Kingdom (12 page)

Think of man’s greatest achievements, Campbell recalled Morrison urging him around that time. The Great Pyramids, the Hoover Dam, and the atomic bomb: None could have been accomplished without some loss of life. It was the lives improved by these great works that justified such loss. So a few kiddie-rapists and serial killers died, so what? Morrison had asked. Campbell agreed
.

Despite some early breakthroughs employing gene therapy techniques, both men realized their few early victories owed more to luck than skill. Two massive hurdles to
genuinely effective gene therapy remained: complete understanding of gene function and the development of a reliable vector. Without a complete understanding of gene function, the two-man Exodus team was shooting in the dark, never certain if the gene they repaired was the exact gene that caused the genetic defect. Furthermore, the delivery vectors were unstable at best
.

Despite these potential setbacks, the Exodus team pushed forward, spending the next five years attempting to complete the human genome sequence. The final secrets held by the human genome yielded to Campbell and Morrison in the dead of winter, 1981. While the rest of the world was just beginning to investigate the possibilities of mapping the human genome, Morrison and Campbell had already done it. They did not, however, go public with their discoveries. Campbell had wanted to share the data with the world, offering an open-source template that would fast-forward all genetic research by 20 years. Morrison persuaded him not to. There was, after all, still work to be done. The Cold War was again heating up, and when the few individuals in the government hip to Exodus learned of the breakthroughs being made out in the desert, money rained down onto the Project
.

Although the Human Genome Project was a stunning scientific achievement, it was but a single piece in the Exodus puzzle. In fact, as Campbell and Morrison had repeatedly explained to their government contacts, the Human Genome Project was only the first step in understanding humans at the molecular level. While the sequencing phase of the HGP was complete, many questions remained unanswered: most important, the function of almost all of the estimated 30,000 to 35,000 human genes. The Exodus researchers did not know the role of SNPs
—
single amino acid changes within the genome
—
or the role of noncoding regions and repeats in the genome: two processes critical to the Project’s final goal of creating a new man to lead the American people into the new century. But before that could happen, Project Exodus needed to understand not only the identity of every single gene, but the function of each gene and how that function affected human illness and suffering
—
both mental and physical
.

Although their work thus far had revealed the order in which the 46 coiled strands of DNA found in every human cell are arranged on man’s chromosomes, the chemicals located on those DNA strands, the ones which contained the instructions for making the proteins that comprise the human body, remained beyond their grasp. Until Exodus was able to identify these letters, any attempts to neutralize undesirable traits, in either political leaders or infants, would remain a high-tech game of pin the tail on the donkey. Even if, by some stroke of luck, Exodus managed to nail down one or two genes that caused defects, until the entire molecular picture was complete, it was
impossible to know whether removing that particular gene would affect how another gene worked
.

Even as the Project’s successes grew, it became apparent that realizing the goals of Exodus was going to take a lifetime
—
most likely, longer. It would be a great injustice to the human race, Morrison argued, if the two men did not see Exodus through to its conclusion. Even if they lived long enough to solve all the mysteries of the human genetic code, Exodus would be devoured by young Turks clad for battle in white lab coats, and the two would be resigned to advisory councils and the lecture circuit, a.k.a. where old scientists went to die. There had to be a way, insisted Morrison, to use what Exodus had learned about human DNA to prevent this from happening. Morrison’s reasoning had seemed to make sense: The Treatment would allow them to stay strong and sharp, retaining the mental and physical abilities Exodus would demand. Why come so close, only to be pushed aside by younger, stronger men; men who might not share their same vision? It was in response to this need that the Treatment was born
.

Campbell came to an hour or so later, staring up from his bed at the room’s only source of light: a single bulb hanging from a thin strand of wire, transforming raw electricity into the meager wattage that struggled to light the entire room. Any additional illumination spread out from a series of candles scattered around the room, pools of wax forming as Campbell’s sleepless nights mutated into cold gray dawns. A makeshift desk—an unfinished wood door laid across two paint-splattered sawhorses—and a musty old cot were the only pieces of furniture in the room. Both had been there when Campbell first arrived; he never got around to moving the desk and the ascetic nature of the cot had appealed to him.

There were no decorations, just brown accordion-style files stacked next to a beat-up laptop resting on top of the desk. The crumbling brick walls were adorned with a collage of newspaper clippings and printed articles. When he wasn’t working with the Order or drinking at the bar downstairs, this is how Campbell passed the time in Tiber City: scanning the Web or even occasionally rifling through newspapers—the ones that were still in print publication, anyways—looking for stories about Morrison Biotechnology, about bodies turning up in the New Mexican desert, about the sudden resurgence of ancient diseases, and about Jack Heffernan. Campbell had hung the most recent clipping the other night, the fresh black inkjet
clashing with the yellowed headlines and curled paper from the past decade. “Jack Heffernan: Zeroing in on Presidential Primary Victory”—that was the headline staring out at the tiny room where Jonathan Campbell spent most of his time.

“Me personally?” came a voice from the doorway. “I’d say he’s a lock.”

Campbell shot up from the cot, the pain fading but still present, his head swimming as he turned in the direction of the voice that, no matter how much time passed, he could never forget.

In the narrow doorway loomed Michael Morrison, his 6-foot-4 frame complimented by a two-button Brooks Brothers suit, white French-cuff dress shirt, and onyx cuff links.

On his feet now, Campbell staggered sideways, away from the cot and toward the desk on the far side of the room, his chest tightening as he struggled to breathe.

“I don’t blame you for looking so surprised Jonathan. It’s been quite some time—almost two decades now? But I want you to understand our—let’s call it a separation—has been difficult for me as well. After all, you left New Mexico without even saying goodbye,” Morrison added with a wink as he walked through the doorway and into the room, strolling toward the series of articles stuck to the wall in front of the desk, a bemused grin spreading across his clean, hard visage.

“My God, he’s impressive,” Morrison said, studying the clips. “Must have some outstanding genes.”

The initial shock fading, Campbell’s world collapsed into a blur of fury, heat, and pain. He charged Morrison, his left arm arcing toward the man’s jaw. But Morrison sidestepped the punch, allowing Campbell to stumble forward before slamming into the wall, the impact sending several of the newspaper clippings floating toward the floor.

“That answers one of my questions,” Morrison said, picking the empty syringe off the desk, studying it as he spoke. “Whatever you’ve been using, well, let’s just say nothing beats the real thing.

“But don’t get me wrong, Jonathan,” Morrison continued, tossing the syringe back onto the desk. “You look good. Damn good. But you just missed me by a mile. I should have at least felt a little breeze.”

Campbell wheeled back around toward the cot, a flash of steel visible as he pulled a .357 Magnum from under his pillow before aiming it at Morrison’s chest.

“Still want to feel a little breeze, Michael?” Campbell snarled, stepping toward his former pupil, an audible click echoing across the room as he released the safety.

“I have no idea why after 20 years, you’ve decided to drop by,” he continued. “But things are different now.”

“So it would seem,” Morrison replied, adjusting his cuff link as he watched Campbell move toward him.

“Then why don’t you just turn around and head back through that door to whatever private jet is waiting to take you to Bretton Woods or Davos or wherever you’re scheduled to be lauded next and leave me the fuck alone.”

“Given your apparent interest in Jack Heffernan,” Morrison said, gesturing toward the clippings on Campbell’s wall, “you’re not even the least bit curious as to why I’m here?”

“Whatever you’ve done, Michael,” Campbell said, “you’ve done. I don’t want any part of it. I’ve got a different life now.”

“I certainly can’t argue with that point,” Morrison said, a smile creeping back across his face. “I’m going to reach into my coat now but don’t be alarmed—there is something I need to show you, and then, if you still want, I’ll leave. And please take your finger off that trigger: Your hand is shaking.”

Campbell looked down at his trembling hand and smiled.

“You’re going to have to give me a better reason than that Michael.”

Morrison nodded, pulling an ordinary manila envelope—the kind used in a million offices thousands of times every day—out of his overcoat, extending it toward Campbell.

“I think this should suffice,” Morrison said.

After hesitating for a moment, Campbell—the gun still trained on Morrison, the trembling in his fingers intensifying—took the envelope, some part of him still needing to know what Morrison had done because, whatever was inside that envelope, Campbell knew there was a damn good possibility his own research had made it possible.

Placing the gun on the desk, Campbell unsealed the envelope and reached inside. His index finger and thumb closed around several documents, which, after a deep breath, he pulled into the light, the envelope floating to the floor.

At first glance, Campbell failed to note anything unusual. The papers were lab reports documenting a human karyotype: the complete set of chromosomes
in the cells of an organism, easily obtained by staining a cell and then taking a picture of it just before cell division; mildly retarded kids in high school chemistry classes were capable of producing similar reports.

“Cut the bullshit, Michael. After everything that’s gone down between us I know you didn’t come all this way to show me a karyotype report.”

“Actually Jonathan, that’s exactly what I did. But as was so often the case when we worked together, you’re just not seeing the big picture. Look a little closer.”

Holding the report up in the direction of the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, Campbell studied the document, searching each chromosome for any distinguishing characteristic, any marking that would explain Morrison’s appearance.

Then he saw it. Despite the dull ache radiating from his joints, from behind his eyes, Campbell laughed, a sound like steel scraping across steel limping out from the back of his throat.

“Twenty-four,” Campbell said. “You’re showing me a karyotype report with 24 pairs of chromosomes.”

What Campbell didn’t need to say, what both men knew, was that the number of chromosomes the report showed was impossible: Human karyotypes are comprised of 23 pairs of chromosomes, allowing for
46
chromosomes total. The adult male, for example, had the same 22 pairs of non-sex chromosomes along with one X chromosome and one Y chromosome. Swap out the Y chromosome for another X, you’ve got a female. Although occasional genetic mutations resulted in 47 total chromosomes, a human being with 48 was simply not possible.

“You expect me to believe this bullshit?” Campbell spat, crumbling the report and tossing it at Morrison. “I don’t know what your end game here is, but you and I both know how easy it is to forge a report like this. Just tell me why you’re here. It’s been two fucking decades, Michael. Why now?”

“Trust me, friend,” Morrison said, a hint of menace creeping into his voice, “these reports are no forgery. In fact, they are the very reason I never ordered my men to hunt you down like a dog. It would have been so easy, whereas letting you live—that is, if you call this living—was a risk,” Morrison continued gesturing at the water-stained ceiling, the crumbling brick walls, “but I knew this day would come.”