by B. C. CHASE
Finally, the pressure was equalized and the door on the side slowly opened. He engaged the propulsion and the craft slowly slid to the side and out of the chamber. Once fully in the water, he allowed the top of the sub to lower so he was laying horizontal.
The circumferential exterior lights illuminated a slowly swirling cloud of white specs that stretched out for about twenty or thirty feet, but beyond that was total and overpowering blackness.
He pushed a button to capture a water sample in one of the twenty small storage compartments. As he peered at the white dots as they brushed up against the bubble, he could see with his naked eye what they were: near-microscopic shrimp. They were moving. With tiny arms and tails, they were sifting through the water, though their movement was certainly more at the mercy of the currents than of their own volition.
He could scarcely breathe, he was so mystified. There is a living biology here. Before he came to Antarctica, he assumed that if there had been anything alive down here, it would have been some single-celled bacteria. Certainly not crustaceans.
He knew that, on the earth above, brine shrimp like these were at the bottom of a very long and very large food chain. But, doubtless, there could be nothing larger than these tiny shrimp in these conditions.
Almost with a sense of foreboding, he gazed farther out into the darkness, as far as the lights shone. What else might be beyond, in the black unknown? He desperately wished he could communicate to the surface, but of course that was impossible.
He knew Doctor Toskovic's submersible would be coming, so he decided to pilot his farther away from the chamber to avoid any collision. The whir of the electric motors was somehow comforting as he maneuvered down and out into the deep. On a screen underneath the glass, a pinging dot showed the location of the pressurizing chamber moving off from the center.
In this darkness he would certainly have no way of knowing where the exit was if the beacon failed.
He grew alarmed as he noticed the beacon moving faster than it should have been. Looking out through the bubble, he could see that he was not really moving independently of the shrimp, but that they were all heading in the same direction, in the same current. He quickly reversed the propulsion. This slowed his vessel somewhat, with the shrimp rushing on past—but it only worked momentarily. Before he could even think, the craft swung around and he could sense that he was traveling at a great rate of speed. Extremely anxious, he fumbled with the joysticks to try to escape the current, but this only succeeded in causing the submarine to spiral wildly. The beacon drifted away from center ever more swiftly and his heart began to pound in his chest as he felt both a panic overcoming him as well as an onslaught of claustrophobia.
In desperation, he cried out, “Command! Can you hear me?” But of course his suppressed, logical mind knew that they could not. He was in the grip of total terror, and he was hurling into the abyss.
Cognitive LifeScience Corporation
Laboratory G
The laboratory had a white tiled ceiling with fluorescent lights. All the walls except one were lined with counters and on those were bunches of plastic bins, a slew of scientific instruments, and a solitary microscope. Jutting out from the back wall were giant rectangular gray boxes with metallic frames. In the middle of the room was a broad, totally empty stainless steel table. This is what Abael saw as he stared into the large glass windows from his wheelchair in the sterile hallway.
A ding at an elevator down the hall sounded and the doors opened. A man in a white lab coat emerged carrying a foot-wide semitransparent bin that was sealed shut. The contents of the bin were indistinguishable, but blood was smeared all over the inside. When the man saw Abael, he smiled as he approached, “What brings you to our little house of horrors today, Mr. Fiedler?”
“I wanted to know that you're doing well.”
Now in front of Abael, the man said, “You didn't have to come all the way down here; I would have answered the phone.” He lowered the bin down to Abael's level, “Could you hold this a second?”
“Certainly,” Abael replied, taking the bin in his lap. “You know how enamored I am with your work. Call it a fetish.”
The man held the back of his hand up to a reader by the door and a click sounded. He pushed the door open and held it for Abael, who motorized himself in. When they were both inside, the other man took the bin and set it on the steel table. Then he gathered some supplies from the nearby counter: several rectangular green plates, a long and very sharp looking knife, a ruler and a tray. He took a roll of thin plastic and spread a few sheets of it on the stainless steel table. Finally, he snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves, and he was ready.
He opened the bin, revealing a bloody, globular brain. His movements rapid but adept, he lifted the organ out and placed it on the tray.
“May I hold it?” Abael asked.
The other man paused, looking uneasy. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Now, Gary, I told you how fascinated I am with your work. I want to get as intimate with it as possible.”
Doctor Gary Riley took a deep breath, “I really don't think—”
Suddenly angry, Abael snapped, “Do I need to remind you who's paying your salary?”
Gary nervously shrugged his shoulders, “If you want to hold it, I guess you can hold it.” He went to the glove dispenser and pulled some out, but when he tried to hand them to Abael, the man just shook his head. So Gary took the brain and placed it in Abael's waiting hands.
Abael ran his fingers over the folds of the tissue. The blood was trickling onto his lap, but he didn't seem to mind. “Amazing how heavy it is. What was so special about this one?”
“She had progeria. It's deathly-rapid aging. They rarely live past their teens.”
Abael suddenly looked less enthusiastic. He handed the organ back to Gary with a wry smile. “I think I prefer less imperfect specimens.”
Gary placed the brain back on the tray. Abael's eager gaze made Gary feel very self-conscious as he grasped the knife and began cutting the organ methodically as if he were slicing a loaf of bread. He took each of the slices and spread it out on one of the green plates.
The rest of the process was like clockwork. He would feed the trays to the huge box-shaped robot behind him. This would in turn further divide the brain into slices only several microns in width and spread each of these onto a new plate. Then another robot would utilize a process called in situ hybridization to explore every last sample for a certain gene sequence by highlighting them with RNA dye. Then another robot, this one equipped with digital microscopes, would take photographs of each slide, quantifying the amount of gene expression within each area. All of this data would be stored through tremendous computer power and further analyzed by scientists.
Gary's only question was “why?”
Day in and day out he worked at Cognitive Lifescience. Each day, samples were delivered by nondescript white vans. Day after day he performed the analysis, and day after day he wondered what it was all for.
When he had come to Cognitive LifeScience, he was instructed that the work was a matter of national security and that he couldn't disclose the details to anyone. A miniscule RFID (radio frequency identification) chip had been inserted under the skin of his left hand. To access the lab, or any of the computers in it, he had to press his hand against a sensor. At first, he found this unnerving, but eventually he came to appreciate the convenience of not having to type in passwords.
Everyone at Cognitive LifeScience was working on behalf of the mysterious program, but none of them admitted to actually understanding what it was about. And, given everything he had seen so far, it was impossible to piece it together either. Discrete searches on the computers had not provided him with any meat. All he knew was that when you heard the word Preseption, you did whatever you were told.
That was the name of the project. Preseption.
At any hour of night or day, he would receive calls from anonymous people on a secured phone
Cognitive provided. Most of them were questions: “What would this do?” “Was there a gene for that?” “Have you ever heard of such-and-such?” “How much data was there on this?”
Some of the calls, however, were directives. “You'll be working on this now.” “You'll be looking for the gene for that now.” “Find out where this is.”
From time to time, he received calls and visits from Abael himself. Those were mostly to ask, “Is everything going okay? Is there anything you need?”
Gary's problem was that it just wasn't very gratifying to work for a big “why.” But Cognitive paid so well (incredibly well, in fact) that Gary wasn't motivated enough to look elsewhere for more fulfilling work.
And that was mysterious in itself. If this program was of importance to national security and so secretive, why did they not take any steps to determine how loyal he was to the nation? They just gave him big fat checks. It seemed to Gary that people engaged in such supposedly top secret, national security-type work shouldn't be doing it simply for the money. They should be doing it for love of country.
And yet, here he was. And he hadn't heard from China or Russia yet, so apparently Preseption was still a well-kept secret. Either that or, and this is what he really suspected, the whole thing simply wasn't that important after all.
Abael's voice sounded behind him, “Do you ever receive extra samples? I mean samples you don't use?”
“Well, I don't know where the samples come from. But I'm sure they are very expensive, so there wouldn't be extras.”
“I see,” Abael said, frustrated. “What about extra pieces? You know, parts of the brain you don't use.”
“We use all of it.”
“Oh. Well, do let me know if something extra does turn up.”
Gary didn't think he would let Abael know even if one did turn up, but he said, “Sure.”
“Gary, I truly appreciate the work you're doing here. I know you are kind of in the dark about its purpose, but I can assure you it's of prime importance to the nation.”
“So I've been told.”
“The world is going to change dramatically. You will soon understand just how pivotal your work has been.”
“I wouldn't mind knowing now.”
Abael's eyes dropped down to Gary's crotch, which he pointedly stared at, “I'd need to know the extent of your loyalty.” He then gazed directly into Gary's eyes. Seductive. “What are you willing to do for your nation?” He raised his hand to touch Gary’s thigh.
Gary fidgeted uncomfortably. “Uh . . . .”
Abael's eyes grew cold. He dropped his hand. “I'm sorry we couldn't come to an understanding.”
Gary didn't say anything.
“Do let me know if you come up with any extra samples.”
“Sure,” Gary replied.
“Help me with the door, will you?”
“Sure,” Gary said, jumping to go hold it open. He couldn't get there fast enough.
When he passed Gary on the way out the door, Abael stopped. Staring straight ahead, he said, “You know, I usually get what I want.” Then he raised his eyes to look at Gary with an aura of possession, as if he owned him, “It's part of the deal.”
“What deal?”
He smiled wickedly, “Oh, being the President's right hand man.” Then the motor whirred as his wheelchair propelled him forward.
As Abael wheeled out and down the hallway towards the elevator, Gary felt a strange, sick feeling building inside him. Abael was beginning to seem like a psycho, and a scary one at that. Besides the veiled threat, his request for the extra tissues was troubling, to say the least. What could he possibly want with them?
Beyond sickening him, Abael's visit left Gary with a question. Where did the samples come from? He wanted to know more about what this was all about and what he was contributing to. If he found the source of the samples, perhaps he could discover more of the truth. But without the truth, he had no reason to stick around.
Anyway, in a few hours he would be home, and a few hours after that, he would be doing what he truly lived for these days.
Cairo International Airport
She held out her hand, “I am glad to finally meet you in person, Doctor Katz.” She had long well-defined eyebrows that were perfectly arched over large, brown eyes, highlighted by purple eye shadow. Her loose, airy top and pants were not enough to disguise her attractive figure, and the head scarf she wore only enhanced the mystique of her beauty.
No matter how attractive she was, though, to Doctor David Katz, she was off-limits. He was a widower with three children, and not looking. But aside from that, the fact that he was a Jew just off the plane from Israel and that she was a betrothed Muslim in Egypt was more than enough to prevent a relationship.
Doctor Katz thought, as he often did in these situations, that it was odd how people from different countries frequently had to resort to English if neither of them knew the other's language. It was Babel.
Shaking her hand, he smiled, “No more email! Thank you for picking me up, Miss Fayed.”
“Call me Layla,” she said seriously.
He was the head of Middle Eastern and African History at Tel Aviv University, a position he had only recently, lamentably accepted after the sudden death of his mentor.
Doctor Katz had happened across Layla's blog via an internet search for “mummy DNA.” She was an amateur historian studying at the Cairo University and had authored reams of well-documented data on the pharaohs; especially about Akhenaten. On her blog, she frequently diverged from the official Egyptian Ministry of Antiquity talking points and even criticized the ministry's head for what she called “self-aggrandizing tactics.” This freedom of expression was very rare for Egyptian scholars, particularly those who didn't want to kill their careers.
Especially intriguing to Doctor Katz was one article in which she outlined why she believed the notorious KV55 mummy could not possibly be Akhenaten, as the Ministry said, and created a different family tree for Tutankhamen than the Ministry's.
Doctor Katz prided himself on being open-minded. That is why he had emailed her and a frequent dialogue had begun; anything that challenged the status quo attracted his attention.
Beautiful young women also attracted his attention, and his work as a professor at a university full of them was usually enough to satisfy his appetite—and had frequently been enough to get him into trouble with his late wife of five years. Of course, he never did anything more than look, but he didn't think his wife had ever believed him when he had declared himself innocent.
His wife certainly had not shared his fascination with the past as his students did. The most he had ever got out of her when he had tried to share his excitement was a sigh; usually she had rebuked him to “save his lectures for the university.”
In addition to lecturing, he spent a great deal of time with his students at archeological digs or visiting his connections at museums and colleges to chase down answers to little mysteries he discovered. In the evenings, he was generally found with his students at their usual haunts; bars, clubs and even their dormitories.
The truth was, Doctor Katz was hip; he couldn't help it. To emphasize the point, he wore a bandana on his head, a chain around his neck with a silver star of David, and loose-fitting clothes. He was never clean-shaven, preferring to look more on the adventurous side.
Through all their internet exchanges, he had somehow been imagining some mole-faced, older woman with glasses, a head covering, and a big drape-like kaftan. That’s why he was surprised to see now that Layla was young, brilliant and appraising him with her gorgeous eyes.
She said, “A taxi will take us to the museum. There I will show you my discovery.”
As they walked, Doctor Katz sensed Layla's eyes look him over again, and narrow. She wasn't impressed. Despite her youth, she apparently didn't appreciate his casual appearance the way his students did. She probably took it to indicate incompetence.
He had faced this kind of prejudice ove
r and over again among elderly scholars, and every time had proven it baseless. How ironic that now he faced the same skepticism from a youthful beauty. Doctor Katz was nothing if not competent, and he would prove it to her.
When they slipped into the back seat of a taxi, Layla asked the driver, “Do you speak English?”
In English, he said, “No,” and shook his head.
“In Arabic, she instructed him to take them to the Cairo Museum.
As they rode in the taxi, Layla slipped some documents out of a briefcase and got down to business. It was a chilly day in Cairo, but fortunately it wasn't too chilly for the windows to be open: the driver's odor was foul.
The KV55 tomb was discovered in 1907 in the same area of the Valley of the Kings as the Ramesses II, Tutankhamen and other notorious pharaohs' tombs. The mummy inside KV55 had never been successfully identified, however. Several possibilities for an identity were put forward, but there had never been any way to conclusively decide who it was.
When DNA analysis was finally performed on it, as well as a number of mummies found in nearby KV35, some supposed facts were presented by the Ministry. First was that KV55 was Akhenaten, the pharaoh famous for introducing worship of a single god, Aten, to the Egyptians. This religion lasted only as long as Akhenaten did, and there was a great deal of mystery surrounding what happened to his notoriously beautiful wife, Nefertiti. Some said that she ruled after Akhenaten died. Some said that another person from the family, “Smenkhare” perhaps, had seized the throne. Everyone agreed, however, that Tutankhamen ruled after this brief period of uncertainty.
Layla showed him the Ministry's version of Tutankhamen's family line:
Amenhotep III and Tiye bore Akhenaten who then fathered Tutankhamun with Nefertiti (his cousin).
She had reasoned that, given obvious allele generational jumps, the DNA showed that the stillborn fetuses could not have been maternally grandfathered by the KV55 mummy, which the Ministry proposed was Akhenaten. (An allele was an alternative form—by mutation—of a gene located in a certain place on a certain chromosome.)