The Genesis Code

by Lisa von Biela

  Elbows resting on his knees, Evan Cleary leaned forward in the deck chair. A nearly full moon and the blue underwater lights in his kidney-shaped pool provided the only illumination. A hot, dry breeze rippled the surface of the water, refracting the light in abstract jagged lines.

  He clutched a scotch and water in a crystal bar glass and tried to let the shifting patterns soothe him, calm the turmoil ripping through his mind that night.

  It didn’t work. His conscience churned, warring with his sense of self-preservation. He stood and paced, circling the pool, trying to work off some adrenaline so he could think rationally.

  He glanced at his house, a massive two-story brick structure, dark except for the reflections from the pool rippling across it. No lights on inside. He’d been sitting outside for several hours, since before the sun went down. And he still didn’t have an answer.

  His conscience told him the right thing to do. He should call some reputable news outlet and blow the whistle, and do it now. Two men implanted with mind-altering devices without their knowledge or consent. Their memories tinkered with. God knows what else. And why?

  Harris was undoubtedly after competitive advantage. Nothing else mattered to him. Tyler? Well, his enthusiasm knew no bounds. Evan didn’t doubt he’d take advantage of the situation to further his own research on the device—if he hadn’t already. Didn’t doubt it for an instant. Yes, some news organization would just love to pounce on this.

  If they’d believe him.

  The two victims had no idea what was going on, and Tyler and Harris had likely been cautious about avoiding a paper trail. It would be his word against theirs, and his credibility wasn’t exactly top notch after his own scandal.

  And what about the consequences? Evan knew he was unemployable as a doctor anywhere other than OneMarket. If he blew the whistle, he’d be done—especially if no one believed him. He’d known no other career his entire life. So, unless he wanted to start working as a greeter at a big-box retailer, he’d better plan on liquidating everything for cash, and living his life out on that.

  Evan glanced again at his house. The scandal had nearly finished him. He was only now starting to claw his way out of the financial pit it had created. His peers had shunned him ever since; he had no real friends anymore. All he had left that mattered was his house and what was in it—and his ability to practice medicine.

  He could live in a smaller house if he had to. That wouldn’t bother him so much. But he’d have to give up his collection of original vinyl recordings because of the climate-controlled space it required.

  He stopped pacing and tried to think of what it would be like never to hear those recordings again. He didn’t even own any CDs—they didn’t have the nuances, the imperfections that made a recording breathe. That would hurt worst of all. He’d already lived through professional humiliation. He’d survived losing Erika. Painful, yes, but he’d moved on. His recordings were his last real pleasure.

  He couldn’t imagine never hearing that original recording of Count Basie. Billie Holiday. The old radio shows with their low-tech sound effects. Every pop and click. Every shuffle of feet and throat-clearing caught forever. When he listened, he was there. He moved through time to sit in the front row, listening to the musicians, singers, actors, all of them performing just for him. Not for mass production.

  He shook his head. As it stood, if he went public, he’d risk everything and likely still not stop the program because he had no hard proof. There had to be another way. There had to be a way to keep tabs on Simmons and Weston and still somehow throw a wrench into the grand scheme. If those two didn’t suffer side effects, and Harris didn’t get to implant the entire employee population, wouldn’t that be enough?

  He sipped his drink. Yes, indeed, that would be enough. Sure it would. He could keep watch on Simmons’ and Weston’s files. If they came in to the clinic for so much as a hangnail, he’d know about it and track it even if he didn’t happen to be the doctor they saw. They both worked for the same manager. Maybe he could meet with him and see how they’re performing. If Tyler got wind of it, he could spin it that he was interested in how Genesis was enabling them to do their work—not that he was checking to see if they were crumbling in any way.

  But there his plan had a gap. If he found problems, what could he do about it? Who could he go to? And if he didn’t find problems, how would he be able to block the mass rollout?

  Nothing to do but cross that bridge when it came up. He had a plan for now—it would have to do.

  Satisfied he’d worked out a reasonable approach, Evan had a sudden urge to hear some Billie Holiday. He went inside the house, turning on lights as he headed for his listening room.

  He opened the door, switched the rheostat on low, and checked the temperature and humidity gauges. All in the proper ranges. He closed the door, then approached the wall of shelves holding his collection and ran his fingers along the edges of the sleeves of those in the H’s until he spotted the Billie Holiday album he wanted. He took it to the turntable in the mahogany equipment cabinet along the facing wall.

  Evan slipped the record from its sleeve and gently placed it on the turntable. He switched it on and carefully positioned the needle on the edge of the vinyl. Then he sat back in the black leather recliner in the center of the room, eyes closed, and listened to the sorrow made tangible in Billie’s plaintive vocals.

  The depths she plumbed with every note always made his own troubles seem less grim. Even in his divorce, and his professional fall from grace, Billie’s singing conveyed pain greater than he’d experienced or imagined, and so comforted him. He settled back in his chair and let her soothe him once again.

  CHAPTER 26

  Mark waited in a small meeting room. It was set up for one-on-one sessions, with just a small square table, two chairs, a phone and a whiteboard. He flipped through the pages of his crappy Venezuela project plan draft as he waited. Terry said he’d join him in a minute to discuss the changes he and Reyes had made to the original version. Mark expected them to be extensive.

  He yawned, though he’d actually gotten a full night’s sleep for a change. Much as he hated to admit it, the sleeping pills seemed to work. Maybe all he needed was to break the cycle and he’d be OK, just as Dr. Tyler had said. He felt more rested than he had for some weeks, though he would have slept even better if he hadn’t had that nightmare.

  He couldn’t remember the details, but it sure left him feeling odd when he woke up this morning. Sort of…violated. Like something had been forced on him. Something important. He shook his head. He hated nightmares like that, where he woke up with an overwhelming emotion, but no details to pin it on. Even now, halfway through the work day, the feeling still lingered.

  “Ready to go over this?” Terry appeared in the doorway.

  Mark was happy to set the nightmare aside, though he dreaded what Terry might have to say. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

  Terry stepped in and shut the door behind him. He took a seat and handed Mark a copy of the updated plan. Mark noticed it had about double the pages of his original version.

  Terry set his copy on the table and placed his hands flat on it. “OK, Reyes took it first, made some changes, then gave me his version to review. There were some significant pieces missing, and I put those in. Overall, you are a bit behind where you needed to be at this point, but I have some time now and we can work together to catch up.” He smiled awkwardly.

  Mark looked down and said, “Thanks.” Though he appreciated Terry’s help, he’d never had to be bailed out before and he was disgusted with himself for it. He could just picture Reyes reminding him of it at his one-year review.

  Terry started to walk through the plan with him, highlighting where he or Reyes had altered it, and why. After a couple of pages, a strange feeling came over Mark. He felt like he had been on a treadmill, falling behind, nearly falling off, then suddenly getting his rhythm, getting his feet back under him, and then matching the pace of the treadmi
ll with ease and grace.

  He interrupted Terry. “I got it.”

  Terry put the page down and scowled behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to belittle you or your work. I know you’ve been under a lot of stress because of this. I just want to help, and make sure you understand why we made the changes we did.”

  “I didn’t take it that way. I just mean I get it.” Mark paused as a fleeting sensation, like an itch, passed through his head. It ended so quickly, he forgot about it as soon as it was over. “I don’t need to take up any more of your time going through it line by line like this.”

  Terry’s face went a murky red as he smacked his fist onto the table, scattering the papers. He said through clenched teeth, “How can you just get it? If you got it, we wouldn’t be here in the first place, would we? I’m happy to help, but I don’t want to fight my way past your ego to do it!”

  Mark was taken aback. No matter how heated the situation, Terry never spoke to him like that. “Back off! I’m just trying to save us both time. I’d rather just get started on the work itself.”

  Terry took off his glasses and tossed them onto the table. He scrunched his eyes shut and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “All right, you lead,” he said in a low, tight voice.

  Mark flipped to the timeline of steps. He was silent as he glanced through the chart.

  Without opening his eyes, Terry said, “Well?”

  “I can do this. I can do all of this.” Mark wondered why he’d had trouble coming up with the plan in the first place. The insomnia must really have been wreaking more havoc on his mind than he realized.

  “Fine. Then go do it.” Terry put his glasses back on. His eyes were bloodshot. He stood somewhat unsteadily and left the room, shutting the door a little more forcefully than necessary.

  What the hell just happened? Terry never acted like that. And he didn’t look all that good when he left. Maybe he didn’t feel well.

  Mark could understand Terry’s skepticism about his abilities after he’d bungled the first draft of the plan so badly. But how could he have done such a lousy job? It was all so clear now what needed to be done, and in what order. He scooped up the papers and headed back to his cubicle, eager to get started.

  He sat down, cleared the clutter from his desk, and placed the new plan next to his keyboard. He just had to hunker down and do the steps—and make up for lost time. Not that it was any small feat. No, he had a lot of work ahead of him, but the path was clear now.

  Knowing he had some long days—and nights—ahead of him, Mark decided to call Sheila. The distance between them had grown ever wider over the last few weeks. He rarely called her from work, but he wanted to close at least a little of that distance, so he picked up the phone and punched in the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Sheila, hi. It’s me.”

  “Who?”

  Her icy tone hurt, though it didn’t surprise him. “Don’t be like that.”

  “To what do I owe the privilege?”

  “Look, I just wanted to talk a little. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I’m going to be late, so I—”

  “So what else is new? This time you’re calling to say you’ll be late, instead of just being late, or coming home and being on the computer the rest of the night anyway. Gee, thanks.”

  Mark tried to think of what to say to change the tone of the conversation. Maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t called at all. Seemed like he was rubbing everyone the wrong way today.

  “If you have nothing else to say, I have other things to do than stand here and listen to old news.”

  The line clicked dead.

  Mark slammed down the receiver. Bitch! Here he was trying to meet her halfway, and that’s how she acts. I’ve got more important things to do than put up with her attitude.

  He pushed Sheila from his mind and concentrated on the Venezuela project.

  CHAPTER 27

  Mark eyed Toni Hanson as he arrived for their follow-up meeting late Friday afternoon. Something about her looked amiss. She seemed preoccupied, distracted. Even her normally assertive bearing seemed muted.

  “So, how is your work going?” She looked down at her desk, idly scribbling on a pad.

  “Fine.” Mark had decided she didn’t need to know about his near catastrophe with the Venezuela project. Everything was going according to plan now. Bad enough Reyes and Terry had witnessed his lapse.

  Today she wore a navy blue blazer, a little less form-fitting than the jacket she’d worn last time they’d met. Beneath it was a button-down ivory blouse with a satiny shimmer. Toni continued to doodle with her pen as she listlessly asked, “And your home life?”

  Mark considered his response before answering. He couldn’t say his home life was fine, not with any honesty. Sheila had frozen him out for weeks now; they barely even spoke. Suddenly he didn’t want to answer Toni at all, not even with a noncommittal, half-assed fine. What business of hers was it, anyway? As long as he got his work done, why did OneMarket need to know anything about his personal life? He folded his arms and said, “Why should I have to answer that?”

  She raised her head and looked directly at him for the first time since he came into her office. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot. “I’m sorry you feel that way, I—” She shook her head and looked away again.

  Mark was stunned. Cold, cold Toni Hanson looked like she’d been crying. He felt a pang of guilt for trying to give her a hard time. “Is something wrong?” he asked awkwardly, half-hoping she’d wave off his question.

  Toni stared down at her desk and sighed. “I’m sorry to waste your time. I’ll reschedule this for next week.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  She hesitated, wiped a tear from one eye, then spoke in a whisper. “My boyfriend called earlier. Broke up with me. We were supposed to meet for dinner tonight.” She shook her head. “Didn’t see that coming.” She gave a short, sarcastic chuckle.

  Mark struggled to decide what to do next. He knew he should keep his distance, but he felt drawn in. As sappy as it was, he’d never been able to resist tears. And coming from someone as cool and remote as Toni Hanson, the effect was all the more powerful. Against his better judgment, he said, “Hey, do you want to get out of here for a while, maybe talk about it over a drink?”

  Toni looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “I really shouldn’t. I’m still responsible for tracking your progress for a couple more months.”

  “So what’s that? A meeting or two? No big deal. I’m fine with it if you are.”

  Toni seemed to weigh his response, then looked at her watch. “It is after five. I have no more meetings today, thankfully.”

  After they settled into a booth in the dimly lit bar and ordered their drinks, Mark studied Toni closely. Outside OneMarket, she looked like a different person. Maybe it was the lighting, but she didn’t look so chilly and unemotional as she did at the office. Tonight, she looked like a normal twenty-something young woman who’d just been dumped by her boyfriend.

  They sat in self-conscious silence as they waited for their drinks to arrive. Mark realized he didn’t know how to strike up a conversation with her under the circumstances, and Toni didn’t seem ready to talk.

  To Mark’s relief, their drinks arrived fairly quickly, breaking the awkward spell. Toni held her wine glass by the stem, twisting it around on the table before taking a sip.

  “Do you want to talk about it, or would you rather talk about something else?” Mark ventured.

  Toni sipped more wine. “I’m still not sure what even happened. It just came out of the blue. We’ve been together a year, then…poof! Just like that.”

  Mark treaded cautiously. “Strange.”

  Toni gave him a sharp look. Her wine glass was half empty already. “It’s worse than that. Today was the anniversary of our first date. He either forgot or deliberately chose today just to be cruel. Either way…”

  Mark sipped his beer, trying to
come up with the right thing to say. He regretted asking Toni out; he felt in over his head. He didn’t really want to know her personal business. “I’m sorry, that’s—”

  “Fuck him.” Toni’s demeanor suddenly changed. She sat up straight in the booth and eyed Mark over her wine glass. “Whether he forgot or did it on purpose, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need someone like that.”

  “Better off without him,” said Mark.

  Toni straightened her shoulders, downed the rest of her wine, and gave Mark an appraising stare. “You never did answer my question.”

  “What question?” Mark didn’t know what to make of her sudden change in demeanor.

  “The one about your home life.”

  “Oh, that—”

  “You were pretty evasive about it.” She tilted her head slightly. “You didn’t even give a pat defensive answer. Things not so great for you, either, I take it?”

  Mark could feel the nail driving home. Things with Sheila were grim. They’d never been so distant from each other over anything, and he was at a loss how to reach her this time.

  And when he dared to be honest with himself, he discovered he resented her attitude toward OneMarket these days. She treated his commitment and determination to succeed as some form of weakness on his part, some abnormality. Toni had started the anger throbbing anew with her questions.

  “Yeah, not great.” He sipped his beer.

  Toni leaned forward. “I’d like to forget about Brian for a while. Would you like to forget for a while—no strings?”

  Mark stared at Toni while he weighed his answer. He’d never seriously considered cheating on Sheila before, but she’d never treated him like this before, either. He’d idly wondered what Toni was really like when he’d noticed the contrast between her persona and her choice of office artwork, but he hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking about it. “Yeah. I would,” he whispered.

  Toni stood near the refrigerator in her kitchen. All the appliances were black or stainless steel. The counter was spotless, free of clutter. She’d only turned on one bank of tiny track lights, providing a subdued glow. “Would you like something to drink first?”