by Kira Peikoff
Then he tossed the match onto the slumped body and sauntered toward the street, casually exhaling a puff of smoke. He turned the corner before the stench of burning flesh could reach his nostrils.
CHAPTER 37
The mice looked like newborns—salmon-colored, hairless, thumb-sized creatures with toothpick legs barely strong enough to hold up their plump bodies. In a single glass-walled cage, a dozen of them slept huddled together, one on top of the next, the tight cluster almost appearing as a single, pink-blobbed organism. It wasn’t much of a show, but that didn’t stop the entire population of the compound—all the scientists, doctors, tech guys, nurses, cafeteria ladies, and stabilized patients—from crowding into Natalie’s lab for a peek.
Because they weren’t newborns. They were twenty-one days old.
Above the heads of the onlookers, Natalie gazed at the mice fondly, as though they were her own children. In a way, she thought, they were—born not of her body, but her mind. The last several weeks had been the most innovative of her life. After determining the nucleic acid sequence of the knockout that had silenced the alleged master gene in the dead embryos, she and the rest of the team synthesized an antisense sequence intended to bind to the gene and prevent its expression in living mice. Next they inserted the sequence into a carrier viral genome—a Trojan horse method of sneaking in biological cues to alter a host’s DNA. When these mice were born three weeks ago, they breathed in the specially engineered virus—and Natalie practically stopped breathing altogether.
Would they age normally? Would they get sick? Would they die?
So far, none of the above had happened. In the days since, the mice appeared to be biologically frozen, destined to remain newborns for—well, it was impossible to say how long. The words Natalie kept thinking of, as everyone clamored to get closer to the cage, were uncharted territory. As cautious and skeptical as her training had prepared her to be, she knew that this was already a revolutionary moment—even if the mice collapsed tomorrow. She felt closer to her fellow researchers, more permanently bonded with Nina and the others, than she ever had with most of her own blood relatives.
“You should charge admission,” Helen joked, coming to stand beside her on the outer ring of the circle as the awestruck crowd huddled around the cage and snapped pictures.
Natalie smiled. “Or we could just submit them to the Archon Prize for a cool twenty mil.”
“You’re going to win, guaranteed. I don’t see how you couldn’t.”
“Neither do I.”
“Will you guys split the money with Galileo?”
“Are you kidding? None of this would have happened without him.” She glanced wistfully at the door as though he might walk in. He had been gone for weeks now, with no expected return date.
“What will you do with your share? Nat?”
She tore her eyes away from the door. “Oh, the next phase. I’ll have to talk to him to figure out the best plan, but we’ll want to test the sequence on primates, and then humans.”
“Where do I sign up?”
“That’s years off; you know that.”
“No, really,” Helen said, “you’re going to have the entire Network knocking down your door. You should start a list of human research subjects now, with me at the top.”
“Oh yeah?” A playful gleam came into her eyes. “What clinical trials do you have for me?”
“Let’s see. I could stick you in with my synthetic oil–pooping organisms.”
Natalie laughed and was about to reply when she felt a tap on her arm. Zoe and Theo were standing behind her, hand in hand. Since Zoe’s return from her runaway escapade a few weeks earlier, Natalie had spotted them a few times holding hands, and it cheered her.
So she was both delighted and chagrined to find Zoe gazing up at her with serious eyes, clutching Theo’s hand as if for strength.
“Hi. Can we talk?”
“Of course,” Natalie said, excusing herself from Helen. “Where do you want to go?”
Zoe shrugged. “The hall’s fine. Be right back,” she told Theo, letting go of him. He gave her an encouraging smile, and as soon as she turned her back, flashed Natalie a secret thumbs-up. The knowing gesture didn’t surprise her. He had always been the more diplomatically gifted one in the family.
“Listen,” she said to Zoe as soon as they crossed into the privacy of the hallway, “I know you’re upset with me, and I don’t blame you. That day you came to find me—”
Zoe flicked her hand. “I’m over it.”
“No, please, let me apologize. I was totally involved in my work that day and not paying attention to what you needed. It was hurtful. And since your return, I know you’ve been mad, but to be honest, I’ve been afraid to hear how much I’ve disappointed you. That’s why I haven’t come to you sooner, not because I don’t care. I’m sorry. You’d think at my age”—she smiled—“I’d know how to behave.”
Zoe nodded, not disagreeing. “I was ready to forgive you anyway, but that means a lot.”
Natalie’s eyes watered, the full force of her guilt hitting her as soon as she was pardoned. She hoped Zoe wouldn’t notice and mistake her reaction for some kind of play for compassion. The truth was that she often experienced distress most acutely after the fact, as though her coping mechanism broke down the moment a threat vanished—when its danger became safe to feel.
“Don’t cry,” Zoe said. “It’s okay. I get it. Anyways, I also wanted to say congrats. I can’t believe you guys actually freaking cured aging.”
She grinned, wiping her eyes. “Only in mice,” she allowed, “and only so far.”
Zoe’s expression took on a shade of worry. “But you found the gene! Isn’t that like the biggest deal ever?”
“Well, yes, but we still have a long way to go. Someday we’ll get to human trials and that, if it works, will be the biggest deal ever.”
“Someday? Like when?”
Natalie hesitated, sensitive to the fact that her deepest hopes rested on the answer, but doling out empty promises would do her no favors.
“Years from now. The next phase will take much longer because primates and humans have much longer life spans than mice.”
Zoe’s chin dropped to her chest. “Oh.” She stepped away, turning to leave. Her lips were pursed tightly and Natalie could see the effort she was making not to burst into tears.
“But you deserve a huge thank-you,” Natalie added. “From all of us. None of this would be happening without your bravery.”
Zoe paused, looking back at Natalie over her shoulder.
“Or,” she replied with startling cynicism, “my DNA.”
Those words, that tone—the full kaleidoscope of her anguish shifted into view, the private torment that must have driven her to seek out a kind ear, only to be met with Natalie’s blind eye. She hoped it wasn’t too late to make up for it.
“True,” she agreed, “your DNA helped.” Then she crossed the gap between them and placed two fingers under Zoe’s delicate chin. “But I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to listen. Because I’m not one to bullshit. I speak only facts. And I know this much. You are so much more than some chemical strands. You’re a young woman with a heart and a brain and a soul. Don’t ever forget it.”
At dusk, Zoe and Theo were reclining on their chosen boulder in the mountains, taking a break from the mice mania, when he put a hand on her arm.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You seem weird.”
“Hey, thanks.”
“No, like there’s something you’re not telling me.”
She smiled. Since her return and their joyful reunion, they had become comfortable enough to sit in silence, but also close enough to discern when that silence was troubled.
“I’m starting to think,” she said, “that you hacked into my brain.”
“Apparently not well enough.” He leaned over and planted a kiss on her forehead. “But seriously. Don’t tell me you’re still worrying about our age thing?
”
She shook her head. “I’ve decided I can’t problem-solve that one because it’s impossible. Whatever happens is going to happen, so we may as well just appreciate each other while we can.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”
“I know.”
“So what’s wrong?”
She sighed. “Everything else. The mice . . .”
He cocked his head. “Let me get this straight. We’ve just set eyes on the world’s first biologically immortal—”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s a huge deal, but it’s not enough. Your mom said so herself. It’s going to take longer than my grandfather can wait.”
Theo had no response, so she went on. “I was stupid before. I had no idea how science really worked. To think they could come up with some magic cure so fast . . .”
“You weren’t stupid,” he said. “You were just thinking like a kid. Kids love fantasies. Now you know better. And you really wanted to grow up?” He shot her a look of shocking bitterness. “Growing up sucks. If the person you love is going to walk out one day, or drop dead, all the wishful thinking in the world won’t matter. Welcome, your childhood is officially over.”
She stared at him, stunned. “Ouch.”
“Well, it’s true. I don’t sugarcoat stuff.”
“You and your mom both.”
“Yup. We’re straight shooters.”
“Just like Gramps.” It was impossible to keep the wistfulness out of her voice.
“You want to leave?” he guessed.
“I’m dying to. Not that I don’t love hanging out with you, but it’s killing me not to be with him, now that I know . . . what I know . . . and I still don’t have a clue where he is. Galileo’s supposed to be looking for him but now they’re both gone.”
“You’re not thinking of running away again, are you?”
“I wish. But it’s too risky for me.”
“How come?”
She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the threat on her life—it was too disturbing—so she just said, “Galileo told me to lie low until the government’s investigation dies down. But now with his whole postcard hoax, I don’t know when I’ll ever get to leave!”
“He was just trying to throw them off.”
“But now they’re even angrier, so where does that leave me?”
“When he comes back, we’ll ask him to figure something out.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”
“Patience in the face of uncertainty,” he said, giving her arm a tight squeeze. “Just one more joy of growing up.”
CHAPTER 38
The phone call woke Les at dawn. Startled out of a fretful sleep, he rolled over to snatch his vibrating cell off the nightstand. The body, he thought. His heart thrashed in his chest.
“Hello?”
“Yo,” came a familiar nasal voice. “You up?”
Les exhaled with a groan and lay back on his pillow. “Jesus, Cylon, can it wait until normal business—”
“I got into the dude’s computer!” he said. “Finally.”
Les bolted upright. “You hacked Hernandez?”
“Yup. I’m controlling it as we speak. Playing solitaire. Ooh, got an ace!”
“I thought he wouldn’t reply to your e-mails?”
“He wouldn’t. So a coupla weeks ago, I mailed him a flash drive that looked like a Netflix promo with a bunch of free movies on it. Of course my little virus was tucked in, too. And the sucker fell for it.”
Les smiled. “I have to hand it to you.”
“I know.”
“Can you pull up his e-mail?”
“Got it right here.”
“And?”
“There’s a bunch from someone named Nina. Same last name, too.”
“Recent ones?”
“One from yesterday. 5:11 P.M.”
So the daughter who had supposedly vanished into the Network’s clutches wasn’t really missing after all—which meant Julian Hernandez was a liar, exactly as Les suspected. But he couldn’t care less about that. All that mattered was a single question—Where was she?
“Don’t move,” he said. “I’m coming over.”
The cab hit the early morning rush on Prospect Street, forcing Les into passive consumption of the driver’s blaring radio station. He was about to demand a quiet car when three chimes rang and a smooth announcer’s voice launched into a summary of the latest local developments.
“News on the hour . . . An unidentified man was found last night beaten to death on N Street near Connecticut Avenue. Police are attributing the gruesome crime to MS-13, a gang notorious for homicides that has recently infiltrated Washington. Commissioner Farley issued a statement this morning vowing to crack down on violence in all districts . . . Congress today votes on the passage of . . .”
Les tuned out, indulging a grin. Things were starting to go his way at last. The rest of the ride seemed to fly by, and soon he was climbing the dirty steps two at a time up to Cylon’s apartment.
When he walked in, Cylon was slouching on his couch in front of his laptop, patchy stubble dotting his double chin, wearing sweatpants and no shirt.
“Check it out,” he said, swiping his chubby fingers across the trackpad. “I just won.”
Les edged him aside and sat down, shifting the computer to his own knees. A cascade of aces was bouncing across the screen in the solitaire victory dance.
“Get this out of here. Show me the e-mails.”
Cylon clicked a few boxes and up popped Julian Hernandez’s Yahoo account against a dark blue background—the actual image of his screen in real time. Les scrolled through his e-mails, skimming the subjects and senders. Many of them appeared to be from Nina. He opened the most recent one—dated yesterday, subject line wow—and read.
Dad, I so wish you could be here to see this. The mice I’ve been telling you about STILL haven’t aged since we made them inhale the viral gene silencers. This is huge, like 20 million bucks huge. Natalie thinks we’ll definitely win the Archon next year, so it looks like my time here is going to be longer than I thought. I can hear you sigh—I miss you, too, but once we get that funding, the doors will open to so many more experiments. We already have a long list of volunteers for when we get to the human trial phase. Everybody here wants to try it, except Zoe of course. Do you want me to put you on the list, too? We’re opening it up to family members b/c we’re going to need a wide sample size. The thing is it doesn’t reverse aging, just freezes you where you are. Or you could just come for a visit! We could get someone to drive you here. Think about it. I love you. N
Les stared at the screen, openmouthed. He read the letter again to be sure he hadn’t imagined it. The truth he’d long suspected was literally spelled out. Galileo’s henchmen were getting away with all kinds of illegal biomedical experimentation right under the committee’s blind eye—in some secret place accessible by car from Ohio! He felt a tsunami of rage engulf him. A single thought penetrated every neuron. That place—that man—needed to be found—and destroyed.
“Cylon,” he said, “what’s her IP address?”
It didn’t take a computer genius to know that this was all he needed to locate their physical coordinates.
“Well.” Cylon fidgeted with a paper clip, unwinding its curves. “First I’d need to figure out her outbound server. But have you noticed her e-mail address?”
Les returned his attention to the screen. Her address was [email protected]. That was odd. He frowned and clicked through to another message from her: [email protected]. And then another message: [email protected].
He turned to Cylon. “What the hell?”
“They’ve been anonymized. It’s a service that obscures the true server so you can’t trace it.”
“But we need that IP address!”
Cylon sighed. “I checked it out already. Her e-mails seem to come from a different country every time—Russia, India, Mexico. Who knows how many server
s they’ve bounced off before they get here? Wherever this chick is, her tech people know what’s up.”
“Can’t you un-anonymize them?”
“I’d have to trace back through however many servers each e-mail pinged to figure out which common one they all originated from.”
“So it’s technically feasible?”
“Feasible but . . .”
“But what?”
“Superdifficult. And illegal without a warrant.”
“I am the law. And let me tell you, this is damn well warranted.”
“Okay, okay. I think I can do it. But you’re gonna need to get me a case of Red Bull because this shit is hard.”
“You can do it. I’ll get you whatever you need.”
“Fine. I’ll call you when I have something.”
Les snorted. “You think I’m leaving?”
“I don’t know how long it’ll—”
“Then you better get on it, because an extra ten grand is waiting for you.”
“It is?”
“Yep, but every minute you dick around, another buck comes off.” Les glanced at his watch. “Starting now.”
Cylon grabbed the computer from his lap and pounded out a code language filled with dashes and slashes, as though a stream of gibberish were draining from his brain through his fingers.
Les watched with a tight smile, thinking of how he would explain the imminent discovery to the FBI and the committee. It was simple. After his insistent haranguing, Julian Hernandez had broken down and revealed the location of the secret compound. Once that much was known, no one would care to probe how the information had been delivered—and if they did, it would be Les’s word against a proven liar’s.
Now it was only a matter of time.
Fifty-seven hours later Cylon shook Les from his bleary stupor on the couch, where his head was resting near a pile of empty Red Bull cans.
“Hey,” Cylon hissed. “Wake up.”
Les opened his eyes. The room was dark, the shades drawn against the wan light outside. He’d called in sick to work for the rest of the week. What day was it now? How long had he been sleeping? Cylon’s bloodshot brown eyes and sour breath loomed above him. “Yo, wake up.”
