The Genesis Glitch

by Stewart Ferris

  ‘I can get you a laptop, but I can’t tell you about the auction. Only my boss knows the details. Dealing with the mafia was highly illegal. ESA can’t be seen to be involved in this kind of people-trafficking. My boss locked his computer in his cabin.’

  ‘Then you must obtain it for me.’

  ‘Don’t ask me to do that! It’s more than my job is worth. I’ll get you a computer, but it won’t be my boss’s.’

  ‘Then I must speak to him about this.’

  ‘You can’t. He’s on the sub. He’s down there, looking for Halford. It’s very intensive work, and he’s not going to want to talk to you about your friend. I’m sorry. Wait here. I’ll get you a computer.’

  ***

  ‘How many?’ asked Madison. She strutted restlessly up and down the dirt path outside Ratty’s squalid room, phone clamped to her ear with one hand while she swiped ineffectively at flies with the other. ‘Twenty-seven? Seriously? Shit.’ She ended the call and picked up a pair of binoculars that hung on the wall. She could only make out specks on the horizon, but the quoted number looked about right.

  ‘What ho!’ chirped Ratty when she returned.

  ‘Honey, would you believe there are twenty-seven ships looking for that damn Halford?’

  ‘Does that figure include a vessel flying your colours?’

  ‘Sure. One. I got a ship. The Lone Star. Filled it with mercenaries, a sub, a crane, and a lab.’

  ‘Excellent. Every ship should have a dog.’

  ‘Laboratory, honey. But the French special forces are in the same waters. So is the US Navy, NASA, the Australians, Japanese, Chinese, Koreans, Indians, Burmese, and probably other guys like me, doing this for their own reasons. They’re scanning the seabed, looking for the damn pod that Halford crashed in. With that much competition I got a three point seven per cent chance of finding him first. It ain’t much, but it’s better odds than I had on winning that lottery. At least no one else is using the megaliths.’

  ‘Megaliths?’

  ‘Sure. The two granite standing stones, lined up on the hillside. You look across the tops of them and that’s where the end of the world kicks off.’

  ‘I was previously familiar with that legend, but by what means did you acquire this information?’

  ‘Same way I acquire everything, honey. I pay for it.’

  ‘So you’re looking for the Halford fellow? You do realise Halford is an evil, despicable piece of malevolence? Attempting civil relations with such as he is akin to attempting to befriend a volcano. And you seek this encounter as well hoping to achieve fecundation in the gamete department? Quite a schedule you’ve set for yourself, old spoon.’

  ‘What the hell was that shit?’

  ‘You mentioned the possibility of requiring assistance in the fertilisation department. What is it that you want to achieve?’

  ‘The biggest baby the world has ever seen. That’s what I want.’

  ‘Biggest? Surely genetic reality may–’

  ‘Not fattest. You know what I mean. The most famous, the most talked about birth since, I dunno, ever.’

  ‘With the one obvious exception, so celebrated in the western world that I need not mention it.’

  ‘Oh sure. Hell, obviously. I mean, that Kardashian baby goes without saying.’

  ‘Well, quite.’

  ‘And you do know I was kidding, right? I know you think I’m dumb because I don’t talk crap like you do, but I got a brain, for sure.’

  ‘No, I would never countenance such an opinion, be reassured.’

  ‘Right. Freak.’

  ‘Are you hoping, as part of this arrangement, to become the next Lady Ballashiels, per chance?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean a permanent romantic alliance. An irreversible wotsit before you know who. The setting up of a connubial chamber. Till death do us thingy.’

  ‘Spend the rest of my life with you? Hah! No offence, honey, but only in your dreams. It’s nothing personal, but I can’t stand you.’

  ‘Right. I see. Yes, that could in no way be construed as personal.’

  ‘Honestly, honey, I don’t think I could cope with spending any more time with you after we’re done. The accent I love, but that shit you keep saying, eek! It’s already driving me nuts. Are you deliberately trying to get me pissed by talking like that?’

  ‘Believe me, my intention is far from that which could be construed as contumacious.’

  ‘Aargh! Another piece of shit flies out of your mouth! Listen honey, let’s do this job, and I’ll let you fly.’

  ‘Awfully decent, I’m sure, however—’

  ‘But I wanna know what gives with you?’

  ‘I fear the lack of both specificity and grammatical accuracy in your question precludes a meaningful response.’

  ‘I don’t mean what are you afraid of. I wanna know why you’re such an asshole.’

  ‘Whilst your subsequent enquiry moves in the general direction of clarity, its premise is something with which I must strongly contend.’

  ‘Look, Eighth Earl, how come you talk like this? Saying all this crap? You really think anyone wants to listen to this shit? Talk normal or keep schtum, that’s what I’d say.’

  ‘Normally.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Talk normally. It’s better grammatically.’

  ‘You’re still an asshole. There’s always a reason for shit. What the hell could have happened to make someone into a babbling nervous-wreck shitbag like you?’

  Ratty fell silent. He understood the question and he understood the answer. He knew his feats of linguistic acrobatics were an affectation. He was fully aware that the effect on others would usually range from bemusement to outright annoyance. It didn’t make others feel good: it put up barriers. If anything, it seemed like he was attempting to portray an air of superiority, which was the last thing on earth that truly applied to him. The reason behind his hood of prolix idiocy was too ghastly, too terrifying for him to want to untangle the intricate weave that held it together. It was as if he had a filter between his mind and his mouth, turning simple thoughts into flippant pastiches of epic soliloquies. The filter had protected him since childhood. It had become part of his being. To lose it would, he feared, bring him into direct contact with the reality of the event which had come to define him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, uncomfortable with the simplicity of the words and sensing the mask falling.

  ‘OK, that’s good. And I’m sorry I called you a shitbag. But you’re still an asshole.’

  ‘I know, I know. Long story. Childhood trauma thingy. Coping mechanism. Stuck in that groove.’

  ‘Wow, talk about extremes! That was the shortest explanation I ever heard. I wanna know more.’

  ‘Please, my past isn’t a box of chocolates to be shared.’

  Madison pulled a ringing phone from her pocket.

  ‘This better be good news!’ she shouted, stepping outside. ‘No. No, no, no! What? You’re shittin’ me!’ She rang off and hurtled through the door. Grabbing a key from her pocket she fumbled with Ratty’s handcuffs and released him. ‘It’s all gone to shit. We have to split.’

  ‘But I was approaching something almost akin to enjoyment with regard to the rather intimate intercourse we were sharing.’

  ‘Hey, you!’ she shouted at the bodyguard, ignoring Ratty. ‘It’s over. You can go.’ She thrust a bundle of cash into his hand and pointed at the door. With undisguised relief on his face, the man left. ‘He’s actually a local librarian,’ she told Ratty. ‘Would have been a hopeless guard, anyway.’

  ‘To whither are we—’

  ‘No time. Shut off that sewage outflow you call a mouth.’

  Ratty looked at the surroundings of the place in which he had been briefly incarcerated. A dusty clearing enclosed on three sides by dark, dense foliage. A hill descended from the fourth side towards agricultural land and, further down, the sea. Two megaliths stood on the hillside, one behind the other.
The granite slabs bore the marks of passing eons, lined with graceful cracks and the pale patina of mossy life clinging to the irregular surfaces. Ratty stood behind the monuments, lining them up against the sea with his eye. A plume of smoke at the precise spot indicated by the megaliths suggested the presence of a ship, invisible to the naked eye. Nearby were signs of other ships. Aircraft droned slowly above them.

  He heard an engine and turned. Madison sat astride a monstrous motorcycle. She patted the rear seat of the matt black Harley-Davidson. Ratty’s mouth opened in horror at the prospect.

  ‘You expect me to ride that mechanical steed with you?’

  ‘I still need you. Come on!’

  ***

  A sprinkling of snow dusted the formal gardens of Chateau de Chambord, creating the appearance of a vast wedding cake; an effect broken only by the incongruous presence of the container lorry in which Ruby had arrived. Ruby paused to appreciate the view before descending the broad spiral steps to the basement laboratory where Philipe had promised her the chance to witness a scientific miracle.

  Philipe was waiting for her at the base of the stairs.

  ‘The double helix staircase,’ he said. ‘Designed by Leonardo da Vinci. It was as if he were modelling DNA in stone. An appropriate setting for what we are about to do.’

  ‘Most impressive,’ said Ruby. ‘And what are you about to do?’

  ‘We will challenge the capability of DNA to reanimate following a period of induced dormancy.’

  He opened a door to the laboratory. An operating table sat in the centre of the vaulted room, surrounded by life support and surgical equipment that seemed completely anachronistic in the simple, ancient grandeur of the castle cellar. Next to the table was a glass tank filled with seawater. Between the table and the tank was a hoist from which dangled wide straps. People in scrubs and masks were busy with a dozen tasks, while others sat and watched. Through a glass door Ruby could make out another room, similarly equipped, but with the addition of the kind of plastic isolation booths that she associated with the outbreak of plague.

  A noise returned her attention to her immediate vicinity. A medical team was wheeling in an apparent patient, but Ruby could see that this was no ordinary procedure. The patient was encased in a body bag, completely sealed.

  ‘Reanimate DNA?’ asked Ruby. ‘You mean you have a dead body you want to bring back to life?’

  ‘There is a certain finality about the word dead,’ said Philipe. ‘There comes a time when language must evolve, as must our way of thinking about these matters. The patient is, by some definitions, dead, but the preservation that was carried out on him will, we believe, be reversible.’

  ‘Why did he die in the first place?’

  ‘He needed a new liver.’

  The mention of a preserved body in need of a liver sent a chill through Ruby, a sensation exacerbated by the cool air of the underground laboratory.

  ‘How long has he been preserved?’

  ‘Not long. A few weeks,’ replied Philipe, thus confirming Ruby’s fears. ‘He was shipped over from Guatemala along with the other items obtained by my government. According to our tests, it appears that he has been embalmed according to the technique of the ancients.’

  ‘It’s Otto, isn’t it? You’re going to bring back Otto Mengele.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? What you might be unleashing?’

  ‘We have the full co-operation of the Guatemalan president.’

  ‘Orlando? He’s here?’

  A man on the far side of the room slowly stood up, with the aid of a walking stick, and removed his surgical mask.

  ‘I am,’ he said, shuffling towards them.

  ‘Orlando? You look like shit,’ said Ruby. She no longer needed to fear this man. The events of the past months had withered him.

  ‘Thank you, Ruby. Plain speaking, as ever,’ said Orlando. ‘And how is my twin brother?’

  ‘Still calls himself the Patient,’ she replied. ‘I saw him yesterday before I was shipped to France. He seemed fine.’

  ‘Did you know we have a sister, too? Her name is Monica. From Germany. In one month, I lose a father and gain two siblings. Strange times, indeed. But part of my father lives on within me, let us not forget.’

  He tapped where he had been cut open and Otto’s liver transplanted into him. He winced. The wound was still healing.

  ‘Orlando, do you really think it’s wise to bring back Otto?’ asked Ruby. ‘He almost murdered your brother. He drugged and manipulated you all your life. You can’t possibly want him to live again.’

  ‘Otto has no liver,’ said Orlando. ‘And he will not receive one. If the reanimation is successful, he will live only a few days.’

  ‘That would be an act of immense cruelty to anyone else,’ she said, ‘but I can’t help feeling it’s appropriate for Otto.’

  ‘Ruby, whatever I feel about him, I had no chance to say goodbye. This is my chance.’

  The murmurs of those fussing around Otto’s corpse hushed. The body was transferred to the operating table and unwrapped. The stench filled the room in an instant. The amorphous black slime gave little hint that a human body lay beneath. As the compound oozed and slid, it appeared almost to be alive, as if it held in proxy the life force of the body it was preserving. Ruby covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Here, Ruby,’ said Philipe, offering her a surgical mask.

  She put it on, but the foul odours remained in her nose. Ruby stood back and watched as Otto’s remains were hoisted into the tank of seawater. The shapeless goo bubbled, as if the water had reached boiling point. The preservation compound lightened in colour, turning translucent before dissolving completely. The grim form of Otto could now be distinguished in the murky water.

  ‘How will you restart his heart if he’s submerged in the seawater?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘It’s a reflex action, apparently,’ said Philipe. ‘The key to the genesis procedure. As the seawater penetrates the lungs it reacts with the preservatives to create oxygen. The oxygen bubbles trigger a reflex in the lungs which causes a cough and a jump start to the heart.’

  ‘The doctors said it wouldn’t be possible,’ said Orlando, unable to take his eyes off the motionless body. ‘But Otto tested the genesis procedure. It works, but there are glitches.’

  ‘Am I the only one here who feels a bit like Dr Frankenstein?’ asked Ruby.

  Philipe and Orlando shook their heads without looking away from Otto. Still there was no sign that the procedure was working. Doctors stood by with defibrillator paddles, an oxygen supply and adrenaline-filled syringe. One of them attached sensors to Otto’s head and chest, and a monitor confirmed that there were no active indications of life within the body.

  ‘It takes a little time,’ said Orlando. ‘The chemical reactions within the body are slow and delicate.’

  ‘It is important that we get this right,’ said Philipe. ‘With Halford we have only one chance.’

  They stood in silence, watching Otto’s corpse through gaps between the assembled doctors. The seawater in the tank gradually ceased to fizz. The tank became silent and clear, its contents motionless. Ruby heard a heartbeat, and realised it was her own.

  The silence was broken by footsteps hurrying down the double helix staircase. A frantic woman ran into the laboratory. She was wearing cherry-red hair in a ponytail, a grey trouser suit and a dark expression. She skidded to a halt.

  ‘Stop!’ she shouted. ‘We’re too late. The North Koreans have found Halford and reanimated him!’

  While all heads turned to the unexpected messenger, the body in the tank convulsed and sat upright.

  ***

  ‘Release those ropes!’ called Madison.

  Ratty fumbled ineffectually with the mooring lines. The flow of the river kept them under tension, and their release would require the strength of someone who was used to lifting items heavier than a volume of poetry. Madison put the eng
ine into reverse to counteract the pull of the water. The ropes slackened and Ratty released them. The abandoned Harley-Davidson on the wooden dock rapidly shrunk from view.

  ‘There’s a lavatory, you see,’ Ratty told her as she piloted the small motor cruiser downstream.

  ‘I think it’s in the cabin,’ she replied.

  ‘I speak anecdotally. Almost parenthetically.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Obviously, there are many in the manor. Most of them are out of commission these days.’

  ‘Many what?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought I’d already specified. Many lavatories. But one was special. It was my refuge. It was where I spent most of my childhood days.’

  ‘How come? You had ass trouble?’ she asked, steering to the centre of the river to avoid the half-sunken wreck of a fishing vessel.

  ‘Equus asinus was not to be found on my estate,’ he replied. ‘My lengthy stays within this particular water closet were made bearable by the presence of a mini-library. Stuffed with my favourite volumes. It was a place where I could lock the door and escape the ghastliness of the world. When I walked in there it was like entering Narnia or Alice’s Wonderland, or like Jamie and his magic torch jumping into Cuckooland.’

  ‘I think you’re cuckoo. You’re saying you grew up in a bathroom?’

  ‘No, this wasn’t a bathroom. It was a lavatory. The significant difference pertaining to the absence of a bath.’

  ‘Hold tight,’ she said. The river was widening into an estuary. Waves rolled in from the open sea, lifting the lightweight boat and dropping it without care into nerve-jangling troughs. ‘This might get rough, honey. Go inside the cabin until we rendezvous with The Lone Star.’

  ‘But I was about to explain my childhood wotnots and the reasons why my pattern of speech is thusly of an affectedness.’

  ‘Later. We have to catch the North Koreans.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they’ve got Halford.’

  ***

  The Patient completed his online investigations and glanced at a news website. The ESA ship was swaying as the weather conditions deteriorated, and reading the small text on the screen made him nauseous. He noted that the bulletin contained no images or video, and it explicitly stated that no photographs would be released in connection with the story. And the Patient knew the reason.