The Cygnus Virus

by Terry Zakreski

  “This may come as a surprise to you, Herr Manz, but I actually find you almost as intriguing.”

  “Oh, how so?”

  “I have met many men like you, Frank. You are a man whose rationality has them firmly in check at all times.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Not bad, just frustrating. Your psyche will reject any attempted probing and will send any competent analyst packing with a rhetorical bruising. Honestly, Frank, I more often encounter men like you in the legal professional. I am actually surprised that you are not a lawyer.”

  “Perhaps I am, in another life.”

  Frank looks down at his schnapps.

  “So what’s wrong with me, based on your assessment, Dr. Schweisser?”

  “Are you sure you want me to tell you, Frank?”

  “I think I can handle it, doc.”

  Frank looks up at the bottles arranged behind the bar.

  “Okay then, you’re an addict.”

  Frank looks at Herman with a raised eyebrow.

  “Not only that, you’re an addict of the worst kind. You’re an addict magician. You possess too much willpower and self-control to allow yourself to be caught in any particular addiction. Before ruin or help can arrive, you magically shed yourself of it and move on to the next one, with heartbreak as your constant companion.”

  “You got me there, doc, because I’ve certainly have had my share of heartbreak. So how do I fix myself?”

  “The same way a three-legged dog fixes himself.”

  “How’s that?”

  “By learning to get along on three legs.

  “Something terrible happened to you that maimed your psyche that no obsession will fix. Just as the German people are trying to fix their inadequacies with National Socialism, you are trying to fix yours with your latest fixation. Both are destined for disaster. But, that will not prevent you from trying, again and again, to find some poor creature or thing to serve as your missing limb and the consequences will always the same. As soon as you accept this, your existence will become easier.”

  “That doesn’t sound too encouraging.”

  Frank is looking down at his schnapps glass. He’s twisting it in his fingers watching the liquid.

  “Accepting yourself is the key. You are a likeable person with a missing limb. I fear you will get worse before you get better. When you learn to make choices based on intrinsic value rather than trying to fix your missing limb, things will improve.”

  “Well, doc, I have only one thing to say about that.”

  “What’s that?”

  Frank motions the barkeep over.

  “Zwei Schnaps bitte, and only the intrinsically best for the doctor and me.”

  Dr. Schweisser shares another schnapps with Frank and leaves him to stew in his obsessions and watch the entertainment.

  Near closing, Dieter Muller, a trade unionist familiar to Frank, approaches. They share some pleasantries in German. By then Frank is thoroughly drunk and reduced to short sentences.

  “I hear you share our love of Hitler, Herr Manz.”

  “Heil Hitler.”

  Frank raises his schnapps in salute.

  “Like us, I hear you’d like to see him glorified?”

  “Jawohl.”

  “You know Hitler will be driving right down Unter den Linden in his motorcade in front of your hotel tomorrow morning to celebrate Germany’s marching into the Sudetenland. The Gestapo are watching us, so none of us would get close enough to wave a flag at him, but you could…you know…wave a flag that is.”

  “Ich habe nicht Flagge.”

  “I’m sure we could find one for you.”

  “Das ist Wunderbar, Danke.”

  That night, as Frank pours himself into a taxi to return to his hotel, a man comes out of the shadows and slips a package into his hand.

  It contains a perfect flag for Frank to wave at the parade.

  It is a Walther PPK.

  Andron exits the game when Frank goes to sleep.

  You there, Cygnus?

  There’s no answer.

  The next day, while Frank sleeps, Andron is searching for information on Terra’s Walther. He’s imagining how Frank will rush out of the crowd when Hitler drives by and empty its entire eight-round magazine into the Shaman, saving Germany, the Jews and perhaps Cygnus at the same time.

  He imagines it as hard as he can, so Frank will remember.

  He makes game notes.

  He rejoins the game that evening. It’s Friday night, November 13, 2010, at 7 p.m. in Andron’s world. When Frank opens his eyes, it’s Sunday morning October 3, 1938, at 7 a.m. in Berlin, Germany, Earth.

  He feels reasonably rested on four hours sleep, he’s only slightly drunk and moderately hungover. Adrenalin is canceling his unsteadiness but is worsening his headache. He checks on the Walther PPK. It is fully loaded and nicely weighted.

  There’s a note on his dresser in his handwriting that he doesn’t remember making. It has a diagram of the parade route, some notes on the Walther and how to fire it. It ends with,

  Kill the Shaman.

  Frank always feels queasy after reading these notes that he never remembers making.

  But they always help.

  He runs a bath, shaves and dresses, he practices drawing the gun out of his overcoat.

  Rush the car, aim and keep firing until he can’t.

  Simple plans are the best plans.

  Frank eats what might be his last meal at the hotel restaurant, Das Leichentuch. He has bratwurst and scrambled eggs, with a cappuccino and croissant. Everyone is excited about the parade. The waiters puff their chests out with national pride, especially around foreigners staying at the hotel, like Frank.

  Frank goes back up to his room to put on his overcoat. He tucks the Walther. He looks out his window to see the entire city gathering along the parade route.

  It is madness exiting the hotel, the excited crowds are pressing. Nearly everyone is waiving a swastika. He pushes his way to the people standing near the barricade. Frank looks for a spot where he might break free to the street.

  There are policemen stationed along the route. Frank recognizes the nearest as the one who bothered him for his papers on his first day. The police officer gives him a nod. This just might work, Frank thinks.

  Der Führer!!!

  Der Führer!!!

  Frank follows the screams to see Hitler’s long black Mercedes Benz is coming down the boulevard. Everyone around him is jumping, tears in their eyes for their Savior.

  Frank can see the car approaching. He sees Hitler. He’s mesmerized like the rest of them and nearly forgets why he’s there. The German god is scrutinizing his people for worthiness and then looks with them into the distance, to the horizon, to their destiny.

  Frank reaches for the Walther. The moment has arrived. He tries to burst through the crowd, but he is grabbed from behind and dragged back before he can do anything.

  Hitler makes eye contact with him briefly with burning eyes then gazes into the horizon again.

  Frank’s arms and hands are restrained. His mind thinks that something is wrong but can’t break out of the hypnotic suggestion the alternate reality exerts over him. It is like trying to wake up from a nightmare and only sinking deeper into it.

  His arms are restrained the entire time.

  He’s thrown into a holding cell and then brought before a judge of the People’s Court where he and his co-conspirators, everyone that Frank spoke with at KadeKo’s including Eva, are shouted at and denounced as enemies of the state or traitors.

  Frank is decried as an imposter dispatched by international Jewry to murder the Fuhrer. Frank’s government offers no assistance and denies any involvement. They are all sentenced to hang, in spite of Frank protesting that Eva is innocent.

  Present throughout is Cygnus in his full SS officer regalia and smiling

  Cygnus is at the executions, too, with a cameraman who is filming the hangings for Hitler’s private
enjoyment. There are to be hung by piano wire from meat hooks.

  He’s forced to watch as each of his friends are strung up by piano wire, twisting in the air with twitching legs. He screams for Cygnus to stop, especially when it is Eva’s turn.

  “Oh dear God, no. Please, Cygnus, I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Don’t do it. No, dear God, no.”

  Cygnus looks directly at Frank and twists Eva’s face toward him. She’s sobbing. Her eyes are open in full alarm. Her body is shaking. He squeezes her cheeks. He licks tears off her face and then kicks out her chair. She falls and snaps with the wire. She twists on the wire while her legs kick. She soils herself and a stain shows in front of her.

  “Schauen Sie, ein Sprühgerät.”

  Cygnus and the other SS are laughing.

  Then the wire is tightened around his neck. Everything goes white when they kick out his chair. Andron exits the VSW and is back as Andron again.

  He’s in a full panic attack and feels as though he has been hit in the chest with a board. He rips off the TACHY. He’s gasping for air. It is now late Sunday evening in Andron’s world. He was trapped in the horror show for over forty-eight hours. He’s sitting in his underwear and t-shirt. The room smells of piss. There’s vomit on the front of his shirt, he has dry foam around his mouth, and tears are running down his cheeks.

  Cygnus uses a thunder voice and turns up the volume on the speaker bank so loud that Andron’s house shakes with each word.

  DON’T…………

  …FUCK………

  ……WITH ME……

  …………AGAIN

  VERSTANDEN!!!

  Chapter 19:

  Zoroaster

  Do you think children choose their parents?

  Dr. Gordon Frick is used to provocative nonsense like this from Dr. Christian Van de Whey, who is smiling at him on vid-chat. Though he has never met Christian, Gordon feels a close kinship to the man with the terabyte intellect.

  Gordon knows that Christian was the driving force behind his recruitment by the COHC to work for Earthen Swan Genetics.

  It was an unlikely meeting.

  He was invited to speak to the COHC Board as an expert on cloning procedures. He agreed to go only so that he could explain to them that what they wanted to do was madness. After welcoming remarks by COHC’s Director, Thomas O’Brian, and introductions around the table, he tore into them.

  “Look, apart from being highly illegal, it’s impossible. I don’t care how preserved your imaginary Christos DNA sample is, if it’s more than a few years old, it’s unusable. Full stop. So if your sample is as old as it must be to be the man you wish to clone, there’s no way in God’s green Terra that a viable human can be cloned from it.”

  “Dr. Frick. I think I can-uh address the legality part. Our attorneys have-uh provided us with an opinion that the-uh human cloning moratorium doesn’t not apply to ancient samples and violates our-uh First Amendment rights.”

  “Your First Amendment rights, seriously?”

  “With all due respect-uh, Dr. Frick, it violates our freedom of-uh speech because we should be able to write our own genetic code and-uh our freedom of religion because we-uh should be able to manufacture our own-uh Son of God.”

  “With all due respect, you folks are all batshit crazy, now if you’ll excuse me, I really should be going.”

  Gordon tries to leave, but he’s blocked at the door by Scott and Geoff.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You’re forcing me to stay here?”

  “Dr. Frick, Dr. Frick. Please. Of course you’re free to go but we merely want to remind you of the-uh confidentiality contract that you signed and the-uh potential repercussions should it be breached.”

  “Listen, I suspected that this whole thing might be a hoax that my colleagues were playing. But you have no worries, I have no intention of telling anyone about your harebrained idea to bring about the second coming. Now please, may I go or am I somehow under arrest?”

  Dr. Van de Whey is watching from large monitor on the meeting room wall. Dr. Frick didn’t notice him before. Christian is wearing a lab coat with a name tag.

  Dr. Frick, if I may. I beg for only a few moments of your time. As a fellow scientist and avowed atheist, I can fully understand your reaction. Your objections are sound and understandable based on existing technology. But, we have progressed far beyond that. If you will only suspend your skepticism for all but a few moments and allow me to demonstrate, I am confident that you will see this in an entirely different light. If not, you are naturally free to go.

  Gordon doesn’t reply. He just stands there with his arms crossed, brow furrowed and watches the screen.

  Thank you for your patience, Dr. Frick.

  Christian starts his slideshow and presentation, elegantly describing a genetic cloning method far more advanced than Dr. Frick has ever seen. Christian uses straightforward language and provides backing for every aspect.

  Dr. Frick’s studies are cited often.

  Christian spends a lot of time on his DNA reconstruction method, knowing that this part would be the most troubling and of greatest interest. It’s an advanced CRISPR technique the likes of which Gordon has never seen.

  Dr. Frick, not only is this doable, we have the facilities and equipment at our Las Pecado location to actually get it done. Not in years, but in months. We are looking for someone like you, not only for advisory support, but to be our lead technician and consultant, given your renowned clinical and research skills.

  Dr. Frick, I also want you to consider the broader implications of what we are doing. I know this is a great passion of yours, and it represents your life’s work. The success of the endeavor will assure a broad acceptance of a new science. After all, how could the religious zealots of the world reject a technology that brings back their Messiah?

  With the acceptance of cloning techniques, cloned stem cells could realize their medical promise of producing replacement organs, repairing damaged nerves, and even the possibility of regenerated limbs. Not only could the scourge of neurological diseases such as ALS, Parkinson’s, multiple sclerosis, and Alzheimer’s be eliminated, the lame could indeed walk, the deaf hear and the blind see.

  In short, Dr. Frick, by delivering the Messiah back to the world, science would be able to deliver to mankind all the miracles that were attributed to him.

  Of course, your name will be credited in any patents resulting from this research and you will share equally with me in any publications, credits, accolades, along with a sizeable share — one per cent — in any royalties or revenue.

  Shortly thereafter Dr. Frick has a new business card.

  Dr. Gordon E. Frick

  Director of Research, Earthen Swan Genetics.

  “Only we’re not picking our own parents. We are picking the parents for Zoroaster.”

  Zoroaster is the name Christian and Gordon jokingly came up for their latest experimental pre-implantation embryo, after an ancient philosopher, prophet and magician.

  “And we’re not even doing that, since the genetic parents of young Zoroaster, whoever they may be, lived a long long time ago.”

  Be that as it may, I rather like these two candidates.

  Gordon feels betrayed. Christian is obviously trying to appease the Director by choosing a couple that fits in best with the Second Coming myth, rather than those most suited by physique, intelligence and emotional stability for this important, perhaps the most important, scientific experiment that mankind has ever devised.

  “Come on, Christian, you must be joking. We’ve been given full control here. We’re not obligated to pick a couple of broke bible-thumpers. These two aren’t suitable.”

  Hey, Gordon, relax. Just because we’ve been given pretty wide authority here, we shouldn’t forget whom our benefactors are. This is good public relations. And as for their suitability, I happen to think they’re perfect. She’s got no family history of strokes and is as healthy as a horse, based on her health quest
ionnaire and bloodwork.

  Gordon, you also shouldn’t underestimate the parent’s emotional commitment to this project contributing to its success. At some point this lady here…Juliette…will have to carry this baby to term and I can’t imagine someone more committed than a zealot believing she has God himself growing in her womb.

  “I suppose that’s true but think about who we’re handing the parenting of Zoroaster over to. Back to what we were talking about earlier, would you pick these two for your parents? I mean, the kid will need to be lucky enough as it is to make it outside his mother. But to have these two for parents and a worldwide following of fanatics who are convinced that that he’s God incarnate.

  “Come on, Christian, if this kid makes it, he’s going to end up as one fucked up individual, that’s for sure. A fucked up individual with a billion or two followers.”

  That so? I never thought about it that way. I guess we better hope that our young Zoroaster here has the genetics to handle it.

  Christian is laughing.

  Anyway, check out their profile. They’re a childless couple due to the husband’s impotence. Think about it. We have an opportunity to cause the world’s first…

  Gordon finishes Christian’s sentence.

  “…virgin birth.”

  Chapter 20:

  The Ho-lee Mother Juliette

  Juliette is outside shoveling snow. She finished her driveway and now is working on Mrs. Nettle’s.

  She had to be quick on the shovel otherwise Ruth would have beaten her to it. The lady is well past eighty, only a few pounds over a hundred, and yet could could out-shovel most twenty-year olds. With a lot less complaining.

  Ruth has a family of snowmen on her front yard complete with hats, hair and facial expressions. Mrs. Snowman has a bosom that’s a bit too generous. But that’s Ruth.

  Juliette has another reason to be outside. It’s Valentine’s Day and they’re supposed to be here soon. She’s leaning on her shovel and checking her watch.

  Sure enough, a van appears, driving slowly down the street. It stops just past Ruth’s driveway, reverses and then drives up. After a few minutes, six elderly men climb out and walk up to Ruth’s door. The one with a tweed tartan cap leads the way.