The Forever Man: A Near-Future Thriller (25 page)

“You mean a virus can do other things besides make you sick?” Green asks.

“Absolutely. Like computer code, the trigger material in the virus consists of both a program and data. The program directs the copying, swapping, and rearrangements of the nucleotide sequences. The data portion of the trigger describes the precise nature of the changes at the key locations where Zed’s nucleotide sequence has drifted away from its ideal state. Another set of viruses carries the code to make the enzymes that lay down the epigenetic factors, like methylation patterns.”

“And what’s this ideal state?”

“You reach it in young adulthood, when the developmental processes are complete. After
that, you start to fall into disrepair.”

“I know the feeling,” Green comments.

“We all do,” Arjun adds. “During the procedure, the brain and the nervous system are among the most difficult targets, and their transformation is as challenging as repairing an automobile while it’s still in motion on the road. The immune system is also problematic. It has no intention of standing idle while a massive invasion takes place and, if permitted, it would react so violently as to destroy the body while trying to defend it.”

“So how do you hold it in check?”

“The procedure carefully controls both the timing and sequence of the cellular repair work. It relies on feedback from the body, data gathered continuously as the procedure moves forward. Blood chemistry, body temperature, cardiac rhythms, brain waves, blood oxygenation, and a dozen other factors are considered by the computational algorithms running on the supercomputers in a control center farther into the building. This information drives real-time decisions, which automatically adjust the metering of the virus flow and the delivery of immunosuppressants. The margin between life and death constantly expands and contracts during the process, but is kept scrupulously within specified limits. When the process is complete, the optimized genome will occupy the nucleus of nearly every cell in his body.”

“Amazing,” Green mumbles.

“Yes, it is,” Arjun agrees. “You’re a fortunate man, Mr. Green. Very few are called, and even fewer are chosen. The original process required you to have an identical twin that had expired while still young. The sibling’s genes provided a reference point to initiate the procedure. But now we’re on the verge of extending the process to virtually anyone. No twin required.”

“You mean someone like me?”

“I mean exactly you. But first, we have a few technical details to resolve. And the only person capable of doing so is Dr. Anslow. We’re going to need him back on the job—at least for the time being.”

Arjun can see Green racing through countless internal calculations and coming up short of a simple solution. Arjun knows that Green is holding Anslow at some secure location, probably arranged by the Bird. As soon as Green hands Anslow over, he loses his principal bargaining chip.

“At this highest level of play, it ultimately comes down to trust, Mr. Green,” Arjun interjects. “You hold enormous political capital and expertise that we can’t hope to duplicate. We, on the other hand, hold considerable economic and technical power. The only way to merge them is to cooperate fully. Don’t you agree?”

Green pauses. “All right, you can have Dr. Anslow, but on one condition. If we’re to
move ahead, I need full disclosure about the inner circle of participants. How many people are involved, and who are they?”

“The answer is quite simple, Mr. Green. Just you and I and Mr. Zed.” Arjun omits Crampton from the list. To Green, she’s an unknown quantity, a potential complication. “And we assume that you’ll want to be directly involved in determining any future membership.”

“Absolutely.”

The pair leaves Zed, who lies completely still, engulfed by tubes and sensors. A heavy layer of sedation masks the great molecular migrations within him.

“When are you coming home, Daddy?”

His son. The little boy’s face barely clears the bedside. The troubled blue eyes wound him deeply. How can he tell the boy what will happen to him? How can he explain that the boy will grow up, grow old, and die without a father to guide him? He tries to reach out and touch the small cheek, but the restraining straps prevent it.

“It’s too late,” Zed explains. “I’m so sorry. It’s too late.”

He closes his eyes in exhaustion beyond measure.

A movement on the video monitor in Bay 1 catches Arjun’s attention. Zed’s head has turned to the side. His left arm pushes against the straps, and his hand reaches out to the side of the bed. Unusual. Arjun checks all the monitor data, and sees nothing out of range. By the time he looks back, Zed is once again at rest.

***

Autumn has an unobstructed view of the tomato plant from where she sits on the deck facing her garden in Pinecrest. It bears seven tomatoes, some fat and red, others clouded with yellow, and a few still a perfect green. A small lattice supports the burden they place on the snaking vine that binds them to the soil below.

Much of her last two decades now lies in shadow; but further back, the tomatoes remain as vivid as those hanging here on this quiet evening.

She was picking the final crop of summer the day her husband died in 1965. She was on the last vine when she heard him call from inside. His voice gave no hint of alarm. By the time she got to the living room, he was facedown on the carpet, his life already gone.

She never married again, never dated. In a town so small, the prospects were few and just not worth the effort. She simply let herself drift with the tide of time as it swept across the
endless prairie. Her circle of friends, never large, gradually died off. She watched the neighbors’ children grow up and leave. She attended the funerals of their parents. She saw the town slowly wither. She faded into the far recesses of its collective memory.

Each season, the tomatoes filled the vines and awaited their harvest while marking the milestones of her advancing age. While still strong, she tended a row of plants that spanned half the width of the garden. Later, as she declined physically, the crop became a single vine in a big planter on the back porch. Still later, it shrunk to a small pot on the windowsill by the dining room.

Autumn rises from her chair on the deck. The power in her legs still seems odd. She’ll never adjust to it, but that no longer matters. She goes inside and wonders about the progress of Zed’s treatment as she pours herself a glass of water. As soon as there was any change, they would send a shuttle for her.

He didn’t understand the futility of his quest. How could he?

She looks back out through open doors to the tomato vine. Zed had strongly opposed her leaving her life on Mount Tabor, but in the end, he yielded. It was the only chance he had of preserving their relationship. Her confinement on the mountain had grown stifling and she demanded a chance to redefine herself in terms of the world at large. He insisted on Pinecrest for security reasons, and she conceded it was a workable compromise.

For the first few days after moving in, she stayed close to home, acclimating herself in welcome solitude. It caused her to realize how utterly Zed had dominated the rhythm of her days. Soon she was ready to venture out and took the air hop to the Trade Ring, with its glittering array of shops, restaurants, clubs, and galleries. As she wandered the streets and corridors, she could feel the invisible presence of Zed’s security people, who were undoubtedly monitoring her continuously. It didn’t matter. She had nothing to hide, no alternative agenda.

She basked in the acknowledgment and attention she received wherever she went. The smiles, the nods, the pleasant exchanges. In her previous life, such amenities had slowly evaporated as she aged. A pretty young woman was a beacon of promise, an older woman was not. Over time, enthusiasm and flirtation gave way to compassion and sympathy.

But no longer. When she ate dinner alone at a fashionable French restaurant, she felt the peripheral presence of several men who found her attractive. They gave her furtive glances, and one was bold enough to engage her with an amused smile—much to the annoyance of his female companion. But it wasn’t her renewed sexuality that enthralled her as much as the range of options it presented, the unlimited choice of potential partners and experiences.

She was paying the bill when it happened, and it changed everything. She looked up at the waiter, a handsome man in his mid-thirties, probably an actor when he wasn’t waiting tables. Something flipped within her, and in a heartbeat, he was transformed from a possible lover into a
child, an impossibly distant little boy. The gulf of nearly seventy years between them came crashing to the forefront and stayed there. It occurred without warning, like a rogue wave born of some momentous yet invisible event far beyond the horizon.

As she got up to leave, she looked out over the diners, who sipped their wine, laughed their laughs, and spoke their pieces. Children, all of them children.

She took the air hop back home and never bothered to return.

***

“I’m sorry, Ms. Wentworth, but you’re going to have to refresh me about how you got this number,” Arjun says politely.

The matronly woman on his screen takes immediate offense. She wears cat’s-eye glasses and severely trimmed hair in a tight curl. “I was told there would be compensation if I reported a certain transaction.”

“And you’re calling from where?”

“Elkton,” the woman declares impatiently. “Elkton, Nebraska. I work at the county courthouse.”

“Ah yes, of course. Do you still have the ID number you were given?”

Eleanor Wentworth recites the number slowly, as if addressing a child or an idiot. The woman now has Arjun’s full attention. After the extraction operation in Elkton, they set up a small security net, and apparently this frumpy clerk was part of it. Sure enough, her number checks out.

“If you open another window, you’ll see the agreed-upon sum being credited to your bank account.”

Eleanor looks away from Arjun as she watches the transaction. “We don’t get any retirement,” she comments. “Nothing. Not anymore.” As if this justified her felonious intrusion into someone’s privacy.

“Well, this should go a long way toward solving that problem. Now, what have you got for us?”

“A man showed up here this afternoon, and wanted a death certificate for an Autumn West.”

“Did you get his name?”

“No. And he paid cash. But I have what you need. I have video.”

“Good. I want you to send it to this number. Is there anything else?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Well, thank you for your help.”

He breaks the connection and opens the window where the video is coming across. It’s been shot with a high-res security camera overlooking a counter in a dreary old building. The plump figure of Eleanor stands facing away from the lens. She unconsciously tugs the back of her sweater down to cover the bulge of her generous bottom over her cheap slacks.

The man in question faces her and triggers an immediate alarm in Arjun. He zooms in to verify. The image remains sharp, even at 10-power enlargement.

Allen Durbin, the Pinecrest resident. The one that Linda Crampton tried to screw. The one that showed up on the security camera at the Institute. The one who casually asked her about Mount Tabor and the dead scientists.

Allen Durbin. He checked out all the way up and down. So who would know how to create such a professionally crafted façade?

A cop. An experienced cop.

Arjun gives a voice command that connects him with Bellows, the deputy coroner in Washington County.

“Bellows,” the voice offers in a flat, offhand tone. Audio, no video. Very arrogant, thoroughly bureaucratic.

“It’s Arjun Khan.” The video comes on. The attitude changes.

“Yes, Mr. Khan?”

“I’m putting up a video. I want to see if you can identify the man in it.”

Bellows squints at his screen and nods. “Yeah, no problem. That’s Lane Anslow. The cop, the one I met with about his brother and the crash. Remember?”

“Indeed I do. Thank you.”

Arjun hurries out of his office and heads toward the conference room. He glances down the cavernous space to his left, where they are prepping one of the bays for the Phase Two test. All they need to do is decide which of the candidates it will be, but right now that may be the least of their problems.

He knocks on the door and steadies himself. He’s still unsettled by what he’s about to see.

“Come in.” The voice is strong, forceful, driven by a generous volume of expelled air.

Arjun opens the door. Zed sits at the far end of a long table with his computer.

It works. It really works. Its value is nearly incalculable.

The wrinkles are gone, the palsy absent, the spine straight, the eyes clear and bright, the jawline firm, the movements sure, the musculature solid, the hands confident. Zed appears to be in his forties, which is as far back as they wanted to risk in a single treatment.

Arjun tries to conceal his shock as best he can. “Sorry to bother you, but we have an urgent issue. Remember Allen Durbin, the resident at Pinecrest that Crampton was messing around with? He’s not Allen Durbin. He’s Lane Anslow, the cop. Dr. Anslow’s brother.”

Zed puts it together before Arjun can speak again. “Autumn. He’s on to Autumn.” He pushes up out of his seat and begins to pace with his hands in his pockets.

“I’m afraid so. I just received video of him at the county courthouse in Elkton, requesting her death certificate.”

“So how much does he know?” Zed asks. “Has he made contact with her?”

“We’d best assume that he has. Do you think she would tell him anything?”

Zed purses his lips and shakes his head, which is shaved bald as he awaits the reawakening of the follicles. “Absolutely not.”

“Even if she hasn’t, he must be close to putting it all together.”

“Which means he has to go, right now. Make it happen.”

“Very well.” Arjun turns to leave.

“And while you’re at it, add Ms. Crampton to that list. We need to plug all our holes for once and for all.”

Arjun nods. He approves. The inner circle is now Zed, Green, and himself. The fewer, the better, because people talk. They always talk.