Panacea

by Brad Murray

  La’Roi’s curiosity drew him to a particular picture hanging near the door. Professionally framed and matted, the picture was a strip from a classic Spy vs. Spy comic. La’Roi chuckled to himself; the black spy was getting the best of the white spy by shocking him with an electrified yoyo.

  “One of my favorites,” said Brumeux. “I’ve always been fond of those comics. Black and white. Good and evil. No complicated shades of grey to muddle things.”

  La’Roi smirked, “I always wondered why one of the spies didn’t just kill the other.”

  “What fun would that be, Mr. Dawkins?” smiled Brumeux. “After all, there are few joys in life more utterly satisfying than defeating your adversary, and together sharing in the incontrovertible truth that you have bested him.”

  He flipped open a panel on the wall and pressed a button. The windows darkened, dimming the sunlight to a tolerable setting. Brumeux held utter and complete rule within his sanctum. He even, it seemed, controlled the sun.

  He directed Jimmy and La’Roi to a pair of brown leather den chairs adjacent to his desk.

  “Please gentlemen, have a seat,” he said smiling.

  The cushions were even softer than they appeared and Jimmy and La’Roi sunk in comfortably. Brumeux glanced at his watch and then at Stern, who stood in a corner next to the office doors, arms perpetually crossed.

  “I believe you had asked, James, why you are such a threat to the Alicante?” said Brumeux.

  Jimmy and La’Roi nodded their heads in unison. Jimmy turned to La’Roi inquisitively.

  “What?” said La’Roi. “I’m interested.”

  “As I was saying,” continued Brumeux, “we believe there is an arm of the Alicante whose plan is to set the globe on a new path - the correct path, as they see it. Key to this path is right-sizing the population to the level they believe is sustainable; in line with existing natural resources. They have created many effective means of doing so. The formulation of viruses being paramount among them.”

  “That’s pretty damn risky though, isn’t it?” asked La’Roi. “I mean, what if they end up wiping out every single person on the damn planet, including themselves?”

  “It’s not risky when you are in possession of the anti-virus,” said Brumeux. “And when great quantities of the anti-virus have been pre-distributed to selected control points throughout the globe, they are largely in control of who dies and who doesn’t. Thus far, they have conducted only relatively small trials under isolated conditions. They’ve been working on the formulation of a super virus, but to date have been unsuccessful.”

  “What do you mean by small trials?” asked Jimmy.

  “Throughout the last decade or so, the Alicante and their scientists have produced about a dozen trial strains. They field test each strain to test its efficacy; take their formula into the real world to see how it performs - on a limited basis. I can say with certainty they have been more than disappointed with their results.”

  Brumeux paused, waiting for Jimmy or La’Roi to ask the next logical question. He smirked disappointedly when neither asked. Instead, both looked up at him emptily.

  “You might wonder why they’ve been disappointed in their results. The answer,” said Brumeux, pausing for effect, “is sitting right here in this very room.”

  Jimmy raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Me? You’re talking about me. What the hell would I have to do with this?”

  “Search your instincts, James,” said Brumeux. “I believe you already know the answer to your question. Why would a group bent on eradicating half the world’s population through their own virulent ingenuity be interested in you? What makes you so unique?”

  Jimmy thought for a moment. La’Roi leaned forward, eyebrows raised, searching Jimmy’s face for answers. Jimmy caught La’Roi’s eyes for a brief moment. And then it hit him.

  La’Roi.

  La’Roi had been on the brink of death until Stern injected him with the gold liquid – the stuff Brumeux had said was “from” Jimmy. Jimmy thought about the fact he’d never known what it was like to be sick; never felt like just staying in bed with a case of the sniffles. He’d never even had so much as a sore throat or runny nose. His mother used to marvel about it – that Jimmy had been blessed with the inexplicable trait of avoiding whatever bug that affected the rest of the family. While she and Cooper were holed up in their bedrooms with the flu for three days, Jimmy was left to tend to them – somehow never catching a trace of it.

  “I don’t get sick,” Jimmy said reflectively.

  “That’s right, James” said Brumeux. “Put simply, you don’t get sick. That is the gift that was passed to you from your ancestors. But it’s so much more than that.”

  Brumeux stepped closer.

  “We all possess within our genes certain unique characteristics – the genetic makeup which makes us distinguishable from one another. Our parents’ DNA blended together to produce a distinctive recipe – the recipe that makes each of us who we are. And it makes us unique from any other human who lives today or has ever lived before us. For most of us, the distinctive features we inherit from our ancestors are insignificant; unimportant in the grand scheme of things. They’re trivial subtleties such as the exact slope of our noses or the precise color and shape our eyes, or the predisposition to diabetes or heart disease or alcoholism. But with you, your traits are extraordinary. Your traits are valuable; precious to humanity.”

  “I don’t –“ Jimmy started, rubbing his palms together. “I don’t know what to think. I don’t feel extraordinary. I don’t feel unique or special at all. I feel like a –“

  “Oh but you are special, James. Your cells react differently in the presence of a threat than a normal human’s. Through our studies, we’ve determined you are resistant to every type of infection, disease, virus, bacteria, and poison known to man. Essentially, your body’s defense system attacks with such menacing efficiency, its foes simply do not stand a chance.”

  “And because of that, all of this – “ Brumeux continued, his hands spread wide to the sky, “this building, this complex, these people who work here – all of this would not be possible without you. There are fourteen corporations in this complex – each with the sole purpose of creating value through the betterment of human existence. From what we’ve learned about how your body deals with infection, we are tantalizingly close to perfecting a cloning process that will create human tissue and organs that operate just as your cells do. Imagine how this will improve the lives of thousands, if not millions; how it would affect those in line for organs and tissue transplants.”

  Jimmy rubbed his forehead exasperatedly.

  “And this is just the tip of the iceberg, James,” Brumeux continued. “You see, not only can what we’ve learned from you help prevent other humans from contracting disease, but what we’ve learned can actually cure people from such maladies.”

  “You saw as much in person this morning,” said Brumeux, nodding to La’Roi. “Your cells, when combined with a special catalyst and delivery agent developed by my people, destroyed the poison that had infiltrated Mr. Dawkins’ lungs. You are indeed, James, a human panacea. A cure-all. Truly remarkable.”

  Jimmy stood up from the sofa and walked to the wall of windows. He stared blankly out at the sprawling commercial complex beneath him; at the buildings and all the people and cars and business jets. And he tried to process all that Brumeux had said. All of this would not be possible without you.

  “I’m not sure what your game is here,” said Jimmy, his words bouncing off the wall of glass and over his ears.

  “What do you mean James?”

  “You say your group – Minkowski - discovered me at birth?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “And that you’ve built this entire corporation from my blood.”

  “More accurately your cells, James. We’ve endeavored to replicate the portion of your DNA that makes you immune.”

  “And yet, until today, I’ve neve
r met one of your people. Never been to this place to be examined by your people. I’ve never had a drop of blood taken or given so much as a mouth swab for you to study.”

  Brumeux smiled and thought carefully as he approached Jimmy at the wall of glass.

  “I can understand how it would appear that way, James. The truth is, we have been studying you since you were born. And we’ve been protecting you ever since. For example, your family physician, Dr. Erwin, is one of ours. You might recall that at each and every one of your annual physicals, Dr. Erwin has ordered a blood draw. We don’t need a lot of your blood - a little goes a long way.”

  “Bullshit,” laughed Jimmy, thinking of the ridiculousness of the frail old physician being involved in such covert activity. “Dr. Erwin is a family friend and…“

  “Dr. Erwin is a family friend,” Brumeux said, cutting him off. “He has always considered himself a friend of your family, which is a large part of the reason he so much enjoys his role in the Order. If you were to do the research yourself, you would discover that Dr. Erwin’s practice began in Springfield on March 15, 1990; just two days after you were born. This is no coincidence, and it was no coincidence that your family became his patients shortly thereafter. Your mother and father may have believed they freely chose his practice, but the truth is they were gently coaxed by my people to do so.”

  “Ah, so everything my family has done since I was born was decided by you. I see. Decisions weren’t our own, but yours that you made for us,” scoffed Jimmy mockingly.

  “Oh no, quite the contrary James. The Order has only influenced the things in your life that could not be left to chance; the choice of family physician being paramount among them. Your interest in the military was another. We obviously couldn’t allow you to risk your life as a soldier. Out of the question! The terrible guidance counselor, however…well, chalk that one up to me being an overprotective old man.”

  Jimmy exhaled heavily and shook his head. The tales were beyond ridiculous, and yet there was an underlying element of truth to them. As much as Jimmy wanted to dismiss Brumeux as crazy, instinct told him otherwise.

  “This is a lot to swallow,” Jimmy muttered to nobody in particular.

  “I can only imagine,” said Brumeux, patting him on the shoulder. “To wrap one’s mind around such a grandiose thing, to come to terms with the notion of your significance to this world...I’m sure there are many doubts swirling in your mind. I wouldn’t expect you to take my word James; I wouldn’t expect you to believe any of this. After all, as I mentioned on the interstate, you are a man who requires proof. You must see it, experience it, in order for you to accept it as truth.”

  Brumeux turned and ambled, cane in hand, towards the corner of the room where Stern stood.

  “I must ask. On the interstate this morning, did you not see with your own eyes the people who bled from their eyes and nostrils? Did you not experience their panic and dread and their morbid realization of their impending deaths as the poison conducted its work?”

  Jimmy grimaced and nodded his head slowly as the scenes replayed in his mind.

  “And yet you experienced none of that. You alone were unaffected. I would wager you didn’t experience so much as a single solitary cough - despite the cloud of poison that surrounded you. What more proof do you need James?”

  “In time,” said Brumeux over his shoulder, “you will come to accept and understand our actions. In time, you will see that we are truly an altruistic group of people. As I said earlier, we’re the good guys. I think Mr. Dawkins would agree that our efforts to revive him today demonstrate that we’re not all that bad.”

  “You’re going to try and take credit for that?” snapped Jimmy, his forehead furled, red with anger. He turned from the window and started towards Brumeux. “You can’t say that with a straight face, can you? He wouldn’t have needed revived if you hadn’t gassed the entire goddamn interstate! You killed a lot of people today, so forgive me for if I have trouble thinking of you as the good guys!”

  Brumeux turned to face him, his jaw clenched. He extended his cane towards Jimmy, a warning to keep his distance. Stern lurched from his position in the corner and placed himself between the two men. He hulked over Jimmy, his wide frame an intimidating blockade.

  “I can assure you nobody feels the pain of today’s accident more than me. It is my responsibility and mine alone.”

  Brumeux sighed and exhaled and, studying the framed Spy vs. Spy comic, he said, “We all have our crosses to bear, James. But the weight of my cross is so much heavier. I am charged with the safeguarding of humanity from those who mean to destroy it; a responsibility that nobody else on this Earth can even begin to fathom. But I don’t ask for anything, not so much as a thank you or a solitary pat on the back. I – we – must be largely invisible to the public, so the thanklessness of it all comes with the territory I suppose.”

  Brumeux turned and met Jimmy’s eyes.

  “This responsibility carries with it the agonizing comprehension that difficult decisions must be made. I’ve learned, painfully, that we must accept that there will be collateral damage from time to time. And today’s incident on the interstate, while terrible and tragic, was an unfortunate outcome in the larger war we must wage. You are safe with us now and that is the most important thing. If you had made it to St. Louis and fallen into the Alicante’s hands…”

  Brumeux’s voice trailed off as he noticed Stern pressing his index finger into his ear. Brumeux eyed his enormous guard as he received a message in his earpiece.

  “What is it Stern?” barked Brumeux impatiently.

  “Sir, there’s still been no response from Agent Medlev. And our agents report the appearance of a struggle inside Minkowski’s home. No sign of either of them.”

  “Just as I feared,” said Brumeux. “The Alicante have them. Stern, please let Adler know we’ll be taking off for the Outpost in twenty minutes.”

  “Sir…you’re safer here,” said Stern.

  “I’m certain you’re correct. But right now my personal safety must take a back seat. I must make good on a promise I made long ago. James, Mr. Dawkins, follow me. There is something I must show you at the Outpost.”

  “What the hell is the Outpost?” asked La’Roi.

  “I cannot explain in words, Mr. Dawkins. You will have to see it for yourself.”

  La’Roi looked at a doubtful Jimmy, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Good enough for me. Let’s go.”

  Jimmy huffed and followed the men out of Brumeux’s office and down the long corridor. They entered an elevator unlike any Jimmy and La’Roi had ever encountered before. The elevator’s stainless steel doors swooshed to a close behind them as Stern entered a code on a touchscreen. Soft blue LED ambient lighting on the ceiling gradually morphed to purple and then to green as they descended. Had it not been for the soft female voice proudly proclaiming the passing of each floor, Jimmy wouldn’t have believed they were moving at all. The descent was smooth, graceful; with not so much as mechanical creak, shudder, or the slightest hint of vibration. Instead of declaring floor numbers, the voice provided a vague description as they passed.

  “Department of Genome Engineering,”

  “Nanomedicine Technology Center,”

  “Reprogenetics,”

  “Ministry of Global Intelligence,”

  And finally, “Command Center.”

  The doors wooshed open to a buzzing of voices that seemed to emanate from below. They stepped out of the elevator and found themselves in an enormous, cavernous room. Roughly the size, shape, and layout of a movie theater, the floor line gradually declined from back to front. The men stood just in front of the elevator doors and gazed down in amazement at the spectacle that lay in front of them.

  A thirty foot wide high-definition screen was centered on the far wall, with dozens of smaller screens surrounding its perimeter. Jimmy noticed the enormous center screen was tuned to a CNN live shot of an automobile accident, while the smaller screens w
ere a blur of colors that streamed words of every discernable language. There were an abundance of maps, flashing pictures of unknown faces, and meteorologists pointing to green and red thunderstorms in locations stretching across the globe.

  Dozens of people, adorned in solid black, scurried busily in a form of orderly chaos. Some carried paperwork, while some chattered into headsets; others shouted instructions across the room to a group occupying a row of desks below them. It reminded Jimmy of the images on the world news of frantic traders on Wall Street.

  “Damn,” remarked La’Roi. “Its like Apollo 13 in this place!”

  “Mission Control you mean,” smiled Brumeux.

  “Yeah, Mission Control,” said La’Roi, entranced. “Houston, we have a problem and all that shit.”

  “Mission Control has nothing on us Mister Dawkins,” laughed Brumeux. “Welcome to Command Center!”

  Brumeux once again raised his arms proudly, just as he had done before on the roof. “This is the nerve center of our global operations. Here we monitor the entire world. And the world has never in history been such a small place as it is in this room.”

  As he spoke, a few of the black clad headset-wearing staff below took notice. Some began to whisper to their colleagues who immediately swiveled in their chairs to gawk and in turn whisper to their neighbors. A palpable charge of electricity surged through the air, and the neurons of the room seemed to suddenly jump with excitement.