by Nick M Lloyd
Immortal
by
Nick M Lloyd
‘Immortal’
1st Edition
Copyright © 2019 by Nick M Lloyd
www.nickmlloyd.com
ISBN: 978-0-9930779-6-8
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Be kind to yourself – preferably without physically,
or emotionally, burgling your neighbours.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For the third book in a row, top billing of acknowledgments goes to Therese my amazingly supportive wife. Without her forbearance and love, I could not have finished this story.
And much love and appreciation to my kids, who have continued to support me emotionally even when I’ve been a little … needy.
Heartfelt thanks also to my friends who have stepped-up and given their time and sage advice: Sally B, Richard C, Khosro E-N, Cecilia E-N, George M, Noel C, Rosa J, Michael E, Dougy M, Ella C, Arne W, Tom L, Ashley R, Bruce L, David L
And to the unnamed cast of thousands who gave ‘ad hoc’ opinions on blurbs, book covers, etc.
And finally, thank-you to the professionals who got involved. John & George at wearewhitefox, Sidonie Beresford-Browne who did an awesome book cover, Alison Birch at rewrite, Helen Baggott, Andy Mosley, and Chris at Writersservices.
I have been very well supported.
I hope that you enjoy reading the book.
PROLOGUE
London, Friday 4th August
When Imperial College’s students had been ordered to vacate the main campus for the whole of Friday evening the rumour-mill had gone into overdrive, settling on the view that an extremely influential investor was being given a private tour.
Coming a close second was the supposition that the entire place was being fumigated for rats.
The students were wrong on both counts.
The chancellor of Imperial College was hosting a presentation, but precious few of the invitees knew any more than the temporarily disenfranchised students.
The attending academics, press reporters, and politicians had been told nothing more than to expect something era-defining.
As Tim Boston was patted down for recording devices at the third and final security gate, he smiled; he was one of the select few to know the truth.
Tim opened the door to the lecture theatre for his colleague, Samantha Turner, who wheeled herself through.
Normally dressed entirely for utility, Sam was looking rather glamorous this evening. Her blonde hair, usually stuffed under a beanie hat, was now an asymmetric bob with electric purple streaks.
‘Cool haircut,’ said Tim as he followed her in. ‘I didn’t see it in the taxi.’
‘Thanks for noticing,’ said Sam. ‘I thought I’d try for once.’
Tim chuckled. Sam didn’t need to try – as evidenced by the many eyes following her as she entered the auditorium. His smile slipped, though, as he noted the initially approving eyes now looking for a plaster cast or other acceptable reason for her to be in a wheelchair.
Superficial arseholes.
Tim put it out of his mind, knowing Sam was accepting of it. It was she who’d pointed out that particular behaviour to him in the first place.
Looking around the lecture theatre, Tim reflected that it hadn’t physically changed much in the fifteen years since he’d left the place.
The atmosphere was very different today, however. Along with the sheer number of people packed in, the nervous anticipation was palpable.
‘A full house,’ said Sam, glancing around the room. ‘They’re probably not even here.’
‘They may be.’
‘You know what MacKenzie’s like,’ said Sam.
Tim shrugged. ‘We’re here …’
Today was launch day for Francis MacKenzie’s new MedOp service. As the core members of the MIDAS (Massive Integrated Data Analysis System) delivery team, Tim and Sam had been invited. From what Tim had managed to get out of Charlie Taylor, MacKenzie’s right-hand man, there were at least nine other teams working – in strict silos – on other aspects of MedOp. Tim would have liked to meet someone from the quant algorithm team but whether any of them had been invited was unclear.
Charlie had said many times in the run up that MedOp team attendance was strictly limited. He’d gone on to say, in great detail and with notable deference to MacKenzie, that Tim and Sam had been very lucky to be invited at all and that they were absolutely not allowed to network at the event.
Tim looked across the room. Charlie was talking with Max Greening, the chancellor of Imperial College.
He’s networking …
Sam leant over. ‘The chancellor has won the lottery tonight.’
Tim nodded. It would be amazing publicity for Imperial College.
‘I imagine Chancellor Greening has had full unrestricted briefings,’ said Sam.
The tone of her voice made Tim turn.
Sam, her eyes wide and innocent, smiled sweetly.
‘Charlie should have told you,’ said Tim. ‘But you know what MacKenzie’s like.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve practised my surprised smile,’ said Sam, winking.
Tim smiled back.
Charlie had been in a relationship with Sam for almost six months – during which, he’d consistently refused to tell her anything about his own work with MacKenzie. It was not a high point in their relationship dynamic, and was possibly made worse by the fact that Tim had told Sam everything he knew. Which wasn’t that much about wider MedOp activities, but it was more than nothing.
‘Why would MacKenzie think we’d have leaked anything anyway?’ asked Sam.
‘It would have added to the general distrust of MacKenzie if we’d told anyone our role,’ said Tim. The public was increasingly conscious of data privacy and how third parties used personal data. MIDAS was the most advanced data aggregation and analysis system ever developed; data privacy was the clear victim of its capability … but within a few hours everyone would be begging Francis MacKenzie to harvest their data.
‘But … can people distrust him any more than they already do?’ asked Sam with a raised eyebrow.
Movement towards them drew Tim’s attention before he could answer. Charlie was walking over with a big smile on his face.
‘Don’t wind him up,’ said Tim.
Charlie shook Tim’s hand, then bent down and kissed Sam on the cheek. ‘Almost time,’ he said. ‘Ready for the most momentous scientific proclamation of the century?’
‘I’d enjoy it more if I knew more about it,’ said Sam, point-scoring.
‘You soon will,’ said Charlie, the smile fixed on his face but now looking a little forced. ‘I got you the best seats. Sorry, I’d better get back.’
As he departed, Sam turned to Tim. ‘Front row … and that’s just one of the benefits of the crippling pain and lack of mobility,’ she said, tapping the arm of her wheelchair.
Tim winced. Almost five years after the accident, he still couldn’t handle Sam’s flippancy about her condition even though he knew it was an important coping mechanism for her.
Again, Tim craned his neck and looked around. Did any of these people look like mathematics geniuses, capable of writing a ground-breaking data analysis algorithm?
Sam nudged Tim. ‘Over there,’ she whispered. ‘Behind Chancellor Greening, I recognise her …’
Tim looked. In the low lighting of the auditorium he could make out only the vaguest details
of the woman’s face but she did look a little familiar. ‘Not sure.’
Moments later, Chancellor Greening took to the stage, to brief applause. As it subsided, he spoke. ‘Government ministers, benefactors, academics, friends, and ladies and gentlemen of the press, welcome. Tonight, I’d like to introduce you to Francis MacKenzie, the father of entrepreneurial science advancement.’
The lights dimmed further, and Chancellor Greening stepped to the side.
An enormous screen which filled the middle of the stage slowly lit up. Gradually an image became clear. It was the head and shoulders of Francis MacKenzie: trademark thick black-rimmed glasses, a close-cut beard, and chin resting on the tips of his fingers, pressed together as if in prayer.
He slowly blinked and a took a breath, seemingly preparing himself.
Then, looking straight into the camera, he spoke.
‘Good evening. It is my pleasure to address you tonight,’ said MacKenzie.
Tim looked across at Sam to see her produce a mock yawn with accompanying eye-rolling.
‘Many of you will have heard of me for my work on SpaceOp,’ said MacKenzie. ‘Some of you with longer memories will recall my corporate raider days.’
Tim knew this. He’d performed a detailed background investigation of MacKenzie before he’d taken the role at MedOp. Francis MacKenzie was ruthless and not particularly well liked.
‘Today, in these brief minutes, I shall be telling you about my new venture MedOp.’ MacKenzie paused. ‘Looking back over human history, it is clear to see that for most of the time, life has been regarded as a very cheap commodity. The pharaohs, the robber barons, the various dictators, have all spent human capital without much thought. In the last fifty years, however – an eye-blink relative to human existence – social and medical advancements have made life valuable … treasured … precious.’
The screen faded out.
Total darkness and utter silence lasted for a few seconds.
When the screen lit again, it was filled with the image of a single fern-shaped leaf.
Tim looked closer. It wasn’t a biological leaf, the shape had been created by a mathematical model.
‘The fabled fractal leaf,’ whispered Sam. It was the secret MedOp emblem.
The word ‘MedOp’ appeared superimposed over the leaf.
Just as a murmur started to build around the auditorium, a spotlight appeared at the side of the stage.
Francis MacKenzie stepped into it.
The murmuring stopped.
‘I do not intend to make life cheap again. I intend to make it free.’
It was not clear whether MacKenzie expected applause or cheers, but the auditorium remained silent.
MacKenzie did not miss a beat. ‘Nine years ago, I set up a corporation focused on life improvement via genetic engineering. The early work suffered from accusations of eugenics and sustaining the global elite.’
He paused for a moment to take off his glasses, clean them, and replace them. Then he walked to the front of the stage.
‘But that was just politics, which frankly does not bother me at all.’
A polite chuckle filtered around the room.
‘What did bother me, very much, was that it never really worked.’ MacKenzie paused. ‘Biological life is complex. I won’t insult the mathematicians here by saying infinitely complex. But, as we hit unintended consequence after unintended consequence, I realised that solving the equations of life from first principles was beyond humanity’s ability.
‘For instance, my teams spent years trying to work out which genes controlled the development of arterial plaque, which enzymes and proteins were involved, and how they could be turned off. Every time a lead was found, months later, it would be shown that those same enzymes and proteins were also critical for eyesight, or balance, or liver function.
‘So … here and now, I am formally surrendering to theory. I won’t fight it. From now on … it’s all about practical application.’ MacKenzie scanned the crowd. ‘So where am I going?’
The image on the screen changed from the fractal leaf to a spider-shaped robot.
‘Health. Affordable and available.’ MacKenzie looked up at the screen. ‘This robot is my firstborn. Invisible to the human eye, it operates for up to four hours without recharging.’ He paused. ‘But what does it do?’
After waiting a few seconds, he continued. ‘Injected directly into the blood stream, with special human antigens on its surface to ensure it is not rejected by the immune system … it eats arterial plaque.’
He pointed at a simple graphic that had just appeared on the screen. ‘It doesn’t care how the plaque is formed.’ MacKenzie paused. ‘Or why the plaque is formed.’ He paused again. ‘It simply demolishes it.’
Low background conversations sprung up around the auditorium.
MacKenzie talked over them. ‘Within three years, MedOp will provide free arterial cleaning to whoever wants it.’
Tim had gone into the presentation knowing that MedOp would be providing the arterial cleaning, having been told himself six months previously. He had also known that MacKenzie intended to provide it as a free service for everyone. Paying for the service was a key aspect of the MIDAS application.
Chancellor Greening walked back onto the stage. ‘Thank you very much, Francis. I believe you are prepared to take a few questions?’
Smiling in assent, MacKenzie turned to the audience. ‘Questions. Please state your name and then your question.’
The house lights came up and a couple of the administrative staff handed out microphones to questioners.
‘Professor Steven Johnson, Biomedical Engineering, UCL. Have you started human trials? And if so, where?’
Talk about a pointed question. Human trials with tiny spider robots injected into someone’s bloodstream. Tim could feel MacKenzie’s lawyers all holding their breath. If they’d run those tests without enormous levels of approval from government agencies, then MacKenzie would be complicit in a myriad of crimes.
Silence.
The image on the screen changed back to the fractal leaf.
‘We have not yet completed human trials.’
A ripple passed around the crowd.
MacKenzie was being deliberately antagonistic. The word completed could be interpreted in many ways.
Sam laughed quietly. ‘Showman.’
‘Show off, more like,’ replied Tim.
MacKenzie turned back to the screen. ‘But to wind in my own innate desire for shock and awe, I will clarify. No, we have not yet started human trials. Next question?’
‘Mary Cleaves, Harefield Hospital,’ said a voice towards the back. ‘How does the immunosuppression work?’
‘I will not be sharing the underlying science,’ replied MacKenzie with a slight shake of his head. ‘But at the end of the evening, a data sheet will be distributed with facts about rejection rates and suchlike. I am sure you will understand, some information will be kept confidential.’
Chancellor Greening stepped forward and raised his own microphone. ‘If I may. How will people apply for the treatment?’
MacKenzie addressed his answer to the audience. ‘Taking the arterial cleaning will be one hundred percent elective. From tomorrow, any UK resident will be able to apply to join a waiting list. Once all tests and approvals are completed, we will start working through that list.’
‘Simple as that, Francis?’ asked the chancellor.
Again, MacKenzie shook his head. ‘Not quite. People who sign up will commit to participating in a series of anonymous surveys across any subject matter chosen by MedOp. They will also provide detailed personal data along with a DNA swab.’
‘But they will not have to pay anything?’
‘Nothing.’ MacKenzie paused. ‘Just fill out the surveys anonymously and accurately.’
Historically, the weakness of online survey tools had always been convincing people to fill them in; response percentages were usually in the low single digits. MedOp appl
icants would have a very compelling incentive.
MIDAS would create, disseminate, and analyse the responses to those surveys, correlating them where required with the participants’ DNA readings and all manner of other personal data.
Sam leant in close and whispered, ‘I’m going to ask him about certifying the data privacy.’
As Sam raised her hand, Tim grabbed it and pushed it down. ‘Please, not now.’
Sam looked for a moment as if she would overrule Tim, but she relented. ‘Later.’
Back on the stage, MacKenzie continued to speak. ‘I can assure everyone that all data received will be treated confidentially, and all applications will be treated fairly.’
‘What political fallout are you preparing for?’ asked the chancellor.
‘The next three years are not going to be easy. I am in close discussions with the prime minister to ensure that although the service remains a private enterprise, MedOp enjoys the full backing of the British government, which will be examining the implications for international relations, tax, the retirement age… the list goes on.’
‘Are you signing up for it yourself?’ someone shouted from the back corner of the auditorium.
‘I expect to need it, to remain healthy to fight all the upcoming battles.’
MacKenzie turned away from the audience towards the chancellor, but the heckler had a follow-up.
‘Will you make immortality available to everyone once you crack it?’
From his own research of MacKenzie, Tim understood the basis of the question. MacKenzie had given generously to cryogenic research and stem cell research long before he’d started MedOp.
MacKenzie ignored the question. ‘Free arterial cleaning for everyone within three years.’
After briefly shaking the chancellor’s hand, he walked off the stage.
--------
After waiting ten minutes for the auditorium to clear, Tim and Sam headed for the post-talk drinks reception.
Again, Tim scanned the room. He hadn’t given up all hope of meeting the mathematician who was responsible for the underlying data analysis algorithm. It was only two percent of the overall MIDAS code – Tim and Sam had written almost all the rest – but that algorithm was one of the most devilishly clever bits.
