by A. G. Riddle
wobbling and wounded.
Kate leaned forward, and for some reason, put her arms around David’s neck, holding him tightly to his seat and pressing herself against the back of his seat. She rested her head at the base of his neck. She couldn’t watch. She felt the plane plow into the water more violently. The floor shook constantly. The turbulence spread to the thin metal walls, she heard a series of cracks, and she was flung back into her seat, the breath almost knocked out of her. She opened her eyes and sucked in a breath. They were stopped. Branches! In the cockpit. David’s head hung lifelessly.
Kate lunged forward but the lap belt nearly tore her in half. She reached for him, disregarding the belt. She felt around his chest. Had a branch gone through him? She couldn’t feel anything.
He lifted his head lethargically. “Hey lady, at least buy me a drink first.”
Kate slumped back in her chair and shoved his shoulder. She was glad to be alive. And glad he was too, but she said, “I’ve had better landings.”
He glanced back at her. “Over water?”
“As it turns out, this is my first water landing, so, no.”
“Yeah, my first water landing too.” David unbuckled himself and climbed out the passenger door. He got his footing on the step and released the passenger seat so Kate could get out.
“You’re serious aren’t you? You’ve never landed a plane on water? Are you out of your mind?”
“No, I’m just kidding. I land on water all the time.”
“Do you always run out of gas?”
David began unpacking supplies from the plane. “Gas?” He gazed up, as if remembering something. “We didn’t run out of gas. I just killed the engines for dramatic effect. You know, just hoping you would do that reach forward hug from behind thing.”
“Very funny.” Kate began organizing supplies, as if they had been doing this routine for years. She looked over at David. “You’re uh, certainly more… lively, than you were in Jakarta.” She had considered not saying anything, but she wondered… “I mean, I’m not complaining—”
“Well, you know, surviving certain death always puts me in a good mood. Speaking of,” he handed her the end of a large green tarp. “Help me spread this over the plane.”
Kate ducked under the plane and caught the tarp when he threw it over, then rejoined him at the small pile of supplies. She glanced back at the covered plane. “We’re not going to… will we be flying out on…”
David smiled at her. “No, I’d say that was its last flight. And besides, it’s out of gas.” He held up three MREs, fanning them out like playing cards. “Now are you continuing your hunger strike or do you wish to partake of one of these fine delicacies?”
Kate pursed her lips and leaned closer as if inspecting the brown packages. “Hmmm. What’s on the menu this morning?”
David turned the boxes around. “Let’s see, for your culinary enjoyment, we have: Meatloaf, Beef Stroganoff, and Chicken Noodle Stew.”
Kate’s last meal had been yesterday — late afternoon, before they had retreated into the bomb shelter below the cottage. “Well, I’m not really all that hungry, but the Chicken Noodle Stew sounds simply irresistible.”
David spun the pack around and ripped. “An excellent choice, Ma’am. Please wait several moments while your entree is heated.”
Kate stepped toward him. “You don’t have to heat it.”
“Nonsense, it’s no trouble.”
Kate considered the tarp covering the plane. “Won’t the fire give away our location… put us at risk—”
David shook his head. “My dear doctor, I admit we’re roughing it a bit today, but we’re not living in the stone ages, cooking our food on stone hearths like Neanderthals.” He plucked what looked like a small pen light from his pack and held it up to her. He twisted the top and a torch-like flame sprang up. He moved the flame back and forth under Kate’s meal.
Kate squatted down across from him and watched the “chicken stew” begin to boil. It was no doubt soy beans or some other chicken substitute. “At least no animals will be harmed.”
David kept his focus on the flame and the carton as if he were repairing a delicate piece of electronics. “Oh, I think it’s real meat. They’ve come a long way with these things in the last few years. I ate some in Afghanistan that weren’t fit for human consumption. Or, hominid consumption, I believe you would say.”
“Very impressive — yes we are hominids. Hominins to be exact. The only ones left.”
“I’ve been brushing up on my evolutionary history.” David handed her the heated Chicken Stew, then ripped open another package — Meatloaf — and began eating it cold.
Kate stirred the stew with the spork and tentatively took a few bites. Not terrible. Or was she getting used to how horrid it tasted? It didn’t matter. She sipped the stew as they ate in silence. The lake was placid and the dense green forest that surrounded them swayed in the wind and creaked occasionally as unseen creatures leapt from branch to branch. If not for yesterday’s tragic events, they could be campers in an untouched wilderness, and for a moment it felt that way to Kate. She finished the last bite of stew a minute after David, and he took her carton and said, “We should get a move on, we’re T minus thirty on the contact’s meet time.” And just like that, the peace and innocence of the natural setting evaporated. David hoisted a heavy pack and hid the last of their trash under the tarp.
He set a brisk pace as they hiked into the mountainous forest, and Kate fought to keep up, and to hide her heavy breathing. He was in much better shape than she was. He stopped periodically, still breathing through his nose as Kate turned away and sucked in mouthfuls of air.
On the third respite, he leaned against a tree and said, “I know you’re not ready to talk about your research, but tell me this: why do you think Immari took those kids?”
“I’ve actually been thinking about that a lot since Jakarta.” Kate leaned over and put her hands on her knees. “Some of the things Martin said to me, when they were questioning me, they make absolutely no sense.”
“Such as?”
“He implied there was a weapon, some kind of super weapon, that could wipe out the human race—”
David pushed off the tree. “Did he say—”
“No, he didn’t say anything else. It was a delusional rant. Part of a tirade about lost cities, and genetics and… What else?” Kate shook her head. “He suggested that autistic children could be a threat, that they were the next step in human evolution.”
“Is that possible — the evolution part?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. We know the last major breakthrough in evolution was a change in brain wiring. If we look at the genome of humans 100,000 years ago and humans 50,000 years ago, there’s very little genetic change, but we know that the genes that did change had a huge impact — mostly on how we thought. Humans began using language and thinking critically, solving problems rather than acting on instinct. Essentially the brain started acting more like a computer than a processing center for impulses. It’s debatable, but there is evidence that another shift in brain wiring is occurring. Autism is essentially a change in brain wiring, and the diagnosis rate for autism spectrum disorders, or ASD, is exploding. In America, it’s up 500% in the last twenty years. 1 in every 88 Americans are somewhere on the spectrum. Some of the increase is due to better diagnosis techniques, but there’s no question that ASD is on the rise — in every country around the world. Developed nations seem to be hit the hardest.”
“I don’t follow. How does ASD connect with evolutionary genetics?”
“We know that almost all of the conditions on the autism spectrum have a strong genetic component. They’re all caused by a difference in brain wiring that is controlled by a small group of genes. My research focuses on how those genes affect brain wiring and more importantly, how a gene therapy might turn on or off genes that would increase their social abilities and improve their quality of life. There are tons of people somewhere on t
he autism spectrum who live independent, enjoyable lives. For example, individuals diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome simply have a lot of difficulties socializing and usually focus intensely on an area of interest — computers, comics, finance, you name it. But it doesn’t always have to be limiting. In fact, specializing is the key to success these days. Take a look at the Forbes list — if you tested the individuals who made their fortune in computers, bio-tech, and finance, I guarantee you the majority would land somewhere on the autism spectrum. But they got lucky — they won the genetic lottery. Their brains operate in a way that allow them to solve complex problems and have enough social interaction for them to function in society. That’s what I was trying to do, give my kids a fair shot at life.” Kate had her breath back, but she kept looking down.
“Don’t talk like that. Like it’s over. Let’s move out, we’re T minus 15.”
They resumed their pace, and Kate kept up this time. Five minutes before the meeting time, the forest waned and an expansive train station came into view.
“It’s definitely not abandoned,” Kate said.
Before them, the station swarmed with people, all dressed in white coats, security outfits, and other uniforms. David and Kate would stick out among the masses filing into the station.
“Hurry, before they see us walking in from the trees.”
CHAPTER 50
Immari Corp. Research Complex
Outside Burang, China
Tibet Autonomous Region
Dorian watched the monitors as the researchers lead the 20 or so Chinese subjects out of the room. The therapy really did a number on them. Half could barely walk.
The observation room included a large wall with screens monitoring every inch of the research facility and several rows of computer workstations where eggheads typed on computers all day doing God knows what.
Across the room, Naomi leaned against a wall, clearly bored. She looked so strange with clothes on. Dorian motioned for her to come over. She wasn’t authorized to hear the scientist’s report.
“You want to get out of here?” Naomi said.
“In a bit. Go get acquainted with the facility. I have some work to do. I’ll come after you shortly.”
“I’ll survey the local talent.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
She wandered out of the room without a word.
Dorian turned to the nervous scientist who had been lurking, following, almost stalking him since he had arrived.
“Dr. Chang?”
The man stepped forward. “Yes sir.”
“What am I looking at here?”
“That’s the third cohort. We’re working as fast as we can, Mr. Sloane.” When Dorian said nothing, Chang continued. “Will, ah, Dr. Grey be joining us?”
“No. You’ll communicate with me about this project from here out. Understood?”
“Ah, yes sir. Is… there—”
“Dr. Grey is working on a new project. I’d like you to bring me up to speed.”
Chang opened his mouth to speak.
“And be brief.” Dorian stared at him impatiently.
“Of course sir.” Chang rubbed his palms together as if he were warming them by a campfire. “Well, as you know, the project dates back to the 1930s, but we’ve only really made substantial progress in the last few years — and it’s all thanks to a few breakthroughs in genetics, in particular rapid genome sequencing.”
“I thought they already sequenced the human genome — in the 90s.”
“Ah, that’s inco—, ah, a misnomer, if you will. There is no one human genome. The first human genome was sequenced in the 90s, and the draft sequence was published in February of 2001 — ah, that was the genome of Dr. Craig Venter. But we each have a genome and each is different. That’s part of the challenge.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Yes, sorry, I don’t often talk about the project.” He chuckled nervously, “Ah, for obvious reasons! And especially not to anyone in your position. Yes, where to start? Maybe a little history. Ah, the 1930s — the research then was… radical, but yielded some interesting results, despite the methods.” Chang looked around, as if wondering if he had offended Dorian. “Ah, well, we spent decades studying what the Bell actually does to its victims. As you know it’s a form of radiation that we don’t fully understand, but the effects are—”
“Don’t lecture me about its effects, Doctor. No one on this earth knows more about what it does than I do. Tell me what you know. And be quick.”
Chang looked down. He made several fists with his hands and then tried to dry them on his pants. “Of course you know, I only meant to contrast our past research with.. Yes, today, genetics, we sequence… We… The… breakthrough has been turning the research on its head — instead of studying the effects of the device, we’ve focused on finding a way to survive the machine. We’ve known since the 30s that some subjects fare better than others, but since they all die eventually—” Chang looked up to see Dorian leering at him. The doctor ducked his head and plowed on. “We, our theory is that if we can isolate the genes that impart immunity to the machine, we can develop a gene therapy to protect us from its effects. We would use a retrovirus to deliver this gene, what we’re calling ‘The Atlantis Gene.’”
“So why haven’t you found it?”
“We thought we were close a few years ago, but no one person seems to have full immunity. Our premise, as you know, was that there was a group of humans that could have withstood the machine at some point and that their DNA has been scattered across the earth — essentially we were on a global genetic egg hunt. But frankly, after as many experiments as we’ve run, given our sample size, we were beginning to believe that the Atlantis Gene didn’t exist — that it never existed in humans.”
Dorian held his hand up and the doctor stopped to catch his breath. If what the doctor said was true, it would require a re-examination of everything they believed. And it would vindicate his methods. Or at least come close. But could it be? There were a few problems. “How did the children survive?” Dorian said.
“Unfortunately we don’t know. We aren’t even sure what they were treated with—”
“I know that. Tell me what you know.”
“We know that the therapy they received was something cutting edge. Possibly something so new we don’t have anything to compare it to. But we have some theories. There’s been another recent breakthrough in genetics — what we call Epigenetics — the idea is that our genome is less like a static blueprint and more like a piano. The piano keys represent the genome. We each get different keys, and the keys don’t change throughout our life — we die with the same piano keys — or genome — we’re born with. What changes is the sheet music — the epigenetics — and that sheet of music determines what tune is played — what genes are expressed and those genes determine our traits — everything from IQ to hair color. The idea is that this complex interaction between our genome and the epigenetics that control gene expression really determines who we become. What’s interesting is that we have a hand in writing the music, in controlling our own epigenetics. And so do our parents and even our environment. If a certain gene is expressed in your parents and grandparents, it’s more likely to activate in you. Essentially our actions, those of our parents, and our environment influence what genes could be activated. Our genes might control the possibilities, but epigenitics determines our destiny. It’s an incredible breakthrough. We’ve known something more than pure static genetics was at work for some time. Our twin studies in the 30s and 40s told us that — some twins survived longer in the machine than others, despite having almost exactly the same genome. Epigenetics is the missing link.”
“What does this have to do with the kids?”
“My personal theory is that some new kind of therapy inserted new genes into the kids and that those genes had some sort of cascade effect, possibly operating at the Epigenetic level as well. We think surviving the Bell is a matter o
f having the right genes and turning this ‘Atlantis Gene’ on — that’s the key. It’s strange, the therapy operated almost like a mutation “
“Mutation?”
“Yes, a mutation is simply a random change in the genetic code, a genetic dice roll if you will — sometimes it pays off big, imparting a new evolutionary advantage and sometimes… you get six fingers or four! But this one provided immunity to the Bell. It’s so fascinating. I wonder if I could speak with Dr. Warner. It would be incredibly helpf—”
“Forget Dr. Warner.” Dorian rubbed his temple. Genetics, Epigenetics, mutations. It all added up to the same thing: failed research, no viable therapy for immunity to the Bell, and no time left on the clock. “How many subjects can your bell room hold?”
“Ah, we usually limit each trial to 50 subjects, but maybe 100, maybe a little more if we pack them in.”
Dorian gazed at the monitors. A cadre of white-coat-clad egg heads were corralling a new cohort of subjects into the lounge chairs, then hooking them up to clear plastic bags of death. “How long does it take to run?”
“Not long. Five or ten minutes is about as long as any subject goes.”
“Five or ten minutes.” His voice was just above a whisper. He leaned back in the chair, turning the idea over in his mind. Then he stood and took a step toward the door. “Start processing all your remaining subjects through the Bell — as quickly as you can.” Dr. Chang stepped forward to protest, but Dorian was already halfway out the door. “Oh, and remember, don’t destroy the bodies. We need them. I’ll be in the nuclear section, Doctor.”
CHAPTER 51
Immari Corp. Train
Outside Burang, China
Tibet Autonomous Region
Kate sat in silence, watching the green countryside fly by at 90 miles an hour. Across from her, David shifted a little on his side of the closed train compartment. How could he sleep at a time like this? He would have a crick in his neck from sleeping like that. Kate leaned forward and nudged his head a little.
Even if her nerves weren’t going crazy, Kate’s legs hurt too much to sleep. David’s brisk pace on their hike from the plane’s “landing site” to the train station had taken its toll. And so had the sprint inside, to the bank of lockers and #44, which had been their salvation.
Inside the locker they found two outfits — a security outfit for David and a white coat for Kate. There were ID badges too — Kate was now Dr. Emma West, research associate in ‘Bell Primary - Genetics Division,’ whatever that was. David was Conner Anderson. The pictures on the IDs didn’t match, but they only had to run them through a swipe machine, like a subway or credit card reader, to get on the 10:45 train — apparently the last train of the morning.
As they boarded the train, Kate had turned to David and said, “What now? What’s the plan?” David turned her back around and said, “Don’t talk, they could be listening. Follow the plan.”
“The Plan” wasn’t much of one — her goal was to find the children and get back on the train. David would take out the power and join her. It wasn’t even half a plan. They would probably be caught before they got off the train. And he was sleeping.
But… he probably hadn’t slept much the night before. Had he stayed up to see if the men searching the cottage would find the entrance to the bomb shelter? How long had he laid on that concrete floor? And then the three hour flight in that vibrating antique death trap of a plane. Kate wadded up some of the clothes from her bag and put them between his face and the wall.
Another thirty minutes passed, and Kate felt the train slowing. In the corridor, people were making a line.
David grabbed Kate’s arm. When had he woken up? Kate looked at him, panic creeping into her face.
“Stay calm,” he said. “Remember, you work here. You’re taking the kids for a test. Director’s orders.”
“What director?” Kate hissed.
“If they ask that, tell them it’s above their pay grade and keep walking.”
Kate tried to ask another question, but David yanked the compartment door open and shoved Kate into the moving line. By the time she looked back, he was several people behind her and moving the other way — putting distance between them. She was alone. She whipped her head back around and swallowed a few times. She could do this.
She moved with the flow of people, trying to act casual. The workers were mostly Asian, but there were quite a few Europeans, possibly Americans. She was a minority, but she didn’t stick out too much. There were several entrances to the giant facility, each with three lines. She spotted the entrance with the most white coats and drifted over to it. She stood in line, waiting to swipe her card, trying to get a glimpse of the badges around her. ‘Bell Auxiliary - Primate Housing.’ She looked in the line beside her. ‘Bell Control — Maintenance and Housekeeping.’ What was she? Bell something. It had genetics in it. She had the overwhelming fear that if she glanced down at her fake badge that someone would point at her and scream “Impostor! Get her!”, like a playground kid calling you out for peeing in your pants.
Up ahead white coats were marching forward, scanning their badges like automatons. The line was moving quickly — just like the train station. She now saw something else —six armed guards. Three were spread out, one stationed at each line, scrutinizing every face. The other three loitered behind a chain-link fence, drinking coffee and talking quickly, horsing around with each other like officemates the day after the super bowl. Each man had an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder as casually as if it were a messenger bag with inner-office memos.
She had to focus. The badge. Kate slipped her card out and sneaked a peak — ‘Bell Primary - Genetics Division.’ In the line beside her, she saw a tall blond man, 40ish, holding a card with the same division. He was several people behind her. She would have to wait for him to get through, then follow him.