Elixr Plague (Episode 1): Vector Page 3

  "This is Freddy. He is your typical lab mouse, with an average lifespan of two to three years. He is the third generation offspring of Henry and Matilda, two of our original test subjects." The slide switched to the happy parents, who looked exactly like their grandson. "After Elixr was applied, Henry and Matilda lived out their natural lives, at least double the normal lifespan. Henry lived for four years, Matilda almost five. Their litter, who inherited the edited genes from both parents, survived three times as long as their grandparents, on average almost seven years.

  “Freddy, one of our test subjects who received the Elixr genes from only one of his parents—the other was a base mouse—has so far lived four times the natural lifespan—eight years and counting—with zero signs of cancer or other gene damage one would expect to see in a mouse this old. In fact, the last instance of naturally occurring cancer happened in the first generation of this mouse bloodline—Matilda."

  "So you can make mice live longer…" said the skeptical reporter.

  “Oh, it’s well beyond that," Desmond said. "Show them the data on the cancer injections."

  "Cancer injections? You gave these mice cancer?" demanded the skeptic.

  "Indeed we did,” Yang said unapologetically, “and in every instance—every one—the test subject’s enhanced immune system and DNA repair abilities completely destroyed whatever cancer we threw at it—including the really nasty stuff that typically means a quick, painful death sentence in humans."

  Desmond stepped forward. “And our mice survived every time, emerging stronger and healthier with each generation," he said. "At the rate we’re going, we can predict with a high level of confidence that immortality is indeed within our grasp."

  "For mice or for humans?" asked the female reporter.

  Desmond smiled. "Yes."

  "But how can you be sure this is safe?" asked the skeptic, looking over the data in the thick packet he’d been given earlier. "This looks impressive, but have you gone through any peer reviews?"

  "Page 21 through 35," Yang answered immediately. "Every single one of our peer reviewers—and you’ll recognize at least a few of the names I trust—reached the same conclusions we have. This is real, folks. We’ve been working on this for twelve years now and we’re positive we’ve got it.”

  "I know what you’re thinking," Desmond said, circling around his chair. He placed his hands on the back and leaned forward. Lowering his voice to make the reporters lean toward him in return, he tied the knot that would guarantee his eternal fame. "Is it safe? I’m here to tell you that yes it is. And to prove it, I’ll inject myself with the latest serum. Live. Right now."

  The reporters murmured to each other and several took pictures.

  Desmond stepped in front of the chair. "Dr. Yang believes I’m being rash. Despite the excellent safety record—across all species we’ve tested—he still thinks we need more time before we go live with human trials. Well, I believe there are countless millions people out there that can benefit from this technology right now, and I’m not willing to let them suffer and die any longer. Mankind has been fighting to hold off death as long as possible since the dawn of time." He accepted a hypo-injector from one of the staff and held up the silver device and the blue liquid it held. "I am here to prove that we have that capability now, it’s here, and that there’s nothing to fear."

  The reporters clamored with each other to get the best shot, all of them leaning forward with cell phones and cameras.

  Desmond took one last look at Yang, who narrowed his eyes and compressed his lips, but otherwise gave no sign that he disapproved of his benefactor’s bravery.

  "With this vial, I usher in a new age in human history, one brighter and healthier than ever before. Welcome to the future." He pressed the tiny needle to his arm and pulled the trigger. He felt a moment of discomfort as the needle pierced his skin, then the injector pumped the serum into his veins in the blink of an eye, and it was done. An immediate wave heat blossomed at the injection site and spread immediately up his arm into his chest. By the time he’d rolled his sleeve back down, the heat had mellowed, and he felt warm all over, not unlike getting an iodine IV before a CT scan—a side effect a few of the unsanctioned volunteers had reported.

  Desmond stood and took a bow, to the brief applause of his staff, Yang, and a few reporters. "You see? Perfectly fine. I look forward to my next press conference. Every day for the next three weeks, I will be examined by a physician, live, streaming everywhere for the world to see that Elixr is real and the future is now.”

  "Assuming," the skeptic called out over the shouts of the other reporters. He pushed his way to the front and yelled again, drowning out the others. "Assuming this is all true, you stand to make a historic fortune…how would you answer the critics who will surely argue that you’re just doing this to make money?”

  Desmond smiled. It was time to seal his fate. "Because I will give this serum to the world."

  "But—" began the female reporter.

  "For free."

  There was a moment’s pause as those two words sunk into the minds of the reporters gathered before him like a flock of hungry seagulls…then they exploded in a bevy of shouted questions and waving cameras and phones.

  Desmond smiled. He had them now.

  3

  The Plan

  Los Angeles, California

  Central City

  Rashid Ahmadi wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked at the pile of maps and reconnaissance reports spread out on the folding table before him. In the other room of the ramshackle hovel he called his "safe house," deep in one of the more notorious barrios of South Central, the evening news rambled on about some medical breakthrough.

  "Turn that down,” he growled. "Samir!"

  His closest ally and most trusted warrior appeared out of the shadows and waited. “I hear and obey, Rashid," the younger man said in a voice calm as still water.

  "Are you sure about this shift change?" Rashid asked, holding up a crumpled, stained paper. It had cost much blood and treasure to acquire such specific, detailed LAPD shift change information for the next two weeks. One of his best operatives was now languishing in an Los Angeles County jail, awaiting trial. He had to add recruiting another man to the growing list of things to do before his next attack.

  "It is correct, brother. On my life.”

  Samir’s confidence was infectious. Rashid grinned. If Samir was that sure the information was correct, it was correct, and he did not need to worry any further over that aspect of the mission. He nodded and put the paper back on the desk.

  "…promising the gift of immortality…" drifted into the room from the TV.

  "I thought I told you to turn that down?" Rashid yelled.

  "I will handle it," Samir said in a voice that promised nothing good for those who crossed him. He offered a slight bow, then left the room as quiet as he’d entered, and vanished down the hall.

  Ah, Samir, you are a good man. Allah knows where I’d be without you…

  "…delivered to the entire world—remarkably through the use of a virus—for free…"

  The newscast went silent as Samir shouted at the others to follow orders. Grumbled protests died quickly—an order from Samir was an order from Rashid himself.

  Rashid stood from his makeshift desk and made his way to the room with the TV. The screen was still on, but the volume had been muted. Three rough-looking Iraqi immigrants sat in a semi-circle in front of the TV, eating greasy American takeout. Samir partially blocked the TV with his body and held the remote in his hand.

  "Turn that back on," Rashid commanded, pointing at the screen which now showed a graphic explaining what CRISPR was, and how it utilized a virus to facilitate gene editing in humans.

  "…more than a little controversy as the details are hammered out. Most governments of the world are lining up to block the Los Angeles based philanthropist’s attempt at bringing the gift of long, healthy life to everyone on the planet without further testi
ng."

  "Rashid, I don’t see—" Samir began.

  "Sssh!" Rashid focused on the TV, waving his lieutenant to silence.

  "The technology is not in doubt," said a new face on the screen, a man named as the head of the Centers for Disease Control. "We’ve been using CRISPR now for over a decade in humans and it’s a safe, effective method of selective gene editing. The problem we have is there hasn’t been enough peer review of Mr. Martin’s magical Elixir." The bureaucrat smiled. "It’s just not practical, you see, that a private individual—no matter how wealthy—should be able—or even allowed at all—to pass such a cutting-edge medical treatment to every man, woman, and child in the world."

  "Doesn’t the fact that he’s not charging anyone for the service weigh in his favor?" asked the voice of an off-screen reporter. “A skeptic would say your answer sounds like the government just wants a piece of the pie.”

  The CDC chief shook his head. "Absolutely not—we’re talking about an untested, untried, and unverified process that has the potential to inflict who knows how much pain and suffering on people all over the world—at least some of whom, I assure you, will not want this treatment."

  The video feed cut back to the anchorman sitting in his studio. "At this time, there are already preliminary investigations in the United Kingdom, Russia, and Italy. Legislatures around the world are promising to make Desmond Martin’s dream a potential red-tape nightmare…despite their citizens’ overwhelming approval of the idea. Most polls show between 70 and 90% of Americans—and the rates are similar in other developed nations—approve of Mr. Martin’s attempts to give his Elixr treatment away to anyone who wants it."

  Rashid pointed at the screen, now featuring the face of a black American businessman with perfect, white teeth. "I want to know everything about this infidel."

  Samir pulled a notebook from one of the cargo pockets on his pants. "Pen," he said, holding out a hand. One of the men in the chairs produced a pen and handed it over without a sound. "It said on the screen he is the founder and CEO of Martin Enterprises, a large American company."

  "Good, write that down," Rashid said, pacing. He always paced when thinking—it helped him see angles others failed to spot. "Find out everything about his family—does he have a wife? Children? What about this Elixr? What are his weaknesses, things we can exploit? I want to know everything."

  "We should look into his company, too—what do they make?” Samir said, scribbling notes. “This Martin is no scientist, look at him, how he prances about the stage—he’s a rich man who wants to spend money to be famous. Someone else developed this Elixr for him, he’s just going to market it."

  "Whoever that is has a family,” Rashid pronounced. “Find them."

  "What are you thinking of, Rashid?" asked Samir, not looking up from his notebook.

  Rashid scoffed. "They want to spread this mythical, ungodly cure-all to everyone on the planet. I have heard of CRISPR before. If they can use it to cure people, we can use it to kill. We need to know their plan. It may be exactly what we need to visit holy vengeance upon this filthy nation.”

  Samir looked up, his eyes widening as he thought about the ramifications of Rashid’s claim. "Mira."

  Rashid smiled. "We will avenge every one of our sisters and brothers America has killed unjustly.“

  Samir raised a fist and shouted, "Allah hu akbar!" The others joined in and they repeated the battle cry two more times. When they’d scattered to their rooms and stolen laptops to conduct the requested research, Rashid turned the TV up and settled into a still-warm chair. If one news station had picked up the story—and it was a big story—then others would as well. He wanted to see what Desmond Martin’s bold plan entailed.

  He clenched the remote in a flame-scarred fist and smiled again. After seven long years, vengeance for the destruction of his home and the deaths of his entire family might be at hand.

  4

  Host

  Seattle, Washington

  Belle Ridge High School

  Kelly Yang swung her backpack over one shoulder. Her silky smooth black hair swished softly with the motion. With a shy smile, she noted out of the corner of her eye that Hunter Morgan was watching her again. He was hanging with his friends on the football team—as well he should, since he was the school’s star linebacker—and pretended not to notice her, but she could tell by the way he’d stopped talking that his mind was elsewhere.

  The smile widened as she walked past and Hunter gave her a half wave. "You takin’ off early today Kells?"

  Her heart fluttered to hear her nickname, spoken only by her closest friends. Where Hunter had heard that, she’d never know, but as she melted a little inside, she didn’t really care. "Oh, uh…yeah, I’m just heading out for lunch,” she replied, casually tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Me and Skye are going to the park to cram for that pre-calc test tomorrow, you know?"

  "Cool, cool," Hunter replied, as if he had just heard the weather forecast.

  In truth, that kind of attitude bothered Kelly to no end—she saw her best friend Tracy’s boyfriend, Alex—the quarterback—do the same thing when she talked, and it made Kelly so mad. It was like they were hearing, but not listening.

  Kelly smiled anyway—because, damn...look at him!—and slowed her pace just so, inviting Hunter to say something else. He looked like he wanted to, but the normally assertive, ‘I’ll-do-anything-to-get-attention’ football star seemed tongue-tied. Her smile widened again.

  She knew she was at least decent in the looks department—Kelly had inherited her mother’s height and her father’s Asian heritage, giving her a slender, tall, exotic appearance—but it was still nice to see how her looks affected boys.

  "Oh, uh…" Hunter stammered, running a hand through his sandy blond, oh-so-touchable, wavy hair.

  Kelly stopped, her suddenly clammy hands gripping the backpack strap, keeping her arms pinned to her sides. She cocked her head, aware that her hair fell straight down like black silk. "What’s up?" she asked sweetly.

  Come on, ask me to the dance...

  One of Hunter’s friends shoved him from behind, eliciting snickers of amusement from the others. They cajoled him and encouraged him at the same time, shoving him by turns closer and closer to Kelly. Eventually he rounded on them and demanded they back off.

  Waiting until his chuckling, snorting, posse had lurked away to a safe distance, Hunter turned back to her and ran a hand though his hair again. Kelly so wanted to run her hands through that hair. It was gorgeous, just like the rest of him.

  Thinking of the rest of Hunter made the heat rise in her cheeks. Oh God, don’t let me blush…

  "So, uh…I was wondering if you, maybe...you’d like, I don’t know, wanna go with me to the—"

  "Yes!" Kelly blurted, then slapped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry."

  Hunter’s face split in a wide grin, as his cheeks reddened in time with hers. "Really?" he asked, his voice cracking.

  Kelly blinked. "What do you mean, ‘really?’ Of course I’d like to go to the dance with you!"

  "Oh, I mean, yeah, right on," he replied, his own cheeks darkening another shade of crimson. "I uh, I’ve been meaning to ask you...but I figured you already had a date."

  "Really?" Kelly asked, parroting him. "Why would I have a date?"

  "Because there’s probably like, I don’t know, ten or fifteen guys lining up to ask you?" Hunter replied sheepishly.

  Having watched Hunter for a while as he interacted with his friends—while she hung out with her girlfriends and all pretended to not be watching the boys—he always came across as supremely confident of himself. Yet, here, seeing him flounder over his words and constantly fidget with his hair or his backpack, made him seem more like her—like everyone else, and not the football star. It was endearing and attractive all at the same time. She wanted to hug him and kiss him and run away and—

  "I mean, you’re so fine—I mean pretty—that I figured you had boyfriends, uh, I mean a boyfrie
nd—“ he showed her his palms. “Not that I want to steal you from your boyfriend—" his words came out faster as his face grew redder.

  Kelly placed a hand on his arm—that bicep!—and silenced him with a smile. "You’re sweet to think I’m pretty," she said, mustering all her will to remain standing and talk in an even voice.

  Ohmigod, where the hell is Tracy? If there was ever a time she need her BFF to keep her from gushing all over herself and falling to the floor it was now.

  "And trust me, there’s no boyfriend," Kelly added a throaty laugh for good measure. A look dawned on Hunter’s face and his shoulders dropped a little.

  “Oh,” he said, looking away. “I mean, that’s cool and all, no judging, you know?”

  Kelly’s eyes bulged. "No!" She looked around and turned Hunter aside as two students walked by and stared at her for the outburst. "I don’t mean there’s no boyfriend like…like that," she explained in a hushed tone.

  “But I’ve seen you with Tina a lot. Like every day, and everyone knows she...uh...”

  Kelly laughed, one hand over her chest. “We’re just friends. Besides, she’s totally not my type. Too short.”

  Relief washed over Hunter’s face like a wave. "Nice," he muttered. Then he stopped himself and laughed. "Oh, that was a joke—I gotcha. I mean, that’s cool if you did—you know, play for the other team—crap, no I didn’t mean it like that, I mean it’s cool either way…ugh," he said resting his forehead against the closest locker.