner of skills. Over the course of about fifty years, they journeyed out, found one another, and began to reorganize. They shared their knowledge; they relearned what had been lost; and they began to reestablish networks of communication and electrical power, along with systems of government, education, and criminal justice.
The resettled cities were Flint, Detroit, Atlanta, and a handful of others across the Atlantic and the Pacific. Few of the post-war colonists traveled outside of their cities once these pockets of civilization had been reestablished. There were roving bands of outlaws in the unregulated expanses of land between the settlements. And, worse, there was evidence of the enormity of what had been lost. As the decades passed, from time to time, adventurers would return to Flint to report devastating sights of the places that remained abandoned and uninhabited: the United States Capitol dome overgrown with moss, the Sears Tower shifting precariously on its foundation.
But few actually took much interest in these forgotten places and prewar customs. The abruptness and violence of the virus meant that the Great Genetic War became literally unspeakable for those who remained. There was the time before the war and the time after, and a great, gaping nothingness in between.
And, to reinforce this chasm, came the fact that humanity after the war was radically changed. This is not merely to say that people were psychologically affected by the horror that they had witnessed—although they certainly were. But, more pressingly, they were literally, biologically altered. During the few months that humanity had to try to respond to the rapid spread of the virus, governments had thrown whatever they could in its path. The United States was not the only nation engaged in high-level genetic engineering for the purpose of creating weaponry. As the virus tore its relentless course across the planet, first governments, then loosely organized militias, and finally lone scientists acting as private citizens had tried their best to stop it. There was no hope of treating a person who was already infected—their complete demise was virtually instantaneous. But there had been attempts to stop the virus’s spread through the air, with chemical and biological antigens.
That was how the conflict had ultimately taken its name: the Great Genetic War. The time of the viral outbreak had been characterized by wild, last-ditch-effort releases of all manner of chemical and organic substances into the atmosphere. As the rogue mRNA devastated the population, scientists responded with increasingly potent genetically based antidotes, releasing airborne proteins, mRNA, and DNA indiscriminately. And those who survived the virus began to find that curious things had happened to them—or would happen to their offspring—as a result of their exposure to these substances.
Mutation was common, and in the drastically reduced human population of the postwar era, its propagation was accelerated. Some of the mutations—physical deformities, susceptibility to cancers and immunological deficiencies—disappeared within a generation or two, as they were so severe as to prevent reproduction. But, in the centuries and generations that followed the War, one mutation emerged with obvious staying power, ultimately redefining what it meant to be human.
This mutation was immortality.
“Wait,” David said, setting his coffee mug down on the table with a loud clack. This was the first time in several hours that he had interrupted Malcolm’s story.
“You’re telling me that humans in 2524 have evolved the capacity to live forever?”
“Yes,” Malcolm returned pointedly. His gaze was frank and steady. He was in no joking mood.
“How?” David asked. He had listened patiently to the history of a war so horrific—so evil—that he was not yet prepared to fully imagine it. But immortality? This was starting to surpass his powers of comprehension.
Malcolm gave him a gentle, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Dad. It’s not harmful. Actually . . . it’s really cool.”
Malcolm went on to explain that human beings—through a mutation that had consistently, doggedly reproduced over the course of a few short postwar generations—had developed a new, curious link between their brain functioning and the rest of their physiology. And the mutation was so strong that by 2524, the year in which David and
Malcolm had entered the future, it was carried by every single human being on the planet.
This particular genetic variation took the profound, well-documented link between a healthy mind and a healthy body and amplified it exponentially. For the people of Ethos, a strong psychology literally meant a strong body—a body so strong that it could not be degraded by use and time. A body so strong that it would live forever. The human beings of Ethos, of the twenty-sixth century, were born as human beings had always been born and matured through childhood and adolescence in the tried and true way. But when they reached late adolescence or early adulthood, when their selfhoods were beginning to coalesce, a strange thing happened.
Some among them found psychological surety. They found meaning in their lives and strength of character and purpose. They understood who they were and what they were meant to do in the world. In short, they found their ethos. This mental resolve translated directly, literally, into the immortality of their bodies.
When a young adult found his or her ethos, he or she became Immortal.
But many failed to find ethos. And without the steadiness and resolve of their minds to fortify their bodies, their bodies continued to age, as human bodies have always aged since the dawn of history. Those who did not identify an ethos were susceptible to degeneration and death.
They were Bereft.
“Okay,” David said slowly. “You’re telling me that in Ethos, once young people feel like they have a reason to be alive, they live forever?”
Malcolm gave a half-smile. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good way of putting it.”
“But that’s—how is that possible?”
“When you find your ethos,” Malcolm said, “there’s a profound shift in your mind. And the people of the future, they understand that the mind isn’t some abstract thing. It’s rooted in our biology. It’s a physiological thing. And so that shift in the brain chemistry, it shifts the resilience of the body. And you become Immortal.”
“You literally live . . . forever?”
“Yes.” Malcolm paused. “Well—not quite. If an Immortal loses his ethos, if he forgets it or does something that violates it, he has contradicted that sense of sureness in his mind, and that, too, will profoundly influence the body. So, if an Immortal breaks his ethos, he loses his immortality, and he dies within a day. We call this becoming one of the Fallen.”
David gasped. “That’s a harsh sentence,” he said.
“It’s a natural law, not a human one,” Malcolm said simply.
“And . . . the Bereft? They grow old and die, just like we do here in 2024?”
“Yes,” Malcolm said. “They get degenerative diseases like cancer or organ failure. Or they just die of old age. There is virtually no illness among Immortals—the researchers of Ethos have found antigens for all viral and bacterial infections, and even if they hadn’t, Immortal bodies are strong enough to heal themselves within a few days. We don’t get degenerative diseases. And we don’t age.”
David was staring at Malcolm, his mouth hanging slightly open.
“What, Dad?” Malcolm asked, returning his gaze quizzically.
“You said ‘we’.”
“Of course,” Malcolm said, with a hint of pride. “I’m an Immortal. I thought you knew.”
“How did you . . . I mean, when did you—”
“You mean what’s my ethos? It was easy, really. I discovered that the VR system was a portal to Ethos. I started traveling back and forth between 2024 and 2524, and I learned about the conflict between Flint and Detroit. I met some Immortal combatants who were leading a raid against Detroit, and I went with them. Their unit commander was killed—I watched it happen—and something in me just kind of took over. I led the unit out of danger and back to Flint. And I just knew. I’m here to lead in righteous battle. I felt it in my whole body the moment the realization hit me—it was like a surge of heat or blood or something, running through my arms and legs. And I knew I had an ethos, and I was an Immortal.”
David leaned his forehead into his palm. “Hold on a minute, Malcolm. You just said the Immortal commander was killed. How can that be if he’s Immortal?”
“There are only two ways we can die,” Malcolm answered. “We can break our ethos and become Fallen. Or we can be wounded. Usually our wounds heal rapidly and are not life threatening. But we can die from catastrophic wounds. Usually to the head or heart.”
David swallowed. “Then it’s not safe for you to return to Ethos,” he said.
Malcolm leaned forward in his chair. “Dad,” he said quietly, “it’s not about me. It’s bigger than my life. There is a war between the Immortals of Flint and the Immortals of Detroit, and we believe that they have manufactured chemical weapons far more powerful than anything that surfaced during the Great Genetic War. Chemical weapons that can harm Immortals and Bereft alike.”
David was silent, almost mesmerized by what Malcolm was saying and the intensity with which he was saying it.
“The Great Genetic War very nearly ended history,” Malcolm said. “And humanity got through it—somehow. We can’t let the Warped Immortals bring all of us to an end, not after Ethos has survived so much. I have to go back. It’s my life’s purpose to make this right.”
“The—the Warped Immortals?” David repeated.
“Immortality is a physiological response,” Malcolm said. “It’s the body’s response to certain neural activity that happens when people feel confident in and at ease with their ethos in life. And that neurological condition happens no matter what the ethos is. Immortality isn’t, like, a moral reward; it’s just a neurological condition. So there are people who find an ethos that’s about doing good . . . and there are people who find one that’s about doing harm. We’re all equally Immortal. We call the Immortals with a negative ethos the Warped Immortals. They’ve gathered in Detroit. We’ve gathered in Flint. And we can’t both survive this conflict.
“The people in 2524, they can’t understand the way things are today, here in 2024. The fact that so much—all—conflict today has its roots in these arbitrary divisions between human beings: race, religion, national boundaries . . . that makes no sense to the people of Ethos. When they think about the fact that humanity was almost brought to extinction during the Great Genetic War because of those ridiculous tensions, they can’t even believe it.
“Because, in 2524, all people live peacefully together—you saw what it’s like in the Flint of the future. Every race, every creed is welcome and respected. For the first time in history, in Ethos, human beings have the opportunity to become truly unified, to work together for the betterment of everyone. The Warped Immortals are in opposition to that vision. They’re the only thing standing in the way of making Ethos completely egalitarian, completely democratic, completely utopian. They’re not just standing in the way; they’re actively dismantling our work and harming innocent people. They have to be stopped.”
David felt his heart quickening in his chest. “So—there’s going to be some kind of armed offensive against them?”
A flicker of uncertainty passed across Malcolm’s face. He looked down at the mug in his hands, its coffee long since gone cold, before he spoke.
“Dad, I want to tell you about it. In fact, I think you might be able to help me. But I’m worried about your association with Rebel Commander Nev. The Bereft Rebels are a serious problem in Flint.”
David blinked. He was not expecting this. The idea that Malcolm might mistrust him made his heart seize. But in the same instant, he felt a surge of defensiveness. Nev had been kind to him—more than that, she had saved his life. He chafed at hearing that bold, skilled woman summed up as a “problem.”
“You just said a moment ago,” David began slowly, “that all people live peacefully and democratically together in Flint. So what is this disdain you have for Bereft people?”
Malcolm shook his head emphatically. “No, no,” he said. “You don’t understand. It’s not disdain at all, Dad. It’s more like . . .
protectiveness. Bereft people are mortal because they haven’t found an ethos, because they don’t have a sense of direction and drive. They’re just wandering, aimless. Without Immortal law and order, who knows what would become of them? Without Immortals running Flint’s government and schools and businesses, the Bereft would be . . . well, bereft. They wouldn’t be able to sustain themselves. They need us to protect them. That’s why the Bereft Rebellion is so dangerous. I mean, the Bereft are susceptible to so much already—disease, death—and along comes this rebellion putting ideas in their heads, turning them against the Immortals who protect them, and subjecting them to danger. We’re trying to focus on the conflict with Detroit, and this rebellion is a distraction and a nuisance.”
Something wasn’t sitting right with David. The way that Malcolm was characterizing Nev and her people didn’t fit at all with what David had experienced of her. Aimless? Hardly. David had never seen anyone more capable or resolute.
But something kept him from protesting. It was the urgency in Malcolm’s voice, the intensity of his gaze. He had never seen his son so sure, so confident. He was fully convinced that Malcolm had indeed found an ethos so powerful that it had rendered him almost invincible. And he saw, too, that Malcolm’s ethos was worthy. He was proud to hear his son standing up against the Warped Immortals, this shadowy force that seemed to stand for nothing but destruction and evil. This was exactly the young man he hoped his son would become. How could he begrudge him the right to stand in his own power and truth?
“All right,” David said gently, trying a different tack. “I see. But . . . you have to remember, I am Bereft. Do you see me as aimless and a distraction?”
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