4 Rainy Days and Monday (8 page)

“You are mocking me.”

Swane smiled thinly.

“A little. There is some truth in it, though. An idealism that sounds altruistic. It is just arrogance. Selfishness. And in the end, it is an ingredient for terrible dictatorship.”

“I don’t play well with others.”

“Not true. You and Hallie seem to make a good team.”

Jake bowed his head, wanting more than ever to throw the folder away.

“I suppose. I just feel like a failure.”

Swane did not speak for moment.

“Is that why you are holding Gabriel’s ViVeri folder in a death grip?”

He glanced up.

“What do you know about it, Robert?”

Swane looked down the hall.

“Nothing I can repeat here.”

“You can’t even reveal it here at CIA Headquarters.”

Swane made a face.

“Are we actually having this discussion? After the NSA witch-hunt in 2013? They almost dismantled the entire internet, for crying out loud.”

“Do I even want to open it?”

Swane shrugged.

“Depends on your constitution, I suppose. Depends on how clouded your judgment is towards your father.”

Jake swallowed.

“Is it safe with me?”

“Vivian seems to think so,” Swane remarked.

“Isn’t this a matter of national security?”

“Isn’t this a matter of trust?”

Jake wanted to hate him for that.

“Is this the only copy?”

“You should have asked Vivian that.”

“Stop playing with me, Robert. I am not a child.”

Swane nodded.

“You’re right. I’ll tell you what. Come to my house this weekend. We can drink some Tennessee whiskey out on the porch and discuss the contents of the folder. I have one of my own we can go through as well.”

Jake smirked.

“Whiskey, huh?”

“Blanton’s, straight-from-the-barrel bourbon. Costs less than eighty bucks, but it is one of the best bourbons in the world.”

“My dad liked whiskey. He drank a lot of Jim Beam.”

“Jim made a mighty pure whiskey before his kin sold to the Japanese.”

“Has your front porch been cleared by national security?”

“Son, my front porch is about as secure as you can get.”

Jake looked at the folder in his hand. He reached out and handed it to Senator Swane.

“Here, you keep it until we can meet.”

Swane did not take the folder. He met Jake’s eyes. Jake saw there a deep fear.

“Don’t ask me to take this, Jake. It is too volatile.”

Jake felt a chill run up his spine.

“If you already know what is in there, then why do you fear keeping it?”

Swane pushed the folder back at Jake.

“Knowing is not
knowing
, Jake. Plus, possessing is ownership. I do not wish to own this. These demons are not mine. I do not want to inherit them. Or their master’s wrath.”

Jake felt a hot lump in his throat. Anger and resentment gathered in his chest.

“Should I trust you?”

Swane shook his head.

“You should not trust anyone. I want to be your friend. I want to help you. Everyone has their limits, Jake. Please understand.”

“But we can talk about it?” Jake asked. He could not understand the mixed message.

“Talking about it and having it as a temptation and a reminder are two different things. Just keep it safe. No one knows you have it but the President and me. Keep it that way.”

“Who does this implicate?”

A pall of shame joined the look of fear on Senator Swane’s face.

“Everyone.”

As Flies to Wanton Boys

T
he room was bright.

The windows across from the room’s secure entrance opened out into a large courtyard. The sun spilled through into the expansive two-story room. Unlike most homes, no dust motes hovered in the light, swirling in the air.

The air in the room was sanitized, filtered, and repackaged as almost pure oxygen. A habitual smoker, Andronicus felt almost high.

Along with the considerable sunlight beaming into the room, the glare of dozens of backlit glass computer terminals suspended around the room made him squint. A group of men and women sat huddled around tables and inspected massive instruments.

Frankenstein, reborn
, Andronicus thought, amused.

Modern technology and science was outstripping centuries of ignorance and fear fomented by religious zealots and charlatans. Andronicus believed God existed: he just found him to be humorless and lacking creativity. Mankind could be so...predictable. If Man was made in God’s image, then, Andronicus believed that equality with Him could be mastered. Science was the tool, the great equalizer that would elevate humanity. A modern Tower of Babel.

Science enabled him to remain relatively young. Viveri had not discovered De Leon’s fountain of youth, but had invented the next best thing. Along with drugs like Sychol and most of modern technology, Viveri was on the cutting edge of science.

As Andronicus strolled along the heavily carpeted outer ring around the room, he noted stares that washed over him. He was used to that. He wanted to draw their attention and keep them wondering. Several conversations dropped to a hush as they observed his entrance. A quiet buzz persisted.

Dr. Matt Bernhard Spreckles worked alongside several other scientists. His group seemed particularly entranced with their work. They continued to talk. A young blonde-haired woman spoke boldly in argument to a point. Spreckles smiled warmly and patted the shoulder of the recipient of her sharp tongue in consolation. He bent down and mouthed a few words Andronicus could not catch.

Andronicus took a moment to observe the man. Late fifties. Tall. Slender. Steady hands. Quick smile. Severe widow’s peak with a shock of silver hair on his left, swept back in a German style out of date for near a century. In his white lab coat and dark suit, he appeared to be a doctor straight out of a Sherlock Holmes novel. Andronicus would have to contain himself. Part of him wanted to tease the poor doctor about appearing as a famous magician.

He kept his composure, his face set in a mask of dark displeasure and judgment. People behaved differently if they felt judged by a superior. He found this to be an effective way to manipulate common people to his will. God would do the same thing, he convinced himself. It also helped that he was physically imposing.

Andronicus understood deep down that he was overcompensating for his brush with shame and ridicule. Whatever it took to retrieve his status.

He cleared his throat.

All eyes snapped to him. He held his cigar aloft with one meaty hand, motioning them to continue.

“I presume you are the representative from our benefactor?” Spreckles asked in German, his nose wrinkling at the sight of the offending cigar.

“Is there somewhere we might speak in private?” he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest.

Spreckles glanced at his blonde aid and she nodded to a small room in a nearby alcove. It was filled with cabinets and sported a thick, solid door.

“Follow me, please,” he said in English.

“My pleasure,” he returned in Portuguese.

The doctor smiled appreciatively and nodded.

Andronicus followed the doctor, ignoring the stares he received. He pressed his cigar into the metal worktable where the blonde assistant had been working.

He glanced at her and gave her a knowing smile.

She did not return it.

It was just as well, really. He had no time for pleasure.

The doctor closed the door behind him. The room was normally spacious. It was stuffed full of equipment, a table, and several cabinets. It offered a windowed view into the lab. It seemed to be someone’s office, perhaps.

A leather armchair was propped against a filing cabinet. A box of leftover Chinese food sat open on the table and a pair of chopsticks left perched on the edge of the box. The smell of MSG wafted over to him, making his stomach clench.

He caught the doctor’s eyes.

“Exquisite creature you have there,” he noted.

Spreckles seemed taken aback.

“Veronica?” He looked back out the window into the makeshift lab. “She’s been my assistant since she was a child. She is my niece,” he said. He sounded mildly offended.

Andronicus smiled wickedly.

“A family affair, then. Are you related to any of the others?” he asked, staring out into the room with mild interest.

“No. Of course not.”

Andronicus looked back at him. Doctor Spreckles continued to stand.

“You know why I am here?” Andronicus asked.

Spreckles frowned.

“No more than I know who you are.”

“We will keep that a mystery for now.”

“Money buys anonymity,” he said, a bitter tinge in his German accent. His English was masterful.

“It has nothing to do with your compensation, doctor. It is a matter of respect and your personal protection.”

“That sounds ominous. It was supposed to sound ominous, wasn’t it?”

Andronicus allowed a genuine smile creep up his face. Meanwhile, he gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to make the wood creak beneath his massive hands.

“I am here to determine how you will be able to help our cause,” Andronicus announced.

Spreckles looked confused and put out at the same time.

“You mean you do not know why I was hired? Then why are you wasting my ti—”

Andronicus exploded out of the chair, grabbing the doctor by the lapel of his lab coat. He lifted him up and swung him around, slamming him into the window. It rattled against its frame, the glass bowing out and flexing, sending the doctor sprawling to the floor at his feet.

Andronicus stood over him. He could hear the shouts of dismay from outside.

The doctor crawled up into a fetal position, wiping blood from his lip.

Andronicus felt the blood pumping in his veins. Strength in his hands, his arms, his core. The blood of nobles pumped through his heart, the sinews of Kings graced his form. Beneath layers of fat and excess was the body of a ruler. The mind of a conqueror. Born to rule.

A petty man of stature was no match for his power, his will.

The door opened and Veronica Spreckles poked her head in, tears flowing from her eyes, fear, and anger radiating from her. She avoided his eyes and stared instead at her “uncle.”

“Uncle Bernie, are you alright? Should I call the authorities?” she asked in clipped English.

Spreckles raised his hand and shook his head.

“I am fine, Veronica. Please leave me with the gentleman. We were discussing something important when I believe I lost my balance. I will be fine.”

She looked dubious, but nodded and slowly closed the door, her eyes burning holes into his chest.

Andronicus ignored her, panting heavily. He allowed his anger to wash over him, to dissipate through his pores.

“Tell me of your operation, doctor,” he said through clenched teeth.

Spreckles put one hand on a knee and used the table to pull himself to standing once again. Andronicus refused to assist him. He stood over the man, reminding him who was in charge.

“We are all experts in synthetic genetics. We are at the leading edge of technology and biology. Where they intersect, we have found that we can code genomes,” Dr. Spreckles managed while gathering himself. His voice was shaky, fear and shock showing in his eyes. His hands shook as he adjusted his coat.

“You can create life.”

“That would be a stretch of our true abilities. Algae, simple organisms, yes. And not without the expenditure of enormous amounts of resources.”

“Is it not true that this science has been capable of creating new organisms capable of curing the hunger problem by providing protein?”

The doctor shook his head.

“I was involved with that project. We were working directly with the NSA, CIA, the UN, and WHO as well as funding provided by some of the largest humanitarian organizations globally. We managed to produce a sheep. At the cost of millions of tons of water, as well as other, more costly resources. The project shuttered after six years. My colleagues still believe it is possible. I believe it is too over reaching.”

“So you are not here to create an army. No clones, no genetic enhancements, then?”

This had been his guess when he had observed all the equipment, the monitors, the petri dishes, the lab animals. He had believed that Doctor Spreckles would hold the key to the evolution of his original plan to use a combination of drugs, brainwashing, and technological “programming” of an army of compliant, thoughtless, soldiers who would carry out orders without prejudice, without question. He was prepared to be disappointed.

“I am here to create death.”

Andronicus raised his eyebrows.

“Create death.”

“Yes. A purge. A re-boot of humanity.” He straightened his tie and bit his lip.

“That sounds ambitious. What makes you think this service would appeal to our organization?”

Dr. Spreckles gathered himself and stared Andronicus in the eye. He motioned to the chair. Andronicus sat.

Spreckles moved around the desk and sat behind it. His eyes darted past him to the window over his shoulder.

“Your organization are firm believers that you are above the normal riff and raff of humanity. I am not here to argue the merits of this assertion. However, I will say that today over a quarter million people were born. Eighty million next year. We reached a global population of seven billion people in 2012.”

“What does this have to do with ViVeri, doctor? These are to be our subjects. Our laborers. Our worshipers. Our people. They will serve us or die. Or die serving us. That will be their choice.”

“Population growth is a threat to your plans. Our project is the key to rebooting humanity. We have the ability to affect, to change, to manipulate evolution. We can genetically produce drugs that are coded to change the molecular composition of the human body in precise but almost imperceptible ways. These changes can be subtle or dramatic. Our most theatrical results have come in the area of tapping into parts of the brain that lay dormant in most humans.”

“You
are
talking about genetic enhancements,” Andronicus noted with pleasure.