The Empathy Gene: A Sci-Fi Thriller

by Boyd Brent

“Just a humble servant of the true faith.” He leaned over David and pressed a forearm into his throat. David's eyes and mouth grew wider as he struggled for breath. Peter applied more pressure and watched him … “Is this a Roman ploy? To infiltrate us?” He removed his arm and David coughed violently, crying out as the straps cut into his ribs. Peter raised an arm as if to press it into David's throat again.

  “Romans don't even exist where I came from!”

  “That is to be expected of a utopian future.”

  “Utopian? The future is hell.”

  “You lie. The Messiah has come, and his coming heralds a new dawn.”

  “There is to be no new dawn. At the end of days things are bleak. If there's any chink of light, you're looking at him. That bleak enough for you?”

  “Your blasphemy is ironic, as the charge the high priests have brought against our Lord is one of blasphemy.”

  “I'm not exactly a stranger to irony.”

  “You say you fell from the future. Why did you leave it?”

  “Not my doing.”

  “You were running from someone?”

  “Something.”

  “Its name?”

  “Goliath.” Peter's expression changed, and he looked perplexed.

  “You've heard of him?”

  “Next you'll be telling me your name is David.”

  “My name is David.”

  “David and Goliath.” The pairing sounded natural from Peter's lips, and anger flashed across his face. “You dare to take the name of David? You mock me?” He drew a deep breath, calmed himself, and added, “Tell me what you know of this second man? The man who fell after you.”

  “I know he was sent to kill me. Others will be sent until they succeed.”

  “Why?”

  “It's the effect I have on people.”

  Peter nodded. “How is it that you survived the fall and he did not?”

  Apparently he wasn't demented enough. “No idea.”

  “You have faith in God?”

  “I know nothing of your God.”

  “And Satan?”

  David shook his head.

  “You will not denounce Satan?”

  “Denounce him? I've never heard of him.”

  “In your future there is no belief in God or Satan?”

  “It's not my future. It's the future of humanity. And it's hell.”

  “Hell is where Satan resides.”

  “Then he changed his name to Goliath.”

  Peter stroked his beard. “You have brought hell to Jerusalem for some.”

  “Why? I only have good intentions.”

  “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

  “Any idea how I get off this road?”

  “There is no way off for you. And your greatest suffering awaits.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Nothing can prepare a man for crucifixion.”

  David did not know what crucifixion was, and he was not about to ask. “You said I've brought hell with me for some. Who?”

  “The witnesses.”

  “What witnesses?”

  “The witnesses to your arrival.”

  “The children?”

  “I will strangle their mothers first. They will be waiting for them at the gates of heaven.”

  “You're a real hero.”

  “Just a practical man in the service of our Lord. Mankind's deliverance cannot be put in jeopardy.”

  “There will be no deliverance. Not if you kill me.”

  “You have the devil in you, but he'll flee soon enough … once you are nailed to the cross.”

  Nineteen

  David slept. He dreamed he was back on the 77th floor of Needle 261, standing at the window in his room and looking towards Central Dome. As a younger man, the possibility of a better life for those inside had provided him comfort, but now he knew that life had led to unimaginable suffering in Petri. He turned from the window and saw Tyburn propped up on his bed. His neck was a sinuous thread and his chin lay against his collar bone. David knew he was dreaming, that the scene was not real, but even an imagined conversation with his one-time ally was welcome.

  “Hello, Gull. You are the closest thing I have to a friend. And have ever had.” Gull's head remained still, but his eyes swivelled and looked askance at him. His lips barely moved as he said, “Thank you, David. How have you been?”

  “It's good to hear your voice. Things … they have not gone well since you left.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. I did not leave intentionally. I was murdered.”

  “I know. There was nothing I could do. I was helpless. I've been helpless ever since.”

  “Goliath keeps you weak because he fears you, David.”

  “He toys with me.”

  “No, David. He fears you.”

  David sat on the single chair at his table. He felt suddenly cold, and folded his arms. He remembered something. “I've escaped. To Earth.”

  “I know. It is quite an accomplishment.”

  David shook his head. “I fell off the edge of a mountain.”

  “You look sad, David.”

  “Everywhere I go people want to kill me.”

  “You must fight back. Terminate them if necessary. You must not die.”

  “Fight? I can barely walk.”

  “Be patient. Seize your opportunities.”

  “Opportunities? You must have been talking to Winston.” David sat back. “These people … they intend to have me executed in place of their Messiah – a man they think will banish darkness and bring about a utopia. We know that isn't going to happen. That there is only darkness at the end of days.”

  “There is still light inside you, David.”

  “Really? I am not feeling much empathy toward my fellow man.”

  “You will always defend those who warrant it.”

  David looked into Gull's ringed, deathbed eyes. “I have encountered no humanity on Earth, Gull. None. It is a primitive time. No technology, just misplaced assumptions. Is this to be my fate? To die as part of a delusion?”

  Gull replied in a voice that was not his own. “Wake now. You must eat. Wake.” David opened his eyes and gazed into the face of a young woman. Her eyes were large, the shape and colour of almonds, and her skin was olive and flawless. She held a cloth, which she dipped in water and dabbed at the dried blood on his cheeks. David watched her like she was something imagined. It was the first time he'd seen compassion in the eyes of a living person. He'd seen it in Winston's eyes, and in the eyes of the dying soldier, but she was flesh and blood. David stated quietly and uncertainly, “You would rather not hurt me.”

  The woman smiled, revealing dimples. “I would rather not hurt you.” She put down the cloth and picked up a piece of unleavened bread. The bread was paper thin and crispy. She scooped up some liver paste and placed it against David's lips. “You must eat. Bite.” David had never seen food, let alone tasted it. The smell made his mouth water. He took a bite, and a savoury taste exploded inside his mouth and clung to his tongue like napalm. His eyes watered, and he wasn't sure whether he was in heaven or hell. The young woman smiled. “Swallow.” He did so and decided it was heaven. He ate all she had, and then said he was going to be sick. “I will get a bucket. You have eaten too much too soon …”

  David slept. He woke to find the same woman sitting beside his bed. She was reading a book. The straps that secured him to the bed had been removed, but his wrists and ankles had been bound. He watched her toy with her hair as she read silently from the book. Every so often her lips moved as she recited a passage. David asked her name.

  She closed the book. “Martha.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “The Torah.”

  “What's it about?”

  “About?” She lay the book on her knees and spread her arms wide as though she beheld the universe. “Everything.”

  “It fits inside one book?” Martha put the Torah on a table, and removed a
cloth that covered a bowl of clear soup. She stood and helped him to sit up on the edge of the bed. She picked up the bowl and a wooden spoon. “What is it?” asked David.

  “Chicken broth.”

  “I've heard of chickens. Never seen one. Only in a book.”

  Martha lowered the bowl and frowned. “You have never seen a chicken?”

  “There are no animals where I come from.” She removed the spoon from the bowl and placed the bowl in his bound hands. She cupped her hands and lifted them to her mouth and simulated sipping as though he'd been born yesterday. Then she placed her hands on her hips. “I will show you a chicken.” She went to the door and tapped three times. The door was opened by a man the size of a haystack. He lowered his head below the door frame and beheld David as a fan beholds a star fallen from grace. Martha stepped past him and he closed the door. David stared down at the bowl of soup in his hands.

  By the time Martha returned with the chicken, the bowl was empty. She put the chicken down. It stood on the spot, its head thrusting forward repeatedly like it suffered from OCD. David looked at the chicken and then at the empty bowl, and back at the chicken again. Martha laughed. David did too, then he rubbed his jaw. “I just used muscles I never knew I had.” The chicken began searching the room for grain. David watched it. “You have sheep here?”

  “Of course we have sheep.”

  “What about good men?”

  “Many.”

  “Are the people that hold me here good men?”

  “They are the best of men.”

  “Then why sacrifice an innocent man?”

  “No man is innocent. All are sinners in the eyes of God. Those who embrace Christ need not fear death.”

  “So why bathe my wounds? Why take care of me?”

  “We are not cruel. We are not Roman.”

  “You hate the Romans?” The door opened. The man with the staff came in with another – a beanpole of a man who looked as troubled as David felt. The man with the staff looked at the chicken, pecking around the edges of the room. “Get it out of here, Martha!”

  “Sorry, uncle. He has never seen a chicken.” She scooped it up deftly and placed it under her arm. David watched her go, her and the chicken, and then looked at his new visitor. The beanpole stared at him as a man stares at a long hoped-for solution. He stepped closer to David and said, “He could fool Mary the mother!”

  “No, not Mary, Judas. But the Romans? Yes. The high priests? Probably.”

  David looked up at Judas. “I hear you've done things you are not proud of.” Judas drew a dagger from beneath his robe. “You judge me? You who are not even a person.”

  “Then what am I?”

  “A mould. A copy of our Saviour, sent to us from His Father to do with as we please.” The door opened and another man came in. Judas looked over his shoulder and said, “Rabbi.” He slipped the dagger back inside his robes.

  The rabbi had a kind face and countenance, and his first words clashed with both.

  “The only knife to cut this man today will be my own.” He placed his bag on the end of the bed and looked down at David's naked body. David glanced at the bag. “What are you going to do to me?” The rabbi smiled reassuringly and indicated David's groin with his eyes. “It is nothing. A cleansing administered to babies. You are a relation of Jesus of Nazareth?” The man with the staff said, “Get on with the task for which you have been summoned. And discuss it with no one. You have already been advised of the consequences of a loose tongue.” The rabbi wiped some sweat from his brow and reached into his bag. He took out a Torah and opened it at a bookmarked page. As he read, he jerked his head and shoulders back and forth in a way that reminded David of the chicken. The words he said were uttered under his breath, and David could not make out a single one. The ropes that bound his hands and ankles were immovable, but that did not stop David pulling on them now.

  The man with the staff re-entered the room. Haystacks followed with another man, and these two took up positions at either end of the bed. The rabbi fell silent and put down the Torah. David could hear him searching for something in his bag.

  “Just what is it you intend to do to me?”

  “It is an act of covenant between God and man., as told by God to Abraham on Mount Sinai.”

  “I'm familiar with the place …”

  “It is performed on babies on their eighth day. Some do not even cry.”

  David felt his manhood being examined. “You can't be thinking of cutting that?”

  “I will be removing only the foreskin.”

  David looked up into Haystack's smiling face. “Gull. Please. If you can hear me, give me strength …”

  The rabbi continued to examine David's genitals. Absently he said, “Is Gull your word for God?”

  “Gull!”

  “Try to relax. It will be over before you know it.” Haystacks and the other man leaned on his David's legs and shoulders. As the knife sliced through his foreskin, the room began to spin …

  He awoke in an empty room, and sat bolt upright. He cupped his bound hands over his genitals and rocked back and forth and cursed the rabbi and every other son-of-a-bitch that ever drew breath. He drew a deep breath of his own, and realised he felt more awake than he'd felt in a long, long time.

  Twenty

  David pressed an ear against the door and listened. A discussion was taking place on the other side: Peter was talking to a man he called Simon. The man they sent for information on their Messiah's injuries. In his mind's eye, David could see them bent over a table, looking at Simon's sketches of their Lord. They were so engrossed in how best to match David's face to that of their Messiah (who had been savagely beaten by a Roman called Sirius) that they raised their voices in enthusiasm. Simon said, “He has a large gash above his right eye … and you see here … his left cheekbone is undoubtedly smashed. It protrudes below his eye.”

  “And this?”

  “They have struck his shoulder repeatedly with an iron bar. It is red and swollen … a lump the size of a plum.”

  “That is important. Could be Sirius’s pet project.”

  “They have broken several ribs down his left side. Three sit at strange angles below the skin.”

  “Yes, yes. But his nose cannot look like this…”

  “Sirius delights in breaking it.” David's hand went to his own nose. A word came back to him – a word used by Richard after he was removed from the Shadow Strand. It was a word that felt appropriate to describe the men discussing his forthcoming injuries: motherfuckers.

  Despite David's attempts to remove the rope that bound his ankles, it remained secured by a seemingly impenetrable series of knots, as did those that bound his wrists. He hopped away from the door and reminded himself that every style of hand-to-hand combat devised by man had been planted in his memory. And if he could inflict some pain on these two … motherfuckers … before they reconstructed his face and body, it seemed only just. David hopped back and stood beside the door. He slowed his breathing and cast a line into his sea of combat knowledge. Gull's knowledge. In his mind's eye a myriad of offensive and defensive positions for a bound man appeared. His heart rate increased, and with it a feeling of strength.

  The bolt on the other side was slid back and the door opened. David threw his weight against the door, and it struck Peter's shoulder. Peter stumbled to his left, the door bounced back and David powered it into Simon's face. Simon cried out and stumbled backwards out of the room. Peter produced a cosh from beneath his robe. David hopped back close to the wall and beckoned his attacker. Peter smiled at the bound man. “You can receive your injuries on your back or on your feet. It makes no difference to me.”

  “Feet.”

  Peter moved forward with cosh raised high, and was not surprised when David hopped back. What did surprise him was David's sudden position halfway up the wall … and the feet that slammed into his chest. Peter stumbled back into Simon and they landed together on the floor. David fell upon them, his bo
und fists thudding down furiously as though trying to relocate anything that protruded from the floor down into the basement. He found this immeasurably therapeutic, and was therefore much aggrieved when someone with immense strength hoisted him into the air. Haystacks stood with David under his arm like a bundle ready for market. David shifted his weight forwards, threw his legs up behind his back and looped his bound ankles over Haystack's head, choking him. The giant's face turned purple. He stumbled into the centre of the room and wobbled back and forth like a man waiting for someone to yell timber. David attempted to shift his weight so that he fell onto his front. It was no use. Peter would be spared the trouble of breaking David's ribs.

  David dreamed that someone had punched him in the face. Not hard. Maybe it had been Clara? Or Martha? No, surely not Martha. He opened his eyes and looked into Peter's swollen face. Peter observed him for a beat, raised an eyebrow, and then punched him in the face again. David flew at him, but straps cut into his broken ribs and he yelled something indistinguishable to them both. Peter wiped some spittle from his cheeks. “I am an artist … and you are to be my canvas.”

  David looked at Peter's black eyes, his broken nose, and busted lips. “I'm a bit of an artist myself.”

  “No. You are a lunatic.”

  “You're the one doing the torturing.”

  “I do only what is necessary in the service of the Lord.” He went to the table by the wall and surveyed a number of objects there, including Martha's Torah. He did not reach for the Old Testament, but an iron pipe that he smacked into his palm. He replaced it and reached for a larger one. David felt his left shoulder twitch. Peter glanced at David's shoulder as though it had just addressed him. A swelling the size of a plum, David thought, and he closed his eyes. He was about to tell Peter to get on and do whatever he felt he had to, when the pipe struck his shoulder. David winced but would not give his torturer the satisfaction of crying out. Fingers clasped his shoulder, probing, searching … and then the pipe struck him again and it felt as though his spine had been shunted out of his backside.

  David woke to feel fingers probing at his left side. A thumb was pressed between two ribs midway down, followed by the thud! thud! THUD! of a hammer and chisel as they splintered and caved his ribs …