by JC Ryan
Carmen understood the words, but not the meaning. She didn’t understand the cruel laughter that Ahab had injected into his speech. But her hopes lifted when he said ‘fun’. Like most dolphins, except the old ones, she thought, she loved to have fun. Fun with land-humans was some of the best kind.
“Could I have some food first?” she asked. “If you’ll help me get out of this net, I’ll get my own.”
“There you go squeaking again. Told you I can’t understand you.”
Then he did something, and a small sun suddenly shone in her eyes. “That hurts,” she said. “Please make it stop.”
It didn’t stop. Carmen had closed her eyes, but when she heard him moving, she opened them again. He had stepped into the light, and her fear surged as she recognized the bad land-human. She began to thrash in the net again.
“Oh, you know who I am now, do you? Tell me. Do you know the way to where the Minotaurs live? If you’ll show me, I won’t have to hurt you anymore. Although, that won’t be any fun for me. Frankly, I’d rather hurt you.”
Carmen struggled to understand what he meant. Hurting her was fun? Maybe she didn’t understand fun, or maybe he didn’t. She didn’t know the word Minotaur, but it gave her an ugly feeling. Did he mean the monsters that ate land-humans? Maybe she should show him. While they ate him, she could get away.
A feeling she didn’t recognize made every cell of her body tingle. Her mother could have told her it was shame, but she’d had no reason to describe shame to Carmen. Dolphins had little use for the concept. Only when they could help each other, or a land-human, and chose not to. That didn’t happen often. Hurting a land-human was unthinkable. After all, they were an intelligent species, like dolphins. And they were just now beginning to regain the full range of their intelligence and realize they weren’t alone.
Her mother had hope that she could train them not to accidentally catch dolphins in their nets, for example. But Carmen thought this land-human was not as intelligent as others she’d met. He couldn’t understand her, and he was angry all the time. Perhaps he was angry because he was not as smart as other humans, even other land-humans. There were dolphins like that. Not as smart as most of their kind. In fact, those were the ones who got caught in nets.
Carmen’s thoughts had wandered, but she watched the land-human even while she was thinking of other things. And then, she heard her mother!
Carmen, where are you?
Mother! I’m in a cave. The bad land-human is here. He can’t understand me. I’m hungry, Mother.
What cave?
I don’t know. He brought me here while I was asleep, I think. I’m in a net, and I can’t get out to hunt. I can’t get under the water, either. He has a little sun, and he asked me if I know where the Minotaur is. And he wants to talk to you. Mother, what’s a Minotaur?
A picture of the monster that ate land-humans entered her mind.
That’s what I thought, she answered. I will lead him there. The Minotaur will eat him.
No, my daughter. You must not do that. Keep talking to me. We will find you and help you get away. Sunhead’s mate is here helping us. Be brave.
Carmen continued to describe her whereabouts and what the land-human was doing until he showed her his weapon.
Mother! He’s going to strike me with his weapon again!
Daughter, it may hurt, but he will not kill you. He wants me to lead him, and you know I cannot. If he lets the monsters loose, it will harm many land-humans. But we’re searching for you.
The land-human spoke to her. “This will tickle. I don’t want it to be too much for you, yet. Put on a good act for your mother. Say cheese.”
Carmen didn’t know what cheese was and couldn’t have said it if she had. Nor did she understand the word tickle. When the weapon touched her, her whole body felt hot and then cold, and she convulsed. Mother, it hurts!
We’re coming, my child. Keep talking. We’ll find you.
AHAB WAS A bit disappointed in the result of his first video. He’d expected the dolphin to make a sound when the stun gun hit her. Whatever the dolphin equivalent of a scream was. Instead, she’d just had a short seizure. She seemed none the worse for wear, but he didn’t know enough about dolphins to risk stunning her again so soon.
The game would not be as much fun if she died too soon. And he’d stand the risk of losing the mother, as well. No, he had to keep this one alive until the mother showed up. He’d set up some live feed equipment near the entrance to the cave where he’d found the young one patrolling. If she didn’t come soon, he’d have to go and find her. She was probably still hanging out near Devereux’s boat.
He’d prefer not to go near there again. Too much risk of exposure, and Devereux knew him. He’d have to kill Devereux if they met face to face. Better to avoid that. Killing was for sport, but killing Devereux felt like a bigger risk than Ahab wanted to take.
MERRYBETH SURFACED NEAR Carter’s boat a few minutes after she’d sent her last message to Carmen. No one was on deck, but Merrybeth knew they were inside the land-human caves on top of the boat. She hailed them by leaping and splashing while whistling Carter’s individual identification whistle over and over. She was rewarded by seeing him running out of the door and to the side rail immediately.
“What is it, Merrybeth?” he called.
The device broadcast her answer in land-human. “I have heard from Carmen! The bad land-human has her. He is hurting her. He wants her or me to lead him to the land-shark thing.”
“Merrybeth, maybe you should.”
“No, Carter. If I do what he wants, he will kill Carmen anyway, and the monster will be loose among you. We must find them and stop him.”
“Can you locate her?”
“I can, if she can continue to send communications. But we must hurry!”
“We’ll follow you.”
17
“MACKENZIE, I NEED to show you something.” Her veterinarian seemed grave.
“Is it urgent? I’m in the middle of something,” she replied, already thinking how she could rearrange the rest of her day if what he had to show her was bad news.
“No, not urgent. But important.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.” Mackenzie had turned most of the administrative work over to her admin assistant and was happy she’d thought of it. It was important work, but not her forte and not exciting to her. However, some things still needed her attention. Today it was her signature on several food orders to be delivered on the next milk run from the States, and authorizations on supplies for her lab. At least she didn’t have to worry about all of them being necessary and within budget. Her admin assistant was a jewel and completely trustworthy.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, Mom,” she told her.
Mary smiled. “That’s all I need you for today, dear. I’ll be at our cabin if you want me to do anything else.”
“Thanks, Mom. And thanks for applying for this position. I don’t know if I could have trusted anyone else, at least not so quickly.”
“I’m happy to do it. I was a little bored, now that both of the children are in school and I didn’t have their company all day.”
“What about Dad?” Mackenzie teased. She knew that her parents were still deeply in love but could get on each other’s nerves if they were together twenty-four/seven. Besides, her dad was documenting everything Ahote and Bly could tell him about life in their tribe when they were children. He was often away from the cabin all day. Mackenzie suspected he and Ahote were getting in more fishing than documentation.
Mary grinned. “Your dad is good company, but I’m a career woman. And I’m not ready to be put out to pasture.”
“I can’t imagine you ever being ready for that, Mom,” Mackenzie answered. “I’d love to chat more, but I’m needed in the vet lab. See you tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
Mackenzie waved as she left her office and walked purposefully down the hall. She walked into the lab with five minutes to
spare on her half-hour promise.
Ten minutes later, she had a lot to think about. She would need to call an all-staff meeting for early the next day to discuss the ethical situation their progress on the respirocytes had put them in.
“THANK YOU ALL for coming. Help yourselves to breakfast – it may be a long day.”
Mackenzie had called the meeting for an hour before normal starting time in the lab. While the work didn’t lend itself to a strict schedule, and her scientists were free to set their own hours, most of them made a practice of showing up in the lab at eight a.m., as did she. Today, however, they had grave matters to discuss, and she anticipated a long debate about what her vet had discovered.
When everyone had settled at the conference table with their choice of the food she’d asked Bly to prepare on short notice, Mackenzie gave a short introduction to the issue, and then had the vet take over.
“I’ll make a long story short. When I chose the rat I would use for the first surgical insertion of the respirocyte nanobots, I selected the oldest in the lab. There were several reasons for that. One, if the surgery didn’t go well, I would not have unnecessarily shortened the lifespan of the animal. Two, I expected to see the results of the respirocytes in renewed health of the animal.”
The data specialist raised his hand. “Why would you choose an animal in poor health. Wouldn’t that compromise the surgical procedure?”
“Oh, he wasn’t in poor health. Just nearing the end of his lifespan. The rats we use for this kind of work have an average life span of two to three years. The rat I selected is two and a half years old, but he is healthy for his age. He’s never been subjected to induced disease like other experimental subjects. Nevertheless, tests I ran for comparison’s sake showed him to be slower than other rats his size at running a maze, for example. You could consider him the equivalent of a healthy sixty-year-old human with no age-related disease. Does that answer your question?”
The clinician spoke up. “So, you expected that the addition of respirocytes might increase his speed at running that maze?”
“Among other things, yes. If I may?” The vet used a remote to turn on the large flat-screen wall monitor. A video of a rat outpacing another rat on a divided run appeared. “The rat on the right, well ahead of his younger counterpart, is our respirocyte subject. I’d like you to see what the results of the surgery appear to be.”
As the group watched, the video the vet had spliced from several experiments showed the respirocyte subject outrunning the others, running longer on a wheel, and perhaps most surprisingly, solving various mazes more quickly.
Mackenzie spoke first after the video was finished. “For the sake of everyone who isn’t familiar with the exercises you put them through, will you please interpret the results for us?”
“Glad to. In a word, the rat has not just experienced renewed health. He’s been rejuvenated in the literal sense of the word, and that’s not all. He is faster than rats in their prime on all physical tests. He has more endurance, and this is the kicker – he’s smarter. You saw that in the maze runs. Each time I had him run the maze alongside a control rat, I changed the configuration of the maze.
“Normally, I can accurately predict the time it takes them to learn the maze perfectly, and then time the perfect run. This rat, whom I’ve renamed Methuselah, not only runs it faster once he’s learned it, but he learns it faster. I can only conclude that the respirocytes have somehow increased his IQ.”
Smiles broke out around the table, indicating to Mackenzie that most of her team hadn’t spotted the ethical issue yet. “Go on,” she said. “You’re doing great. Now tell us the rest of the story.”
The vet took a deep breath. “There have been consequences I never would have expected,” he announced.
The smiles disappeared at the tone of his voice. Everyone listened raptly as he described how rats are normally very social, not only with their own kind, but with humans. “Experiments have shown that rats can read pain and body language of other rats, and exhibit empathy. They have also been discovered to share limited resources, even when food deprived.” He paused, and sighed. “This is how Methuselah now acts…”
The next video showed the enhanced rat hoarding food and fending off the others, even though there was plenty of food for all. He pushed others off the wheels that they used for entertainment, and when his cage was placed next to those of receptive females, he spent most of his time working on the release mechanism for his cage.
The vet explained. “I should mention that Mackenzie asked me to limit the rats’ reproduction. She was right to do so. A pair of rats left to breed unchecked can produce as many as 2000 descendants in a year. We would have had a huge problem. I keep the males and females in separate rooms to lower the males’ stress levels, but when Methuselah started exhibiting signs of higher intelligence, I devised this experiment to see if he could learn to escape his cage.” He paused, silent.
After a long fifteen seconds, the clinician couldn’t wait any more. “Well? Could he?”
“He escaped in five minutes the first time. I had a padlock on the female’s cage. The next time, Methuselah was out of his cage in one minute, and he went straight to the drawer where I kept the padlock key and tried to open it.”
“Are you serious?” shouted several of the others.
“Dead serious. The third time, it took him less than thirty seconds, and he ignored the drawer. Instead, he tried to dismantle the female’s cage by lifting the bars where they snap to the bottom. I stopped him after he unsnapped the first corner.”
Mackenzie spoke up. “I think the point is that if respirocytes are responsible for this behavior, we have an ethical dilemma on our hands. I’d like some debate.”
The veterinarian spoke up first. “I’m concerned. Methuselah seems to be developing some anti-social tendencies. In a human being, this could result in criminal behavior.”
“But do we know whether he already had these tendencies before he got the respirocytes? Maybe he just wasn’t able to physically do what he wanted to do?” This came from Mackenzie’s research assistant.
“Yes. How would respirocytes change personality?” asked the nano-engineer. “Do we need a rat-whisperer now? A psychologist for rats?”
The veterinarian glared at him.
“Let’s settle down a little bit,” said Mackenzie. “There’s no need for sarcasm. Frankly, I’m more concerned about the rejuvenation. Do you have any idea,” she asked, addressing the vet, “how long this rat might live now?”
“It’s just a guess, of course,” he answered. “But he’s exhibiting behavior more normal for a one-year-old rat. Extrapolating, I’d say we may have doubled his normal life span. At least increased it by 30%”
The clinician calculated quickly. “Average life expectancy for an American of either gender is about 80 years. Double that, and you’ve got some 160-year-olds running around. But are they healthy?”
“Furthermore, what does that do to their relationships if only they have been treated?” Mackenzie asked. “How many of you would choose to outlive your families, your future children, by fifty years or more? I know I wouldn’t. Not in the normal course of life. A parent should not have to bury a child.”
The clinician started to speak, but Mackenzie held up her hand. “I know, that does happen, and more than we would wish. But ask any of those parents, the normal ones, if they’d trade places with their child in a heartbeat. I would.”
“Can the effects be reversed, or attenuated?” This came from the chemical engineer.
“Good question. Should we try to reverse Methuselah’s surgery and see what happens?”
The veterinarian clearly didn’t want to perform surgery on the same rat again so soon, but it was the only way they’d be able to observe the effects. Would the rat age rapidly and go back to his normal condition? Or would he enjoy increased vigor even though the respirocytes would eventually leave his body without being renewed? And in either case, wou
ld he return to his former behavior, or continue to act aggressively?
Only time would tell.
18
IN LONDON, THE investigation into the Archaeology Murders continued. Almost all leads other than the approach Carter had suggested – locating and eliminating the archaeology students from suspicion – had dried up. However, there were scores of archaeology students to question. To make the job easier, the investigators began with the previous ten years’ students, since that seemed to be the age limit of the murders they’d related by the burial technique in the remains they’d found in archaeological sites.
That still left an extraordinary amount of the kind of work most investigators found tedious. They had names and approximate ages of the students, many of them now well-respected members of their profession. But they still had to track down where they were located now, interview them, have background checks done, and get alibis for the day of the most recent of the murders, that of the child found near the Roman Fort.
Because it had now been some weeks since that murder, many couldn’t provide an alibi, so crossing them off the list was slow going.
The professor who’d taught the technique they were targeting was devastated that one of his students could have desecrated an archaeological site, much less committed murder. Investigators worked with him to try to narrow their search further by getting him to talk about his students’ personalities, but he was little help.
It began to appear as if they’d never catch the murderer until he committed another. There was little doubt that he would. Forensic anthropologists had found evidence clearly linking at least ten of the deaths, with another dozen or so considered highly probable.