by Jamie Metzl
“I have a connection,” he says guardedly. “For reasons you can appreciate, I can’t say more.”
“But you are able to reach them?”
“When absolutely necessary, yes.”
“And the rumors about your illness? Fabrications?”
“These issues are bigger than any one person.” Shelton’s eyes lock onto mine, and I realize my line of questioning is done.
“Tell me about Noam Heller,” he continues.
I’d prepared for this question but still feel the knot forming in in my gut. I can’t say I trust Shelton but I know to my core that sharing information with him is my best hope. He waves me through all of the background, which he seems to know far better than I.
“I met Dr. Heller only three days ago,” I say, hardly believing how much has happened since. “I’m not sure ‘met’ is the right word. I approached him outside his lab and he told me to go to hell.”
Shelton’s eyes show a hint of life. “Why were you there in the first place?”
I describe my interaction with Santique and my search for more information about the experimental cancer protocol.
Shelton stops me in the middle of my explanation. “You’ve come a long way to speak with me. We both have a lot at stake here. From what I understand, your friends in Kansas City could be in a lot of danger.”
My spine stiffens and body reflexively pulls back from the table.
“Let me be clear,” he adds carefully. “I know nothing about the incidents in Kansas City other than what my people have told me. Of course, I have my own information network. You may have no way of trusting this, but I give you my word I was not involved with that violence in any way. I don’t know who was. I know no more than you.”
Shelton’s words seem sincere but I feel out of my depth struggling to evaluate them.
“But it’s obvious,” he continues, “that something connected to Heller is triggering all of this. My hope is that you and I can figure out what’s behind it. Maybe even help each other. But doing so will require a modicum of trust on both sides.”
I weigh the options in my head, picturing the electronic wall at the Star with its missing links. I am sitting in front of one of the greatest data engineers in history. I don’t fully know his motivations but somewhere deep inside I recognize I may have no choice but to trust him. I lean forward.
“Last Tuesday,” I begin, “I went to a hospice in Kansas City looking into the disappearance of a scientist named Benjamin Hart …”
It’s late. The seven courses of our exquisite meal have long since vanished, and we are on our fourth cup of coffee. We’ve gone through every word of Heller’s letter on the screen embedded in the dining table. After securing my promise to not publish what he tells me that cannot be verified from public sources, Shelton has given me additional background on SBN and its intricacies. He described the ingenious encrypted communication system he created to provide periodic secure communication with the SBN ship.
“So I presume you have it,” he says, once again focusing his intense gaze deep into my eyes.
“Of course.”
“And you will give it to me?”
“It was what Heller wanted,” I say, trying to mask the beating of my heart.
Shelton nods slightly.
“But I need something from you,” I add.
“What?”
My mind flips through everything I might need to protect Toni, provide closure to Katherine Hart, even take care of Maya and Nayiri. All of the options are vague and only uncertainty ties them together, but I sense I have only one shot to get a commitment from Shelton. I need answers more than anything else. “I need you to put me in direct touch with the SBN Council of Elders.”
Shelton stares at me coolly through his ARD lens. “I’ve already given you more access to me than most anyone else in the world. I can’t and won’t go further.”
A flash of anger passes through me. I’m not surprised by Shelton’s response; I just want more. Even if my actions here have been anything but pure, I’m not willing to leave empty-handed. I scan my brain but can’t come up with the right ask. So I punt. “I want your word I can call on you if I need anything in the future.”
“‘Anything’ is an ambitious ask,” he says ironically, “but I will do my best within reason.”
He puts out his hand. I stare at it for a moment before lifting mine, reluctantly, to meet it.
My heart is pounding. The frenetic energy pulsing through my brain reminds me I’m about to pass a virus to one of the great computer engineers of all time. I sit back in my chair and take a deep breath before speaking into my u.D. “Transfer Heller Encryption Key Access File 110925.”
37
I’ve always thought of my capacity to be alone as a great source of strength, but lying in the ridiculously large canopy bed in my immense room in this colossal estate, I toss and turn and think about being home in my queen-size bed with Toni. I picture her wrapped tightly in my down comforter without me.
Thoughts of Jerry’s virus worm through my synaptic neurons. It may or may not be already infiltrating the handshake between the two encryption keys. What chance does Jerry Weisberg from frigging Kansas City have, I keep asking myself nervously, of his viral rider going undiscovered by someone as sophisticated as Shelton?
I’m already wide awake when the u.D alarm vibrates at 6:30 a.m. A typed note has been slipped under my door in the night. Breakfast outside your door. Wheels up 7:30 a.m.
I roll in the cart. The freshly baked croissants, tropical fruit plate, scrambled eggs, juice, and French press coffee would be a joy on any other day. Today, all I can handle is the coffee.
Paige Newmark is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. “Mr. Shelton has been called away. He asked me to tell you how much he appreciated your visit.”
Called away? When? By whom?
“He wanted me to give you this.”
She hands me a small card. “It’s his private u.D access number,” she says as if sharing a unique and precious gift.
As the chauffeur drives us to the runway, the rising orange sun reveals the spectacular manicured gardens I had been unable to fully appreciate last night and the boundaries of the dense surrounding forest. It is difficult to imagine that this jungle could have possibly been a golf course just eight years ago. Perhaps, I reflect, Hobbes was right. There is a jungle waiting to swallow each of us the moment we let our guard down.
Ms. Newmark anticipates my question as we approach the tarmac. “Mr. Shelton’s plane is currently in use, so we’ll be taking the Cessna. It may not have all the amenities but it can certainly get you to Kansas City.”
She waits at the bottom of the stairs as I climb aboard the small corporate jet but does not follow me up. I watch her standing beside the airstrip, erect and unmoved, as we taxi and take flight, then I collapse into a deep sleep as the small airplane climbs.
Only the captain’s announcement of our descent into Kansas City pulls me from my coma. I train my groggy eyes out the window, somehow both warmed and alarmed by the sight of the familiar downtown skyline, the nautilus-like shells of the Kauffman performing arts center, and the meandering Missouri River. Callahan is waiting for me in the Lincoln, parked in the lot just beside the runway.
“You need to get over here,” Jerry says excitedly when I call him on my u.D from the car. “I’ve been trying to reach you. It’s happening.”
The possibilities surge through my brain. “I’m on my way. We need the whole team.”
I feel guilty as I make my final call to Joseph before my quick drop-by to check on Toni. Brain-Pulse may be very important for Kansas City, but Heller’s files have the potential to mean exponentially more to the world.
Dreyfus finds me first as I run in my back door. Oh boy, that guy’s back. Maybe he’ll play with me. Oh boy. Really? Really?
I give him a perfunctory pat on the head as I pass, desperate to get in and out as quickly as possible.
; Haruki glides over energetically. “Okaerinasaimase ureshiigozaimasu,” he says, bowing vigorously. “Gobujini modorarete ureshuugozaimasu.”
“Not now, Haruki.”
“Goyouken wo omoushitsuke kudasai-mase, ureshiigozaimasu?”
I have no idea what he is saying and only want him out of the way but realize in face of his expectant round eyes that the path of least resistance is engagement. “Speak English, Haruki.”
“Yes, master,” Haruki says. “Welcome home. How may I be of service?”
“Um,” I mutter, looking apologetically at Toni and her suspicious parents, who have now entered the kitchen, and feeling the need to be back at the Star as quickly as possible. “Just go stand quietly in the next room.”
“Yes, master,” Haruki says, rolling away with a look in his eyes that almost seems like disappointment.
“And no need to call me master,” I add, a bit embarrassed by the interaction in front of Toni’s parents.
Haruki pivots back to face me and leans his head slightly forward at an angle, as if favoring the ear he does not have. “What shall I call you, master?”
I begin to open my mouth but Toni steps forward and beats me to it. “Call him Dikran,” she says with a wink in my direction.
I contort my mouth to counter, then override with the recognition that doing so would make me look even more foolish.
Haruki bows. “Yes, Dikran-san.” He turns toward the dining room.
“Hi, baby,” Toni says, wrapping her arms around me. “How was your trip?”
I want to grab her and draw her into me but too much stimulus is overcrowding my brain. “It was an unbelievably bizarre experience. A lot of things are happening.” I give her the thirty-second version of the story as I begin leaning toward the door. “How are you holding up?”
“How was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?”
I stand straight. “I’m sorry,” I say more presently, placing a hand on each of her shoulders. Whatever I’ve been doing, I feel bad that Toni’s the one whose house has been obliterated and I’ve not been around. “Are you okay?”
She looks at me and smiles, piercing me with her green eyes. “I just wanted you to ask. I’m fine, all things considered. Still sad about Heller and Sebastian, having strange dreams. I’m more worried about you. You look awful, you know.”
I hadn’t thought about it, but I probably do.
“Now get the hell out of here,” she adds with a gentle push and mischievous grin.
I feel like I should say something but don’t. My words have been sharpened for decades on the hard stone of ideas, but I sometimes feel like a flailing butter knife when it comes to emotions. “I’ll be back later,” I declare over my shoulder.
Rushing into Jerry’s basement hideout, I am overwhelmed by the multitude of files splashed across the four digital walls, data codes streaming like sparks of light across the top. Jerry, Franklin Chou, and Sierra are each waving their hands as they pass through the vast stream of files.
“We’re getting it,” Jerry announces excitedly, not looking in my direction, “We’re pulling this down as quickly as we can. Whoever is accessing this data stream right now will reconfigure the codes as quickly as they can once they get the full download.”
“How much do we have?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” Jerry says. “It’s a huge amount of data. We’re running a searchbot to pull out any files with our keywords and have divided the labor of going through what comes up.”
The numbers from the large wall refract off of Chou’s glasses. “This is some of the most incredible research data I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, mesmerized.
“Franklin is reviewing the data, Sierra is looking at the language files, I’m focusing on the download.” Jerry still has not taken his eyes off the screen. “I have no idea if there are any poison pills in the data, so we need to download and start reviewing the content as quickly as possible.”
“And Joseph?” I ask.
Joseph looks over at me. I still have a hard time reading his face.
“Hart and Wolfson,” he says, steadily waving his hands to circulate the files. “All of the documents are here—the tracking records of their cancers, the failure of the cancer treatment protocol, the assessment of their suitability for total cellular reversion, the procurement of their blood samples from four decades ago from cryopreservation, their procedure at Heller Labs, their departure …”
I’d known there was a possible link between Sebastian’s cells and Hart and Wolfson’s retinas scanning in at Tobago, but my surging aortic valve announces what my mind is only beginning to absorb. The story is almost too vast to consume.
“It’s not just them. Three other scientists were also included in the program: Dr. Ephraim Ungar from Palo Alto, Professor Michaela Bernstein from Chicago, Solomon Marcus from Boston,” Joseph continues.
“All Jews?” I say, thinking back to the Wolfson’s mezuzah.
“I hadn’t thought of it, boss,” Joseph says.
“Who’s taking them? How are they getting there?”
“That’s what I’m on.” Sierra’s words are sharp and focused. “I’m only speeding through the documents, but it looks like Heller did some kind of deal with Scientists Beyond Nations. They bring him the human subjects, Heller does the reversion, then SBN whisks them away.”
“To where?”
“I don’t know yet,” she says, “but there’s at least one obvious possibility.”
“And if you’re getting these rejuvenated scientists to a ship, wouldn’t it make sense to leave from a remote place in the middle of nowhere, an island maybe?” I turn toward Chou. “Can you tell if the science works?”
“It’ll take time to analyze the data,” Chou says as if through a fog, “but the alterations of genomic sequences of the five scientists seem to track exactly the patterns I saw with the dog.”
“With jellyfish DNA?” I ask.
“That and the other factors in Heller’s formula. If that data is correct, and I’m not prepared to say it is, it appears the scientists were reverted to the age of their previous cellular samples, about forty years or so for each of them. If this is real, they would have woken from the transfusions missing the memories of forty years of life.”
“So let me get this straight,” I say solemnly. “There may now be two groups of people in the world who possess the secret to eternal life?”
Joseph, Sierra, and Chou all turn from their respective walls to face me.
“I’m not so sure,” Chou says.
“Not sure?”
“I’m still going through the data. There’s way too much here.”
“But?”
“I can’t confirm if it actually works, but it looks like the reversion process requires a very specific set of CRISPR-induced genetic manipulations, molecular transfections, and chimeric alterations of nucleotides within the genes during an enhanced autologous parabiosis process.”
“What are you even talking about?” I say impatiently. “In English, please?”
Chou looks annoyed. “This is extremely complicated science, Rich. The forced expression of very specific genes during the transfusion. It must have taken literally tens or hundreds of thousands of trials—not just of the genetics but also of the added molecular compounds—for Heller to find the right formula, if he did at all. I’d only know if I replicated it in my lab.”
“Could he have made that kind of progress alone?”
“That’s the genius of this. He seems to have developed a bioanalytical ternary model that crunched the data based on the cellular samples taken from the organisms in his lab.”
“English?”
Chou stares at me intently, as if weighing his words. “Maybe.”
“So is the formula in the files?”
“That’s what I’m looking for,” Chou says, waving his hands frantically. “I can’t seem to find it.”
“The window is closing,” Jerry shouts.
We turn to
face him.
“They’re reprogramming the access portal.”
“How much of the data do we have?” I yell.
“I think most of it,” he says, “at least as much as we are going to get.”
“Shit, Jerry, can we speed this up?”
“This is an unbelievable amount of data coming through a very narrow filter. It’s not us, it’s …”
The parade of code stops in its tracks, the numbers and letters halting on the wall in mid-stream.
“That’s it,” Jerry whispers, collapsing into his Exemplis swivel chair.
Chou, Sierra, and Joseph turn back toward their walls.
“I should build a firewall to try to protect this data,” Jerry adds.
“Thayoli,” Joseph mutters, gaping at the wall in front of him.
I have no idea what the word means but it doesn’t take much to recognize it’s probably not something good Malayalees say in mixed company. “What?”
As Joseph reads from the end of a language file he’s uncovered, I imagine Heller dictating the words in his illustrious accent.
“‘Of course,’” he says, channeling Heller, “‘I fully recognize the magnitude of my discovery and have therefore taken one final precaution. The formula for total cellular reversion described in my notes can only work if an additional catalyst is added during the transfusion process. This catalytic compound consists of small molecules and uniquely folded proteins found only in nature that cannot be reverse-engineered using any tools existing today. Although I have provided SBN a frozen vial of my catalytic compound and retained one in my lab, it will be impossible to successfully reproduce the biological age-reversing enhanced autologous chimeric parabiosis process without either one of these vials or the specific formula describing how to produce this final but essential component. The formula for doing so is not included in this electronic file.’”
“Genius,” Chou utters.
We all turn to face him.
“So even after he’s divided the keys for access to the reversion formula itself,” he continues, transfixed, “he’s added one final piece of the puzzle, even more deeply hidden, the catalytic compound with its own secret formula and only two vials of it in existence. He’s broken the process into parts and concealed each separately.”