Jax was the “leader” of Tiber City’s Zero Movement. Yet, whereas his peers sought to use the modern world’s massive and varied communication networks as a canvas, its data as paint, Jax retained this data in its raw form, the streaming alphanumerics that constituted the physical manifestation of digital information. But Jax didn’t preserve just any data: He specialized in capturing, or, if the event were unexpected, recovering, the raw transmission of data at the exact instant some epoch-defining event occurred—the first shot of a revolution, the assassination of a president, the detonation of a dirty bomb, a tsunami triggering hundreds of thousands of deaths. And then Jax would take several of these images and make a collage, as though he were putting together a jigsaw puzzle—the superficial suggestion being that there was some underlying connection between these occurrences, if only society would look more closely. Many believed that Jax had discovered something, that there was a message, a truth, perhaps even a prophecy, hidden in his collages. For his part, Jax remained silent, allowing the buzz associated with his name and his work to grow.
Morrison, however, knew the truth: While there was indeed a connection between these data extractions, it was not the one most people, even some of the other Zeros, believed. What Jax sought to convey was the ultimate reality: There was no order, no truth, no explanation for life’s cruel, senseless tragedies, just numbers, data, information repeating into infinity. But even while acknowledging the chaotic condition of human existence, Jax’s work remained defiant, refusing to retreat into religious fairytales or false philosophical constructs.
Instead, Jax brought order to the chaos of life, creating his own meaning where, inherently, there is none. When man shouts into the whirlwind, demanding answers for his condition, and is answered only by silence, he has no choice but to shape the world in his own image—that was the realization that had led to the founding of Morrison Biotech, to the creation of Project Exodus. And so Morrison considered it only fitting that the digitalized walls of the Zero wing should serve as the backdrop for tonight’s proceedings.
At the end of the ballroom, a giant stage had been erected, flanked on either side by floor-to-ceiling video monitors, which, at the moment, displayed the Morrison Biotech logo, spinning and twisting, disappearing and reappearing with wild, expectant energy. And in the middle of the stage, a black podium, also adorned with the red corporate logo, awaited the evening’s keynote speaker.
Without warning, the lights dimmed, then went dark, eliciting a low gasp from the crowd. The Morrison Biotech logo vanished from the two screens on the side of the stage, replaced by a stunning high-definition, first-person video shot by a camera racing across the surface of a vast ocean, churning under an ashen sky. As the camera moved over the surface of the water, a disembodied voice—female with an electronic, anesthetized tinge—began to narrate:
Since the beginning of time, life on planet Earth has been subject to inherent limitations. Although the evolutionary process has allowed for certain, arbitrary transformations, these changes have occurred in accordance with these natural limitations.
As the voice spoke, the oceans on the monitors began to morph into a massive map of the human genome.
Morrison Biotechnology, since its inception, has struggled to free man from this tyranny of the natural world. While it has allowed for considerable evolution, the human genetic code is, as we here at Morrison Biotech are all aware, inherently flawed.
Slowly the video’s perspective began to pull back as if it were moving through a human cell, and then from the cell into tissue until it became obvious that the camera was traveling through a human body—up from the stomach through the esophagus, passing the tongue as it pushed toward the daylight waiting beyond a series of small, crooked teeth.
Bursting into the light, the camera surveyed a world very different from the roiling seas seen at the beginning: There was no water in sight, only dry, broken plains stretching endlessly under a cloudless, indifferent sky. Twenty feet off the ground, the camera came to a stop, shifting its perspective back toward the earth, back toward the human being whose body it had just left: a tiny, malnourished child, his lips cracked and covered in dust, who had been left to die under the unforgiving sub-Saharan sun.
By 2009, AIDS had killed nearly 30 million people in Africa alone. Another 35 million were living with AIDS. It was Morrison Biotech’s unflagging belief that man can defy genetic limitations that made this stunning scientific breakthrough possible.
Still observing the presentation from the control room, Morrison smiled: The video omitted how Morrison’s financial demands had bankrupted several African governments, a story that, in the aftermath of the vaccine, received scant coverage. And then there was the story that received no coverage at all: the one where several of the most impoverished African nations had provided Morrison with hundreds of research “volunteers.” In a land where human life was perhaps the cheapest and most available of all commodities, it was, conceded more than one despot, a small price to pay, to control the distribution of the AIDS vaccine—one of the most powerful political tools ever known. Wielding the power of the vaccine, more than one warlord was able to topple democratically elected governments. These were all details scrubbed from the official reports, details Morrison savored in private.
By developing the world’s first HIV vaccine, Morrison Biotech again defied the limitations imposed by the natural world and, as a result, saved millions of lives. Manipulation of the human genetic code—the primary objective of Morrison Biotech—has come at considerable cost. The rewards, however, have been staggering.
The video of the dying African child vanished, replaced by a montage of the same boy, now healthy and nourished, playing with friends in a grassy field, celebrating a birthday with family, graduating from a university, getting married, and then, finally, having a child of his own, the video freezing as the boy—now a man—held his child for the first time.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the man whose vision has driven so many of this company’s triumphs—Michael Morrison.
During the final moments of the video presentation, Morrison had left the control room, taking a private elevator to the penthouse level. With perfect timing, he hit the stage right on cue.
The audience burst into applause, cheers echoing off the ballroom walls as Morrison strode toward the podium. It was rare that the CEO addressed his employees so directly and the excitement in the room was palpable. There was a nervousness as well—many of the researchers had never met their boss, never even seen him in person. Morrison waved to the hundred or so of his employees gathered before him but his eyes were looking past them, drawn to the never-ending stream of alphanumerics cascading down the walls of the ballroom, and in that instant, he had never felt more certain in his vision for the human race.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “thank you for joining me for what, I believe, will be a very special occasion. I have two announcements to share with you this evening, although both relate directly to the video presentation you just saw: Morrison Biotechnology’s vision for the future of the human race. Now, over the years I’ve gotten into some trouble—with the media, with some politicians, with various religious activists—because we here at Morrison Biotech refuse to accept the fact that the pace of human evolution should be dictated by nature or a God or any external factor.”
A cheer rippled through the crowd as Morrison paused, adjusting a black cuff link and smiling back at some of the best and brightest minds of a generation.
“Perhaps one of the greatest lies ever propagated is the notion all men are created equal. Deserving of equal rights, sure. But created equal? Now that is bullshit. The only thing equal about human beings is our potential: Each and every one of us has the same genetic base; we all start from the same foundation. After that, it’s a roll of the dice. Some hit the genetic jackpot—just take a look around this room. Others are born with crippling defects, psychological disorders, mental retardation.
Or perhaps even worse, some are average, destined to plod through life and then die. Why should this be? Why should some suffer while others thrive? Because nature or a God mandates it? Enough! Just as this company refused to accept that millions should suffer and die from AIDS, we reject the notion that mankind should be subject to the genetic roulette wheel: some born strong, others disease-ridden and subjected to a lifetime of misery.”
Morrison paused, taking a sip of water as his words reverberated across the room.
“To that end,” Morrison continued, “I am pleased to announce that Morrison Biotechnology is introducing a new product line, one that will position our company at the forefront of the next generation of biotechnology. No longer will our company work primarily with governments or massive health care providers. We are moving aggressively into a direct relationship with the American public—and, soon, the rest of the world—through a new line of services called TruLife—a series of embryonic genetic modifications that will allow future generations to experience life free of the natural limitations, be they disease or defects or even just general mediocrity. A ‘truer’ life, if you will.”
The monitors on both sides of the podium again flared to life, this time displaying the details of a series of “TruLife” packages: the academic package, the sports package, the Hollywood package; there was even Morrison’s favorite, the golden embryo special, which combined all other packages into a single spectacular creation. There was even a buy-three-modifications-get-a-fourth-free “Holiday Special,” which would be out just in time for Christmas.
For a brief moment, the assembled employees were silent. And then, they all began talking at once, cries of amazed disbelief filling the ballroom. Morrison stood back from the podium, watching with amusement as it finally dawned on his researchers what it was that their work of the past decade had been building toward. Granted, TruLife was only part of a much larger picture. But for the employees who assumed tonight’s announcement was going to be about another vaccine, the TruLife package was something of a shock. And that was nothing compared to what was coming next.
With one hand gripping each side of the podium, Morrison leaned forward, unable to control the smile that stretched across his ageless visage, revealing his perfect teeth.
“Our company is going to be facing a lot of challenges in the coming months. Fortunately, we’re going to have a little more help. Please join me in welcoming back to Morrison Biotechnology, one of this company’s founding fathers, Jonathan Campbell.”
For a moment, the entire room, which was still buzzing over the Tru-Life announcement, again plunged into silence. Then the unimaginable happened—Jonathan Campbell appeared on the side of the stage. Thunderous applause filled the ballroom, and Campbell made his way slowly across the stage, shaking hands with his former protégée as the crowd continued to cheer, the walls of the ballroom glowing with the endless streams of data that were now considered art, the very lifeblood of a city, a country, a people.
Morrison squeezed Campbell’s hand, grinning as he looked into his former mentor’s eyes, before turning to the crowd, holding Campbell’s hand in the air like a victorious prizefighter.
Chapter 21
Havenport
Sept. 12, 2015
1:15 p.m.
Dylan sat alone in the tidy office, staring at the pictures arranged on the far wall: a mixture of canned family portraits, vacation photos, and a child’s scribbling. The pictures consisted of Mike Beasley, the manager for Capital Bank’s Westland branch, whom Dylan had just met and was currently looking up information on the safety deposit box that corresponded to the numbers on the back of the Heffernan flyer; a fading blonde in her late 30s-early 40s, a woman who was still pretty but the years and the pounds were piling up, a transformation documented by the collection of pictures which seemed front-loaded with memories of a younger Mrs. Beasley, all tits and white teeth, big hair and no crow’s-feet; and then there were the kids: By Dylan’s count there were four. He didn’t know anyone that had four kids. He wasn’t even sure if he knew anyone with three.
A wooden ceiling fan rotated overhead, pushing the same stale air in circles around the room as seconds stretched into minutes and Dylan grew restless. He and Meghan had entered the bank just over 20 minutes ago, moving in stops and starts through the line created by a nylon strap attached to a series of plastic pillars. When it was their turn, Dylan approached the only open teller’s window and asked for information on account number 061280091177. Although it was possible his mother hallucinated the whole thing, that she pulled these numbers off a television bar code, his gut told him otherwise.
The teller—a girl in her mid-20s, not much older than Dylan but wearing a wedding band and too much makeup—punched something into her computer: maybe the numbers Dylan had given her, maybe something else. She tapped her bright blue nails on the mouse, she snapped her gum, she frowned.
“I’m going to need to get the manager,” she told him.
The bank manager had taken his license, along with social security number, and gone off to verify that Dylan was authorized to open the safety deposit box. Was he authorized? Dylan had no idea.
Fighting the urge to pick things up off Mike Beasley’s desk, he took out his iPhone instead because he needed to do something, to be entertained or amused or at least distracted in some way. He called up the Web browser, punching in a few random websites, mostly Tiber City news or gossip blogs—scrolling, scanning but not absorbing; information for information’s sake, something terrible yet soothing and familiar in the blur of banner headlines, graphics, hyperlink stacked on top of hyperlink, a continual flow of raw data: heroin for the 21st-century boy.
And then Beasley was back, shuffling a stack of papers as he re-entered the room, flakes of dandruff shaking free from his hair gel’s iron grip, floating down toward his shoulders as he spoke.
“Mr. Fitzgerald, you are indeed one of the authorized account holders for safety deposit box 061280091177. One of our oldest and most valued accounts.”
Despite his rising anxiety, Dylan laughed.
“I’m a valued account holder?” he asked.
“No,” Beasley said, his face expressionless. “But your father was.”
As he approached Capital Bank Westland’s safety deposit box vault, Dylan was simultaneously underwhelmed and terrified. A lifetime of Hollywood movies had conditioned him to expect military-grade levels of security: retina scans and thumbprints, beefy men with automatic weapons. Instead, the security guard was old age personified. Pick a stereotype and this guy fit it: He moved slowly, he talked slowly, he shuffled, and stuttered, and shambled. His uniform fit his frail frame like a tent, loose and billowing as he stood to greet Dylan.
The old man nodded at Dylan; the bank manager had called ahead and the ancient guard was already opening the round vault door. His heart pounding, Dylan stepped past the guard and into the vault.
The inside of the vault was filled with a terrible stillness—a patience at odds with the modern compulsion toward perpetual motion. Hundreds of black rectangles of various sizes lined the walls, each with a single keyhole and a silver plate mounted dead center. And on each of these silver plates was a series of 12 numbers.
Dylan looked down at the papers in his hand, nodded, and made his way across the vault, stopping in front of box number 061280091177. He paused, looking around the vault, half-expecting someone—the bank manager, the old guard, anyone—to appear and explain how to proceed. Instead, there was only the silence of the vault.
Struggling against a creeping sense of claustrophobia, Dylan remembered the gnarled key in his back pocket. He took the key out, turning it over in his palm a few times. The metal was cool and hard and with trembling fingers, Dylan pushed the key into the lock, twisting it until he heard a mechanical click. The safety deposit box popped open, and Dylan reached inside.
An hour later, Dylan was pushing his way through the revolving glass at the front of the bank, staggering out into t
he parking lot, tears forming at the corner of his eyes, rage twisting his stomach into knots. A hot wind swept through the parking lot; plastic shopping bags, empty beer cans, and sand cascaded in between the cars, under the cars and somewhere in the distance Dylan could hear sirens. When he was little and an ambulance sped past, he used to cross himself. But that was a long time ago, before sirens took his father’s lifeless body to the hospital; these days he just watched, irritated that someone else’s crisis—the misfortune and suffering of a stranger—made it more difficult to hear his iPod. But at that moment he was overcome by such a monumental wave of empathy that it almost drove him to his knees.
In middle of the parking lot he saw Meghan, standing by the bike, two cups of coffee from the local chain resting on the sidewalk, her sunglasses down, shielding her eyes from the debris, which continued to spray the parking lot like buckshot.
She reached for him but Dylan pushed past her, the tears streaming freely now.
“What is it? What did you find?” she was asking.
But he just shook his head and pulled himself onto the bike, the roar of the engine drowning out Meghan’s pleas for an explanation. Seconds later he was blasting out of the parking lot, the woman he loved receding in the distance, the two items he found in Capital Bank Westland’s safety deposit box 061280091177 stuffed in his jacket pocket: a thick, beat-up black journal filled with letters from his father, and a flash drive marked with a strange symbol.
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