The God Organ

by Anthony J Melchiorri

  Matthew struggled to his feet and stumbled forward to right the liquid nitrogen cooler that had flown several yards in front of him. The box was still intact and locked.

  Plumes of smoke rose amidst bodies strewn across the lawn. Plastic chairs were mangled. One hung from a tree limb on the far side of the street from LyfeGen. Some people had their mouths open, yelling and screaming. Most milled around, shocked, scared, and bleeding. A couple of emergency personnel were already sprinting to the motionless bodies in the center of the crowd.

  Matthew’s head was still hazy as he regained some of his hearing. A couple of shop alarms pierced the muddle of desperate voices erupting all around him.

  Using one hand to steady himself against the brick building to his left, he checked to make sure that another woman near him was okay. Then he turned back to where the emergency personnel were loading people onto stretchers as the sirens of other ambulances screamed in the near distance.

  He saw a couple of paramedics loading a body onto a stretcher. Burns marred a familiar brilliant purple coat. Even from this distance, he could see the woman’s red hair darkened by soot and matted with blood.

  Jacqueline tugged at Matthew’s arms. “Let’s go! Come on!”

  He ignored her, his eyes frozen on the body of the red-haired woman. Jacqueline scooped up the cooler and rushed away from the scene with both containers balanced in her arms.

  Matthew screamed, “Audrey!”

  Chapter 36

  Monica Wolfe

  December 4, 2063

  Five meager digits symbolized the diminishing remains of Monica’s bank account. With the alleged terrorist attack on LyfeGen, anxiety filled her like a balloon fit to burst. Her thoughts churned as she tried to figure out what to do with all the data she had uncovered. Undoubtedly, what she had on her comm card was worth quite a bit of money to news agencies as well as the biotech companies that coveted LyfeGen’s guarded technologies.

  Money would be nice.

  She hadn’t applied for another job after leaving NanoTech. It wasn’t as if she’d expected a glowing personal recommendation from Sam, anyway. That jackass would go out of his way to blackball her. It amazed her that equal rights and progressive movements had propelled society, at least by law, so far forward over the past century, yet creeps like Sam still prowled virtually unchecked.

  Out the window of her apartment, glowing red Chinese symbols glared back from the take-out restaurant across the street. She imagined the greasy but satisfying taste of China Haste’s chicken lo mein and placed an order on her comm card.

  She watched out her window, guessing which delivery man leaving China Haste was going to visit her.

  Her thoughts turned back to the LyfeGen data and her bank account. Her savings would cover rent for a few more months, but her energy bills and the cost of food would still need to be satisfied. She toyed with submitting a few stories to NewSelects, which functioned solely on articles submitted by freelancers. That business model led to plenty of writers getting paid for submissions, but their pay-per-read royalties to writers was an amount so small it was hardly worth the time or effort.

  But she couldn’t waste her time on something like that. She needed to figure out how to bring her data up for auction.

  She had spent plenty of time organizing what she thought were the most important LyfeGen trade secrets, the ones that might reap her the greatest financial rewards. Yet that wasn’t the only project she had tasked herself with.

  Increasingly intrigued by the mysterious drunk-driving death of Dave Stemper, she had stumbled upon some strange connections that appeared to lead her down a rabbit’s hole of conspiracy.

  She had found out that Stemper had held a managerial position in the production line and oversaw the initial genetic design and replication processes responsible for each patient-specific Sustain update. He’d worked with someone named Whitney Brayson, who supplied him with processed and isolated samples of genetic data from patients. Stemper then used computations models to design the most efficient way of incorporating the new Sustain update genes with the patient’s artificial organ.

  He wasn’t alone in this endeavor. It appeared that he had the final say on access to the genetic data and the submission of genes for production, but a team of researchers and technicians with a variety of roles had apparently assisted him.

  Monica had scoured the data dump for all files that Dave Stemper had authored or edited. A pile of empty white-and-red cartons, some with lo mein noodles and bits of carrot still remaining, piled up around her kitchen sink in the process. The takeout paid off: she had found a strange inconsistency in Dave’s records of Sustain update gene production and integration.

  For a whole slew of patients, she noticed that there were distinct data points that had been erased and modified.

  Normally, it seemed Stemper would simply submit a single file with the genetic data necessary for the Sustain update to the production server. There were a couple of rare instances where he had to delete the initial submission and re-upload a new submission, but he always left a detailed note flagging the file that justified the resubmission.

  At first, Monica didn’t suspect anything unusual about the files that had been re-uploaded with no notes. Her investigations took her into a careful study of the entire production process, from Whitney Brayson’s receiving and analyzing to Stemper’s initial modeling work and then on to the actual production phase where the DNA was manufactured and packaged into delivery vectors. She noticed that despite the stringent records and quality control tests at each step of the way, all the production quality control tests simply referenced the file that Stemper had initially uploaded. Each check once the DNA was manufactured simply ensured that the encoded genes matched the single file that Stemper had designed.

  Monica realized that a file could be re-uploaded, whether Stemper knew it or not, and that file would be used for production. No one in the company (except maybe Stemper) would be the wiser. Those genes could be tampered with—hell, they could have been a replicate of chimpanzee DNA and the file would still be used to produce and package a Sustain update for whatever patient the update was destined for.

  Discovering this flaw in the system, she revisited the submissions for patients that had been re-uploaded without a note for explanation. Each patient was given a numerical identity to protect their privacy during production. Fortunately, Monica had access to another database that matched every number to a patient. She found a name for each of the anonymous patients.

  The list startled her. While a few were unfamiliar, she realized she had uncovered only the tip of the iceberg when one of the re-uploaded gene files belonged to Joel Cobb.

  At first, she assumed that Stemper had been the man responsible for tampering with the Sustain organs. He must have killed himself in the car accident because he’d felt guilty about the murders. Or maybe he’d wanted to make some kind of martyr statement and leave a legacy of death for people he had targeted.

  But that theory didn’t hold water. She couldn’t come up with a legitimate motive for Stemper’s actions.

  She also went through the dates for each of the re-uploaded files and found that several of them had been altered after Stemper had already died. Unless he was some sort of bioengineering ghost, she doubted he was responsible.

  She constructed a timeline of when each update file had been altered. Using this, she found a pattern that demonstrated, generally, that a person died three weeks after the Sustain update file had been uploaded. She deduced the time it took for fabrication, quality control testing, and physical delivery of the update to the patient’s physician.

  Once implanted, it seemed to take a week for the unlucky recipient of the update to succumb to a stroke. So far, each of the individuals who had received a Sustain update manufactured from a revised file had died. All except for Preston Carter.

  Unfortunately, the last re-uploaded file in the databases had been altered the same day that she received
all this data. While some of her software still lurked on a few LyfeGen employee comm cards and computers, most of it had been eliminated by antivirus software at the company. The few files that continued to transmit data to her often gave her nothing more than personal messaging correspondence, calendars, and marketing campaign data. The servers holding the databases with all the crucial data regarding Sustain organ and update manufacturing had been almost immediately cleansed of her crude Trojan software.

  Whoever had been responsible for the sabotaging of the genetic data files might still be uploading files and condemning Sustain patients to death by stroke.

  Monica felt a nagging responsibility. She should inform someone, anyone, that the killer was still out there and that killer was at LyfeGen. But if she went to the police with the data, she feared that they would start wondering how she’d come about such sensitive information. Data theft, especially of privacy-protected data, was a serious crime. Committing such a crime meant not only time in prison, but also a lifetime of distrust by all future potential employers. Being found guilty of grand data theft was a life sentence, regardless of time spent behind actual prison bars.

  Anonymously tipping off the police might actually be worse. She feared that the National Security Agency would immediately flag the tip as a potential cyber-terrorist threat just so that they could pursue an investigation to reveal her identity. Being flagged as a cyber-terrorist would be even more detrimental to her life than being convicted of grand data theft. She would have a stigma so pungent that she doubted she could even obtain a fast-food job, if any still existed.

  ***

  A knock at the door caused her to jump. She slid her hand across the holoscreen to hide all the cluttered tables and worksheets. While such a display would hardly be discernible to whoever waited behind the door, she refused to take any risks.

  She calmed herself, dismissing the nagging fear. She practically tiptoed to the front door and checked her comm card through the peephole application to see who stood on the other side.

  The projected image showed a familiar twenty-something man with messy black hair and an impatient look on his face. He was checking the address on the receipt stapled to a grease-stained paper bag.

  Monica cracked the door open just enough to take the bag from him. “Hi and thanks.”

  When he left, she reengaged the electronic deadbolt and secured her old-fashioned chain lock. The smell of the lo mein immediately filled the small living room of her apartment and her stomach growled. Still, she left the bag closed and reopened the holoscreen.

  After she had removed Dave Stemper from her list of suspects, she had listed everyone who had been associated with him and the production of the Sustain updates. Now, she gave priorities to individuals who had direct access to the production of the update, like Robert Carson, who ran the lab responsible for loading the viral vectors with the fresh update DNA, and Katherine Park, who manufactured the DNA.

  She also made a list of people who had sent correspondence to Dave Stemper over the company’s messaging system. Everyone was a suspect, including people who were simply in pictures or videos with the man.

  Her eyes dried out as she catalogued the names and identities. Words and names blended together. She blinked to regain clarity. A cryptic message amongst Stemper’s personal communications piqued her interest. It read: “This is bigger than you or me. You have to know that.”

  She guessed this message directly related to Stemper’s death, given the timestamp was just hours before his early-morning crash. His response to the message bolstered her suspicions: “I’m coming over now. We need to talk about this.”

  Maybe the sender knew Stemper beyond a working relationship. This intuition led her to develop an alternative method of research. Company information could only get her so far. With that in mind, she performed a reverse image search. She dragged Stemper’s image over to the search field and hit the search button.

  This produced a mass of results. She scanned through the images, looking for pictures of Stemper with other people. Preferably, people who worked at LyfeGen. If she could place a person at LyfeGen in images with him, she might be able to flesh out her theory of how someone had sabotaged the Sustain updates.

  She searched for anyone who appeared to have a close relationship with him. Such a relationship might be romantic in nature. Someone would have had to develop a relationship of implicit trust with Stemper to have abused his access to the Sustain update DNA files and databases. And that someone could use a romantic relationship and a little bit of sex to help convince him to give that person exactly what they wanted.

  Sure enough, she located images of Stemper with a particular woman. There were a couple of images of him with the mystery woman at Navy Pier and others on a Caribbean vacation with them smiling at the camera, the cool blue Atlantic behind them. The woman’s hair curled around her round but shapely face. Dark brown hair framed her almond eyes and petite button nose.

  Monica recognized the woman’s features from the LyfeGen employee databases she had scoured.

  With a quick scroll through the employee database, she quickly found her match. The woman in the pictures with Stemper was, undoubtedly, Whitney Brayson. Apparently, the woman who supplied the DNA to Stemper had also been in a romantic relationship with the man.

  Monica scrolled through pictures of them at various locations. One photo, more blurred than the others, showed them dancing at Blues, a popular but cramped bar known for its live music.

  She selected the link associated with the image. A display of other pictures popped up from Blues’ online image gallery. As she sifted through the images, she realized that the woman wasn’t Whitney at all, but someone else who shared Whitney’s dark brown hair. This woman had crisp blue eyes and a more angular face. No, it was definitely not Whitney.

  Perplexed, Monica went back to the rest of the images from her search. She confirmed Whitney’s presence with Dave in the remaining pictures.

  The puzzle pieces began to align in her mind. Whitney could have used Dave’s access to upload reconfigured genetic data to the Sustain updates. Everything Monica could find in Whitney’s lab work confirmed that the woman’s scientific knowledge and the lab tools at her disposal were the perfect means for her to construct the deadly genetic update models. Stemper might have known all along and simply lost his nerve near the end, or maybe he didn’t know what Whitney was up to.

  Either way, it appeared that he had threatened to report Whitney’s actions and she wouldn’t let him rat her out. Her sabotage must have extended beyond tampering with genetics into reconfiguring Stemper’s car’s autodrive capabilities. She had probably drugged the poor man or tricked him into getting drunk and sending him on his way, knowing he would take care of himself.

  But why would Whitney do something like that?

  Manipulative and cruel, Monica thought. The woman must have been mad. She could think of no better reason

  If this all was true, Whitney Brayson had to be stopped.

  When she initially began unraveling the LyfeGen mysteries and had begun to suspect foul play, she had thought the best route to expose the situation would be through the media. Accessing someone in biotech reporting would be crucial to her story’s believability, so she’d scoured the names that kept topping the biotech news streams: Beth Childs, Audrey Cook, and Amy Park.

  Every effort to find a direct line of contact to Beth Childs had failed. When she reached Amy Park, the woman listened to her story, but chose to do nothing with it. Following up only angered Park, and Monica received nothing more than a patronizing scolding. Audrey Cook had, at least, finally sent a message back indicating her interest in the story.

  That had just been a few days ago, and Monica had been too distracted to respond after uncovering the strange discrepancies in Stemper’s Sustain update database. She thought she could better convince Audrey of her story if she had more concrete proof. And now she might have it.

  She slumped
into her armchair, finally opening the carton of lo mein. The greasy smell of cheap Chinese takeout filled the room as she broke apart the wooden chopsticks that came with the food.

  Scrolling through the latest stories on the LyfeGen bombing, she realized she needed someone who could be her voice. Someone who would make people listen, someone with credibility. Her eyes widened at another of Audrey Cook’s stories published before the bombings.

  Yes, Audrey could provide the best route for spreading her story. The journalist had apparently kept a myriad of contacts throughout the biotech industry, some of them in sensitive positions within various companies. Throughout her young but blossoming career, Audrey had vigorously protected the identities of her contacts, refusing the direst of threats by industry executives and, occasionally, law enforcement officials. Monica admired her fierce ethical conduct and journalistic integrity. She wanted Audrey to tell her story.

  As she ate, she stared blankly at the poster of the Chicago skyline in front of her. Her thoughts drifted back to the news from early in the day. The bombings had shocked the entire country, filling the news streams.

  She’d avoided many of these streams as she uncovered the mystery surrounding Dave Stemper’s death and the altered Sustain updates. Now she saw that the estimates of the death count had climbed to a staggering fifty-five. Another hundred-odd people had been hospitalized and were being treated for traumatic injuries. She couldn’t eat any more and set the takeout box on her coffee table. Her stomach flipped over on itself.

  Reading and watching the news streams, she discovered that many of those who were hospitalized were not expected to recover from their devastating injuries. The list of victims was an unfamiliar collection of names until one name stood out: Audrey Cook.

  There was no telling the extent of Audrey’s injuries. Monica needed to find her quickly. She had made up her mind and wouldn’t let any other no-name journalist break this story. Whoever or whatever was responsible for the Sustain tampering, and now the bombing, needed to be stopped. She wanted the story to be told, to have an impact.