The Return of the Watchers (Armageddon Rising Book 1) (6 page)

Four

              After taking Yuki to the airport Dorian decided to get some Chinese carry out, then returned to the house he owned in Ann Arbor. It was a large old two-story historic home that had seen many previous owners over the years, and that had been through several renovations and restorations to bring it back to its former glory. It had a nice carved stone fireplace that he would occasionally park himself in front of on nights  such as this. The crisp air outside, along with the smell of burning logs from the homes in the neighborhood, made him feel alive, bringing back memories of his adolescent years in Colorado. Curling up on the couch in front of the fireplace, he ate while sorting through his mail.                                           After scanning the physical mail and filtering the hundreds of emails he had piled up, he turned on the television for all of two minutes before it depressed him enough to shut it off. “Another tsunami kills thousands; what in the world is happening to this planet?” he said.               That night he dreamt of being trapped in his house, only it was filled with garbage and junk piled from floor to ceiling. It wasn’t the first time he'd had this strange dream, and he wondered why it kept repeating.                             The following day, b
ecause it was the
weekend, he did a bit of shopping and laundry before going in to the lab a bit later than usual.

              After taking care of his errands, he got back in his car and headed towards the University. A gathering of about four hundred people were braving the colds outside the medical science building. They held up signs  indicating things were about to go bad for him and for anyone else involved with the lab. One read: “Genetic manipulation is an affront to God,” another: “You are not the creator!” There were several signs with biblical passages, and many of the protestors were chanting various poorly-rhymed anti-genetic slogans. Dorian had been so preoccupied with his work that he hadn’t noticed the growing public resentment towards people who worked in the industry.                                                                                     Genetic engineering had become fashionable, as those with the means were able to have designer children
:
One could choose the sex of their child, the height, eye color, hair, even their dexterity. This practice was extremely controversial at first; so much so that it was not  in the United States until after it had been used elsewhere.                                                         It had initially
begun
in China, where the population was so out of control to begin with. Well-to-do parents wanted their progeny to be exactly what they wished for at the start; no need to rely on chance. From there the technology moved to India, where for decades many female babies had been killed in the womb, or in secret after birth by their parents, or given up altogether because of the desire for a male child. Parents in the west took notice and began going overseas for custom in vitro fertilization and paying big money for it. Governments, being the starving elephants they were, decided to tax and regulate rather than let business leave their country.               Dorian's research had nothing to do with enhancing children; quite the contrary, he was trying to save lives from a terrible disease. It didn’t matter, however. In these desperate times, people had become more zealous and polarized. Many considered what was going on in the world, with the economy, crime, depravity of humans, and natural disasters, to be a sign of the end times, and they felt that evils such as genetic engineering were one of the spokes in the wheel. Perhaps they had a point; however, Dorian thought it best to avoid confrontation, so he found his way into the lab through the adjoining building that shared access from the lower levels.                                                                                                   By the time he managed to get to the third floor, protestors were in the lobby, pushing their way onto the staircase as the security personnel held them back. He made a bee line straight for his office, when he saw that his office door was ajar. Folders were strewn across his desk and on the floor, all of the desk drawers were open, and papers were scattered everywhere. “Who are you to play God?” was sprayed across the wall-mounted cork board that held recently published research articles. His cell phone rang at that moment. It was Kasia.                                                                       “I don’t know if you’re going in the lab today, but if you’re planning to you might want to find something else to do,” she said in her happy-go-lucky tone.                                                                                                    “I’m here right now. Someone’s ransacked my office. Are you in the lab?” he asked, fumbling for his key to the lab door.                                           “I was just outside. Now I’m in the hallway to the adjacent building, making my way through the back,” she replied. The echo of her footsteps reverberated though the phone.                                                                       Dorian inserted his key and turned it to unlock the door, but it was already unlocked. At first glance, nothing appeared to be broken, but he wasn’t taking any chances. After looking around in the dim daylight, he had gone back to turn on the lights when Kasia opened the door, almost smacking him in the face.                                                                                                   “Easy,” he said, stopping the door with his foot before any damage was done.                                                                                                                               “Sorry, I didn’t know you were there. What the heck is going on? No one told me we were this popular,” she said, seeming a bit excited by all the commotion.                                                                                                                 “Get that, will you?” he asked, nodding towards the bank of light switches. “I’m not entirely sure this is about us; there's six other researchers in this building alone, and it could be any one of us they're protesting. Someone managed to get into my office. I found graffiti sprayed on one of the walls,” he said, stepping over piles of paper and trash.                                                                                                                                             As he was talking, Kasia went over
to her desk and began examining it to see what if anything, had been removed, then booted up her computer. Dorian was checking the cabinets and the sequencing machine when he noticed the cooler door was ajar.                                                         “Aw, you’ve got to be.....Damn it, they left the door wide open. Well, there goes weeks of work down the drain. Great! Most of the tube racks are empty. I’m beginning to think it wasn't these protestors; some amateur thieves, maybe students, probably hired by Dantanian. This is ridiculous,” he fumed.                                                                                                   “Who is Dantanian? Sounds like some kind of gangster name. What have you gotten yourself into? Is this because of a gambling debt?  Did you give someone’s child two left feet or something at your last job?” Kasia asked with excitement.                                                                                                   “He’s some businessman, and no, I didn’t give someone’s kid a duck bill or anything of the sort,” he huffed.                                                                       “At this point, I don’t give a rat’s ass who did it, I’m just happy that my data is intact,” she said, as if she was the only one that mattered.               He breathed a small sigh of relief; first, for the fact that the data was still there, and second, for the fact that Kasia’s apathetic nature did not encourage lingering questions.

After spending some time cleaning things up, they went about their work. Since he was now aware of his carelessness at Primase, he decided from here out to only work with a fresh sample, and to destroy it after each successful run. This was the 70
th
trial for sequencing. He labeled the test tube Esme70, after his birth mother’s name, the only thing he knew about her.                                                                                                                               Sequencing his entire genome was very difficult to process accurately, which is why he had to complete it in bits and pieces. If all went well, this could be the final run for him. The genome would be complete and he could analyze the data in the hopes of finding out more about himself.               He placed part of the sample in the sequencing machine and began the final trial run. While that was running, he went back to his office and sorted through the paper strewn everywhere until he heard the familiar sound of the machine indicating his sample was completed. It was a success.

Gathering the data from all his previous runs and this current one, he gave it over to Kasia for her to compile into one common data set.               “This is going to take at least a few days to finish, and I still have four other experiments to compile and sort,” she whined.                                           “Make this a priority if you can, and if you observe anything unusual, please keep it discreet,” he said, carefully choosing his words.               She gave him a sly smile.
H
e looked at her with his eyebrows raised, as if to say “No, I’m hiding anything on some illegitimate child of mine!”                                                                                                                                            He left for the day and returned home, carefully looking around to see if someone had broken in and was waiting for him. Nothing was out of the ordinary, so he went to bed, taking extra precaution by keeping a baseball bat at his bedside. That night it was the same repeating dream again with a twist; now he was stuck in a landfill with trash everywhere around him.              

Monday morning rolled around and he eagerly went to the lab to check on the progress of the data.                                                                                     “Well, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Kasia chirped as she saw him coming down the hallway towards his office.                                           He quickly unlocked his office door and motioned for her to step in. She looked like the cat that just ate the mouse.                                                         “What do you mean?” he asked nervously.                                                         “Did you find an alien or something? Is that what all this cloak and dagger is all about?” she asked, trying hard not to laugh.                                           “What are you talking about?” he asked in the way he knew best, feigning ignorance.                                                                                                                 “Keep your secrets then, fine by me. Here’s the data you asked for.” She handed him a small fob and left him alone. Plugging the fob into his laptop, he opened up the software that he and Kasia (well, mostly Kasia) had designed, for analysis of genomes.                                                         The program began comparing his blood to that of an ordinary human to see what differences there were. It would most likely take another day to complete. Deciding not to take any chances, he took the portable computer to his two o’clock lecture that afternoon.                                          After his lecture, he called Yuki to see if everything was alright with her father, but she didn’t pick up so he left her a text message wishing them well.                                                                                                                 Later that day, he received a call from an old friend who asked to meet him at The Blind Pig for drinks at seven.
H
e reluctantly agreed. Since the program crunching his data would take the rest of the night, he could afford to unwind a bit.                                                                                    

              As the day’s work came to a close, he put his laptop into a closet to continue running, locked up the lab and headed over to First Street to join his friend. It was necessary to move quickly to get there; the sun was setting and the streets were not safe anymore at night, even in a college town. He could always get a ride back afterwards, provided his friend didn’t have too much to drink.                                                                                    

              Climbing up the narrow, snow covered steps of the club, the familiar smell of spilled beer and music filled the air. The sound of the band rushed to him like a tidal wave as soon as he opened the door. He looked around and noticed his friend sitting at the bar, nursing a whiskey of some sort.                                                                                                                               “How you been Roy?” Dorian asked, patting him on the shoulder.               “Hey, Dorian, good to see ya,” he replied, extending his hand. Roy looked like a fish out of water. Dressed in an exquisitely tailored navy blue pinstripe suit, with fine leather shoes and expensive wristwatch to match, it was clear he represented someone with money in a predominately blue-collar club. Sitting next to him was another fish out of water in a grey colored Armani suit; twenty-something, give or take, ostentatiously scratching his ear to show off his high-dollar watch. He held a lit cigar in one hand and a mojito in the other. These two contrasted with Dorian, who was dressed in a brown tweed sports jacket, blue jeans, olive colored t-shirt and casual loafers.                                                                       “Dorian, this is one of the junior attorneys at our firm, Trevor Maslin. David, this is Dorian Lystad.” Trevor was partially looking at the band and partially at Dorian. He had a slight grin, the kind you could easily imagine seeing on a billboard with the word “Injured?” below it.              “How’s it going?” he asked, offering a limp-wristed handshake. Dorian grasped his hand firmly.