by C. P. James
“Of course you are,” Geller said. “And who’s your friend here?”
“Brynn,” she cooed, extending her hand. Smooth, tan hands that had never known a day’s work tapered down to manicured nails in a suggestive shade of pink. Geller took it and lingered just for a moment on her middle finger as she pulled it away, allowing his gaze to move slowly upward from her waist and directly into her bright blue eyes. He gripped the chairs to either side of him and pulled them back from the table.
“Well, let’s all get to know each other better, shall we?”
Geller didn’t board the plane until almost 9. His head hurt and his mouth was fuzzy. Brynn was exquisitely eager to please, and Royce seemed content to watch. He participated toward the end, in a way that should have bothered Geller but didn’t. The point was, everyone got what they needed.
He slept almost the entire way, and when he turned on his phone on the approach back to GIG, he had 7 new messages from Baz. The first few were of the, “What have you learned?” variety, but the rest were more like, “Where the fuck are you?”
There also was one from Erik. It was only a couple hours old.
“Call me back right away. I don’t know what to tell Baz.”
Baz. In his frantic rush to find out what went wrong and be at Lyle’s side, he’d neglected to keep Baz informed about what was going on or even where he’d gone. Even he knew how shitty that was. He called Erik and said he’d visit Baz personally; he didn’t bother asking if Erik had learned anything new.
Like all the higher ups at GIG, Baz lived right on the sprawling mountain property, but not in the same area. His place was in the far northwest corner, in an area Geller considered unappealing. It was extremely modest for his salary, maybe 2,000 square feet, and fenced in by Douglas firs that blocked most of the light. Baz was enigmatic and a loner, but it was a bit much.
He pulled the Range Rover into a little gravel parking area at the end of the turnaround, near a fresh pile of brush Baz had gathered for disposal. He was the kind of guy who would leave GIG after a long day and look forward to the sweaty simplicity of manual labor. Moments later he appeared from behind the corner of the house wearing dirty jeans and a flannel shirt, dragging a train of dead branches. He wordlessly tossed them onto a pile, then pulled off his leather gloves as he faced Geller.
“That’s quite a pile,” Geller offered cheerily.
Baz looked him up and down. “I might say the same.”
“Listen, I know I should’ve gotten back to you right away, but—“
“You were busy. Erik told me. Relaxing trip?”
“Lyle isn’t well.”
“I know. I’m sorry to hear that. But we have problems of our own.”
“Erik filled you in?”
“As much as he could.”
“Is there somewhere we can sit?”
Exasperated, Baz gestured for Geller to follow him around back. There was a large patio with a fire pit at the center, and they took chairs opposite each other with the pit in between. Over the course of the next several minutes, Geller told him the unvarnished truth: The Cure had caused two of Perfecto’s genes to switch places, a behavior they didn’t predict. Programmed cell death was taking place on a massive scale, across all tissues. They couldn’t know for sure at this point if it was something unique to Perfecto’s genetic makeup or another factor. Geller’s guess was that it was linked to physical maturity, when cells naturally began to perish more quickly than they were replenished. But they couldn’t know for sure until they ran more tests on more people.
Baz sat quietly, not reacting, staring down at the cold fire pit. Neither of them spoke for a while. Baz was doing the math, ruminating over all the times he had expressed concerns over the pace of their development. He was thinking about how he had been railroaded by Geller, as much in deference to his genius as by force of personality, and how he had believed so purely in the former.
“You need to tell the president what you just told me,” Baz said, finally.
“I will, as soon as we know for sure whether—“
“You know for sure. Even after all these years, you can’t be straight with me.”
Geller sighed. He did know, or felt like he did. Baz was right: If Geller’s gut was accurate, the world they knew had ended, and in the one that came next, they would not be heroes.
20
Much happened at GIG in the weeks before Baz finally returned to work. Geller sent tissue samples off to the handful of universities and institutes that had the expertise and equipment to corroborate their findings, which they all did. None knew the full context, however, since Geller didn’t want anything reaching the president before he could get there. He had to brief him, the surgeon general and the CDC right away, but his first stop was to see a US Senator.
Constance “Connie” Earle was a political superstar, a black woman from Michigan rumored to be a front-runner for the next Democratic ticket. A woman of faith, she trusted in science, but never in the same way she trusted God. To a large extent, that understanding had helped get her elected to public office. It hadn’t always been that way. When she and Stephen, her late husband, wanted to start a family they were told the prospects weren’t good. Stephen was dead-set against adoption, and so they prayed. Months turned into years. Finally, her 40th birthday looming large, they sought out the best fertility doctor on the East Coast. It was expensive, rigorous, emotionally and physically taxing, and success was not assured. But after 18 months of shots and tests, it took.
By then the Cure was as common a shot as DTP, and after all they’d endured to conceive, it seemed like a smart insurance policy for the tiny, fragile life they’d coaxed into existence. Jayla was three months premature, weighing barely three pounds at birth. They’d been warned of that possibility, given Constance’s age. For five agonizing months, Jayla was kept alive though respirators and the skill of the neonatal unit at Bethesda. Though she thanked God, she also knew science had done most of the heavy lifting.
Geller came alone to her office. He didn’t look significantly older than the first time they’d met at GIG, when she was a senator and pregnant with Jayla, who was 11.
“Connie,” Geller said, extending his hand and forcing a smile.
“Brent. You look like you just got off the slopes or something.”
“It’s the mountain air. Nothing so drastic as taking care of myself.”
She chuckled and motioned for Geller to sit after he turned down her offer of water.
“Well, when I’m told that America’s most famous mad scientist asks to see me about a matter of national security, I clear my plate.”
“I do appreciate it. I know it’s short notice.”
“So what’s going on?”
Geller outlined the situation carefully and thoroughly. It was along the lines of, We made this thing to save everyone, and it looks like it’s going to kill everyone instead. So, maybe reconsider your lunch plans.
She scrutinized him for several seconds before responding, as though searching his expression for some hint of a prank, or a suggestion that what he’d just said was a worst-case scenario, not the truth. He was stone-faced.
“My daughter …“
He shook his head. “I’d love to be wrong, but she’d be affected like everyone else.”
“But this has only happened to Dr. Montes’ son so far, right? And he was the first one treated, so why can’t we come up with a solution before it affects everyone who—“
“No, see, the reason the treatment was administered in vitro was because the cells were still forming. It was possible to alter the DNA then, but adults have trillions of cells, all specialized. It’s the reason gene therapy hasn’t proven very successful. Now, obviously we're working around the clock to identify the proteins that are causing this and synthesize a treatment, but even if we could, it would take … years.”
“Years,” she breathed. Behind her eyes he could see a tug of war between senator and mother. They
became glassy for just a moment, but she blinked it away.
“You said, ‘even if we could.’ You don’t believe this is fixable, do you?”
Connie worked in a bullshit factory all day, every day. Geller thought he should spare her more of it.
“No.”
Geller felt compelled to go on, but remained silent. Constance rose and paced, her arms folded tight. He tried to put himself in her shoes, to appreciate the full complexity of her emotional pain at that moment, but he realized it was folly. He allowed her several moments to consider all he’d said. It felt like a long time before she spoke.
“They’ll need someone to blame for this,” she said.
“I know.”
She shook her head as she moved toward a window. “They’ll blame you, but you’re not responsible. Everyone had a choice to make, and we messed with nature. If this is the price for that, it’s … steep. How many, when it’s all said and done?”
“If I’m right, and there’s nothing to be done, we’ve treated almost 22 million people.”
“Christ Almighty. That’s an entire generation.”
It was clear she was trying to be strong and senatorial, but all that was out the window. She was only thinking about one person at that moment.
“I’m on my way to brief President Randall at the White House, but I thought I should come to you first.”
She said nothing.
“I’m so sorry, Connie. We’ll do everything we can.”
Geller left, and Constance Earle, who in six years would become President of the United States, fell to her knees.
Part II
2050 – 2067: The Long Dark
21
Constance silenced the evening news with a wave of her hand and laid on the bed, savoring the emptiness of the room. The number was a few thousand larger today. That’s all they ever needed to say. Really, they didn’t even need to say anything, because it wasn’t news anymore. The news used to be the milestones—hundreds, then thousands. Now there was just the number, like a doomsday clock in reverse.
11,837,448.
They’d stopped trying to put it in perspective. It wouldn’t—and couldn’t—ever approach the 1918 flu pandemic's total deaths. But it was worse for the United States than that ever was. It didn’t matter that it was man-made, and with the noblest of intentions. What mattered was the toll it would take. The mortality rate was 100 percent.
Right away, she understood that her faith in science had been misplaced. It had helped give Jayla life, but sometime in the next few years it would take her away. She blamed herself as much as anyone, but not so much for trusting in science as failing to acknowledge God’s role. More than anything she was angry, but in some ways the anger was a comfort. It was something she could understand and control in a world that seemed divorced from reality.
It wasn’t just that the Cure had already killed so many; it was their demographics. The youngest to die were about 23, the very oldest 26. The life expectancy for anyone who didn’t receive the treatment was nearly 85. By the time it was all over, nearly an entire generation of Americans would be gone, and the next one wouldn’t come of age for another decade or so. No one knew whether the defect would be passed on. If it was, the long-term effects were impossible to fathom.
The military was a grave concern. Congress initiated stop-loss measures immediately, and the draft was reinstated—to nonstop outrage. Any soldier discharged within the previous 10 years could be reactivated under a new law, and most were. Thousands fled to Canada or South America just to avoid that, say nothing of the thousands more who simply left the country out of fear. The mighty US war machine now comprised 30–45 year olds, expensive assets with everything to lose who generally resented being there—not a good combination—and an increasingly obsolete arsenal that was too expensive to upgrade or replace.
As a result of the US military’s sharp decline, the country effectively became a protectorate of Canada and Great Britain. Acts of aggression against the United States, specifically an act of war, would be defended by all three militaries as though it were one country. About 300,000 Canadians came into the US to receive the Cure, a rare example of medical tourism in reverse. That was a lot, but it was only a small fraction of what the US stood to lose. America was wounded, weak, and vulnerable. It was peacetime just then, but how long would that last?
Dozens of industries either suffered or vanished altogether. The service sector was gutted. Amusement parks fell into ruin. Fairs, concerts, and festivals were rare, not only because they seemed indulgent and pointless, but because there weren’t many people to run or attend them. States that relied heavily on tourism and recreation were demanding aid from a government on the brink of insolvency.
The effect of these things on the national psyche was profound. An already depressed and cynical public was moving toward desperation and hopelessness. Markets fell sharply. Manufacturing was down. Churches, meanwhile, were enjoying their own second coming as many in the older generations either sought answers or took solace in fellowship now that everyone had at least this one thing in common.
The most significant legislation related to the Cure was the Exception Act of 2051. It essentially took most of the legal rights granted to 18- and 21-year-olds and rolled them back to age 13 for kids in the Perfect Generation, or PGs. That included drinking, voting, consent, and marriage. Even the most conservative Americans supported it; with so much living to be done in so little time, anything less would’ve cost millions of young people a chance at some kind of full life. If it meant that kids could drink, have sex, and make all the same bad decisions everyone else had to wait for, then so be it. Most PG children learned the truth around age 7 or 8, but few made it that long without realizing something was not quite right about the world.
The entire educational system had to be rethought. PG children were placed in a special curriculum designed to give them a baseline of knowledge and life skills. They attended four days per week with no summer break and received the equivalent of a high-school diploma by age 13. Anyone who was between aged 7 and 13 when the laws changed received private tutoring to get them over the finish line.
Thousands of colleges and universities closed their doors. Most planned to reopen at some point in the future, but their endowments had floundered and not many people believed they could come back. Very, very few PGs bothered with college. The rest were on their own.
The hardest thing Connie had to deal with were the regulations dealing with the disposal of PG bodies. She’d signed into law a federal mandate that only cremation was allowed for PGs, and steep taxes on burials made them prohibitively expensive for most everyone else. Federal crematoriums went up near all major cities to handle the volume. They looked like factories, but no one pretended they were. 10,000 people in their mid 20s died every single day.
The country was just too fragile for a political shakeup, which was also the case with lower offices. The Supreme Court suspended the 22nd Amendment and it seemed likely Connie would be re-elected for a third term in 2064. During the early days, the finger-pointing was directed at Geller, who had removed himself from public life. But despite weeks of Congressional hearings, they found Geller no more legally responsible than the creators of Vicadin were responsible for a dead rock star. GIG had very thoroughly indemnified itself through the Cure Program’s reams of patient paperwork, all of which detailed the risks of genetic modification. In the end, parents of PG kids were forced to accept that they were as much to blame as anyone.
Jayla was only two when Geller came to visit her office, and now, in the eyes of the law, she was two years into adulthood. Their relationship wasn’t great, but it could’ve been worse. She checked in every few months, usually from a different country each time. She still had a light Secret Service detail on her, which helped Connie’s peace of mind. Often, when they spoke, Jayla would get her howling with stories about eluding or even pulling elaborate pranks on the agents. She treasured those conver
sations, and she hoped to have one tomorrow. Almost a year had passed since she’d seen her only daughter in person.
22
Trout, for all their qualities, were not smart. Many years ago, after he’d taken up fly fishing, Geller learned their estimated IQ was around 12. Once they found a good feeding lane along a bank or undercut in the river, protected by roots or a deadfall, it wasn’t unusual for a trout, especially a brown, to remain in that spot until it died.
This was fairly unique in the natural world. Most creatures lived in a constant and mostly random search for food; they didn’t have a conveyor system to funnel it into their mouths. The fact that other creatures had to forage meant there would be times when they were vulnerable. They would take risks that a hunter could exploit.
The only real mistake a trout ever made was to think a well-placed fly was an actual morsel of food. Guess at the size and nature of the food it was interested in and float it past the right place at the right time, and even the wiliest bank-hugger just might move an inch or two out of its way to get it. Geller was locked in a daily battle of wits with a creature that had an IQ of 12, and he lost more often than he won. He loved the irony.
He floated a size 18 Royal Wulff, a go-to pattern on Western streams which he’d tied himself, just a few inches from the edge of the bank where a sudden bend in the river had created a deep undercut. The sun was right; it was low enough to catch a bit of the white goat-hair wings and give the fly a good silhouette on the water. Because of the low angle, it would also make him nearly impossible to see since he was facing the sun, and it would make the surface look like a mirror from underneath instead of a window.
His shadow stretched out behind him, long enough to reach the flat stones on the far side of the creek. He knew there was a trout there the size of a marlin. Knew. All it took was the perfect cast: a roll of the tip just upstream, hopefully landing the fly on an overhanging blade of glass so he could perform a quick mend of the line and tug it gently into the water, like an insect losing its footing. It would help sell the effect.
