“But I don’t care. I’m not going to serve my brother his whims on a platter. I knew it would happen someday. His actions and his mistakes will drag us all down, and I’m not talking about TAF now but about every member of our species, Homo sapiens, that’s walking on this planet.
“Rich and poor, free and enslaved, now we carry within us a new division: longevos and efímeros—Ancients and ephemerals. Those who live millennia, and those who live decades.
“That will be the ancient family’s contribution to the world: a definitive split.
“Coming back to my own situation, no one, not even my father, must suspect what I’m feeling now: the change that has occurred over these days, that ancient apathy I was carrying and that is now definitely behind me. I cannot let myself be swept along by what I feel. I must resort to my self-discipline to avoid it. And I know that I’m renouncing feeling, living, and perhaps, if she allowed it, even loving.
“But under what circumstances could we be together? I don’t know if I could deceive her, hide who I really am from her, lie to her on a daily basis with every answer I give and still feel happy by her side. I torture myself trying to anticipate what would happen at the moment when I have to move on. Would she accept a conventional desertion? Would she believe me? Would I be able to fake it? For the first time in centuries, I think about having children together. Would I be able to leave her with them, allow them all to hate me while I, in some other part of the planet, continue to love her and miss her each and every day until, some decades later, I return to find out what happened to her and visit her grave? Would I fake another identity with our children, become their companion, their colleague, their friend?
“Suppose she loves me. Suppose that what I sense in her eyes, that wildfire, matches what’s consuming me. Would I give her a few good years, only to destroy the rest of her life?
“Poison infiltrates my thoughts, becoming a seductive and forbidden trap. What if I were to tell her? And what if she were to accept what I am? What would the power equilibrium be in a couple like that? I’m not sure that a shared existence, love, the humdrum routine of daily life would be possible under such circumstances. I’m not sure I’m ready to love that way, without holding anything back, without any safety net, without any lies. How many centuries will I have left to mourn her when she dies? It would be so intense, so beautiful, if only she were like me . . . To walk hand in hand through time and space as everything is happening while Adriana and I remain untouched.”
The metallic voice coming over the sound system interrupted my writing.
“Flight 754 to San Francisco will be landing shortly. Please return your tables to their upright position and fasten your seat belts.”
I closed my notebook and stuck it in my small briefcase. I’d put in a pair of brown contact lenses before I left Madrid as a precautionary measure, but now my eyes were in agony. A twenty-three-hour flight had dried them out. They would be bloodshot for my interview with Pilkington, which wasn’t good. Nothing about this visit should attract attention. Nothing about my appearance could look fake. I’d been growing a beard for a week, ever since Kyra had outlined her plan to get hold of the Kronon Corporation material. At the MAC they would have taken it as an oversight, the early stages of designer stubble, but it was just enough to be able to remove all but a small goatee for this trip. Goatees noticeably change a man’s physiognomy, enough to throw people off the track. I’d also had my hair cut shorter and combed it with a part on the side, all of which made me look considerably older. When I got back to the MAC, I’d readopt my informal appearance; the hair would grow back to its longer length in a couple of months.
The purely cosmetic contact lenses were a necessary evil. The unusually blue eyes my mother had bequeathed to me were a double-edged sword: not the best thing for a visit designed to obtain confidential material and run. In addition, brown eyes increased my resemblance to my father, and being the son of Pilkington’s former professor was an essential bargaining chip. Days earlier I had bought a pair of nonprescription Gucci glasses with black frames at an optician’s to add to my air of a serious scientist.
An hour and a half after taking a taxi from the airport, I arrived at the Kronon Corporation building in Palo Alto. My mistreated pupils had tried in vain to adapt to the California sunlight, but it was asking too much of them. I opted to retreat to the darkest part of the vehicle as one dilapidated suburb followed another, and the palm trees competed with the streetlights and the billboards promoting the hamburger version of the American dream.
When we reached our destination, my Indian taxi driver, who had a handlebar mustache, read out the cost of the trip as he chewed on some vile herb. I paid with the smallest bills I had and made my way to the reception area, where, after I’d identified myself, a man who was even taller than me indicated I should wait. While he contacted Pilkington, I took the opportunity to discreetly check out the security cameras in the large designer lobby. Three in total: one on either side of the main entrance, and one hidden in the company logo above the reception counter. Great. They’d have my profile from every angle. And down the road it might occur to someone that I’d gone to an awful lot of trouble to disguise myself.
The security giant/receptionist nodded and pointed to a corridor off to one side that led to an elevator. I headed in that direction, although I quickly realized he was right on my heels, escorting me all the way. Clearly, they didn’t trust me. I didn’t make any attempt to be friendly. I’d given up making an effort at that sort of brief, forced social interaction some time ago. With any luck Mr. Security and I would quickly forget about each other forever.
Francisco Pilkington received me in his actual lab rather than in his office, as I had expected. He was indeed a redhead who looked more Scottish than Spanish, although his hair was starting to gray at the temples.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Pilkington,” I said in English, giving him a brief handshake.
“Pleased to meet you,” he replied, also in English, and then he switched languages. “Shall we speak Spanish, or have you lost your Spanish roots?”
“No, of course not. My parents always spoke Spanish at home even though I grew up in London.”
Pilkington had been staring at my face.
“You’re the spitting image of your father, although I don’t remember him being so tall. Anyhow, the younger generations are making us look bad: taller, smarter, better qualified . . .” He lost himself in memories for a moment. “I particularly remember your mother, Dr. Zelaya. She was a magnificent teacher, though perhaps too demanding, I’d have to say. Believe me, I had a genuine vocational crisis when they had to leave Madrid so unexpectedly. When I saw your name in the email you sent me, I briefly thought the message was from your father, despite the amount of time that had passed. Then I realized that he’d be eighty by now. I really regret his passing, and your mother’s, too. My condolences.”
Kyra had brought me up to speed regarding their time at the Complutense, but I really didn’t want Pilkington dwelling on details in case I wouldn’t be able to deal with them.
“I’m always touched when people recall my parents with fondness. It’s a consolation now that they’re no longer with us. But I’d like to get down to business, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, of course. Forgive my digressions—they’re becoming more frequent with age. It’ll happen to you, too, but you still have all the time in the world ahead of you.”
He straightened his tie, which was just visible under his white lab coat, and the gesture suddenly seemed to remind him of the reason for my visit.
“I have to admit that I’m pleasantly surprised that your organization has selected us as a candidate for one of the Hooke Prizes.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s surprising. Your media department has done a great marketing job. You’d have to agree that the name Immortality Enzyme really made the scientific commun
ity take notice, never mind shareholders when Kronon went public. Let’s not kid ourselves.”
“I see you’ve done your homework.”
“That’s my job, Doctor. As I already told you in my emails, my work consists in drawing up an initial list of potential candidates for the prizes.”
“You’re a talent scout of sorts.”
“If you like,” I conceded. “Every four years I have to present the judges with the ten research projects that could have the greatest impact in the near future. As you know, the prizes have a certain bias toward medicine, which makes your company one of the favorites, although I must insist that this visit is strictly confidential. My task is quite a delicate one in the sense that the judges don’t like all the rumors that precede other, similar prizes—rumors that detract from their status.”
“I understand,” he agreed.
“My job is to narrow down the candidates and present the judges with a shortlist, so, to put it another way, the reports you give me are the ones that will determine your future. I ought to tell you that I personally have some reservations about your research, but I’ve decided to give your organization a chance. I’d like you to resolve the doubts I have regarding telomeres.”
Luckily, the prestigious Hooke Prizes had an archaic website with so many gaps in its security that it had only taken me a couple of hours to include my fake name and email address in the staff directory. No IT person seemed to be assigned to maintain the site, since no one had noticed the small addition, or at least they hadn’t removed it yet. When I originally contacted Pilkington, I sent him the link to the website to give my message more credibility. My father, the best document forger of the four of us, prepared a business card with a logo and all the corporate information that would help reinforce my identity. So far, everything was going as planned, and it made no difference to me if alarm bells rang and my small hacking job was discovered a few days from now. As long as I had the Kronon reports, I had no intention of being Winston Zeidan ever again.
Pilkington handed me a multicolored folder with the corporation’s logo and a photo of a smiling doctor surrounded by flying cells on the cover. I took the report, leafed through it, and then closed it again with a frown. “This documentation is available to the general public. I don’t think you’re aware of the quality parameters required in order to be considered for a prize. I don’t want a PR package. I’m a trained scientist. I need to examine the procedures that enable you to manipulate the enzyme telomerase, the feasibility of your claimed application of this to tumor cells, and everything else that has led to your announcing with great fanfare that you’ve discovered the Immortality Enzyme. Based on the superficial material you’ve given me, I can only assume that the Kronon Corporation has no interest in being considered for a prize.”
It took Pilkington a few seconds to react.
“I wouldn’t want you to make such an assumption based on a misunderstanding. But please understand that we’re dealing with confidential information, and we’ve just been granted a patent for telomerase. We can’t run the risk of industrial espionage, given the capital investment in this project, even less so now that we’ve gone public.”
Careful, Urko.
“Believe me, Dr. Pilkington, I’m aware of all that.” No “Francisco” at this stage. “You’re not the only company in this business, and I come across similar barriers every day in my line of work, but I’ve rarely encountered this level of secrecy. You must understand that I have to guarantee that I’m handing over something solid to the jury. They might dispense with my services if I were too lax in my selection criteria.”
I got up from the bench, did up the buttons on the jacket of my suit, and extended my hand in a gesture of farewell. “Look, I’m sorry for wasting your time. Although to be honest,” I added, “I’m even sorrier to have wasted my own. And now, if you’ll forgive me, I have a plane to catch.”
I turned my back on him and walked away. I ordered a cab at the reception desk but didn’t go straight to the airport. San Francisco was waiting for me. Three quarters of an hour later I was relaxing on a sunny bench in front of the Japanese pagoda in Golden Gate Park. Despite my seeming disdain, I had taken the folder with the report. It hadn’t been a pyrrhic victory. The report contained a great deal of information, considerably more than I had expected. But throughout his wanderings over the centuries, a longevo accumulates vices and bad habits. I’ve never been able to resist forcing a situation, putting it to the test, and then sitting down to wait and see how far a person is prepared to go. Something vibrated in my pocket. I checked the screen: it was Pilkington. Good.
“Have I forgotten something?” I asked, pretending that I was still annoyed.
“Listen, I can’t say a lot,” he said in a barely audible voice. “Could we meet before you catch your flight?”
“Right now I’m in a cab on the way to the airport. What do you want?”
Pilkington spoke again in a whisper. “We didn’t get off on the right foot, but if you’d do me the favor of stopping the cab and waiting for me in some public place, I’d be grateful. I’ll explain once I get there.”
I waited a few moments as if I was thinking it over, and then I agreed. “All right. I’ll ask the cab driver to detour to Golden Gate Park, but be quick. I don’t want to miss my flight. I’ll meet you in front of the pagoda.”
He appeared thirty minutes later, looking nervously over his shoulder until he located my bench. We were surrounded by bushes, which provided some coolness on that suffocatingly hot morning. There was no other bench nearby, and people heading for the pagoda took a path that ran parallel to ours. From our location I overlooked everything and would see any stranger coming toward us.
“I’ll be brief, since you don’t have much time,” he said in Spanish as soon as he sat down beside me. “I couldn’t speak freely before, because the entire corporation building is under surveillance. Management has always been very sensitive about security. Look, I’m not going to lie to you. I’m very keen on you keeping us in mind for a Hooke Prize. It would be a major achievement for me as director of communications, but my hands are tied in terms of the material I can pass on to you.
“It’s hot, isn’t it?” he said, wiping his forehead with a much-used handkerchief.
I agreed and urged him to go on with a gesture of impatience.
“You see, Kronon works on a system of totally self-contained departments. Each small team of scientists works on only one part of the process, and we all sign a pretty rigorous confidentiality clause. This way, nobody except for management is up-to-date with the entire research project. On top of that, every couple of years they let staff go, so no researcher is ever there long enough to complete what he started.”
“And I suspect you’re going to tell me that you do have a global picture, right?”
“Yes, I began to collect material as soon as I worked out their modus operandi. I thought it would be useful in order to blackmail them when the time comes and they lay me off. I’m not a saint, but who is?”
“I’m not going to judge you, Dr. Pilkington. You can’t imagine the things I’ve seen in this job, although your misdeeds are of no interest to me. As I’ve already told you, I’m just as interested as you in keeping my job. When I left your building, I did so absolutely convinced I wasn’t going to present your nomination to the judges. To be honest, I already had many doubts about the viability of your research when I arrived here.”
“No, you’re very wrong about that,” Pilkington said hastily. “Look, the discovery of telomerase is going to revolutionize biotechnology over the next few years, and believe me, I’m not saying that as a visionary but as a scientist with his feet on the ground.
“Here,” he said, pulling a thick folder out of the pocket of his wrinkled linen jacket. “Here’s the key part of the data you need in order to understand that Kronon is serious. I think that onc
e you’ve had a look at it, you’ll be interested in us again.”
I put the papers into my briefcase as quickly as I could, although I continued to fake some irritation. “I’m not making any promises beyond having a look at it.”
“Thank you. I don’t have to tell you that this stays strictly between us.”
“Understood, Pilkington. Though I’d like you to clear up a few doubts I have now that I find you more willing to share your research findings with me.”
“Ask me whatever you like.”
“I don’t understand why Kronon is making such an effort to link this research with the Immortality Enzyme project. It doesn’t need that type of publicity. It detracts from its credibility.”
“Your reservations are totally understandable, but when you see the material, you might be surprised. Our efforts are directed toward the fight against cancer, but it is true that we’ve been the first to get normal human cells—by which I mean mortal ones—to convert into immortal ones using telomerase: they keep dividing again and again in our laboratory. We’ve come to realize that telomerase repairs the ends of the chromosomes and prevents them from shortening. We’ve swept the Hayflick limit aside. That’s a fact. You’ll see it in the results I’ve just given you.”
“But you’ve only achieved it at a cellular level. How long before you achieve it with an entire organism?”
“Therein lies the problem. We still have to achieve it with tissues, and then with organs. In reality, that would be enough. If we replace a damaged heart or lung with one that has active telomerase, we’re effectively making that person virtually immortal. It would be like replacing the damaged parts of a car. We’d always have spare parts.”
“But you’re having problems with that extrapolation, right?” I said under my breath, still looking straight ahead.
The Immortal Collection (A Saga of the Ancient Family Book 1) Page 17
