Gene, page 21
‘Sir, you are aware with that kind of search there could be hundreds of entries?’
I doubt it. ‘With a name like Dybbuk?’
Reluctantly the operator did as he asked. He heard the plastic keys tap away on the system. ‘Sir? I have three entries under Dybbuk. Do you have a first name or an initial?’
It can’t be that easy, can it? Go for it. ‘Try Eugene.’
The wait was painful. It also proved fruitless.
‘Okay, try C. Full name: Cassandra.’
‘I have that name listed. Cassandra Dybbuk. Area code five one eight—’
Five one eight? That’s further out from the city. He cradled the phone in his shoulder and wrote the rest of the number down on the back his hand. ‘What’s the address?’
‘Address: two-fifty-two, Sixth Avenue. Troy.’
SHADES OF THE
SANGUINE TREE
Was he in truth just a rat caught in a maze; set another test for another piece of cheese? Savage led Gene through a series of laboratories past great vats of volatile chemicals such as acetone and butanol. In one cubicle they took blood, at another the rough end of a plastic sample brush was roughly scraped against the inside of his cheek.
As the nurses tended to him, one, her hair neatly tied up in a bun at the back, let slip that she had seen him talking to himself in the shower.
Gene froze, though he said nothing. Somehow he wasn’t surprised. So we are being watched. Had they seen him make his little discovery of the number sequence? Gene stepped from the room and regarded the scientist quietly. ‘How many watch me?’
Savage was clearly uncomfortable even though it appeared to strike him as such an obvious question. ‘Everyone. We’re all interested in you.’
Everyone.
Each laboratory was successively higher up the ziggurat until they reached the upper floors where there was no possibility of escape. What does it matter? Let them take their samples. He had been trapped before, confined to the tower, a prisoner of whim. He would just have to be patient. He would bide his time.
On the thirty-third floor they put him on a treadmill and hooked him up to myriad machines that measured his breathing, his heart rate, and when he was sufficiently sweat soaked, collected his perspiration. While the medical staff swarmed around him, Savage took to writing in a ledger and asking a series of questions.
‘You feel lost?’
How can we not? The truth was a nightmare that had no end. ‘You mean like I don’t know who I am any more?’
Was Savage apprehensive? He responded by cranking up the speed and the incline. ‘You don’t know who you are?’
Gene struggled to increase his pace. The thud, thud, thud, and the whir of electric motors became deafening. ‘Of course I know who I am!’
Savage was circumspect. ‘I understand you forget things. You do something and forget why you’re doing it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Like the art museum.’
‘Yes.’
Savage nodded, pleased that he was getting somewhere. ‘So you didn’t intend on going to the museum?’
‘Why would I want go there?’
‘You tell me.’
On the thirty-fourth floor their meticulous dissection of him required a urine sample. Affording him little privacy except for an opaque screen, they discussed their hunt for the concentration of neurotransmitters they anticipated finding in his system. He listened while he peed into a cup.
Neurotransmitters guided the emotions and memories of the mind. They were trying to induce in him memories that stretched back into the dust of antiquity, but something else troubled them. Here they were more guarded, and gave nothing away.
He strained to gather any detail but he was given no time. One of them was tired of waiting and demanded he get on with producing his sample. He took a moment to deliver.
On the thirty-fifth floor he was escorted through a series of toughened-glass walled corridors exposing the machinery beyond. It came as a shock when at last he saw something he recognized.
This he knew. It was at his core.
Hooded cubes of machinery sat in clusters around computers, manipulating the very fabric of his DNA, a twisted double helix of molecules like two intertwined snakes that trapped his soul between their fangs, two snakes each with three billion scales in four different colours: adenine, cytosine, guanine, andthymine; A, C, G, T, the four bases; the alphabet from which was written his fate.
This was his work. It called to him, tugging at his psyche as the host of technicians loaded their DNA scanners with gene chips – small squares of glass carrying genetic material instead of electronic circuits.
Like two halves of a zip, the twisted double strands of DNA bonded perfectly to each other: A only with T; C only with G. A sample of DNA had been unlocked and the individual strands placed upon these chips and fused to fluorescent markers, so that as the unlocked threads of Gene’s DNA washed over the gene chip in a solution, they bound to the gene chip sample making it glow and exposing which of his genes were active in any one of his cells at that instant.
Yet in order for the hunt to succeed Gene’s DNA had to be compared not only to a control sample but to a DNA sample known to contain the gene they were seeking. A gene only Cyclades possessed. The one that unlocked true immortality.
The question was, whose DNA had been used to create the gene chips? Had they hunted down a living donor who was just like him, or had they used an older source? A relic perhaps, from a former life, such as pulp extracted from the tooth of the skull.
He could feel the press of complication filling his thoughts. He remembered the museum and the commotion he had caused. Had he truly held his own head in his hands?
The gene you’re anxious to find renders all of this obsolete, doesn’t it?’
Savage seemed pleased that he understood. ‘Athanatos has kept his essence alive, from body to body, for thousands of years, kept it alive by continuous alchemy. But you contain that which will render his rebirth automatic. We will either find it by sheer persistence, or the process you are undergoing will be successful and his offspring will reap the rewards by virtue of simply being born.’
What does he mean by that? ‘If this process has been working for millennia, why change it now?’
Savage rued the question. ‘Is this any kind of life?’ he asked upon reflection. ‘That immortality is achieved only through relentless endeavour? What stops it from being our right from birth?’
Gene understood. ‘His system is flawed.’
Savage found it painful to admit. ‘Yes, it is flawed. Ultimately there are gaps. The selective resurrection of memory from generation to generation means Athanatos cannot be certain his entire self has been passed on at all. There has been the lingering doubt that... he is dissolving.’ Savage put his hand on Gene’s shoulder. ‘You will change that.’
Alarmed, Gene followed Savage into a busy office complex, where at the end of the hall stood an imposing black door. At its threshold stood – was that Megaera? He had been fooled before. In this place he could be certain of nothing.
She held a small child in her arms. It was perhaps barely two years old, what hair it had was fair and thin and inadequately covered its misshapen head. Drool cascaded down its small chin, and though its eyes sparkled brightly it did not respond to the stimuli around it.
Megaera bore it no love and seemed to find its very presence insulting. She thrust it back into the arms of the waiting nanny who complained bitterly. ‘He just wants a little time with his mother.’
Megaera was not moved. ‘Who knows what it wants? Get it out of my sight.’
Did she see him? Would she have cared if she did? Gene remained firmly rooted where he stood as she stormed past him. He watched the doting nanny offer the babe a little of the affection that the flame-haired woman who was marching away refused to give. The nanny struggled to reach for her ID card and swipe it through the door lock. No one came to help.
As the looming black door opened Gene craned his neck to see what lay behind but he was not allowed to probe any further. Savage ushered him away from it all as quickly as he could. ‘Not that way.’
‘What’s down there?’
‘Nothing.’
‘A nothing that requires a security pass.’
‘Nothing important.’
That isn’t true either.
He regarded the hall and its offshoot annexes. ‘Which way?’
Savage led him further on until at the furthest end of the hall they stood before a large executive office, its door firmly shut. The panes of glass either side of it were frosted opaque. The name upon the door read: ‘Eugene Dybbuk’. He had an office?
‘I thought we could conduct our business in here, with your permission.’
Perhaps in here he might find some answers. He tried the handle. Foolish. It required yet another code.
He could feel a host of eyes burning into him. Another test to show he really had returned to them?
He tried to relax and cleared his mind. On instinct he entered the first set of numbers he thought of.
The precision lock mechanism buried within the fine wood smoothly released the bolt.
‘In my condition you’re lucky I remembered that.’
Savage’s eyes lit up in satisfaction. ‘Not at all. You were never taught the combination. Like everything else, it’s encoded within every fibre of who you are. Even if you’re not aware of it, your memory function is intact and accessible.’
How do we use this to our advantage?
Savage handed him another cup. ‘I think you’ll find you still have a magazine in the top drawer if you need some assistance getting in the mood, so to speak. Take your time. I’ll wait right here.’
Gene tried the handle and swung the door open. Inside, he found Megaera waiting for him.
She was sat on the desk, her legs crossed, apparently delighted that Gene had made it this far. He didn’t believe her.
A magazine was laid out on the desk. Lazily Megaera flipped from page to page. Naked rounded women stared back from its leaves, their young agile bodies set in provocatively contorted positions. ‘You’re keeping yourself busy today, I see?’
She had been watching too. Gene closed the door behind him. ‘At least you don’t hide behind a camera.’
Megaera looked at the cup in Gene’s hand. ‘Oh, don’t stop your crude fumblings on my account.’
‘I doubt I’ll start on your account either.’ He set the cup firmly down on the desk next to her.
As he did so, he noticed the framed page of spidery handwriting that sat next to the computer screen. It sparked something. He picked it up to study, if only because it afforded him the opportunity to turn his back on her.
‘You’re always so obsessed with that picture.’
We are? It was an example of Darwin’s handwriting. While outlining his theory of evolution, Darwin had made a note to himself that his own handwriting looked remarkably like that of his grandfather, Erasmus. Was it chance that it appeared so similar? Or was it a trait? Even Darwin couldn’t decide.
‘Remember when I gave that to you?’
‘No.’
‘Your memories are still in flux. A pity. They will settle and come back to you. You said to me: genetically speaking Erasmus’ handwriting was an expression of his motor coordination skills. It was that aspect which he passed on to his grandson. You said: and who was to say that Erasmus’ handwriting didn’t look like his grandfather’s? You refused to believe it was genetic memory’. She laughed. ‘You were so funny.’
Then why did her laughter sound so hollow? It was as though she wore a shroud of bitter jealousy.
He set the picture back down. ‘Your mothering skills are astounding.’
‘What do you care?’
‘Why do you hate your son?’
‘I don’t hate him.’
‘But you don’t love him.’
‘I don’t think about him. He’s a lump of useless flesh. Do you get so attached to your experiments? What would be the point? He eats, he excretes, and he serves no useful purpose.’
Gene resisted the temptation to revel in judgement. Yes she was callous. But why was that? He probed further. ‘Much like his father?’
She rose to her feet coyly. ‘My, aren’t we clumsy with the bait? In any event,’ she said, ‘that would be too much of a compliment to his father.’
She ran her finger along the desk. ‘How are the voices treating you?’
Touché. ‘I don’t hear voices,’ he lied firmly. ‘I have memories.’
‘That’s the whole point of the process. In time your shadow personalities will coalesce until you feel whole again. You will be more than just the sum of your parts.’
‘But you won’t?’
That got to her. The simmering envy that she kept barely contained beneath the surface came rushing to the fore. She grabbed the picture from his desk and slung it at the wall. The glass shattered into a thousand jagged fragments.
‘I am not allowed to be! Despite everything, despite all the complications that you’ve caused, our glorious father has decided that you will be the next Athanatos. Despite all my work on our elusive CREB Linked Hypothesis—’
CREB? Gene thought quickly. The CREB1 gene was on chromosome two. What does it do? Memory, one of its functions had something to do with memory. He’d have to refresh his own when she was gone. ‘Despite my progress in locating your clock, you get the glory. You get to go on.’
There were tears in her eyes, large and filled with genuine frustration. This had eaten away at her for so long it was as though there was nothing left.
‘My hard work, for nothing; all for want of a Y.’
What was it about the essence of the male that reduced her to this? Gene made no move to comfort her. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. She reached for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes.
‘And there you are the eternal liability. You may very well languish in jail for what you’ve done. You’ve jeopardized everything. And still he chooses you.’
‘Savage isn’t certain of that.’
She treated his comment with derision. ‘Savage is not in charge here. He’s a dreamer, and not a particularly good one. He’s quite the runt of the litter.’
She tossed her copper hair back over her shoulders and regarded the broken glass on the floor bleakly. She grabbed the wastepaper basket and began cleaning up her own mess.
‘You will be the next Athanatos. It’s been decided, so I’m here to pay tribute and pledge my allegiance to the king.’
Gene was suspicious. Like a creeping hand that sought to guide him merrily to his downfall he watched her collect the glass and knew that her motives, as ever, were not pure.
He had been outmanoeuvred before. Outmanoeuvred and rendered impotent. The memories of it were a scar that even the process couldn’t remove. The duplicity at the heart of Athanatos’s scheme made him ill. Enough of these games. ‘What are you planning?’
She threw the pieces of glass forcefully into the trash, not content with their fractured nature, she wanted carnage. She sliced her finger open. Spots of glistening crimson dripped on to the discarded white paper below.
