by J D Lasica
Miami, August 30
I t took three full days for Valerie to track down her ex-husband. She hated dragging Alex into this, but she needed his reporter skills to locate the right Rick Sanchez. Turned out he’d moved from Miami to Las Vegas six years ago.
This was not how she wanted to spend her first day after learning her surrogate was pregnant with her child. Okay, technically it was their child. In some sense. Maybe in a legal sense.
God, do I need to hire an attorney now?
Last night, after Kaden and Nico had left for Dallas, she and Alex went out to dinner to talk about how the pregnancy might affect their relationship. For the next nine months, she suggested, maybe they could spend more time together. Because after the baby arrived, the reality was that she would need to prioritize her newborn.
“But we can still make it work, right?” she said. “Tell me the truth.”
“It’s a different dynamic for sure,” he said. “But I’m game. I care for you, Valerie. We have something special. ”
She felt better—until dessert arrived and the topic turned to her ex. Alex was not wild about bringing a crazy ex-husband into the mix, given what she’d told him about his jealous streak.
For days she wrestled with the idea of not telling Rick. As far as she was concerned, he was out of her life forever. And she hoped to keep it that way. But if the shoe were on the other foot, she would certainly want to know about the second coming of Jordan. And the best time to deal with the situation was now, not later. Alex bowed out of things, which was just as well—it was her decision.
Her fingers twitched as she dialed his number. On the second ring, he picked up.
“Hello?” After six years, his voice was as familiar as if it was yesterday.
“Rick? It’s me, Valerie.”
A pause. “Didn’t expect I’d ever hear from you again.”
“I didn’t expect to call, either. But I need to talk with you.”
“About what? You need money?”
“I hope this is the only time we need to talk about this.”
“Did something happen?”
“No. I mean yes. Listen, I’m going to be a mom again.”
“Well, that’s no reason to call. I figured you’d moved on. Congrats. But that’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Oh, Rick. Oh, but it does.”
50
Dallas, August 30
S ix hours after the last grave team operation concluded, Sterling Waterhouse, Gregor Conrad, Henry Lee, Alan Tornquist, and Sharon Sullivan gathered in the main room of the Multimedia Center and peered at the large digital monitor on the wall. Conrad’s operatives had completed forty extractions, all similar yet unique in their own way. The magnitude of what they pulled off was just beginning to sink in.
Waterhouse wanted to see if any hint of the grave team operations could be traced back to Birthrights Unlimited. He instructed Number Six to find any news coverage of the events, and the AI put up on the main monitor a live news report from CNN International. Above a chyron that said, BREAKING NEWS: VIENNA, a reporter was standing in the middle of a cemetery to the right of a tall white obelisk with a single word engraved in Old English black script:
Beethove n
The reporter intoned: “Authorities can only guess why anyone would want to desecrate the grave of perhaps the greatest composer the world has ever known. Austrian police have no suspects, no motive, and they’re saying little. But sources tell CNN that this morning’s grave robbing appears to be not the work of vandals but a meticulously planned operation, carried out with military precision.”
The camera zoomed in past yellow police tape and focused on the grave. A mound of dirt lay next to it. The reporter took on a serious scowl. “Reports of similar incidents have begun to come in from France, Italy, and Los Angeles. Authorities are quick to emphasize it’s too early to speculate on whether any of these events are linked. Now begins the task of determining whether these are random acts of vandalism, the work of professional body snatchers—or whether it’s all a ghoulish prank. At this point, officials are not ruling anything out. This is Sandy Goldberg, reporting for CNN from Vienna’s Central Cemetery.”
Waterhouse turned off the TV and looked at the faces of the management team members seated around the room. Conrad was bleary-eyed but beaming—his operatives had nearly all come through. Lee looked downbeat and dour, but that was Lee being Lee. Tornquist painted a noncommittal expression on his face. Waterhouse couldn’t get a good read on Sullivan. She looked somber and ashen, the blood running away from her face.
Tornquist cleared his throat. “I’d like to state, for the record, that I had no prior knowledge of this activity.”
Waterhouse ignored his pussy of a legal counsel and turned to his security chief. “Thank you, Conrad. It was a command performance for the ages!”
“Took me back to the old days,” Conrad said.
“How did we do?”
“Forty operations, all within a ten-hour window. Thirty-five targets recovered, four operations scrubbed, one operation compromised. One operative in France wounded by gunfire—he’ll be fine.”
Conrad put on his Eyewear to check the latest updates. “As far as the recovered packages, two planes are inbound. We’re staggering the others to arrive over the next two weeks.”
“Just as planned.” Waterhouse eyed the others around the room. “We’re not rushing into anything. As I keep reminding everyone, this is a long-term play—we’re years away from unlocking the value in these DNA Legends and going to market. Lee will need time to identify discrete traits and Sullivan will need time to identify prospects.”
Sullivan lifted herself onto the table ledge at the far side of the room. “What about blowback?” That quieted the room.
Waterhouse shot her a glare but decided not to let Sullivan’s impertinence dampen his celebratory mood. “No one has connected us to these events, so I would expect no immediate repercussions. Let a few years pass and last night’s operation will be ancient history. The public has the memory of a goldfish.”
Sullivan looked unconvinced. She pursed her lips and dangled her designer boots from her perch.
Waterhouse decided to forge on before she could object. He stood and brushed his fingers down the lapels of his silk bespoke suit, trying to feel richer. “Let’s pause and take stock.”
His eyes swept across the wide room, designed so that each of the exit doors led to an adjoining media gallery. His brain trust was gathered here in the large central room, still arrayed with its Command Center logistics. Radiating out from this main hub were four smaller rooms that would serve as a multimedia galleria, a series of themed, fully immersive experiential galleries with interactive viewing pods.
“Number Six!” He turned toward the audio interface built into the wall. “Display media assets of the successfully extracted legends in all five Multimedia Center galleries.”
The monitors on the walls and tables around the room all sprung to life, and he could see moving images on the screens in the adjoining rooms as well. As he looked around the main room, he saw the AI had organized the DNA Legends project by category and assigned each legend to the proper gallery.
In the main room, the monitors lit up with videos and photo slideshows of the newest members of the Iconic Celebrities gallery. There was Princess Di—the first global celebrity! the people’s princess!— wading through a throng of admirers after her wedding, seen by 750 million people worldwide. On the screen behind Sullivan was Grace Kelly—Princess Grace! Hollywood royalty in the literal sense! —classy and sensual, zipping along the French Riviera in a sexy blue roadster in “To Catch a Thief.” Displayed on the far wall monitors were Natalie Wood, oh so young in “Miracle on 34th Street” and oh so pretty in “West Side Story” … And Marilyn Monroe, climbing out of a swimming pool, laughing gloriously.
Tornquist couldn’t take his eyes off the screens—he seemed transfixed by the celebrity images burning into his retin
a. “It’ll be interesting to see whether people are more interested in the celebrities or the creative geniuses. Marilyn Monroe … wow!”
Marilyn Monroe—America’s goddess. Not the usual Hollywood flavor of the month, but a keeper, a cultural deity with staying power.
“That was one of the easier extractions.” Conrad removed his Eyewear and leaned forward, seeming to relish his chance to strut a little. “Marilyn was in an eye-level niche in a garden mausoleum just a half mile off the 405 in LA. Natalie Wood was nearby so we decided on a two-fer. Luckily, only one night watchman had to be neutralized.”
“Neutralized?” Sullivan looked concerned.
“Tranquilizer darts were used in all the operations,” Conrad said. “Nobody seriously hurt.”
Nobody important, Waterhouse silently amended.
“Follow me,” he commanded. He led the group into one of the smaller media galleries. When this gallery was fully up and running, clients would be treated to a virtual reality experience, letting them interact with the dead legends and celebrities. For now, the AI was projecting the latest entrants in the Creative Genius gallery onto the wall monitors: Albert Einstein, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Galileo, Thomas Edison, Marie Curie.
“Number Six, turn this into the Music Legends gallery,” Waterhouse instructed.
Images of the cosmos, the Mona Lisa, the statue of David, and the Sistine Chapel ceiling dissolved from the wall monitors. The strains of “Piano Sonata No. 8 in C minor, Op. 13” swelled around them—Waterhouse had chosen the magnificent Sonata Pathétique, composed by Beethoven at age twenty-seven just as he began showing the first signs of deafness. The wall monitors began to fill with images of Beethoven, Franz Schubert, Frank Sinatra, and a late surprise addition, Jim Morrison—a million people still trekked to Morrison’s gravesite in Paris each year. Or they did until now. Waterhouse knew they did so to revel in Morrison’s raw sex appeal, not because the Doors’ music was all that memorable.
“Number Six, add the dead music legends whose DNA we obtained from other sources prior to last night.”
The screens transitioned to add concert footage of Elvis Presley, David Bowie, Prince, Johnny Cash, Ella Fitzgerald, and Whitney Houston.
“Other sources?” Sullivan asked.
“No need to disturb their graves when there are so many other methods of obtaining their DNA,” he said. “Some of those methods may even hold up in court. Number Six, display the Sports Legends gallery.”
The Music Legends gallery dissolved, replaced by the Sports Legends gallery with its vintage footage of Jackie Robinson, Ted Williams, and Joe DiMaggio in their prime.
“Tornquist, explain. ”
“Well, to put it simply,” Tornquist began, “if this ever wound up in court, we would have our strongest legal foundation with sports and celebrity memorabilia we acquired at auction. There’s an obscure, centuries-old legal doctrine called ‘treasure trove’—basically, a finders-keepers provision in common law that may allow us to sequence and commercialize DNA from the skin and sweat cells recovered from old baseball artifacts, like the Joe DiMaggio glove we bought at Christie’s. Unless Congress changes the law, that is, but even then they can’t make it retroactive.”
He took a deep breath and forged on. “Finders keepers doesn’t apply to living legends. Can’t do anything without their permission. But even here, we may have a work-around.”
Waterhouse nodded and rolled his voice across the room. “Number Six, bring up the Living Legends on screen.”
The screens filled with videos and images of modern movie stars, sports stars, celebrities, and supermodels. It was easy enough to retrieve their DNA, as Conrad’s operatives had already proved. Much harder to market them without permission. Tornquist’s dead-ringer genes idea just might provide the work-around they needed. But no need to get into that now.
“All this is interesting for the future,” Lee interjected, “but we have not finished our review of last night’s outcomes. Number Six, display on screen the list of missions that failed last night.”
All right, fair enough , Waterhouse thought. The screens in the room lit up with the failed missions.
ABORTED
Sir Isaac Newton, Westminster Abbey, London
Elizabeth I, Westminster Abbey, London
Catherine the Great, Saints Peter and Paul Cathedral, St. Petersburg, Russia
Columbus, La Cartuja Monastery, Seville, Spain
THWARTED
Confucius, Qufu, Chin a
Waterhouse knew all of these operations were longshots, and Columbus was on the bubble anyway. Conrad had teams in place at all five sites, but the security and logistics were impossible to overcome. It was a minor miracle they were able to secure Michelangelo and Galileo from the Basilica di Santa Croce in Florence. That operation alone cost millions, with the advance team bribing key local officials to clear all police and guards from the area for a six-hour window.
Sullivan studied the list on screen and spun on her heels to face them. “Wait a minute. Confucius? Didn’t he die something like twenty-five centuries ago? DNA lasts that long?”
Lee folded his hands. “DNA is a remarkably stable molecule. It has been recovered from ancient mummies and from human teeth and bones more than 5,000 years old. You know, scientists are working on bringing back the woolly mammoth, which went extinct 4,000 years ago. One researcher I know wants to resurrect a Neanderthal man.” The room went silent for a moment as they considered this.
“I have another concern.” Sullivan crossed her arms. “Thirty-five successful operations. But only a handful of targets were women—and two of those were princesses! How many female legends were recovered?”
“Five,” Conrad said.
“Only five legendary women in all of human history? Where is Simone de Beauvoir, Emma Goldman, Margaret Mead? Where is Georgia O’Keeffe, Frida Kahlo?”
Waterhouse glared coldly. A single supermodel would draw more business than the lot of them. But he didn’t dare say it aloud.
“Let’s get something straight. Nobody is making a value judgment about the contributions of women throughout history. This is about what will sell , nothing more. Look at Marilyn Monroe—still raking in millions through her talent agencies.”
Sullivan shook her head and drew closer. “Help me understand. What exactly will we be offering our clients? ”
“We’re offering dreams—dreams in a scientific wrapping.” Waterhouse started to pace with a stream-of-consciousness urgency. He was on a high now—a high that might last for weeks.
“We’re the dream merchants. Everyone wants a second chance, and now you can achieve it through your children. We’ll be offering people the chance to incorporate their favorite idols into their lives in the most intimate way possible. They’ll be able to give their son the same beautiful hair as Chris Hemsworth. Give their daughter the same royal blue eye color as Princess Di. The same smile as Julia Roberts. The same breasts as Marilyn Monroe.” Those breasts alone will make us millions .
Henry Lee and Lance Harrison stood off to the side, looking coolly neutral. Lee and Harrison were the realists, forever berating him for dumbing down the complexities of human physiology like this. Yes, there was still a yawning gap between what people wanted and what scientists could deliver at this early stage in the genomics revolution. Waterhouse knew all too well the challenges ahead in seeking to understand multiple-gene expression, the role of lifestyle and the environment—all of that. This would be a long, hard slog, reverse-engineering the physique of a sports star, perhaps even the intelligence of an Einstein.
But it would happen. Or they could make the world believe so. Trillion-dollar companies aren’t built on what’s practical today.
“Remember, Sullivan,” Waterhouse forged on, “at first this will be a private, limited-edition upsell, available only to a select, elite clientele.” He knew they weren’t ready for the great unwashed masses. Not yet, and that was fine.
Birthrights’
success sprung from the top one percent, the privileged elite who insisted—no, demanded —that their little one receive every possible advantage over the kid next door. You optimize your hard drive, your car, your financial portfolio. You’re not going to optimize your own flesh and blood ?
“So let me see if I understand.” Sullivan turned the words over with care. “This would be our third major product line. The first product line is what you might call Genetics as a Service—disease screening to ensure your child is born safe and healthy. … The second product line is genetic enrichment—improving our offspring in small ways through generic traits anyone might have. In a phrase, generic genetic enhancement. … And a third product line would be a sort of premium upgrade that offers limited traits and characteristics of specific legends, icons, celebrities, supermodels. Is that what you have in mind?”
She was starting to understand. He had been blue-skying this idea with Blackburn for years, and now it was coming to life.
Waterhouse smiled and headed off to the next room, the cream-colored rectangular space displaying the Gallery of Leaders. His subordinates followed.
Number Six had divided the Gallery of Leaders into three areas: Teddy Roosevelt and Winston Churchill were on the near wall, courtesy of last night’s grave operation. … JFK, Lincoln, and Martin Luther King, Jr. were in the far corner, courtesy of the earlier operations Blackburn’s people had pulled off. No need to disturb MLK’s grave—they’d managed to recover the shirt, stained with MLK’s blood, that Jesse Jackson wore on the “Today” show right after the assassination. … And finally, splayed across the main wall, were recent past U.S. presidents who were still alive—a real rogue’s gallery of hustlers and conmen, in Waterhouse’s estimation. But each one had a slavish following. Politics had become so tribal that people needed to express their allegiance to their own one true tribe above all else.
Waterhouse continued his soaring monologue as he paced past the wall of men.
“We’re tapping into a powerful, deepfelt human need, Sullivan. There’s something in our nature that makes us want to touch greatness. In every culture, in every era, people have collected relics, mementos, souvenirs, keepsakes. Pilgrims once paid homage at pagodas of the Buddha and shrines of the saints. Later they collected locks of presidents’ hair, shoes of popes, weapons of generals. They cut off and preserved Napoleon’s dick, for God’s sake! For centuries people the world over have flocked to Florence, Rome, and Athens to revel in the works of great men. Today our eyes turn to Hollywood celebrities—we want to bask in their glow. Celebrity worship is our national obsession. Let’s monetize that passion!”