Elixr Plague (Episode 1): Vector Page 2

  The follow-up shot.

  Rashid felt himself flying through the air, riding that wave of heat like a hawk rides an air current, and assumed he was dead and on his way to face the Prophet.

  But the pain that racked his body when he hit the ground told him he was indeed still alive. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness, an undulating mass that clouded his eyes and moved with the rhythm of a living thing. Every nerve in his body was on fire. He tried to move and felt an incredible pressure on his chest, like a giant had decided to sit on him. He tried to take a breath but his lungs screamed in agony—even the air was hot, far too hot to breathe. Rashid passed out, hoping for the quick embrace of death.

  Some time later—he wasn’t sure how long—he woke. His skin was cooler now, though his face and hands still crackled with a constant, intense pain that flickered with every beat of his heart.

  It was still dark, but the dark of night, not blindness—he could see a fire glowing somewhere to his right. Using trembling, raw fingers weeping blood and fluid, Rashid was able to feel about and discover he lay half buried in charred, smoking rubble.

  My house...

  It took him what felt like hours, but Rashid managed to move, piece by piece, the rocks and debris that lay on him. At last he sat up, groaning with the pain of the effort.

  He opened his mouth to call to his wife, his children, Samir, even his crotchety old father—anyone—but only a ragged, dry cough emerged from his lips. He took a painful, shuddering breath, moved a little more from under the pile of rocks that used to be his home, and tried again.

  "Mira!" he screamed. His voice cracking as it echoed in the night, only the snapping crunch of a burning fire responded. As he struggled free of the debris and got to his knees, Rashid called for his children by name. No one answered but the mournful night wind whistling across the desert. The air felt ice cold, on his raw, burned skin.

  He looked down in the moonlight and saw the tattered, charred remains of his clothes—what hadn’t burned into his skin—flapped in the cool breeze, showing light bits of raw skin next to the charred flesh of his arms and chest.

  "Meeeeeraaah!" he screamed again, his voice no louder than an infant’s cry.

  He turned in a slow circle and took in the devastation as tears leaked from his eyes and cleared channels in the soot and dust on his cheeks. His home, his compound, the homes of his closest friends and family…they were all gone. What buildings remained were charred and smoking, half-collapsed ruins of their former selves. The rest were nothing but craters and piles of rubble. His entire support community had been wiped from the face of the earth as if the finger of Allah Himself had reached down and smote them all.

  "Nooooo!" Rashid yelled, falling to the ground. His entire world had been stripped from him in an instant, his wife, his children, even his pain in the ass father—all them gone as if they’d never existed.

  All because the American cowards sent expensive toys to do their killing. They had no honor, no courage, and refused to face their enemies on the battlefield like men. A tiny voice in the back of his tortured mind reminded him that they’d traced him home from the attack he’d pulled off. It was as his father had said—his fault.

  Blood brings blood.

  His father’s words haunted Rashid as he cried. He rolled onto his burned, charred back, crying up at the indifferent heavens, begging the glittering jewels in the night sky to make it all go away. He pleaded with Allah to take him, right then and there, hands reaching for the sky. He didn’t want to live in a world that his family…his wife…he’d never see her shy smile again, never hear his children squeal in delight or feel their little hands gasp his own…

  Rashid closed his burned eyes and cried as thoughts and memories tumbled through his consciousness. It was all gone. His life was over. The Great Satan had won.

  If I am to be alone, let me die, Allah, please. Grant me that mercy for a lifetime spent in your service.

  "Rashid!" a strained, tortured voice yelled through the smoke and the fire. "Rashiiiiiiiid!"

  It was Samir. Ahmadi’s eyes snapped open. He wasn’t alone, Allah hadn’t forsaken him. "Samir?" he called weakly.

  The sound of someone stumbling through loose rocks reached his ears. Then Samir was there, helping him up, providing him with a canteen of water. In that instant, Rashid Ahmadi knew Allah had saved him for a reason. His eyes glowed with a sudden burning desire for revenge.

  "Rashid, my friend…I am so sorry…I…" Samir said, helping the older man to his feet.

  Ahmadi put a burned, trembling arm around his young assistants’s shoulders. "Fear not, brother," he said. "Allah has spared us…"

  "But why?" sputtered Samir. He looked around at the landscape ripped straight from hell. “This…”

  "All steel must be tempered before it is ready to forge a sword, no?" asked Ahmadi, feeling his pain fall away. Every heartbeat drilled more certainty into his spirit. Yes. Allah is great, indeed. He stepped away on shaky legs and stood on a pile of rubble. "Allah has spared us, He as tested us, He as tempered us." He turned back to Samir. "We are His sword, brother."

  "Brother?" asked Samir, a confused look on his burned, dusty face.

  "Who are you, if not my brother, after surviving what we have? Who are you, if not my brother, who tried so hard…to save…"

  "I’m sorry, Rashid…I failed you. By the time I got to her…"

  Ahmadi stifled a shudder. He would properly mourn his wife later, in private. “My children?"

  Samir looked down and shook his head. "I found…I…they—”

  "Allah!" Rashid yelled, throwing his head back, fresh tears streaming down his cracked flesh. "Pour Your holy wrath into me!” he yelled, his tortured voice cracking painfully. He ignored it and screamed again. “Let me be the instrument of Your divine retribution! Let me be the sword of Your holy will!"

  And Rashid felt something stir deep within him. Something warm, something beyond anger, beyond fury, beyond all earthly power. And he knew that Allah had reached out and touched him. He closed his eyes in bliss. His family were already in heaven with the Prophet—he could feel it. What remained on earth meant nothing to him now. His world was gone. His world was vengeance.

  Rashid squinted at the stars to the east, just visible through the residual haze of smoke and dust that clung to the ruins of his former life. He started walking, shaky at first as he traversed the wreckage of his home, then steadier as he moved onto the dusty track into town. Vengeance awaited him. And he would take it.

  Whether it took a week or a year or a decade, he would strike back at those who had taken so much from him. He didn’t care if they were the most powerful nations on the planet, he didn’t care if they struck him down in the process.

  Blood brings blood.

  And Rashid Ahmadi would have blood.

  2

  Fountain of Youth

  Los Angeles, California

  Martin Enterprises, Inc.

  Pacific Research Facility #3

  Present day…

  Desmond Martin peered around the red curtain at the group of reporters sitting in the conference room, chatting amongst themselves and fiddling with phones. He hated reporters with a passion—they were always there to point out the worst in someone, to bring them down, to revel in the gory details of tragedy. But try and talk about some good news…they were harder to find than a truthful politician. As it was, he’d had to bribe them with fancy plane tickets and a fabulous buffet at the back of the room just to get them here.

  He sighed. He was about to make perhaps the most important announcement in human history, and he could only get ten reporters—half of whom were probably just interns—to show up.

  "Don’t worry," muttered the grizzled voice of his lead scientist, Dr. Norman Yang. “The ones that didn’t show will regret it in about fifteen minutes."

  "First impressions…" Desmond breathed, his eyes still scanning the room, hoping more reporters showed up. He wanted this p
resentation to be the biggest thing on the airwaves. He readily admitted to himself that he wanted the fame and glory of being in the limelight—he’d never said otherwise in his lengthy career as a philanthropist and humanitarian—but he also knew he couldn’t act like he wanted the attention. That was the quickest way for the press to destroy you in the eyes of the public.

  Yang scoffed. "Desmond, this time tomorrow your face will be on every newspaper, magazine, website, and news show around the world. Enjoy it, my friend, your days of relative privacy are over." He shook his head. "You’ll be complaining that they never leave you alone before you know it."

  "Don’t be so sure about that…" Desmond replied. He straightened his jacket. "How do I look?"

  Yang stepped back and pushed the thick glasses perched on his nose just a little higher. "You look like you belong on the campaign trail."

  Desmond made a face. "I’m trying to save mankind, not rule it." He frowned in thought. Although…President Martin has a nice ring to it…

  Yang looked at him with a curious expression, offered a cryptic smile and nodded. “Focus.”

  "Don’t pull that ancient Chinese wisdom shit on me, Norman—you grew up in Seattle."

  "Hey, first generation American," Yang rumbled, glancing at himself in a reflection on the big presentation monitor behind them. "I still got the voodoo from the homeland, you know."

  Desmond grew quiet for a moment. "They’re not going to believe me," he moaned.

  "Don’t worry so much," Yang replied, peering around the curtain. "They look bored, sure—"

  "That helps a lot."

  Yang snorted. "Look, you’re about to make a sensational claim. Of course they’re going to doubt you until we can back it up with the proof—"

  Desmond looked into Yang’s eyes. "I know you said you didn’t want to do it on a stage…"

  "Des, no…it’s not ready—"

  "You said it was…what the hell am I about to do if we’re not ready?"

  Yang clasped his hands together in front of his slight paunch. "We’re ready, just not for that level of scrutiny—not right now. I’m still pulling all the data and writing the—"

  "You have the first sample?"

  Yang blinked, his eyes magnified by the thick glasses, giving him the appearance of an owl. "Well, yes…you said to bring it, but—"

  "Then get it ready. It’s show time."

  Yang’s eyes widened, and he raised his hands. "Des, no—I’m not comfortable at all with this, we’ve been over it—"

  "We’re ready, Mr. Martin," said his AV support leader, adjusting the microphone on Desmond’s face. "Is your mic still comfortable?"

  "Yes, thank you," he replied, touching the slim wire wrapped over his ear that snugged a little mic next to the corner of his mouth. Being "flesh colored" it stood out in sharp contrast to his ebony skin, but he didn’t care. He was about to make history and the excitement thrummed through his body. Even his toes tingled.

  "I’m done waiting around, Norman. I talked with Catia last night, she’s on board." He pulled the curtain back, forcing Yang to step further into the shadows or risk being sucked on stage.

  "Des!" Yang hissed. “Your wife is not a scientist! Listen to me—”

  "Get it ready, you got ten minutes," Desmond said over his shoulder as he stepped on stage, throwing his arms wide. "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome!" He couldn’t help feeling a little like a ringmaster. "My name is Desmond Martin." Behind him, the massive floor to ceiling display monitor lit up right on cue with a glowing, toothy image of himself, smiling in a business suit, leaning against the wall outside Martin Enterprises Research HQ in the hills above Los Angeles. His CV appeared on the screen as he smiled for the cameras.

  "Your time is valuable, so I’ll skip the hype—you can get the backstory in the press release packets," he said, motioning for staff members to begin handing out the leather-bound kits. "I’ve asked you here today to bear witness to what I think will be one of the biggest announcements in human history." He paused, watching skepticism and curiosity battle it out on the reporters’ faces.

  "My company specializes in diversification." He shrugged, pacing the stage like a master orator. This was where Desmond shined—he was more comfortable pitching a product or service than anything else in the world, and it showed…and he knew it.

  "Throughout my adult life, I’ve made sure that my company—and its subsidiaries—followed one rule: focus everything and every resource on the betterment of mankind. All of us, not just Americans, not just the rich, not just those who agree with my politics—everyone from the poorest of the poor in Ethiopia to the wealthiest oil tycoon in Moscow. We are all human; we all deserve the best we can have in this brief time on earth we call life."

  Desmond smiled. "And that is precisely what we at Martin Enterprises have done." Behind him the screen changed to a fantastic artist’s concept of a golden chalice and swirling colors of light. "We have developed, using gene editing technology, the ability to extend lifespans in humans to almost double what it is today." Cameras snapped, but the reporters remained absolutely silent.

  "This technology, we believe, might also one day open the possibility of—dare I say it?—true immortality for humans. Without further ado, I give you, Elixr." He held his hands up and the image behind him morphed into a 3D holographic projection that floated forward and paused exactly over his hands, as if he were holding the Holy Grail.

  A reporter in the first row of folding seats, a woman in a smart business outfit, jumped to her feet, raising a hand. "Mr. Martin, these are some pretty outrageous claims. Do you have any proof to back these up?"

  Desmond smiled and turned away from the 3D chalice, leaving it floating in the air. "I do. Let me present my dear friend and chief scientist, the genius behind the project, Dr. Norman Yang." He started clapping, and the reporters followed suit as Yang shuffled on stage, adjusting his glasses.

  Desmond put an arm around Yang and paused for a photo op, his wide smile flashing white, perfect teeth. "All Norman’s info is in that press kit you’ve been given. I’ll let him tell you the details." He waved a hand in front of his face. "You’d need a biochemistry degree to understand half of it, but he’ll go over the important parts."

  "Let’s start with how’s it work?" asked another reporter, not bothering to stand. "This smells like snake oil to me."

  Desmond stepped away as Yang began to speak and caught the eye of his AV staff. "Bring out the chair. We’re going ahead with the injection,” he muttered.

  "…using the CRISPR method, whereby…" Yang was saying.

  Desmond smiled at the reporters, noting they were totally focused on Yang. His AV staff silently waited in the shadows and as he shrugged out of his coat, handed it off to someone from wardrobe.

  He couldn’t stand it—Yang was too busy obfuscating and dropping heavy scientific terms. The reporters needed a damn tagline, not a chemistry lecture. He cleared his throat. “What Norman is trying to say is we’re using the age-old nemesis of mankind against itself, for the betterment of us all."

  Yang froze, his mouth open, mid-comment, and stared at the reporters, who all shifted focus back to Desmond. His mouth closed with an audible click and he stepped back in deference.

  "Care to expand on that?" asked the young female reporter.

  Desmond offered his most charming smile as he rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, exposing dark skin stretched over a wiry frame. "We’re using a virus to make people better able to fight off other viruses."

  "Dr. Yang mentioned CRISPR…a well-studied and accepted technique,“ the reporter prompted. "But no one has ever done anything this ambitious before."

  "That’s right. In layman’s terms, we’re modifying human DNA to switch on a few genes here, and switch off a few genes there…by creating a virus to do the dirty work, then injecting it into a patient. The brainwashed virus, programmed to modify specific genes, seeks out only those genes we want it to change. It’s the same principle as direc
ted genetic medication in cancer therapy—been around for years. But we’re reprogramming the body to fend for itself and repair itself for longer life." Desmond shrugged.

  "It’s all way too deep in the weeds for me to follow much more than that. But the end result is something we can all follow: a greatly increased lifespan and dramatically increased resistance to all forms of virus and bacterial infection. What’s more," he added, raising a hand to forestall the questions, "these modified genes are passed on to succeeding generations, where the effects are multiplied."

  “Multiplied?” asked another reporter

  "And you’ve verified these claims on human test subjects?" called out the woman who’d originally started the questions.

  Desmond smiled. "Are we off the record?"

  The middle-aged reporter who mentioned snake oil scoffed. "With claims like these? No way."

  Desmond nodded. "Then no, we haven’t tested this on humans, but we have tested it on more than a dozen different species, including chimps and pigs, two animals that are closer to human physiologically than you might think."

  "I’m curious about these wondrous benefits you’re talking about,” asked the female reporter. “What specifically have you been able to do by this gene editing?"

  Desmond glanced at Yang. "Norman, would you like the honors?"

  Yang cleared his throat and took center stage again. "Well…" he looked at Desmond askance. "For starters, we’ve seen a sharp increase in lifespan—on average, across species, we’re able to reliably reproduce double and sometimes triple the subject’s typical lifespans."

  The balding skeptical reporter shot up his hand but didn’t wait to speak. "So how is this possible? Mr. Martin said you’ve tested this on chimps and pigs—"

  "They have lifespans measured in decades—if not longer," his petite colleague added.

  Yang nodded, hardly missing a beat. "Those particular tests are still ongoing, but they are following the observable results from the other tests on shorter lived species like mice and rats. There is little to no deviation and we can confidently predict similar outcomes with the larger mammalian species. In mice, we see the same exact thing, and the effects of Elixr appear stronger in each subsequent generation. For example," he said, gesturing at the big screen behind him, which now displayed a portrait of a white mouse with beady red eyes.