The Ten Thousand

by Doug Felton

  “I hate to interrupt,” he said, his manner polished and his voice smooth, “but I was hoping to say hello. I’m—”

  “Zeke Wellington,” the tsaritsa said in heavily-accented English. And, then through a translator, “The young people in Russia know all of your songs. You are very talented.”

  “Thank you,” he said, bowing his head. “Russia has been very kind to me. It is good to meet you, and you, Your Excellency. I hope you are enjoying your visit to the New World.”

  “Very much so.”

  Zeke shifted his attention to Raisa, bowing his head, “And, Your Majesty, I had hoped for some time to meet you.”

  Raisa had grown accustomed to people bowing in her presence. Everyone was getting used to royal protocols. She expected that upending over three hundred years of history would have been a monumental task, but, in reality, most people had transitioned with little difficulty. As a student of history, it made her wonder about the strength of the American tradition.

  Raisa extended her hand and said, “I’ve heard you’ve been supportive of me at your concerts, and I appreciate that, but I can guarantee that I have dreamed of meeting you for much longer, Mr. Wellington. When I was sixteen, I had a poster on my wall from your first album.”

  Zeke wrinkled up his face. “Not the one where I’m wearing the shiny silver suit.”

  Raisa laughed. “That’s the one.”

  “Ugh. That was the worst. I can’t imagine what possessed any of us to use that picture.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, it didn’t deter my unwavering adoration or that of any girl I knew.” Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Raisa said, “May I introduce my husband, Prince Alexander.”

  Zeke bowed his head again and shook Alexander’s hand with a broad smile. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.”

  Alexander put on his best diplomatic smile and said, “Thank you.”

  Raisa noticed a presence behind her and turned to see Lieutenant Elliot in her dress uniform. Raisa drew her eyebrows together in a question. Members of her staff didn’t interact with her during an event unless it was something important. Elliot responded with a sheepish grin as she tilted her head towards Zeke, who was peppering Alexander with questions. Her eyes said, Introduce me!

  Raisa shook her head the way a mother might when she’s flummoxed by her child, but she turned toward Zeke to introduce her. “Zeke, may I introduce you to a member of my staff. This is Lieutenant Sandra Elliot.”

  Raisa knew Elliot’s cool demeanor was just a front. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wellington.”

  “Please call me Zeke, and let me assure you that the pleasure is all mine.” Zeke took her hand in both of his and held them longer than necessary for a greeting. He turned the full force of his smile and piercing eyes to Elliot, who looked as if she were having trouble not melting on the spot. Raisa was sure that, with the right high tech eyewear, she’d be able to see the sparks flying between them.

  Raisa was about to interrupt the electrical storm happening in front of her when the chief steward announced dinner. She and Alexander led the czar and tsaritsa to the state dining room next to the Great Hall. Zeke invited Elliot to join him, even though she’d had an assigned seat elsewhere. Raisa heard him say, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

  Dinner was served in the old Statutory Hall of the Capitol. Its stately decor resembled nothing of its former museum-like appearance. Alexander kept a smile on his face as they entered and whispered to Raisa, “I don’t like him.”

  Raisa found Alexander’s jealousy endearing, and it was her turn to offer an olive branch. “I don’t think it’s him you don’t like as much as his blonde hair, dreamy blue eyes and dimpled chin. Or maybe the fact that he called you, ‘sir.’”

  Alexander ignored the attempt at humor. “That’s not it. I don’t trust him.”

  “We had a two-minute conversation about an album cover. How could you possibly draw any conclusions?” Raisa said in a hushed tone.

  “Trust me on this.”

  Once they were seated, Vasiliev leaned over to Raisa and said, “Is it true, these stories we have heard concerning you? You cannot die?”

  About time, Raisa thought. Most people didn’t wait that long to quiz her about her genetic condition. She had answered the question so often, she could recite it without thinking. “Not exactly,” she said. “My condition prevents me from aging as others do or getting sick, and I heal very fast. I will live for a very, very long time. But I can die. I need to eat and breathe just like everyone else. I need my heart and lungs and brain to live. A knife to the heart or a shot to the head would do the trick.”

  “Let us hope that never happens.”

  “Agreed,” said Alexander.

  “May I ask another question? I hope I am not being too forward.”

  “Of course,” Raisa said.

  “I understand there are others like you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Prince Alexander is not one of them.”

  “No,” Raisa replied, knowing what his next question would be.

  “So he will live a normal life span? You cannot alter him?”

  “No. He will live a normal lifespan.” Raisa put her hand on Alexander’s. Whatever their differences, she loved him more than life itself. “We don’t know how to alter a person’s DNA. We know what the virus did, but not how.”

  “Your media has reported ten thousand more like you. Is this true?”

  “It is.”

  “O Gospodi! How do you manage ten thousand immortals in a society of mortal men and women?”

  Raisa knew what Viktor was asking her. Since discovering the Ten Thousand several months earlier, she’d thought about little but the issues that might arise from revealing so many immortals among them. Even though they represented less than one-one thousandth of a percent of the New World population, ten thousand was enough to raise serious concerns. Would people fear them? Would they resent them or idealize them, or maybe demand to know who they are? Thanks to the New World Media Group, these were now public issues.

  “Trust me when I say we’ve been asking ourselves that question. I’ll let you know when we figure it out.”

  The czar leaned in and lowered his voice. “If you will permit me, a word of advice. You must determine your place. Are you an immortal who is a queen or a queen who happens to be immortal? You may find they are not the same.”

  No. They’re not. Raisa forced a smile as the thought passed through her mind. The Czar’s words unsettled her. He had suggested that her duties to the New World were incongruous with her responsibility to the Ten Thousand. If she could not bring these two worlds together in her own life, how could anyone expect mortals and immortals to coexist in society?

  Raisa was considering a diplomatic response to the czar’s statement when Commander Song touched her on the back, signaling it was time to welcome her guests.

  “Thank you for your wisdom, Your excellency, you have given me much to consider.”

  Raisa moved to the dais at the front of the room and delivered a few prepared remarks, welcoming her guests and honoring the czar and his wife. She recounted the story of how she first met the czar as a fifteen-year-old when he attended her performance of The Nutcracker. People laughed softly when she told how the czar had promised to make her parents let her come dance in Russia. “That was over four years ago, and I have yet to visit Russia. Tonight is an important step that our two nations are taking toward one another. Perhaps it will be the first step in my journey to Moscow.”

  The czar tilted his head in acknowledgment of Raisa’s thinly veiled signal that she would be open to an invitation to visit his country.

  Raisa returned to her seat amidst applause, and servers began delivering the first course. A waiter placed a bowl of soup in front of her.

  “Thank you for your kind words,” Viktor said. “My government will be in touch with your Secretary of International Affairs. Maybe we can arrange for you t
o visit my homeland soon.”

  “I would like that,” Raisa said. She picked up her spoon, ready to enjoy the soup when she noticed the edge of a piece of paper peeking out from under her bowl. She pulled on it, but it was stuck to the bottom of the bowl. Raisa surveyed the table, everyone else was busy eating or talking. She gently lifted her bowl and pulled the folded paper away. When she unfolded it and read it, her face drained of its color and disquiet filled her gut. She read the words a second time to be sure she hadn’t misread them. You and your kind don’t belong here. You are a freak of nature.

  A moment or two passed before she realized that she was staring at the paper. She folded it and looked around the table. Everyone was still eating and talking. Everyone except the czar who sat to her right. He was watching her, and he had seen the note.

  “Your Highness,” he said so that only Raisa could hear him, “there is an old Russian saying: the wolves are full and the sheep intact. It describes an outcome in which two parties with conflicting interests both find themselves satisfied. May I say, you have work to do before the wolves are full and the sheep are intact in the New World.”

  Chapter Four

  A massive carpet of twinkling lights stretched out before Raisa as a warm spring breeze washed over her face. She breathed deep the city air and took in the view of her capital. The terrace encircling the base of the Palace dome where Raisa stood gave her an aerial view of the city without putting her among the lights, where life was happening. That’s my life as queen, she thought, governing people I never get to see up close. Below the terrace were the thirty-six columns encircling the lower half of the drum. Above her was the dome itself topped by the round, columned structure called the tholos and the Statue of Freedom. Most people thought of the entire structure as the dome of the Palace, but living there, Raisa had learned its distinctive parts.

  The tholos above her provided a narrower walkway with an even more spectacular view. That was where Creighton Ashwill had taken his life and nearly killed Alexander eighteen months earlier. Raisa had avoided the top of the dome since then. Instead, she had settled for the current view whenever she needed to think. The vista laid out before her helped her gain perspective. Looking past the lights of the city into the darkness, Raisa could imagine the rest of the New World filled with people living their lives, doing their best to get from day to day. Her kingdom. Most of them didn’t know how fragile their political system was. A few bad actors with a plan and a little luck could change the world. Most revolutionary movements failed for a host of reasons, but now and then, the perfect storm brought a government down. Raisa wondered, did she see the warning clouds that day?

  In Raisa’s hand was the note she’d found at dinner earlier in the evening. You and your kind don’t belong here. You are a freak of nature. Her instinct had been to tell someone. Whoever put the note under her bowl might have still been in the room.

  She thought back to the dinner earlier that evening: Alexander had been talking to President Tate on the other side of him. She nearly put her hand on his arm but stopped herself short. If Alexander saw the note, he’d insist that the problem was bigger than Raisa had admitted, and she’d have a hard time defending her position.

  “You didn’t see who put the note under my bowl, did you?” Raisa asked the czar who was watching her.

  “I did not. Do you not feel threatened?” he asked.

  “No. If they wanted to harm me, they wouldn’t have warned me first. Probably someone on the serving staff who wanted to make a statement, or, you know, try to scare me.”

  Viktor considered her for a moment and then said with a smile, “They may have failed in that objective.”

  Raisa wasn’t scared, but she was angry. Most people could live with the immortals, but, as always, a few were setting the pace for the rest.

  On the terrace, the breeze pushed Raisa’s hair away from her face. Behind her, she heard the heavy steps of men’s dress shoes approaching on the terrace. Alexander. He always knew where to find her. She slid the folded paper into her pocket. Raisa didn’t turn around but waited for the strong arms of her husband to slide around her waist. She needed to feel his warmth pressed against her back, but the footfalls stopped short. No strong arms enveloped her.

  Raisa turned, “I know you and I don’t agree on this, but—” she stopped. Standing before her was Zeke Wellington with both hands in his pockets.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You were expecting someone else. I can go.”

  “No, that’s alright. I just . . . How did you get here?”

  “You mean past security? When you’re famous, you catch a lot of breaks.”

  Raisa's lips turned up in a grin. “That’s not good. You could be a serial killer.”

  “Or a superhero. You never know about people, do you?” He let a moment pass and then said, “I kind of got myself invited to the dinner tonight. I’ve known Council member Barrymore for a long time. He’s a family friend, and he made sure I was on the list.”

  “Big fan of Viktor Vasiliev?” Raisa asked, wondering where this conversation was heading.

  “Nah. But he’s the kind of guy I’d like to party with.” Zeke lowered his gaze. “Sorry, hard to drop the image sometimes. I came here tonight to talk to you about the Ten Thousand.”

  Raisa drew up her defenses. The Ten Thousand was a topic she’d only discuss with her staff and Council members. “I’m afraid there’s not much I can say right now.”

  “How will you protect them,” he asked, “when people find out who they are?”

  “I really can’t talk about it right now.” Raisa was tiring of the notion that the Ten Thousand would be at risk living in the New World.

  “Will they be allowed to get married?”

  Despite herself, she said, “Of course.”

  “There will be no laws restricting who they marry?” Zeke asked again.

  “I don’t understand your question.”

  “What would happen if they decide to marry each other? What if they found each other and decided, like some exiled group in a foreign land, to stick together?”

  “I can’t see them doing that.”

  Zeke nodded. “Not all of them, but what if most of them did? How many generations would it take before immortals became a force in the New World?”

  Zeke’s suggestion stunned Raisa. She had never considered the Ten Thousand organizing as a group.

  “Think about it, how many kids can a couple have when they live forever? Probably more than the 1.8 most families have today. What happens when there are a million of them? Or two million?”

  “You’ve thought a lot about this, Mr. Wellington. What do you suggest, forbidding marriage until we die out?”

  “No.” Zeke took two steps toward Raisa and lowered his voice. “I suggest that you gather us together so we can talk about our future.”

  Raisa thought she had misunderstood Zeke at first, but the intensity of his eyes made his meaning plain. He was one of the Ten Thousand. “How . . . how do you know?” she asked. And then answering her own question, “Your accident. Everyone explained away your recovery by saying the accident wasn’t as bad as first reported, but that wasn’t it, was it?”

  He shook his head. “No. It was bad, but I healed remarkably fast. At first, I didn’t understand what had happened to me, but the night Creighton Ashwill died, I watched the interview with Dr. Forrester when she explained your condition. I didn’t think much about it beyond, ‘Wow, the queen’s immortal. That’s weird.’ But when she began to explain how your body healed at an accelerated rate, I wondered if there could be others like you. If I was like you.”

  “And then you realized we were born within five days of each other, in the same city,” Raisa said, remembering what she knew about Zeke’s life.

  “Yeah. I hired someone to do research, tracing cases of the Pittsburgh Virus. I was looking for patterns or connections that might reveal if there were others.”

  “Why didn’t you j
ust get your DNA tested?”

  Zeke shrugged. “I was afraid of the answer. I guess I wanted to rule out the possibility of it being true without the risk of finding out.”

  “So, what did your research find?”

  “It found that the virus mutated as it spread. Patient zero was a man named Thomas Walker, as everybody knows. The strand of the virus he carried infected people seven generations out. After that, it began to mutate in subtle ways. We can trace it through medical records.”

  “Seven generations?” Raisa asked.

  “Yeah. Viral generations. Everyone Mr. Walker infected was the first generation. They, in turn, infected a group of people, which is the second generation. Those people infected more people. Those people infected others. That cycle happened seven times before the virus began to mutate.”

  “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with you?” Raisa asked.

  “When we traced the original form of the virus in those first seven generations, we found a pattern we didn’t see in any of the other mutated forms; pregnant women were surviving. In fact, the rate of pregnant women surviving the original strand of the virus was 1,000 times greater than the average survival rate overall.”

  “How did you get this information? Medical records are not in the public domain.”

  “Money buys access,” Zeke said. “It’s a fact of life.”

  “Let me guess,” Raisa said. “You found that there were ten thousand pregnant women who survived the original strand of the virus.”

  “Give or take a few. Your mom was one, and so was mine. At that point, I knew that we had the same condition.”

  “If you were one of the Ten Thousand, I’d know. I’ve spent hours studying their profiles. I haven’t read every one, but our system would have flagged your name.”

  “You don’t know, because the government never got a sample of my DNA for testing.”

  “It was mandatory as a part of our anti-viral initiative.”