Anthem's Fall (15 page)

Desperate, Vengelis now turned to see the blonde Felix brutally beating Master Tolland. His teacher was going to die, and Vengelis had not followed his last order. But Vengelis could not bring himself to flee. He turned his back to Master Tolland and began to fly toward the falling wreckage. Yet another Felix was already on him. His last vision was the pieces of the transport crashing through the roof of the maimed palace far below.

There were too many of them. His family was dead, and he knew he would soon follow. Vengelis reached out to the distant calamity as the blonde Felix—having defeated Master Tolland—mounted her legs around his midsection and began to unleash a flood of eager punches at his undefended face. Vengelis vaguely felt his head rock back and forth from each blow. His jaw cracked and each of his cheekbones shattered from the consecutive knocks. Soon the strikes felt like nothing at all, he was so loosely clinging to consciousness.

Vengelis descended limply through space, free falling toward the ground, his face unrecognizable and his armor cracked and shredded to ribbons. Closer he fell toward the ruined and burning intersections of his once beloved Sejeroreich.

…

Throbbing pain pumped relentlessly in the vast emptiness. Excruciating blackness. From his head through his body to his feet, he was only aware of the blinding, pulsing pain. His thoughts were a torturous mixture of inadequacy and dread.

Death. The savior gods, the Epsilons, had fallen at last.

An incoherent whispery voice came through his stupor, perhaps his own. It was cracked and parched, foreign to his ears. Vengelis tried to force his eyelids open, but all he could see was a slit of light through the swelling of his eye sockets. The pulsing blood pumping through his ears drowned out all sound. His consciousness slipped away, and Vengelis sank into the abyss.

T
he two cups of coffee on her desk were both empty, and computer printouts from the previous year were piled around her. Kristen was deeply concerned in the wake of her conversation with Cara Williams. Her entire afternoon had been spent sifting through past Vatruvian cell research for any clue—even the most miniscule or trivial figure—that might explain this crisis. Genetic codes for the Vatruvian cell’s unusual protein structures scrolled across Kristen’s monitor as Cara Williams’s confession churned through her thoughts. With a frustrated sigh, Kristen let her shoulders sink into her chair and took a sip of water from her Nalgene bottle. She knew Cara Williams had told the truth.

The Vatruvian cell was anatomically superior to the very cells in which it replicated.

According to Cara’s data, the Vatruvian cells were flourishing in habitats that killed their natural counterparts. Their synthesized cells were flourishing in one-hundred-eighty
-
degree environments. That was up in the temperature realm of rare extremophiles, not run of the mill research bacteria. It was not right. Kristen was scouring her old research in hopes of finding some overlooked detail that might explain this strange phenomenon.

Professor Vatruvia clearly did not share Kristen and Cara’s reservations. He was accelerating headfirst into a technology so immensely groundbreaking that no regulations existed to control it. On the contrary, from what Kristen could gather from the Department of Defense representative at their meeting, governmental powers seemed keen on keeping apprised of the technology and promoting its progress. And now it was becoming clear that the basic properties of this technology were not fully understood by the very people who created it. Kristen cursed man’s lack of respect for the awesome forces of science and nature. How many times in history had an overzealous scientist endangered or even taken human lives in the name of progress? How many victim stories would have to be relived in each generation?

During the early days of X-ray technology, the first pioneers of radiology had no knowledge of the inherent ionizing radiation within their new marvel. The unobservable exposure, a byproduct of their own creation, eventually killed them all. Scientists demonstrated their new wonder to audiences and colleagues by sticking their own hands, even their heads, under the hazardous X-rays. The captivating images of their underlying skeletal structure were breathtaking, and in the process they all developed terminal cancer from the obscene levels of exposure. It was not until years later that scientists realized it was in fact their own technology causing the radiation poisoning.

Regulation came after it was too late.

Kristen also thought of the early days of nuclear bomb testing in Nevada. US government scientists tested their new toys of destruction in an area that came to be proudly named the Nevada Proving Ground. Twenty years later, people that had the misfortune of living downwind from the test site had developed fatal nuclear fallout poisoning. The government provided sincere condolences and monetary compensation, but it was no comfort to the people who had lost their loved ones to science’s brash enthusiasm.

Regulation came after it was too late.

The list went on and on, through every epoch of history. Collateral damage was an undeniable byproduct of any revolution, social or scientific. Now Kristen Jordan found herself, a scientist of the technologically and ethically
mature
modern age, jumping right onto the same bandwagon: blindly pushing a technology forward with little regard for the consequences and inherent dangers.

Kristen’s head ached from frustration and too much caffeine as she tried to figure out the root of the Vatruvian cell’s anomalous physical traits. She placed her bottle down and was about to delve back into her old notes, when a voice nearly startled her.

“Hi there, kiddo.”

Kristen swiveled to see Professor Vatruvia standing beside the door. He invited himself into her workspace and sat down in the seat beside her, crossing his legs and casting her a calm smile.

Pulling herself out of her internal ravine of morose thoughts, Kristen nodded. “Hey, professor.”

“How goes your workload?”

“Same as always.” Kristen minimized her genetic notes from the year previous and pulled up an application with her current work. “Monotonous mostly.”

“Well, we’ve all certainly spent long hours doing less spectacular laboratory chores in our day.” Professor Vatruvia’s eyes shifted from the computer screen back to her. “Monotony is, unfortunately, a necessary part of the research game.”

“The presentation seemed to go over well,” Kristen said, her tone measured.

“About that,” Professor Vatruvia leaned forward, the bottoms of his slacks lifting from his loafers and revealing patterned socks. “Kristen, I’d like to have a conversation with you about the Vatruvian cell research. I’ve been doing some serious thinking, and I believe you deserve some answers.”

Kristen allowed him to continue. “Deserve some answers” was the understatement of the century. Her knowledge of genetics had been used like a prize racehorse at first, and then cast away like nothing. She knew that in Professor Vatruvia’s mind, Kristen Jordan’s reservations were her fatal flaw as a scientist.

“It seems your sentiment toward the Vatruvian cell is spreading among the research team. Recently, Cara Williams has started asking me the same questions you’ve been asking for months now. It seems as though both of you are concerned about the practical applications for this technology.”

“Really?” Kristen said, barely bothering to feign surprise.

“Well, it certainly doesn’t surprise me. She is directly involved with the stress testing of the cells, and you are the most inquisitive of the team. Cara told me you two had a discussion about the physical traits of the Vatruvian cell this afternoon?”

Kristen lifted her gaze from her notebook, unsure how to react. Cara told Professor Vatruvia about their conversation? He had threatened to fire her if she told anyone about her findings. Cara must have been willing to accept the threat of forced resignation over falsification of data.

“We spoke briefly,” Kristen said. “She told me the Vatruvian cells are exhibiting higher anatomical thresholds than the original cells they replicated. It’s not a total surprise. After all, that wouldn’t be the first peculiarity we’ve seen. The original Vatruvian cell from last year is still functioning in its petri dish. It’s still surviving despite the fact that it hasn’t received any nourishment in over a year. So, to some degree I had already considered what Cara told me.”

“Indeed,” Professor Vatruvia said, and fell into silent thought as he rubbed his chin. “From what I’ve found, the cells copy most of the physiology and anatomy of the template cells but share little of their biological limitations.”

“So it would seem,” Kristen said.

“Look . . . Kristen. I believe you only have the best intentions at heart in your concerns over our work. Is that correct?”

Kristen tilted her head tentatively and leaned back in her chair, uncertain what he was after. “Well, yes.”

“That’s good. That’s very good. It is, after all, a favorable trait for a scientist to be skeptical.”

“I’m skeptical, but of course I only have the best intentions in mind. That is to say, the best intentions for what the Vatruvian cell can provide for society and the furthering of applied science.”

“Yes,” Professor Vatruvia said. “For society, of course.”

“Look, professor.” Kristen sighed wearily. “The only thing I want to know is what the applied use of all this bioengineering is going to be. That’s it. The fact is we have one of the most unique technologies ever created at our disposal. Yet there hasn’t been the slightest word as to what the Vatruvian technology will
provide
. What it will
actually
do. We are forging an incomprehensibly elaborate and complex tool with no notion of its implementation.”

“I understand what you mean.” Professor Vatruvia nodded slowly. He removed his glasses and bit one of the stems, surveying her expression as if there was something to exhume in its subtleties.

Kristen was not in the mood to deal with his interrogative stare, and she shook her head in exasperation. “What is it?”

Professor Vatruvia leaned down to his messenger bag. He took out a black leather-bound planner and removed a piece of paper, handing it to Kristen. “You were—are—essential to the development of Vatruvian cell technology. I would like to give you the answers you seek, but you have to understand that I must protect myself and our fragile technology from any unforeseen obstructions that could hinder my vision for the Vatruvian cell.”

“What is—” Kristen began to ask, but her voice fell short as she recognized the paper was a nondisclosure contract. Covered in threatening legal argot and the names of various stern-sounding law firms, there was a line at the bottom for her signature. She held the paper at arm’s length, as if it was something sordid. And indeed she thought it was.

“You’re going to make me sign a nondisclosure agreement?” Kristen asked with revulsion. “Are you
serious
?”

“Quite serious, yes. You must understand how important this delicate period of our research is. One slip up and the entirety of the future of Vatruvian cell technology could be altered permanently. Before you sign, I would draw to your attention the signature of the Secretary of Defense on that paper. If you breach the agreement of the contract, you will be in jeopardy with the various contracted law firms listed, but you will also be accountable to the Department of Defense.”

Kristen looked up from the paper and blinked at Professor Vatruvia. “I don’t understand. Are you threatening me?”

“Goodness gracious, no. I want to impress upon you how seriously you should take that signature should you choose to sign your name. But if you do sign it, I will show it to you. I will show you what the Vatruvian cell will provide. Well, one of its more grandiose implementations at the very least.”

Kristen found herself staring at him, both dubious and apprehensive. What was he talking about? There was a tangible
it
that could to be shown to her? After hearing those words there was no way she would not sign the paper. This was too big not to be a part of. Kristen reached across her desk, picked up a black pen, and on the dotted line signed her name. She stood from her chair, holding out the signed contract to him. “Okay, my mouth is sealed. Show me.”

Professor Vatruvia took the contract and placed it in his planner. “You made the right choice.”

They exited her lab, and he led her straight up the stairs to the off-limits laboratories on the third floor. The building was empty and quiet, most of the research staff having gone home for the day. Walking through the empty hallway, Kristen felt breathless and fearful at the notion of seeing something beyond the Vatruvian cell itself. Professor Vatruvia stopped before the keypad entry adjacent to one of the heavily locked doors.

“I don’t understand,” Kristen said as she waited beside him, arms folded across her chest, looking uneasily at the steel door. “What is
it
?”

“You’ll see,” Professor Vatruvia said, his voice distant as he entered a complex combination into the keypad. The lock beeped and the indicator turned from red to green. He pushed the heavy door open and a rush of air lightly pulled at Kristen’s hair. She turned her head in astonishment as her hair fell against her shoulders; the room was an air lock. Professor Vatruvia politely stepped aside and allowed Kristen to enter the laboratory. She stared into the pitch-black darkness beyond the threshold and felt uneasy. The air coming from the laboratory smelled recycled and clean. After brief indecision, Kristen’s curiosity claimed her and she stepped in. She stood in the sliver of light coming from the doorway, a high-pitched squeaking sound filling her ears. Professor Vatruvia turned a switch in the darkness, and fluorescent lights flickered on. They stood in a windowless room, similar in size to the downstairs laboratories. But this was the only likeness. No laboratory tables, no recognizable equipment, the lab was foreign to Kristen. The cold steel and recycled air provided the empty room with an unnatural and oddly alienating feel. The door shut behind them, and the whir of the airlock reengaged.