Edge of Survival Box Set 1

by William Oday

  Garish. Whimsical.

  Repulsive.

  His former employer, Gabriel Cruz, may have been the wealthiest man alive, but his tastes were pedestrian. His vision limited. His life meaningless.

  Anton was far more inclined towards the classical. The ageless. The profound. He hadn’t yet had an opportunity to remodel the space to his liking. There would be time for that now that Iridia was safe.

  Had Gabriel died in the aftermath of the outbreak?

  No one in the company had heard from him for over a week. And with Milagro Tower being the corporate headquarters, it stood to reason that its owner had either died or been stranded in some backwater from which he would never emerge.

  Either scenario was pleasing.

  Anton had kowtowed at the foot of his master’s throne for far too long. For as far back as he could remember. The time for his own rule had arrived. Like the great Genghis Khan, whose visage graced the silver Dirham in his pocket, his destiny had arrived. All the years of unheralded toil had paid off.

  Mankind would survive. Now there would be time for its wisdom to catch up with its technology. Soon they would have the mindless muscle to build a better future. The deltas, as the common folk had taken to calling them, would become the necessary labor of a sustainable future.

  Their brutish might had yet to be productively harnessed, but that was to be expected. Evolution required time. Time to adjust to the new paradigm.

  A master race and a subservient one.

  Each assigned by their capabilities and potential.

  His research hadn’t had time to gather results on the potential offspring of delta reproduction. The crisis of concurrent peak events had made a certain degree of prognostication necessary. Would children born to the brutes retake the intellect of their ancestors? Or would the virus pass in-utero damaging the fetus’ prefrontal cortex just as it had the mother’s?

  The uncertainty of that question had led him to create an MT-1 variant. MT-1 itself had been an unqualified success. Per the design, it had killed off the vast majority of humanity while leaving a small percentage changed. A smaller percentage yet were likely resistant or had somehow managed to avoid infection.

  The variant, once perfected, would reliably cause the change while not killing the subject. The variant would be as critical to the new world as MT-1 itself was to the old one.

  The variant would need to reliably create the right delta as well. One of the weaknesses of MT-1 had been that, while it produced deltas, it didn’t do so with any degree of exactitude. It had to do with the varying efficiency with which it burned out the prefrontal cortex.

  It changed some into servile beasts. Others into raving lunatics. And yet others, a fleeting few in his research, it left some spark of intellect. Some hint at what the person used to be.

  Nature was a complex phenomenon. And the human brain its highest achievement. So perhaps the variability was to be expected. Yet it was also a failure. One Anton intended to rectify in the development of the variant.

  There would be time.

  Mankind now had a generation or more to address the burdens brought on by overpopulation and the rapacious use of technology. The world had time to recover. Humanity had time to forge a new path to prosperity.

  His beloved Katerina would be proud. If only she were alive to witness his magnificent achievement. While small minds might besmirch his actions, history would someday reveal the evident truth.

  One man had saved humanity from extinction.

  Anton wasn’t a greedy man. One overly longing for adulation. But it would be just for that truth to be universally accepted within his lifetime. He didn’t require an award, only acknowledgement.

  The shower water cut off and he listened with contentment to Iridia shuffling through the well-appointed bathroom.

  How she must’ve suffered out there in the darkness, in the dirt.

  She deserved to be here in the light, in the heavens.

  A knock at the apartment’s front door startled him.

  “Come,” Anton said.

  The door opened and Mr. Pike stepped in. His hair was gelled and swept to the side. His jaw was smoothly shaven and his dark suit pressed. Anton hadn’t seen him so presentable since before the outbreak.

  Why now?

  “Sir,” Mr. Pike said as he stepped in and closed the door. “It’s good to see you. May I ask where the others are?”

  It wasn’t like his bodyguard to be so inquisitive.

  “They are resting and recovering. As you might imagine, they were not coping well with the challenging conditions.”

  The bathroom door opened and Iridia stepped out wrapped in a towel. The bottom edge ended far too soon, revealing an altogether inappropriate amount of thigh and leg. Her skin glistened with moisture.

  “Iridia!” Anton said. “Cover yourself!”

  “Oh Papa. Don’t be such a prude.” She waved him off dismissively and pranced across the living room to stand in front of Mr. Pike. She held the towel in place with one hand and extended the other. “Papa never mentioned how handsome his new bodyguard was.”

  Mr. Pike stood there with his jaw hanging open.

  Iridia smiled, obviously enjoying the effect her appearance was having.

  The bodyguard took her hand and kissed it. His eyes flashed as his lips broke contact with her skin. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Iridia. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  The point to his manicured appearance no longer held mystery.

  The usurper. The ingrate. As useful as he was, Anton decided his employment would end sooner than later. And his termination would likely be more complete than simply losing a job.

  Iridia feigned embarrassment. She appeared that way, but Anton knew it was a ploy. His daughter didn’t have a modest bone in her body. So like her mother.

  “Enough!” Anton yelled. “Am I to suffer such indignity? Return to the bathroom at once!”

  Iridia flinched at his harsh tone.

  It broke his heart to treat her so, but he would suffer a thousand heartbreaks to preserve his daughter’s dignity.

  Her? With a bodyguard?

  Never.

  66

  Iridia was destined for greater things. She would carry his genes into the future. And in no possible reality would a simple bodyguard plant her garden with such mediocre seed.

  “Yes, Papa,” Iridia said as she hurried back as commanded.

  Anton waited for her to shut the door before unleashing a hint of his anger at this ill-suited suitor.

  “Why were you not at your post when I returned, Mr. Pike? I do not employ you to disobey my instructions.”

  The bodyguard’s eyes hadn’t left the closed bathroom door. He stared in awed silence.

  “Mr. Pike!”

  He jerked and then turned to Anton. His eyes slowly focused.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I mean, no. Sorry. What did you say?”

  Anton’s blood boiled. He longed to kill the man where he stood. He didn’t attempt it of course. He was not armed. And even if he was, he was no match for the muscled savage.

  “You may leave!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He opened the door and was about to step outside when he paused and turned. “Sir, how is Mason?”

  “Mr. West?”

  “Yes.”

  “He did not make it back.”

  Mr. Pike pursed his lips together and looked at the ground. He stood there in stunned silence.

  “That will be all, Mr. Pike. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said as he closed the door.

  As soon as the door shut, Iridia slipped out of the bathroom and sat next to him on the couch. Her damp towel would no doubt stain the crushed velvet fabric.

  He didn’t care. It was a monstrosity in the first place. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

  Her eyelids lined with moisture as she bur
ied her head in his chest. Her sandy blonde hair was so much like Katerina’s. She’d been blessed with inheriting almost all of his wife’s genes determining appearance. He wasn’t so deluded as to not realize he was physically rather unimpressive. His physicality was severely lacking. Of that, there was no doubt.

  But the strength of modern man was not determined solely by physical prowess. In fact, the further mankind travelled from its hunter-gatherer origins, the less and less important brute strength had become. By some estimations, it had taken nearly 200,000 years to escape from the servitude of simple survival. And only within the last century or two had the power of the mind assumed its rightful role at the top.

  It wasn’t that the brain was all of a sudden important and never was before. Of course, it was always the key to our evolution and eventual ascension to the pinnacle of power. The evolving brain raised our ancestors from the immediate needs of scavenging food from the dirt to building a system that funneled resources from every corner of the globe directly into our ravenous mouths.

  Humanity had acquired god-like powers. And life in the clouds offered a view of near limitless distance. Of where we had been and where we might go. And yet, our meteoric rise planted a seed that proved to be our undoing. Pride. Hubris, as the Greek playwrights called it.

  Grounded confidence transformed into foolish arrogance. We came to believe that, as self-made gods, there were no limits. That the very discussion of exterior limits was anathema to our intrinsic character.

  The very ambition that had raised us out of the primordial abyss threatened to drag us back under.

  Anton had seen it all at such a young age. The city packed with people. Scurrying like rats for a bigger bite of cheese. He’d seen the inevitable downfall. The utter ruin. And he had committed his life to preventing it.

  Through decades of research into viral evolution, he’d studied how the simplest life form could radically transform the most advanced.

  There had once been great debate over whether a virus should be classified as a life form or simply an assemblage of building blocks such as proteins, lipids, and carbohydrates. As impassioned as many scientists had gotten in the debate, it had never elicited more than a derisive laugh from Anton.

  Of course, viruses were a life form. They were a parasitic life form. But wasn’t all of life?

  Wasn’t mankind?

  We required resources to survive. To procreate. And much like a successful virus, modern man had overwhelmed its host. Its very success sowed the seeds of its eventual destruction. And, like a simple virus, mankind could not survive without the resources of its host. No matter how much we believed in the illusion of our invincibility.

  It had been this realization that had long ago determined Anton’s direction.

  Mankind had succeeded beyond the wildest dreams of its ancient ancestors. It claimed to stand apart from the intricate system of support that made its lofty position possible. But the disconnect was never real.

  People living in more marginal regions of the planet understood the truth because they were forced to bend to it despite all the eons of progress.

  Over time, Anton came to understand two simple facts.

  One, there were too many of us.

  And two, the majority of that over-burgeoning population contributed little to the continued evolution of our species.

  In fact, he came to understand that the masses actively contributed to a weakening of our genetic promise.

  And so destiny called upon him to create MT-1.

  The future of the human genome required only two things. It required a ruling class that aspired to the continued development of mankind’s most important tool: our brains. And it required that those humans have abundant access to resources.

  The Delta Virus, as they called it, was the agent of our future prosperity.

  Anton winced as pain stabbed the blistered fingers of his left thumb and pointer finger. He released the coin in his pocket and withdrew his hand. The two finger pads were worn raw. Skin peeled around the edges of the wounds.

  “Papa, you’re bleeding!” Iridia said.

  “It is of no consequence,” he replied as he dabbed his fingers on the already blood-red couch. He kissed her forehead and stroked her damp hair.

  His fair Iridia. As beautiful as a sunrise.

  As attractive as she was, he couldn’t help but wonder if she deserved to be among the fortunate few who were now tasked with carrying on with the evolution of the intellect. It wasn’t that she was stupid. He didn’t think that, necessarily.

  Perhaps she had never been adequately challenged. Intellect didn’t develop in a vacuum. It developed as a direct result of conflict and struggle. Anton himself was proof of that. His childhood years had been a constant fight for survival.

  A constant engaging of the brain to solve life or death situations.

  If she hadn’t experienced enough struggle in her life, he had only himself to blame. After losing Katerina, Anton had wanted to do nothing more than shelter his daughter from the cruelty of the world. He’d fought to give her every opportunity, to stack the deck in her favor before every deal of the cards.

  And yet, he knew she was nowhere near his intellectual equal.

  But then again, he’d endured hardship he hoped she would never understand. Such was the paradox. The struggle facilitated the full expression of the brain’s potential. But having achieved that potential, even Anton shielded his offspring from enduring the very same thing that had lifted him to such heights.

  He kissed her forehead again and smiled.

  “What’s wrong, Papa?”

  Anton stared into her crystal green eyes and saw the eyes of his long-dead wife. Katerina had suffered and died. He couldn’t bare to see the same thing happen to Iridia.

  “Nothing, my dear,” he said as he stroked her hair. “Everything is fine now.”

  He vowed to protect her from struggle and pain. And he accepted his own hypocrisy. He was, after all, just a man… flawed and imperfect like all the others.

  Well, not quite like all the others.

  67

  Anton held his daughter tight. So much had happened since she’d snuck away to Los Angeles to have that pointless interview with that idiot director. He wished the man was still alive so he could kill him for causing so much trouble.

  “Papa?” Iridia said.

  “Yes?”

  “What will happen to my friends?”

  My friends.

  Iridia had never referred to anyone with such concern discoloring her voice. He’d been careful to protect her from the weakness that attachment engendered.

  “Like you, they will have the opportunity to refresh themselves and then we will discuss how next to proceed.”

  “What about Theresa? She’s infected. Can you help her?”

  “Why do you worry for her?”

  Iridia dropped her gaze. “She’s my friend. I care about her.”

  Anton grabbed her by the shoulders and squeezed hard enough to guarantee her undivided attention. He stared hard until she lifted her eyes.

  “They are not family, moya dochka. Never trust anyone who isn’t family. You know this.”

  Iridia shrugged. “I know. I know. But these people are nice. I’m alive because of them.”

  “You are alive because you are a survivor, as I am. Remember your mother. She placed her trust in others and she died for it. Never forget that.”

  “I understand.”

  She understood, but she was not convinced. And that meant these people were dangerous. He would let nothing come between them.

  Nothing.

  Iridia looked at him twisting her mouth to the side.

  “Speak,” he said.

  “You didn’t answer me.”

  She had the defiant spirit of her mother.

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No,” she said. “Can you help her?”

  These people were very dangerous indeed. Anton did his best to keep
the irritation from his voice as he responded. “While there is—”

  “I knew it! I knew you could help!”

  “Let me finish. While there is an antiviral treatment, it yet exists in vanishingly small quantities. What if you or I get sick? Should either of us die so that this girl we do not know may live?”

  Iridia pulled away. “But I do know her. And she’s been very nice to me. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

  “For you, I will consider it.”

  Iridia pursed her lips together. The usual curves flattened into tight lines. She rose and retreated into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Anton rose and spoke through the barrier. “Wash away the clinging dirt. It is better this way.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Her new friends would need to be dealt with, and soon.

  Anton exited the apartment and found Mr. Pike at his post by the door. “Stay here and let no one enter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Did he have a particular glint in his eye as he responded?

  Anton marched down the hall and entered the elevator. He waved his keycard over the reader.

  “Hello, Dr. Reshenko. Where do you wish to go?”

  “The lab.”

  “Descending to the basement laboratory. Please stay clear of the doors.”

  Anton almost snarled at the perpetually genial voice and the overly courteous programming. Artificial intelligence so terrified humanity that they demanded any incarnation of it genuflect in every interaction so that mankind could remind itself of exactly who was in charge.

  But polite programming didn’t change the fact that AI was doing more and more while error-prone, weak-willed humans were doing less and less. It was not unthinkable to believe that Anton had saved humanity from some impending robotic apocalypse.

  “Basement Laboratory.”

  The elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

  He stepped out and ignored the guard standing next to the security doors. He used his keycard to get through and headed straight for the detention cells. The Patient Wing, as they euphemistically named it.