by Andy Graham
“Please, sit and listen for a while.” Bethina gestured to the chair opposite her.
“I’d rather stand.”
“I insist. This conversation will be better seated.”
“After the trick you just pulled with Chester and me, this better be good.”
“Sit.”
He dragged the chair away from the table, the metal legs screeching and clattering on the stone floor.
“Did you know I hated my mother?” she said.
“What? Why’s that important now?”
“Please, just listen, Don’t interrupt. It’ll be easier like this.”
He poured them both a drink. Chester could wait, there was something going on with the president. Bethina’s mood looked promising, pliable. Should he bring up his case for the war on Mennai? His plans for the bomb?
“My mother took away the one shot I had at a normal childhood. My father doted on me, tried to give me everything she wouldn’t. The classic parent-child relationship.”
Listen, that’s all he had to do. Keep his mouth shut and listen. He could work out what this meant later.
“My dear father was cornered by his devotion to her and me, trapped by the need to do the right thing while keeping me happy. A love-struck, manipulable fool. A father who would do anything for his family.”
One of the dogs placed his head in her lap, leaving a trail of saliva across her dark coat. In the background, the VP could hear the steady thrum of the choppers protecting the tower, one enforcing the no-fly, the other the no-drone zone.
“Ma’am?”
Bethina was holding her breath, fingers deep in the dog’s fur. He’d seen the president in all kinds of situations, with all manner of people, from recalcitrant directors to upset children and murderous dictators. He’d seen her control a press conference with a whisper, and send a man to his knees in one of the rare moments she’d truly lost control. He’d never seen her like this, regretful bordering on melancholic.
“It was David that persuaded me to let you use your Captain Electric for the military,” she said.
“Prothero? I didn’t know that.”
“I was against it at first, thought it set a dangerous precedent. So far, it seems to have done more good than harm.”
“I don’t see what your father has to do with David Prothero and Captain Electric? Are you throwing random facts at me to try and unsettle me?”
She took the glass he offered her, turning it between her fingers, staring at the light that filtered through the wine and stained her fingers crimson. “I’m afraid not.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“Can’t you work it out?”
“What’s going on?” He took a gulp of his wine. It sat in his stomach like a rock.
“Did you know your adoptive father thought you weak for failing the army aptitude tests?”
The drink spluttered out of his mouth. The gentle swerve of the conversation had jackknifed.
“David and I pulled whatever strings we could, but your physical scores were too low.”
“My adoptive father?”
54
Genes & Diseases
A gurney loaded with fire extinguishers slammed into the glass wall. Blue sparks streaked across it. Lind was sitting on his haunches, eyes fixed on the shuddering glass. With each crash, a fine rain of dust showered down and the cheering got louder.
“Twins,” Lind said, “in particular identical twins, are the genetic equivalent of gold dust in research, especially if some of the ethical issues can be negotiated. A young, healthy individual is worth twice any of the waifs and strays we usually get. Most of those subjects have been beaten down by life or the poor genetic hand they’ve been dealt.”
Ray felt the bile rising in his throat. “Interesting way of valuing people.”
“Please, spare me the sanctimony. You’re in the military. Science is supposed to be impartial, just like you legionnaires. We’re both tools to reach the truth, no? You would take a life to save a life.”
An exposed wire in the bottom left corner of the wall glowed bright white. The glass wall shuddered again as it was rammed by the gurney.
“If I assist one person to die to give a better life to millions, is it really that bad?” Lind asked. “And if that person is terminally ill, aren’t they helping humanity by dying purposefully?”
A number of guards ran past the door, too preoccupied to notice what was going on in the room. Ray pointed his baton at Lind. “And?”
“We have various projects going on here.” Lind pushed himself to his feet and tapped his desk-screen. “Some minor research into vaccines, less addictive analgesics than opioids and so on. Most of our resources have been dedicated to what’s called the Population Project. The president tasked us with finding a cure for some of the diseases that are making a comeback.” He took a deep breath and rushed the words out, dry-washing his hands. “And recently, I was required to devote the rest of our facility to this.”
The pictures of Rhys on the wall-screen were replaced by a document, the title in bold lettering. “A Targeted, Reverse-Engineered Disease Intervention Based on Genetic Markers Specific to the Mennai Population of Crops,” Lind said.
“I can read, Lind.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I hated it when my teachers read slides out, too. I’m not sure how people think that makes them ‘educational facilitators’.”
“Get on with it.”
“OK, OK. That was the official take. If you lose the last two words you get the real title. We were trying to recreate certain disorders in humans that had been eliminated by medical progress. The VP wants a dirty weapon, a genetic bomb that would leave those from Ailan untouched.”
Ray felt sick to his boots. “That’s possible?”
“Nothing’s ever 100 percent in science but we’re close. The more homogenous populations abroad are easier to target. Ailan and Mennai are much trickier. There’s been so much cross-pollination that the issue of race is almost a moot point. However, I think we cracked it. There’ll be some home casualties but that’s war, right?”
“I should kill you for this.”
“Someone else would just take my place. As for me?” Lind’s face darkened. “Why did I do it? Why did I put up with this, break every medical oath I took?”
A guard rapped on the window of the door. Lind didn’t react. Ray tapped his wrist with the baton. He wanted to get out of here. He was not going to leave here with Rhys, that much was obvious, but there were other things to deal with, both inside and outside this facility.
“The research for the president and the VP allowed me to conduct my own project. My family are carriers of an autosomal recessive genetic trait.”
“Keep it simple.”
“I am.” Lind looked genuinely puzzled.
“Simpler then.”
The tapping on the door became knocking, followed by shouts to the guard’s colleagues. Ray looked around the room for something he could use as a weapon other than the baton. He regretted leaving the rifle in the closet below. Even as a visual deterrent it would have been better than nothing, the military equivalent of Dr Swann’s stethoscope.
“OK, preschool level,” said Lind. “My wife and I are carriers. I tested her when we got together, without her knowing. She was fine; the mutation manifested later.” He ticked the points off on long, trembling fingers. “I wondered initially whether it was something to do with her work in the nuclear industry, but the condition is too widespread for that to have been a meaningful coincidence. That was a painful lesson in correlation versus causation for me.”
“Lind!”
“I’m getting there. We passed on the condition to our children.”
“Children? How many do you have?”
“Four.”
“You have four kids? How did you get round the law?”
Lind shrugged. “I paid someone off. We all use what we have to get what we want. You’re using brawn now, I used bri
bes then.”
“And your family?”
“The statistics didn’t work out for us. All three of our daughters are carriers. One is dead, another dying, the third, as yet, is asymptomatic. My wife called this morning to tell me our middle daughter took a turn for the worse last night. That’s where I’ve been all day. Much as I didn’t want to leave the facility once I learnt it had been breached, I’m not sure how much time she has left. Pregnancy seems to aggravate the disease. It’s some kind of hormonal trigger we don’t understand. That was part of my private research. The condition is spreading amongst society.” He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “My youngest daughter is pregnant, too.”
The knocking on the door got louder, insistent.
“And you were hoping to find the cure, to relive the glories of your bodyball playing days? To patent it, make millions and have the condition named after you? Your own Academy of Excellence maybe?” Ray’s words came out like knives.
“No. It wasn’t like that! I promise. I wanted to survive, I want my children to live.”
The glass wall boomed. The patients, now sitting on the makeshift battering ram, shielded their eyes at every impact. Ray fished the last of the grey boxes out of his belt pouch and moved Lind away from the desk-screen. The scientist didn’t seem to notice. He was chewing at a small scar on his upper lip.
“I wanted my children to live. I want my grandchildren to live,” he repeated quietly. “Do you want to beat me with that baton of yours for that?”
“For that? No. For everything else? Yes.”
Miescher’s face appeared at the door, streaks of eyeliner running down her face. The lock beeped once as a line of lights flashed from green to red. Her triumphant smile faded.
“James Lind Junior was the only one of my kids who wasn’t affected. He was a poor bodyball player,” Lind half-smiled to himself. “Terrible in fact, but he showed promise as a scientist. The military was his idea. I was against it. I thought he was too soft. I was against him using his first name instead of our family name, too. Why wasn’t he proud of his surname? I made so many sacrifices for my family – it should have been a badge of honour.”
The door slid open a fraction.
“Maybe he wanted success with a clear conscience,” Ray said. “We’ll never know now. But you would be proud of him; he played a pivotal role in unleashing the storm under the mountains.” Lind’s jaw went slack as Ray whispered in his ear. “We found Eddie Shaw, or rather he found us. That ‘gentle giant’ took out an entire squad of the 10th Legion’s finest. We were lucky to survive. Most of us. James Junior’s remains were carried out in a bag. I guess the VP didn’t tell you about that great scientific advance?” He patted the older man on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, son.”
The door was forced open another few centimetres. Ray plugged the last of his grey cubes into the desk-screen. Lind was sitting motionless, hugging himself. Ray placed the tip of his baton in a crack in the glass wall, where a thin wire sparked. He turned back to the red-eyed man by the desk. Tears were rolling down Lind’s cheeks.
“I think some of your congregation want to hear another one of those wonderfully rational sermons of yours.”
Ray flicked the switch on the handle. He threw his arm over his eyes. A grid of blue-white light screamed through the air. Cracks appeared, chasing each other along the wires. A fragment split and fell, followed by another and another. The wall disappeared in a charred waterfall of purple and black shards. They clattered to the floor. At that moment, the door burst open. Miescher hobbled in to the lab, ankle clumsily strapped. She was followed by a handful of weary guards.
As madness seized the room, Ray slipped out as silently as he had come in. The patients were too focused on Lind and Miescher to notice him go.
55
A Question
The VP had goosebumps. He’d spilt wine on his trousers, too. The president’s dogs couldn’t decide if they wanted to play-fight or groom each other. These details were important; they were real. He focused on the woman in front of him. The woman who had just flipped his life upside down. He tried to block out the story she was telling him, willing the words to mean something else, willing his real father to be someone else. What Bethina had told him between tears had ripped apart any sense of identity he was trying to cling to.
She buttoned up her silk shirt, the material not so much banned since the Revolution as tacitly discouraged. She covered the small pair of wings tattooed on her left upper breast. “We, the leaders of the Window Riots, added a small detail to the wings, using photochromic ink. Every one who joined the cause had the tattoo. Only three people knew of the modification. It enabled us to keep track of who was who very easily. Luke Hamilton, the president at the time, never figured it out. He could never work out how we were always one step ahead of him.” Bethina rubbed the mole on the tip of her nose, that nervous tic of hers that had always irritated him. “The tattoo was another of David’s ideas; without him neither of us would be here now. The tattoo also means I’ve been able to track people down since the Window Riots to ensure their selective amnesia is genuine.”
“You slept with him?” was all he could manage. Loathsome as the thought was, it was easier to deal with than the revelation about his parents.
“‘A common bed and a common cause,’” she said softly. “I wish I’d never said it, and he never let me forget it. David didn’t let me forget a lot of things about the Window Riots. That suited him well. He has . . . had,” she corrected herself, “a talent for twisting historical facts to suit his argument.”
“I thought you said you wanted to get rid of Prothero, when we were by the river.”
The president’s head snapped round. “I said no such thing! I said my life would sometimes be easier without him, just as it would sometimes be easier without you. But we are stronger together. David was part of that strength. Regardless of our history, having him in opposition gave us legitimacy. David—”
The VP buried his face in his hands. “No, stop. Don’t say his name anymore.” The thought of what he had just done to Prothero corkscrewed through his brain. “His post of Spokesperson wasn’t just to keep the people happy, was it?” He was trying to deal with this in an orderly way, but no matter how hard he tried to reshuffle his questions, they were choosing their own order, ducking the main issue.
“No. It wasn’t.” One of the dogs came over and nuzzled her hand, the tender gesture at odds with its scarred face. It was an incongruous image. The type of picture the public wasn’t allowed to see very often. Something in his pocket clinked against the table leg. His fingers closed around the trophy he had taken off Prothero and brought to display to Bethina.
The VP had come here to gloat, to impress, to conquer. He thought he had taken care of Chester, Prothero and the Franklin family, and his succession was guaranteed. He despised everything the Franklins stood for: their contempt for the system, their rebellious nature, the undeserved fame of Major Rick Franklin. He hated them almost as much as the man he had thought was his father, and the man who had been his father. Go on, admit it, a dry voice rustled in his mind. You’re jealous of Ray Franklin, too. He’s everything you aren’t: athletic, brave and honourable. Just like the superheroes from the comics you used to read.
The broken glass of the pocket watch cracked under his fingers. In a few short minutes his meticulously laid plans had been shredded and lay in tatters at his feet. The woman who had done so, who over the years had at times appeared to be in two places simultaneously, was grinding the facts he had built his life on into myths.
“There was a time when David and I would have done anything for each other.” Bethina’s cheeks reddened. “It was a love fuelled by the illicit thrill of rebellion that only got sweeter with every victory. But the reality of ruling is a harsh shock when you actually have to make good on the promises and rhetoric. Giving you up was the hardest thing David ever did but Ailan needed a strong leader. You can’t have that withou
t balance or with a compromised history. You understand that.”
He pulled out the pocket watch. It had a smear of blood on the cracked screen. The three hands, two marked with a moon and one with a sun stood still. The president’s eyes widened when she saw it. “He didn’t give you that, did he?”
“No.” He couldn’t find the words to say anything else.
Bethina took a small knife out of her pocket. “Open it. The back.”
He dug the knife point into a worn groove under the winder and the back popped off. It clattered across the floor. The dogs watched it go, one of them letting out a low bark and rising into a half-crouch.
“Nothing is fixed, nothing is forever,” he read the inscription inside aloud. The first section had been the rallying cry Prothero had used many times.
“David first told me that during the Riots,” she said. “I’m not sure if it was a reference to the government of the time or our relationship. The watch was a gift from me when he was made Spokesperson. It was meant to be a joke. In retrospect, I think I was trying to make a point.” She pointed. “There should be a picture hidden inside it.”
The VP pulled out a small folded photo from the watch. Unfolded, it fit in the centre of his palm, the dog-eared edges curling in on themselves. He stared at the three people in the image, rage burning the tears in his eyes.
Prothero’s hair folded around his head in brown waves, a resigned smile on his face as he cradled the infant on his lap. The woman, the VP’s mother, his real mother, had her head bowed. Curtains of curly hair fell across her face. There was something familiar about her, something that grated on his already ragged nerves.
