The Curiosity: A Novel

by Stephen Kiernan

  Thomas was not in his usual place, manning the desk outside, but I could hear him laughing inside. I knocked, striding in to a complete surprise. Thomas sat in Carthage’s throne, holding a remote control, while the egocentric boss himself stood across the room. They were laughing at a giant television screen. It was the most private moment I’d seen the two men share, and I began backing out of the room.

  “A bishop,” Carthage cried. “We’ve just been denounced by a bishop.”

  Thomas laughed. “Only God is the author of life,” he said in a false basso voice.

  “I’ll come back later,” I said.

  “No, no, your timing is perfect,” Carthage said. He wiped an eye with his sleeve. “Watch, Dr. Philo.” Sobering, he pointed at the screen. “Watch, and learn something.”

  Thomas pressed the remote; images of a newscast played backward in fast motion. He was still chuckling to himself.

  “I didn’t even know you had a TV in here.”

  “What you don’t know, Dr. Philo, would take a lifetime to catalog.”

  I bit my tongue. “Here,” Thomas said. “Here’s the best part.”

  The video began, a huge crowd wearing red shirts, gathered around a man in black with a Roman collar. People behind him waved signs or their hands.

  “This person would be . . . ?”

  “The bishop of Massachusetts,” Thomas said. “His predecessor was a cardinal.”

  “Just listen,” Carthage said.

  “. . . conflicts throughout history between science and religion, clashes between reason and faith. So we must revert to basic principles, to the fundamental teaching from the Garden of Eden forward, which is simply this: only God is the author of life, and only the Almighty decides when life shall begin or end.” The bishop licked a fingertip, turned a page. “We have prayed for the people engaged in this project because we reverence learning. Our faith includes belief in humanity’s power to raise itself to greater heights of knowledge and understanding. But we have worried, too, about the aims of this project. Now, with this scurrilous invitation . . .”—he held up a sheet of paper—“we see these people as they truly are: sinners as we all happen to be, but unlike us, they are intent on diminishing human life, on reducing it to chemical equations, rather than upholding it as the sacred gift of a Lord who with generosity and love created us in His divine image.”

  The crowd cheered, but the bishop raised a hand to interrupt them.

  “We have been patient. We have welcomed the man who embodies their accomplishments into our city and businesses and homes. I’m told he has even visited our cathedral. And we will continue to greet penitents with open arms.”

  “I love that,” Thomas says. “As if he wouldn’t rather—”

  “But we cannot conscience sacrilege. We cannot condone the trivialization of life, especially under the guise of false immortality. We cannot allow this . . .”—he shook the paper again—“this invitation to murder to go unremarked. We are left with one recourse.” He raised one hand high, as if proclaiming a benediction.

  “This is the best part,” Thomas said.

  “I hereby call upon the mayor of this city, the city council, the governor of this state, and even the vice president of the United States, who was unduly hasty in giving his endorsement to this enterprise . . . I call upon each of these individuals and the solemn responsibility they hold in the public trust, to shut this project down.”

  The crowd began chanting. “Shut it down, shut it down.” The handsome protest leader came forward, waving his arms like he was conducting a choir. “Shut it down. Shut it—”

  Thomas muted the sound. “ ‘I call upon each of these individuals,’ ” he said, rising from the chair. “Dr. Carthage, that invitation was a masterstroke.”

  “Now remember, Thomas, this one was your idea.”

  “Hardly, sir. I’m here if you need me,” he said, strolling out of the office.

  Carthage cleared his throat, pressed a button, the TV went blank. A panel of wood slid out to conceal it. “Enough levity for one day,” he said.

  “What have you done to get people so angry? What was on that paper?”

  “A bluff.” He sidled over to his desk. “An extremely successful bluff.”

  “Where was that crowd? When did all of this happen?”

  “Not ninety minutes ago,” Carthage said. “Right outside our front door. You would have strolled directly into it had you come to work on time.”

  “I didn’t have anything pressing, first thing today.”

  Carthage sat with a sigh. “Dr. Philo, I hardly know where to begin. So many things are occurring at a higher intensity now, so much has changed. You seem unaware.”

  I took one of the chairs angled toward his desk. “Enlighten me.”

  He raised one eyebrow, but checked himself, pushing a few papers aside. “Well. Our friend Mr. Dixon is a friend no longer, and seeks to do us harm.”

  “From the looks of that coverage, we’re doing that just fine by ourselves.”

  “Also we are nearly out of funds. Many investors have come forward, eager to apply our technology to people they are maintaining in a cryogenic state. I had intended to provide them with conclusive evidence, by enlisting the aid of our undeniable success story, by introducing them to Subject One—”

  “There is no such person.”

  “—only to discover, abracadabra: he is not here any longer.”

  I’d expected this much, so I tried my own bluff. “Is that right, Doctor?”

  “Let’s not play games, shall we? Four different security cameras recorded that you and he snuck out of this building—”

  “We did not sneak anywhere, because we were not doing anything wrong.”

  “—yesterday morning, sometime after eight.”

  “It was 8:21,” came the call from outside Carthage’s office.

  “Thank you, Thomas.” Carthage picked up a pencil, brand-new, not even sharpened, pointing the eraser at me. “I am thoroughly uninterested in your justifications for your irresponsible conduct, your possible romantic conquests—”

  “There is no such—”

  “Please stop talking, Dr. Philo. You are swimming in waters far out of your depth. A bishop is the least of it. While you’ve been off having adventures in hand-holding, the world has moved on. The more defensively you speak, the worse you make it for yourself.”

  “Please spare me the brimstone. What are you going to do, fire me?”

  “Is that what you fear?”

  “Not even slightly.”

  “Because being fired is the minimum that will happen, if Subject One is not in my office by four o’clock. Do you understand? Without dietary oversight, the consequences for him are catastrophic. The stakes for this project are likewise monumental. If things go any further awry, unemployment will be the least of your worries.”

  “My sister, Chloe, is a litigator. She says there are two kinds of people: those who threaten to sue you, and those who do it. Which kind are you, Dr. Carthage?”

  He looked amused by the question. He tapped the pencil eraser on his desk. “Have I not behaved, in the fourteen months I have employed you, in a consistent manner?”

  “You have, actually.”

  “And how would you describe that behavior?”

  “Honestly? Machiavellian. Manipulative. Grandiose.”

  “Insincere, ever? Hesitant? Afraid of giving offense, even once?”

  “You have always been exactly who you are.”

  “Is that, by your sister’s lexicon, one who merely threatens, or one who actually sues?”

  I looked down at my lap. I was still holding Thomas’s folded note. My summery dress felt frivolous, naive. “Sues.”

  “Have you any theories to persuade you that I would behave differently today?”

  I raised my head again. “On those other days, you held all the cards.”

  “Is that not the case now?”

  “No. The whole deck left here w
ith me yesterday morning at 8:21.”

  “Dr. Philo.” He gripped the pencil with both hands, lowering them slowly. I realized from his white knuckles that he was livid, suppressing a massive rage with difficulty. “I will not attempt to beguile you out of your righteousness, however misguided. Nor persist in appeals to reason you seem unable to hear. Nor succumb to the temptation to toy with your foolhardy feminism. Persuading one novice scientist to abandon her ignorance is not my goal. The survival of this project is. Therefore I simply repeat, so there is no ambiguity: If by four P.M. today Subject One is not in my office—”

  “I know, I know, you’ll fire me.”

  “Hardly.” He laughed then, turning with a sick smile till his chair was sideways, his face in profile. “Little Miss Muffet, firing is nothing. I’ve canned multitudes over the years. I fired someone not an hour ago, a colleague of yours.”

  “Oh? What brilliant, dedicated person did you throw overboard today?”

  Ignoring the question, he waved his pencil like a conductor’s baton. “Firing merely forces one to update a pitiful exaggerated résumé, whine to some old professors, and find some cobwebby lab to call home for the rest of one’s tenured, worthless days. Firing is so insignificant, it should come wrapped in a bow.”

  He sat forward. “You have leverage with him, I admit, and I repent myself of allowing that to occur. But my patience with your influence is ended. Thus let me be plain. Jeremiah Rice will be standing in this office by four o’clock, or I will ruin you.”

  “Ruin me? What the hell does that mean?”

  “You do not want to learn. Certainly no career and no reputation. But it will be much worse, I will do it with every power I have, and I will not relent until you are broken and destitute.” He tossed the pencil on his desk. “And I will do it for sport.”

  Carthage pumped the sanitizer bottle on his desk, a white glop oozing onto his hand. I did not stay to watch the washing. No amount of scrubbing would make that man clean.

  In the office supply room I found two large moving boxes. I carried them through the control room, where Gerber backed his chair out of my way.

  “Whoa there, pilgrim,” he said. “You look like the wrath of God.”

  I put the boxes on a desk. “Sometimes I would like to tear Carthage right in half.”

  “The man is indeed a work of art,” Gerber bobbled his head in agreement. “So, is he hassling you because you’re bonking the good judge now?”

  “Jesus, Gerber. You sound as bad as Dixon.” I picked the boxes back up, starting for Jeremiah’s chamber. “And no, for your information, I am not ‘bonking’ anyone.”

  “Oh.” He shrugged, wheeling back to his desk. “My condolences.”

  What a place. I could not wait to be rid of it. Meanwhile I punched the numbers to enter Jeremiah’s chamber. Quickly it was clear that one moving box was all I’d need. His toiletries, a handful of books, the few articles of clothing people had given him that he chose to wear, it amounted to less than one box. Between Carthage’s ego and all of the media attention, I’d come to see our project as a big deal, the rebirth of Jeremiah a world-changing thing. To find it reduced to so few possessions was humbling.

  I was on my way out, giving the room a final scan, when I felt the impulse to neaten it. The books formed a tidy stack on a shelf, earbuds on top. Making the bed, I felt something under his pillow. I reached beneath: the stuffed raccoon. First I felt sadness, a pang of loss. Some kind of innocence was gone now, would not be coming back. Then I felt anger, a flare of stubbornness. He had jumped to protect me. Now it was my turn.

  I tossed the extra box in the middle of the room, a clue for anyone who might be interested. But then, videotapes would show everything anyway. Presuming the monitors were still running, that is. There’s not much to document if your subject is gone.

  I would have liked to say a few good-byes, but there was no point in wasting my head start. Also I wasn’t quite finished. There was one more thing I wanted, for Jeremiah.

  The basement was bright, fluorescent tubes hanging in pairs from the ceiling. Pipes angled overhead. I’d been to the project’s storeroom several times, to deposit gifts Jeremiah had received on our walks through the city.

  A new sign hung on the door: LAZARUS PROJECT PROPERTY. NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. NO REMOVAL OF CONTENTS WITHOUT WRITTEN E.C. APPROVAL.

  Although I wondered how gifts to Jeremiah had become project property, I felt sure “E.C.” would not approve my removal plans. I swept my badge through the reader, but the door did not unlock. I tried again, no luck. Had Carthage already blocked my access? This was a problem. If I went back upstairs, who would lend me their badge, knowing that the project’s mainframe keeps track of every time a badge is used?

  “Oh, come on,” I said, jerking on the doorknob fruitlessly.

  “Allow me to get that, would you, lovely?”

  I turned to be greeted by the crooked-toothed grin of my onetime friend at the project, possibly my friend again. “Billings, you savior. Would you mind?”

  “Shown you the door too, has he?”

  “Not quite yet. Are you the one Carthage was just bragging about firing?”

  “Approximately.” Billings swept his card through the slot; we both could hear the electronic bolt slide back. “I’m half fired, half resigned.”

  I laughed. “We’re in the same club. You’re just a few hours ahead of me.”

  “Although apparently my card still works.” He bowed. “After you.”

  “Always the gentleman.” I went ahead with the cardboard box.

  “Aye, lass,” he said in a false Cockney. “Me ma beat it into me.”

  Someone had organized the room since my last visit. Shelves lined the walls, as well as rows up the middle, with gray plastic bins on them. The bin labels bore unmistakable, perfect handwriting. “So, why did you and Carthage part ways?”

  “Hard to say, Kate. For his part, lack of glamour, I’d wager. For my part, I discovered things in the small species samples I didn’t want a pig like him to possess. Then it was merely a matter of annoying him, and feigning intimidation.” Billings strolled to the far wall, pulled down a bin, poked through the papers inside. “Here it is, lucky first grab.” He snatched a file, shoved the bin back. “I’ll still receive my contractual severance check, with which I intend to treat myself to three decadent weeks in Maui.”

  I stalked the aisles, scanning labels for materials associated with Jeremiah, working from the most recent backward. “Sounds like you have a good plan.”

  “If I borrow a few documents for my next project, yes. Metabolic studies of reanimated species other than the judge. A professional parachute, you could say.”

  I stopped at the end of the row. The label read: SUBJECT ONE ARRIVAL ATTIRE. I slid the bin outward as it tipped heavily.

  “Let me help you there, lovely.” Billings set down his papers, took the bin, lowered it to the floor. “What are we hunting for, might one ask?”

  The bin was sealed with tape, on which Thomas had written the date we reached Boston with Jeremiah’s frozen body. I broke the seal, yanked the lid, saw the topmost items: a well-worn pair of heavily oiled, high brown boots. I picked one up, tracing my finger over the ornate C on the sole. “These.”

  Billings crossed his arms. “I have the strangest sense right now, as if I’d gone to the loo during the intermission of a play, and returned having missed rather critical scenes.”

  “They’re his boots. He wants them back.”

  “You’ll hear no argument from me, Kate. I’m a thief here myself.”

  With the boots in hand, I felt less distracted. “Yes, I’m sorry. You said you’d found things in the small species, things you didn’t want to share.”

  “Indeed I did. Just between us girls?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, it has to do with metabolics.” He grinned. It was the nerd’s smile, I’d seen it all my professional life, whenever someone seeking something difficult
or arcane had actually found it. Probably I’d worn that look a time or two myself.

  Billings rubbed his palms together. “What did Borden call it, ‘hibernating bear’? An apt phrase, that. You see, regardless of what species you’ve animated, they always recommence at an astonishingly low metabolic rate, processing food and oxygen almost in slow motion. Very nice, a gentle start on their tummies and the like. The pickle is that whatever mechanisms regulate metabolic rate . . . well, apparently they quite break down during the frozen time, don’t they? Nor does the tempo stabilize once it reaches normal. No, it grows faster and faster, the creature moves ever more quickly, it consumes fuel at an exponentially accelerating rate, and the poor thing just burns right out.”

  “I’ve seen this, of course, with shrimp and so on. What are you saying?”

  “Our man Carthage may be a genius when it comes to reanimating, but he’s built a right sloppy record of keeping things animated, hasn’t he?”

  His meaning hit home. I stepped back, bumping against the shelves. “Oh, no.”

  “And yet,” Billings continued, “no one has done much studying of why the poor creatures perished, much less what might keep them alive longer.”

  I could barely look at him. “Except you.”

  “We see where that got me. In a basement, stealing files. A shame, too, for the little darlings die off no matter what, sure as the sunrise, and right quickly.”

  I dropped the boots. I felt as if I might drop, too, so I lowered myself to the storeroom floor. “How quickly?”

  “It is an accelerating logarithm, Kate. Oh, I could show you some pretty graphs.” Billings was lost in the findings, his hands swooping in the air. “Once the curve trends upward, it does so elegantly, at a uniformly increasing pace.”

  “How do you know when it has begun?”

  “Extrapolation is risky, my dear. All my data are from minuscule—”

  “How will I know, dammit?”

  Billings gave me a look of surprise, which melted into one of fondness. I felt the fullness of our history together. Nights in the lab finessing samples that refused to cooperate, frigid dives in polar waters, bourbon on the train while we escorted Jeremiah home. Not to mention endlessly commiserating on what hell it was to work for Carthage.