Tracy buried her cheek in the softness of the fabric. She felt her mind reeling backwards into oblivion.
Back to Tahiti.
Back to a time before they boarded this damned flight. Maybe she could will them all back there; she could warn them about the plane. Maybe with a wish and a prayer, she could change all this. She squeezed her eyes shut hard before opening them again.
Damn
.
This
was still here.
By late afternoon, the heat of the day had taken its toll on the group. The thick, humid air produced a moist coating over their bodies. They had gone through two liters of water, but Jack felt like he could wring water straight from the air. His body couldn't evaporate a drop of perspiration, much less what he drank, so he left the group to relieve himself.
As always, the forest intrigued Jack. He found himself gazing around as if it were a botanical exhibit. He stopped in front of a mossy boulder, which seemed as good as any place to aim for. He undid the zipper of his pants. The wave of relief he felt made him shiver and close his eyes. He kept them shut for the duration.
When he opened them, he noticed smoke off to his right.
Someone
had a fire going. Maybe there were more survivors after all?
Or someone else.
A
WAKENING THE NEXT MORNING
, Peter Carlson found that the GenSys facility reminded him more of a five-star hotel than of a research facility. Following his meeting yesterday with the Prince, they'd instructed him to arrive at exactly eight a.m. to meet his colleagues.
After a quick shower, the half-dressed Carlson wiped the bathroom fog from his glasses as he prepared to shave. He was self-conscious about his thick lenses, but he found it impossible to tolerate contacts. Besides, he was helpless without the thick-lense
goggles
, as he called them. Even the simple act of shaving would become an exercise in self-mutilation without them.
At exactly one seven fifty-five, the Prince knocked on his door and entered, just as Carlson finished shaving.
"Time to meet your associates, Dr. Carlson."
Carlson wiped his face and tossed the towel in a chair. Slipping on his shirt, he said, "Lead the way."
* * *
After a brisk walk, they reached the main building. It stood fifty feet wide, all glass with silver anodized beams and supports. Carlson found it determinedly high-tech. He wondered how much money the Prince dropped just on touches like that.
In contrast, the room they were in was small. There was a long table in the middle of the room. At one end sat two people, a woman and a man. Both wore casual clothes beneath white lab coats. As they entered, the man nodded first at the Prince, then at Carlson. The woman smiled. Carlson smiled back.
The young woman looked to be of Chinese descent with jet black hair and an intense gaze. She was reclining in her chair. Carlson read her nametag:
Ellen Choy
Chief Medical Officer
After making cursory introductions, the Prince led Carlson to his seat before stepping to the head of the table. He placed his well-manicured hands on the table as he leaned toward the trio of scientists. "Doctors, I'm sure by now you all are aware of Dr. Carlson's arrival here. I would like you all to be acquainted before we get down to business. Dr. Carlson is a valuable asset to our team and has stellar credentials, not to mention a family tie to the study of the Thylacine with which you all are familiar. Had it not been for his grandfather, none of us would be here undertaking such a task. This animal would just be another extinct species, like the dodo. Now, having said that, let us get right to it."
Habib smiled at each one of them like a proud parent before focusing on Carlson. "Peter, I'll leave you now. Frank and Ellen can bring you up to speed. As for me, I have urgent matters to attend to back home. I'll be in touch." Then, with a smile and an almost imperceptible nod, the Prince stepped out into the corridor and closed the door.
Carlson folded his hands and took a deep breath before speaking. "I've been looking over your notes, and those of the late Dr. Whiting. I don't see any problems replicating what you have and taking it to the next level--"
Frank Tibek's head shot up. "Dr. Carlson, we've been doing this for two years now. We're
beyond
Whiting. We know what we need to take it to the next level. You are just here for your sequencing expertise." He slammed his paperwork on the table in front of him.
Carlson felt his cheeks flush. Matching the red-faced man's demeaning tone, he answered, "I've read all the documents, Dr. Tibek. I am well aware of what you have done in your two years, and I know why I'm here. What I was about to say, if you're not too busy to hear it, is that there are a number of things you haven't addressed that need to be considered."
"Such as?"
"Such as the growth hormone question. No one has used the human growth hormone protocol with animal cloning before."
"It's identical in all mammals, Dr. Carlson. I would think a man with your background would know that."
Carlson was aware of using human growth hormone to promote cellular regeneration in mammals. They'd done it with Dolly the cloned sheep, and they routinely did it on cattle to enhance meat production. However, the physiology of the Thylacine was vastly more complex and far less understood. Moreover, the amounts that GenSys used were far larger than previously tested. Moreover, it had the potential for far bigger and unknown complications.
As Carlson prepared to speak, he knew he and Tibek would never be friends. "I do know that, but
you
should be aware that the amounts are specific from species to species. These amounts need to be determined and precisely calculated. It's not one size fits all."
Tibek's face reddened. He grabbed his coffee and took a long swig before continuing. He looked over to Ellen Choy and attempted a smile. "I think we've solved that. Ellen can bring you up to speed on our latest milestone."
The room fell silent.
For a moment, Peter Carlson just sat there, regrouping. "We were given a job to do," he finally said, voice quiet. Rising to his feet, he continued, "I plan to do whatever is needed of me as a team member. But if comes down to my safety and the safety of the people here at this facility, I'll put aside teamwork in a second." Carlson pounded the table to make his point.
Seizing the moment, Peter Carlson turned on his heel, pulled open the door, and left.
T
HE
G
EN
S
YS
C
ORPORATION
H
EADQUARTERS SAT
on a hill in the middle of Silicon Valley just outside San Jose, California. Inside its walls, some of the most groundbreaking and controversial experiments ever conducted had taken place. But the most important one they'd ever attempted was now underway in a building far removed from the sunny landscape of San Jose.
Ron Powers sat tapping his pen, waiting impatiently for a phone call from that facility. He had a deadline to meet, but someone had thrown a wrench in the works and he was pissed off.
Powers was known as an aggressive CEO among his colleagues, albeit a reckless one. Thirty-six, handsome and intense, he had been fired from a rival of GenSys for not obtaining proper state permits before performing animal experiments using endangered species. Now, as head of product development at GenSys, Prince Habib hired Powers to clone the ultimate animal. However, Powers had other plans for the Prince's money.
The phone buzzed once when he jerked the handset out of the cradle. "Speak."
On the other end, an angry Frank Tibek took a deep breath. "We've got problems."
"That's not what I want to hear."
"Carlson's going to be trouble. I tried to tell you. His Boy Scout morals and nostalgic reminiscing about his granddaddy are enough to make me sick."
"The Arab wants him onboard. Just play along." Powers continued, the edge in his voice sharpening, "I need those specimens in the next two weeks. You had better figure out how to do it,
Without
Carlson finding out. If
he
catches on, the Prince will be his first stop."
Tibek hated being treated like he was stupid. He just warned Powers about Carlson, and Powers answer was to warn him back? "What about that twit, Elkstrom? He is making some noise, too. I think you may have to send someone to talk with him."
"With what you stand to make on this, you should handle it."
"Yeah, and why don't I just shit some golden eggs while I'm at it? I've got enough to do here. I'm here to... " Tibek chose his next few words carefully, "...
see that the desired result is met.
I'm not here to be your muscle."
Now a heated discussion ensued. The deal Powers alluded to was eighty million dollars for delivery of the clone and the corresponding technology, of which Tibek would receive ten million. Tibek had guaranteed he could meet the buyer's demand that it all happen in twelve months. There was no agreement to any early delivery,
especially
of the fetal clones, and Powers
knew it
. He also knew he was dealing with something that people desperate enough would pay any price for. Relying on this, Powers had cut his own deal for another twenty million to bring the project in two months early.
For someone else.
The tactic worked. Unbeknownst to Tibek, Powers had promised the near impossible. He'd just maneuvered himself into a position in which he could not lose. Under this new scenario, his end would be either forty million or sixty million. Either way, he'd be guaranteed enough money to leave the country and be ensured a lifetime of luxury. All he needed to do was
convince Tibek
.
Powers, the ultimate grifter, put on his silkiest voice. "Frank, I have the utmost faith in you. Do this and I will see to it that you receive... a bonus. Let's say ten percent. That's a cool million. Just to step up what you are doing anyway." Powers could tell by the lack of argument, he was speaking Tibek's language now. He laid it on thicker, "Not only are you a brilliant geneticist, you're the best con artist I've ever met. You've handled the Prince masterfully; you can surely fool Carlson. And you're right, Frank; as for our little friend, Elkstrom,
I'll
handle him."
Powers hung up. He hit the speed dialer for a number he occasionally needed to contact.
The last time he'd used it was for Dr. Whiting.
* * *
Frank Tibek would have to work fast. Powers had taken him to be a fool, but he was sadly mistaken.
The very people,
who had approached Powers and cut his deal, wisely hedged their bets and contacted Tibek, who negotiated his own deal. Powers, the double-crosser, was being double-crossed. Tibek relished the irony of that twist.
Unfortunately, someone had thrown a piece of shit into his soup--Peter Carlson. Although it was true Carlson could help speed things up, Tibek was prepared to do whatever was needed to protect his own interests.
Including,
killing Peter Carlson
if necessary.
* * *
The telephone conversation had reminded Powers of his need to appear proactive to the Prince. For this, an email would do nicely.
Your Royal Highness Prince Habib,
Just an update to report that we are progressing according to schedule. And fully anticipate delivery by, or perhaps even prior to, the date previously agreed upon.
As always, feel free to call me at any time.
Yours sincerely,
Ron Powers
He read it twice. It was short and to the point, reaffirming their arrangement, and cementing the Prince's confidence in Powers. In the back of his mind, Powers knew that it was something that could come back to haunt him. I ways he didn't even want to imagine.
C
OLIN
E
LKSTROM TRIMMED THE ROSES
bordering the Australian Museum of Natural History with loving care. Although there was a crew of groundskeepers, Elkstrom found the activity helped relieve the stress of being curator of one of the largest museums in the world. But on this day, he had another reason.
He had a meeting with
The Man.
Elkstrom didn't know his name, but it really didn't matter. The Man was like a bank. He had the cash.
And lots of it!
Elkstrom saw him approach in a black late model BMW, rolling to a stop near the curb. He was just as Elkstrom remembered: Dour, plain, and not much bigger than Elkstrom himself.
"Good morning," The Man said, his voice soft and monotone.
Elkstrom started to extend his hand, before thinking better of it.
"We can talk over here." He led The Man to the side of the rose garden, out of view of the parking area.
Elkstrom took a seat on a marble bench and laid the garden shears on the ground beside it. The Man sat next to him, smoothing out his suit.
"You got my message," Elkstrom said, as The Man crossed his legs.
"What's this about, Elkstrom?"
"It's about my fee. With what I know about your operation, I'm starting to believe I was underpaid."
The Man stood and stared at Elkstrom, his face expressionless. "You've been paid well, Mr. Elkstrom."
"Clearly, my original fee was not enough."
The Man took off his sunglasses and began polishing them on his shirt. He squinted in the sun. "How much more will you require?"
"I was thinking another fifty thousand."
"I don't like being extorted."
"Don't think of it as extortion. Think of it as... insurance."
"It will take me a few days to get it."
"Of course. Take your time; your credit's good with me."
The Man stepped toward the bench and picked up the garden shears next to Elkstrom. "May I? It looks relaxing."
"Be my guest. It is relaxing."
The Man turned toward the rose hedge and took one snip, then wheeled back. Quick as a striking cobra, the man's arms shot out, garden shears open and extended, burying the twelve-inch blades into Elkstrom's eye sockets. A gigantic explosion of pain blossomed in Elkstrom's brain as a glut of blood and ocular fluid erupted from each eye. Soundlessly, he slumped over on the bench.