by C. G. Cooper
We hereby unite in the name of humanity.
We are The Cortex.
Let the following seven points constitute our mission:
That we resist the compulsory diminishment of our physical bodies.
That our minds remain intact and at their peak performance.
That we seek out members from that cadre of vile men and women who engage in the willful weakening of innocents.
That we assemble under the flag of our shared, pro-human ideals.
That we accept those who share our ideals, regardless of race, creed, color, gender, or sexual orientation.
That we shall not be afraid to die in the service of humanity.
It felt like something was missing. Maybe he hadn’t downloaded the whole thing?
The Cortex?
He’d wanted to avoid paying for Wi-Fi access, considering the very real risk that someone was tracking his credit card use. But he needed an outlet. Sleep was impossible. He needed to do something to engage his mind, to calm his nerves. He could check the news for stories about Darla Newman; even now, his fingers trembled as he imagined that one line in the story: “One eyewitness said she saw the intruder leap over the backyard fence...”
No sooner had his phone finalized the connection to the plane’s Wi-Fi signal than a text came through. The number was 000.
--Hey, ya big dumb genius, what do you think?
Another one followed on its heels.
--It’s Mina, by the way.
He typed back What do I think about what?
--The manifesto. I know its unfinished. But how do you like it so far?
Hold on, he typed. You wrote that?
--I’m working on commission, but yeah.
Pretty intense. But what does it all mean?
--Too much to go into. And I don’t really understand some of it so I’m not the right person to ask. Baron will explain it all.
The text dissolved in a graphic display like an Alka-Seltzer tablet, complete with fizzy sound effect. Then black covered the screen, with text in plain, white Arial font: The Doctor is OUT. Then that faded away as well, and his phone was back to normal.
He closed his eyes, feeling the pull of fatigue, and the dull roar of the engine soothed him like a balm of white noise.
29
He awoke to a descending plane and the sounds of sickness.
A woman three seats up had fallen ill; she was writhing in her seat, moaning pitifully, and clearly feeling extreme discomfort. Her neighbors and the flight attendant were doing what they could to make her more comfortable. But the plane was landing now.
He couldn’t believe he’d slept through the entire flight.
“There he is,” said the flight attendant when she noticed him stirring, a wearied fake smile on her face. “Rip Van Winkle.”
“Is that woman OK?” Knight asked, nodding toward the ill passenger.
“She’s just a little sick, probably from the flight.”
“That doesn’t sound like air sickness.”
“She has a touch of...” Her smile went limp. “Just a touch of something perhaps.”
The flight attendant moved along swiftly to the jumper seat and fastened herself in for the landing.
Just a touch of something. Like Panamanian Flu, Knight thought.
The sick woman was taken from the aircraft first, fastened to a wheelchair and pulled from the plane by an ambulance crew.
Heathrow was a vast airport, a huge international hub. Knight knew that at least one person in the airport was probably suffering with Panamanian Flu. There were others, flown in from Central America or elsewhere. The pandemic was about to burst across the world, and this was how it would spread. Knight needed to protect himself as best he could. He spotted a drug store and went inside to buy hand sanitizer and a new set of sunglasses that better covered his eyes. He sanitized his hands, tossed the old sunglasses, and put on the new ones. He found a large gentleman’s scarf in another store. He bought it and wrapped it around his face.
Conspicuous? Maybe.
Was he safer? He had no idea.
He needed to clear Heathrow before he picked up the virus. Not that his precautions would do much good if the virus really was airborne.
He followed signs to a car rental company.
They gave Knight a brand-new BMW X5, a beautiful machine, even if the Brits did insist on put the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car. As he sat in the driver’s seat, he wondered if it might have been better to rent a motorcycle, but it was sure to rain and he had come to England without a coat or an umbrella. The car would keep him warm and dry. He fastened his seatbelt and pulled out of the parking lot.
Knight didn’t know where to go except he wanted to put as much distance between himself and Heathrow as possible. While driving along a motorway heading out of London, his cell phone rang again.
Mina spoke quickly. “Meet the doctor at the George Pub in Brighton tomorrow at two p.m.” Before Knight could ask anything, Mina ended the call.
“You couldn’t spend a moment to give me some directions, could you?” he said to the empty car.
A road sign at the side of the highway showed an advertisement for a service station with rest facilities, restaurants, and stores. Knight left the motorway, parked his vehicle, and went looking for a map.
The service station was large with parking for cars, buses, and trucks. The mall complex at its center was busy with people coming and going. Knight found a bookstore that sold road maps of the U.K. He searched for and found the town of Brighton. It was a small town on the south coast. It was probably only an hour’s drive away and Knight wasn’t meeting this mysterious Dr. Baron until the afternoon of the following day. He had time to kill.
Knight sat in the food court, sipping coffee from a paper cup and picking at a disappointing croissant. He was bored. He considered taking a short detour and looking at Stonehenge but decided to head into Brighton, buy a change of clothes, and find a hotel for the night. He didn’t care how luxurious the BMW was; he wasn’t going to sleep in it.
As he walked out of the service station and into the parking lot, it started to rain. A heavy, cold rain. The dark clouds overhead seemed to bring night a few hours early. Knight jumped into his car and headed to the south coast.
He had only looked at the map for a few seconds, but he drove toward the small town feeling confident that he knew the roads he needed to take. Just on the edge of town was a Travelers Rest, a small and neat budget hotel. Knight checked in, found his room, and collapsed into a fitful sleep until morning.
The next day, the sky was bright and clear. Knight took a brisk walk in place of his usual morning workout. The beach front was lined with Victorian-style mansions and hotels. The wind cut over the sands and low gardens that fringed the beach, chilling Knight. It was a cold and relentless wind that cut through to the bone, but at least it was dry--for now. Away from the beach, the streets offered shelter from the wind, and the day began to feel warmer in the still air hanging in the narrow boulevards. The sun glowed without a cloud to obscure it.
It was a pleasant English town. Knight wandered around the a maze of slim roads that were lined with old buildings. Around lunchtime, he came upon the George Pub on a corner of two winding side streets. He entered through the low, wide door.
The place was like Hollywood’s idea of what an English pub was supposed to look like, complete with a set of characters from central casting. It was an old building with squat ceilings and miniature windows. A fire crackled in the stone fireplace. Even at this time of year, the fire added a welcome bit of warmth to the cold British climate. The pub was quiet as the old walls absorbed the noise and stale smoke. An ancient television mounted to the side of the bar was showing a daytime game show. An old gentleman sat at a small wooden table near the fire, a lethargic mutt at his feet. A group of three young men in workwear stood at one end of the bar, each with a meat pie and a pint. Behind the bar stood an older woman, dressed as thou
gh she’d just stepped out of the eighties, resplendent with towering shoulder pads and big hair. She greeted Knight cheerfully.
“What can I get for you, love?” she asked.
“Pint of Guinness.”
“Here on holiday?”
“Hm?”
“You’re American.”
“That’s right.”
“Here on holiday?”
“Yeah... sort of.”
She poured a slow pint of draft. “Weather’s gettin’ bit of a nip on, yeah?”
He found it difficult to make small talk. So many buzzing ideas and questions in his head. “I, um, I just got here.”
“Huh,” said the barmaid, eyeing him suspiciously.
He took his pint and found a seat at one of the small tables. It was two o’clock exactly.
Knight looked around for anyone who might be Dr. Baron. The old man with the dog could have been a retired doctor. The three men in work wear looked to be carpenters or janitors by their clothes.
The game show ended and the BBC afternoon news headlines began. At the top of the news was an item about a British politician saying something unkind about one of his European counterparts. A question was asked in the House of Parliament about whether he was a suitable man for his important post. This was followed by a round of jeering with many shouts of “resign” thrown about the gallery.
The second item showed a container ship off the coast of China. China was refusing entry to any container ships that had either originated from Central or South America or had travelled through the Panama Canal. The Chinese authorities were also vetting anyone arriving by airplane into the country for signs of the Panamanian Flu. There were long queues at check-in desks throughout China, and anyone planning on visiting China should expect delays on arrival. The British journalist in China also reported that if China refused to take goods from around the world, the global economy was sure to feel the effects.
The next item was about a soccer (football on the British television) player who had moved from one club to another.
Knight took a deep drink from his Guinness.
The door creaked open, and an elderly man entered. He walked with a spring in his step that seemed youthful for a man of his age, but his bald head, fringed with grey hair, and the deep wrinkles on his face and hands betrayed his real age. He wore faded brown shoes and baggy trousers topped with a shirt and tie underneath a heavy tweed jacket. He removed his woolen hat and unwound the long scarf he wore around his neck. He tucked the hat and scarf into a large leather bag he was carrying over his shoulder.
The old man strode to the bar, making the briefest of gestures to Knight, which Knight correctly translated to mean that he was to stay in his seat and not speak. Knight looked at the television but watched the old man out of the corner of his eye.
The three young workmen finished up and left the bar together, calling out a cheery thank you to the barmaid as they left.
The newcomer collected a skinny glass of beer from the bar and took a seat at a table near Knight.
“You’re not local?” the old man said.
“No.”
Before Knight could say more, the old man cut him off. “Just visiting?”
“Yes.”
“Me too,” the old man jumped in again. “You here alone? Or, uh, has anyone come with you?”
“I’m here alone.”
“Somehow I doubt that. They are not going to let you out of their sights.” The old man took a sip of his beer.
“Dr. Baron?”
The old man turned away from Knight and quieted him with a soft but insistent shush. “We both know who is who, and why we are here.” He picked up his beer, walked over to Knight’s table, and pulled out a chair. “Uh, may I?”
“Please.”
“Why are you looking into vaccines?” the old man asked, situating himself at the table.
“It’s just my job. I’m working for the National Institutes of Health. I’m sort of in charge of the Vaccine Verification Program.”
“But you were working on stem cells before.”
“What makes you think that?” Knight turned to the old man.
“I hope you didn’t come all this way to lie to me, Doctor,” the old man said over the rim of his glass.
Part of Knight wanted to get up and run. He had some money put away. If the authorities hadn’t confiscated it by now, maybe he could cash out while he still had a pulse.
No dice. You’re in this neck deep, Knight.
“I was studying stem cells,” Knight confirmed, making his choice.
“Illegal research. That’s why the FBI raided your lab. That’s why Professor Stone had everything covered up. That’s how he’s got you over a barrel, and that’s why you are now entangled in some crackpot conspiracy mess about vaccines.”
“That’s a... succinct way of putting it.”
“Would you like to hear the rest of the story?”
“I have to admit, it would be nice to get some clear answers.”
“Yes, it would be, wouldn’t it?” Baron sounded almost amused at that. “Do me a favor, Dr. Knight. I’m going to tell you a story. It’s going to be a rather long one and you’ll probably want to have a piss and order another beer. It’s on me. But I’m going to ask that you allow me to finish – hear me completely, through to the end – before you ask any questions. Deal?”
“It’s a deal.”
“Lady Ophelia!” the old man called out. “Another round for me and my friend.” Then to Knight he asked. “You have to use the bathroom before I start? Don’t want any distractions, you know.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good,” said Baron. He poured the last bit of foam down his throat and wiped his mouth with two fingers. “Now then,” he said, his voice becoming thick and grave. “Let’s get on with the story...”
30
“I want you to listen to me very closely because you’ll only hear this once. In 1968, Richard Nixon’s election campaign was involved in an operation to subvert the Paris peace talks that would essentially end the Vietnam War. They promised the North Vietnamese that they would get a better deal under a Nixon presidency. It was an enticing offer. The North Vietnamese subsequently rejected Johnson’s Paris proposal. Now, why am I telling you this?
“At that same time, Nixon had also received word that the CIA was working on a program called Project Wildfire. This was a program aimed at injecting an untested chemical known as Titan X into the unsuspecting subjects and their children. Their aim? To increase the intellectual capacity of the human brain by targeting specific genes within the X chromosome. This way, not only would the parent be affected, but it would ensure that the gene would be passed to their children as well. A self-fulfilling master race. The only catch was that the child would only achieve the benefits of the enhanced genes upon receiving a second injection – a booster shot, if you will.
“You see, the CIA had been fighting a losing war with Communism. It was time to act. A report had come out – NSC Memo 342 – that laid out a ten-year plan detailing the rise of China’s intelligentsia. China was the sleeping giant, Dr. Knight, we all knew that. The West, America specifically, had been planning for the wrong eventuality. They’d worked to prevent a militaristic communist nation, not an academic one. NSC 342 gave leaders a glimpse of a future that terrified even the most hardened of Cold Warriors. It didn’t just mean battle on the high seas. It meant an intellectual war that could spill over to very roots of the international economy.
“Nixon won the 1968 election and set off on two courses of action designed to kill communism once and for all. He established two fronts: military and academic. The first step was to recognize Red China. You know the old rule: keep your enemies close. At the same time, the US would open trade relations with China in order to keep precise tabs on China’s economic growth. You see, historians always paint the Soviets as the villains of the Cold War, but Nixon was shrewd enough to see the rise of the sleeping gi
ant. He knew who the real enemy was.
“Well, the best laid plans of mice and men, yadda yadda. Hoover died in 1972 and then Watergate happened. The CIA shelved Project Wildfire with the intent of resurrecting it once the stench of Watergate blew over. But by then it was too late. Jimmy Carter became president. The Iranian hostage crisis, the energy crisis. CIA veterans retired or moved on. Reagan was elected and, by then, the conflict was firmly entrenched in the military arena. What America needed was a combined effort, a hybrid military and intellectual push in the world.
“But if you were alive in 1989, you know how that panned out. Communism crumbled. That was that. The US had just awakened from a fifty-four-year nightmare. Where did it leave us? Second in the world’s technological market behind China. We’d been beaten by the communists on a whole new playing field. We responded first by cutting all Sino-US military ties and then by cancelling all technology transfers and sales of US military equipment to China. That’s when the CIA really kicked into high gear.
“What you don’t know is that there had been a secret provision installed in the CIA’s original charter. The clause gave the agency the power to undertake operations that would protect America so long as the operation didn’t conflict with a sitting president’s current plans for the country. That’s subject to a pretty broad interpretation, Dr. Knight, wouldn’t you agree? The provision was meant to allow the CIA to foster forward thinking without the constraints of political wrangling, but it morphed into a sinister tool to skirt the law and the president.
“And so, in 1999, after declassified documents showed the world how the CIA had botched several missions during the Cold War, and with the agency’s renewed vigor in repairing its tarnished reputation, the Central Intelligence Agency took the initiative and resumed work on the long-forgotten Project Wildfire. The CIA would prove once and for all that it was a viable organization, one established to protect America at all costs.
“The project resumed on a massive scale. Like Nixon’s earlier attempt to attack on two fronts, the CIA targeted subjects at home as well as abroad. At home, the campaign centered on cultivating an intellectually-superior nation, a super race if you will. Abroad, it focused on weakening the competition. You can probably guess where our story goes now, Dr. Knight. They modified Titan X slightly and made it a mandatory ingredient in vaccines, ostensibly as a preservative. It was rebranded with the innocuous name Phlogisterol. Look it up. It’s right there under everyone’s nose. Phlogisterol. Ring a bell? The Phlogiston theory was a pseudo-scientific theory espoused by alchemists. Phlogiston was thought to be the fire element contained in all combustible bodies. A sly reference, that one. Phlogiston, Project Wildfire?