Kingdom (7 page)

And then the bartender—a giant in jeans and a faded white oxford shirt rolled up at the elbows to reveal thick hairy wrists and a mosaic of tattoos—was
pouring two shots of Jameson: one placed in front of Campbell, the other for himself.

“Welcome to Tiber City,” he said, raising his shot glass toward Campbell as an old jukebox kicked back to life and three seconds of vinyl scratch introduced “Highway to Hell” with Bon Scott assuring the darkened bar that he was still on his way to the promised land.

Campbell raised his shot as well, tapping the rim of his glass against the bartender’s. He opened his mouth to return the greeting but as the bartender finished his shot and raised his hand to wipe his mouth, Campbell saw it: Tattooed just above the man’s right wrist was a circle with an asterisk in the center.

Campbell’s arms and legs went numb as the shot glass crashed to the floor. He tried to get off the stool but his body was done and the world went fuzzy, disintegrating as if it were a movie shot by a student filmmaker who just discovered the soft focus lens. And then he was falling and the last thing he remembered was waiting to hit the floor. But he never did.

New Mexico
Aug. 25, 2015
11:22 p.m.

T
he Morrison Biotech arcology pierced the rust-colored sky high above the New Mexico desert, a twisted mass of satellite receivers and helicopter landing pads, all designed to extend man’s influence beyond its natural boundaries. Strange purple and orange hues danced around these upper levels of the arcology, stratospheric symptoms of a poisoned atmosphere that pressed low against the desert, choking out whatever sparse life still remained. Toxins drifting downwind from Los Angeles, smoke from the border riots, meth labs littering the Chihuahuan desert; all these contributed to the pollution that hung like a rotting crown around the headquarters of one of the world’s most powerful corporations. The never-ending surge of Mexican immigrants had rendered traditional geo-political boundaries irrelevant and whether Morrison Biotech was bound by the laws of the United States or Mexico was a matter of open dispute. However, as long as the corporation stuffed cash into the pocket of politicians from both sides of the Rio Grande, there was no rush toward resolution. Mexico was a failed state run by narco-terrorists and the United States was especially fond of Morrison Biotech’s shadowy existence—the company’s private security forces filled these
power vacuums nicely, providing a buffer between the interior United States and the chaos along her borders. Subsequently, for CEO Michael Morrison, acid-tinged rain and a strange sulfuric smell were a small price to pay for the pleasure of doing business in the Chihuahuan.

On most nights, Morrison spent long hours alone in his office on the 21st, and final, floor of the biotech arcology—the sprawling, self-sustained research facility where Morrison’s most skilled scientists both worked
and
lived—staring into the nothingness of the New Mexico night. Sixty-five years old, Morrison had twisted science, achieving an ageless appearance. He was neither young nor old but reaped the benefits of both; Morrison’s physiology was the flesh and bone equivalent of a masterfully tuned sports car. While forced to temper his epidermal alternations—only so much could be attributed to plastic surgery—the nine systems scattered throughout Morrison’s anatomy could now only vaguely be called human.

Yet, tonight, Morrison turned away from the desert he had created. Clenched in his right hand were the latest results from the labyrinth of labs buried so deep under the arcology that a direct nuclear blast would only rattle a few test beakers; his scientists again failed to replicate the Omega gene—that was the name his company had given to the final gene in the human genome whose function remained a mystery.

Morrison had read the report twice, absorbing the graphs and numbers with preternatural speed, before feeding it into the cold blue flames dancing in the open hearth fireplace that was the center of the office. The time for his scientists, considered Morrison as he watched the flames devour the report, had passed.

From the darkness swirling below Morrison’s window came a sudden explosion of light noise—steel scraping steel, followed seconds later by the unmistakable short bursts of automatic weapon fire. Morrison moved back toward the window, watching with vague interest as tracer rounds lit up the desert night. This was not the first time his private militia would have to repel an armed assault against the facility; speed freaks never seemed to learn. Every few months, another group of outgunned meth addicts, roaming the desert like nomads, borne by Harleys instead of dromedaries and looking for the cheapest way to stay high, assailed the outer perimeter, attempting to break into the laboratories Morrison had spent a lifetime creating as if they were no more than an upscale Rite Aid flush with pseudoephedrine. And despite the fact that the facility’s integrated defense systems rivaled that of
some smaller European nations, still the border tribes came, flinging themselves upon Morrison’s corporate fortress, frothing like mad dogs.

Usually these assaults lasted less than 30 seconds; tonight’s was no different: By the time the Benzedrine-fueled Bedouins had reached the perimeter of the arcology, the Electro-Optical High Energy Laser Systems were already online, strafing the sand and stone, cold blue light lashing out from the omnipotent eyes of Morrison Biotech’s defense systems turning flesh into ash until there was nothing but silence washing across the dunes. Frequently, Morrison’s Predator drones would be waiting in the poisoned atmosphere high above the Chihuahuan, beryllium birds of prey circling the landscape with infinite patience. On such nights, the desert junkies never even got close enough for their CCTV close-up; the only notice of their execution was a twinkle in the heavens. Morrison imagined women and children packed into one of the overcrowded refugee camps along the Rio Grande mistaking the deployment of a Predator missile for a shooting star, making a wish as a $40 million toy dealt death from impossible heights.

Morrison’s defense systems fell silent and a stillness collapsed across the desert as the landscape settled back into itself, ancient sands digesting the still smoldering corpses. It was an almost holy rite, considered Morrison, the way in which the desert sand and wind could wipe away evidence of a civilization’s triumph as well as its failure, cleansing the path for the next rise and inevitable collapse. In the beginning, there was the nothingness of the desert. And in the end, there would be the nothingness of the desert.

Two hours later Morrison was aboard his private jet, thundering away from the desert and toward the East Coast. He sat silently in the darkened coach as his plane cut across the sky, miles above the cities that sprawled infinite in every direction, a never-ending sea of blinking light patterns that created an artificial twilight as constant and tranquil as the tide. Staring down from 25,000 feet, Morrison observed as these light patterns danced across the land, consuming the fruited plan. Eventually, he knew, any remnants of America’s majestic solitude would vanish completely, leaving a single massive post-geographic network of light and information. No one would ever be alone and yet, everyone would be alone: So would be Morrison’s kingdom.

However, before these things could come to pass, Michael Morrison needed to pay a visit to an old friend.

Project Exodus Memorandum #25-98541-B

Re: The Order of Neshamah

Although little is known publicly about the Order of Neshamah (“Order”), Morrison Biotechnology operatives have been able to engage several purported members; the information contained in this report is the result of these engagements
.

Background

The Order was originally founded by a group of 19th-century monks devoted to the cultivation of the human soul. But what made these monks so different, what distinguished them from other monastic organizations, was their quest to understand the soul’s function from a biological, scientific standpoint. The moniker “Neshamah” is a reference to the Hebrew word for the “soul” as the thing that allows for the awareness of the existence and presence of God. In its earliest incarnations, the Order’s search for the soul focused primarily on rudimentary mapping of the brain
—
neuroanatomy
—
as well observing and recording the phenomena of religious experiences. Much of this primitive neuroanatomy involved comparing the various sections of the human brain with those of other monks and holy men
—
priests, rabbis, shamans
—
trying to find some genetic distinction that would explain why some men are so readily able to experience the mystical, to commune with a dynamic external presence so often referred to as “God.”

The Order maintains at least three separate “camps” in the United States. The purpose of these camps reflects the two-fold mission of the Order: to identify and cultivate the human soul. Advances in medical technology
—
brain scanning tools in particular
—
allowed the Order to make steady progress toward isolating the section of the brain responsible for producing the responses documented during religious experiences. While the brain scanning continues in these camps, the monks also serve as doctors to the legions of illegal immigrants and uninsured slum dwellers that make up the urban core of many American cities. By serving the suffering and dying, the members of the Order seek to submerge the self, thereby increasing their sensitivity to the divine. While the veracity of these fantastic claims is impossible to verify, the intelligence methods used to gather this information strongly suggest that our sources at least believe such “service” has a direct impact on the ability to experience religious or supernatural phenomena
.

Ties to Jonathan Campbell

Campbell has been in contact with the Order for the past several years. As previously discussed, he was recovered by the Order from an abandoned freight yard several miles
away from the arcology. Since that time, Campbell has remained associated with, although not a member of, the Order. Through the Order’s not-inconsiderable “underground” associations, the monks were able to supply Campbell with an anti-aging serum, a crude approximation of the Treatment that has nevertheless proven to be effective enough. Despite his advanced age, Campbell remains in outstanding physical condition and has retained all of his considerable intellect. While it is unlikely that these injections will sustain his condition for any extended length of time, for now they have allowed Campbell to remain an active, albeit informal, member of the Order
.

Campbell’s exact role in the Order remains unclear: He works in the “field hospital” sections of the camps, tending to the sick and dying; his motivations for doing so, however, are difficult to discern. Some of those braced by our operatives believe Campbell to be little more than a mercenary, working to ensure himself continued access to black market medical materials. Others speculate that Campbell is providing Neshamah with assistance in its search for the biological soul, which, given his background in genetics, seems plausible
.

Conclusion

Presently, the Order of Neshamah presents little, if any, threat to Morrison Biotechnology. Jonathan Campbell’s association with the Order will, however, continue to be monitored
.

Tiber City: Glimmer District
Aug. 27, 2015
1:18 a.m.

A
s the limo drifted through the streets of Tiber City’s Glimmer district, Dylan stared out the window, watching as an abandoned Ferris wheel churned against the horizon. One of the passenger buckets was on fire, a solitary flame pressing against the blackened sky like a signal flare from a dying land, an SOS that would never be answered.

Dylan tried to remember if he had ever ridden the Ferris wheel as a child—or any Ferris wheel for that matter—but when he shut his eyes there were no original memories, just a series of images from popular culture, the collective understanding of childhood replacing his own.

A panic washed over him and he opened his eyes and the Ferris wheel was still rotating but the flaming bucket had dipped back below the horizon and before it could resurface, the limo turned a corner and the landscape shifted: Skyscrapers rose out of the concrete like weeds made of steel and glass, some adorned with names Dylan knew in that dull, impassive way most recognize the public monikers of nebulous financial groups, subsidiaries, and international holding companies. Other towers went nameless, barely visible street numbers stenciled over the entrance the only means of differentiation.