Johnny knew all of this but thought none of it as he approached Mount Tabor in the armored SUV. He fixated on his contribution, his genius, the scope of his accomplishment relative to his two peers, who would share equally in a new company, a firm holding assets almost beyond valuation. He considered how to approach Arjun Khan, the gatekeeper to the nascent enterprise.
His work spoke for itself. He had modeled the entire journey of the human genome on its way from the womb to fully realized adulthood, a span of about twenty years. He could take the genome of any infant and watch it evolve from newborn to young adult. He knew when certain sequences shut down, when others activated. He fully synthesized the role of the so-called epigenetic factors, which dictated which genes were expressed at what time. Johnny knew it all; he had extracted the organizing principles. Equally important, he knew how to encode it into a set of computer algorithms.
His research contract with the Institute for the Study of Genetic Disorders up at the Medplex had provided the platform for his work. The research there focused heavily on gene-driven maladies that express themselves in childhood. How do you find which genes cause a specific disease? How do you reveal the host of regulating elements that accompany them? And once you’ve found it all, how do you do the repair work? A stupendously complicated challenge, and needless to say, Johnny’s work was absolutely essential to solving the problem. But there were other fundamental issues: How do you package the replacement genes for introduction into the patient? How do you transport them to the nuclei of the affected cells? His two peers had taken on these challenges with Institute research contracts similar to his own, and with equal success.
But to Dr. John Anslow, their work is a sideshow, a set of procedural issues, all dependent on his sweeping achievement, which provided the Rosetta stone between human growth and genetics. You could now put all a person’s genes in a computer and slide the dial of time backward and forward at will. You could see what went right, what went wrong. You could see when and how. You could see what to fix and what to leave alone.
It was worth more than a third. He was sure of it. He had deliberated the matter deeply and passionately. But would Arjun think he was grandstanding? The plane to New York was scheduled to leave late this afternoon, and he was just now digging in his heels. As an engineer, Arjun was probably as brilliant as Johnny was as a scientist. A native of India, he was charged with converting all of their research into a workable technology, one that could be replicated and operated by those less gifted.
The driver turns onto Sixtieth and Johnny peers up into the trees lining the western slope of Mount Tabor. A complex web of global corporations deliberately obscures its ownership. Its management operates in permanent shadow, answerable only to what the spin people call an “investment group.” Arjun is as high up the food chain as anyone has ever seen, but Johnny doubts that he’s even close to being in charge.
Especially when you considered the Other Application.
That’s what he and his two peers call it. Only they and Arjun and Crampton at the Institute know its full extent. It resides in a squat building high up the slopes of Mount Tabor, with heavily restricted and compartmentalized access. All the other buildings on the dead volcano are dedicated to its care and feeding. Computer complexes, chemistry labs, robotics facilities. All march to the anonymous tune of the Other Application. All except the fortified residence that occupies the summit.
The driver approaches the secured access point on Salmon Street, with its barbed wire, blast barrier, concrete bunkers, and steel gate. The neighborhood on the far side has been replaced by a small military facility, which houses security people and their gear.
A small knot of demonstrators stands across the street. Street Party people. They work in shifts. They wave provocative signs, hand-lettered and homespun. “Tell Us the Truth About Tabor.” “Give Our Park Back!” “Bring Down the Tabor Pigs!” “It’s Time for the Next Eruption.” They shake their fists, thrust their placards, and yell at the SUV.
If only they knew, Johnny thinks. A guard with a slung combat weapon scans his lobe and the driver’s. They are quickly cleared. Johnny has priority access. The gate opens and they start up. A reservoir passes below them, a flat-bottomed basin of concrete now devoid of water. Two helicopters nestle within it, secure from observation.
They wind upward through a pair of switchbacks until they reach a windowless cement structure with a single entrance and a small parking lot leading to a loading dock. The building burrows back into the hillside and the shadows of the overhead fir boughs obscure its surface. No signage identifies it. No signage identifies anything up here. Johnny exits and the driver departs. Vehicles are forbidden to loiter here. Multiple cameras track him as he reaches the entrance and a big steel door swings open of its own volition.
Johnny enters the environs of the Other Application. To his left, a corridor done in monolithic cement stretches for a hundred feet. A river of pipe and electrical conduit flows along the high ceiling, and the inner wall is punctuated by a series of doors. A number, stenciled in sans serif, gives each room its only identity. Each is configured to hold a single patient, along with a maze of tubing, wiring, transducers, monitoring instruments, drug dispensers, and cameras.
They were volunteers, Johnny always has to remind himself. They gave informed consent. They knew the risks. They glimpsed the rewards. It was all done properly.
Or so he was told.
“Dr. Anslow. Nice to see you.”
Arjun Khan has come out of his office to Johnny’s right. Close to seventy, he is slightly stooped and anonymously dressed in dark gray slacks, loafers, and a blue oxford shirt. “Let’s use the conference room. Would you like something to drink?”
Johnny declines and they head down a short hall to the right. “Are you looking forward to New York?” Arjun asks.
“That all depends.”
Khan nods his head thoughtfully as they enter the conference room and sit. “I understand.”
“Look, Arjun, you of all people have to understand my position. You’ve watched the whole thing go together. My work is the platform, the bedrock. It all rests on my work.”
Arjun nods. “Yes, you can most certainly make that case. But you have to understand your timing is something less than impeccable. The deal has been all prepared and reviewed. Your trip is really just a ceremony to sign the final documents and then have a little fun on the town.”
“I know that, and I’m sorry. But I’ve given it a lot of thought. I’ve given it more than a lot of thought. Parity among the contributors simply isn’t fair. At least half the contributor equity should go to me. It’s only right.”
“So what’s this all about, John? Is it about power? The investors retain the controlling interest and that’s not going to change. Is it about money? Well, you’ll have more money than you ever imagined.” Arjun leans forward. “Be reasonable. We’ve kept this thing in a state of absolute secrecy to control the timing. We have to move quickly to stay on schedule and roll it out in the proper manner.”
“It’s not about power, it’s not about money. It’s about who did what to make this happen. The deal has to be changed. I’m not signing unless it’s changed. I’m not even getting on the plane until I have a guarantee.”
Arjun sighs and rises. “I see. Wait here, please.”
He leaves and Johnny gets up and starts to nervously circle the conference table. With each orbit, his agitation rises. He should have asked for even more. Maybe he should have demanded two thirds. Or a seat on the board of directors. He should even be chairman.
Arjun returns. He seems relaxed and potentially agreeable. “Come with me.”
They cross the hall and Arjun unlocks a door to a long hallway. At the far end is an open elevator. Johnny visually orients himself. They are moving deeper into the hillside. When they reach the elevator, Arjun presses a single unmarked button. They step in and the elevator moves slowly upward. Very slowly.
On the wa
y up, Johnny does some spatial calculations and realizes where they’re going. The summit, the giant residence on the mountaintop, a place billed as a corporate retreat. But which corporation? Somehow, it has something to do with the investors, but precisely what seems lost in a fog of disinformation.
The doors open, and a security guard in a black blazer scans both their lobes. They move down a hall and into an enormous living room with a view toward the river and downtown. Persian rugs cover a floor of bamboo. Custom furniture merges into a perfect assemblage to accommodate the space. An eclectic range of paintings adorns the walls, each work masterful in its own right.
But it all fades before the figure sitting on the couch.
It’s him. Johnny knows it instantly. He’s the one. It’s all about him.
He verges on impossibly old, with a white, hairless skull, paper skin, and eyes nearly extinguished.
“John, I’d like you to meet the director,” Arjun says as the old man extends his bone of hand without rising.
Johnny gently grasps the cool, dry flesh, nearly devoid of muscle. “Nice to meet you.” The director? Who the hell is he? What’s his name? Where did he come from?
“And it’s nice to meet you, Dr. Anslow. I’ve been a fan of your work for a very long time.” His voice is a dry whisper. His lungs no longer expel sufficient air to maintain normal speech.
“Thank you. And I assume that means you understand its significance.” Johnny should be careful about what he says. But the manic bulge inside him swells relentlessly as he takes a seat next to the old man.
Thomas Zed nods. “Absolutely. And I’m afraid I must apologize. We should have made proper allowances for your achievements right from the start, and obviously we didn’t. So I’m going to ask you to enter into a gentleman’s agreement with me. If you make that flight this afternoon, I’ll contact New York and make sure the deal is modified to give you half of the contributors’ equity. It’ll be done by morning and ready to sign. Agreed?”
Johnny hesitates only for an appropriate moment. “Agreed.”
Johnny now understands why the elevator moves at such a feeble crawl as he and Arjun descend back toward the building below. The old man can’t tolerate anything faster.
“He’s beaten the Gompertz curve, hasn’t he?” Johnny refers to a mathematical function that defines the extreme limits of human life.
“As a matter of fact, he has,” Arjun replies, but says no more.
From Arjun’s answer, Johnny knows that the director is at least 125 years old.
The ultimate test for the Other Application.
***
Two pairs of Bad Boys come down the hall from opposite directions, hands shoved in the pockets of their car coats.
Lane stands in front of his apartment door. So much for building security.
The Bad Boys stop a few steps away, out of swinging range. One of them nods at Lane’s door. “It’s open. Go on in.”
“And why would I want to do that?” Lane asks.
“The Bird wants to see you.”
Lane stares at the man. If they’re going to kill or maim him, better to do it inside than out here. Still, he stands no chance against four of them. He’ll just have to play it by ear. He twists the handle. Sure enough, the lock mechanism has been defeated.
He opens his door to see the Bird sitting in his easy chair watching the Feed. The man wears a meticulously tailored suit cut in the Shanghai style with the narrow lapels. A perfect knot cinches a silk tie around a starched white shirt collar.
The Bird turns toward Lane’s entrance and smiles. “Mr. Anslow. It’s high time we met. I’ve been watching your work for some time. You’re good. Very good.”
Lane sits down on his couch opposite the Bird. His face is a racial composite that defies any particular ethnicity. Dark brown hair, yellowish eyes, coffee skin. You saw that everywhere now.
“Thanks,” Lane replies flatly.
“Like this latest thing, with the bank and the mint. How long did it take you to put that together?”
“Couple of weeks.”
Bird shakes his head in mock disbelief. “Amazing. Simply amazing.”
Lane sags. The Bird wouldn’t be so sanguine about this if the bank and the mint were really in jeopardy. He’d made some kind of deal inside city hall.
“You know, I hate to see someone with your talent going to waste with this contract cop bullshit. You need to be thinking about your future, about doing your best work, the work you’ll be remembered for.”
“And what kind of work might that be?” Lane asks.
“I run a business,” the Bird says. “It used to be a small business. Back then, things were simple. But now it’s a much bigger business, and things have gotten complicated. Really complicated. So I need smart people, senior people to make it run right. People I can trust, people with a sense of integrity.” The Bird paused. “I guess you could say I need people like you.”
“I guess you could,” Lane has to be careful. If he disrespects the Bird in front of his men, this whole civilized façade will come to an abrupt and violent end.
“I think you’re somewhat undervalued in your present position. Besides, they’re probably about ready to cut you out of the deck. Permanently.”
“Oh yeah? You know something I don’t?”
“Nope. I think we both know the same thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“You’re getting old.”
Lane’s insides choke. It isn’t the reply he expected. It’s the truth. He looks away from the Bird and out the window.
The Bird takes up the slack. “So you must be pushing fifty, right? You need to forget about this street shit and assume some kind of executive position. Problem is, with the city, all those jobs got gobbled up a long time ago. So where does that leave you? No gig, pension, no nothing. Street people.”
“Maybe so,” Lane replies. It’s the best he can do.
The Bird rises. He’s in his early forties and his legs power him effortlessly out of the chair. “You think on it, okay? Just think on it. That’s all I ask.”
He motions his men toward the door, and just like that, they’re gone.
Lane doesn’t get up. He doesn’t reclaim his easy chair. He settles back and closes his eyes.
The damage has been done. He sinks into a black fog.
***
Dr. John Anslow doesn’t like being put on hold. He’s reminded of this as he rolls his suitcase out of the World Flight building at Hillsboro Airport. He listens to his earpiece for some kind of apologetic response, but hears only a light sprinkle of static. The others are already on the small jet, whose twin engines moan in repose. He’s waited as long as he can.
One of the ground crew accepts his bag as he climbs the stairs to the interior and takes a seat up front by the door. His two peers sit aft, reading. None of them share any personal bond, so travel is a muted affair.
The woman in New York finally comes back on the line. “Dr. Anslow, I’m sorry. I’ve checked with the lead attorney. We don’t seem to have any communication regarding a change in the documents.”
“You’re sure about that? You’re absolutely sure?”
“Yes, I am. I’m sorry. Do you want to check back later?”
Johnny breaks the connection. He clenches his fists in his lap. He’s been screwed. Or maybe worse.
He manages to downshift his emotional gears and methodically reviews the course of his communication with New York. He’d decided he wanted to review the modified legal documents during the flight. Not wanting any surprises during tomorrow’s meeting, he phoned the law firm and requested that the documents be sent to his email as an attachment. They never showed up. He phoned back. They stalled. He just now phoned again and finally got the truth, probably by mistake.
He looks back at his peers, lost in their technical journals. Just the two of them. And nine empty seats of handcrafted leather.
He bolts up out of his seat and whirls to th
e flight attendant, who sits by the cabin door. “I want off. Right now.”
“But sir …”
“Tell ’em up front I’m getting off. Right now. Do it.”
The woman looks stricken and grabs the intercom phone. The two scientists in the rear look up toward the commotion but keep their distance. Dr. John Anslow’s emotional issues were well known.
Johnny cranks the cabin door open as the attendant jabbers with the crew in the cockpit. Daylight and fresh air stream in. Johnny sits on edge of the cabin floor, pushes off, and leaps to the tarmac. He briskly walks away without looking back.
***
The sniper perches on a branch sprouting from a lanky fir tree and plants her weapon across a second branch at chest height. It gives her a clean line of sight across the expressway below to the end of the runway, about 250 yards distant. A thick line of alders shields her position from the passing traffic.
She adjusts her gear, an M24 bolt-action rifle joined to a 10-power telescopic sight. She uses a laser range finder to calculate the distance. A fairly simple shot, especially with a light breeze. Her watch reads slightly after four P.M., and she understands that the departure time for this noncommercial flight is somewhat variable. She moves the scope up off the runway and downfield to the designated aviation center. The plane sits motionless on the tarmac. She comes up off the rifle, reaches into her fanny pack, and retrieves a can of high-energy drink. It’s still slightly cold and goes down nicely. She deserves it. Tree work is never easy.
She checks her watch again. 4:20 P.M. There’s been some kind of delay. She once again trains her scope on the aviation center. Good. The plane is moving. It’s on the taxiway and rolling toward her end of runway at the southeast end of the airport. She readies her gear for a shot at the tire under the right wing.
The Forever Man: A Near-Future Thriller Page 4