Conception: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (Perfectible Animals Book 1)

by Thomas Norwood

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Blurb

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Michael

  Chapter Four 5 years earlier…

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Epilogue

  Note from the author

  Acknowledgements

  About me

  PERFECTIBLE ANIMALS: CONCEPTION

  Thomas Norwood

  Copyright © 2014 Thomas Norwood

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0992355214

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9923552-1-0

  To my parents, who made me who I am,

  And Iliana, who has to put up with that.

  BLURB:

  IT'S 2065. Environmental and social chaos are destroying all life on earth. Food supplies have dwindled to almost nothing. The wealthiest live in highly-guarded gated cities and go about business as usual; everyone else ekes out an existence in gang-ruled shanty towns.

  The human population is fast reaching a population bottleneck -- a moment in time when environmental factors reduce a species' numbers so far that a complete evolutionary leap is possible; or extinction imminent.

  Gendigm, a secret organization of rich and powerful entrepreneurs and scientists, is preparing for this exact moment. They believe that humans' innate greed and competitiveness were at the root of the collapse of many previous civilizations, and that now, with the power to destroy not only ourselves but the world we live in, the human race must evolve or will disappear entirely.

  Dr Michael Khan, a brilliant geneticist, is struggling to save his wife from a deadly virus and is on the verge of a significant breakthrough that will save millions of lives. But he has discovered an unexpected side effect. The bonobo genes that make his test monkeys more resistant to disease also make them far more cooperative. Michael takes the discovery to his board of directors, but he is told the side-effects are unmarketable and that he must find an alternative.

  However, when his company starts going bankrupt, his project is about to be shelved, and he's almost given up hope for saving his wife, Michael receives an unusual phone call.

  Somebody is interested in his research after all...

  CHAPTER ONE

  MICHAEL’S ELECTRIC VEHICLE slows as it joins the line of traffic waiting to get through the gates to the regulated zone. He watches a group of poor people sitting around on the dusty ground in what used to be a park, waiting for someone from inside the fence to come out and offer them a job. It happens sometimes – someone might need a laborer or a cook, even the occasional accountant or teacher. Nobody is safe from unemployment these days.

  There is a fire burning in a forty gallon drum and a man is spit-roasting the remains of an animal. People are lining up for it. A woman collects the money while the man cuts slices directly onto plastic plates. A couple of guys with sawn-off shot guns stand nearby in case of trouble, no doubt taking their cut of the profits. An animal must be a rare find these days – and the man and woman will probably live like royalty for a few days before returning to their pre-barbecue squalor.

  A fight breaks out in the line between a man with a matted beard and a woman clutching her emaciated child. Michael considers getting out of the car and giving the woman a couple of hundred dollars so she can get a decent meal for a few days and feed her son, but the line of vehicles moves on and he’s up at the checkpoint having his retina scanned.

  “Returning home, sir?” a guard holding a machine gun asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me where you’ve been?”

  Michael’s com profile, which the guard has access to, contains all the information he needs to know, so Michael isn’t sure why he’s asking him questions. He wipes sweaty palms off against his trousers.

  “I’m a scientist. My company has a facility in the medical exclusion zone. I’ve been working there.”

  He thinks back to the clinic in the desert, from where they’ve just evacuated over one hundred genetically modified children.

  “Company name?”

  “Geneus.”

  “Have you been through quarantine?”

  “Yes.”

  Again, this information is all on Michael’s profile. Why is the guard stalling?

  “Just a moment.” The guard walks back inside his cubicle and Michael sees him talking to another guard. He watches his clock. Two and a half minutes go by. He tries to read their expressions or gather information from their body language using an app on his visual overlay but it tells him nothing.

  Finally, the guard comes out again. “Go on through, sir.”

  As his car takes off he breathes out with relief.

  His house is located in a gated community in what was once inner Melbourne, but is now a beachside suburb. Ten years ago, one particularly hot summer, the West Antarctic Ice Sheet collapsed and caused a global sea level rise of two-point-eight meters. Melbourne, along with all the other major coastal cities in Australia, was partly destroyed. Those who had enough money took over the dry houses, and those left without jobs were forced to move to shanty towns outside the city.

  Michael’s car pulls up to the gate leading into his community and his window opens so he can identify himself to the retina scanner. He gives Henry a wave and drives on through as the gate opens.

  Inside his house, he finds Annie in their bedroom packing their cases. Her dark eyes look up at him. He brushes her hair away from her pale face and they kiss. He holds onto her for a minute, inhaling her sweet smell.

  “How are you feeling?” he says.

  “A little better,” she says, brushing his chin and going back to her packing. “Have you heard anything about the children?”

  “No, not yet. Last I heard they’d left the compound but hadn’t boarded the planes. Dylan said they were having trouble getting clearance to land, and they might have to fly in to another airstrip.”

  “Is our plane ready?”

  “I hope so. Apparently it’s waiting for us at the airport.”

  “Which shoes do you want to take?” Annie says, squatting down in front of their closet where his shoes are neatly lined up. “I don’t think we can fit all of them in.”

  “Here, I’ll do it.” He bends down to select his shoes. “Are you all ready?”

  “Almost. Do you really think leaving is the right thing, Michael?”

  “I’m not sure. If anyone finds out about those children and what they’re capable of, though, we’ll be arrested.”

  “Maybe you should turn them over to the government.”

  “So they can turn them into soldiers? Create more bio-weapons?”

  “Yes. You’re right. Can we take these photos?” She holds up one of the framed photos they have on their dresser – the one of them on their honeymoon in Par
is, smiling in front of the Eiffel tower.

  “Of course.”

  Annie puts the photo into her suitcase and zips it up. Michael takes his three favorite pairs of shoes – two pairs of sneakers and a pair of brown leather boots – and squeezes them into the side of one of his cases.

  Half an hour later, everything is packed into the car and he and Annie take one final walk through their house together. There are still books on the shelves, paintings on the walls, rugs on the floors. Annie’s favorite cup is out on the kitchen bench. Memories of the last ten years of their life there are stored in every corner, in every room, and Michael takes Annie’s hand and squeezes it gently as they stare about for one last time.

  They lock the front door on their way out. Annie has already contracted a real estate agent and the house will be put on the market next week, the money wired to them via bitcoin when it’s sold.

  “Well, this is it,” she says.

  “Yes, it is.”

  They climb into their car and he asks it to take them to the airport.

  As they are leaving their one-way street a black van pulls up in front of them. They wait for it to move but four men in dark suits climb out and surround their vehicle. A police badge flashes through Michael’s window and knuckles rap on the glass. A hand goes to the side of a jacket where Michael sees the bulge of what he assumes to be a pistol.

  He considers switching the car into manual and flooring it in reverse, but that would involve running over the man in his rear-vision mirror and possibly getting shot at. Besides, there is no escape. It is a one-way street.

  He lowers the window.

  “Michael Khan?” the man says; a square-jawed, close-shaved, cropped-haired brute of a man. His gray eyes look in at him through flawless skin and he wonders if he’s one of the new androids the police force are using.

  “Yes?” Michael tries to sound casual.

  “You’re going to have to come with us.”

  “Where to?”

  “Just step out of the vehicle, please.”

  Michael looks around him at the four solid men with guns and realizes he has no choice.

  “Michael, no!” Annie puts her hand on his arm.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s going to be okay.”

  He tells the engine to switch off and climbs slowly out of the car. Adrenaline floods him like cold water. Everything is happening in slow motion. He can hear the men’s feet on the concrete, their breathing, a siren wailing in the distance.

  The first man takes out a pair of plastic handcuffs.

  “Can I ask what this all about?” Michael keeps his back to the car as if there is still a chance he might be able to return to it.

  “You’ll find out soon enough. This way please.” The officer grabs him by one arm and twists it around behind his back while another of the men, slightly older with thinning hair on top, comes around and grabs his other arm. Before Michael knows it they’ve got the handcuffs on him, digging into his skin.

  Annie tries to open her door but one of the men leans against it and stops her.

  “Please remain in the vehicle, ma’am.”

  “Let me out! What the hell is going on?”

  The three men holding Michael push him in the direction of the van. What will happen if he runs? Will he be shot down in the street? The one who spoke to him first has a bulky, animated, athlete’s body, and the other two, although shorter, look like they could easily outrun him too.

  One of the men, a cold, blue-eyed, ambitious looking unit, forces him into the van and sits across from him. The man’s jacket is forced open by his weightlifter’s chest. Michael looks back to see Annie getting out of their vehicle but the man who was holding her back jumps into the back of the van with them and they take off on autopilot.

  Are they really police officers? Or is he being kidnapped?

  “What is this about?” he says.

  “Everything will be explained to you when we arrive,” the man across from him says, no emotion in his voice.

  He tries to access the net on his com, a nano-tech computer built into his brain, but they’ve somehow put a block on it. He has heavy-grade firewalls so, whoever they are, they’re very well equipped. As far as he knows only the government has the technology and the authority to do that.

  Without the constant stream of data about the outside world on his visual overlay he feels blinded. He tries to guess where they are going by sight alone, but all the windows are blacked out except the windscreen and after a few blocks he loses track of their direction. He catches the occasional glimpse of an industrial shed or a truck with shipping containers. There is little traffic on the road. They must be down near the old port somewhere – this is not an area he’s ever spent any time in, and in the last few years, since the sea level rise, it has changed dramatically.

  After a long drive they pull up at a gate in a high-security, razor-wire-lined fence. Guards carrying machine guns look into the van and they are waved on through. Once inside, the man across from him opens the van door and asks him to step down. The other two follow. He finds himself in the car park of a two-story, cream-brick building that looks like a mental institution. Blue bars cover small windows. He is led over to a glass entrance, past more security guards. His captors check in with another guard behind thick glass then pat him down and check the contents of his pockets. A loud buzz precedes the opening of a steel gate. He is taken to a small interrogation room, asked to sit down, then left alone.

  He looks around. There is a two-way mirror. Security cameras are mounted on the ceiling. The walls are the same pale blue as the rest of the building. Time condenses and his mind goes into overdrive as he thinks about what to do. In the space of less than a minute, he’s thought about the last ten years of his life and all the possible mistakes he could have made which led him here. He thinks about the genetically modified children, how the viruses they were designed to resist mutated and got out of control. He tries once again to access the net, but he is still being blocked. At least his com itself is still working, and he monitors his vital signs. His heart rate is up. He breathes slowly. He must stay calm.

  The door to the room opens and a tall man in a pair of suit pants and a white, pressed shirt but no jacket comes in. His hair is not short like the others, but is styled back in a thick wave. His face is angular but good-looking. He unlocks Michael’s handcuffs and offers him his hand which Michael shakes with relief.

  “I’m Don James,” the man says. “Michael Khan, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Welcome to ASIO.”

  The Australian Security Intelligence Organization. So they still exist.

  “ASIO?”

  “That’s right. They didn’t tell you?”

  “They didn’t tell me anything.”

  Don chuckles briefly, as if at some private joke. “Well, never mind.”

  “What am I doing here?”

  “To be perfectly honest, Michael…” Don sits down in one of the chairs across from him, crossing one leg over the other and resting his elbow on it, cupping his chin in his hand and looking at him. “You’ve been involved in some fairly interesting business.”

  “What business is that?” Playing dumb is his only strategy until he finds out what they want.

  Don stares at him, then uncrosses his legs and stands up again. He presses the tips of his fingers onto the tabletop. His knuckles start whitening. The flesh under his nails goes red.

  “I think you have a pretty good idea what I’m talking about.” Don stares at him with an unwavering determination, as if trying to see right through his skull and directly into his thoughts. Michael wonders if they’ve come up with an app which allows him to do that. At the very least he presumes he’s measuring his biometrics and monitoring his gestures and facial expressions, just as he is doing to him. Although he gives away nothing.

  Michael can feel the way his ventricles throb, opening up to draw in blood and squeezing dow
n hard to spread it through his body. He hears a sound that he initially thinks are footsteps but then realizes are his heartbeats. He wonders if he is going to have a heart attack. According to his com, his heart rate is over one hundred and twenty. He has to calm down. Although if they know about everything he’s been involved in, a heart attack might be merciful. He imagines months if not years of solitary confinement. Torture, as they try to extract every last piece of information from him, even after he’s told them everything.

  Doubts open up inside his mind, threatening to tumble him into a dark, knowledge-less abyss. Who is really in charge of Gendigm, the organization he has been secretly working for? He has always considered them democratic, but there must be someone at the head, behind the scenes so they can never be implicated. There have been hints now and then that their supporters are everywhere, at every level of society. Presumably not in ASIO, or he wouldn’t be here. Unless he is their scapegoat.

  “I think I need to see a lawyer.”

  “All in good time.” Don smooths his hair back with one hand. “But before you do, you might like to listen to what I have to offer.”

  “What’s that?” Michael grips the sides of his chair.

  “A plea bargain.”

  “What type of plea bargain?”

  “You tell us everything you know, and we’ll make sure that you get off lightly. A lot more lightly than you will if you don’t tell us anything. Or if you get your lawyer involved in this.” His eyes narrow and Michael can see the thick lines of determination scarring his face.

  “I have a right to a lawyer.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t. So far, you haven’t been charged with anything.”

  “Well, shouldn’t you charge me with something, then, before holding me?”

  “In cases like yours, we can hold you for as long as we like.” Don seems pretty smug.

  “What do you mean, cases like mine?” He feels the sweat emerge on the top of his brow, resists the urge to wipe it away. One of the fluorescent lights flickers and buzzes. His heart rate picks up again and he can see 124BPM in the top right of his visual overlay. Don’s is at a steady 60.