by J D Lasica
“Let’s get back to work,” Waterhouse said.
They showered, got dressed, and hit the exit. On the way up the stairs, Tornquist said, “Hell, the way this is going, some day kids could sue their parents because they weren’t born with the right kind of genes. Don’t you ever worry about where all this is heading?”
“It’s business. Nothing more, nothing less.”
He felt a nervous energy building inside him now that the grave team operation was about to unfold. This could be what puts Birthrights Unlimited over the top for good. He’d had enough of absurd counteroffers from agents for overrated ballplayers, celebrities, rock stars, and supermodels. He’d had it with stonewalling curators and cemetery officials.
If the living wouldn’t cooperate, well, the dead could be so much more cooperative.
32
Miami, August 27
K aden spotted Valerie Ramirez and Alex Wyatt sitting at a table for four outside a funky lunch spot in Miami’s Little Havana neighborhood. Inside, Cuban knickknacks lined the bright yellow walls as locals began to fill the red vinyl booths and jammin’ Latin music spilled out the doorway.
Perfect.
“Alex? Valerie? Hi, I’m Kaden.” She smiled and shook their hands. “Thank for agreeing to meet. Oh, here comes my friend, Nico.”
Nico came from the other direction, shook hands, and took a seat next to Kaden.
“Well, isn’t this all cloak and dagger?” Valerie said. “I almost didn’t come, but I do love a good mystery.”
After B Collective learned that Valerie was dating an at-large correspondent for Axom, Kaden reached out to Alex, saying she was onto some explosive information about Birthrights Unlimited. They would be heading to Dallas late this afternoon to begin digging deeper and would then share with him what they learned. They asked Alex to please invite Valerie to the lunch, too, for reasons that would become clear.
“All right,” Alex said. “Let’s start with a question. Of all the lunch spots in Miami, how did you pick this place?”
Kaden smiled. “You mean, how did we spot the dozen selfies you guys took here and posted all over social media? Not exactly investigative reporting.”
Alex chuckled at that. “Okay, let’s talk ground rules.” He began laying them out: Anything they told him was on background unless they said otherwise—not “off the record,” like every TV drama got wrong, but on the record with their identities withheld. They agreed to give Axom the scoop before contacting other media organizations. And Alex and Valerie agreed not to disclose to company officials any of the information Kaden and Nico shared with them.
“Sounds good,” Kaden said, “but before we get down to business, we need to start laying down a foundation of trust so you know where we’re coming from.”
The more low-key and personal she could make this initial meeting, the better.
“I was just about to suggest the same,” Alex said. “I was hoping we could start with your backgrounds.”
“And I was hoping we could order,” Nico added, eyeing the menu and drawing laughs.
After a waiter came and took their orders, Nico and Kaden told about their work as data specialists from New York who had a reputation for analyzing datasets and turning up patterns that mere mortals would miss. Kaden also mentioned her past work for an international security firm and her love of thrill sports. Alex mentioned some of the national stories he and the Axom team had broken lately.
Valerie took out her smartphone. “Here, you’ve got to see this.” She showed them the drawings of sea creatures her students had made during their recent Citizen Science Expedition.
“Oh, I love these!” Kaden said. “Wow, these kids are talented.”
As Valerie talked about her specially gifted kids, Kaden fell into a short daydream about what it might be like to be part of a normal family. She didn’t know much about her real mother, but she figured her mom might be around Valerie’s age today—and single, too, if her adoptive father could be believed. Kaden’s fingertips brushed the USB locket on her necklace and for a fleeting moment she imprinted that faded photo of her mother onto Valerie Ramirez, this “spokesmom” with her cheerful disposition and empathy gene.
What would it have been like to grow up with a mother you loved and who loved you back no matter what? I’ll never know.
When their plates arrived, Kaden started in on her dish of grilled fish and Cuban-style black beans with rice and plantains. Then she shared more of her personal backstory in Colorado, including how she was raised in an abusive environment. She didn’t go into too much detail, partly because she didn’t want to spook them and partly because she was still processing what she’d found out in that document sent to her by an anonymous source or whistle-blower.
She and Nico agreed that those telltale initials on the document, BU-Dallas, probably stood for Birthrights Unlimited. She was still reeling from the magnitude of what that mysterious “trackers” file signified. It meant the people who raised her had been spying on her—only her fake parents could have known some of these intimate details. Even her own private bedroom wasn’t a safe space.
It was the ultimate violation of her body and personal integrity.
Nico chimed in between bites of his vaca frita, a fried shredded beef dish topped with onions and a side of black beans and rice. He recounted how they’d both skipped college, met at a special training school, and square off once a week in a kickboxing ring.
“So are you guys looking to have a baby together?” Valerie asked. “Is that why you were looking into Birthrights?”
Kaden felt herself blushing as she and Nico exchanged surprised looks. He’d never discussed wanting to be a dad, and she didn’t have any maternal instinct tugging at her just yet. Not being able to give birth kind of sealed the deal in her mind.
“Um, no, Nico and I are friends.”
She leaned forward and took on a serious look. “Look, you guys, here is how we can work together. We’re heading to Birthrights Unlimited in a few hours on a fact-finding mission to get some answers about my bio-mom and my adoptive parents. Somebody sent me some disturbing personal documents that may tie back to Birthrights. Another person, an investor in the company, may be involved with some suspect activities.”
Not that I’m completely in the clear with all those special assignments.
She knew she had to hold back certain details, like the strange missions Blackburn had bankrolled, his weird preoccupation with gravesites, and some new suspicious documents on his private server that the B Collective team had turned up.
Alex looked a little skeptical. He’d no doubt met his share of conspiracy theorists over the years.
“All of us just want the truth, right?” She shifted her gaze to Valerie. “We know you just signed on with them. We’re not asking you to betray any confidences.”
They went quiet as the patter of other lunchtime guests bounced off the metal tables and the colorful tile wall mosaic with a Cuban motif.
“What exactly do you want from me?” Valerie asked.
“An introduction,” Kaden said. “Just get us in the door. ”
She knew Birthrights required word-of-mouth referrals. This would be the in they needed.
Valerie sat there, trying to decide. Alex leaned over, grabbed her hand, and whispered something into her ear. She nodded.
“Well,” Valerie said, “I can’t see the harm in introducing you to a genetic counselor. That’s where I’d suggest you start.”
“Thank you,” Kaden said, smiling. “That would be awesome.”
Dessert arrived. Kaden had a tangy Cuban rice pudding while the others dug into their flan cake, turrones, and guava pastries. While they ate, Valerie texted her counselor asking if Kaden Baker and Nico Johnson could stop by tomorrow to learn more about Birthrights and its offerings.
“I hope that’s helpful,” Valerie said. They finished their desserts and Kaden insisted on picking up the bill while they made small talk about the vacation
Alex once took to Cuba.
Valerie’s smartphone buzzed. “It’s from my counselor Erica. You guys are good to go for tomorrow.”
She squinted at the rest of the message. “She says she was just about to message me with some news.” Valerie finished reading the text and her eyes flew wide. She turned to face her boyfriend.
“Oh, my God, Alex! I’m gonna be a mom!”
33
Bel Air, California, August 27
R andolph Blackburn lay on the leather massage table inside the green and white hexagon gazebo with mesh netting that occupied one end of the elevated wrap-around redwood deck at his Bel Air estate. As he had so often lately, he contemplated his legacy.
But what does legacy mean, really?
Did legacy mean having your name etched on the side of a hospital wing or some god-forsaken college building? He had no interest in that.
Did legacy mean having a business-savvy set of heirs he could mentor who would build upon the family name? Well, that ship had sailed, hadn’t it?
“Ohhhhhh-agggghhhhhhh!” The heated bamboo rollers pressed deep into his upper back, providing just the right amount of pain. He turned his head to the left on the leather massage table and smelled the scent of honeysuckle from the vines hugging the edges of his outdoor cedar deck .
“After the bamboo, would you like the hot stones today, Mr. Blackburn?” the masseuse asked. “Or perhaps a chocolate facial?”
“No time for that.” No time—the story of my life.
“Very good, sir.”
The masseuse finished with the deep pressure massage and began her aromatherapy treatment, applying just a light touch of jojoba oil on his back from neck to feet.
He returned to his thoughts. What will be my legacy? What mark will I leave behind?
His first wife bore him no children. The doctors claimed he had a low sperm count, but he knew better than those quacks. He divorced and remarried. Then divorced and remarried. Finally, his third wife produced a child. But to what end? Only heartache.
The masseuse finished daubing off the last of the oils when a male voice interrupted his reverie. “Sir, your guests have arrived.”
“Guests?” Was he expecting guests? He rolled to his side and saw a blurry figure just outside the veiled tent. An apparition!
“Two guests from Birthrights Unlimited,” the apparition said. “You had me make the arrangements yesterday given that your doctor has ordered you not to fly.”
Ah! Now he remembered. The grave teams! The DNA Legends! My last chance at a legacy.
“Tell them I’ll be right down.”
The masseuse offered him his robe and then exited the gazebo. For the moment he was still able to change into his own clothes, and he put on a Brooks Brothers Bengal stripe shirt, dress pants, and custom-fit derby shoes.
He grabbed his walking stick and, with the help of an assistant, made his way down his favorite elevator, lined with alligator skin, and out to the open-air deck on the main floor. Two men stood to greet him.
“Randolph, I think you know my co-founder, Henry Lee,” Waterhouse said .
“Do I?” This man doesn’t look familiar. “At any rate, have a seat.”
The three men sat on the back deck, overlooking the immense marble patio, made with thirty different types of Italian stone and encompassing the ninety-foot-long glass infinity pool. When he wanted to get really festive, the pool sported a swim-up bar and young mermaids for entertainment.
“Impressive,” Lee said, looking around.
The butler smiled as he poured the tea. “The estate has 36,000 square feet of living space with eleven bedrooms, twenty bathrooms, a 600-square-foot outdoor LED screen, indoor lap pool, art gallery, spa, wine cellar, and a garage with twenty-one classic cars.”
“And you live here alone?” Lee asked.
“I entertain,” Blackburn shot back.
The butler leaned down to Blackburn’s shoulder. “Would your guests like a tour after your meeting, sir?”
“They would not,” Blackburn snapped.
The butler gave a little bow and retreated.
They sipped their tea. Blackburn racked his memory. Something about this Henry Lee fellow looked familiar.
“Do you remember the first time the three of us met?” Waterhouse asked.
Blackburn kept quiet. No, he had no memory of that.
“It was just before you led our Series A round. You were on a bender about personal liberty. ‘People should have the absolute freedom to tinker with their progeny as they see fit.’”
“Sounds like me,” Blackburn allowed.
“After those conversations,” Lee said, “we felt we had a green light to push the envelope in our early clinical trials.”
Now he recalled. “I used to get monthly updates from you.”
“We had some early setbacks,” Lee said. “The trials continue.”
Waterhouse opened his binder and pulled out a small sheaf of papers. “Randolph, I know we’ve had many discussions over the years about what Birthrights Unlimited can do for you.”
“That has been a moving target, hasn’t it?” He allowed himself a controlled smile.
He took their measure, studying their eyes to see if they suspected anything about his condition. He surmised they knew little if anything.
He’d known for some time that a reckoning was coming, but the swiftness of the onset caught him by surprise. One morning three months ago, he got out of bed, went to the bathroom mirror, and could not remember his name. He could remember other things: his first car, an eggplant-colored Gremlin. The bare-shouldered dress his first wife wore on their wedding day. But for the life of him, he had no idea who he was or what he was doing in this big house.
He then realized it was time to put away childish things—his quest for a cure. There would be no silver bullet, no matter how many millions he poured into gene therapy research. He accepted the fate he was handed with this horrid, rare genetic disorder. Now, all that remained was the question of legacy.
Waterhouse opened his binder, plucked out two thin color brochures, and set them in front of Blackburn. The first was an option for traditional in vitro fertilization with an egg donor of Blackburn’s choice.
“We can get you an heir, Randolph.” Waterhouse took a sip of his tea and leaned forward. “Remember, the surrogate need not be the genetic mother. We have supermodels in our catalog who’ll provide their eggs for the right price, some as young as nineteen. Think of it: not just a healthy child but one with movie star looks and your brains.”
Blackburn frowned at the image Waterhouse painted, but he knew the science wasn’t there yet to assure such an outcome. The child could turn out just the opposite: my looks and her brains! No, standard IVF was a nonstarter .
The second option was admittedly intriguing.
“With the second option,” Lee said, “we can clone you. An exact genetic replica—”
“—allowing you to leave your fortune to yourself!” Waterhouse interjected. “Two, three, four biologically identical heirs. We can even space them out over a number of years. Think of it as a diversified portfolio.”
At one time Blackburn had indeed considered cloning. Had it not been for the grave team operations, he may well have chosen that route. But there was one insuperable drawback: a cloned Randolph Blackburn would still have this accursed disease. Science had not yet located the gene or genes that caused it. Without the lab being able to screen for this dreaded mutation, any clone of his would also have this infernal incurable fatal disease.
No, cloning would not do. He had a grander plan in mind.
He combined Waterhouse’s two sets of proposals into one pile and tore them neatly in half.
“Walk with me,” he commanded. He needed some exercise today. He rose gingerly and began ambling down the Calacatta marble walkway leading to the infinity pool. Waterhouse and Lee followed, one on each side.
“My generation, your generation—we’ve made a mess of t
his world.” Blackburn loped with his walking stick toward the pool. “Biological weapons, nanobots, designer pandemics. We live in a world where one sociopath can destroy the whole of humanity. We need to rethink our institutions, our ethics, our laws, our very nature in order to meet these challenges. An era like this requires visionaries for the ages, not the stunted leaders on today’s world stage.”
They reached the first custom-designed table, an object d’art shaped like a swimming pool and topped by a generous umbrella the color of the French Riviera. The three of them sat while two butlers set down drinks and hors d’oeuvres .
His executive assistant, Beverlee, wearing oversize sunglasses and an electric green bikini, jumped into the pool and scooted up onto a brightly colored float in the shape of a pizza slice with whimsical drawings of pepperoni, mushrooms, and olives. She began paddling from one side of the pool to the other. The pizza art with Beverlee on top was an ironic statement, not that they cared, and he let the two men stare for a minute before continuing.
“I have one final initiative for you.”
Blackburn produced a small sheet of paper from his jacket pocket with the list he compiled based on hints he’d been getting from Conrad. He wasn’t about to pony up $25 million for these grave team operations without having a say in the final target list. He handed the list of names to Waterhouse.
Political leaders. Artistic masters. Scientists. Inventors. His list of immortals was a distillation of some of the greatest men who once trod the earth. He had thought long and hard about this. As his last act, he wanted to reward sheer genius. He wanted to elevate natural-born leaders. The world needed his help. He was a great believer in liberty, market-based forces, individual achievement, and exceptionalism.
The world needed a kick in its egalitarian ass.
“We need a new generation of forward-thinking men.” He watched Waterhouse and Lee inspect his scrawled handwriting. “I’ve set up a special endowment in my will. One hundred million dollars goes to each of these eight men—toward their upbringing, education, enrichment, and primarily to support their world-changing endeavors. No, they won’t be able to take the money and run. I’ll have controls in place.”