The End of Ordinary

by Edward Ashton

  She climbed into the tank.

  “Devon?”

  She looked up at me.

  “Go save the world, Jordan. You’ll be fine. Come back and get me when you’re done.”

  She settled the helmet over her head, then reached down and pulled on what looked like a pair of hockey gloves.

  “I really don’t think . . .” I said, before realizing that with the helmet on, there was no way she could hear me. She leaned back into the padding, and crossed her hands over her chest. The lid slid back into place.

  “What are you doing?”

  I turned around. Micah was standing behind me, gnawing the meat from a foot-long bone. I shook my head.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Great,” he said. “Let’s go find Doctor Killsalot. I’ve got a full belly now. I’m ready to roll.”

  “Hey,” Marta said. “Where’s Devon?”

  I pointed to the tank. Marta scowled.

  “Seriously? We’re on a mission here.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s pretty much what I told her. Can you get her back out?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s like a washing machine. Once the door is locked, you’ve got to let it finish the cycle. She’ll be down for a half hour at least.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Micah said. “Not like she was gonna help us beat up your dad.”

  We both turned to look at him.

  “We’re not here to beat up her dad, Micah.”

  He bit a fist-sized hunk of meat from the bone.

  “Sure we are. Right, Marta?”

  “No,” Marta said. “I didn’t bring you here to beat up my dad, Micah.”

  Micah took a minute to chew and swallow.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “I’m confused. Why are we here then?”

  “Well,” Marta said. “Mostly because I wanted to cheese off our good friend Mike, and I knew Gina would stand him down. I hadn’t really thought too far past that.”

  “Huh.”

  Micah took another bite, and chewed thoughtfully.

  “Just a thought,” I said, “but as long as we’re here, and considering that we all agree that releasing an apocalyptic me-killing plague would be a bad move, maybe we could try . . . I don’t know . . . reasoning with your dad?”

  “Hey, yeah,” Micah said. “We could just go find him, and ask him to please consider not wiping out the human race after all. I’m sure he hasn’t considered the thought that releasing a deadly super-virus and killing every unmodified person on the planet would be upsetting to some people. Let’s go.”

  I raised one hand.

  “What about henchmen?”

  Marta turned half around.

  “What?”

  “Henchmen,” I said. “Does your dad have them? I mean, are we going to have to fight our way into his lair or something?”

  Marta closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and let it out again.

  “No,” she said finally. “My father does not have henchmen. He also doesn’t have a lair. He’s not actually a super-villain, Jordan. He’s just a little overprotective. Come on.”

  She turned on her heel, and started back toward the entrance hall. Micah looked at me.

  “Shall we?” I said.

  He gave me a mocking half bow.

  “After you.”

  “Seriously?” Micah said. “This is the lair?”

  “I told you,” Marta said. “It’s not a lair. It’s a juice bar.”

  We were on the second floor, at the end of what seemed at the time like miles of corridors and columns and arches and lots and lots of locked doors. The door in front of us, though, was unlocked and slightly ajar.

  “You’re sure he’s here?” Micah asked. “I mean, shouldn’t he be in a darkened study or something?”

  Marta pressed her fingers to her eyes.

  “Right. With his henchmen. Should he be smoking a cigar?”

  “Do you have a cat?”

  They both turned to look at me.

  “A cat?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s better than a cigar. He should be sitting in a big leather easy chair, petting a cat.”

  “No,” Marta said. “We do not have a cat. We also don’t have any leather easy chairs, as far as I know. Dad’s probably sitting at the bar, reading some crappy sci-fi novel on his tablet and drinking a smoothie.”

  Micah shook his head.

  “That’s not gonna work for me.”

  Marta turned to look at him.

  “Not gonna work for you?”

  “Right,” Micah said. “I can’t beat a guy up while he’s drinking a smoothie.”

  “No beating,” I said. “I thought we were clear on that.”

  “Right. Right.”

  “Look,” Marta said. “We’re just . . .”

  “Marta?”

  We all turned to look at the door.

  “Yes, Daddy?”

  “Would you like to introduce me to your friends?”

  24. In which Jordan learns not to fear the reaper.

  “Please, call me Bob.”

  I looked at Marta. She shrugged.

  “Uh,” I said. “Okay. It’s very nice to meet you, Bob.”

  Robert Longstreth smiled, and waved toward a glass-topped table set against the back wall of the room.

  “Sit, please. Can I get you all smoothies?”

  I shook my head. Marta shot him a look, then turned away.

  “I’ll take one,” Micah said. “Can you do blueberries and bananas?”

  Bob grinned.

  “Absolutely. Shot of protein?”

  Micah grinned back.

  “Nah. I just ate a horse leg. I’m good on protein.”

  Bob laughed, and stepped back behind the bar.

  How to describe Robert Longstreth? Well, he was shortish, and oldish, and brownish, and mossy, and he spoke with a voice that was sharpish, and bossy.

  No, wait. That’s the Lorax. This guy was definitely not the Lorax. The CEO of Bioteka was short, though, at least compared to Micah. I knew he was in his early fifties, but if I’d met him in the street, I wouldn’t have guessed he was much over thirty. He had a full head of dark brown hair, a voice that would have worked for the lead in a romance vid, and the easy grin of someone who knew that if he smiled at you, you pretty much had to smile back. He was barefoot when I met him, wearing a pair of baggy shorts and a shirt with a picture of a tap-dancing elephant on the front.

  As we settled in around the table like a happy family getting ready for a feast at the Beef Bazaar, I was really having a tough time remembering that he was a super-villain.

  “So,” he said. “This is nice. Marta never brings friends over. I was starting to think she was ashamed of me.”

  He handed Micah his smoothie, and took the chair between Marta and me.

  “I’m not ashamed of you,” Marta said. “It’s just hard to make a lot of friends when they’re constantly getting surveilled and interrogated and all.”

  Bob laughed. Marta did not.

  “Seriously,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve met these two gentlemen before, have I?”

  “No,” Marta said. “Not in person. This is Jordan Barnes, Daddy.”

  Bob’s grin widened, and he reached across the table to shake my hand.

  “Mr. Barnes! It’s great to meet you. Your father’s a good man. I’ve tried to hire him away twice now, but those bastards at GeneCraft have him locked up like the Count of Monte Cristo. Can I take it from this that the two of you have been hitting it off?”

  I smiled.

  “Yeah, we’re thick as thieves now.”

  “Very good,” Bob said. “That’s what I like to hear. I’m sure your father is pleased as well. He and I were both very hopeful that this would all work out.”

  Micah reached across the table to offer Bob his hand.

  “I’m Micah,” he said. “I’m Jordan’s boyfriend.”

  Bob’s grin faded, and his hand
, which had been reaching toward Micah’s, settled onto the table.

  “Boyfriend?”

  I nodded. Marta closed her eyes. Micah gulped his smoothie.

  “Marta?” Bob asked. “Can I speak with you in private for a moment?”

  “No, Daddy,” Marta said, without opening her eyes. “I didn’t bring them here so I could introduce you to my future husband.”

  Bob stared at her.

  “Security,” he said finally. “Send up two . . .” He glanced up at Micah. “Make that three officers, to the juice bar.”

  The wallscreen behind the bar came to life.

  The face on the screen was Devon Morgan’s.

  “Sorry,” she said. “No can do. You all need to chat.”

  The door to the hallway swung closed, and the bolt slid home with an audible click.

  We sat in silence for what seemed like a long time then. Bob’s jaw hung slightly open, and his eyes kept jumping from Micah, to Marta, to me. Micah just looked confused. Marta’s eyes were open again, and she was wearing a beatific smile.

  “So,” Bob said finally. “Is one of you going to explain to me what the shit just happened?”

  Marta and Micah both turned to me.

  “What?” I said. “I don’t know.”

  “You were with her,” Micah said. “What was she up to?”

  I shrugged.

  “Dicking around with their VR tank. I have no idea how you get from that to taking over their house.”

  Bob turned to Marta then.

  “You let someone into my VR system?”

  Her smile widened.

  “‘Let’ is a very strong word.”

  “Don’t blame Spooky,” Devon said, her voice coming from speakers in the ceiling and from the wallscreen simultaneously. “You’re the dolt who left his immersion tank unsecured. You didn’t even put a passcode on it, for God’s sake. And what’s with the tissue wall between the tank and your command systems? The rig at Hannah’s place was locked up like a bank vault, so I know Bioteka is capable of doing something right. Is this a nepotism thing? You hired an idiot nephew or something to handle your personal security?”

  I looked over at Bob. His jaw muscles were bunching in an alarming way.

  “I designed our personal security systems,” he said. “I didn’t trust it to anyone else.”

  Devon laughed.

  “Sweet. Should have gone with the idiot nephew, honestly. He couldn’t have done any worse.”

  Bob jumped half out of his seat then, and planted both fists on the table.

  “Listen,” he said. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but if you don’t return full control of my house systems right now, I’ll . . .”

  “You’ll what?” Micah said. “Kill Jordan?”

  Now it was Bob’s turn to look confused.

  “What?”

  “That’s right,” Micah said. “We know all about your Jordan-killing plans, and we’re not going to stand for them. Right, Jordan?”

  I looked over at Devon on the wallscreen. She shook her head. Bob dropped back into his seat. He opened his mouth to say something to Micah, then thought better of it and closed it again. He turned to Marta instead.

  “Marta? Honey? Why are these people in my house?”

  Marta sighed.

  “Sorry, Daddy. These were the best accomplices I could round up on short notice. I probably could have done better if you let me have more friends.”

  He looked back and forth between us, then back to Marta again.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s take this one step at a time. Why do you need accomplices?”

  “I already told you,” Micah said. “We are like ninety percent fully opposed to your plans to murder Jordan. Ninety-five percent, even.”

  “Quiet,” Bob said. “Grown-ups are talking now.”

  “Micah’s an idiot,” Marta said, “but believe it or not, he’s mostly right. We know about Project Snitch, Daddy.”

  Bob’s eyebrows came together at the bridge of his nose.

  “Project what?”

  Marta rolled her eyes.

  “Give it up, Dad. I don’t have anything else to do around here, so I snoop. I’ve heard you and Marco talking about Project Snitch more than once.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I think Hannah said that the real name for it was Project DragonCorn.”

  Bob’s face went blank.

  “Oh,” he said, after a long, silent pause. “Oh. Oh, honey. You mean Project Sneetch.”

  I looked at Marta. Marta looked at me. Micah finished his smoothie, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and smiled.

  “Uh,” Marta said. “What?”

  Bob sighed.

  “Sneetch, honey. Not Snitch. Sneetch.”

  “Oh,” Marta said. “I thought you were just making fun of Marco’s accent when you said it that way.”

  We all turned to stare at her.

  “Anyway,” I said. “Confusion-wise, I’m not sure that’s . . .”

  I slapped my palm to my forehead and let out a long, low groan.

  “What?” Micah asked. “Are you having a stroke?”

  “Sneetch,” I said. “Project Sneetch. Holy shit, dude. You think you’re Sylvester McMonkey McBean.”

  “Right,” Bob said. He leaned back, and crossed his arms over his chest. “See, honey? Your gay boyfriend gets me.”

  Micah and Marta had no idea what we were talking about, and unless your parents were aficionados of mid-twentieth-century classic children’s books, you probably don’t either. So, here’s a quick primer:

  The Sneetches, by Theo Geisel, tells the story of a society made up of fat-assed, flightless, beach-dwelling birds. Think sandpipers, only slower and stupider and more prone to eating hot dogs. They’re also super, super racist. Some of them have stars on their bellies and some of them don’t, and the ones with stars act like total douches to the ones without.

  So one day they’re all hanging around the beach being assholes to one another, when Sylvester McMonkey McBean, who’s sort of a chimp in a top hat, rolls up in a mobile tattoo parlor and offers to put stars onto all of the plain bellies. This torques the star bellies, because now they can’t tell who they’re supposed to be assholes to anymore. So, McBean offers to take their stars off for them. Then, he offers to take the stars back off the original plain bellies as well. After a few rounds of this, McBean rolls away with giant bags of sneetch cash hanging off his rig. How, exactly, these stupid birds came to possess so much lucre is left unexplored. The sneetches realize they’re all flat-ass broke now, and they can’t remember who they’re supposed to be assholes to anyway, so everyone lives happily ever after.

  “So wait,” Micah said. “You’re telling me that when Jordan gets chlamydius maximus, all that’s gonna happen to him is that he’ll get a star on his belly?”

  Bob sighed. Marta smacked the back of Micah’s head. Micah shot her a warning look. She smacked him again.

  “First,” Bob said, “the retrovirus we developed for Project DragonCorn doesn’t literally put a star on your belly, you dunce. What good would that do? What it will do, if everything goes the way we’ve planned, is make it so there aren’t any UnAltered anymore. Once DragonCorn has run its course, we’ll all be Engineered. Everyone will be the same. There won’t be anything left to fight about.” He paused then, looked at Marta, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he said, “Second . . . it won’t be just Jordan who gets it, Micah. The star-on machine wasn’t just for the plain-bellied sneetches. It has to be universal, or we’ll just have a new way to decide who to hate. We built features into this virus that will make it far and away the most communicable disease vector that’s ever been. At the end of the day, it’s going to run through everyone.”

  “Holy crap,” Micah said. “I don’t believe this.”

  “I know,” Marta said. “It’s one thing giving Jordan super-herpes, but this is just crazy. What were you thinking, Daddy?”

&nbs
p; “No,” Micah said, “not that. I mean, that’s stupid, but if you start with a stupid premise, you get a stupid result. What I can’t believe is that this idiot has been sitting here calling me an idiot.”

  Bob’s face hardened into a scowl.

  “Watch it, son.”

  Micah grinned.

  “Sorry, Bob. I call ’em like I see ’em, and you’re a dimwit.” He leaned forward, with his elbows on the table. It sagged under his weight. “You gonna beat me up now?”

  Bob looked like he’d just taken a bite of something he’d really like to spit out, but after looking Micah up and down, he leaned back in his chair and smiled.

  “Fine, big man. Here’s the premise I started with: six years ago, this world came awfully goddamn close to falling apart. You were eleven years old, and living up here in East Jesus, so you probably don’t know how far out over the precipice we were dangling before Daniel Andersen managed to reel us back in. He crammed that genie back into the bottle—just barely—but he didn’t kill it, and if we don’t change things up in the very near future, it absolutely will come screaming back out again. And when it does, there are better than even odds that we wind up turning this whole stupid planet into a charnel house. So tell me, my insightful young friend—where, exactly, has my reasoning led me astray?”

  I looked over at Micah. He caught my eye and winked.

  “Start with this, Bob. What do you suppose is the most likely way for a chimp to die?”

  Bob dropped his head into his hands.

  “Answer the question,” Devon said. “Nobody’s leaving this room until you’re all ready to hug it out.”

  “Right,” Bob said, without looking up. “I’ll go with banana poisoning?”

  “Huh,” Micah said. “That’s a good guess, but no. In fact, the most common way for a chimp to die is to be murdered by another chimp.”

  “Micah?” I said.

  “Shhh,” he said. “I got this. Here’s the point, Bob: there are no Engineered chimps.”

  “Marta,” Bob said. “Please . . .”

  “No,” Marta said. “I get it, Dad. He’s saying that if you make everyone Engineered, we’ll just find some other way to divide ourselves up into tribes and go at it. I mean, it’s not like everyone just lived in harmony until the first Engineered baby popped out, right?”