by J D Lasica
Today should be a banner day for Birthrights Unlimited. The grave team operation was a spectacular success, setting the company on a reenergized path toward the New Enhanced Family. They should be throwing me a goddam parade! But already he was in a murderous mood.
Lance Harrison had called to inform him that Sharon Sullivan was making noises about some “disturbing things” she’d uncovered. He suspected she’d be resigning any moment now, but before she did, he would make sure she understood she had no choice but to remain silent. Her departure, her betrayal, would set back the marketing plan by months .
Randolph Blackburn had disappointed him as well. Waterhouse had notified the old tycoon about the success of the grave team operation. He expected to have heard back by now. But so far, nothing.
At noon there would be another encounter with Dmitri Petrov over the delivery of twenty newborns that were due today. The good news was that this was the final batch of deliverables due under their agreement. The bad news was they were far short of that number.
He had no idea what Petrov would do when he learned Birthrights Unlimited had failed on its commitment. But he could guess. So he made sure his people were ready this time. He had doubled Conrad’s security force and authorized them to carry semi-automatic weapons. He was also carrying his East German Makarov pistol, just in case. He could not afford the millions in lost revenue and the black stain on the company’s reputation if Petrov tried to enforce his contract at gunpoint.
Today would be a day of reckoning. On days like this, he wanted to take the whole world down with him. But he knew one thing. This showdown would have a different ending than last time.
Waterhouse felt his chest flutter and wondered for a short, panicky moment if he might be having a heart attack. But no—it was the vibration of the phone in his jacket pocket.
“Chief? Conrad. Bad news. The two prisoners in the Cold Room have escaped.”
Christ! More bad news! “Unacceptable. How?” Waterhouse’s voice was a low rumble.
“I thought there could be other intruders on the way, so I put a priority on my people patrolling the grounds all night.”
Waterhouse sensed this signaled a major breach in the company’s security. He also felt a personal sting of betrayal by this renegade pair of operatives who could undermine everything he had achieved .
“Conrad, I want them caught and eliminated. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep me posted. And remember, we need a show of force at noon.”
“My men are armed to the teeth.”
Waterhouse hung up and returned to the business at hand. He bulled his way through the Lab and into Henry Lee’s office.
“Do you have it?” he snapped.
“Good morning,” Lee said. “Just finished it within the hour.” Lee handed him the packet. “It’s untested and may be volatile, so be cautious. This is new ground for us.”
Waterhouse nodded and tramped out of Lee’s office, past all the lab coats arriving to work on their experiments. He stomped out of the building, hurried through the plaza, and was heading up the walkway to return to his office to begin his search for a replacement CMO when he spotted a woman pushing an old man in a wheelchair across Birthrights Plaza. It took a moment for him to recognize the figure in the wheelchair.
He strode up to face Randolph Blackburn dead on.
60
Dallas, August 31
“ W hat do you mean Sharon Sullivan isn’t here?” Valerie snapped at the guard at the front desk of the Birthrights Tower lobby. “Where is she? She sent me a message about my baby just a couple of days ago!”
The guard tried to look sympathetic. “I’m sorry miss. I don’t know. She seems to be indisposed today.”
“We just flew in all the way from Miami!” Alex came up and put an arm around Valerie’s shoulder. She was on the verge of tears.
She turned around, considering whether she should demand to see someone else, when she spotted a familiar figure on the slate walkway in front of the tower’s entrance.
“That’s Sterling Waterhouse,” she said to herself as much as to Alex.
Before he could respond, she raced out to the plaza in her khakis, summer shirt, and loafers with Alex at her heels. Waterhouse was engaged in an animated conversation with an older man wearing a dark suit in a wheelchair while an attractive young blonde-haired woman in a green blouse gripped the handles of the wheelchair.
“Mr. Waterhouse, sorry to intrude,” Valerie began, her diplomacy gene clicking on.
Waterhouse looked up, surprised to see her. “Oh, hello.”
She shook his hand. “Valerie Ramirez. You know. The face of Birthrights Unlimited.”
“Of course, sorry, out of context.” Waterhouse gave the elderly man a pat on the shoulder. “This is Randolph Blackburn, our single largest investor, and his assistant Beverlee.”
“With four e’s,” Beverlee said with a broad smile.
“I’m here against my doctor’s advice.” Blackburn shook her hand.
Well, that’s an odd way to introduce yourself . Valerie noticed his hand was shaking a little. Alex hung back, taking photos of the group with his smartphone.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Valerie said, flustered. “It’s just, the guard said—I wanted to talk with Sharon Sullivan, and she’s not available.”
“She’s not.” Waterhouse retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket. “Who’s your genetic counselor?”
“Erica Landon.”
He dialed a number and after a moment a fresh-faced Erica emerged from the Fertility Clinic.
“Please give Ms. Ramirez whatever she needs,” Waterhouse told Erica.
“I’d like to see my surrogate,” Valerie said
Waterhouse hesitated, knowing this broke one of the company’s cardinal rules. He and Erica exchanged glances.
“Unless you’d like me to step down as spokesmom,” Valerie added.
Waterhouse turned to Erica. “Whatever she needs. Including a visit with the surrogate. ”
“Thank you.” She followed Erica back to the clinic.
“We’re lucky Mackenzie is so accommodating,” Erica told her as she knocked on the surrogate’s door in a ritzy section of Arlington.
A few seconds later the door swung open and Mackenzie welcomed Valerie, Alex, and Erica into her ranch-style home. She was a fit, pleasant-looking woman in her late twenties wearing a workout outfit of flex leggings and a plain white top with little sweat stains seeping through.
Just as advertised, Valerie thought.
“Sorry, the place is a mess,” Mackenzie apologized. “We weren’t expecting company again so soon.”
“It’s my fault,” Valerie said. “I was in town and stressing a little.”
“That’s why we use double-blind surrogacy,” Erica said. “Though there’s always an exception to the rule.”
They chatted in the living room for about an hour and drank iced tea that Mackenzie just made. Valerie got to meet her two toddlers and heard about Mackenzie’s husband’s service in the military. Valerie told her about her work with specially gifted children but left out any mention of her losing her son. Erica looked at her watch and said she had to get back before noon.
“Well, it was so nice to meet you,” Mackenzie said. “I was a little bummed at the rule that said I wouldn’t get to meet the biological mother. So it’s good to put a mother’s face to the little one inside me. I hope she turns out as sweet as you, darling.”
She? Valerie realized she’d never told her it was a boy. She decided to let that go. She cried a little as they hugged. “Be safe and healthy,” she said, not wanting to let go.
They left and Valerie’s spirits lifted a little. Even if this company is doing some crazy stuff, she reasoned, all that matters is that Mackenzie is safe and healthy.
Valerie turned to Erica. “All right, we can go now.”
“Let’s find Kaden and Nico,” Alex said.
&nbs
p; “I’m calling them right now,” Valerie said.
61
Dallas, August 31
K aden and Nico moved to a cramped storage room, still carrying their go-to-hell bags, as soon as Number Six alerted them that Lance Harrison, the Bioinformatics chief, was on his way back to the office.
She’d just gotten off the phone with Valerie Ramirez, who had received the files they’d sent and wanted to talk. She was on her way over.
Kaden was just about done examining all the materials the AI had provided and that Nico had managed to download before they were locked in the Cold Room. She had shared almost everything with Sayeed, Annika, and Colin at B Collective. She had also passed along the latest materials to Alex Wyatt—an extra pair of eyes from an investigative reporter couldn’t hurt. The word needed to get out.
“Take a look at this.” Kaden played the video clip for Nico on her smartphone. She figured Waterhouse had either trusted his Level One executives or had forgotten he’d made this.
It was a four-way video chat titled, “Tracker – Entry 1.0.” She recognized two of the figures, Waterhouse and Conrad, but not two of the others. She tapped on the faces of the two strangers and saw that Number Six was providing facial recognition on her phone and identifying the two as Chi Jiang, head of Reproductive Fulfillment in Xi’an, China, and Victor Radu, former head of Data Fulfillment in Tiraspol, Moldova.
The video chat began:
“Gentlemen,” Waterhouse said to the others, “this is a quick planning meeting to discuss the tracker operation and to assign action items. The basic idea is this. In genomics, data is the new gold bullion. But it’s often hard to come by. Yes, we’re able to hack into all these half-assed consumer accounts that let you store your entire genome for twenty-five dollars. But we need phenotype data—looks, behaviors, personalities, lifestyle choices—the thousands of datapoints that distinguish one person from another.”
“And that’s what we’re doing with our data collection operation,” Radu broke in.
“But that’s not enough!” Waterhouse said. “We need a deeper dive for our Biohack database. Not just genome data but documentation of how those genes express themselves in the human body and under what conditions.”
“How do we do that?” Jiang asked.
“We track our own,” Waterhouse said. “Over the years we’ve arranged more than 200 births outside the normal client pipeline. Some are controls, some are in the experimental group.”
The men went silent as this news sank in.
“We’re never going to introduce untested enhancements to a client’s child—too risky. We can’t afford to clothe and feed and educate these test subjects—we’re not running a charity. And we’re not monsters—we can’t put children in lab cages. So where did these children wind up? ”
“In foster and adoptive care,” Conrad cut in. “It’s brilliant. Hundreds of abandoned children, hidden in plain sight.”
Waterhouse looked ticked off at being upstaged. “Over the past decade, all of them were dropped off as newborns in front of hospitals, children’s homes, and fire stations around the country. Henry Lee introduced a unique genetic identifier to each child, making it easier to track them.”
“Oh, I’ll find them,” Conrad said. “Then it’s our job to begin tracking every aspect of their lives. Doesn’t matter if they’ve been adopted or not, it’s our job to track ’em and document ’em.”
Kaden paused the video, took some calming breaths, and checked her Eyewear to see if any security guards were in the area. So far all clear.
“This is some sick shit,” Nico said.
She nodded and resumed playing the video.
“We need to observe them in the wild, in a wide variety of homes and social settings,” Waterhouse said. “No need here to go into detail about the genetic changes we’ve introduced. Suffice to say, we need to document every aspect of their lives. Are they exceptional in some way? Are they acting out? Do they know they’re different?
“We began this program nearly a decade ago at the suggestion of one of our investors. Not all of the young people we’re tracking were ours to begin with. But all together, the trackers program gives us an unfair advantage over all competitors. It’s the ultimate exploitation of personal data. ”
Kaden and Nico watched the video to the end. When it ended, Kaden sent it on to B Collective, Valerie, and Alex Wyatt.
The internal document that was sent to her anonymously now made a lot more sense. Birthrights had been doing this for years—using Conrad’s men to track and document a person’s physical makeup, behaviors, medical records.
Without their knowledge or consent.
“Trackers, grave teams, fraud, conspiracy,” Kaden said. “Smoking guns everywhere you turn.”
They rose from their seats, ready for whatever would come next.
“The question is, what do we do about this?” Kaden asked.
“Given the connections Blackburn and Waterhouse have,” Nico said, “I’m not sure anything’s gonna change if we just hand it over to the authorities.”
Kaden nodded and grabbed her go-to-hell bag. They were on the same page.
62
Dallas, August 31
W aterhouse led the way as Beverlee pushed Randolph Blackburn in his wheelchair from Birthrights Tower to the Data Zone’s Multimedia Center. Lance Harrison had prepped the main room and was waiting for them at the entrance. Waterhouse instructed him to remain outside the entrance until he was summoned.
Waterhouse and Blackburn had been discussing the audacious idea of retrieving DNA Legends for years. At first, Waterhouse was more amused than serious. It made for some great debates late into the night over drinks on the rare occasions Blackburn visited. Which genetic profiles were most valuable? Whose DNA could be sequenced, leveraged, and put on the market?
Well, it was no longer a matter of conjecture. Look around, Randolph. Look around!
Waterhouse led them through the reception area into the main gallery. Instead of guiding Blackburn through one dedicated gallery at a time, he would dazzle him with a show in the largest space in the complex.
They entered and he directed Beverlee to guide Blackburn up a small ramp to a perch where he could take in the full glory of what Waterhouse had achieved. The room was dimly lit and eerily quiet.
“Number Six,” Waterhouse called out. “We have a very special guest today. Will you display the Randolph Blackburn presentation?” He had programmed the AI to spotlight the DNA Legends the old tycoon had shown a special interest in.
Blackburn looked around him in anticipation as the music slowly began to build. Waterhouse had chosen Beethoven’s epic Fifth Symphony, first movement, performed by the London Symphony Orchestra.
Around them, screens large and small began to fill with images of the immortals and their works. Michelangelo, his David , the Pietà , the Sistine Chapel. Leonardo da Vinci, his Mona Lisa , The Last Supper , and drawing of the Vitruvius Man . Einstein in front of his Princeton blackboard outlining the theory of relativity. A flourish of genius and creativity.
He crouched beside Blackburn and took in the show from Blackburn’s perspective. “Do you see, Randolph? The immortals belong to us now.”
The old tycoon’s eyes widened at the multimedia spectacle on display. Veins the color of blue ice popped from his temples. His cheeks looked like cracked putty.
Beverlee, the pizza slice girl from the pool at Blackburn’s estate, also seemed transfixed by the visual storytelling that swirled around them. It was a small leap of faith, allowing her in here, but Blackburn gave his assurance that she had his full trust.
Images and video of Buddha, Galileo, Beethoven, Schubert, Edison, Teddy Roosevelt, Churchill, and Sinatra danced before their eyes. Blackburn bobbed his head a little, though Waterhouse wasn’t sure if it was in approval or because of impaired motor skills.
As the strains of Beethoven’s Fifth began to swell, Waterhouse thought of the hundreds of millions Blackb
urn was gambling on an experiment he would not live to see play out. Personally, he did not share Blackburn’s belief that great men were born and not made. Most of those who made a dent in the history books were products of their time, shaped by special circumstances. And wasn’t overcoming hardship part of their character building? In the nature vs. nurture debate, Waterhouse found it impossible to believe the DNA Legends would become legends in another time and place. He would respect Blackburn’s wishes, but he would also mine the legends’ DNA to see what secrets Birthrights Unlimited might unlock.
As the most famous classical melody in history soared to a conclusion, Waterhouse rose to his full stature, waiting for Blackburn to congratulate him on his epic achievement.
Blackburn went quiet for a time, as if considering what he had just seen. Waterhouse couldn’t untangle his expression, a look that seemed far away. His voice came soft and low.
“Can you bring back my daughter?”
That jarred him. His daughter? He didn’t even know Blackburn had a daughter. What was this about?
Beverlee raised her palm to her lips and half-whispered to Blackburn, “Randolph, we’ve discussed this, remember?”
But Blackburn leaned forward urgently in his wheelchair and scrutinized Waterhouse’s face. “That’s all I care about. Waterhouse, can you do it? Bring her back?”
Waterhouse was speechless. Here before them was the pinnacle of his triumph. And all Blackburn wanted to talk about was a dead daughter?
Beverlee said quietly, “Deirdre was cremated. There is no bringing her back.”
Blackburn fell silent at that and collapsed back in his chair. He sat there a moment, then raised his fingers in a gesture of Let’s go .
“I’ve seen all I need to see,” Blackburn said as they set off. Beverlee carefully wheeled him down the incline and toward the exit. Waterhouse followed, silently enraged but saying nothing.