Generations

by Steve Alten

  Johnny Hon appeared on camera, seated behind his desk in his Hong Kong office.

  “My name is Dr. Johnny Sei-Hoe Hon, and I am the president and CEO of Global Group International Holdings. In the Chinese culture, dragons are considered to be divine mythical creatures that control the rain, lakes, rivers, and sea, bringing abundance, prosperity, and good fortune. The Chinese dragon, or Lung, symbolizes power and excellence, valiancy and boldness, heroism and perseverance. A dragon overcomes obstacles until success is his. He is energetic, decisive, optimistic, and intelligent.

  “The Yellow Dragon functions as a medical facility, pharmaceutical processing plant, scientific research platform, and—in the near future—a five-star aquatic hotel and entertainment center. Each of our twelve hundred suites comes with an unobstructed view of our surroundings as we submerge beneath the surface of the ocean, transporting our guests to a world very few have ever visited.”

  An animated sequence showed the entire Yellow Dragon docking platform and its fleet of smaller vessels descending into the abyss, the titanic sphere glowing neon violet, its light attracting swarms of bioluminescent fish. A depth gauge at the top right corner of the screen tracked the dive in meters and feet.

  At nearly thirty-two thousand feet, the platform and its vessels passed through a thick hydrothermal plume, a message appearing on screen:

  Now entering the Mariana Trench …

  Sprouting from the seafloor was a petrified forest of hydrothermal vents that spewed superheated, 700-degree-Fahrenheit mineral water into the abyss. The black smokers were surrounded by undulating clusters of tube worms, their tall, albino stalks providing nourishment to an abundance of life.

  The neon-violet glow emanating from the biosphere’s outer shell powered off, causing it to vanish. From this heart-pounding, suffocating blackness appeared a thousand grapefruit-size orbs grouped in a spherical cluster. These “bait projections” blinked on and off along the Yellow Dragon’s hull, attracting the attention of multiple schools of fish, which rushed the darkened sphere from every conceivable angle, only to bounce harmlessly off the unseen aerogel shell.

  Rising from its crawl space beneath a rock formation was a giant squid. The fifty-foot beast altered its camouflaged hide to a ghostly albino as it attacked the orbs, its tentacles splaying across the biodome’s curved outer shell.

  The incredible scene shifted to the inside of a luxury hotel room as a couple observed the action from inside their living area.

  As they watched, a sonar image displayed across the top of their smart window, locking on to something very large moving along the dark periphery.

  Species identified: Carcharodon megalodon

  The fifty-two-foot albino shark suddenly turned, launching its attack on the giant squid. Its jaws snatched the cephalopod from the sphere, its teeth shredding the succulent meat as its monstrous snout pressed against the Yellow Dragon’s outer shell, but causing no damage.

  “As you can see, a Megalodon encounter is nothing to fear. The Yellow Dragon’s double aerogel shell is impervious to heat, cold, and giant prehistoric sharks. But we’ve saved the best for last—our daily excursions into the Panthalassa Sea.”

  The Yellow Dragon glowed gold like an abyssal sun, casting its light upon one of the tubes, where dozens of people were in line to board one of the smaller spheres. The watertight passage was sealed and the Mini-Dragon rose from its docking berth, its outer shell casting a violet aura—the only visible light in the trench.

  Up ahead were blinking red lights marking the circumference of a massive man-made hole—a passage into another world. The entrance was electrified, preventing any prehistoric life-forms from escaping into the Pacific.

  Red lights were replaced by green, and the Mini-Dragon plunged straight down into the tunnel.…

  Jonas blinked as the lights came on in the theater, the video over. “Pretty intense.”

  Terry nodded. “What do you think?”

  “About what? A cure for cancer? I’m all for it, assuming they’ve figured out how to excise the liver from a ninety-foot, two-hundred-thousand-pound tuna while it’s still alive.”

  “What about touring the Panthalassa?”

  “My personal opinion … it’s insane. By the look on your face, I can tell you don’t agree.”

  “David ventured into the Panthalassa in a tiny Manta sub; you went after him in a craft even smaller. Those Mini-Dragons … they’re huge spheres, far too wide even for Angel to have wrapped her jaws around. Assuming the aerogel hull can withstand the pressure, I don’t see how anything down there could possibly damage it.”

  “You sound like you actually want to see it.”

  “If it was safe? Absolutely. To witness these ancient sea creatures interacting in their natural habitat … wow. And I’m not alone. Why do you think people climb into aluminum shark cages to observe great whites, while others parachute out of perfectly good airplanes? Remove all the risk and you take all the fun out of living.”

  Jonas’s eyes widened. “Who are you, and what did you do with my wife?”

  “She woke up. And now she refuses to live in fear.” Terry leaned in and kissed him. “You saved me, Jonas … you always save me. Now it’s my turn to save you.”

  “How?”

  “I was watching you on the chopper ride out—your hand was shaking.”

  “Well, if it turns out to be Parkinson’s, at least we know how to cure it,” Jonas said, referring to his wife’s unexpected benefit from having been in a prolonged coma.

  “What was it Mac emailed to you that rattled you so badly?”

  “Information on Johnny Hon’s venture. To be honest, I thought he was building another Dubai-Land. But this … this is beyond anything I ever imagined.”

  He looked up as Molly Wilken returned. “So … I hope you enjoyed the virtual tour. I’m sure you have many questions. If you’ll come with me, Dr. Hon is waiting.”

  Tanaka Institute

  Monterey, California

  David awoke in his office from his afternoon nap at precisely 5:17 p.m., having preset his mental alarm three minutes before the CD alarm clock. For a long moment he stretched out on the leather sofa, staring at the bright orange specks of sunset bleeding through the slats of his venetian blinds. He felt sluggish, having stayed up way too late the night before watching a zombie apocalypse movie with Monty and Monty’s new girlfriend. Alexia Rhodes was Dulce’s roommate, and David enjoyed having her at his apartment when both girls were there, but with his fiancée traveling abroad, he felt like the third wheel … especially with Monty and Alexia going at it in the very next room.

  The CD alarm clock went off, playing the Rolling Stones’ “The Last Time.” He listened through the first chorus, then rolled off the couch and staggered into his private bathroom. Gazing at his reflection in the mirror didn’t help. He hadn’t shaved in three days—with Dulce gone, what was the point? But he knew the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes wouldn’t pass Mac’s inspection.

  Searching his medicine cabinet, he located an old squirt bottle of eyedrops. He leaned his head back and closed his left eye, attempting to drip a few droplets into the right—dousing his cheeks before being rewarded with a burning sensation that caused him to toss the expired container in the trash can.

  Returning to the medicine cabinet, he grabbed a bottle of aspirin, twisted off the cap, and dumped five into his palm. Without thinking, he popped them into his mouth and leaned over the faucet to take a drink, before remembering he had skipped lunch.

  This is what happens when you mess around with your schedule.

  David’s stomach was already burning by the time he doused his head in a cold shower and ran a comb through his hair. His new assistant, Shannon Corder, would not be by with his dinner until 5:45—maybe there was something to eat in his minifridge?

  He left the bathroom to check but found only a six-pack of soda and a shriveled-up plum. He was tempted to text Shannon to hurry up, but that’s how he had l
ost his last assistant, so he turned on his TV to kill some time.

  * * *

  Running a dilapidated aquarium while working with a dangerous animal had quickly proven itself to be an eighteen-hour-a-day, seven-day-a-week job. Mac ran the back end, overseeing repairs and maintenance, but he was getting up there in years, and wanted to spend more time with his five-year-old son, so he set out to train Monty to take over for him.

  David’s job was to bring the crowds back to the facility, and the first year had been especially difficult. It wasn’t that the public wasn’t fascinated with Luna; it was simply that the Meg was only a small juvenile compared with Angel, who had set the bar at seventy-four feet and fifty tons. Six years ago, the Tanaka Institute was the only place in the world one could see the most dangerous predator in history—Angel’s presence alone had sold out the arena six months in advance. But now Dubai-Land was open, featuring its own mature Megalodon (Angel’s only surviving offspring), along with seven other monstrous prehistoric species—all situated in a theme park anchored by twelve five-star hotels.

  While Dubai-Land was raking in tens of millions of dollars a day, the Tanaka Institute was barely drawing enough attendance to pay for Luna’s daily feeding. The fact that David was personally responsible for capturing three of the species that were now destroying his own business was an irony he struggled with every day.

  He had also miscalculated the public’s response to his interactions with the Meg. Part of Angel’s draw was that she had been so frightening. Watching David swim with Luna may have earned him points with animal rights groups, but it changed the experience for the paying public, who wanted to be scared.

  It was Monty who came up with a solution. Last week, the institute had quietly announced on its website that future shows with Luna would no longer include David’s entering her tank. Two days later, a video shot using an iPhone was “leaked” to the media by an unnamed former employee, showing the forty-six-foot, fifty-two-thousand-pound albino shark attacking her trainer. The video went viral and attendance went up, bringing in desperately needed revenue.

  Still, David refused to give up his personal interactions with Luna. The maturing Megalodon clearly appeared to look forward to their private training sessions. And so David would show up at the arena every morning at six and spend two hours in the water with the shark before the institute’s handful of employees or the construction crew working on the Meg Pen were allowed to enter.

  Shifting Luna’s habitat to the lagoon came with its own set of problems. With the sun reflecting off the water’s surface, visibility was poor, forcing David to cancel all daytime shows. Instead, two shows were scheduled every night at eight and ten, the Megalodon much easier to see with the underwater lights turned on in her lake-size tank.

  The staged video, along with Luna’s recent growth spurt, had increased the institute’s average weekday attendance to just under thirty-seven hundred visitors a show.

  But there were two nights a month when the arena experienced near-sellout crowds. When the moon was full, Luna would rise to the surface and spy-hop for hours, her gently moving caudal fin causing her to sway, her lower jaw opening and closing as if the shark was praying silently to the heavens.

  Having survived a challenging first year in business, David Taylor was finally starting to turn a profit. It was a brutal schedule—up at 5:30 a.m., working with Luna from 6 to 8 a.m., breakfast and exercise until 9:45 a.m., business until 1 p.m., when he ate lunch and napped in his office until 5:30 p.m. Then dinner, two shows, and back in his apartment (or Dulce’s place) by 1 a.m.

  David knew his workweek would not improve unless he could expand the business. That meant more exhibits and an on-site hotel. A few chains were interested, but they would not capitalize the venture with Luna as the institute’s only draw.

  “If something happens to your Meg, you’ll put us both out of business.”

  * * *

  David was flipping through the television channels when he came across the ticker-tape news blurb along the bottom of the screen:

  Megalodon attack in British Columbia injures three …

  Retrieving his iPhone from his desk, he Googled the story, his pulse racing.

  Belladonna Attacks Fishing Boat;

  3 Injured, 1 Still Missing

  (AP) British Columbia:

  A thirty-two-foot fishing boat was trawling the waters off Vancouver Island early this morning when several passengers noticed a four-foot gray dorsal fin trailing in the charter’s wake. Captain Scott McLeod immediately contacted the Coast Guard and headed for shore.

  “We were less than two kilometers south of Ucluelet when she rammed us from below. Our starboard engine stalled and we started taking on water. I began serpentining back and forth like the Coast Guard advisory instructed, but I think it made the creature mad ’cause the next thing I know my passengers were screaming and the damn thing is gnawing on the starboard bow rail.”

  Pamela Hanvey was seated in the bow when the Megalodon rose out of the water and bit the rail. She managed to film this video as the boat started rolling beneath her.

  David clicked on the YouTube video, which showed a stark-white shark’s head, roughly the size of a minivan, biting down on the aluminum rail—the sea suddenly rushing at the camera.

  Hanvey suffered a mild concussion and a broken pelvis. Two other passengers, Linda Baker of Texas and Shawn Banks of Toronto, were flown to Tofino General Hospital; both are listed in stable condition.

  First mate James Martin, a former defensive tackle who played three seasons with the Cleveland Browns, is still missing. Martin was operating the bilge pumps in the engine room when the boat flipped.

  David clicked on two more stories related to the attack before he was interrupted by a knock on his office door.

  “It’s open.”

  Shannon Corder entered, his new assistant followed by a man in a dark suit and a police officer. “David, these men need to see you.”

  “David Taylor?” The man in the suit stepped forward, handing him a folded stack of papers.

  “What’s this?”

  “A subpoena. You’ve been served.”

  The two men left, leaving Shannon unsure of what to do.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Get Tom Cubit on the phone.” He sat down behind his desk, opening the papers.

  The subpoena had been issued by the deputy minister and executive director of the British Columbia Environmental Assessment Office and the director of the Washington State Department of Ecology, ordering him to report to a 9 a.m. hearing in the latter’s office in Seattle in two days, the subject—

  —Belladonna.

  Aboard the Yellow Dragon

  Western Pacific

  Molly Wilken led them through the lobby to one of the sets of elevators. She pushed the down button and the doors immediately opened.

  The administrator pointed to the inside panel’s floor menu. “As you can see, the hotel suites reside above the lobby and are labeled two through twenty. Floors A through T are below the lobby and require a special passkey.” She inserted her magnetic card into the slot and pushed “S-Deck.”

  The bullet-shaped elevator immediately dropped through a second atrium situated in the Yellow Dragon’s southern hemisphere, the deep blue of the Pacific at the bottom of the vessel looming into view.

  The doors opened to a balcony that looked straight down on T-Deck and the curved bottom of the sphere. Molly led them around the square corridor past administrative offices, the last suite denoted in English and Chinese as belonging to Dr. Johnny Sei-Hoe Hon.

  They entered an interior corridor, where a Chinese woman dressed in a business suit was waiting.

  “Professor Taylor, Mrs. Taylor … this is Catherine Ying, Dr. Hon’s personal assistant.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Wilken, I’ll handle things from here.” Catherine Ying stepped in front of Molly as she extended her palm to shake Jonas’s hand, gripping his fingers painfully. “I am
so pleased to have you both aboard our facility. If you’ll follow me.”

  She led Jonas and Terry down a private corridor to a closed polished maple door, a copper plate identifying it as an executive boardroom.

  “Prepare to be impressed,” she said with a smile as she opened the door.

  Jonas’s eyes widened as he entered a rectangular conference room, its curved exterior floor-to-ceiling aerogel walls revealing the undersea world. He was so mesmerized by the view that it took him several seconds before he realized there were a dozen people seated around an eighteen-foot-long oval table clapping for him.

  A barrel-chested Chinese man in his forties approached, greeting him with a hearty handshake. “Professor Taylor, you honor us by your presence. Mrs. Taylor, I am so pleased you were able to make the trip.…”

  Johnny Hon followed Jonas’s gaze over his right shoulder, where a school of krill were twisting and contorting in the distance, attempting to avoid being eaten by a thirty-foot whale shark.

  “Sorry, it’s just so…”

  “Beautiful?”

  “I was going to say addicting.”

  “Yes, I agree. And this is only the appetizer. Speaking of which, you must be hungry. Why don’t you fill your plates and we’ll talk over lunch.”

  He pointed to a dozen buffet trays lined up on a narrow table set along the interior wall. At Johnny’s signal, a waiter removed the tops, leaving a serving utensil in each offering.

  Jonas followed Terry, who handed him a plate, the rest of the executives falling in behind them, Johnny insisting on being the last person in line.

  Ten minutes later, Jonas was sitting back in his reclining chair, satiated and once more staring out the window, his eyelids growing heavy.

  “You are tired, my friend?”

  “It was a long trip.”

  “This will be a quick meeting. As soon as we finish, Ms. Wilken will escort you to your suite and you can get some rest.”