Dark Tidings: Volumes I & II
By Gregory Marshall Smith
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Gregory Marshall Smith
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ISBN 978-1-927116-03-6
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
I want to thank the following people:
C.J. Ellisson – For her encouragement in getting me to re-release these short stories.
Writing.com – for providing a forum where everyday people could read, critique and comment on my writing so I could improve.
Gail Smith – My mother who has always been there for me, even if she hasn’t been a big science fiction fan.
Eric Smith Sr. – My father who has always encouraged my writing.
Ryk Smith & Katrina Jarvis Smith – My older brother who allowed me to stay with him for more than two years in Stone Mountain, Georgia (far past the “cold shoulder” stage).
Sydney Jelinek and Shontrell Wade – Editors with Red Hot Publishing who somehow managed to make it all the way my vast prose and long list of intricate characters, especially in areas that’s not quite in their normal fields.
Lulu, Spectacular Speculations, CreateSpace, Far Side of Midnight, SFH Dominion, Writer’s Bump and all of the other online and physical publishers who carried my various works.
Dark Tidings
Volumes I & II
Table of Contents
Volume I Science Fiction
Your Most Urgent Attention Requested
Volume II Horror/Dark Fiction
Dark Tidings
One Last Look © 2009
Debt to Society © 2008
Eugene Nix © 2007
Your Most Urgent Attention Requested © 2009
Society’s Children © 2008
Next-Door © 2006
For G.O.O.D. © 2008
Feedin’ the Fishes © 2010
Red Herring © 2011
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2011 by Gregory Marshall Smith
Hunters
Table of Contents:
Dark Tidings
Volume I
Science Fiction
Gayorg Marsten typed his code into the keypad as fast as his thick space gloves would allow. He squinted, trying to see past the glare of the overheads in the airlock. The lights, brighter than usual, reflected off several of the panels in the chamber. The polymer glass of his faceplate made the glare worse.
Air’s getting stale, he told himself again, wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant, though faint, odor.
He checked the chronometer on his wrist pad and saw that he still had another 10 minutes before he would need to switch over to the secondary air tank he wore on his EVA suit. On any other day, he’d have changed sooner, but today he would need every last drop of air possible.
“You’re hyperventilating, Gayorg. Please calm down.”
That’s okay for you to say, Gayorg thought. You guys are in the ship, not stuck inside an airlock without bathroom facilities.
Gayorg shook his head to clear his thoughts. They were right. If he didn’t keep himself under control, he surely would lose it long before any help could be found.
“Sorry about that, Control,” he said into his headset radio. “Just getting a little antsy, that’s all.”
“Understandable,” the voice on the radio replied after an uncomfortably long time lag. “Just focus on something positive, like being rescued.”
“Any word on when the nearest ship will be here?” he asked for the umpteenth time. “It’s kind of lonely out here.”
That’s it, Gayorg. Keep up the humor.
He glanced up at the overhead lights and then punched a button on his wrist pad. The lights dimmed. He wouldn’t need them so bright now. He was alone in the airlock and it didn’t look like he’d be getting into the ship anytime soon. The bright lights would only make the air inside the lock hotter, which would in turn make him hotter inside his EVA suit.
He tried to think of something other than the fact that he’d been locked out of the ship, 1100 miles above the recently discovered planet of Yadrin. Nearly forty million light-years from Earth, he faced a situation he’d glossed over in the NASA lectures – contamination.
He was an engineer. He spent most of his time in the engine room of the Caliber, a long-range exploratory vessel. He had been stuck on the Caliber since it had made planet-fall. . Everyone connected with the ship’s scientific mission had spent at least three days aboard the specially-designed science module as it conducted low orbit tests on Yadrin’s atmosphere. The module had been designed to separate from the main vessel and enter gravity-laden atmospheres. Now, today, Gayorg had finally gotten his chance to glimpse Yadrin’s lower atmosphere.
Could that have been it, Gayorg wondered. Had a few lousy hours inside the orbital module caused all of this? He’d only been allowed aboard as a courtesy because the excluded crewmembers had protested being left out. Even when the head scientists had acquiesced, Gayorg had been the last one selected.
Of course, he didn’t have what the others had – an inside edge. He wasn’t engaged to any of the scientists or seeing them on the side or married to any of them. In fact, he was a last-minute replacement for an engineer who had come down with a rare form of space sickness and the rest of the crew hadn’t let him forget it.
“Sorry about the long wait, Gayorg,” a voice on his radio said, bringing him back to the present. “It’s just that…well, we’ve had a lot to think about.”
Gayorg recognized the voice as Capt. Elamin Goto, the commanding officer whom he had had only met twice. Most communication between engineering and the bridge involved Commander Jennifer Saito, who then passed the information along.
“I…I can only imagine, Captain,” Gayorg finally replied, trying to keep his throat clear. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, too, sir.”
“Let’s forgo the ‘sir’ thing, Gayorg,” Goto said, his voice cracking. “My friends call me El.”
“Uhm, yes, sir—eh, I mean…El,” a bewildered Gayorg stammered.
Was it always this way, Gayorg wondered? Did they always try to seem friendlier when they knew the end was near? It seemed like small comfort. What use was there in getting a little friendlier if there was no time to benefit from it? Still, it was a nice gesture, probably the best they could do for him now.
“Gayorg, I’m going to put Doctor Kamen on,” Goto said.
“Gayorg, this is Doctor Kamen.”
Gayorg had seen Dr. Krista Kamen many times during the voyage, but only a handful of times when she was awake. Most of the scientists had been kept in suspended animation for the yearlong trip to Yadrin, to conserve food and water supplies. The engineers had monitored the sleeping chambers. Gayorg had spent many days checking on Dr. Kamen, Commander Saito and the other women, simply because they were a lot more pleasant to look at.
“I’m not sure how I can phrase this, Gayorg,” Dr. Kamen said, slowly.
“We’re all adults here, Doctor,” Gayorg replied, bravely. “Just give it to me straight. What are we looking at here?”
“It’s a Level Ten infection,” the doctor answered, her voice filled with remorse and sadness. “It apparently hibernated for a bit, just long enough to escape detection by our air filter monitors. Infection through the body has been determined to be total.”
“Damn,” Gayorg muttered, wanting to throw up.
Level Ten was the highest level of infection. Some type of virus or bacteria had beaten the monitors. Gayorg had worried over this sort of development for the entire trip because he knew the monitors – for the ship, for the orbital module and for the EVA suits – had only been programmed for known viruses and bacteria. No one could have really known or guessed what might have existed outside of the Milky Way.
But, that’s what he had signed on for. He’d wanted to see the stars, but not just the ones that everyone else had seen since first grade. He wanted to be on the cutting edge of exploration. He didn’t have the grades to be an astrophysicist, but he knew the ships needed engineers.
His body felt like it wanted to shake uncontrollably and it took all of his strength to suppress this sudden urge to panic. Going to pieces would gain him nothing. After all, NASA instructors had spent almost a week preparing future space pioneers for just such a scenario. Still, there was a huge difference between computer-simulated scenarios and the real thing. In simulations, one could always hit “stop” to end the scenario and everyone would be alive and well, laughing and joking.
“Please calm down, Gayorg,” Dr. Kamen said, firmly. “My instruments show elevated readings on all vitals. You’re not going to help yourself by panicking. Remember your training.”
“I…it’s just that…jeez, Doc, Level Ten…I…I…I’m sorry, Doc…I’m much better now. Thank you for your concern.”
He tried to imagine what the others on the ship were thinking now. They’d signed on to search for new forms of life; however, he was sure they wanted that new form of life to be something other than a deadly microbe. Biological contamination was the nightmare of every spacefarer.
Gayorg knew that Marisa Soto must have been going nuts right about now. She had the odd combination of being a scientist and a germophobe. She scrubbed with antibacterial soap three times a day. She’d been his partner when they’d left the ship three hours earlier for the extravehicular space walk to repair a solar panel that charged her laboratory. He could only imagine her reaction to news of the discovery of the infectious virus.
“Any chance of the computer finding a cure?” he asked into his radio. “Might as well make productive use of our time until another ship gets here.”
“Oh, believe me, we are trying,” Dr. Kamen replied, her voice sounding uncharacteristically anxious. “But, at the same time, we need to face facts. We…we have to take certain precautions, Gayorg.”
Gayorg knew what the doctor was talking about. As an engineer, he serviced the machines used to cleanse infections, so he knew there was one and only one way to cleanse a Level Ten infection – complete eradication.
That thought made him sigh long and heavily. It was true that he hadn’t known the crew very long, but they had been shipmates. They’d had a camaraderie that had kept the ship running smoothly. Each man and woman aboard had a different personality that contributed to the uniqueness of the crew. It was why he took offense when the crews of other ships badmouthed Caliber.
“I-I know,” he sputtered, his mouth suddenly dry.
“Gayorg, this is Commander Saito,” a new voice said into his radio. “We’ve raised Hancock on the radio. She’ll be here in less than an hour.”
Good old Saito, Gayorg mused. She was the chief engineer and was always professional. Captain Goto may have offered to let Gayorg call him “El” but Saito would never do that. Gayorg respected that she would maintain her professionalism in such a situation.
“For what it’s worth, Gayorg,” Saito said. “You’ve been a good engineer. And…and…you’ve been a good shipmate.”
Wow, Gayorg thought, stunned. It must have cost her a lot to say that. He felt a tear running down his cheek and unconsciously tried to wipe it away with a gloved hand. Just then, his chronometer beeped and he knew he needed to change out air tanks.
Cursing silently, he began the arduous process of unhooking the straps for the air tanks. There were many days he couldn’t believe mankind had penetrated so far into deep space, yet, saddled itself with technology reminiscent of the 20th century. He unclipped the staying pins and then clumsily pulled the tanks loose.
He set the empties on the floor of the airlock and picked up the fresh ones. Carefully, he began inserting the tanks into their slots on his EVA suit, trying to make certain he got the nozzles into the intake holes. He only had five minutes to complete the maneuver before the reserve air stored in a small cylinder on his waist pack ran out.
He replaced the stay pins and then tightened the straps again. Moments later, a light on his wrist pad turned green and he felt cool air stream into his helmet. He breathed deeply – he never realized just how sweet a breath of fresh air could be. He then refilled his reserve cylinder before turning it off.
“Sorry about that, ma’am,” he said. “Had to change air tanks. Hello? Commander?”
“She had to go, Gayorg,” the voice of Alexander Wooten stated. “How you doing, buddy?”
Gayorg grinned a little. Wooten was the chief cook. He was friendly to Gayorg; but then again, he was friendly to most of the crew, despite the constant complaints about the food. He had a thick skin and was always quick with witticisms and advice for certain new guys.
“Air’s fresh anyway,” Gayorg replied. “Wish I had some of your cooking out here. Standing around in airlocks can make a man hungry, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” Wooten answered. “Especially FNG’s.”
Gayorg shook his head and suppressed the urge to laugh. FNG meant, “freakin’ new guy.” Well, actually the “F” stood for something a little harsher but Wooten always substituted the milder curse, which still seemed strange to Gayorg seeing as how Wooten was the son of a Marine general.
“Look, Gayorg,” Wooten said. “I…I want you to do something, okay? The computer can download final thoughts. Yeah, I know it sounds morbid but the captain’s going to mention it in a moment and I didn’t want you to be blindsided. Just be ready, buddy. And…and…well, you know.”
Suddenly, Gayorg didn’t feel like grinning anymore. Every crewmember was required to record goodbyes and prayers to be downloaded and sent home to Earth in the event of death. It made things easier for loved ones back home, but was hard as hell on the nerves of even the strongest person to have to record such a thing. Gayorg had needed nine hours and forty-one tries to record his thoughts on the trip to Yadrin. The captain did allow extra time for final thoughts (which had helped greatly in this matter) before transferring the file to the nearest ship or space station that could get a message back to Earth.
He sighed again and checked his chronometer. It wouldn’t be much longer before Hancock arrived. Then he’d have to do what he had to, but didn’t want to – take one last look. He couldn’t, no, he didn’t want to imagine what the rest of the crew would be doing in those final moments. He hoped they would not be looking at him through the monitors and portholes. He didn’t know if he could stand the longing looks, the thought of them crying.
It wasn’t that he was afraid of death. He had just imagined it happening differently, much faster. He’d always wanted to die quickly, not linger in some hospital bed, knowing that death was getting closer. His father had jokingly referred to his fear as “the taxman cometh.”
“Gayorg, this is the captain,” Goto blurted, bringing Gayorg back to the present. “Download of final thoughts to Hancock is complete. She’s here. It’s…it’s time.”
Gayorg gasped as he looked at his chronometer. My God, he thought, time has flown by. He quickly hooked his wrist pad and tried to access the computer again. Surely there had to be one last attempt by the computer to find a way around the contamination. Alas, the computer had no answer except for the already established protocols for Level Ten contamination – complete disintegration.
He closed his eyes and tried to think happier thoughts, but couldn’t. Caliber was a science vessel and had no armament. Hancock was a rescue ship. She carried laser cannon capable of destroying asteroids and meteors. In fact, if she diverted half her available power to her cannons, she could destroy a space freighter, the largest ship in NASA’s deep space fleet. Obviously, nothing approaching that level would be needed here.
“I guess this is goodbye then,” he said, slowly. “I never thought it would end like this. I guess I’ll just take…”
“Caliber, this is Hancock, ready for procedure,” a deep voice interrupted. “Please have subject open outer airlock doors and activate EVA suit jets.”
“Hancock, this is ‘subject’ and I can hear you,” Gayorg snapped, more than a little miffed at the interruption at such a delicate moment. “I am opening the outer airlock doors. I am now activating my rockets.”
Gayorg had made his decision. He really had no choice. If he hadn’t fired his rockets, Captain Goto would have ejected the entire airlock. Still, it was a measure of how well he had come to terms with his situation that he didn’t panic, bawl or suddenly suffer a streak of yellow down his spine.
“We have you on monitor, Mr. Marsten,” reported the deep voice from Hancock. “You are clear of Caliber. Please accept my apology at being so inconsiderate of the situation. Is there anything we can do for you?”
“I…eh, thank you,” Gayorg blustered. “Can you give me one last look at her?”
“Yes, sir,” came the reply. “We can do that for you, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Gayorg had always hated free-floating. He’d never liked jetting around space with small rocket packs instead of being attached to the ship with tether lines. One slight mishap with a rocket pack meant slow death as one spun wildly away from the ship, something unlikely for a man or woman tethered to the mother ship.
Now, however, as he floated freely away, the rockets keeping him from tumbling, he couldn’t help but feel at peace. He knew he’d finally come to terms with what was about to happen. Maybe it was because he knew what was about to happen. Maybe it was some sort of genetic code that allowed a feeling of tranquility at such moments. Whatever it was, it made the final moments pass peacefully.
He looked down and saw Caliber sitting in orbit around Yadrin. God, she’s beautiful, he thought unabashedly. He watched the ship’s sleek outlines fill the curved view of his helmet visor. Much longer than Hancock by at least three hundred feet, she was 796 feet high at her most elevated position, atop the radio tower. Three powerful engines could thrust her forward at one-tenth of the speed of light in an emergency, though those same thrusters now lay silent.
A crew of one hundred-thirty kept her in tip-top condition. He looked to his left and tried to peer into the red haze of Yadrin. He was too far away to see the empty orbital module that floated in low orbit. He wanted to spend at least a few more minutes inside her, to experience the feeling of being so close to another planet, but he knew it was impossible. Caliber had pulled out of orbit right after discovery of the contamination, per NASA protocols.
“Captain Goto, Commander Saito, this is Gayorg Marsten, successfully detached from Caliber,” Gayorg reported, his voice on the verge of breaking. “Godspeed to all of you.”
An alarm went off inside his helmet and he glanced down at his wrist pad. There was a fantastic energy source behind him and he knew it was the rescue ship’s cannon. Figures, he muttered to himself. To save him the dread of knowing the end was about to come, the rescue ship was going to fire before he finished his last look.
So be it.
A massive beam of energy filled his visor and he closed his eyes. Pleasant memories of happier times with the crew filled his mind. Jokes, conversations, arguments, even getting dressed down a time or two by Saito, these all played out in his mind.
“This is Hancock. It’s done.”
Gayorg opened his eyes and sighed heavily. Caliber was nothing but a million shards of flaming debris that would eventually get caught up in the gravitational pull of Yadrin. No piece would be big enough to survive the intense friction of uncontrolled entry into the atmosphere.
If only, he thought. If. If. If. What was the saying? If “‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ were candy and nuts…”.
If the scientists hadn’t compromised the security of the orbital module by collecting dust from Yadrin’s atmosphere without the proper equipment…
If the crew hadn’t become lax and had done the required full scan of the science module before it returned aboard…
If Dr. Kamen and her staff had activated isolation procedures when the first crewmembers exhibited strange symptoms instead of treating the illness like the common cold…
If Marisa Soto hadn’t been so in love with one of the sick men that she abandoned Marsten on the EVA walk to go back inside the ship to check on him…
…then maybe they’d all be alive right now, enjoying one of Wooten’s fantastic meals.
But, there would be no more moments for the crew of Caliber. They’d slipped up and contaminated the entire ship with a Level Ten infection. Earth science had yet to come up with procedures to stop it. Thus, the only way to prevent spread of the infection was complete destruction of the infected subjects, be they individuals or entire ships.
“Mr. Marsten, this is Hancock,” the deep voice said into his radio. “Caliber reported that because you were outside of the ship when the infection came aboard that you weren’t infected. Computer tests confirm it, but regulations require us to isolate you in a reserve airlock until our own computers and doctors can clear you sir. I can’t imagine how much you’ve been through today, so I offer my sincerest condolences and my apology at having to quarantine you again.”
Gayorg barely heard any of the man’s words.
“Acknowledged, Hancock,” he answered, his voice choking up. “I’ll be here. With my memories.”
“All rise. The Honorable Melvin Roy presiding.”
“You may be seated. Good morning, Joseph, how is my favorite bailiff today? Looks like it’s gonna' be a tough one today. Okay, what’s first on the docket?”
“First up on the docket, Your Honor, People versus Catherine Steelo, Mandel Oceanographic Institute, Andelbay Resorts and Amex Corporation. Depraved indifference, twelve counts.”
“Twelve counts, Joseph? Really? Okay, who’s here for the People? Miss Imesworth, is it, our newest assistant district attorney? And Mr. Ainsley, for the defense?”
“Your honor, the people request a high bail.”
“Ah, you picked up that tactic a lot quicker than your predecessor, Miss Imesworth.”
“Objection, your Honor. My clients are upstanding pillars of the community. Miss Steelo is one of the world’s most renowned marine biologists and works for the prestigious Mandel Oceanographic Institute. Andelbay Resorts has a first-class reputation and Amex is a Fortune 500 company. We request a release on personal recognizance.”
“So noted, Mr. Ainsley. I take it you have some objections, Miss Imesworth.”
“Your honor, the defendants are charged with twelve counts of depraved indifference. They are culpable in the deaths of seven people and the maiming of five more.”
“Whoa, those are some serious allegations, Miss Imesworth. What exactly are they alleged to have done?”
“They forgot to tell beach-goers about the supposedly extinct Megalodon that had set up camp in the area.”
“What, pray tell, is a Megalodon, Miss Imesworth?”
“Ancestor to the Great White Shark, your Honor. It’s about seventy-five feet long. They knew it was in the area, but still sent a yacht full of investors out into the middle of its feeding ground. Miss Steelo and Mandel wanted the publicity of being the first to find a Megalodon. Andelbay and Amex were in the midst of a buyout and wanted to appease stockholders.”
“Your Honor, Miss Imesworth is exaggerating. The shark can grow up to seventy-five feet. That doesn’t mean it was seventy-five feet.”
“Thank you for killing your case, Counselor. I’ll take it that they’re all pleading guilty, based on what you just said?”
“We plead not guilty, Your Honor. To all counts. In fact, Your Honor, we move for dismissal of all charges.”
“Oh, really? On what grounds?”
“My clients were acting in the best interests of the public, Your Honor. This case is unprecedented.”
“Au contraire, Mr. Ainsley. People v. Town of Friendship. The mayor was successfully indicted and tried for depraved indifference for allowing the island’s beaches to remain open despite the presence of a twenty-five foot Great White that had already killed several people. The town itself was tried for depraved indifference because they didn’t want to lose summer dollars.”
“Well, thank you, Miss Imesworth, for that information and for bringing some culture to these proceedings with that smattering of French. But, this is not the time or place to try the case. Mr. Ainsley, your request for dismissal is subsequently denied. Bail is set for one million dollars for Miss Steelo and five million for the others.”
“Your Honor, that is outrageous. My clients—”
“Your clients can take it or leave it, Mr. Ainsley. At least it should keep them away from the water. Next, Joseph.”
“Next up, Your Honor, People versus the Port Authority. Gross negligence and dereliction of duty.”
“Thank you, Joseph. So, Mr. Dwight, we have the Port Authority before us again. What is the plea this time?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“Of course. What’s the bail request, Miss Imesworth?”
“We’d normally request remand, Your Honor, but we’re willing to let them go on personal recognizance.”
“That’s a shock. Does your boss know about this?”
“Well, sir, the defendants are so well known in the community, we think we’ll have little trouble keeping tabs on them.”
“Your Honor?”
“Yes, Mr. Dwight?”
“We move to have the charges dismissed.”
“Oh, really? Are you and Mr. Ainsley reading the same book? Dismissal, on what grounds?”
“National Security, Your Honor.”
“Your Honor, they conveniently forgot to mention to a thousand dockworkers that a prehistoric monster, recently awakened from hibernation by atomic testing, was swimming around next to their docks. I don’t see how that would fit under ‘national security’?”
“Miss Imesworth is exaggerating, Your Honor. The Port Authority has a responsibility for not just dockworkers, but everyone in the city. We couldn’t risk a citywide panic.”
“Even though not telling anyone ended up causing a citywide panic, anyway? As I recall, Mr. Dwight, the same thing happened with that giant octopus in London, too. Just be thankful this beast wasn’t radioactive like that one.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
“That’s quite okay, Miss Imesworth. Defendants are free to go. Please be back next Tuesday to set a trial date. Say, is it me, Joseph, or is the courthouse unusually crowded today?”
“It’s crowded, sir. Everybody’s docket is full.”
“Hmm, guess my lunch date with Judge Horvath is out.”
“Judge Horvath is trying child custody cases today, sir, to see if the parents are fit to raise their children.”
“We see those cases everyday. What’s so different about today?”
“These are the bratty kids, Your Honor. One defied his grandmother and hitched a ride down into a subterranean cavern. Almost got the explorers killed by giant scorpions. Another is that girl who fiddled with the thermostat so that her pet rabbit wouldn’t freeze. She ended up getting all the test animals in the lab eaten by a prehistoric mollusk that had been kept in hibernation in a pool of cold water.”
“Ooh, sounds brutal, but no one got killed, did they?”
“Well, not with those two, Your Honor, but the third kid, well, she’s a doozy. Sweet kid, but devious. She did the old switcheroo. Didn’t want her parents to continue testing a serum on a rabbit she liked, so she substituted a normal rabbit and took the test animal out into the countryside where, of course, it got loose.”
“Oh, I remember her. Led to a horde of giant man-eating bunny rabbits. I wonder if those poor people they recruited from the drive-in to help corner the rabbits ever got over the horror of seeing them shot and electrocuted on those railroad tracks. Well, that’s another court. I wonder if I can do lunch with Judge Wapple?”
“Sorry, Your Honor, she’s got some civil cases that should fill her entire day.”
“Really? What kind of cases?”
“Trademark desecration, sir. You know, taking a good idea and totally massacring it. Her first one is a hoot. Seems someone took an idea from the Japanese and turned it into a hundred million-plus dollar dud. Took a slow, lumbering, fire-breathing giant and turned it into some quick-footed iguana that was halfway to the video store by the end of the first month.”
“Oh, that’s no biggie, Joseph. We’ve been doing that to Japanese films for decades. Although, I thought we’d moved away from big monsters and onto horror. Okay, let’s stop wasting time. What’s next on the docket?”
“The People versus The Department of Homeland Security and The Department of Defense.”
“What?”
“The People versus The Department…”
“Yes, yes, Joseph, I heard you. What’s going on here? I don’t think this court is appropriate for a case of this magnitude. What’s it about?”
“Harassment, attempted murder, murder and manslaughter on way too many counts.”
“Care to elaborate further, Miss Imesworth? You realize that we’re talking about the very people who protect us from the bad guys, you know.”
“The People understand that, Your Honor. But, it’s the job of Homeland Security to protect us from enemies, foreign and domestic.”
“What do you have to say about this, Ms. Fulton? I believe you’re from the U.S. Attorney General’s office? Aren’t we at cross purposes here?”
“That is correct, Your Honor. What Miss Imesworth and the local DA are charging my clients – a.k.a. the U.S. Government – with is political grandstanding. My clients were protecting the public from insidious and hideous threats, such as gun-toting fanatics who stalked and stabbed numerous people to death, burned others alive, cut the throats of more people and burned a lot with acid.”
“Your Honor, the so-called fanatics Ms. Fulton is referring to are vampire hunters. The bloodsuckers they killed drank the blood of more than two thousand innocent people over the past ten years alone, but, nothing was done about them. Uh, Your Honor, are you okay?”
“Hmm, oh, yes. Nothing wrong, Miss Imesworth. I was just musing about lawyers fighting over bloodsuckers. Sort of a professional discourtesy. Ahem, sorry, bad lawyer joke. Please, go on, Miss Imesworth.”
“That’s not all, Your Honor. We have case files, going back years, of the military interfering with honest, law-abiding citizens who try to stop threats to society. For instance, government agents shot two scientists to death to protect a program that produced mutated barracuda for clandestine missions, even though the barracuda killed a number of innocent civilians. Another time, the military intervened when ordinary citizens tried to save river rafters from carnivorous South American fish. Then, there are all those times an unsuspecting populace fell victim to giant ants, scorpions, mollusks, monoliths, grasshoppers, bees and other dangers because of the government's ‘we don't want a panic’ defense. The list is endless.”
“Oh, that’s rich, Miss Fulton. If we’re going to do that, why don’t we prosecute all the stupid people in the world? You know, the kids who go partying at abandoned summer camps even though all the previous campers got slaughtered by a machete-wielding maniac. Or the people who don’t want to turn the lights on in dark rooms or don’t use flashlights or just plain don’t think to call the police when they hear something upstairs. Or corrupt politicians who store hazardous waste under the city. Or the local authorities who ignore repeated warnings about monstrosities that then end up killing people who might otherwise have been warned and then threaten the press members who expose the truth. The list is, indeed, endless and hindsight is always twenty-twenty, Your Honor.”
“And it will always be twenty-twenty, Miss Fulton, until we start making people accountable. Your Honor, we have to make people think beforehand so we don’t have to place blame afterwards.”
“You’d be fighting a losing battle, Miss Imesworth. Say, Joseph, just how backed up is the docket today?”
“A full schedule, but, sadly, nothing really blockbuster. Most of the cases are so common now, it’s rather pedestrian.”
“Okay, then. I think I need a break. Miss Imesworth, Miss Fulton, in my chambers, please. Thank goodness for the court system. There’s at least one place around here where common sense prevails.”
“Your Honor, do you want me to check the status of that case we talked about earlier?”
“Hold on, ladies. Which case was that, Joseph?”
“The one with all those jury members who are being stalked and decapitated. I think they were from one of the cases the newspaper interviewed you about last month. Although it's a bit late, I think detectives are going to warn the three remaining jurors -- a very nubile blond, a brunette smoldering with repressed sexuality beneath her glasses and pinned-up hair and a spinster librarian.
“They might use one of them as bait for the killer, but I can’t guess which. The other two should be well-protected, though. All of the detectives have volunteered to watch over them, even that single one who hasn’t been with a woman since that painful divorce three years ago. If the killer goes for the bait, they’ll be ready, unless something distracts them.”
“That was the Mad Dog McGurk case, wasn’t it, Joseph? Why wasn’t I notified of that? Any suspects, yet?”
“Not really, Judge. They thought it might be McGurk, but he died in prison after volunteering for some weird experiment. The warden apologized for not telling anyone. Said it was an administrative error. Some heads are gonna’ roll on that one, sir. No pun intended, of course.”
“Ah, yes, thank you, Joseph. Keep up with that, will you? I’ll be in my chambers. On second thought, Joseph, could you do me a big favor and go into my office first? And please turn on the lights.”
“You know, sir, that there are many who oppose your research,’’ the gray-haired television commentator said. “Especially in the religious community. They say it’s heresy, what you’re doing.’’
If the words bothered Eugene Nix, he did not show it. Instead, he fingered his bushy mustache, as if in the middle of some great thought. All the while, he eyed the commentator and the cameramen surrounding them on the set in the studio. Indeed, his mind seemed to dwell more on how the small set seemed intimate despite the vastness of the surrounding sound stage than it did towards the commentator’s question.
“What is the saying, sir, that one can do all things through Christ?’’ Nix finally replied, with a wisp of a smile. “Are not a surgeon’s hands guided by a higher power during a difficult operation? Do not planes take off from the ground by the hundreds or thousands every day, borne aloft by the winds provided by the wings of angels?”
“So, you’re saying that you are just doing the work of God, not playing the Almighty?’’ the commentator followed.
“I’m just a man, sir,’’ Nix replied, coolly, avoiding the trap shrewdly set for him. “Just a man.”
“Which brings me to my next point,’’ the interviewer continued, unfazed by Nix’s avoidance of his last question. “You were born with Attention Deficit Disorder and, in recent years, you’ve had arthritis so painful, you’ve found it difficult to work on very cold days. So, you would agree that those factors helped make you the man that you are today. Shouldn’t children have the same chance?”
Nix furrowed an eyebrow at the wording of the question.
“A chance to fail in school?’’ he asked in reply. “A chance to experience a great deal of pain?”
“Well, no, just a chance to make themselves stronger by overcoming their weaknesses,’’ the commentator clarified.
“We all know that most don’t overcome,” Nix said. “And that doesn’t make the mothers of those children with illnesses like Down’s syndrome or cystic fibrosis or sickle cell anemia love them any less. But, can you imagine what that child might become if he or she were free of those crippling shackles? It’s something that each person should ponder and decide upon for him or herself.”
“Well, that about wraps up our time for today’s show,’’ the commentator said, looking more than a bit defeated. “I want to thank today’s guest, renowned geneticist Eugene Nix. We’ll be back after a commercial break for some notes on next week’s show.’’
It took more than ninety minutes to get through mid-afternoon traffic in Dallas before he reached the slightly less hectic vehicular crush of Tarrant County. He made it back to his office at Fort Worth Hospital only twenty minutes before his afternoon appointment. He had just enough time to say hello to Ellen Hellerby, his secretary, before perusing his computer for the necessary patient files.
The Oldmans were an unusual case. Cystic fibrosis ran in the genes of Lawrence Oldman, usually every third generation, which, in and of itself, was odd. His wife, Marguerita Elizabeta, was Mexican and had no known maladies in her lineage. It was hoped her genes might somehow offset the Oldman family curse. Personally, Nix knew it was pure fantasy. Genetics could not be fooled so easily, being shaped by some otherworldly power that Nix firmly believed came from on high. That was how a man and woman could have three children, with each one taking on different characteristics of the mother or father or both.
His intercom buzzed and he told Ellen to let the Oldmans in. He rose and came from behind his desk to meet them at the door. He greeted the couple warmly, as he did all his clients, and bade them sit down in the leather chairs before his desk. Only when they were comfortable did he take his own seat. He made small talk about the weather as he could see that they were – or at least Marguerita was–nervous. Lawrence Oldman complimented Nix on his appearance on the morning talk show.
“Thank you, sir,’’ Nix replied. “But, I’m sure you didn’t come all this way today to tell me I looked much thinner on television than in person. You’re interested in the results of the tests I performed two weeks ago and I have them with me today.”
Lawrence started to speak, but Marguerita interrupted him, whispering to him in Spanish. Nix knew Spanish but leaned back in his chair so that he wouldn’t hear her. He knew she was trying to be private with her husband. Lawrence listened to her, then said something in reply and patted her hands reassuringly.
“Pardon my wife, Doctor Nix,” Lawrence apologized, in a voice that had the air of royalty. “She comes from an old family and she’s still not sure about all of this. I’ve been trying to reason with her for the last two weeks.”
“Well, maybe I can reassure her fears,’’ Nix answered, moving his left hand to his computer keyboard and typing a few keys. “My tests show that there is an 85.6% chance that your child will have cystic fibrosis.”
Marguerita Oldman gasped upon hearing the high percentage. Then, she buried her head into her husband’s right shoulder and began to sob. Lawrence tried to comfort her as best he could, while keeping one eye coldly fixed upon Nix for delivering such bad news.
“Please don’t cry, Mrs. Oldman,’’ Nix added. “I can guarantee you at least a ninety-nine-point-three percent chance that my methods will remove the cystic fibrosis gene from the child.”
This surprised the Oldmans and Marguerita stopped crying. In fact, she sat up straight and looked at Nix, with a look on her face that showed both shock and relief. He had seen this look often in the five years since he’d introduced his method during a clinical study in the small town of Mineral Wells.
“I will need some samples from each of you,” Nix continued. “Some unfertilized eggs and a sperm sample. As you know, I use nanotechnology to cleanse the samples of impurities and of harmful genes, while leaving good genes. I can guarantee that the fetus will have the best chance possible of a normal birth and childhood as far as genetic diseases go, though his upbringing is between yourselves and God.”
Lawrence Oldman suddenly stood and pulled his wife to her feet. Nix rose to meet them, and then reached his hand over the desk to shake Lawrence’s extended hand. Instantly, Nix could tell from Oldman’s grip that the man’s family had the kind of confidence that one might expect from descendants of royalty. It was firm and virtually transmitted strength and confidence.
Mr. Oldman thanked the doctor profusely and wanted to start the procedures that very moment. Nix had his secretary show them to the prenatal ward of the hospital. Although, he had alleviated their fears, he knew they might still change their minds and not go through with it; thus, he was never unhappy to see clients immediately start the treatments.
“So proud of yourself, aren’t you, Gene?’’
Nix looked up from his paperwork to see a very beautiful blonde standing before his desk. She wore a white lab smock and her badge showed her to be Doctor Emmalene Mayhew. Nix had once thought her to be one of the most professional doctors on the hospital’s staff, but then she’d turned on him, trying to get him dismissed from the hospital.
“What can I do for you, Doctor?” Nix replied, mechanically. “I do have some clients to tend to.”
“Oh, come now,” Emmalene stated, taking the opportunity to plop herself down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. “You know it takes an hour or so to properly prep. We have time for a chat.”
“Ah, yes, a chat,” Nix answered, his demeanor cold and distant. “Is it going to be one of those chats where I listen and you do all the speaking? Or will we speak as colleagues for once?’’
“Look, Eugene,” Emmalene began, “I never wanted to make this personal. I wanted to keep it professional. We’ve all taken the Hippocratic Oath and we all do the best we can for our patients.”
“Which is all I am doing with my research,” Nix interjected
He ignored Mayhew’s frown. He already knew what she was going to say, and it certainly would not be Hippocratic in the least.
“But, there is a line we are not supposed to cross,” Mayhew finished.
“Dr. Mayhew, how many cancer patients are we currently treating?”
The question caught her off guard and she stammered for a moment. Nix didn’t repeat the question, just gazed at her, inquisitively. Pressed for an answer, she told him she didn’t have an exact figure, but she personally had five patients undergoing chemotherapy.
“Wouldn’t our jobs be a whole lot easier if we could remove the carcinogens and other cancer-causing agents from the body before the cancers formed?” Nix posited.
“You’re trying to use emotions to justify the means, Doctor,” Mayhew objected. “I’m sure there would be many cancer patients willing to jump through fire or pay anything to get rid of the so-called toxins infecting their blood cells, but, what you’re doing is science fiction. Hasn’t history seen these types of things before?”
“You can say it, Doctor Mayhew,” Nix stated, leaning back in his chair, somewhat disappointed. “You were going to call me a ‘charlatan.’ A trickster or some fairground peddler with a cure-all panacea, like some quack
barnstorming his way across the Old West with a magic elixir.”
“I assure you, I meant no offense,” Emmalene retorted, backpedaling. “It’s just that, well, there are others, who may not be so obliging. People with a deeper sense of values, who…”
“Doctor Mayhew,” Nix stated sharply and forcefully, cutting her off so abruptly that she tried to sink deeper into her chair. “We are both doctors. We have both gone through the same pre-med and the same medical school. The diplomas behind me on the wall are just as real as the ones on your wall. I am not some quack who puts black dye in water and tells a gullible customer that it represents the toxins in her body and will she please fork over all her money for monthly treatments to clear up the water.”
“Look, Eugene,” Emmalene Mayhew snapped, trying to recover some of her dignity. “There are others in this hospital who believe as I do. You’re not just affecting this hospital’s reputation, but the livelihoods of your colleagues.”
“Oh, yes, I was wondering when you’d get around to that,” Nix retorted. “How is the funding proposal for your cancer center faring? Please don’t tell me I’m upsetting the apple cart with my controversial methods. If it were so, the hospital board would have said goodbye to me already. So, tell your colleagues to pay for their own fishing trips and dinners for a little while longer.”
“You’re making a big mistake, Eugene,” Emmalene warned. “Your status with the board is precarious, at best. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“And I think this discussion, such as it was, is now over,” Nix replied, coolly. “I have patients to attend to and I’m sure you do as well. Good day, Doctor Mayhew.”
Nix stared out the window of the laboratory. Mayhew had rattled him more than he’d thought and he needed a little more time to collect his wits. The samples had been taken from the Oldmans and he had received them a half-hour earlier. The nurse had placed them inside his machine.
Below, in the streets, a few protesters still picketed across from the main entrance to the hospital. They had been there so long, Nix almost felt he knew each one intimately. They had been coming, in small groups, every day for the past six months.
They had never been violent or unruly, unlike the protesters in Los Angeles when he had been part of a medical team trying to clone human organs for transplant purposes. Then again, California tended to produce more varieties of agitators than the other forty-nine states combined. Back home in his native Fort Worth, Nix hadn’t felt the need for a bodyguard.
Finally, he turned away from the window, walked over to his machine and sat down. He flipped a switch to light up a large screen, through which he spied the samples from the Oldmans. He tapped a few keys on the board before him, then manipulated a track ball with his right hand. Inside the machine, mechanical arms extended down, each grabbing a sample container and moving it to a separate area. Shortly thereafter, inside these darkened areas, colored lights began to flash and play over the containers.
Nix looked to his left at a small screen, then to a similar one to his right. Each showed results of scans being done on the sample containers. So far, nothing looked out of the ordinary, but it was still early and he knew it. He didn’t have to stay with the machine for the entire range of tests, which could last up to ten hours, but he didn’t mind. His lab was off-limits and he often hid here to keep away from his more narrow-minded colleagues, like Doctor Emmalene Mayhew.
As the results droned across the screens, Nix closed his eyes and took a little time to reflect, a habit he had picked up from an old girlfriend in California who had been into the New Age movement. Almost habitually, he began rubbing his hands together as if he were simulating washing them. It often helped him relieve the arthritis he’d begun suffering more and more, especially after handling samples and manipulating the controls of his machines.
Every time he used his machine, he found himself recounting the same memory. He was just seven years old, much too young to see the incredible agony his older brother, Christopher, endured because of his rare genetic disease. Eugene could remember the look of anguish on his mother’s face as she sought to feed, bathe and help Chris use the toilet. Eugene rarely saw his father, who worked two full-time jobs to pay the extensive medical bills.
His memory shot forward ten years. Now, he was at his father’s funeral. The doctors called what had killed him hypertension. They’d said that, most likely, the stress of working two jobs for so long had weakened his heart and dangerously (fatally) elevated his blood pressure.
When Chris finally succumbed to his disease two years later, Eugene was all out of tears. He’d simply sat, stone-faced, at the funeral. His mother had cried enough tears for both of them, but he had none left to give. He couldn’t think of grief, only of how unfair life had been to his parents and to his older brother. That’s when he decided his mission in life.
He switched his major in college from electrical engineering to biology. Graduating near the top of his class, he’d been a shoo-in for medical school where he specialized in biogenetics, a major he was allowed to personally design. Sometimes his mother would visit, trying to get him to slow down and not work so hard, afraid he might fall prey to the same stress that had killed his father. He would listen to her, but just for the duration of her visit, whereupon he would return to his old habits after she’d gone back home.
She was gone now, had died peacefully in her sleep. She’d worked so hard and sacrificed so much, but in the end, she’d lived a full life. She’d become even prouder of Eugene when his research had helped her overcome lymphoma. The night before she passed, she’d encouraged him to continue on, despite his critics. The possibility of parents not having to deal with ugly genetic diseases or loved ones facing a possible death sentence from cancer was much too important, she’d said, for him to let others deter him.
This brought him back to reality. He now felt the ache in his fingers, a reminder from his arthritis that he’d had his fingers interlaced too long. Ironic, he thought to himself, as he separated his hands, that a man who could cure genetic diseases before birth and who could cleanse toxins from the bodies of cancer patients, had not tried to cure himself of arthritis. Strange as it sounded to his colleagues, his arthritis reminded him that he couldn’t sit back on his laurels because there were multitudes of ailments and diseases afflicting mankind.
He looked at his machine and saw the readouts continuing. So far, the diagnoses had been correct for cystic fibrosis. He looked at the timer and saw that he still had another nine hours to wait before the final results were in. Unfortunately, though his earlier tests gave him a high certainty of success, medicine always demanded repetition, such as repeated tests, control groups or placebos. Trying to skip to the end was a bad habit that might let in unwanted variables. It would be a tragic waste to save people from cystic fibrosis only to lose them to a totally preventable infection.
He got up from his chair and crossed the room to the futon he’d brought in a month earlier. He’d taken to sleeping on it to avoid his colleagues or protesters. Their criticisms, protests and, indeed, even verbal threats, seemed to grow exponentially when he ran his actual tests. In the lab, he had privacy and security and he took advantage of it now to get some badly needed sleep.
Thanks to a sleeping pill, he did not have any bad dreams this time around. Lately, he’d imagined some protester slipping past the security cordons and getting into his lab. Strangely, though, he felt rather copasetic about the chances of his machinery being destroyed. Rather, he feared confronting the protester and trying to explain the rational nature of his work to an irrational mind. He’d dreamt that the protester would have nothing but malignity in his heart and perniciousness in his brain.
Trying to focus on more pleasant things, he dreamt of having a nice dinner with Dr. Mayhew. He knew she opposed his work, but they were, after all, colleagues. He knew – rather, he hoped – she’d eventually feel the same level of comity as he did. Maybe someday, she might even give up her baleful outlook as to his work and see the benefits.
“Good evening, Doc,” a mysterious voice said. “You’ve been sleeping much too long.”
A groggy Nix pushed himself up into a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. He then glanced at the chronometer on his machine and frowned. He’d only been sleeping two hours.
He still had seven more to go before his tests for the Oldmans were completed. Irate, he looked forward again, towards the sound of the voice, ready to lash out at the nurse who’d interrupted his sleep. And who’d had the audacity to enter his lab without permission, he thought to himself.
He didn’t see a nurse, however, but rather a young man, dressed in black, with a look upon his face that exuded nothing but anger. Nix started to jump up, but the man pulled something from somewhere on his person and Nix stopped. He could tell it was a gun and it was very large. Slowly, he returned to his sitting position, his mind telling his body not to overreact. Nix was an intellectual, a man who thought much faster than his body could ever hope to move.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, ever mindful of the gun pointing at him. “How did you get past the guards?”
“It doesn’t really matter who I am, does it, Dr. Nix?” the man said in a tone devoid of emotion.
“Well, what do you want then?” a nervous Nix queried. “You’re not going to get me to change my mind at the end of a gun, if that’s what you’re thinking, son.”
“Nice to see you have some loyalty to your ideas,” the young man replied, his voice sounding distant.
Nix tried hard to think where he’d seen the young man before. Mostly likely, in the crowd of protesters, but he could have sworn he’d seen the man someplace other than outside the hospital. Maybe being at the business end of a pistol was jumbling his memory.
“Just as I have with mine, Doctor.”
“Bah, I know you’re kind,” Nix spat, disgustedly. “You’re like the Eric Rudolphs and Unabombers of the world. You destroy life, thinking you’re saving it. I am trying to give people a better life.”
“I wish I could debate the issue,” the young man countered. “But, I doubt anything I say will change your wrong-headed ways. You’ll just continue to denigrate God’s work.”
“And what you’re doing now isn’t denigrating God’s work?” Nix exclaimed, jumping to his feet, not caring now about the gun. “Breaking one of His commandments so you can do His work? My work, unfortunately, can only help life at its inception. The way that life grows still reflects totally on both nurture and nature. It’s obvious that you and too many millions like you never got the proper nurturing. You’re so mad because of it, you’ve hooked onto the wrong cause to make up for your shortcomings. You profess faith, but you radiate zealotry. You think you’re an Apostle, but you’re really nothing but an Apostate.”
The young man seethed and his face reddened. Maybe, I’ve hit too close to home, Nix thought as he quickly became aware of the gun again. I hope to God the Oldmans don’t waste the opportunity I’m giving them and produce someone like this young man, Nix thought.
As it turned out, the Oldmans never would produce a child like the young man. The young man’s gun barked twice and Nix felt a searing pain in his chest. Even as his body lost feeling and slumped to the floor, he wondered who would carry on his work, if indeed, anyone really wanted to.
Dr. Mayhew smiled broadly as she welcomed Andrew Bregan into her office. She knew she needed to make the best impression possible if she was to convince the noted philanthropist to fund her advanced cancer research center. She’d made great strides in the decade since she’d taken Eugene Nix’s place as senior doctor at the hospital.
“Good morning, Mr. Bregan,” she greeted, motioning for him to sit down.
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