The Return of the Watchers (Armageddon Rising Book 1)

by Denny Bennett

  Every now and then he would purposefully mispronounce some words, or use incorrect sentence structure, so she could correct him. It helped break up the monotony of lab work, and she respected him even more for it. In Yuki's eyes he was learning Japanese for her sake, which explained in part why she was so loyal to him. “I’ll call you when I get there, and let you know that I arrived safely. I don’t know what’s going on for sure, but I think that Dantanian was behind the take-over of our family’s company. He tried to pretend that he would help return control to my father, but he was obviously giving me a veiled threat. He must really be serious about you. You should be careful, who knows what he is capable of.” Dorian felt heat rise in his face and his hand gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Yuki, when we meet again, there is something important I need to talk to you about.” With that said they didn’t speak much more. Dorian dropped her off at the terminal, he hugged her goodbye, and she smiled and waved as he drove off. On the way back to the University he decided it was time to put his research into high gear and learn as much as possible while he could. His mother had warned long ago that if anyone discovered his secrets he would end up as a lab rat. She was the only one alive who knew about him aside from his biological parents, whom he had never known. That was the reason he had become a genetic researcher in the first place; if he was to go under a microscope, it would be his eyes looking through it.

  The radio was tuned to a news station as he was driving back. With his schedule it was difficult for him to find out what was going on in the world, so he turned it up to listen. A talk radio show was discussing the record high unemployment and how the global economy was in the beginning of the second great depression. One of the hosts mentioned that as a result of cities going bankrupt, police forces were diminished, leading to uncontrolled crime. That was followed by discussion of the riots taking place in multiple cities and states around the country as well as the international trouble with China and the chaos in Europe. In addition, there had been a tremendous increase in natural disasters that year, causing increased financial strain. The consensus was that the world seemed to be coming apart at the seams. “More depressing news,” Dorian thought. This was all that seemed to be on the radio, television, and internet anymore. Looking out the window at a red light one could see the desperation people were facing; even in these frigid temperatures there were two to three people at many intersections, their signs in hand, each with their own heart-wrenching story asking for assistance. He felt his spirit ache for them and wondered where the world was headed. All this brought him back to the reality of the situation: Funding for his research was all but spent. Up to this point he had been able to provide for the majority of it from the sale of several patents, in addition to the money he had received from winning a Nobel Prize in Medicine. But as a result of the out of control spending and government debt, research money was scarce. With the pressure he was facing from Dantanian, he would have to put his secret research more in the open in order to find the answers he was looking for. What made him different? Why was he not getting any older? Why had he never been sick a day in his life? Why was he able to run five times faster than the average male his size, and why was he so much stronger? “Am I some kind of alien?” he occasionally thought. At a young age he would read comic books in his bedroom and try to see if he had super powers like his heroes did. Would he have X-ray vision like Superman? Or could he control the weather like Thor? Or use the force like Luke? To his dismay, he was unable to perform any of those feats. He could run very fast, but not super fast; he was very strong, but not quite super strong; and he had no other observable abilities -aside from not getting sick, but who wants that power when you’re a child? His mother would often remind him to take it easy when he played sports with other children, so as not to draw attention to himself, or hurt anyone. As he got older he became interested in genetics, in an effort to find a logical, scientific explanation for his gifts. His aging didn't really appear as being unusual until he reached about forty five years and it seemed suspicious that he still looked twenty five or so.

  Up till now he had been able to discover everything that Dantanian had and then some. The blood sample that he had carelessly left in the cooler at Primase was his own, and undoubtedly Dantanian would be back to find the source. Unfortunately, Dorian wasn't sure what he was looking for. He knew that the makeup of his blood was of a similar make up to that of the early humans, with some exceptions. Something else was driving him, though; compelling him to look further. He was close to a discovery. It was a feeling he had, a guiding force; one which would seemingly take him far beyond his understanding to discern a greater mystery.

  Four

  After taking Yuki to the airport Dorian decided to get some Chinese carry out, then returned to the house he owned in Ann Arbor. It was a large old two-story historic home that had seen many previous owners over the years, and that had been through several renovations and restorations to bring it back to its former glory. It had a nice carved stone fireplace that he would occasionally park himself in front of on nights such as this. The crisp air outside, along with the smell of burning logs from the homes in the neighborhood, made him feel alive, bringing back memories of his adolescent years in Colorado. Curling up on the couch in front of the fireplace, he ate while sorting through his mail. After scanning the physical mail and filtering the hundreds of emails he had piled up, he turned on the television for all of two minutes before it depressed him enough to shut it off. “Another tsunami kills thousands; what in the world is happening to this planet?” he said. That night he dreamt of being trapped in his house, only it was filled with garbage and junk piled from floor to ceiling. It wasn’t the first time he'd had this strange dream, and he wondered why it kept repeating. The following day, because it was the weekend, he did a bit of shopping and laundry before going in to the lab a bit later than usual.

  After taking care of his errands, he got back in his car and headed towards the University. A gathering of about four hundred people were braving the colds outside the medical science building. They held up signs indicating things were about to go bad for him and for anyone else involved with the lab. One read: “Genetic manipulation is an affront to God,” another: “You are not the creator!” There were several signs with biblical passages, and many of the protestors were chanting various poorly-rhymed anti-genetic slogans. Dorian had been so preoccupied with his work that he hadn’t noticed the growing public resentment towards people who worked in the industry. Genetic engineering had become fashionable, as those with the means were able to have designer children: One could choose the sex of their child, the height, eye color, hair, even their dexterity. This practice was extremely controversial at first; so much so that it was not in the United States until after it had been used elsewhere. It had initially begun in China, where the population was so out of control to begin with. Well-to-do parents wanted their progeny to be exactly what they wished for at the start; no need to rely on chance. From there the technology moved to India, where for decades many female babies had been killed in the womb, or in secret after birth by their parents, or given up altogether because of the desire for a male child. Parents in the west took notice and began going overseas for custom in vitro fertilization and paying big money for it. Governments, being the starving elephants they were, decided to tax and regulate rather than let business leave their country. Dorian's research had nothing to do with enhancing children; quite the contrary, he was trying to save lives from a terrible disease. It didn’t matter, however. In these desperate times, people had become more zealous and polarized. Many considered what was going on in the world, with the economy, crime, depravity of humans, and natural disasters, to be a sign of the end times, and they felt that evils such as genetic engineering were one of the spokes in the wheel. Perhaps they had a point; however, Dorian thought it best to avoid confrontation, so he found his way into the lab through the adjoining building that shared access from the lower levels. By
the time he managed to get to the third floor, protestors were in the lobby, pushing their way onto the staircase as the security personnel held them back. He made a bee line straight for his office, when he saw that his office door was ajar. Folders were strewn across his desk and on the floor, all of the desk drawers were open, and papers were scattered everywhere. “Who are you to play God?” was sprayed across the wall-mounted cork board that held recently published research articles. His cell phone rang at that moment. It was Kasia. “I don’t know if you’re going in the lab today, but if you’re planning to you might want to find something else to do,” she said in her happy-go-lucky tone. “I’m here right now. Someone’s ransacked my office. Are you in the lab?” he asked, fumbling for his key to the lab door. “I was just outside. Now I’m in the hallway to the adjacent building, making my way through the back,” she replied. The echo of her footsteps reverberated though the phone. Dorian inserted his key and turned it to unlock the door, but it was already unlocked. At first glance, nothing appeared to be broken, but he wasn’t taking any chances. After looking around in the dim daylight, he had gone back to turn on the lights when Kasia opened the door, almost smacking him in the face. “Easy,” he said, stopping the door with his foot before any damage was done. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were there. What the heck is going on? No one told me we were this popular,” she said, seeming a bit excited by all the commotion. “Get that, will you?” he asked, nodding towards the bank of light switches. “I’m not entirely sure this is about us; there's six other researchers in this building alone, and it could be any one of us they're protesting. Someone managed to get into my office. I found graffiti sprayed on one of the walls,” he said, stepping over piles of paper and trash. As he was talking, Kasia went over to her desk and began examining it to see what if anything, had been removed, then booted up her computer. Dorian was checking the cabinets and the sequencing machine when he noticed the cooler door was ajar. “Aw, you’ve got to be.....Damn it, they left the door wide open. Well, there goes weeks of work down the drain. Great! Most of the tube racks are empty. I’m beginning to think it wasn't these protestors; some amateur thieves, maybe students, probably hired by Dantanian. This is ridiculous,” he fumed. “Who is Dantanian? Sounds like some kind of gangster name. What have you gotten yourself into? Is this because of a gambling debt? Did you give someone’s child two left feet or something at your last job?” Kasia asked with excitement. “He’s some businessman, and no, I didn’t give someone’s kid a duck bill or anything of the sort,” he huffed. “At this point, I don’t give a rat’s ass who did it, I’m just happy that my data is intact,” she said, as if she was the only one that mattered. He breathed a small sigh of relief; first, for the fact that the data was still there, and second, for the fact that Kasia’s apathetic nature did not encourage lingering questions.

  After spending some time cleaning things up, they went about their work. Since he was now aware of his carelessness at Primase, he decided from here out to only work with a fresh sample, and to destroy it after each successful run. This was the 70th trial for sequencing. He labeled the test tube Esme70, after his birth mother’s name, the only thing he knew about her. Sequencing his entire genome was very difficult to process accurately, which is why he had to complete it in bits and pieces. If all went well, this could be the final run for him. The genome would be complete and he could analyze the data in the hopes of finding out more about himself. He placed part of the sample in the sequencing machine and began the final trial run. While that was running, he went back to his office and sorted through the paper strewn everywhere until he heard the familiar sound of the machine indicating his sample was completed. It was a success.

  Gathering the data from all his previous runs and this current one, he gave it over to Kasia for her to compile into one common data set. “This is going to take at least a few days to finish, and I still have four other experiments to compile and sort,” she whined. “Make this a priority if you can, and if you observe anything unusual, please keep it discreet,” he said, carefully choosing his words. She gave him a sly smile. He looked at her with his eyebrows raised, as if to say “No, I’m hiding anything on some illegitimate child of mine!” He left for the day and returned home, carefully looking around to see if someone had broken in and was waiting for him. Nothing was out of the ordinary, so he went to bed, taking extra precaution by keeping a baseball bat at his bedside. That night it was the same repeating dream again with a twist; now he was stuck in a landfill with trash everywhere around him.

  Monday morning rolled around and he eagerly went to the lab to check on the progress of the data. “Well, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Kasia chirped as she saw him coming down the hallway towards his office. He quickly unlocked his office door and motioned for her to step in. She looked like the cat that just ate the mouse. “What do you mean?” he asked nervously. “Did you find an alien or something? Is that what all this cloak and dagger is all about?” she asked, trying hard not to laugh. “What are you talking about?” he asked in the way he knew best, feigning ignorance. “Keep your secrets then, fine by me. Here’s the data you asked for.” She handed him a small fob and left him alone. Plugging the fob into his laptop, he opened up the software that he and Kasia (well, mostly Kasia) had designed, for analysis of genomes. The program began comparing his blood to that of an ordinary human to see what differences there were. It would most likely take another day to complete. Deciding not to take any chances, he took the portable computer to his two o’clock lecture that afternoon. After his lecture, he called Yuki to see if everything was alright with her father, but she didn’t pick up so he left her a text message wishing them well. Later that day, he received a call from an old friend who asked to meet him at The Blind Pig for drinks at seven. He reluctantly agreed. Since the program crunching his data would take the rest of the night, he could afford to unwind a bit.

  As the day’s work came to a close, he put his laptop into a closet to continue running, locked up the lab and headed over to First Street to join his friend. It was necessary to move quickly to get there; the sun was setting and the streets were not safe anymore at night, even in a college town. He could always get a ride back afterwards, provided his friend didn’t have too much to drink.

  Climbing up the narrow, snow covered steps of the club, the familiar smell of spilled beer and music filled the air. The sound of the band rushed to him like a tidal wave as soon as he opened the door. He looked around and noticed his friend sitting at the bar, nursing a whiskey of some sort. “How you been Roy?” Dorian asked, patting him on the shoulder. “Hey, Dorian, good to see ya,” he replied, extending his hand. Roy looked like a fish out of water. Dressed in an exquisitely tailored navy blue pinstripe suit, with fine leather shoes and expensive wristwatch to match, it was clear he represented someone with money in a predominately blue-collar club. Sitting next to him was another fish out of water in a grey colored Armani suit; twenty-something, give or take, ostentatiously scratching his ear to show off his high-dollar watch. He held a lit cigar in one hand and a mojito in the other. These two contrasted with Dorian, who was dressed in a brown tweed sports jacket, blue jeans, olive colored t-shirt and casual loafers. “Dorian, this is one of the junior attorneys at our firm, Trevor Maslin. David, this is Dorian Lystad.” Trevor was partially looking at the band and partially at Dorian. He had a slight grin, the kind you could easily imagine seeing on a billboard with the word “Injured?” below it. “How’s it going?” he asked, offering a limp-wristed handshake. Dorian grasped his hand firmly.

  “Roy’s been telling me about your earlier years and the odd jobs you two had,” Trevor said. “It’s hard to believe you both went to high school together, you look about the same age as me,” he said, a hint of jealousy in his tone. “I guess it’s in the genes,” Dorian replied coolly, a line he had used hundreds of times in the past. He took up a chair to the left of Roy, ignoring Trevor, who seemed to be more interested in looking ar
ound to see who was looking at him. “How long are you in town?” Dorian asked Roy. “I’m guessing we’ll get a settlement by Wednesday, so most likely a few more days. You enjoying Ann Arbor? Met any nice college hotties here?” Roy asked with a smile, elbowing Dorian gently. “It’s not too bad, just a lot of headaches. My lab was broken into a few days ago and my primary research assistant just went back home, possibly for good. I’ve had a crazy mob protesting in front of our building the other day, student issues, et cetera, you get the point. It’s a different kind of pressure cooker from Primase, but I’m still simmering in a pot none the less. What about you? I figured that since you made partner, you’d take it easy and swim in the pools of cash you squeezed from big pharma.” Roy set down his drink and shot an angry look over to Dorian. “Easy there, pal, I’m not on trial here,” he said pointing a finger with the same hand that was holding his drink. Roy’s profession and what he represented was somewhat of a sore spot for Dorian. Even though Dorian wasn’t part of any drug company, he still felt some association with the researchers there. From his perspective, he understood what it took to get a treatment to market, a lot of money and luck. Unfortunately, some of his fellow researchers were caught using unethical tactics, such as fudging data to get medications out of the pipeline, only to discover later that those medications had major safety issues. All to keep the gravy train rolling. Those bad apples made it difficult for everyone else. Nowadays you couldn’t win any sympathy for drug researchers; people were unemployed and viewed anyone who achieved success with distrust, or suspecting that they had dodged the rules, cheated, or used some other illegal activity outside of hard work and sacrifice. Additionally, many of the mass public shootings were attributed to the effects that certain anti-depressants or psychotropic medications had on fragile minds; effects that had been either willfully ignored or purposefully hidden in the name of profits. It was no wonder that people were resentful of the whole medical establishment; like many other institutions, it had failed to keep the public trust. As a result, a large part of society regarded them as a source for easy money. It didn’t matter if you truthfully experienced a side effect of a drug, just find a doctor who would go along with the scheme and sue for millions. Now, having sent many corporations into bankruptcy, the vampires were running out of victims to bleed. Dorian figured Roy wasn’t directly implicit in scamming the pharmaceutical companies, but he also knew that Roy was able to ask rational questions and draw reasonable conclusions about the veracity of his client’s claims. “Sorry, man. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately,” Dorian said in a muted tone. “No problem,” Roy replied, still miffed at Dorian’s innuendo. “How’s your mom doing?” Dorian asked, in an attempt to extend an olive branch. “Well, she’s down to about 85 pounds now, cancer eating her alive,” he responded, as if he was discussing his golf handicap, a matter of minor significance. “How you’ve changed Roy,” Dorian thought. His friend used to be one of the nicest, most caring, give-the-shirt-off-your-back kind of people whom Dorian admired growing up. But when the union at the bottling plant where Roy’s father worked went on strike, the company closed down in Colorado and moved the jobs to Florida. His family fell on hard times and his father had a stroke not long after that. Roy felt cheated by the world and blamed the company for their misfortune. That’s why he had decided to become a lawyer, so that he could make companies like the one his dad worked for pay for their misdeeds. Dorian had thought Roy would be a force for good and fight against those who would take advantage of the little guy. Money, however, tends to corrupt those even with the best of intentions. Roy, who used to loathe executives at the top, had ironically become one himself. “I’m sorry to hear that, tell her that I’ll be praying for her.” Dorian replied in a somber tone. “You're not drinking?” Roy asked.