by B. C. CHASE
She said, “Fair enough.”
“After he reaches maturity on this artificial growth rate, what is the plan for him? Is he going to die when he's thirty—of old age?”
She shook her head as if the idea was absurd, “Certainly not. They said he would be restored to his family, as he would have been, only older and more intelligent. It is a gift to be here. It is an honor. He will be one of the great contributors to society when he has matured. A genius.”
“Who can restore him now?”
She hesitated. There was a long pause.
Worried that he was losing her, Gary asked, “Do you have a child of your own?”
She nodded.
“I implore you, as a mother. Please, help me. Who can restore my son?”
She inhaled and studied him carefully, clearly weighing her options. Finally, she said, “Whether he can be restored, I don’t know. But I will help you. Come with me.”
FALL
OF
PARADISE
They took the stairs. She said there was less chance of running into someone there. When they reached the basement, before they opened the door, she said, “He's a little eccentric, but compassionate,” she bit her lip, “I hope.”
They opened the door to a gray, tiled hallway. Emitting from an open door about midway down was the voice of someone humming and making clicking sounds with his mouth. Gary placed Jeffery on the floor and held his hand as they followed the woman to the door. Inside was a room full of humming computers and one giant screen on the far wall. Rows of monitors lined one side of the room, each displaying a series of white paragraphs of code on black screens. In the center of it all, sitting in a drafting chair with extremely high arms, was a paunchy man in his sixties, gray-haired with a part on the side, large thick glasses that made his eyes look bigger than they were, and a big shirt with giant multicolored circles. He did not notice them at all at first; he was hunched over a computer diligently working.
“Donald?” the woman said.
The man raised his head to look at her and smiled broadly, “Well hello, hello!” He had a pleasant, southern United States accent. He stood to greet her, but then his bright expression suddenly disappeared, replaced by horror as he clutched his forehead with one hand and pointed with the other, rushing toward Gary, “No touching! Oh, no, no, no!” But it was too late; Jeffery had plucked the keys of one of the nearby computers. Donald swept Jeffery up and into Gary's arms, crying, “Oh no, oh no, no! What has he done? Oh, uh, no. The whole setup is ruined.” He was now hovered over the computer, swooping through screens and rapping on the keys at a breakneck pace. He glanced up at Jeffery, “That was very naughty, very naughty!” Then he spun around to the woman, “Why did you bring him here? This is no place for children.” Looking back at the screen and pulling the hair on his head with his left hand, he continued, “Oh my, this is just awful. It will take a week to figure out what he inserted.”
“Donald,” the woman said, quietly approaching him from behind.
Apparently not hearing her, he glared up at Gary, “You guys should probably just leave for now. I can't have visitors. I need to fix this mess.”
She repeated, louder, “DONALD!”
He stopped mid-sentence and turned around, “What?”
“Is this a safe place?”
His white bushy eyebrows furrowed, “A safe place?”
“To talk,” she said, nodding upward.
They were in the stairwell now, apparently only one of the places Donald was certain they wouldn't be heard.
She explained, “This man is a Preseption's father. He says his son was kidnapped. He is here to take him home. He wants to know who can restore him to his original biological state and remove the vectors.”
Donald eyed Gary and Jeffery from under a deeply furrowed brow, his head cocked to the side. “Why do you think I would know who can restore him, Erika? This is the first time I've ever seen one of the Preseptions in person.”
“You run the computers. You have all the information.”
He smiled, his teeth near-perfect, “Well you're right about that. And information is power, as they say?” He chuckled.
“Yes,” she replied. “Will you help him?”
He looked the woman in the eye, “You know there are grave consequences for us if we compromise this project in any way. I'm sure they sealed you like they did me,” he pointed to his hand. “Life as we know it is over for us if they find out.”
She nodded. “I know. But if they kidnapped the boy.... That is not the kind of project I signed up for. Besides, you and I both know that some of the things going on here are not… as they should be.”
Donald searched Gary's eyes, saying, “You're his dad?”
“Yes,” Gary said. Though the word was short, it was loaded with emotion.
A little voice below said, “Daddy.” Jeffery was nodding and pointing to Gary.
Almost eagerly, Donald said, “Well, let's see what I can do.” He pulled out from his pocket a rolled screen which he flicked with his wrist to unfurl. Now stiff, he was able to hold it with one hand and tap on it with the other.
While he worked, Gary inquired, “What is this project, anyway?”
Without raising his eyes from the screen, Donald replied, “To spend vast amounts of government money, as far as I can tell.” He chuckled at himself.
Donald did not say anything further, so Gary prompted, “Really, though, what's the point of all this? I worked for it it too, in Maryland. But I never knew what I was working for.”
“That's the point, though, isn't it? This,” Donald said, “is the biggest secret in the world. I don't think anyone here really knows what it's for. What I know is, all the world's governments are a part of it, and they're dead serious about it.” Then, raising his eyebrows, he said, “Ah, here we go. This should help. Follow me, we need to pay someone an unwelcome visit.”
“You know who can restore him?” Erika asked.
“Nope.”
“Then whom are we going to visit?” she said a little impatiently.
He smiled mysteriously, “I hope you're prepared for the consequences of this, because there will be no turning back.”
When they reached the top floor, Gary was thoroughly winded, especially since he carried Jeffery most of the way. They opened the door, and it was immediately apparent how posh the top floor was, with glossy stone and gigantic potted plants. While Gary noticed that the entire building had very high ceilings, this top floor was at least twenty feet high with a large atrium and floor to ceiling glass overlooking the busy port hundreds of feet below. There were several people walking from place to place, and a large conference room enclosed with glass off to one side where about ten individuals were seated. Donald wasted no time in leading them straight down the hall and to a door. On the way, he said, “Amélie Babineaux, SVP Legal Affairs, is our target.” He knocked politely on the door.
A harsh, “Come in,” sounded from inside.
He opened the door and they stepped into the office, which had black furnishings: a huge desk, four chairs and a coffee table. Behind the desk sat a woman who looked deadly serious, though also deadly attractive, Gary thought. She looked up at Donald and said bluntly, with a barely discernible French accent, “There's not a problem with my computer.”
Donald closed the door behind Gary and Erika. Turning around to look at the executive, he flashed one of his broad smiles, “Oh, I know,” he said with southern charm. “We came on a ... social call, shall we say?” Raising the tablet, he explained, “I have here some emails, sent from your address, that drew my attention. You really do have a way with words, don't you?” he chuckled.
Amélie stiffened, “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Well someone downstairs in the science labs by the name of Charles Stoneham certainly does. He responded to each and every one of your little notes with some especially choice verbiage. Uh,” Donald looked up from the screen straight at the wo
man, “Would you like me to read a sample? You are really quite a passionate writer.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” she repeated.
“Does this sound familiar: 'I wish you didn’t have to go to Shanghai for your work at GLS all the time. It just makes me want you so much more. If my husband knew about us I don't have any idea what he would do. This is so exotic, it's like being young again. You make me feel young again, Charlie. I feel young whenever you—“
“That's enough!” she snapped, tightly shutting her eyes and raising a hand.
Donald chuckled, “Things sound so much better upon sweet reflection, don't they?”
She seethed, “You've got my attention, you,” she uttered a homosexual slur. I assume you'll send these emails to my husband if I don't give you what you want.” She stamped her hands, “So what do you freaking want?”
Donald nodded to Erika, who stepped forward. “This man,” she motioned to Gary, “has come for his son, one of the Preseptions. He came to take him home. But the child's biology has been changed and he has the vectors implanted. If he leaves the facility, the boy will die. Everything must be restored.”
The executive, her eyes still closed, licked her lips and said, “Let's go to the lab and talk with Charles. We'll make it happen.”
Erika nodded, “Thank you.”
But Gary was uneasy. He couldn't believe it was this easy. To begin with, it seemed unrealistic that the executive could promise to restore Jeffery. A more truthful statement probably would have been, “We'll do what we can.” Secondly, Gary had no idea what kind of complexity might be involved in reversing the artificial aging. Add to that the fact that these “vectors” were implanted in his son's brain, and Gary was left with an impression of extreme suspicion. Was she simply trying to stall them? If she was, though, what could they possibly do about it? What choice did they have but to take her at her word?
Charles Stoneham, PhD, introduced himself as “Visiting Director, Special Projects.” He sounded British, had a thoroughly masculine face with large jaw and deep-set eyes, and a large, tall build—he was at least half a foot taller than Gary.
Amélie, stone-faced, explained the situation to him in as few words as it possibly could have taken. Then, with her arms crossed, said, “Can you help them?”
Doctor Stoneham stood silently for a moment, clearly making a calculated judgment as to what his next move really should be. Gary saw his eyes dart toward the door behind them and he wondered if he might make a dash for it.
Finally, he rubbed his chin and said, “I couldn't possibly help via the means I suspect you expect of me. I could, however, alleviate your burden substantially, Mr.—” he looked at Gary.
“Just do what you can and I'll be grateful,” Gary replied. He suspected this was a ploy to get his name, something he had no intention of providing.
“Very well,” Doctor Stoneham said. “You'll be glad to hear that this,” he motioned to Jeffery, “is not your son.”
Besides being disturbed that the man referred to Jeffery merely as “this,” Gary was exasperated that he was in yet another dispute to prove his paternity. He began his protest, “He is definitely—“
Doctor Stoneham interrupted him, “No, no, no, I'm sure you think he's your son. He looks like your son, and all of that; in fact even the Preseption believes himself to be your son, I wager. We gave him your son's memories, after all. However I assure you that this is not yours. This is a duplicate.”
Gary looked down at the boy whose hand he was holding. The child smiled up at him, the same familiar smile he'd seen countless times before. Despite everything he felt: the emotional turmoil he was under, the intensity of his anxiety and fear, the blow he had just received at Doctor Stoneham's words, despite all of it, Gary smiled back. Gazing down at the sweet face, Gary thought how he never really accepted that Jeffery looked at all like himself. But that had never stopped him from loving the boy. Now, as this Jeffery let loose a giggle as little kids are prone to do when you look at them for longer than a couple seconds, Gary felt no less love for him knowing that he was not the original. He didn't think he could feel any less love for him even if he wanted to.
He squeezed this Jeffery's hand tighter. Then raised his head to question the scientist, “So where is my first Jeffery?”
“He is the backup plan now, and still in place, but he is one of the rare things that didn't go precisely as I planned.”
Facility AII-B
Kelle was upon Wesley in a second. She pulled the handgun from his grasp and slid it far across the floor. Placing her hands on either side of his vacant face, she implored him through tears, “No, Wesley! You can’t do that to me! You have to stay here with me!”
He heard her words dimly, felt her touch faintly, as if through another dimension. He saw nothing. He was in a black hole, a lifeless void. Then he felt the soft press of lips upon his. His vision came into focus. Kelle’s beautiful face was there. He felt her touch stroking the sides of his face, heard her voice pleading, saw tears streaming, glistening on her cheeks. Gradually, he felt himself slipping out of the unconscious void and into gut-wrenching reality. The pain was wrapping its claws around him, closing in, and taking over.
He reached out and held onto her. As he leaned forward, resting his head on her shoulder, his mouth opened wide in a silent scream of agony.
Suddenly there were loud bangs as metal barricades slammed down and sealed the doorways on both sides of the room. Exchanging an anxious glance, they jumped up together. The blue lighting flicked out. In a panicked voice, Kelle cried, “Wes?”
“I’m here,” he replied. He reached out in the darkness and found her hand. From the ceiling there was a loud hiss.
“What is that?”
“I don’t know.” It sounded like escaping gas. Wesley started to feel light-headed, dizzy.
“We have to get outta here,” Kelle said, her words slurred.
“Yeah, I’m …” Wesley said, but he felt the world spinning around him. He couldn’t form a thought. Kelle’s hand began to slip from his grasp as she collapsed. He was surprised, but he couldn’t hold onto her. Feeling incapacitated by weakness and drowsiness, Wesley lowered himself to the floor and toppled over, his head hitting the cold tile. He was vaguely aware of the metal barricade rising from the far doorway, allowing light to stream in. As he slipped out of consciousness, a strange, black silhouette fluidly stepped into the doorway and shifted its head to steadily gaze at them.
Wesley smelled isopropyl alcohol. Lying face up on a hard, flat surface, his eyes were closed, and he felt cold air moving over his whole body. He was naked. He heard a sound, like a coin being placed in a metal plate at church. No. Like a scalpel being placed on a tray. Something like voices, foreign voices speaking foreign words from inhuman lips. The sound was so unfamiliar and beyond his comprehension, as if multiple words were conveyed in a single utterance, that the hair instantly stood up on the back of his neck.
He realized that he could open his eyes, but it was the last thing he wanted to do.
Instead, he tried to move his left arm slightly and found that it was restrained at the wrist. The same was true of his right arm. And his legs. His head was pressed onto the table by some kind of a vice. He couldn’t move.
Kelle. Where was Kelle?
He slightly cracked open his eyes. Only darkness. Opening them further, he saw a point of light off to the side. It made seeing anything in the blackness beyond it impossible.
Suddenly the whispers stopped. Wesley froze. A reassuring voice broke the silence, “Wesley Peterson, I’m glad you are awake. Can you hear me?”
Wesley did not answer.
The voice was calm, “We spoke previously on the phone. I am Doctor Phillip Compton, Director of the Centers for Disease Control. It’s good that you made it. Many people have not survived the virus.”
Wesley remembered, and felt immediate relief. This was a friend, and someone with real authority. Doctor Compton had
called about his wife’s death and recommended that he contact the FBI about the fetus’s disappearance. It seemed like ages ago, in a different world. Was he in a hospital?
Wesley said, “Where am I? Where is Kelle?”
“She is here, but still unconscious. We have to wait for her to regain consciousness before we may proceed.”
“Proceed with what?”
“Wesley, within the next few hours, without intervention, you will be dead.”
Wesley heard something being lifted from the metal tray. “You are going to feel a pinch. Don’t be alarmed. This will save your life.”
“Where am I?” Wesley asked.
“You were infected with the virus, correct?”
“Yes, but it never affected me. I got a clean bill of health from—”
“But you were in the Towson area yesterday, correct?”
Wesley again was silent. He wished he could see something besides the solitary light in the blackness. Increasingly anxious, he was breaking out in a cold sweat.
“The virus had to be stopped. The time had come. So a secondary virus was released yesterday, one which causes progeria within hours. Do you know what progeria is?”
Wesley heard a syringe being tapped.
Doctor Compton said, “It is a genetic disorder that prematurely ages those who have it. It begins at birth and kills most victims by their early teens. We released a viral vector for a special strain of progeria that we created. This one centers its effects on the brain and kills within hours, but it only infects those who were infected with the first virus. It takes effect even if they have recovered. The progeria virus was the only logical way to prevent the first virus from spreading any further, and, as I said, it had to be stopped. We released the progeria virus from the air, and you were in the drop zone. Since you were an original carrier of the first virus, you have now been infected by the progeria. Left untreated, you will die within hours.”