Identity X

by Michelle Muckley

  IDENTITY X

  MICHELLE MUCKLEY

  Copyright © 2013 Michelle Muckley

  British English Edition

  Third Edition

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual people, places, or events is in every respect coincidental.

  This work is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be copied, resold, or lent without prior permission.

  For extra copies, and further information about the author, please visit:

  www.michellemuckley.com

  All rights reserved.

  For print copies:

  ISBN: 1490431446

  ISBN-13: 978-1490431444

  For the people who support me, in whatever complex or simple way that might be.

  Special thanks go to Dr. George Vassiliou for his help and advice. Any mistakes regarding the science behind this book are mine and mine alone.

  Other works by Michelle Muckley

  The Loss of Deference

  Escaping Life

  Psychophilia

  The Dawn (books 1-5)

  Containment

  “The end of a melody is not its goal: but nonetheless, had the melody not reached its end it would not have reached its goal either.”

  Friedrich Nietzsche

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  PART ONE

  NEMREC

  (Nuclease Mediated Recombination Correction)

  ONE

  Sixteen eyes gazed back at him, twelve of them through heavy rimmed glasses. They stood there silently waiting for him to speak whilst clutching their plastic cups, shuffling first left, then right. Graham was still holding his pipette, his fingers poised and willing, trained for nothing but repetition and tedium. Even in a moment of glory Ben could see that he was desperate to get back to his workspace. Alan was pulling up a stool, rubbing the base of his back like a woman in the third trimester of pregnancy who had reached her daily limit. Ami stood behind them, her open lipped smile full of reassurance, staring at Ben as if they were the only people in the room. Right now he was the centre of the world. He was the centre of Ami’s world. It felt good to have her approval.

  Phil finished pouring the cheap champagne into his own crumpled cup before tipping the remainder of the bottle, which seemed to constitute little more than froth, into Ben’s. He stood nonchalantly at Ben’s side ready for the celebratory cheer, the empty bottle swinging low. He nodded to Ben to speak, a quick come on, we’re waiting.

  “Well, it has been a long four years,” Ben began, pausing for breath after almost every word. It was hard to concentrate over the distracting sound of his wine fizzing in his cup, and the whirring of the air conditioning rattling above him. His eyes were tired and gritty from the dry atmosphere. It was seven thirty at night and he had been in the lab for over twelve hours already. He had known by late morning that today would be the day. As soon as the first results came back, he knew it had worked. He gazed out from behind his glasses to see them all waiting for him to say something momentous. He felt an uncontrollable need to find something meaningful and poignant to say; to mark the life changing occasion with something that would never be forgotten. He had to find something inspiring. Something they could regale to their families, who in turn would tell the tale to their friends. A story that would stand the test of time.

  He felt the weight of all great men before him who had stood on the same precipice of achievement, the moment before the world learns what has been accomplished. All that came to his mind were the fuzzy, static heavy words of Neil Armstrong as they beamed back from the moon all those years ago. People still spoke about that moment, even kids like Ben who were born years after the event. It was impossible to forget the significance of that first footstep. His success today may not have the same intergalactic stretch, from one celestial body to the next, but he felt the same sense of weightlessness. This moment was the joy. This moment was his, just before the curtains are drawn to reveal the expectant audience. Standing there in his lab coat and shoe covers in front of a sea of tired faces, he felt as overwhelmed and excited, he imagined, as the first man to step foot on the moon.

  “We have done it together. This is our success, and it will change the world. Raise your glasses.” Ben held up his plastic cup, and a series of hands rose up before him, including Graham who had finally relinquished his pipette to the bench.

  “Here’s to us. And here is to NEMREC. We did it.” They all nodded their heads, their plastic cups in the air in muted celebration before knocking the liquid back. He saw a couple of smiles. Several of them patted their nearest colleague on the shoulder in a display of professional appreciation and admiration. If he could have done so without automatically assuming an air of inflated self importance, he would have patted each of them on the back himself, and thanked them for their individual efforts. Instead he settled on a submissive handshake with each, as the formal line of scientists disintegrated into a casual crowd.

  He had wanted to emphasise the joint effort today. He knew in the whirlwind of media attention and fervent celebration that it would not be his team appearing on the television. Nor would it be them who would be whisked away, by business class no doubt, to the next conference for genetic research - a six day stint in Dubai. It would be Ben Stone. Revolutionary Scientist. The one that cured genetic disease. He rolled his self-awarded title around in his head enjoying the way it sounded, getting drunk on the dizzy heights of accomplishment. It sounded good. Seeing that during his momentary lapse into daydream the rest of the team were either finishing up at their work benches or had already discarded their lab coats, he took a step towards his own office.

  “Don’t forget, drinks at Simpson’s tonight,” he called. A couple of them nodded in enthusiasm. Ami nodded too. “Eight thirty, I’ll be there.” He turned and opened the door to his office, and sat down into the green leather chair. It was always darker in here, although in theory there were the same number of lights as the main laboratory. The trouble was that there were so many papers and so many books that the light literally got sucked into the heaving mass of a lifetime of research. Every surface had been utilised to hold some item of importance, including the uncomfortable looking couch that had on occasion formed an impromptu bed when he missed the last train home.

  He had read every page of every book in here. He had spent the majority of his life huddled over a test tube, or with his head buried in a book. He had decided upon his life’s path the same day he learned of his family’s genetic flaw. His mother had sat him down to explain the basis for his father’s mood swings. They would likely get worse, she said, until one day when they might not be able to recognise the man they knew anymore. Until then, Ben had been happy to play the role of a teenager. But that day changed everything.

  Consumed in his daydream he hadn’t seen Ami approach, and when she tapped her knuckles on the glass door she startled him. As he looked up from his desk he saw the cascading mass of jet black hair, released and flowing like a waterfall across one shoulder, pooling in the crevice of her elbow. Her eyes were set as endless jet black saucers, so different to the Ionian blue of his, and her skin was the perfect shade of ho
ney. When she joined the team just over a year ago, he could barely believe his luck. He motioned with a smile and a quick wag of the fingers for her to open the door. In a single fluid motion, she pushed the door ajar, and leant like a ballerina, curling the top half of her body around the half open door.

  “We are all leaving now, Ben. We’ll see you there?” Her hair fell forwards, spreading the scent of dried rosebuds across the office. Ben wondered if he looked as foolish as he felt in her presence when it was just the two of them. He sat himself upright, his chair creaking as he shifted his weight around uncomfortably. He pulled the nearest research journal in front of him and began leafing through the pages in an effort to look casual and unflustered.

  “OK, yeah. I’m right behind you, just finishing off here.” He motioned to the research journal and glanced down at the page. He had undesirably opened the journal at a location that detailed a new stem cell treatment for erectile dysfunction. An article complete with diagrams. He caught her glancing down at the journal. He closed the cover, hoping that she hadn’t deciphered the subject matter. “I just need to make a telephone call.”

  “Shall we wait for you? It’s not a problem.” She either hadn’t seen, or was too polite to joke at his expense. He was grateful for either possibility, with a heavy preference for the former.

  “No, go on ahead. I’ll meet you all there.” She smiled with pursed lips and tucked her chin in. It made her look cute and sexy at the same time. She closed the door behind her with her perfectly manicured hand. He leaned back in his chair, adjusting his position to watch her cross the laboratory floor. He wondered if she swung her hips like that on purpose, or if when he looked away they would rest into a more natural rhythm. He took the offending journal, shook his head in disgust and tossed it with revulsion into the waste paper bin.

  He kicked his chair out from under the desk and put his feet up on top of the papers. Resting his head of thick blond curls back onto the top of the chair he took the arms of his glasses in his fingers and slid them from his face. He could barely believe that all his years of work had culminated in this solitary moment. He was surrounded by brilliance in his laboratory, and his team was made up of the best of the best in their field. Yet now, when it was quiet and he was alone it was impossible not to go back to that day when his mother explained to him what a genetic disease was. He would have loved to pick up the telephone, dial her number, tell her one simple thing. He would tell her that he had done it. That nobody else would suffer, and that their past would never be repeated. He glanced over at the telephone, playing her long since redundant number over and over in his head. The answering machine was flashing on the far side of his desk and it brought him back to reality. There were three messages. Swinging his legs back down he propelled himself forward and hit the play button, leaving thoughts of his mother in the past where they belonged. The first was from a supplier of gene chips to let him know that Monday’s delivery would be late.

  “I don’t think we need to worry about that,” he laughed to himself. The second was from Hannah, asking him what time he expected to be home. Her words sounded bitter, and he could hear her mumbling to herself as she hung up the telephone. He wouldn’t let it spoil the moment though, and he put her message to the back of his mind. The final message was from a Mr. Saad. Ben still had no idea how he had managed to get hold of his direct telephone line. The familiar and gravelly accent needed no introduction.

  “Hello, Mr. Stone. I do hope you will do me the courtesy of returning my phone call this time. I want very much to discuss your research with you. I am able to offer a very substantial contribution to your funding which I know that you will need very soon. My personal contact number is....”

  “No, thank you.” Ben hit the delete button before he finished listening to the message. He had done it. The compound worked. NEMREC was ready to go. It was only a matter of time before support from a large pharmaceutical developer would roll his way. He had a month until the National Genetics Conference, and that was more than enough time to collate his results into something presentable. After that, the funding and everything that came with it was virtually guaranteed. He could almost feel the heat of the Dubai sun on his face. He wondered if any sponsor might let him take an assistant, but with the same speed he considered it he reminded himself of the inappropriateness of his intentions. He stood up from his chair and grabbed his jacket from the coat stand as the falling rain hit the flat metallic roof.

  He made his way towards the door but from the corner of his eye he caught sight of the brown wooden photo frame on the edge of the desk. It had been gradually pushed to the side over a period of time by an ever increasing volume of paperwork. He picked up the photograph with both hands and held it closely to him but angled it so that he could see it. Staring back at him was the past, another time and another life it seemed to him now. It was his own eight year old face, smiling and happy, pressed up against the aged face of his father. Seeing this photograph reminded him that it wasn’t the celebration, the glory, or the admiration on Ami’s face that he was looking for. He didn’t need the all expenses paid trip to Dubai, as nice as it might be, especially if he got to take an assistant. He didn’t need the nod to significant and overwhelmingly important prizes. All the recognition he needed was here in the eyes of his ageing father. He tapped the photograph with the back of his fingers.

  “We did it, Dad.” He sat the photograph back down on the desk, clearing away a selection of papers to place it centrally, and where tomorrow he would see it again. He picked up the telephone and tapped out his home number. Hannah answered, and the annoyance in her voice regarding his recurrent lateness was tangible.

  “Yeah, I’ll be late. I’m finishing up at the lab.” He paused briefly to listen. “Just waiting for the machines and the final run. I’ll be home by ten thirty. Yes, you too. See you later.”

  He hung up the telephone and grabbed his briefcase. He glanced at the piles of handwritten notes on his desk and considered taking the latest of them with him. Instead he agreed with himself that he deserved at least one night off and so left them undisturbed. He made for the door and turned off the lights, and as the air conditioning units slowed to a halt the sound of the rain grew louder as it hit the roof. He was close to the underground station but doubted he would make it without getting soaked through. He grabbed his raincoat from the hook and threw it across his shoulders, wriggling his arms into the sleeves. He pressed the button and the entrance door slid open as a quick shot of air squeezed out from the pneumatic mechanism. He made his way downstairs towards the chill of the early spring rain.

  TWO

  He was right about the weather. The rain was falling as a deluge of giant droplets, the biggest that he had seen since the great floods twenty years ago. The combination of old Victorian and Georgian homes that lined up proudly alongside each other became swamped under the rush of water. Cellars became unwanted indoor pools as they swallowed up the cascading tide. The following morning was total chaos, and tonight seemed no different. A barrage of water submerged the streets, and the edge of the road where it met the pavement was flowing fast as a swollen river. Through the glare of the headlights from the cars Ben eyed up the entrance to the underground station. After making a mental calculation as to the best route of passage, the variables of distance and pooled surface water weighed against each other, he pulled his rain coat above his head. He darted out from underneath the shelter of his office entrance door, dashing across the road.

  The entrance of the underground was packed with commuters, people refusing to attempt the final leg of their journey, sheltering themselves in the tight entrance. Ben pushed his way past the crowd of bodies. The humidity hung uncomfortably low in the air, courtesy of all the warm damp clothes of the people huddling together. Shaking his legs and his jacket behind him, he reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out his identity card. He held it against the screen that controlled the movement of the entrance doors. The red light
immediately changed to green, and underneath it in small green lettering the words Good evening, Mr. Stone flashed up to greet him. He had never managed to become accustomed to this level of regulation. He knew of people that would say how they quite liked the personal greeting when boarding the train, paying for food at the supermarket, or when you put petrol in your car. Some of these devices would even talk to you and ask if you had had a nice day. Ben saw through the facade of propriety, and knew that it was just a way of tracking people’s movements. He couldn’t understand why society had accepted it so readily. He cursed the androgynous voice under his breath, stowed his identity card back in his pocket. He made his way through the tunnels, facing the oncoming breeze. It delivered an unwelcome chill, but to its credit, also began drying those of his hairs which had not escaped the torrential rain.

  By the time the twenty minute journey across the city was complete his hair was almost dry. Ben usually swept it back into a semi-straightened style with a slick of the sweet smelling paste that promised more in its advertising than the offer of a good hairstyle. But now his blond curls had worked loose. Under his raincoat he was wearing a crisp white shirt and black tie, loosened progressively throughout the day into its current casual position. Combined with his raincoat he looked more like a city lawyer than a scientist. Most of the people he worked with dressed in jeans and jumpers that looked as if they had been pulled from the bottom drawer every winter since the day of their graduation.

  As he made his way towards the exit of the station he could hear that the rain had subsided, and there was a steady stream of people on their way out. The corridor was quiet, and as he approached the exit gate he could see a man having trouble with his identity card. It wouldn’t permit him access to the station and there was a pulsating mass of people behind him that appeared to be growing progressively angrier at the delay. All it would take was an unpaid bill, a trivial criminal misdemeanour. Even an unfounded complaint against you could be enough to get your identity card deactivated. There was only one way of getting it reactivated and that was to go in person to the Central Government Offices and deal with whatever problem had caused the deactivation, and nobody wanted to have to do that.