The Ascendant

by Peter Parkin

  He flashed his security card against the magnetic reader and pushed open the heavy door that led to the office corridor. Two men stood sentry on the other side of the door.

  The laboratory section of Triple-L was heavily secured with alarms, not only for burglary or fire, but also for freezer and refrigeration temperature controls. The fate of no less than 200,000 precious sperm samples depended upon the temperature being maintained at the perfectly prescribed level.

  And every accessible doorway was secured both by magnetic controls and by unarmed security personnel. They didn’t wear uniforms; they didn’t need any. Their demeanour and bulk spoke volumes about who they were and what they were capable of.

  “Top of the morning to you, gentlemen!”

  The guards smiled back at Derek, and one of them spoke. “You’re looking particularly chipper today, Doctor. Anything you need from us right now?”

  “No, but thanks for asking. How’s the family, Jim?”

  “Oh, not bad. Well, our little guy has ADHD apparently, according to our family doctor. A bit of a worry.”

  Derek frowned, and dismissively waved his hand in the air. “Oh, poo on that, Jim. These quacks over-diagnose that nonsense. And then they just drug them up—that’s their solution. I’m guessing they’ve prescribed a regimen of Ritalin, right?”

  Jim nodded. “Yeah, we haven’t started him on it yet, though. Kinda scary to think what it might do to his personality, but we need to do something.”

  “It’ll suck the life out of him, Jim. You won’t recognize him. His spirit will be smothered. Tell you what, bring him in to see me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’d be glad to help. No family physician can compete with even the most junior scientist we have on our staff. We’ll help him. You won’t need any drugs.”

  Jim put his hand over his heart. “I don’t know what to say, Doctor. Thanks so much. But, I’m afraid to ask…what will this cost?”

  Derek patted him on the shoulder. “Nothing at all. My pleasure to help you out. But, promise me, no Ritalin, okay?”

  “I promise, Doc. My wife will be so happy to hear this.”

  Derek laughed as he resumed his walk down the hall. “Just consider it one of the perks of working at the most advanced genetics lab in the country.”

  Back in his office, Derek sat down in front of his computer, put on his glasses, and began scrolling through the day’s itinerary. Saw that he had an appointment at 10:00. Checked his watch—only ten minutes.

  He clicked on the man’s biography, package of financial disclosures, and reference letters. Derek had already reviewed the file in detail a few days ago, but wanted to refresh his memory.

  The man’s name was Stuart Manning, from Chicago. An investment banker, with a net worth of approximately 100 million. Was determined sterile a couple of years ago, but his wife, Alexandra, was a perfectly healthy host. Her medical records, heritage tree, and IQ tests all looked superior. Derek nodded, and muttered, “A good candidate.”

  He scanned over Stuart’s financial disclosures. No debts, an annual income of twenty-five million, give or take. Reference letters from several high-placed sources. All looked good.

  He re-read the email from Stuart. His American Airlines flight from Chicago was due in to JFK last night at 9:00, so he had every reason to expect that he’d be on time for their meeting.

  A stickler for detail and caution, Derek clicked on his email address book and sent a query off to his contact at American Airlines.

  There was a knock on his door and his assistant, Molly, poked her head in.

  “Doctor, Mr. Manning is here. Can I bring him in?”

  Derek waved his hand. “Yes, yes, of course. Thanks Molly.”

  She backed away from the door and ushered the man in. Derek walked from behind his desk and greeted his guest with an outstretched hand.

  “So pleased to meet you, Mr. Manning. I’m Derek Schmidt, the managing director here at Triple-L.”

  “Call me Stuart. Thanks for seeing me, Doctor Schmidt. I hope you received my package?”

  “Yes, I sure did. Very complete. And, you can call me Derek. Please, have a seat.”

  Derek poured them both cups of black coffee and sat down once again behind his desk. Stuart seemed to him to be the consummate executive. Tall, trim and athletic, dark hair, stylish slightly tinted glasses, expensive suit, Italian leather shoes. A good-looking man, and for a moment Derek thought what a shame it was that the man was sterile.

  “How was your flight last night? On time, I hope? American Airlines I think you said?”

  “Yes, thanks. Landed almost bang on 9:00. That doesn’t happen too often with American these days.”

  “Time is precious, so we’ll get right to our discussion if you don’t mind. How does your wife, Alexandra, feel about your pursuit of a contract with Triple-L?”

  “She’s excited, Derek. We’ve both been very frustrated the last few years, and when I finally discovered I was shooting blanks, we decided we had to do something. Your name came up in the circles I run in. Triple-L seems to come highly recommended.”

  Derek smiled. “We are very special. And we only deal with special customers. Your credentials seem impeccable, and your wife seems like the perfect candidate. In the scheme of things, of course, she’s far more important than you are. We’ll have to do extensive background checks on both of you, you understand, but, on the face of it we should be able to do business.”

  “Can you explain the process to me, Derek?”

  “Yes, of course. I trust that what I tell you will remain confidential, even if we don’t accept you?”

  “You have my assurances on that.”

  “Well, that’s good. Because, just to get an unpleasantry out of the way early, if we found out that your assurance was not honest, we would be in touch with you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “We don’t like publicity, Stuart. If your mouth happened to be loose, we might have to shut it for you. Is that blunt enough?”

  Derek noticed that Stuart swallowed hard at that comment.

  “Understood.”

  “I hope so. It’s best I be honest with you up front, as we expect you to be with us.”

  “Okay, can you tell me what’s involved?”

  Derek rolled his chair back and crossed his legs.

  “Here at Triple-L, we are committed to producing the most superior physical and mental specimens. When you purchase sperm from us, you are receiving quite simply the best. We have been in business for over fifty years now and we only have fifty sperm donors, with almost a quarter million specimens frozen. Some of those have been frozen for decades. Most of them come from German or Danish donors.

  “Our philosophy is that the most genetically superior humans will make the best leaders, whether they lead in politics, science, business, or the military. And our philosophy is also that the humans we produce from our sperm must be male. We will not produce female babies.”

  Stuart frowned. “Why is that?”

  “Because this is meant to be a man’s world, and we want it to stay that way. While we do have some women in our ownership group and on our board, even they agree with this philosophy. In leadership positions, there is no room for emotion and sensitivity. Leaders must lead. Period.”

  “How the hell do you accomplish this? Is genetics that advanced now that you can determine only male offspring?”

  “Yes, we can. A little basic science lesson. The father always determines the sex of the baby. The mother will always have an X chromosome in her egg. The father’s sperm can either have an X or a Y chromosome. If the sperm has an X, the baby will be XX—female. But, if the sperm contains a Y chromosome, the baby will be XY—male.”

  “So, how do you know?”

  Derek folded his hands behind his hea
d and continued.

  “A sperm has twenty-three chromosomes. One of those will be an X or Y. The remaining twenty-two chromosomes are called autosomes, and have nothing to do with the gender make-up of the baby. They determine other things like health, longevity, intelligence, etc.

  “The egg from the mother contains twenty-three chromosomes as well, but the gender chromosome for the mother is hard-wired at X. Only the sperm has the wild card of being either X or Y.

  “So, a normal human being will end up having forty-six chromosomes in total, twenty-three from the man, and twenty-three from the woman. These chromosomes contain the entire genetic composition of a human.

  “Sperm can be pre-screened as to whether or not it contains the X or Y chromosome, because each time sperm is produced it will be random. So, tests have to be performed on the actual sperm sample. But, this pre-screening isn’t fool-proof. Only sixty-percent effective.

  “So, we use what’s called a Pre-implantation Genetic Diagnosis. Several eggs are extracted from the mother, kept in a refrigerated state, and then fertilized with sperm from our donor. After three days in the lab, several embryos will have developed from this fertilization. Our scientists then determine the gender of the embryos.

  “The strongest male embryo is then chosen, and the others are simply discarded. The chosen embryo would then be implanted into your wife. At that point, we’ve done our job and you and Alexandra can look forward to the birth of your healthy baby boy.”

  Stuart shook his head. “Astonishing. While, at the same time, quite simple.”

  Derek nodded. “Yes, I guess one could say it is simple. Really, anything is simple if the objective is honorable. Because, the task is made simple by determining to just overcome any obstacles. Without obstacles, anything is simple.”

  “So, at that point, your involvement ends?”

  Derek chuckled. “Well, not really. First of all, we charge no fees for our service. We only ask you to reimburse our expenses, which are around $100,000 per specimen. And before we perform the service, you must sign a contract agreeing that certain mentors will be involved in your child’s life. Not much involvement until college age, though. At that point, your boy must attend West Point, and if proven to be as superior as we expect, he will be chosen for an upper echelon group at West Point called the Honor Guild.

  “From that point on, his future will be determined for him. You and your wife will have no say in his future. He will be guided along a career path that will guarantee wealth, power and success.”

  Stuart leaned forward in his chair. “What if we don’t agree to that when the time arrives?”

  Derek mounted his elbows on the desk, and rested his chin on top of his clenched fists.

  “You don’t want to contemplate such a thing.”

  “What?”

  “You’re clearly a clever man. A contract is a contract. There is no way out of your contract with us. Well, that’s not entirely accurate, there is a way out, but it’s not one you’d wish to choose.”

  Stuart frowned. “What are you saying?”

  Suddenly there was the sound of a little beep on Derek’s computer.

  “Excuse me for a second, Stuart.”

  He clicked on the email reply that he’d just received from his contact at American Airlines. He read to himself: “Derek, no one named Stuart Manning was on our flight last night, nor this morning or any other flights from Chicago to New York in the past week. I trust this information will be helpful to you.”

  Derek looked up at Stuart and smiled. Then he slid his hand underneath the top of his desk and pressed a little red button. Within mere seconds, two burly security men burst through the door of the office.

  The geneticist commanded, “Take him.”

  28

  From that moment on, time for Sandy flew by in a flurry of motion and pain. The two men grabbed him from behind before he’d had a chance to react. They yanked him out of his chair, and one of the men slammed a thick fist into his belly.

  As Sandy doubled over in pain, his hands were pulled behind his back. Then they were restrained by plastic handcuffs around his wrists.

  Derek calmly walked over while the two men held him erect. Strangely, he was smiling at him, but the smile betrayed something else under the surface. Confidence, for sure, but also a certain kind of evil.

  “Who are you, Stuart Manning?”

  Sandy stared blankly at him, still out of breath from the punch to his gut. He wondered what had blown his cover. Everything seemed to be fine—right up until Derek had excused himself to look at his computer. Had he received some kind of alert?

  “I’ll repeat the question. Who are you?”

  Sandy spit out the words. “I gave you my name.”

  “No, what’s your real name?”

  Derek crooked his finger at one of the men and another punch landed in Sandy’s mid-section, this time around the kidneys. Sandy gasped.

  “We can do this all day, if you want.”

  Sandy’s mouth was as dry as sandpaper, and he felt weak in the knees. If one of the thugs hadn’t been holding him up he was sure he’d be lying on the floor by now.

  He sputtered. “My name…is…Stuart Manning.”

  “Okay, we’re getting nowhere on the name thing. Let’s try another question. Why are you here?”

  All of a sudden Sandy felt faint. His chin drooped onto his chest, and, as he gazed down at the floor, it started spinning in tight little circles.

  Almost like background noise, he heard Derek address the men.

  “Can’t do any more of this here. Take him to our place in the Bronx. I’ll follow shortly in my car. Use the stretcher to take him down in the elevator to the garage. Cover him with a blanket so no one sees that he’s been bound. I’ll give him a light sedative so he keeps his mouth shut in the elevator. And put on white lab jackets so you’ll look like emergency personnel.”

  The next sensation Sandy remembered was the jab of a needle in his right forearm.

  Then…blackness.

  *****

  When he came to, everything was a blur. His eyes felt like there was some kind of film over them, but gradually they began to focus.

  His captors had taken off his fake glasses, presumably because they intended to start working on his face now that his belly was mush.

  He noticed the glasses sitting on a little table beside him. Sandy was actually glad to have them off—they were annoying, even though the lenses were just clear glass.

  Vito had given them to him, saying they would help disguise him a bit more, particularly with the tinted lenses. They would hide his distinctive blue eyes.

  He was sweating from his scalp, either from stark fear, or maybe because of the black die in his hair. Ever since Vito’s men had applied the die, his head had felt sticky and hot. He hoped that with his scalp dripping moisture that the die wouldn’t drip along with it.

  For the moment, he was relieved to know that he was still somewhat disguised, particularly with the molds that Vito’s men had applied on the insides of his cheeks to puff out his face a bit. Sandy prayed that once these goons started punching him in the face, he wouldn’t choke to death on the mold stuff.

  He glanced around the room he was in. It was clearly some kind of storage warehouse, although quite small, maybe around 1,000 square feet at the most. One wall had several filing cabinets stacked against it, and another wall had boxes piled high to the ceiling.

  The floor was cement, and the ceiling was unfinished with exposed pipes and beams. There were four windows, but they were blacked out. There was a double metal door on the window side of the room, and a single door at the back. He recalled hearing Derek mention the Bronx, so he presumed that was where he was now.

  The handcuffs were off. Instead he was now duct-taped across his chest and over his thighs, holding him tigh
t to a chair. His ankles were also taped together.

  There was no possibility of him being able to use either his hands or his feet in defense.

  Made Sandy wonder if they knew what skills he had. Whether they knew that if he was unencumbered he would be a lethal weapon. He thought back to Derek’s sudden change in attitude after looking at his computer. There must have been some warning about him.

  Although, he didn’t think that Derek knew yet who he was—otherwise, he would have no further use for him. He wouldn’t be sitting in this chair right now. No, the man wanted to know why Sandy had scammed him. Why he went to such trouble to get an interview.

  And, Sandy began chastising himself for taking such a chance. What was he thinking? Curiosity, at times, was a dangerous game to play. And he’d played himself right into danger. These people obviously didn’t fool around. When Derek said that everything about Triple-L was strictly confidential, he wasn’t kidding.

  Sandy knew he was in serious trouble.

  The front door opened and in walked the two goons who had accosted him back in the Manhattan office.

  The sunlight beamed in through the doorway, so at least he knew it was still daytime. He wasn’t sure, however, how long he’d been out. So, it was possible, he guessed, that it was already the next day.

  The men pulled up chairs and sat down several feet away in a corner of the room.

  Then the door opened again, and in walked Derek Schmidt himself. Clearly, the good doctor didn’t mind getting his hands dirty.

  He calmly strolled to the corner where his men were sitting, and dragged another chair over, placing it directly in front of Sandy.

  Derek sat down and crossed his legs. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and lit up. He held it out to Sandy.

  “Would you like a puff?”

  Sandy shook his head.

  “Good for you. A terrible habit. I must give it up one day. Funny that a doctor like me would smoke, huh? But, you know, life is short, and I know all the genetic probabilities of contracting cancer from smoking. In my case, the chances are slim, so I’ll indulge.”