by A. G. Riddle
David wiped some fog off a few of the ancient dials and tried to line the plane up for another pass.
Kate heard a sputter and felt her side of the plane drop. “Did you do that?”
David tapped the dashboard, first lightly, then harder. “We’re out of gas.”
“I thought you said—”
“Gauge must be broken.” David motioned with his head. “Get in the back.”
Kate crawled over him and into the back row of seats, complying, for once, without counterargument or complaint. She buckled herself in. This would be their last landing attempt.
The other engine puffed out its last seconds of life, and the plane leveled off, gliding in the ominous silence.
Kate looked down, surveying the dense green forest surrounding the small blue lake. It was beautiful, like a scene from the Canadian wilderness. She knew it was cold down there; they must be somewhere in northern India or western China.
They had flown most of the way over water, hugging the sea tightly. They had gone north for most of the day; the sun had hung high in the sky on Kate’s right until they crossed the coast, somewhere in the low-lying monsoon areas, probably Bangladesh. Kate hadn’t asked any questions—not that she could have over the noise of the now-dead engines. Wherever they were, it was remote and untouched. If they were injured—at all—in the landing, it would likely be fatal.
The lake rushed toward them quickly now. David leveled the plane. Or tried—the plane was apparently harder to control without the force of the engines.
Scenarios of doom raced through Kate’s mind. What if they went nose first into the lake? There were mountains around them. The lake could be incredibly deep—and cold. The plane would pull them down. They’d never survive the icy abyss. And what if they did level off? How would they stop? They’d hit the trees at full speed. She imagined a series of tree branches stabbing a dozen holes in them, like pins in a voodoo doll. Or the gas, the fumes in the tank would explode at any spark; that would get them fast.
The pontoons skidded unevenly on the water, and the plane rocked from side to side.
One of the pontoons could come off. That would tear the plane—and them—to pieces.
Kate tightened her lap belt. Should she take it off? It could cut her in half.
The pontoons kissed the water again before reeling back into the air, wobbling and wounded.
Kate leaned forward, and for some reason, put her arms around David’s neck, holding him tightly to his seat and pressing herself against the back of his seat. She rested her head at the base of his neck. She couldn’t watch. She felt the plane plow into the water more violently. The floor shook constantly. The turbulence spread to the thin metal walls, she heard a series of cracks, and she was flung back into her seat, the breath almost knocked out of her. She opened her eyes and sucked in a breath. They had stopped. Branches! In the cockpit. David’s head hung lifelessly.
Kate lunged forward but the lap belt nearly tore her in half. She reached for him, disregarding the belt. She felt around his chest. Had a branch gone through him? She couldn’t feel anything.
He lifted his head lethargically. “Hey lady, at least buy me a drink first.”
Kate slumped back in her chair and shoved his shoulder. She was glad to be alive. And glad he was too, but she said, “I’ve had better landings.”
He glanced back at her. “Over water?”
“As it turns out, this is my first water landing, so, no.”
“Yeah, my first water landing too.” David unbuckled himself and climbed out the passenger door. He got his footing on the step and released the passenger seat so Kate could get out.
“You’re serious, aren’t you? You’ve never landed a plane on water? Are you out of your mind?”
“No, I’m just kidding. I land on water all the time.”
“Do you always run out of gas?”
David began unpacking supplies from the plane. “Gas?” He gazed up, as if remembering something. “We didn’t run out of gas. I just killed the engines for dramatic effect. You know, just hoping you would do that reach-forward hug-from-behind thing.”
“Very funny.” Kate began organizing supplies, as if they had been doing this routine for years. She looked over at David. “You’re uh, certainly more… lively than you were in Jakarta.” She had considered not saying anything, but she wondered… “I mean, I’m not complaining—”
“Well, you know, surviving certain death always puts me in a good mood. Speaking of which,” he handed her the end of a large green tarp. “Help me spread this over the plane.”
Kate ducked under the plane and caught the tarp when he threw it over, then rejoined him at the small pile of supplies. She glanced back at the covered plane. “We’re not going to… will we be flying out on…”
David smiled at her. “No, I’d say that was its last flight. And besides, it’s out of gas.” He held up three MREs, fanning them out like playing cards. “Now, are you continuing your hunger strike or do you wish to partake of one of these fine delicacies?”
Kate pursed her lips and leaned closer as if inspecting the brown packages. “Hmmm. What’s on the menu this morning?”
David turned the boxes around. “Let’s see, for your culinary enjoyment, we have: meatloaf, beef Stroganoff, and chicken noodle soup.”
Kate’s last meal had been yesterday—late afternoon, before they had retreated into the bomb shelter below the cottage. “Well, I’m not really all that hungry, but the chicken noodle soup sounds simply irresistible.”
David spun the pack around and ripped. “An excellent choice, ma’am. Please wait several moments while your entree is heated.”
Kate stepped toward him. “You don’t have to heat it.”
“Nonsense, it’s no trouble.”
Kate considered the tarp covering the plane. “Won’t the fire give away our location… put us at risk—?”
David shook his head. “My dear doctor, I admit we’re roughing it a bit today, but we’re not living in the stone ages, cooking our food on stone hearths like Neanderthals.” He plucked what looked like a small penlight from his pack and held it up to her. He twisted the top and a torch-like flame sprang up. He moved the flame back and forth under Kate’s meal.
Kate squatted down across from him and watched the “chicken soup” begin to boil. It was no doubt soybeans or some other chicken substitute. “At least no animals will be harmed.”
David kept his focus on the flame and the carton as if he were repairing a delicate piece of electronics. “Oh, I think it’s real meat. They’ve come a long way with these things in the last few years. I ate some in Afghanistan that weren’t fit for human consumption. Or hominid consumption, I believe you would say.”
“Very impressive—yes, we are hominids. Hominins to be exact. The only ones left.”
“I’ve been brushing up on my evolutionary history.” David handed her the heated chicken soup, then ripped open another package—meatloaf—and began eating it cold.
Kate stirred the soup with the spork and tentatively took a few bites. Not terrible. Or was she just getting used to how horrid it tasted? It didn’t matter. She sipped the soup as they ate in silence. The lake was placid, and the dense green forest that surrounded them swayed in the wind and creaked occasionally as unseen creatures leapt from branch to branch. If not for yesterday’s tragic events, they could be campers in an untouched wilderness; and for a moment it felt that way to Kate. She finished the last bite of soup a minute after David, and he took her carton and said, “We should get a move on, we’re T minus thirty on the contact’s meet time.” And just like that, the peace and innocence of the natural setting evaporated. David hoisted a heavy pack and hid the last of their trash under the tarp.
He set a brisk pace as they hiked into the mountainous forest, and Kate fought to keep up, and to hide her heavy breathing. He was in much better shape than she was. He stopped periodically, still breathing through his nose as Kate turned away and sucked
in mouthfuls of air.
On the third respite, he leaned against a tree and said, “I know you’re not ready to talk about your research, but tell me this: why do you think Immari took those kids?”
“I’ve actually been thinking about that a lot since Jakarta.” Kate leaned over and put her hands on her knees. “Some of the things Martin said to me, when they were questioning me, they make absolutely no sense.”
“Such as?”
“He implied there was a weapon, some kind of super-weapon, that could wipe out the human race—”
David pushed off the tree. “Did he say—?”
“No, he didn’t say anything else. It was a delusional rant. Part of a tirade about lost cities, and genetics and… what else?” Kate shook her head. “He suggested that children with autism could be a threat, that they were the next step in human evolution.”
“Is that possible? The evolution part?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. We know the last major breakthrough in evolution was a change in brain wiring. If we look at the genome of humans a hundred thousand years ago and humans fifty thousand years ago, there’s very little genetic change, but we know that the genes that did change had a huge impact—mostly on how we thought. Humans began using language and thinking critically, solving problems rather than acting on instinct. Essentially, the brain started acting more like a computer than a processing center for impulses. It’s debatable, but there is evidence that another shift in brain wiring is occurring. Autism is essentially a change in brain wiring, and the diagnosis rate for autism spectrum disorders, or ASD, is exploding. In America, it’s up five hundred percent in the last twenty years. One in every eighty-eight Americans is somewhere on the spectrum. Some of the increase is due to better diagnosis techniques, but there’s no question that ASD is on the rise—in every country around the world. Developed nations seem to be hit the hardest.”
“I don’t follow. How does ASD connect with evolutionary genetics?”
“We know that almost all of the conditions on the autism spectrum have a strong genetic component. They’re all caused by a difference in brain wiring that is controlled by a small group of genes. My research focuses on how those genes affect brain wiring—and more importantly, how a gene therapy might turn on or off genes that would increase their social abilities and improve their quality of life. There are tons of people somewhere on the autism spectrum who live independent, enjoyable lives. For example, individuals diagnosed with Asperger syndrome simply have a lot of difficulties socializing and usually focus intensely on an area of interest—computers, comics, finance, you name it. But it doesn’t always have to be limiting. In fact, specializing is the key to success these days. Take a look at the Forbes list—if you tested the individuals who made their fortune in computers, biotech, and finance, I guarantee you the majority would land somewhere on the autism spectrum. But they got lucky—they won the genetic lottery. Their brains operate in a way that allows them to solve complex problems and manage enough social skills to function in society. That’s what I was trying to do, give my kids a fair shot at life.” Kate had her breath back, but she kept looking down.
“Don’t talk like that. Like it’s over. Let’s move out. We’re T minus fifteen.”
They resumed their pace, and Kate kept up this time. Five minutes before the meeting time, the forest waned and an expansive train station came into view.
“It’s definitely not abandoned,” Kate said.
Before them, the station swarmed with people, all dressed in white coats, security outfits, and other uniforms. David and Kate would stick out among the masses filing into the station.
“Hurry, before they see us walking in from the trees.”
50
Immari Corp. Research Complex
Outside Burang, China
Tibet Autonomous Region
Dorian watched the monitors as the researchers led the twenty or so Chinese subjects out of the room. The therapy really did a number on them. Half could barely walk.
The observation room included a large wall with screens monitoring every inch of the research facility and several rows of computer workstations where eggheads typed on computers all day doing God knows what.
Across the room, Naomi leaned against a wall, clearly bored. She looked so strange with clothes on. Dorian motioned for her to come over. She wasn’t authorized to hear the scientist’s report.
“You want to get out of here?” Naomi said.
“In a bit. Go get acquainted with the facility. I have some work to do. I’ll come after you shortly.”
“I’ll survey the local talent.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
She wandered out of the room without a word.
Dorian turned to the nervous scientist who had been lurking, following, almost stalking him since he had arrived.
“Dr. Chang?”
The man stepped forward. “Yes, sir?”
“What am I looking at here?”
“That’s the third cohort. We’re working as fast as we can, Mr. Sloane.” When Dorian said nothing, Chang continued. “Will, ah, Dr. Grey be joining us?”
“No. You’ll communicate with me about this project from here on out. Understood?”
“Ah, yes, sir. Is… there—?”
“Dr. Grey is working on a new project. I’d like you to bring me up to speed.”
Chang opened his mouth to speak.
“And be brief.” Dorian stared at him impatiently.
“Of course, sir.” Chang rubbed his palms together as if he were warming them by a campfire. “Well, as you know, the project dates back to the 1930s, but we’ve only really made substantial progress in the last few years—and it’s all thanks to a few breakthroughs in genetics, in particular rapid genome sequencing.”
“I thought they already sequenced the human genome—in the nineties.”
“Ah, that’s inco—ah, a misnomer, if you will. There is no one human genome. The first human genome was sequenced in the 90s, and the draft sequence was published in February of 2001—ah, that was the genome of Dr. Craig Venter. But we each have a genome and each is different. That’s part of the challenge.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Yes, sorry, I don’t often talk about the project.” He chuckled nervously. “Ah, for obvious reasons! And especially not to anyone in your position. Yes, where to start? Maybe a little history. Ah, the 1930s—the research then was… radical, but yielded some interesting results, despite the methods.” Chang looked around, as if wondering if he had offended Dorian. “Ah, well, we spent decades studying what the Bell actually does to its victims. As you know, it’s a form of radiation that we don’t fully understand, but the effects are—”
“Don’t lecture me about its effects, Doctor. No one on this earth knows more about what it does than I do. Tell me what you know. And be quick.”
Chang looked down. He made several fists with his hands and then tried to dry them on his pants. “Of course you know, I only meant to contrast our past research with… Yes, today, genetics, we sequence… We… The… breakthrough has been turning the research on its head—instead of studying the effects of the device, we’ve focused on finding a way to survive the machine. We’ve known since the thirties that some subjects fare better than others, but since they all die eventually—” Chang looked up to see Dorian glaring at him. The doctor ducked his head and plowed on. “We, our theory is that if we can isolate the genes that impart immunity to the machine, we can develop a gene therapy to protect us from its effects. We would use a retrovirus to deliver this gene, what we’re calling ‘The Atlantis Gene.’”
“So why haven’t you found it?”
“We thought we were close a few years ago, but no one person seems to have full immunity. Our premise, as you know, was that there was a group of humans that could have withstood the machine at some point and that their DNA has been scattered across the earth—essentially we were on a global genetic egg
hunt. But frankly, after as many experiments as we’ve run, given our sample size, we were beginning to believe that the Atlantis Gene didn’t exist—that it never existed in humans.”
Dorian held his hand up and the doctor stopped to catch his breath. If what the doctor said was true, it would require a re-examination of everything they believed. And it would vindicate his methods. Or at least come close. But could it be? There were a few problems. “How did the children survive?” Dorian asked.
“Unfortunately we don’t know. We aren’t even sure what they were treated with—”
“I know that. Tell me what you know.”
“We know that the therapy they received was something cutting edge. Possibly something so new we don’t have anything to compare it to. But we have some theories. There’s been another recent breakthrough in genetics—what we call epigenetics. The idea is that our genome is less like a static blueprint and more like a piano. The piano keys represent the genome. We each get different keys, and the keys don’t change throughout our life: we die with the same piano keys, or genome, we’re born with. What changes is the sheet music: the epigenetics. That sheet of music determines what tune is played—what genes are expressed—and those genes determine our traits—everything from IQ to hair color. The idea is that this complex interaction between our genome and the epigenetics that control gene expression really determines who we become.
“What’s interesting is that we have a hand in writing the music, in controlling our own epigenetics. And so do our parents and even our environment. If a certain gene is expressed in your parents and grandparents, it’s more likely to activate in you. Essentially, our actions, our parents’ actions, and our environment influence what genes could be activated. Our genes might control the possibilities, but epigenetics determines our destiny. It’s an incredible breakthrough. We’ve known something more than pure static genetics was at work for some time. Our twin studies in the thirties and forties told us that. Some twins survived longer in the machine than others, despite having almost exactly the same genome. Epigenetics is the missing link.”
