Biohack

by J D Lasica

  “Publish it,” Valerie said firmly, taking on a look of grim determination. “We’ll find my surrogate, whoever she is, wherever she is. But this entire place is a lie built on top of lies. The public, the parents, the surrogates—everyone needs to know. We need to get to the truth!”

  Alex squeezed Valerie’s shoulder. “Are you sure? There’s no do-over.”

  Valerie smiled sadly, near tears, and nodded.

  “Okay by you?” Alex asked Kaden.

  “It’s why we reached out to you in the first place.”

  Alex studied Valerie’s eyes, brushed a hair from her face, and returned to his notebook computer. “I’m adding a line about Birthrights officials not responding to any of my queries.” Then he tapped the Publish button. “My editors gave me the green light. It’s live.”

  “Number Six,” Alex called out, “display the front page of axom.com on the main screen.”

  Nothing happened.

  Kaden smiled. “Um, Number Six. What Alex said.”

  The main monitor lit up with the front page of the Axom news site with Alex’s photo of Sterling Waterhouse and Randolph Blackburn, a SPECIAL REPORT logo, and the headline:

  Biotech firm’s trail of fraud & corruption

  Ongoing pattern of grave robbings, ‘missing’ surrogates, stalking children

  “Maybe they’ll answer my calls now,” Alex said .

  “We’ve alerted the feds, too.” Nico showed the others the message he just sent out.

  “Now, how do we find Valerie’s surrogate?” Alex said.

  “And Jeremy,” Valerie added. “The baby’s name is Jeremy.”

  66

  Dallas, August 31

  W aterhouse checked his Zenith timepiece. Twenty minutes until Petrov would show up with his men. By now Conrad should be moving his security force into place.

  “Chief, you’ll want to follow me.” Harrison returned his smartphone to his pocket and Waterhouse followed him into the Multimedia Center. They forged through the entrance and stepped into the first empty media gallery.

  “Number Six, lock the doors to this gallery,” Harrison said. The three glass double doors of the gallery rolled shut and the deadlatches clicked into place.

  “What’s this about?” Waterhouse demanded. “I need to be somewhere.”

  The gallery still had images of the sports legends on the wall monitors. Harrison said, “Number Six, end multimedia presentation in all galleries.”

  “Confirmed,” Number Six responded, and the monitors all went to black .

  “Chief, remember the Island Retreat, when the boys and girls came out and sang for us?”

  “Of course.”

  “You assigned a photographer to shoot the event.”

  He had. While Birthrights Unlimited was in regular contact with the adoptive parents of the boys who appeared on stage, the Island Retreat was the first glimpse they’d gotten of the six girls since Petrov took them into his custody as toddlers for placement in the Minsk Children’s Home in Belarus as soon as the ink on their contract had dried. It was the first of many such deliveries over the years.

  “We wanted to add their photos to our testimonials catalogue,” Waterhouse said. “An early success story.”

  “Exactly. And, as we always do, we entered those photos into our master database with the corresponding profile information.”

  “So? Get to the point!”

  “You remember the solo singer, the pretty little blonde named Sophia? A few days ago I enhanced Number Six’s facial recognition capabilities. The AI now spiders not only the open Web but the darknet. This turned up today, posted by a user group with an encrypted identity.”

  He stepped closer to the room’s largest monitor. “Number Six, display on screen the most recent file on Sophia Navitski.”

  Waterhouse watched as a multimedia advertisement took up the entire screen.

  The headline and ad copy filled the monitor:

  AUCTION: Beautiful blonde American-born girl, 10 yrs. old

  Eastern Europe upbringing, all-American looks. No kidnapping involved. Born in the USA, raised in Belarus by Bred4Beauty Group. Caucasian, natural blonde, speaks English only. On track to be 34DD-25-35. Innocence personified! Perfect as a future professional escort or sex slave. Starting bid $600,000. Girl can be transported globally for additional fee. Auction takes place Saturday, Sept. 2. Contact below.

  Next to the text was a short video loop of Sophia Navitski, looking coy and pert, mugging for the camera and blowing kisses.

  “Should we call the FBI? Interpol?” Harrison asked.

  Waterhouse gripped the back of a chair. This was unfortunate, yes, but more to the point, Petrov’s move risked exposing everything. If the authorities dug deep enough, they could trace it all back to Birthrights Unlimited.

  He was now certain of what he had to do.

  “Let me handle it.”

  He banged into the locked door, cursed at the AI to unlock it, then crashed out of the room. He had to do a quick change and pick up two items on the way to the Fertility Clinic.

  67

  Dallas, August 31

  “ H old on,” Kaden told the others. Only a few minutes of her Level One status were left. “I have an idea. Number Six, on main monitor, show detailed Birthrights campus map of all buildings that all Level One personnel have access to.”

  The entire campus appeared on screen in vivid detail—all except one building that was blurry and pixelated.

  “Number Six, why is Building 32 cloaked?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” Number Six said.

  “Never mind. You just did.” She pointed to the building on the monitor and wheeled to face Nico. “That’s our target.”

  She and Nico grabbed their go bags and headed for the Multimedia Center exit. Valerie and Alex followed. Kaden turned to them. “You need to stay back.”

  “If my surrogate’s in there—” Valerie said.

  “We’ll bring her right to you,” Kaden said. “Stay here.”

  Kaden had been sharing a lot with Valerie—maybe too much—but she didn’t want her to know about the communication Nico just intercepted. Conrad had messaged his entire security team.

  When Kaden or Nico were spotted, the new orders were: Shoot to kill.

  She was still processing that. When she’d arrived on the Birthrights campus, she thought her fight was with Randolph Blackburn. Now she knew her real fight was with Conrad’s boss, Sterling Waterhouse, who was the architect of all this. The B Collective team had dug up more info about Waterhouse, missing surrogates, fake accounts—there was no end to the deception.

  She nodded to Valerie and prepared to head across the campus to Building 32. As she set off, she overheard Alex and Valerie talking. “You up for this?” Alex asked.

  Valerie nodded. Alex pressed an icon on his smartphone and launched a live-stream video. She heard Alex’s words trail off as she and Nico began hiking. “I’m here at Birthrights Unlimited in Dallas, site of the scandals over women’s health, children’s safety, and the invasion of privacy—mounting scandals that broke a few minutes ago on this site. I’m here with Valerie Ramirez …”

  Nico’s phone buzzed with an alert.

  “Friendlies en route,” he said.

  “Good, we could use some help.” He told her how, before they were captured, he’d set up an alert to reach out to some of their Lost Camp comrades.

  She surveyed the buildings on the east side of the campus. “Let’s use the power station on the ridge 500 yards south of Building 32 as our rally point. Clean sightlines of half the campus.”

  “Roger that.” Nico messaged the coordinates.

  As they closed in on Building 32 behind Birthrights Tower, they crouched low to get a better look at it during the daylight. It was a large, older-looking brick building, maybe a holdover from whatever was here before Birthrights’ campus of gleaming glass buildings was built. They noticed it was set off from the rest of the campus. A small
stream with a footbridge ran past the side of the building. Only a single sidewalk led to its front door, a contrast to the patchwork of walkways in the Research Lab Zone and Data Zone.

  It was also the most heavily guarded building on the grounds.

  She wanted a closer look. Nico gave her the all-clear sign. She opened her go-to-hell bag and took out the only item, a modified lightweight case containing her prize possession: her “Twilight” SVLK-14S sniper rifle. At Lost Camp she had beaten every trainee in long-range precision marksmanship, and since then she headed to the Catskills twice a year with her Twilight to make sure she hadn’t lost her edge. She could hit a target dead center at 2,200 meters—well over a mile. Give or take a few inches.

  Four members of Conrad’s security team were already in range. If she had to fire, she wouldn’t shoot to kill these bastards, but they wouldn’t be doing wind sprints anytime soon.

  She assembled the Twilight with its heavy stainless steel barrel and composite stock made of carbon fiber and Kevlar. She peered through her modified military-grade Viper scope and counted four guards milling about, smoking and waving their semi-automatic weapons around like morons, with one guard stationed in the back of the building. No telling what kind of security presence was inside Building 32.

  She was about to check wind speed when she heard a commotion coming from Birthrights Plaza.

  68

  Dallas, August 31

  W aterhouse returned to his office and found the items he needed. First he removed his jacket and shirt to slip on the lightweight Ghost covert body armor he’d acquired for an occasion like this. Then he slipped back into his shirt and jacket, opened his desk drawer, retrieved the special packet Henry Lee had prepared for him, and tucked it into his pocket. He grabbed his Makarov pistol and secured it beneath his suit jacket.

  He was ready.

  He rode the elevator down and checked his timepiece. He hurried into the Fertility Clinic and Birthing Center with just two minutes to spare. He worked fast, making sure everything was set for Petrov’s arrival. He entered the Nursery and ordered the two nurses on duty to remove all of the baby girls—except the three that were ready for Petrov—to a secure, soundproof private room in the farthest corner of the Birthing Center.

  He emerged from the building as a caravan of seven black SUVs with tinted windows pulled up. Dmitri Petrov emerged first from the passenger side of the lead car. A dozen security guards followed. This was a bigger force than Waterhouse had counted on. Just as before, the guards were wearing stylish light gray linen suits to emulate their boss.

  Waterhouse surveyed the surrounding grounds and rooftops and spotted Conrad’s security guards spread out in strategic positions. He hoped they were ready.

  “My friend, it’s good to see you again.” Petrov approached Waterhouse without offering a handshake. “Do you know what today is?”

  Waterhouse kept a steely silence.

  Petrov answered his own question. “Of course you know the date. When we signed that agreement, we were both young, ambitious men who knew we could shape our own worlds. Still, I didn’t think you’d agree to the aggressive balloon provisions for this final day. Twenty newborn girls! We have special plans for them back in Minsk.”

  Waterhouse had never wanted to know details of the child sex trafficking ring that Birthrights Unlimited was built on top of. He would try to mitigate the damage now—not because of any moral stance but because of the financial ruin his company could face if the connection were exposed.

  How to deal with this dilemma?

  He couldn’t tip his hand that he knew about the Sophia Navitski auction set to take place in two days. That would escalate matters. He couldn’t report Petrov’s sex trafficking ring to the Belarus authorities. Even if the authorities cared enough to move on Petrov’s operation—a very big if in Belarus—the damage would be considerable. When it came out that Petrov had been Birthrights’ initial investor and that Birthrights had delivered girls to the Minsk home year after year, it would destroy the Birthrights brand.

  No. This problem requires a solution with surgical precision .

  “Follow me and we’ll talk numbers as we go,” Waterhouse said.

  The two men entered the facility through the pastel-colored reception area and plodded down the hallway to the Nursery. Petrov’s procession of security guards trailed.

  They stood at the window outside the Nursery, looking at the rows of bassinets—some with a wiggling baby, some empty. They followed the same routine as last time, putting on their light blue face masks and Waterhouse shooing a nurse out of the room.

  Petrov entered first. Waterhouse followed and headed to the corner of the Nursery with the three designated infants. Waterhouse again kicked himself for not paying closer attention to the numbers in their long-ago agreement. If he had, he could have launched Plan B—aka Project Minxx—a year earlier.

  Petrov inspected the first electronic chart. “Alexandra will be a blond, six-foot beauty with big blue eyes and no need for birth control. That’s a nice touch.”

  He signaled to the first member of his detachment, who donned a face mask and entered. Petrov held up Alexandra in her little pink onesie, as if to inspect her for defects, and handed her over. The guard grabbed a bunny blanket from the bassinet and settled the newborn into his arms before heading out of the Nursery and toward the waiting caravan.

  Petrov moved to the next bassinet. “Veronika here will have raven hair, a 36D cup, and adorable dimples. I think I’m in love already!” The next guard performed the same routine, with Petrov doing the same handoff.

  They moved on to the next newborn, Darya, who would have brown hair, grow to about five-foot-nine and, like the other girls, have a genetic makeup that predisposed her to a trim figure. Henry Lee liked to call it the “skinny Japanese schoolgirl gene,” though of course the Lab used their molecular scissors to tinker with multiple biological pathways, not just one gene .

  “Next?” Petrov turned around, looking for the final seventeen infants that were still due.

  “Dmitri, it’s time for us to finalize our exit agreement.”

  Petrov narrowed his eyes, and Waterhouse detected a fury building below the protective mask. Petrov walked down the remaining rows, eyeing the empty bassinets with suspicion and seeing only baby boys in the remainder.

  They exited the Nursery and removed their masks. Petrov came up inches from Waterhouse’s face. “Nobody shortchanges Dmitri Petrov.”

  Waterhouse withdrew a few inches. “Our arrangement was negotiated under duress. But we can still both come away with a win-win.” He began walking down the hallway, away from the Birthing Center wing where the rest of the newborn girls were being hidden.

  “I intend to hold you to your commitment.” Petrov caught up with him as his guards trailed behind. “For missing your deadline, the penalties will be harsh.”

  “I understand.” Waterhouse braced for the beatdown from Petrov’s guards that he suspected would come at any moment.

  They exited the reception area into the rising heat of the Dallas afternoon—the August Assault, he called it, a hundred degrees on a mild day—and started down the walkway, back toward where the rest of Conrad’s men were positioned. He watched as the guards deposited the three squalling infants into the back seats of the SUVs.

  Petrov stopped and thought for a moment, no doubt pondering how to extract his kilo of flesh. “Fortunately for you, I am a patient man. My businesses provide a service that dates back thousands of years. One might even argue this is the natural state of things, before religion and moral codes stomped on men’s natural urges.”

  He paused for maximum effect. “Perhaps we can salvage this. Here is my idea. Why not create the genetic equivalent of Amsterdam’s Red Light District?”

  Waterhouse feigned interest. “I’m listening.”

  “I came across an intriguing article in a science journal.” In one smooth motion, Petrov put his hands on his hips to show off the Brown
ing handgun beneath his jacket.

  Waterhouse resumed his pace down the walkway toward the plaza in front of Birthrights Tower. Petrov followed suit.

  Waterhouse wondered, Did I mess up? Lee said he had no idea how long this would take, or even if it would work.

  “What kind of article?”

  “Apparently, it’s possible to recover ovaries from miscarried or aborted fetuses and use the eggs inside to create new lives. The resulting children would have genetic mothers who were never born. Fascinating!”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with the technique.”

  “God, it’s hot out here.” Petrov loosened his tie. “Perhaps we can arrive at a new arrangement. If we set squeamish sensibilities aside and used miscarried and aborted fetuses for our IVF eggs, it would solve many problems. No chance of a custody dispute if the mother was never born. It would save tens of millions over time by cutting out the middleman—our hard-to-find egg donors. Why not use science to produce young girls with one purpose in mind? Is it not better to have lived and loved than never to have lived at all?”

  As outlandish as Petrov’s proposal was, he might have entertained such a deal just a week ago. In fact, it was a splendid idea—he might run with it himself. But it was too late for any reconciliation with Petrov.

  “You handle the science, I handle the fulfillment. I could see an ongoing partner—” Petrov stopped short. He clutched his stomach and doubled over. His face reddened and began to bloat.

  He looked up at Waterhouse and cried, “What’s happening?”

  Waterhouse knew what was happening. Lee had done it! He’d created a designer bio-weapon customized to one person on the planet: Dmitri Petrov. All it took was the blood sample Petrov gave during the parental screening process. Lee took the blood cells and was able to devise an aerosol spray that Waterhouse misted onto all the face masks in the Nursery and the three baby blankets holding Petrov’s newborns. The aerosol would not affect anyone else, only someone with Petrov’s unique DNA signature.