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Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
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Nor All Your Tears
Part 1
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
-Edward Fitzgerald, The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
2013
Rebecca
“Mason, this is your birthday cake. You are going to have a piece, aren’t you?”
I had just sliced generous slices of cake and handed them out to Emma, Dr Varady, and Jesse.
Mason allowed himself a smile. He could do that now, and not feel foolishly vulnerable in the company of those recognized as friends. Even now, his employees and most of his superiors had no suspicion this aspect of him existed. “A small slice, please. Whole food hasn’t been agreeing with me.”
“Laura would be crushed if you didn’t have a piece. So would I after prying out of you that you wanted a chocolate cake with orange-peel frosting.”
I sliced off a sliver of cake, making a mental note to talk to him later about his problems with digestion. This was something new. Such change could mean nothing or everything. I had to know. His health could not be taken for granted. I handed him his cake. “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.”
Mason turned to Dr Varady. “Laura, it was thoughtful of you to do this.”
“I enjoyed making it. It’s unusual.”
“One of my great-aunts –Great Aunt Natalie Grey—made a cake very like this when we visited her in Georgia. I must have been about seven; Marcus was still alive. I never forgot Natalie Grey’s wonderful cake.”
“Laura practices an art nearly lost outside of bakeries.” I smiled. It was true.
“A fading art, but not quite dead,” Dr Laura Varady began. “Emma’s been stopping by for lessons. She’s going to keep the art alive.”
“It’s really not hard, once you know the techniques. I think it’s fun.” Emma smiled. “And my friends are amazed. When Shalimar had a party to celebrate the opening of her third martial arts studio, she couldn’t believe I made the cardamom cake myself.”
Emma had come a long way. I liked her as soon as Mason introduced us. Emma was warm, genuine, and she had saved Mason’s life, and in a sense, my own. To her innate qualities, she had added a degree in psychology and was well along on the way to a graduate degree.
“Speaking of keeping things alive…I know this is Mason’s day, but Emma and I have news we want to share.” Jesse was smiling broadly.
“Someone has stolen you away from Genomex with a huge salary offer?” Mason asked, smirking, and not completely in jest. “I’ll match it and throw in a company car. You’re invaluable to me.”
Jesse had matured into Mason’s ablest lieutenants. Mason never said as much to Jesse, but he confided to me that Jesse would have a significant role in the future operation of Genomex/GSA, possibly taking his position. Jesse’s intelligence and unique understanding as a Genomex mutant himself made him uniquely suited to the job. I doubted Jesse would ever have Mason’s singular dedication, but the main mission of Genomex no longer required such resolve and single-mindedness.
Jesse rolled his eyes, embarrassed by the lavish but sincere praise.
“No, nothing like that. Something better. In spite of everything we’ve done to prevent it, Emma and I are having a baby.”
Laura Varady squealed with delight. “Can I be an honorary grandma? All of my grandchildren are out of state and I would love to fuss over this one!”
I hugged Emma. “I’m so happy for you both. You are so lucky.”
“Honorary grandmas, aunties, --and uncles,” Emma said, turning to Mason, “are welcome. Can anyone, especially a child, have too much love?”
I pushed the tragedy of two miscarriages from my mind. My happiness for Emma was sincere. My misfortunes were no reason to resent anyone else’s joy. “Mason, I think we should celebrate with the non-alcoholic spumante, since Emma shouldn’t be drinking ethanol now. I’m sure there’s at least one chilled bottle.”
Mason didn’t seem to be focused on anything in the room. He looked stunned. His plastic fork rested on the paper plate, his mind briefly occupied elsewhere. I watched his eyes as he recovered from the surprise , and managed, just barely, a polite and proper, “Congratulations. To both of you.”
“Are you having problems with the cake? You don’t look well.”
When I asked the question, I knew the cake was not the problem. He couldn’t fool me. He was not pleased.
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” He set down the plate and went to retrieve faux spumante from refrigeration.
He could not fool Emma, either. She could sense his emotions, even if she could not read the subtleties on his face.
No, you are not fine. Can’t fool me, Mason Grey Eckhart. What is it? Bad memories of my losing three of your children? You’re not one to begrudge anyone else happiness. Why aren’t you happy for Emma and Jesse? We’re going to talk about this later.
“Laura, I don’t know anything about taking care of a baby.” Emma sounded overwhelmed.
“I raised five children and lived to tell about it. By the time this baby arrives, I will have you prepared.”
Laura Varady possessed one of the most generous hearts I had known. Throughout the years of Mason’s estrangement from humanity, she alone treated him well, never forgetting the man he had been before, and never abandoning hope he could be again.
I am fortunate to have such people filling my life.
Mason returned with a cold bottle; I retrieved glasses. “Boy or girl,” I asked. “Do you know?”
“Girl,” Emma replied, smiling.
“Does she have a name?” Dr Varady asked.
“Jessica. Jessica Anne Kilmartin.”
“We don’t know if ‘Jesse’ and ‘Jessica’ have any relationship, but we liked the way it sounded.” Jesse was still smiling.
Emma remained perplexed by Mason’s emotions. “It just happened, Mason. We were shocked.”
Mason poured bubbly grape juice into her glass. “Life…holds many surprises.”
Well, I was happy for them. I’d sort out the rest later. “I propose a toast to the newcomer. To Jessica Anne, all the best for her and her parents.”
Lilith
I am Lilith. Dr Paul Breedlove created and gave life to many variations on the theme of humanity, some of them with hardly any human left. (Oh, yes, I know about the human/insect chimeras. Paul showed me the photos and films.) Some of his creations were much superior to the general type of human. But I am Lilith, and upon me Paul lavished years of attention and refinement because he loved me best of all.
There are those who condemn Paul as a once-upon-a-time member of the Nazi party. He was a party member, yes, I acknowledge that. Paul never believed their absurd racial theories. He laughed at the results of the Lebensborn program, almost all mediocrities, and at the inability of the Nazis to define ‘Aryan’ other than “we know it when we see it”, all the while following into wrack and ruin a Fuhrer who did not fit the ‘Aryan’ ideal. Paul served the Nazi savages only because they provided funding and facilities for research, and because they took his genius seriously despite his youth.
Paul’s dream was to create a superior human form. He knew, even at a young age that the best brilliance of humanity was scattered among individuals of all peoples.
When Paul crafted Adam Kane, his first synthetic human, he used only his own DNA as ‘platform’ for creation. The size of Breedlove’s organization in the late 1950s limited the scope of possibilities.
By the time Paul shipped Adam off to Stanford, he had dabbled extensively into the creation of what later were known as Genomex mutants.
I think Paul must have been relieved to see the young Adam go off to fine-tune his mind. From the stories I heard, Adam was an unbearably arrogant child. He had a tendency to make playmates subservient to him, always letting them know how superior he was. How tiresome that must have been.
The early mutants were far from perfect. Quite often they had emotional or physical problems, and they were difficult to control. Like all Genomex mutants, they were prone to immunological problems.
So it was that Paul returned to the creation of a superior synthetic human. His organization was much expanded, and he recruited staff worldwide. Paul maintained DNA samples from nearly all of his employees. Some knew about this, and some did not. From this collection of brilliant minds, Paul Breedlove selected the very best from most of them, resulting in…me.
I may truly be said to be a child of Genomex, being the bearer of DNA from dozens of employees. Everything about me is superlative: intelligence (superior speed, memory, linear thought, creativity, three-dimensional thought) and physical constitution (superior resistance to disease, biomechanical efficiency, and ultimately, longevity) and my looks are a fusion of the faces of all those people. I have elements of most large racial groups in the world, but none predominate. I am assured the combination is highly unusual and attractive.
Since Adam turned out to be flamboyant and attention-craving, Paul crafted me to be modest and quiet, if I wished, capable of blending into any setting.
Adam could not admit, even to himself, that he was other than born human. Paul thought this very silly of Adam, but this quirk of Adam’s was useful when he periodically stopped by Breedlove’s office where Paul would download his memories of all work Adam had done or knowledge acquired, and later, upload all of these data into me! He did not do the reverse because Adam did not have that capability. Adam retained no memory of these downloads. This was useful, and continued until Adam left Genomex in 1998.
Paul could not upload his own memories, but I did have access to all of his laboratory notebooks, which I studied with great care.
Sometime after Eleanor died (In a sense, she was my mother since I was constructed from one of her eggs. Her mitochondria are my own.) we became lovers in 1992, which no doubt will strike some as incestuous or repulsive, or both, given that I was Paul’s creation and not truly human. No matter. I did say I was his best-beloved. Fortunately, the Genomex gossip mill was absorbed with the strange transformation of Mason Eckhart, and paid no attention to Paul and me.
Paul’s mutants were not successful, but it was years before he admitted they were a great failure and that his decision to continue making more and more of them was a mistake. At first, he tried to say that Adam had talked him into continuing experimentation, but I would have none of that!
“You worked with Adam too long! Don’t make excuses the way he does.”
Adam’s idea of the ‘truth’ was always plastic and mutable. He believed no one else was smart enough to notice!
As reports increased about people who could only be Genomex mutants committing crimes and behaving destructively began to appear, Paul became more reflective about his mutants and more withdrawn from the daily running of Genomex.
Paul was a brilliant man, but his belief that his creations would prove harmless was delusional wishful thinking. Not only did these unfortunates have freakish talents, but hardly any of them understood what they possessed. Many of them had emotional problems arising from their inevitable distress. The seeds of Paul’s great guilt were sown.
When Adam left Genomex without a parting word, Paul withdrew even further from the operation, delegating an ever-increasing number of responsibilities to Mason Eckhart. Despite Eckhart’s peculiar combination of afflictions, he was a surprisingly effective executive. Not a charming one, but effective. Having the concerns of Genomex to distract him was a good thing; few humans I have known could have coped with the physical and emotional traumas Paul described Eckhart enduring.
Every autumn, Paul became depressed as the days shortened and winter approached. He did not like seeing everything wither and die, dry up and turn brown. I do not know why he did not locate Genomex in a warmer place; Eleanor must have wanted things this way.
In October 1999, Paul summoned Eckhart to his office and spent hours explaining the science to Eckhart, outlining what the existence of the Genomex mutants implied or the rest of humanity.
Paul knew what the mutants implied, and once Eckhart knew as well, Paul said he blew up, furious he had spent fifteen years of his life protecting an operation that would eventually lead to the extinction of humanity. He demanded to know what could be done to change the outcome.
“Short of rounding them all up, nothing,” Paul told him.
Eckhart began collecting mutants immediately, no trivial undertaking since they were scattered and no one had kept track of them. Production and manufacture of stasis pods and subdermal governors by the dozens began. Paul turned a blind eye to this activity, guilt growing over the creation of mutants as more and more of them grew to adulthood, an adulthood likely to be brief.
Someone had to run Genomex, but I did not like the way Eckhart took over more and more of Paul’s duties. Realistically, Paul left him little choice. When I complained about Eckhart’s presumption, Paul asked me if I would prefer having Adam in charge, which put things into perspective.
Paul’s guilt deepened over time. I became annoyed by the way he minimized his role in the project. In 2005, I learned he had prepared a first draft of a book detailing the mutant project from the late 1960s forward. He had not written an honest account, giving far too much credit to Eleanor and Adam. Being human and weak, I suppose he could not do otherwise.
“What do you intend to do with this?” I demanded.
“Find a publisher for it.”
He was serious.
“If people believe you, there will be panic and chaos. In an age when learning has never been more convenient, ignorance is honored and the masses adopt the dress, speech and manners of the unlearned. Can you truly believe people will behave other than irrationally? Anyone who appears every so slightly different from the human norm will be murdered by unthinking mobs.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps people will just tune out the bad news.”
“They might. But I think not: a lot of people will use such news as the perfect opportunity to rid themselves of enemies and rivals. Do you want to be responsible for a kind of kristallnacht?”
“I need to do something for all the unhappy lives I’ve created.”
“It’s a little late for that.”
“I’ll do what I can, Lili. There are many people out there who are suffering because they don’t even know what they are.”
Paul made no secret of his intention to reveal the Genomex projects to the general public. I could not dissuade him.
The individual most alarmed by Paul’s plan was Eckhart. He bluntly told Paul how foolish his intentions were, within my hearing, reminding Paul how emotional people became about genetically engineered vegetables. Paul remained determined to make the information public.
Eckhart was intensely interested in this revelation. I could not imagine why, unless he believed his job would be eliminated. Even if no one with his job description was needed, Genomex at minimum owed him a livelihood after the debilitating onsite injuries he suffered and continued to endure. Eckhart displayed just a little too much interest in Paul’s coming press statement. I watched him carefully, and knew he was thinking about more than Adam’s crimes against him.
I had just left Paul to get a dinner for him when I heard agitated male voices behind me. I retraced my steps through the packed shelving, arriving in time to see Eckhart’s man Thorne murder Paul and see Eckhart set fire to the area.
They never saw me.
The fire spread quickly, but if I made an audible sound, Thorne would come after me, so I waited until Eckhart and Thorne were safely gone before running out another exit, stopping only once, pulling a fire alarm.
Eckhart should have questioned how it was the alarm was turned in so quickly, but to my knowledge, he never did. He must have assumed an automatic alarm was activated. The accumulated hard-copy archives were completely destroyed nevertheless. Microfilmed copies of laboratory notebooks were of course stored elsewhere, in an unused salt mine beneath Lake Erie, but some interesting and incriminating material was lost forever. Or so I hoped.
I was frightened of Eckhart and Thorne. I packed what I really needed at Paul’s –our—house, and drove to the airport, taking the next flight to a major hub. I didn’t care where. The following day I phoned personnel and told a story about ailing relatives on Oahu, and booked a flight to Hawaii. In all my years at Genomex, I had never taken so much as a sick day, so I was believed.
I spent a day at an airport hotel in Honolulu, gathering my thoughts. Then I flew to LAX the next day, called some of my old professors and secured a new position. I never returned to Genomex.
Rebecca
A pair of steel doors sealed us safely away from the real world. Inside, air was passed through multiple filters, and positive pressure maintained so any leaks would result in air flowing outward, making the entry of viruses and bacteria spores less likely. When the suite of rooms was unoccupied, ultraviolet light bombarded most every square centimeter, another means of decreasing chances of infection.
With the doors shut behind us, we entered our own universe, secure enough to touch one another in our fashion. No one was here to find anything we did odd. We could hold one another close and tight, but with faces turned away from each other. Anyone who did not understand Mason’s condition would think this peculiar.
We were never affectionate in front of ordinary employees. People get such strange ideas with so little evidence.
We did not owe Genomex employees an explanation of our relationship or the adjustments required by Mason’s afflictions. ‘Normal’ people might find some of these things odd, but how many ‘normal’ people have friends like Jesse, routinely giving his blood to help keep Mason alive?
Other than his doctors, only Catherine knew Mason was regularly, intentionally inoculated with my gut flora to lessen the possibility my presence would make him ill.
“Thank you for the birthday party.”
“You’re welcome, as always.”
“The cake was a surprise. A good one.”
“Laura’s a good friend. Mason, I watched your face tonight. You’re not happy about Emma’s pregnancy. Would you tell me about it?”
“I don’t think Emma can have this child.” He looked grave.
Not ‘should’ but ‘can’. What are you thinking?
“Jessica Anne was a surprise to Emma, an accident. They’re telling the truth about that. Emma was very careful.”
“And you know this because?” he asked, with no suggestion of sarcasm.
“Women talk to each other about such things.”
He accepted that. Some things would always be a mystery to him.
“Imagine a mutant who can walk through walls and hurl psionic blasts. Now, imagine the same individual emotionally unstable, criminal, malevolent, or all three.”
“That’s a grim vision,” I said. “But perfectly possible. Still, I cannot imagine Emma and Jesse raising a dangerous child. I would think their daughter would turn out the opposite of all that.”
“Much of our behavior is rooted in our genetics rather than upbringing. We’ve all seen it: the family of three or more children, good parents, all the children turn out well except one who is nothing like the others, the one who grows up useless or criminal or both. Nothing else explains this except genetics. Nurture affects us, but its effects are overrated.”
What Mason said was true. Growing up, I knew a family with three children, all boys. The middle son was always in trouble. His brothers were, well, boys, and did ordinary boy-stuff, but this kid was a terror. One night he set fire to their house, destroying the garage and the room above it. His portrait probably hangs in post offices nationally.
“Unfortunately, you are correct.”
“They could find themselves with a child neither of them could control. Ashlocke murdered his parents.”
“There is still a chance Jessica Anne would be completely human.”
“Most characteristics of Genomex mutants are inherited as simple dominant genes. The numbers do not favor a happy outcome.”
“I know the numbers as well as you.”
“If Emma and Jesse beat the odds, and tests show this child is completely human, I will be happy for them, and do nothing.”
“And if tests show otherwise?”
“I will have to talk to Emma, and I will have to do something.”
I didn’t like tone of that. “What would you do?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’m still thinking about that.”
“Emma and Jesse are our friends, Mason. Jesse’s gives his blood to keep you alive. Handle this carefully.”
“No matter how I handle this, the end result is unpleasant.”
“What if we were discussing Catherine’s pregnancy, not Emma’s?” I asked.
“I would have the same attitude. Whatever else I am, you must by now know I am fair.”
“Did you see their faces?”
“I did.” He sighed.
“You cannot allow one mutant girl to be born, assuming the worst?”
“No. Not only would she be carrying dangerous genes, but I would be accused of making an exception for friends. Which would be true.”
“They both want this child very much.”
“However, their wishes are outweighed by the consequences for the rest of us. I hoped this kind of gut-wrenching duty was behind me.”
He was sad, sad as I had not seen him since the day he believed Catherine betrayed him to Adam.
“So did I.”
“Before I do anything, I will review Emma’s medical exam. If they’re lucky, I won’t have to do anything. Rebecca, I haven’t had to do anything…distasteful in years. I don’t know if I still have the resolve, and I don’t know if you will understand if I need to act.”
“We’ll hope the child is Plain Vanilla Human.”
Who among his enemies, or even among his small circle of friends, would believe Mason, tormented with guilt over past sins, and the necessity of committing future sins?
He wasn’t a nice man. He never claimed to be one, but he did have a conscience, as complicated as the rest of him.
“Are you losing weight?” I asked. I pushed back from Mason, and looked at him. “I seem to be holding less of you.”
“I’m having a lot of difficulty keep down ordinary food. I’ve mostly gone back to the pink slurry.”
“Have you talked to Dr Prodana?”
“I haven’t. I should.”
“Yes. Tomorrow? Please.” Nagging him would do no good. A single emphatic plea registered as strongly as a dozen nagging reminders.
“I don’t like her.”
“No one seems to. Don’t renew her contract. But you need to talk to her.”
“I’ve had legal looking into ways to break that contract.”
“Good. I didn’t think you had access to medical records at St Kat’s.”
“I have access to everything.”
“That sounds illegal.” I smirked. Much of what Mason routinely did as his duties was illegal.
“It is illegal. But I do it anyway since it is useful. I told you a long time ago I wasn’t a nice man.”
“I didn’t forget.” I smiled.
Mason
“O Dear God,” I said, setting down the phone.
“What did Catherine say to you?”
Rebecca had not anticipated this response from me.
“She wants to bring a significant guest named Patrick Guyton.”
“Oh. And you said?”
“Yes. I want to get a good look at him.”
“I expect you would.”
Given my unhappy history, I wanted to spare Catherine as much heartbreak as possible. Completely sparing her pain was impossible and unreasonable, and probably not good for her. All she would tell me about Patrick was that he was very smart and very good looking.
Minutes later, I was intently compiling every scrap of information I could find about the exalted Patrick and his family. What I found was surprising.
“Rebecca, this Guyton clan is filthy, stinking wealthy. Not merely well off, but awash in cash, land, and valuables. The catalogue of paintings they are presently loaning to various museums is staggering.”
“Where did they get their money?”
“It wasn’t a Guyton who made the fortune. The money comes from Patrick’s mother. Eric Guyton worked for her father about five years before marrying his only child. The mother’s money goes back to a nineteenth century industrial robber baron type, except that the family diversified their holdings throughout the twentieth century.”
“Did you find anything scary?”
“This tribe is remarkably scandal-free. Mostly they seem to have quietly added to the family fortune, or quietly spent it on paintings.”
“Making them either of good character, or lacking imagination.” Rebecca grinned.
I rolled my eyes at her. But she was correct. She usually was.
Rebecca
Mason’s lackeys –it’s hard to think of them in any other way, since they rarely spoke, dressed like they shopped together, and were difficult to tell apart even though they came in a variety of heights and colors—knew better than to disturb his sleep for any reason other than the profoundly dreadful. When the GSA phone rang in the middle of the night, the news was never good. I listened to Mason’s half of the conversation and did not need to see his face to know his alarm.
“You’ll have edited video for me in five minutes or shorter? I’ll be waiting.”
Mason terminated his end of the conversation, and sighed in the darkness. “You’re awake, I suppose?”
“That phone always wakes me.”
Mason turned on the tv, and set it to one of the GSA encrypted channels, showing nothing but color bars at the moment.
“Adam just never goes away. Someone stormed the prison with a gunship helicopter, and got Adam out in the process.”
“A gunship helicopter? Not the kind of thing you rent by the hour at your local general aviation airport.”
“No. This required planning, money, and connections. The ‘connections’ aspect bothers me most.”
“Christina?”
“Perhaps, but Christina in recent years has been less than stable emotionally, to put it mildly. Her responsibilities and access have been cut back drastically.” He paused. “Eleven men were killed so that Adam could once again walk in the world.”
“This is someone or a group of someones to whom human life means nothing.”
“I’m glad I’m not responsible for hunting Adam. Sooner or later, though, he’ll be back here. He always comes back. He’s never done with me.”
Mason looked haggard and exhausted in the dim glow of the tv screen. I didn’t like it. With Adam locked away behind steel, stone, and razor wire, Mason had not brought up his name in months. I hoped this ‘demon’ was exorcised. Now, Adam was back, raised up from hell.
The color bars were replaced with a brief screen listing the place, date, and time, and then switched immediately to digital views of the attack. Some of the video came from cameras destroyed moments later.
It looked like a movie but it wasn’t. The gunship blasted three visible guard towers to rubble.
“The men who died were in those towers or underneath them.”
Real, individual lives destroyed, all for Adam. Towards the end, few cameras continued to function, but one, controlled by an operator not even present at the prison but at Genomex, closed in upon Adam when he first appeared, until he was helped inside the helicopter by a woman. Her face was briefly, but clearly focused for a moment. Once they were both safely inside, the helicopter rose above the rubble, and sped off into the darkness.
“They must have been tracked.”
“The pilot stayed too low for radar. Satellite images are being downloaded and searched for the right heat signature, but that will take a little time.”
“Go back to the part where we can see the woman.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I want to see her face.”
Mason reversed, then advanced the images slowly.
“Mason, I think I know her…yes, and so do you.”
“I do?” He was puzzled.
“Dr Lili Chen.”
He froze the moving images. “That could be her. Another one of Breedlove’s protégés. Very quiet, very subdued. I don’t remember too much more about her.”
“You wouldn’t. She was a hard worker, and kept to herself. She had a lab across from mine for several years. I don’t think she even stopped working for lunch.”
Mason looked my way. Suddenly, I had a good idea what he was thinking. “Perhaps she did not need to eat.” He smiled. “Time to do some research on the quiet, subdued Dr Chen.”
Mason was off and running. He pulled on a heavy robe and padded off to a computer. I was unlikely to fall back asleep before knowing what he found, so I drew on my robe and followed him.
“Her full name is Lilith Eleanor Chen.”
Eleanor was the name of Paul Breedlove’s wife, Dr Eleanor Singer.
“Lilith?” I asked.
“Should that be meaningful to me?”
“In one of the more arcane Jewish folktales, Lilith is Adam’s first wife, before Eve. Lilith left him.”
“That sounds like Paul. I think we’ve found Breedlove’s second android.”
Lilith
When I hauled Adam up into the helicopter, he registered surprise at my strength, but said nothing.
“Buckle in. We’re going for a wild ride.”
I strapped myself in snugly. The treetop—and lower—ride in was more an adventure than I anticipated, but my pilots were more than equal to the task. After all, I had trained them.
“You took your time getting me out, Lili.”
You’re welcome, Adam.
“Conditions had to be perfect. Waiting for just the right combination of clear, moonless night with calm winds took a little time. Getting you out would have been pointless if we had to fly high enough for radar to find us or a gust of wind blew us into power lines.”
“I’ve wasted months inside that cage. You can tell me know who organized this. Christina?”
“Christina? Christina’s been such an emotional loon the last five years she’s fortunate she hasn’t been forced to retire. That she has a desk job sifting human intelligence is an act of charity.”
Adam’s old girlfriends were a puzzling lot, tending towards the emotionally unpredictable. Perhaps they made Adam feel stable. Working with the highly strung, anorexic Christina had made me tense and lose weight.
“Who, then?”
One weakness of Adam’s intellect was a tendency to underestimate the people around him, especially the women. I wondered how he had come by that curiously quaint prejudice, raised as he was by Dr Eleanor Singer, a genius in her own right. Odd.
“This is all my doing, Adam.”
“You?”
“Adam, appearing reserved and quiet has certain advantages. No one considers you capable of engineering prison breaks. It’s great camouflage. Hiding in plain sight is always best.”
Adam laughed. At me, not with me.
“Humility and reserve are not bad things. Sometime, you could try them.”
“Where are we going?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Someplace familiar. I think you will be surprised.”
“Someplace safe from federal authorities?”
“Oh, very safe.”
Shortly after, we disposed of the helicopter. What a waste. I would have liked to keep it. Fast and powerful, I could have found many uses for it, but leaving a confused, broken trail was more important.
I sent my pilots and crew off in a fleet of unremarkable looking cars and pickup trucks, leading Adam to the last vehicle in a line.
“We’re traveling in that?” Adam pointed with alarm towards the dented, rusted SUV with missing wheel covers.
I chuckled. Adam’s idea of subdued transportation used to be a Porsche. “Not exactly the image of a getaway car, is it? Clunky, shabby—makes you wonder how good the brakes are, doesn’t it?”
I unlocked and opened a door, gesturing for Adam to get in.
“And the seats are torn up. Did someone pay you to take this away, Lili?”
“Get in, Adam.”
He did so, slowly. I unlocked the driver’s side door and buckled in. “Be comforted by your own misleading impressions. This is a very special custom vehicle. The exterior is genuine junk, as are the seats and the dried-up, cracked vinyl on the dashboard. Most everything else is new, top quality, and heavy duty. The engine has enough wear to be broken in, but no more. Relax, knowing no one will mistake this heap as the means for your escape.” I turned the key in the ignition. “When will we learn to look past appearances?”
“Clever. You gave this a lot of thought.”
Is that all you can say? Of course it is. You’re Adam Kane. More surprises are waiting, Adam Kane.
We drove off into the darkness.
“What’s this?” Adam asked as I turned off the highway onto a deeply rutted dirt road.
“Home at last, Adam.”
“This looks familiar.”
“As well it should.”
Emerging from the shabby SUV into the very early morning darkness, Adam was at once puzzled and pleased.
“But isn’t Sanctuary one of the first places the feds will go looking for me?”
“That sounds reasonable, but I would not worry about it.”
I opened a hinged, 3 inch square steel cover, and pressed my right thumb onto the sensor, releasing the exterior door.
“I don’t recognize this entrance. You cut a new one into the mountain?”
“You’ll see.” I laughed.
Adam followed me down through the shaft until we emerged a few feet from the meditation pool. The lighting was balanced to approximate that of daylight. Brightly colored koi flashed through the water.
“You’ve deepened the pool to accommodate fish. I like that. I’ll keep that.” Adam took in everything. “You’ve done a remarkable job, restoring Sanctuary after the flooding. Really quite remarkable. Thank you.”
“No thanks required.”
“What happened to the labs?”
“They’re there. The walls are simply solid, not glass.”
“I’m ready to take up my work again. Where are you going to go?”
“I’m not going anywhere. This is my home.”
“This is Sanctuary. I built it. It’s my home.”
“No, Adam. You are mistaken. This is Haven, my home, which I built.”
“Haven?”
“Yes. Paul programmed us both to construct strongholds deep in vast piles of rock. The plans were identical, except I had the good sense to choose a pile of rock without a subterranean river. Haven will not flood, unlike Sanctuary.”
“Programmed…”
“Yes. Haven and Sanctuary are Paul Breedlove’s doing.”
“I didn’t design Sanctuary?”
“No more than I designed Haven. Adam, my research is making extraordinary demands upon my time. I broke you out of prison so that I could offer you a position as my assistant.”
I tried to sound casual, but I had been waiting for this moment. I paused to allow “assistant” to seep through his brain cells, then continued on in my best professional voice.
“I believe you will find the work here to be unusual and challenging, and that you could play a most important role.”
“You broke me out to be your assistant?”
“Yes. That has to be better than prison.”
What choice had I given him? None at all! The wider world had no place for him, but I did.
“Looks like I’m staying on.”
I knew you would be rational about this. You have nowhere else to go. All of your buddies, all of your former girlfriends are being carefully watched. As I will need to carefully watch you.
Adam presented himself to the world as a high-minded idealist, his pure research diverted to unsuspected and sinister applications. Nonsense. Adam had been enmeshed in the darker business of Genomex from the time he left Stanford.
Not only was he capable of telling the Big Lie. He was capable of murder. Paul told me what he tried with Mason Eckhart. I would be careful to never turn my back on Adam.
Rebecca
There are people who elicit immediate dislike, a handful of individuals whose nature is obvious, and obviously antagonistic to our own. No matter what these individuals say or do ever after, one knows the best to be hoped for is a strained politeness.
I disliked Patrick Guyton the first time I saw him. It wasn’t just the sloppy clothes, which I recognized as actually expensive and considered stylish in some circles. He had given much thought to attain this look, or he slavishly copied some exemplar.
The sloppy clothes were annoying, considering that he was coming here to meet Catherine’s father, ordinarily a circumstance in which one wanted to leave a positive impression. What really irritated me was his look of disdain, as if he had just scented something foul. I watched him through the glass as he pointed out to Catherine his disapproval of what he saw on the grounds.
In Patrick’s world, only he matters. He is an individual who has never respected anyone else, and cannot imagine respecting anyone else. How many minutes before he and Mason are clawing one another’s eyes out? What are you thinking, Catherine? Are you thinking?
Patrick entered through the double doors. I mentally noted his failure to hold the heavy –bulletproof glass—door for Catherine, which nearly smashed into her face. Patrick always comes first.
Summoning all my willpower, I managed to smile at Catherine.
“Welcome home, Catherine.” I was glad to see her. She had blossomed into an intellectually gifted young woman of great promise, but she wouldn’t go far with an anchor like Patrick in tow.
“Patrick, this is my not-evil stepmother, Dr Rebecca Steyn.”
Catherine always introduced me that way. We both found it amusing because no one expected it.
I held out my hand in greeting, but either Patrick wasn’t focused on me or he was intentionally snubbing me. He wasn’t even looking my way.
“Do you do much animal testing around here?”
“None, unless you count the work with microorganisms. Research at Genomex has always been directed towards human genetics.”
Catherine quietly signed in, and clipped on her personal badge. She turned to Patrick, visitor’s badge in hand.
“Pat, you have to wear a badge. Everyone here has one.”
“I don’t want to wear one of those things, like a criminal.”
Hmm, this could be amusing.
I smiled my corporate-pleasant smile, a not particularly friendly or sincere expression, akin to Mason’s shark-eye glare in spirit and intent, just nowhere near as intense or obvious in malevolence. “Patrick, once through those steel doors, any heat signature detected without a valid badge alerts security. Some well-armed men will make your acquaintance in less than thirty seconds. They are painstakingly recruited for their lack of humor. Of course, you don’t need to wear a badge, but you’re not passing those doors without one.”
Patrick swore, and shuffled up to the receptionist, where Catherine gave him a badge.
Swearing in front of the not-evil stepmother at first meeting. Bad, bad, bad.
“Mason’s waiting for us in his office.” I caught a glimpse of Catherine rolling her eyes. Mason could have met us in the informal ‘family room’, but no matter what he eventually thought of Patrick Guyton, initially he wanted to intimidate him. Mason always tried to maintain whatever advantage was available. Catherine understood perfectly what Mason was doing and why.
Mason’s office had been designed to intimidate. Before it was constructed, he had Dr Varady find psychologists who could tell what colors, textures, and materials would make people ill at ease and maximize the shock of his own…unusual appearance. Everyone was uncomfortable entering this sanctum sanctorum at first; I was accustomed to it and so was Catherine. For most others, however, every visit to Mason’s office was a tense, sweaty-palm experience, especially during their initial visit. Mason wanted things that way.
Patrick Guyton swept into Mason’s office, oblivious to the setting as if he was no more aware than a turnip.
Mason looked up from his desk, glancing briefly my way. I caught his eye briefly and rolled my eyes to warn him about this turnip.
“Welcome home, Catherine.” Mason would never admit it out loud, but his youngest daughter was clearly his favorite.
“Mason, this is Patrick Guyton.”
As pleased as he was to see Catherine, I could tell Mason was annoyed because he remained rooted in his chair and did not offer a gloved hand for shaking. Patrick may have been oblivious of it, but Catherine surely recognized the slight. I turned to study Patrick, and was surprised to find him not looking Mason’s way at all, but instead taking in the minutiae of the office.
Patrick sagged down into a chair. “This place looks like a real bastion of capitalism.”
Mason stared for a moment in disbelief.
“Genomex is a bastion of a good many things, Mr Guyton.”
“Or my great-aunt Lucinda’s loft in New York. Her take on modern décor could double as the set for a tv starship, too.”
Mason was at the edge of unrestrained anger. He would require little more prompting to unleash a verbal attack. Only my presence and Catherine’s was holding him back now.
An awkward silence followed, awkward for Catherine, anyway. His comment had no effect upon Patrick. I knew what Mason was doing, or attempting. Most people found silences with Mason more distressing than his sarcasm because they couldn’t imagine what he was thinking. Patrick should have had the sense to be uncomfortable. Catherine was perturbed but her distress was misplaced.
I took a chair on the right with Catherine in the middle. This could not be pleasant for her.
“Catherine’s said a good deal about you, but she’s never mentioned your major. You have declared a major, yes?”
“Sociology. I am specializing in the study of the oppression of workers.”
Mason was not easily caught unprepared; he’d seen and heard too much. He was staring at Patrick in undisguised disbelief.
“Oppression?”
“There are millions and millions of workers who must work at jobs they hate for less money than they want.”
“The world has legions of people who are not particularly intelligent or diligent. They are the ones who tend to drift towards the base of the social pyramid.”
“But that is not fair.”
“Frequently, there is no other place for such people.”
Mason emphasized this last point with a steady shark-eye glare. I’d seen grown men and women terrorized with that look. I was astonished to see Patrick meet Mason’s glare with defiance.
However misguided, he does believe that he says. What a pain.
“I also want to save endangered animals.”
“All of that sounds very noble.” Mason could be frightening when he smirked. This was such an occasion. That look triggered terror in anyone with sense. Mason had a rare touch with sarcasm. Patrick didn’t pick up on it at all. He’d be lucky to get out of Genomex alive.
“We humans have spread all over the planet, pillaging irreplaceable resources, cutting down the trees, killing the animals, and for what? Ourselves.”
“And who should we be acting for?”
“We should live in harmony with the earth, not destroy it.”
“The air is cleaner now than it was fifty years ago. So are the rivers.”
Patrick shook his head. “Figures don’t lie but liars can figure.”
“I was there. I remember the filthy orange skies blanketing industrial zones. One never sees that now.”
“People need to develop the habit of thinking hundreds of years into the future, not just the end of the next quarter.”
Patrick must have intended that as kill-shot to the corporate creature he mistook Mason to be. If anyone thinks about the long-term future, it’s Mason.
“We should be caretakers to the earth, not consumers!”
“Do you know what happens to most ‘recycled’ paper in this country?”
“It’s remanufactured.”
“No. There isn’t a market for most of it. Some of it is stored and the balance goes into landfills.”
I don’t think Patrick believed him.
There was more awkward silence as Mason’s anger built, all while Patrick sat serene and secure in his belief that he was an extraordinary being, attuned to the earth, high-minded, insightful, battling with an Evil Captain of Corporate Greed.
I hoped Patrick would learn sooner rather than later that much of what he believed was not rooted in fact or science, but was a simplistic fairy tale filled with drama and short on fact.
Mason was not used to anyone arguing such foolishness with him.
“Why don’t we go on down to dinner?” I said, losing patience with the silence.
Mason stood up. “Yes, let’s.”
The route to the ‘family room’ led past several laboratories. Many of the labs had glass walls, giving the windowless space an airy, less claustrophobic atmosphere. The abundant glass also allowed anyone casually walking past to see exactly what was going on.
I had seen these sights for years, and thought nothing much of a particle size analyzer, or a colony counter, or any number of pieces of useful equipment. I had forgotten how arcane, even forbidding, instrumentation could look to people unfamiliar with lab work.
Patrick studied each lab with meticulous care.
What is he expecting to see? Dr Frankenstein’s Tesla coils? Our Dr Frankenstein has been gone for many years.
Briefly, the mental image flitted through my mind of the residents of the neighborhood surrounding the facility, carrying torches and pitchforks, threatening the dwellers within. I imaged Dr Breedlove in lederhosen, appearing on a balcony (does Genomex have any balconies?) successfully imploring the (easily gulled) peasants that there was no cause for alarm, and that they should all return to their homes in peace.
“Are you sure you don’t do any animal testing here?”
“Quite sure,” I replied.
“I’ve always read that places like this grab stray dogs and do horrible experiments on them.”
“That’s an urban myth that won’t die. The truth is less sensational. Organizations having no alternative but to perform animal testing use only animals specially bred for research purposes so that their test subjects will have a known genetic background and a known medical history. To do otherwise would invalidate the results of their experiments. That said, I could not be involved in animal work, although I did guillotine a white rat as an undergraduate in a biochemistry lab. The guys were too squeamish to behead the beast.”
I caught Mason off-balance with that footnote. He probably never thought of me as the kind of woman who beheads small animals.
“Mr Guyton, I have worked here since 1984, and while some unique work was performed upon human subjects, our focus is upon human genetics and never did encompass animal experimentation.”
“I think that even single-celled organisms have rights,” Patrick declared, very much puffed up with his own moral superiority and deep wisdom.
“Like the amoeba that causes dysentery?” Mason asked.
“Yeah. Life is sacred.”
“Mr Guyton, do you understand that human deaths in the millions each year are caused by waterborne single-celled organisms? Do you oppose procedures to make water safe for drinking by filtration, chlorination, and such?”
“It’s selfish and unethical. We should live naturally, in harmony with nature, not beating nature into submission.”
“A serious bout of diarrhea might just change your mind.”
“I don’t think so.”
I could go dip a cup of water out of the lake and you could put that comment to the test, Patrick. I’d even filter out the big chunks before expecting you to drink it.
The thought was tempting, but based upon what I had seen out of Patrick, he might just agree to do it, just to annoy Mason, and then he would likely die. Catherine would hate me forever. Thinking about the possibility was enjoyable, however.
The pit Patrick had dug for himself was so deep I could not imagine him ever crawling out of it. I decided to settle into the spirit of the evening –absurdity— enjoy it as human drama, and try to rein in Mason if that became necessary.
The exterior doors of the ‘family room’ were, as always, guarded by GS agents. Before the kitchen staff brought up dinner, several agents searched the suite, and brought the cart inside. Mason did not like his dinners disturbed. I was accustomed to their presence, and had not thought of warning Patrick about them.
“What kind of place is this?” The sight of the armed GS agents had spooked him.
“With annoying frequency, unwanted visitors stop by. These fellows are part of the Genomex welcome.”
Nicely done, Mason!
“I don’t like guns.”
“I do. So does Rebecca. She’s a dead shot. We’re both packing.” Mason smirked at Patrick, who was more out of his depth than he knew. I opened my jacket to show off my automatic.
Patrick’s eyes went wide at the sight of the demonic devices.
“I believe in gun control.”
How predictable. I found myself disappointed by Patrick’s easily anticipated attitudes.
“So do I. So does Rebecca. We practice regularly so we can hit the target center…every time. Except to be more accurate, the targets we use have a human form printed on them and my people are trained to aim for the upper part of the body…to kill.”
“They don’t try to wound?”
“Certainly not. I like my people to come back alive. Shooting to wound is a television myth. If someone is threatening you with harm or death, you want to stop them, completely. You cannot assume you are dealing with another rational being.”
Mason was toying with Patrick. GS agents rarely used their weapons save in practice. However, it was true they were trained to kill, as indeed I was.
Patrick was speechless. I did not think that was possible.
We entered the family room. Everything required came on the cart: a fresh tablecloth, silverware, dishes, glasses, and of course, the meal.
The three of us—Mason, Catherine, and me, had a routine of setting up the table together and we fell into that practice without discussion.
“Don’t you have someone to do this for you?” Patrick asked.
I thought Mason might spear Patrick with one of the forks he was setting out, but he only looked up and replied, “No, we do not, for reasons of security. Kitchen staff tends to turn over rapidly, and I am less sure of the new hires there than I am of the men outside. Or, if you prefer, you can think of what we are doing as liberating a few of the world’s oppressed workers.”
Patrick looked puzzled.
We sat down to dinner, which continued in the same vein as earlier conversation. Patrick didn’t understand Mason’s dry humor. Worse, he made such a convenient target of himself that he begged for ridicule. I realized Mason was restraining his talent for verbally shredding people who annoyed him. Patrick did not present enough of a challenge for him to unleash his best.
Mason relished pulverizing people he considered fools, but belaboring the same point over and over he did not indulge, probably in the belief that Patrick would provide many later opportunities.
Sitting down to table, for a moment I wondered if Patrick the paragon was some flavor of vegetarian. Allergies and other medical conditions were understandable, as were religious practices. However, people with fussy eating habits tested my patience. I once knew a woman who would eat only one vegetable dish in the world: peas with pearl onions. I expected Patrick to be a picky eater, but he surprised me by being voracious. Did he perhaps have intestinal parasites? Nothing would surprise me.
Mason smiled very nearly his most wicked smile as he lifted the cover from one of the main course dishes.
“Chicken!” he smirked. He knew what he was doing.
“Is it free-range or factory chicken?”
“I have no idea. I did not know the fowl personally.”
“Free-range chickens are happier chickens. Factory-produced birds lead short, unhappy lives wedged into a cage so confining they cannot move. They cannot live the proper life of a chicken.”
“And the proper life of a chicken is?”
“Flapping its wings. Scratching in dirt. Eating bugs. Perching in trees.”
“Being consumed by hawks and foxes,” Mason smirked.
“But while the chicken was alive, it would have been a happy chicken.”
“I’ve never agonized over the psyches of the animals I consume. Birds are woefully stupid animals. Their brains are quite primitive.”
“But they’re living things!”
“Far simpler than a goat or cow, or even a rat. Have you ever studied brain physiology?”
“No.”
“Fascinating study. I’m no scientist, but I’ve read about these things. No, birds cannot reflect or ponder. Being in that cage, with food delivered automatically to each bird, with no arguments over who eats first may just be a chicken’s notion of utopia.”
“Somehow, I don’t think it is.”
Mason passed a bowl of corn. “Good old maize.”
“Organically grown?”
“I doubt it. Sharecropping with the insects is not as spiritual as you might think.”
“Genetically modified?”
“Most likely.”
“How can you eat it?”
“With a fork.” Mason brandished a fork, then passed a couple of other dishes.
He took small portions of everything. That worried me. He then removed from the cart a bottle of his pink slurry, and poured most of that into a glass. I knew he was having a bad day with whole foods. What he put on his plate was hardly touched.
Patrick stared at the thick pink slurry as Mason emptied it into a water goblet.
“You’ve noticed my ‘milkshake’. More than twenty years ago I was injured onsite. I have never been the same. My ability to digest whole food varies from day to day. For a long while I was fed intravenously, until my doctors found someone to process these ‘milkshakes’. They appear more appetizing than they are.”
Catherine and I were accustomed to Mason consuming his slurry. Patrick was quite struck by it. If he kept staring, Mason would probably offer him a glass. Perhaps he had never been in the company of anyone as debilitated as Mason. Perhaps he might now ponder more than the mental health of chickens.
“I understand your family has an extensive collection of paintings.”
“We have quite a few.”
“I’ve never cared for anything less realistic than the Impressionists. The resurgence of appreciation of nineteenth century realists such as Waterhouse and Leighton could not come too soon.”
Patrick looked at Mason blankly. “The Romantics?”
“Especially those works dealing with subjects mythological or the Matter of Britain.”
I suppose in Patrick’s universe corporate pirates did not know about such things.
Mason’s full of surprises, Young Turnip.
“I appreciate the way subjects are painted with painstaking realism, but often the effects of light are unusual or exaggerated.”
Mason was no expert, and knew it, but what he did know exceeded the typical degreed individuals of the day. In Patrick’s universe, it was accepted that men who carried (and liked) guns 1) retained fewer than five teeth in their head 2) were incredibly stupid 3) illiterate 4) tended towards pickup trucks and bib overalls and 5) adored NASCAR racing.
I looked across the table at Mason and tried to imagine him in bib overalls, beer can in hand, driving a rusty red pickup truck with the Stars and Bars in the back window. No. Never. Although he does have one of General Gray’s flags, framed and sealed under nitrogen.
“But my preferences in music tend toward the baroque.”
Patrick remained silent, although Mason had allowed him ample opportunity to make comments. The fact that no comments were being made was telling, a point made for Catherine’s benefit. Patrick’s erudition was more a pose than reality.
“I’m not much interested in art.”
“In some segments of society such an interest is regarded as unmanly and sissified. But I learned if I could accurately sketch a subject, in great detail, it could serve as a two-dimensional analogue to building a model. This kind of exercise also trains the mind to carefully observe.”
“That’s what photographs are for.”
“No. Even to use photographs properly, the eye must be trained to observe.”
I don’t think Patrick was accustomed to being contradicted so often and effectively.
Without Patrick being any the wiser, Mason had interrogated him over dinner.
“Perhaps after dinner we could take a walk around the facility. There is a well-groomed trail many employees use at lunch.” I knew Mason was going to need to unwind after this meal.
“What are your plans for this summer? I could get you a place on the grounds crew here. It’s a good way for students to earn money.”
Mason knew exactly what he was doing when he made the offer.
“I will be spending the summer in the Ozarks with the Saviors of the Beasts, raising the awareness of the locals to the plight of the Scaly-Backed Red-Eyed Toad.”
I almost choked on my spumante. Patrick was serious. I struggled not to laugh.
“Toads are among the world’s oppressed,” Mason said, with no less seriousness, but I knew how sarcastic he was being, and so did Catherine, who glared at her father. Patrick had no idea he was being ridiculed.
“Tell us more of the Ways of the Toad.”
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Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
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