Finding Arcadia

by Chesterman, Simon;

  Arcadia stops walking and turns to face Dr. Starr. “You said you created her—how? If Moira isn’t my biological twin sister, what is she?”

  Dr. Starr gestures to keep walking. “Like any twin, she’s a clone. But in this case a very special clone. It’s such a shame—there was a time when you could have been a part of this. But you’ve shown yourself to be a little too inquisitive for your own good and it’s time at last to clean up this mess.”

  He turns to the former substitute teacher. “And as for you, ‘Sophia Alderman’, ‘Ronald A. Shampie’, or whatever you now choose to call yourself—anagrams, really? What is this, primary school code hour? As for you, you were about to be given the keys to the kingdom, but you had to get sentimental. We could have overlooked the killing of Milton—he was a self-important fool. But to turn on us in this way over some pseudo-biological attachment is unforgiveable.”

  They reach a junction in the woods and Dr. Starr pauses briefly before indicating that they should walk straight ahead.

  “What keys to what kingdom?” Miss Alderman does little to disguise her contempt for Dr. Starr. “The aim was to maximise intelligence and resilience through environmental interventions. We have decades of research invested in this, with the potential to revolutionise education.”

  “You never did see the bigger picture.” The contempt is evidently mutual. “The aim isn’t merely maximising human qualities—it is transcending them. And we aren’t going to revolutionise education. We’re going to revolutionise existence.”

  “How?” Arcadia asks. “Your work is on biological anthropology—you write about trust and other human bonds that unite us. Your balloon thought experiment was all about the different ways in which we are connected to our communities.”

  “Yes, and you all got it utterly wrong.” He shakes his head with what appears to be genuine disappointment. “The poor old lady, the long-lost friend, the new sweetheart—each an example of a sentimental attachment that holds us back, that risks us being stranded on the island or crashing the balloon. A fitting metaphor for humanity’s predicament. You thought you were so clever giving control of the balloon to your friend, but if a novice pilot crashes the balloon then you are all dead. No, the only certain way to advance is to seize the balloon yourself and leave the chaff behind. You might choose to send a rescue party, but there is no rational basis for putting your own life at risk.”

  “But all your work about trust—”

  “Is focused on developing the means to avoid it retarding our growth!” There is real passion in his voice, a kind of fervour? Shades of the former Headmaster, but now holding a shotgun rather than a paperknife. “Medieval notions of morality have constrained humanity for too long. If we are to overcome our biological limitations then we must throw off such shackles and embrace our future.”

  “What future?” Miss Alderman scoffs. “You’ve created an unstable abomination. I’ve read some of the files on your Moira. Yes, she’s hyper-intelligent but also unstable. Without a constant supply of electrolytes, beta-blockers, and DHA her brain will start to shut down—in a few hours she would go into convulsions; in a matter of days she would have an aneurysm and probably die.”

  “You can’t make an omelette without cracking a few eggs,” Dr. Starr replies coolly. “Or, in this case, fertilising a few eggs and then using enzymes to manipulate sections of DNA before bringing them to maturity. Look, I can appreciate your personal attachment to Miss Greentree here, but surely you understand the profound implications of this research?”

  “I used to understand,” Miss Alderman says. “I thought I was part of something that would bring out the best in all of us, enable each person to achieve his or her potential. But that’s not enough for you; you want to go further and create something that is better than us. What you don’t realise is that such a creation is not one of us, is not reachable by us. This has been tried before and it always ends badly.”

  “Yes, yes”—he lowers the barrel of the rifle in his impatience with her answer—“I know the argument. Eugenics in the early twentieth century leads to selective sterilisation of women in the United States in 1907, and then selective extermination in Nazi Germany from 1939. But the Americans were misguided and Hitler was a fool. You can’t breed for intelligence through neutering and murdering.” For a moment it appears that sense is returning to his argument. But only a moment. “It’s inefficient,” he says. “Intelligence is not confined to a specific genotype like hair and eye colour. Your master race might well be blue-eyed and blond-haired, but thick as two planks. Selective breeding in humans also takes too long—it would be generations before you saw an appreciable impact. That’s why we have to intervene directly to edit our own genes and how those genes are expressed.”

  “You used CRISPR technology on Moira?” Arcadia asks. She has read about this gene-splicing technique. The odd acronym refers to a naturally occurring defence system used by bacteria to combat viruses, where specific DNA sequences contained within “clustered regularly interspaced short palindromic repeats”—or CRISPR—recognise, target, and cleave foreign viruses. Scientists then adapted the CRISPR process to target and modify specific sections of DNA in other organisms—including, it seems, humans.

  “You see?” Dr. Starr says to Miss Alderman, as if referencing some older argument between them. “I told you she could have been persuaded to join us.” He turns to her, the focus of his attention also shown by the direction of the shotgun. “Exactly right. We identified 1,300 genes that have a demonstrable influence on intelligence. These are the parts of our DNA that affect memory, attention, processing speed, reasoning, executive function, and so on. In a healthy person perhaps two-thirds to three-quarters are optimised. Less than that, or if there are mutations, and you end up with learning disabilities and other impairments.”

  Even holding a shotgun, he is enjoying the role of professor. “Using the CRISPR system,” he continues, “we edited Moira’s DNA to optimise these genes.”

  “How many of them?” Arcadia asks.

  He looks at her as though the question is a stupid one. “Well, all of them, obviously. And look what we achieved: an IQ off the charts—but also creativity and imagination. Did you know that she hid and distilled her own urine for a month in order to build the urea nitrate bomb that helped her escape? It’s truly remarkable.

  “So while you were interesting in your own way”—he shifts his grip on the shotgun—“the professor has determined that you are expendable. That’s why he told me that it was now time to engage in a little housekeeping.”

  The professor? “I thought you were the professor here.”

  He looks at her curiously. “Good things come to those who wait, Miss Greentree. I confess that it is a shame that this part of the experiment now has to end. I did enjoy getting to know you, briefly. But I suspect I’ll get used to teaching an even smarter Arcadia in due course. All right,” he says, a new firmness in his voice. “That’s far enough.”

  They have been walking for almost fifteen minutes and are beyond earshot of the school. Clearly he intends to kill them both, but even as she considers the limited options—fight or flight?—she must know the answer to one last question.

  “Didn’t Dr. Starr teach you at Oxford?” she asks Miss Alderman. “I thought he was your professor.”

  “What?” The former substitute teacher is still looking for a weapon on the ground or a way out, thinking that Arcadia’s attention might be misdirected. “He was one of my tutors, but we both had the same professor. Fun times, eh Lysander?”

  “Times long gone, Phaedra,” he replies, raising the shotgun. “Goodbye.”

  Phaedra? A shot rings out through the woods, but the gun has jerked to one side. “What the—” Dr. Starr cries, wrestling with a weapon that suddenly has a mind of its own.

  The opportunity lasts only a fraction of a second. Both she and Miss Alderman/Phaedra react as one, charging at Starr while the barrel points away from them. The priority i
s the shotgun, which they both grab and point skyward. Something sharp bites deep into her finger and a thin cord scrapes down her ear, but she ignores the pain as the two women fight the larger man for the gun. Arcadia knees him in the groin as a second shot rings out, scattering a handful of robins into flight above them.

  A fishhook. The metal point is ripped out of her finger as Starr drops the weapon. He staggers back, breathing heavily. A rustling in the bushes reveals Henry, fishing rod in hand, a barely visible thread running between him and the gun that he has just snared.

  Dr. Starr now faces three opponents and sees that the odds are not in his favour. He opens his mouth for some parting words, thinks better of it, and runs.

  Henry emerges from his hiding place, shaking with adrenaline and fear. In her own chest a surge of warmth accompanies the same feelings—adrenaline but also oxytocin? She runs up to thank Henry, to check that he is unharmed, and finds herself instead enfolding him in a wordless embrace. It is only a second but feels like more. When she releases him, it is unclear if he is more stunned by the near brush with death or the hug.

  “That was a terrible plan, Henry,” she says, more roughly than needed. “A fishing rod against a shotgun? And when you pulled on the barrel you only pointed it—” She swallows the rest of the sentence: a foot from Henry, pellets have ripped an ugly gash in the bark of a tree. “Please don’t ever do anything like that again. But thank you. Again.”

  She turns to Miss Alderman. “Phaedra?” The former teacher shrugs at the latest name. “What will Dr. Starr do now?”

  “Now? He’s going to flee.”

  With him goes her best chance of finding out what is really behind the experiment that is her life. He is bigger and stronger, but now unarmed. A weapon would be useful. The shotgun is empty, but Dr. Starr has also dropped Miss Alderman/Phaedra’s handbag. Arcadia reaches in and takes out the Taser. “May I?” The older woman shrugs again. “Henry”—she unlocks her phone, tossing it to him—“would you be so good as to call the police?”

  Then she chases after Dr. Starr.

  It takes Henry and her former teacher a moment to realise that she is planning to confront Dr. Starr by herself. Soon there are two pairs of footsteps following her, Henry panting on the phone as he gives the basic details: Priory School, shots fired, Lysander Starr on the run.

  Starr has a head start and longer legs, but she knows the woods better than he. If he is going to flee, he will want to take his car and may think he can get to it first. But retracing their path goes back to the quadrangle while another path on the diagonal—hypotenuse again—goes almost directly to the staff parking lot.

  In her hand the Taser feels lighter than a gun should. Made of plastic it has the appearance of a toy, though the 50,000 volts it delivers can bring down most targets. Less messy than Moira’s revolver.

  Dr. Starr and Miss Alderman had the same professor? If Starr wasn’t the professor she was looking for, then who was? Set that aside for later, the first question she will ask him after he recovers from neuromuscular incapacitation.

  The woods begin to thin; ahead she can see the tops of the school buildings. Dr. Starr will have come out ahead of her at the quadrangle and gone through the school grounds to the gate. She is a hundred yards from the parking lot.

  The electric charge is delivered through darts fired by compressed nitrogen. A Taser’s range is less than ten yards. She will need to get close enough to fire. If he makes it inside his car, the weapon is useless.

  From her left she sees him dash to a white Vauxhall. She is too late. There are few options as he gets in and slams the door shut. She could block the exit with her body, but he might simply run her down. The darts are metal but would have no impact on the tyres; the windows are wound up. If the police had arrived in time they might have cordoned off the driveway. The past unreal conditional again—the verb form of regret. Yet the chances of finding him remain good even if he flees the school. He has used his real name. He has attachments and connections. He will leave a trail that can be followed.

  She keeps running and is at the edge of the parking lot when he starts the car.

  Light travels nine hundred thousand times faster than sound. Children learn this during storms, counting the seconds between the flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder. The photons arrive almost instantly; their acoustic accompaniment is delayed by three seconds or so for each kilometre, a little more than four and a half seconds for each mile. There is also a perceptible time lag between sight and hearing: the optic nerve connects directly to the brain, while the human eardrum transmits sound via a complicated kinetic process involving the three smallest bones in the body.

  In this way she sees the blast first, then feels it, and finally hears it. The force of the car exploding knocks her down, shock waves deafening her ears and driving the air from her lungs. For the second time in as many hours, she finds herself on the ground looking up, trying to orient herself. The blinding light fades and soon Henry and Miss Alderman/Phaedra are standing over her, mouthing words without sound.

  She is shaken, but apparently unscathed. She raises both hands to count her fingers. Ten, but one is a deep crimson. Ah yes, Henry’s fishhook. She moves it away as a drop of blood falls onto her cheek, missing her eye.

  The ringing in her ears is overtaken by wailing. A siren. A police siren. A car screeching to a halt. Footsteps that she feels on the ground more than hears rush past her and there is a whoosh of a small fire extinguisher being used. What is left of Dr. Starr’s car is a skeleton, his own bones probably reduced to ash. In cremations it may take more than an hour for a body to burn, but that is with gas jets at a temperature of only 700 degrees Celsius.

  She tries to sit up and feels the hotness on her skin. Superficial burns.

  “Are you going to be OK?” she hears Miss Alderman/Phaedra asking. Or is she reading lips?

  “I’ll be fine,” she says, voice ringing loudly in her head. The police are here, medical care probably on the way. “I know that you have to go. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’ll always be worrying about you, Arcadia.”

  Leaning her head to one side, she watches the former teacher pick up the Taser and return it to her handbag, before disappearing into the smoke now enveloping the parking lot.

  Her lips are dry. Henry produces some water for her to drink, but it is hard to swallow more than a few drops.

  Familiar faces return with stern expressions.

  “What the hell just happened here?” Inspector Bradstreet is turning purple again. She resists the urge to giggle.

  Now a smell—motor oil. From Oxford. From the bomb that never blew up. This is what C-4 smells like?

  Constable Lestrange is there also. “Constable Lestrange,” she says, her voice echoing in her own head, which feels too light. “How good of you to come back so soon. I’m afraid I can’t offer you any refreshments this time. I didn’t find the code.” She is rambling. She never rambles. “Mother left me a code but I couldn’t find the answer, so I don’t have any money. I’m sorry.” A rush of emotion wells up, even as a heavy blackness comes down on her. For the second time today, consciousness slips—like sand through her—as if enormous black moths swooped down to envelop her in—

  Darkness.

  12

  BREADCRUMBS

  “Why sister dear, it really is most considerate of you to find your way to this particular hospital. Now I can visit both of my nearest kin and still be on the five o’clock in time for High Table.”

  She opens her eyes to regard her brother, resplendent in a suit tailored to fit his girth, perched on the edge of her bed once more. But not her bed, a hospital bed.

  “Mother’s hospital?” Her lips are dry. She has been sleeping or unconscious. The curtains are drawn. Is it night?

  “The one and the same.” His voice is suddenly muffled. The tinnitus in her ears is gone but she can barely hear him. Then she sees that Magnus holds a gift box of chocolates, open
and half-eaten. Her ears are fine; his mouth is full of chocolate. She laughs but pain in her chest cuts it short.

  He sees her discomfort. “The explosion caused a pulmonary barotrauma, though your chart reflects it more prosaically as ‘blast lung’.”

  Divers suffer barotrauma if they ascend from deep water without exhaling, the change in pressure damaging the lungs. In her case the change in pressure was caused by blast waves from the bomb.

  “Still,” he is saying, “better blast lung than burst lung, eh?”

  Neither of them is particularly gifted in the comedy department. He is trying to lighten the mood. She gives a weak smile.

  Her senses are recovering and she takes in the room. Similar décor to Mother’s, but more equipment. She has been changed into a hospital gown; bandages cover her arms and lower legs. Her neck is bandaged also, but her face is uncovered. Memories of the blast itself are hazy, but she must have raised her arms to protect her head.

  Of course it is not night if Magnus plans to take a five o’clock train. The room lights are lower than normal. There must be concern about her vision. The edge of the curtain reveals a shadow but it is cloudy outside. Hard to guess the time. Probably after lunch, judging from the crumbs clinging to Magnus’s jacket.

  But what day?

  She can turn her head slightly. The door is ajar and she can see the corridor, where a vase of petunias is wilting. They change the change the flowers every Sunday, so it is Saturday. She has been out for less than twenty-four hours. On a small table beside the window, a single sunflower brightens up one corner. Unlikely to have been Magnus, as he brought the chocolates. Has she had other visitors?

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Moira?” she asks her brother.

  “Ah yes.” He absently places a chocolate in his mouth. His soft features coalesce into an expression she has not seen on his face before—could it be shame? “Naturally, I did not know her by that name, nor that she was your doppelgänger. My search for Sophia Alderman led me into some dark corners of the Internet, where a month ago I chanced upon someone who presented themselves as a hacker named Möbius. He—or rather, as I recently discovered, she—claimed to have knowledge not only of Miss Alderman but also the circumstances of your and my births.”