‘Doctor Gertlinger. So glad you could come. Please, take a seat,’ he said warmly, gesturing to a leather chair in front of the desk.
Gertlinger sat and said nothing. He assumed any pleasantries would be just that. He hadn’t been flown first-class halfway around the world so they could chat about the weather. He guessed that it was something to do with his recent breakthrough in gene splicing and genetic manipulation. It seemed too coincidental that his paper was published yesterday and to be there today without them being linked.
He waited patiently for McPherson to start.
‘I can only imagine you’re wondering what we brought you here for?’ he said, breaking the silence.
‘Quite,’ Gertlinger replied.
McPherson smiled, chuffing in amusement. ‘I can see that you’re more than happy to dispense with the small talk, so let’s get straight to it. I’m sorry we couldn’t tell you what this meeting was about, but it’s a matter of both utmost urgency and secrecy.’
‘When two men in black suits knock your door at eight in the evening and hand you a sealed envelope, stamped with the presidential seal, along with a first-class ticket to the political heart of America — you can say I guessed it was both. Secret and urgent, I mean.’
McPherson chuffed again. ‘Yes, well, we’ve been following your work closely for some time now and following your most recent triumph, I think that you’d be perfectly suited for a role within a project that we, in cooperation with the GSC, are putting together.’
‘The GSC?’ Gertlinger asked, a little taken aback.
‘Yes, the Global Space Coalition.’
‘I know what it is,’ Gertlinger said with a little more bite than intended. Perhaps the jetlag was getting the better of him, or perhaps he just didn’t like the tone of condescension.
McPherson shifted in his chair a little. ‘Of course you do.’
‘What is the role?’ Gertlinger pressed, thinking of the comfy bed already booked for him at the Four Seasons just eight blocks down the street.
‘Research and Development Director,’ McPherson said with a broad smile.
‘Sounds exciting,’ Gertlinger replied flatly.
McPherson’s eyes flashed and he leant forward, resting on his elbows. ‘Oh, it is exciting. It’s the most exciting thing we’ve ever done. It’s going to change the world, Doctor. And we want you to spearhead the project. With your latest breakthrough, we think that now, the time is right. And we’d like to strike, while the iron is hot, so to speak.’
‘Then tell me, what is this project?’
‘We call it Argus,’ he said, watching Gertlinger carefully.
‘As in Argus Panoptes?’
‘You know your mythology, Doctor.’
‘I know a lot of things. Which is why I’m here, I assume.’
‘Yes, that’s correct.’ McPherson was trying hard to keep his smile. ‘What do you know of Argus?’
‘A watchman said to have a thousand eyes.’ Gertlinger sighed, flourishing his hand emphatically. ‘Tasked with—’
McPherson raised his own and cut him off. ‘That’s fine. It was a matter of interest more than importance.’
Gertlinger pursed his lips, suppressing the urge to say something rude. ‘So what exactly is Argus?’
McPherson deliberated over his words for a moment. ‘Have you ever heard of something called Tau Ceti?’
‘Do you always answer one question with another?’ Gertlinger asked curtly.
‘When it’s my job to, yes.’
‘If you’re trying to pique my curiosity, you’d probably be better off catching me after a good night’s sleep, a coffee and a cigarette. Not when I’m fresh off a plane and deprived of all three.’ He sighed.
McPherson sat straight. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that our investors are very keen to secure your employment.’
‘Then why do you insist on asking all of these obtuse questions? Are you being paid by the hour?’ he asked sharply. He was a man of science and fact, not fiction. He operated in the blacks and whites of reality, not in the grey sea of politics.
McPherson’s hands clasped tighter on the desk, forming into fists. He’d read Gertlinger’s file back to front more than half a dozen times in the last twenty-four hours alone. Doctor Florian Gertlinger, Swiss National. Born 2020 AD in Zurich. Forty-one years old. PhD in genetics and genomic embryology. Won a Nobel for his work in cell manipulation, as well as a host of other prestigious awards coveted by the scientific community. But it said nothing about his obnoxious personality.
McPherson rubbed his white knuckles, twisting a wedding band around his finger. ‘Tau Ceti is a star, a yellow star, like our sun. It resides eleven point eight light years from Earth. Orbiting this star there is a planet that has a long designation of numbers and letters, but in the GSC it has become known as Orsus. You know the word?’
‘Beginning. Latin.’ Gertlinger stared out of the window, trying not to make a glib remark. He failed. ‘We aren’t in school and I’m not an idiot. You don’t have to keep checking if I understand everything you say. Otherwise, I’ll switch it around and we can talk about the integral properties of genomic structures in stem cells — see how you get on with that.’
McPherson’s smile changed from sincere to plastic. Whatever his hourly rate was, it wasn’t high enough to put up with this. ‘Yes, well they’re changing Orsus’ classification.’
‘To what?’
‘Potentially habitable.’
The words seemed to echo around the room. Neither spoke for a minute or so. Gertlinger was smart, but now his mind seemed unable to hone in on a likely answer to the question as to why he was there.
He rubbed his head. ‘Can I smoke in here?’
‘Most certainly not.’
Gertlinger wedged the half removed cigarette package back into his slacks and shot McPherson an agitated look. ‘Okay. So Orsus is moved into this category — “Potentially Habitable”. That’s not headline news, right? There must be hundreds of planets like that. Jupiter’s Titan moon must be in that class as well, surely?'
McPherson shifted, a little unhappy at the less than ebullient reaction he’d been met with. ‘Yes, it is, you’re right. It’s a classification based mostly on orbital position and size. The problem with Titan, however, is that the temperature scarcely moves above ninety degrees Kelvin and there are swirling seas of liquid methane covering most of the surface. Not exactly a prime holiday destination. Orsus, however, is much more pleasant. It’s one of the most Earth-like planets ever discovered and new data has recently been recorded that suggests it could very well support life. If it doesn’t already.’
Gertlinger was intrigued. A little impressed. But still confused as to his presence. ‘So why am I here? I’m not an astronomer or an engineer. I don’t know anything about space travel.’
‘No, we’ve got that side of Project Argus firmly under control. We want you to do something else. Something utterly unprecedented. The “rover” concept is sound, but as with all ideas, it must undergo a refinement process.’
‘As I said, I don’t know anything about engineering.’
McPherson sighed, musing silently to himself that for an intelligent man Gertlinger was being very dense. He merely replied with two words that would hopefully enlighten Gertlinger to their ambitions: ‘Organic Rovers.’
There was a moment of extrapolation on Gertlinger’s side before he huffed with an understanding smirk. ‘Humans? You’re sending a manned mission? It’ll never work. You said this planet is what, twelve light years from Earth? Even with the latest propulsion systems, it would take years. Decades. No one would be able to survive a journey like that.’
McPherson clasped his hands calmly in front of him and cleared his throat. ‘Yes, we’re well aware of the hurdles but we’ve already contracted the help of Doctor Adnanbaldi, from the New Delhi Institute of Technology. He’s the forerunner in his field of study.’
‘Cryogenics?’ Gertlinger arched an incredu
lous eyebrow. ‘That’s your big idea? Adnanbaldi is a hack. He’s been peddling his snake-oil theories for years with no results to show for it.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ll just piss away all your money on pipe dreams with him.’
McPherson ignored the slander and pressed on. ‘He has had some success. We think his work is promising.’
‘What? You mean the that blasted worm of his? It’s a farce, comical even. Alexander the Salamander. If he’s telling you that because he can freeze and thaw a lizard, he can do the same to a human, then your entire organisation must be made up of fools and yes-men.’
‘He’s made no insinuations that his cryogenic research will extend to mammals, let alone humans, for many years to come,’ McPherson said, teetering between that fake and real smile of his.
‘You’re damn right it won’t. It makes my blood boil that he gets any funding at all for that sorry excuse he calls his “research”,’ Gertlinger sneered.
‘Okay then,’ McPherson said, turning in his chair so that he was side on. He looked aimlessly out of the window at the city beyond. ‘Let’s venture into the hypothetical. Why is it that you can freeze a lizard but not a human?’
Gertlinger sighed slowly. ‘The cold-blooded natures of some reptiles allow them to hibernate for years, slowing their metabolic rate to a crawl. In layman’s, freezing them is an extension of that process and reanimation is much simpler because their bodies are used to it. It’s how crocodiles survived the asteroid that killed off the dinosaurs — they hunkered down in the mud and slept through the dark and the cold until the dust settled and the sun returned. Then they simply woke up.’ He paused for a second, looking at McPherson, who was slowly turning back towards him. ‘Mammals have to maintain body heat to stay alive,’ he continued. ‘The damage to the brain during freezing is too great, the change in temperature too severe for their fragile bodies to endure.’
McPherson furrowed his brow, playing dumb, pandering to Gertlinger’s revelry in the education of simpletons. ‘So, we could freeze crocodiles then. Even fly them to Orsus, strap some cameras to their backs and watch as they crawl around the surface, looking for sustenance and collecting samples?’
Getlinger laughed. ‘Yeah, sure. Crocodiles will go running around looking for food. Is that what Adnanbaldi said to get you to hire him?’
‘Why wouldn’t that work? Why aren’t crocodiles suitable?’
‘Reptiles are lazy, cumbersome beasts for the most part. You’d be lucky if they even crawled out of the landing craft,’ he cooed, crossing his arms haughtily.
Mcpherson smiled again. ‘If cryogenics was in a position to transport any animals to Orsus, humans even, which animal would be most suited to this task?’
‘Birds.’
‘What about mammals? Humans, even?’
‘Humans are frail, weak. Slow. We tire easily and our basic foraging skills went out the window the day we started covering our dicks with deer hide.’
McPherson, a little jolted at the crassness of his words, pressed further. ‘Okay, so what would you suggest as a suitable alternative? Something with a will to survive. With strength, instinct, intellect, endurance, stamina — all the things vital for travelling tens, or even hundreds of miles in search of food and water. That’s our goal. We’ll film it all, take samples and then bring them all back.’
‘That’s a cute theory. Wildebeests.’
‘Wildebeests?’
‘They do a bi-annual migration across Africa. They run hundreds of miles through the savannah to reach watering holes. They do it with swarm intelligence, on very little food and water. They’re fast, hardy and practically tireless, sometimes running eighty or more kilometres a day.’
‘Any other suggestions?’
‘Dogs.’ Gertlinger shrugged. ‘Or wolves. The timber wolf is tough. Same principle. Built for running. Made for it. And you might even be able to train a dog. You’d have a hard time with a wildebeest, I would think,’ he finished, exhaling slowly. ‘But, they’d never survive the trip. Not a chance.’
McPherson held his hand to his chin and massaged it thoughtfully. ‘So, you’d need the genetic traits of a reptile, mixed with the physical attributes and survival instinct of a mammal?’
Gertlinger smirked, the truth of his intended purpose finally dawning on him. He didn’t say a word. He just smirked.
McPherson caught his smile and returned it. ‘So, we’d need to somehow create a hybrid. Can I make a guess that it’s not just as easy as putting them in a room with some dim lighting? I’d assume — and I’m just thinking out loud here — that there would be a fair amount of genetic manipulation required. But then again, I’m not an expert on that sort of thing. We’d surely need someone with PhDs in genetics and genomics on board. Someone who’d just made a significant breakthrough in gene splicing, perhaps. Do you know anyone like that?’
Gertlinger pondered for a moment, rocked back and forth in the chair, lips pursed, and then dug in his pocket. He threw a cigarette into his mouth and lit up before McPherson could say anything about it. ‘Not for less than eight figures a year I don’t.’
THREE
THE VEIL
2122 AD
He awoke sharply.
It was always the same.
A nightmare. But more than that, a memory.
It used to haunt him every night but now it was maybe only a few times a year. One day, it would slip from his grasp completely and fade into nothing, just like the memories of everything else from before. One day, he would wake up from the last nightmare he’d ever have and he’d no longer suffer for what he did, or didn’t do, that night.
Fourteen years had passed since then. Since he’d lost Emilie and Lila. But with every day came a new ordeal, new fodder for his nightmares.
Aaro Emmerson was thirty-seven years old — fourteen older than he felt he deserved.
He grimaced, staring up at the slick grey concrete ceiling hanging all but too low over his head. He rolled a little on his flimsy cot, feeling the cool clutch of the sweat-soaked sheets. He sighed and sat up, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands until they ached. He blinked away the remnants of sleep and checked his watch.
He swore in disappointment when it read two minutes past five in the morning. The night’s sleep was done. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared around his little room, the cell to which he was confined. No, not confined, ‘assigned’ as they liked to call it.
In the tattered remains of Oslo, there were only two types of people. Residents and refugees. Aaro fitted into that second category. When a city’s population triples as quickly as Oslo’s did, it’s hard to find space to put everyone. They were forced to erect towers of bare concrete with thousands of tiny apartments, just to house the influx. No point setting up camps, there wasn’t enough space, and the new arrivals weren’t ever leaving. No matter how bad the squalor inside the city got, it was suicide to go out.
Only horror lay beyond the walls.
Aaro showered in his meagre bathroom cubicle and dressed, slinging his tool-satchel over his shoulder. He pulled the door behind him and found himself in the narrow corridor outside his apartment. Apartment 33-17. The first number denoted the floor, the second the apartment number.
Both ends of the corridor were open to the elements, leading out onto a balcony walkway that circled the entire block. Concrete staircases on either side led to the ground. There were no lifts, though there were two ways down and only one way up.
You could take the stairs either way, or you could take the faster, more direct route down. But those who chose the second option never needed to take the first ever again.
Aaro paced away from his door, into the inky darkness of the pre-dawn morning. A cold autumn wind whipped menacingly, whistling through the concrete tunnel, rattling the cheap doors in their frames. He hiked up the thick collar of his sheepskin coat and buried his hands in the pockets. His knuckles hit the threadbare bottoms. The air clawed at his face and neck as he struggled
towards the square of night sky ahead.
The headwind switched around to a brutal crosswind as he emerged onto the terrace, his elbows stretching towards the concrete rail for ballast. He stood, stoic in the cold, staring at the ever-rotting city in front of him. Dawn was slithering around behind the horizon to the east and, even at noon, the sun would only be high enough to get right in his eyes. At this time of year, it would never get overhead, never warm the skin. He studied the tower blocks cut out against the sky, like tumours. He spat over the rail, disgusted that he’d helped build them. Oslo used to be such a beautiful city. From his perch, he could still see the bones of the university where he’d once studied. It was dilapidated now with education lying at the bottom of the city’s priorities list, turned into makeshift housing.
What a waste. He sighed, looking at it.
‘Come on, it’s not that bad, is it?’ came a sudden voice from his left.
The sound of boots on steps echoed around him and a woman crested the last step onto his floor and stopped, breathing hard. Sorina was tall and athletic. Her sandy hair was pinned back and plaited, a thick woollen cap pulled low on her head. She hauled her work duffel up and dropped it at her side. The torches inside clanged together. She was a welder at the power station. Aaro checked his watch. Five-fifteen. She was just coming off the night shift, wading back up the thirty odd flights of stairs to her apartment.
‘It kind of is,’ he called back, shaking the night from his throat as he did, gesturing to the skyline.
‘Well then, stop looking at it, you miserable bastard.’ She stepped closer now, pushing the bag with her foot. Her sagging posture levelled and she stretched her back, bending forward and arching out, the zipper on her leather jacket forcing itself open with the expansion of her chest. He stared shamelessly at it.
‘Like what you see, sailor?’ she laughed, zipping herself back up against the wind.
The Veil Page 2
