by J D Lasica
“We have a lot of leads,” she concluded, “but at this point there’s a lot more guesswork than solid facts. We could use your help.”
When she finished, Sayeed took two steps forward. They were pretty tight, but for a moment she wondered if he might banish her and Nico from the collective for going rogue. She and Nico exchanged worried looks.
“Everyone!” Sayeed’s voice was steady and commanding. “Drop what you’re doing. This is priority number one.”
Kaden and Nico looked at each other, surprised and buoyed. Then Sayeed met her eyes. “We take care of our own.”
“Thank you.”
Kaden went to her terminal, called up the assets from Randolph Blackburn they had retrieved so far, and began sharing them with the B Collective team on their local server. She spent the next few hours combing through thousands of Blackburn’s files, trying to find any old photos, remembrances, little stories—anything at all related to her mother—but came up empty. Nothing about her mom. Maybe Blackburn wasn’t involved in her adoption after all.
The rest of the team spent the rest of the night dividing up the tasks, beginning by probing Blackburn’s business interests. By midnight they’d already turned up some interesting things about Blackburn, his holdings, and his reputation as an eccentric billionaire with a fetish for Libertarian causes and the occasional odd vanity project.
Nico came up with the most interesting find of the night. He looked deeper into the clues she’d unearthed about Blackburn’s involvement with Birthrights Unlimited. On the surface it appeared to be a legit enterprise with 1,200 employees, mostly in Dallas. It was described in the press as a fertility center that also conducted research into reproductive biotech.
But the unusual thing was this company’s network signature. Nico managed to hack into a mobile tablet used by one of the Birthrights Unlimited counselors. It contained brochureware, survey results, appointment calendars, and lists of clients. But what was interesting was the back end. This thing was connected to a state-of-the-art quantum computer array.
“This is weird.” Nico gave a puzzled look. “It’s the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a major research laboratory or the NSA. I’ve never seen such an elaborate, sophisticated architecture in the private sector, especially for a company that’s not exactly huge.” They were able to see an outline of the setup and how it was all controlled by a master artificial intelligence, but they weren’t able to get past the firewall and see any of the data.
They brainstormed with the other B Collective team members. Annika had the most experience working with artificial intelligence, and her strong voice filled the room.
“With these new bleeding-edge AIs, the trick is not trying to bypass their security protocols. The trick is to make the AI believe it’s not being hacked and it’s just carrying out legit orders.”
Annika looked up from her screen at the circle of faces to let that idea seep in. “The trick is to set up a profile with the highest possible privileges. If you do that, the AI thinks you’re God.”
22
Oyster Bay, Long Island, New York, August 22
W aterhouse turned off Cove Road in Oyster Bay, Long Island, and pulled into the narrow parking lot along the bottom of Youngs Memorial Cemetery. He got out of his rental car and began climbing the steep, winding tar pathway to the top of the hill, past grave markers of the obscure and the irrelevant. He paused at the bottom of the brick stairway that led to the main grave. He checked his timepiece: a quarter till four. Fifteen minutes early this time.
He navigated the brick steps, pausing three-quarters of the way up to catch his breath. His pulse throbbed and his baby alligator penny loafers growled under the strain.
“Come on, Waterhouse.” A voice from up the hill. “You can make it.”
He looked up. Blackburn!
“Twenty-six steps,” Blackburn called out. “A tribute to our twenty-sixth president.”
It turned out he and Blackburn had separate business meetings in New York earlier today, but instead of meeting in Manhattan like any sane person, Blackburn insisted on a rendezvous way out here. Waterhouse didn’t suffer fools gladly—unless they were extremely rich fools. In this case he had to play along, given that Blackburn held a gun to his head.
Up until now, it was a weapon Blackburn had no incentive to use as the second investor in the company. After Petrov’s initial infusion of $44 million saved the company from going under, Birthrights Unlimited began to take off. While there was still a yawning gap between what people wanted and what the science could deliver, it became clear that this was going to be a high-growth sector. Angel investors, venture capitalists, investment bankers, and institutional investors all took notice. It was almost obscene, the way those vultures swooped down, wanting to throw their millions at him. All of a sudden, everyone wanted to chip a valuable little nugget off the human genome.
The reclusive billionaire Randolph Blackburn was one of the last to come calling. Waterhouse always admired the way Blackburn had made his billions: the old-fashioned way, taking it from people too weak-kneed or too stupid to do anything about it.
Initially a hedge fund trader, Blackburn had made the bulk of his fortune running a data clearinghouse that stitched together profiles on millions of consumers from hundreds of unrelated sources. Waterhouse turned down the other would-be investors and selected Blackburn’s investment group for the follow-on round when the old tycoon agreed to pony up $160 million under generous financial terms, with one catch: the old tycoon got to control three board seats. There was always a catch with Randolph Blackburn.
Waterhouse reached the top of the landing, out of breath. “Hello, Randolph. You certainly get around.” He hadn’t seen Blackburn in person since the ultimatum he set down at the Getty.
“Cut the crap!” Blackburn turned and balanced himself on a black walking stick with a gold handle. Waterhouse hadn’t seen that before.
Blackburn started across the brick patio and found a seat on the nearer of two concrete benches. Just behind them the breeze tousled a tangle of fragrant daffodils.
“Tell me,” Blackburn said. “Have you had any security breaches recently?”
“No. Our security is rock solid. Why do you ask?”
“We had a security breach at my home. Looked like a professional job.”
“Did they take anything?”
“No. That’s why it was so curious.” He knotted his forehead into a look of concern. “I had a sweep done of my entire house but it came back clean. I’ve doubled my security force and upgraded my system. You might want to do the same.”
Waterhouse nodded and took a seat at the other end of the bench. He prepared himself for another lecture about not moving fast enough on the DNA Legends extractions. Blackburn was a curious figure with hidden motives. One of the things they had in common was that they were both childless. Did he want to use Birthrights to produce an heir? Did he really want a son at age seventy?
What did the man want ?
“Change is coming, you can feel it in the air.” Blackburn looked out at the bucolic park-like surroundings with the spires of Manhattan looming in the distance. “Some days it feels like the earth is spinning off its axis. It’s become a different world in the past decade.”
“It’s a strange time. An age of disillusion,” Waterhouse agreed. “The entire nation is in the grip of an identity crisis. Government, political parties, the media, the courts, the church—trust in every institution is in free fall.”
Whenever there was a national tragedy, a part of Waterhouse secretly cheered it on, knowing that every terrorist event, every disgraced president, further divided us into our little tribes as we retreated into our caves, cut off from our norms and moorings, isolated from the ties that bind us together as a people.
This, of course, was good for business. The family unit was the most intimate tribe of all. Who wouldn’t want to exercise control over how their own tribe turned out? Birthrights Unlimited would
be there to help them do just that. Make sure the newcomers fit in correctly.
Blackburn leaned forward, watching a tour group depart down the stairway. “Did I ever tell you, Waterhouse, that I was a preemie? Of course not, why would I? Not the sort of thing a man boasts about. But had I been born ten years earlier, I wouldn’t be sitting here today—the technology hadn’t yet arrived. I’m counting on tomorrow’s technology in this field to do dazzling things we can’t even conceive of yet.”
Waterhouse nodded. They agreed on that much. The genetic revolution was in its infancy. Much bigger paydays ahead.
Blackburn rose and Waterhouse took the cue. The two men paced across the modest memorial. They were alone except for the birds yammering in the trees. Waterhouse looked out over the hillside. Remote and isolated, with elms and yew trees to provide cover and easy access to the highway for a quick getaway—compared to the grave operations in Europe, this one would be a cakewalk. A troop of Boy Scouts could pull it off.
“When you see a final resting spot like this, it concentrates the mind.” Blackburn paused at a lookout, and his eyes scanned the horizon. “It reminds you of your own mortality. Do you ever feel gripped by that fear, Waterhouse? That our lives won’t matter? That we’ll pass from the scene without so much as a shrug from the rest of creation?”
Waterhouse felt a pang of pity for the old tycoon. Here was a man of fabulous wealth, trying to escape the fate of irrelevance, trying to cheat death by leaving behind some monument to his own ego .
“I intend for my company to serve as my legacy,” Waterhouse said.
Secretly, what he craved most was to join the Pantheon of Immortals. To be mentioned in the same breath as Newton, Galileo, Edison, Einstein, and Watson and Crick, discoverers of DNA’s double helix structure.
“Fair enough.” Blackburn nodded. “As for myself, I’m aiming for something more grand.” He let the statement linger in the air like the seagulls hovering above.
He turned toward Waterhouse and raised his walking stick like a club. “But it all depends on your next move, Waterhouse. Are you going to do what I asked or stand in my way?”
Waterhouse brushed off the latest threat from this erratic, fragile man. Credit where credit was due, though. It was Blackburn who had first broached the idea of the DNA grave teams after he’d heard that DNA can remain intact for 2,000 years or longer. Years ago, when they first began discussing the concept, it was still the stuff of fantasy. But every week it seemed some lab was announcing a new breakthrough or discovery. People always underestimated how fast this field was moving—especially with the huge profits involved.
Now that the science had arrived, all that was lacking was the will. Until now . Until this bold stroke that will be remembered for generations.
“Randolph, you’ll be pleased by the latest news about the legends.”
But he wasn’t sure the old tycoon had heard him. Blackburn turned his back to Waterhouse and plodded on toward the gravesite.
Over the years he’d had many blue-sky conversations with Randolph Blackburn about the DNA Legends. At one point Waterhouse broached the idea of executing ten simultaneous grave operations.
“Why stop at ten?” Blackburn had advised. “Chances are you’ll get only one shot. Security measures will be stepped up at every famous gravesite in the world after this.”
Waterhouse decided the old robber baron was right. He couldn’t do a hundred, as Blackburn suggested. But, yes, he was thinking too small! He and Conrad settled on forty targets—anything beyond that would be a logistical nightmare. Blackburn was true to his word and funded all forty operations.
He followed Blackburn to the tall black fence that surrounded the grave on four sides. It was a simple country grave, covered with ivy. Two tiny American flags fluttered in the breeze in front of the modest marble headstone.
“They don’t make heroes like him anymore.” Blackburn peered down at the grave. “Soldier, sportsman, conservationist—a real warrior. Did you know he’s credited with coining the phrase, ‘Good to the last drop’?”
“I’m not sure why we’re here, but you needn’t worry.” He decided not to share the final Go List with Blackburn—didn’t want Blackburn micro-managing Conrad, who was masterminding the operations. But the old tycoon would be happy with the final list. It all came down to logistics and probability of success.
Blackburn grasped the wrought-iron bars, studying the grave. The old Bull Moose and his wife, Edith, were in the double plot sharing a single gravestone.
“When?” he asked.
“Circle it on your calendar. August twenty-ninth. One week from tonight.” Waterhouse still had to go over some final details with Conrad, but he foresaw no roadblocks and would brook no delays.
“Everything is on track,” he added. “We’ve begun prototyping the DNA Legends in the Multimedia Center. Available only to a select clientele. Only a matter of time.”
“I told you, Waterhouse, time is something we don’t have! I’ve already instructed my board appointees: If you don’t meet my deadline, you’re out!”
Blackburn turned to go. He peered down the hillside and raised his gold-handled walking stick high in the air, like Moses holding up his staff before the Israelites. An aide signaled to the limo driver to pull closer to the base of the hill. Blackburn started easing down the brick stairs, waving off help from two assistants before stumbling a little and needing their assistance.
Waterhouse called after him. “Our joint vision will soon be a reality!”
The response came from Blackburn’s shoulders. “Only one thing matters. Results!”
Waterhouse stood there on the mountaintop and let the sensation buzz through his veins, this sexy, heady rush of power. The power that comes with knowing he alone would decide whose DNA to immortalize. He alone would decide which forty individuals were the most marketable in all of human history.
23
Brooklyn, New York, August 22-23
F or one night, Kaden wanted to escape from everything—from all the intrigue, all the outside pressures, all the inner demons. Tomorrow she would rain holy hell down on Randolph Blackburn, but for this one night she wanted to let down her guard and white out her mind.
Nico offered her the joint and she took a hit, grooving to the bang-on reggae playing on the sound system.
She and Nico had been drinking cheap red wine for a few hours in his studio apartment, with its sofa that looked like a dog’s chew toy and its barbaric bathroom situation, but Kaden didn’t care about any of that. Nico was the one person she could always count on.
“You ever feel like a blank slate?” she said over the music, savoring one last sip of wine from her plastic cup. That was it for the night, big day tomorrow. “You ever wonder what was real in your past?”
Nico let the question dance around the apartment to the strains of an oldie but goodie, Shaggy’s “Angel.” Then he hunched forward on the opposite end of the sofa. “I know you’re looking for answers. I just know one thing. Everything you did at Lost Camp—everything we’ve done together since we met—it was all real. Wipe away all the other nonsense and count on that.”
She looked at him and smiled. Nico was right. Hold onto the true things and don’t worry about the rest.
They began plotting out the next day. She told him how she planned to get in touch with Randolph Blackburn with an unannounced online face to face over his computer network. They went over what they’d uncovered at his Bel Air estate and in their online forays in the three days since then. To be honest, they still had no idea how this guy was connected to her.
Some time after midnight, after they’d mapped out the questions she wanted to ask, she fell asleep on Nico’s dank sofa.
Kaden woke up to the smell of coffee—a nice Guatemalan blend, it turned out—as soft shafts of morning light slanted through the blinds. Nico had covered her with a blanket and was now making a quick breakfast of Greek yogurt and fresh fruit.
She wolfed it do
wn and hopped into his shower with its hot-cold split personality when an idea hit her. She had a few hours to kill before she planned to get in touch with Blackburn out on the West Coast.
“I’m gonna take the morning off from B Collective,” she told Nico. “Can I borrow your rucksack? I could use a good, solid half-ruck march.”
“Sure.” Nico smiled and brought it out of the closet. It was a big, oversized backpack, and they worked together loading it down with two small barbells and gym clothes until it felt about right. Fifty pounds—maybe a little less—that she would carry on her back for twenty miles .
She hadn’t done a full-on ruck march since Lost Camp. Forty miles would wipe her out, but the half ruck she was now mapping out on her smartphone should be doable. “See you at the B.” She hugged Nico and headed down the stairs. She needed to clear her head.
She did a lot of soul-searching during the march. Over the years, when people weren’t calling her a punk, they mistook her for a free spirit, the way she flitted from place to place, job to job, not getting attached to anyone. Her spirit wasn’t so much free as it was adrift, in search of some purpose just over the horizon.
For the first mile of the hike, the question kept thrumming in her head: What is my purpose? How can I figure out my future when I don’t know my past?
Well, let’s examine that past, shall we?
Kaden had searched everywhere and had found no legal documents that she’d ever been adopted. So Paul and Alison Baker were complicit in this conspiracy of silence, if that’s what it was. And Alison must have had contact with her real mother—the letter proved that.
During her childhood, the Bakers had been control freaks, always prying into her personal affairs, never understanding that she was different. As a young girl, she threw new dolls she was given into the fireplace. Dolls were stupid; she wanted to play with trucks and spaceships and guns. At age five, she took a paring knife and shredded the frilly dresses her mother forced her to wear to kindergarten. She was a tomboy—a “difficult child,” her parents said—and never picked up on the banter of girls, preferring to hang with boys.