No Time to Die (27 page)

I
njecting the mice embryos with gene silencers was like firing a gun at the start of a horse race—except the winner would be the first to die.

All of Natalie's colleagues on the aging team were crowded around the pregnant rats like spectators—Nina, James, Karen, Susan, Peter, Terrance, Richard, and Gina, as well as Helen, an honorary onlooker. Over the past arduous weeks, a kinship had formed among them devoid of the competitiveness so rampant in academia. In this lab, they shared the goal of advancing scientific knowledge about aging. Period.

If the elusive gene was silenced, the results would not take long to come in, perhaps a day at the most
.
No living organism, in their hypothesis, could grow without the biological instructions ordered by the master regulator gene that was embedded in all species since the beginning of life on Earth. By switching off its crucial green light in utero, embryonic development stopped short, and death would soon follow.

But if the green light stayed on throughout life, as it naturally did in every animal now, the gene's orders would continue unchecked, even after maturity was reached—eventually leading to the body's breakdown and death. The trick was to find the gene and silence it in young, healthy adults, so that the developmental progression known as aging could be stopped after it was no longer needed, but before it turned lethal.

Natalie wondered if anyone in history had ever been so eager for the death of a mouse embryo. Finding the gene would be no less than paradigm shifting—as consequential in the twenty-first century as Leeuwenhoek's discovery of microbes in the seventeenth, Mendel's laws of inheritance in the nineteenth, and Watson and Crick's DNA double helix in the twentieth.

Now all they could do was wait.

In the fantasies she would never admit, she enjoyed imagining Galileo's reaction to the victory that might be imminent. This project was their baby—the union of their life's missions. She liked to think that its success might motivate him to relinquish his painful past and commit to life in the present. All progress—all survival—required forward motion, but she understood that no doctor or scientist could speed up the healing of a human heart. In that most personal lab, the rules were reversed. Expert opinions meant nothing, persistence could spell failure, and letting go was sometimes the only path to discovery.

Her confusion over Zoe's behavior persisted. That sudden burst of criticism had come as a shock, and even though Natalie knew it wasn't fair, she still felt guilty for whatever she had done wrong. Zoe had turned utterly cold in the days since, so far from her normal self. She wore a permanent scowl and refused any attempts at reconciliation. She even avoided Theo. Whatever her private struggles, the message was clear—she wanted to be left alone.

The anticipation currently mounting in the lab—Nina's pacing, Helen's wide-eyed glances at the mice, the group's excited chatter—seemed wrong without Zoe there. She was holed up in her apartment for some reason Natalie couldn't understand. The Zoe she knew was as intent on conquering aging as any of them and would have been first in line to witness this experiment. Then again, teenagers were notoriously moody. If the breakthrough happened, hopefully she would come around. And maybe someday, so would Galileo.

 

 

One vial of blood—that could spell Les's retirement. He was sitting in his office, reeling from the call he'd just received from the head of a major drug company, one of a dozen just like it in the last few weeks. Zoe's DNA had sparked a gold rush as news of her existence rippled through the pharmaceutical world. The major companies were jostling to be the first to obtain a sample for their own private R&D, and the only way was to cut a deal with Les himself, the frontline of the investigation into her whereabouts.

One vial of blood, that was all they asked, in return for any price he named.

They didn't realize that Les was impervious to bribery. He slammed down the phone on one sniveling executive after the next, relishing his power as much as their defeat. If Zoe was the bubonic plague, these companies were like engines of biological warfare, vying for the opportunity to spread her syndrome to the masses.

Ever the more reason for him to get rid of her. When desperation combined with wealth on a grand scale, the unthinkable could happen. These ruthless men (and they were mostly men) would find a way to grab her DNA if Les didn't eliminate the possibility first—and eliminate the man who enabled it in the first place.

He grabbed his second cell phone and punched in a number he knew well. Illegally hacking into Julian Hernandez's e-mail account remained his top priority, the best chance at a solid lead, albeit one he couldn't share with his colleagues.

Cylon answered in his nasal monotone.

“Yo.”

“Yo, yourself,” he snapped. “Is it done yet?”

“I'm having . . . technical difficulties.”

“What does that mean?”

“Dude won't reply to my e-mails. I guess he's supercareful or something.”

“You hacked your way into goddamn Chase
bank
, Cylon
.
Find another way!”

“I will.”

He sounded hurt, but Les hung up before he could get in another word. The problems were piling up on his desk: newspaper editorials calling for his ouster as chief of the Bioethics Committee, memos from the FBI detailing dead-end leads from the national hotline, news magazines stoking fear over the Network's cult leader still at large.

He was about to call back Cylon to issue a new threat of urgency when the desk phone rang. “This is Les.”

“It's Bud.”

He leaned forward. Bud Pinter only called when he had news to report from the FBI's end of the investigation. “What's up?”

“A new sun postcard just arrived with Galileo's signature.”

“Where?”

“Get this—the office of the President's physician.”

“Oh my God. Bainer?”

“Yep.”

“Has he—disappeared?”

“I don't know any details. We just found out. Come quick.”

 

 

Three of the mouse embryos were dead. Natalie stared at the labels on their mothers' feet and compared them to the master chart of gene knockouts the team had prepared. Yes—she could hardly believe it—and each of these three, numbers T3, T6, and T7, had been injected with the same silencer.

It was 6:30
A.M.
She and Nina had remained in the lab all night, taking turns checking on the mice, while everyone else had dropped off to bed. Now Nina was asleep on the floor on a makeshift bed of sweaters, her lips parted in sleep, still wearing her white lab coat. Natalie rushed over and shook her.

“Nina! Wake up!”

“What is it?” she mumbled.

“They're dead! We have to do an autopsy right now!”

Nina bolted upright, zero to sixty in a second. Her dark brown eyes were bloodshot, but never more alert. “Did you just say—”

“Wait—before you get worked up—we have to determine what killed them.”

“Are you kidding?
Before
we get
worked up
?”

Natalie suppressed a smile. Her skeptical instincts made it hard to trust the first outcome of any experiment without thorough analysis and reproducible results, but it was nearly impossible to deny the weightless, heady feeling consuming her.

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” she said to herself as much as to Nina. “We have to focus. Get up.”

Together they raced back to the petri dishes, where Natalie had placed the blastocysts after surgically removing them from the mother mice. Now, the critical part was examining them to determine cause of death. Natalie wondered if Nina noticed her shaking hands as she slid the first specimen under her microscope to analyze its cell count. But Nina was already preparing the next one to view under her own microscope.

Normally a mouse embryo at this stage would have about 128 cells.

Inhaling a breath, she peered into the lens.

And forgot to breathe out.

Only a few dozen cells—that was all.

“Are you seeing what I'm seeing?” Nina asked. “This one looks stuck around thirty-two cells!”

“Same,” Natalie muttered in awe. She couldn't wrench her gaze away. “I've never seen a blastocyst this old—and this young at the same time.”

“We must have silenced the gene!”

“We'll have to repeat the experiment to be sure. We'll try the same knockout on ten mice, not just three. On twenty.”

“But, Natalie—just freaking admit it—this is huge!”

Natalie found herself pacing, thinking through the next steps—identify the genetic blocking sequence, then create a viral vector to administer it to healthy baby mice. If it made them stop developing, her hypothesis would be confirmed, and the experiment a success of phenomenal magnitude—aging not only demystified, but stifled by a human hand.

Nina stepped in front of her, beaming.

“Hey, slow down. Take this in.”

“We have so much still to do,” she protested. “The mice—”

“I've never seen anything like this,” Nina interrupted. “I think we found it.”

“Maybe.” She was finally grinning. “I can't wait to tell the team, and Galileo and Zoe and Theo—”

“And my father,” Nina said. “He will be so proud.”

Natalie thought longingly of her own parents, and how they would have rejoiced in her accomplishment if they could have lived long enough to see it.

“You're lucky to have him,” she said. “You know, he can take some credit for this, too. If it weren't for him helping us, we might not have made it here.”

“True.” The story of their near escape from the feds and Julian's heroism had become compound lore. “I'll tell him. We've been e-mailing, but I wish he could come here in person. Maybe if his back wasn't so bad.” She sighed. “He gave up everything to raise me in this country, alone, with no money, without even speaking the language. All I ever wanted was to make him proud.”

“You already have. He told us so himself.”

The door burst open. They both turned, about to revel in their announcement, but Natalie's mouth closed when she saw her son—panting, sweaty, and disheveled. In his eyes was a look of horror.

Fear sliced through her as she dashed to his side.

“Honey, what's wrong?”

“It's Zoe,” he said. “She wasn't at breakfast so I just went to her room to check and . . . and . . . all her stuff is gone.”

T
he moment Zoe entered the tunnel and inhaled its dank, earthy odor, the reality struck her—
I am alone in the world.
She had never been alone before, not really and truly alone, with no one but herself to make all the decisions.

For a few seconds, she stood still, at once relishing her solitude and terrified of it. The passage was pitch-black, a shock to her eyes after stepping out of the glaring early morning light. Her exit had been seamless, weaving through little-used buildings and hallways to avoid detection. The ease of leaving almost astounded her. But no one had a reason to anticipate her departure. She had served her purpose. How long would it take before someone even noticed she was gone?

Her sagging backpack weighed on her as she trudged into the tunnel, traversing its uneven slopes. All she owned pressed down on her spine—two pairs of jeans, three shorts, eight shirts, six pairs of underwear and socks, a size 30AA bra, an iPod, her pill bottle, her toothbrush, and her wallet containing $500, which she'd brought from home but never opened, since there was no money on the compound. Anything people wanted to buy they ordered via aliases online for shipping to the nearest safe house, only a few blocks from the casino.

She wondered if she should go straight to that house for help getting back to New York. Was she still part of the Network's protection if she was leaving it? She felt guilty for ditching the place without saying good-bye to anyone, not to Theo or Natalie, not even to Galileo, who seemed like he did care about her. He would have arranged a way for her to get home without a problem. It's not as though she was being held hostage.

Another part of her felt that she had to go on her own terms. For the first time in her life, she had to assert her independence from everybody and everything. She had to figure out how to take care of herself like an adult. Bottom line, she wasn't going to wait around for some scientific breakthrough that might never happen—a breakthrough with questionable moral implications. She was going to force herself to grow up no matter what biology had to say about it.

She was going to find Gramps before it was too late.

At the thought of him, she broke into a jog. She kept one arm stretched out, awaiting the elevator that she was bound to run into on the other end. It was frightening to be effectively blind, not knowing what was right in front of her face. She slowed down, but not before bumping against a sharp rock jutting out from the wall as the path unexpectedly curved. She grabbed her shoulder with a cry. Now she'd get a nice big bruise. Galileo should have installed a few lights. Then again he knew every foot by heart, and who else had ever made this journey without him? A better question—why hadn't she thought to bring a flashlight?

Just as she was chiding herself for such a basic blunder, her outstretched hand smacked into something cold and metal. The elevator! She patted the side and found the button. It lit up in a circle of reassuring brightness. Real light—the real world—wasn't much farther away.

When the door opened, she stepped in. It looked like a freight elevator, with all-black walls and a silver floor. But she noticed there was no emergency call button. In fact, there were no buttons at all. Just four solid walls tucked into the solid earth. The ride to the top was slow and jerky. When she thought that she might never get out, she remembered how long the descent had taken, a full minute at least. She paced in small circles until at last the car stopped and the door screeched open to reveal a musty carpet smelling of cigarettes. A shimmering garden wouldn't have delighted her more. She leaped onto it, gulping a giant breath like a diver coming up for air.

Muffled sounds of the casino floated toward her—clinking coins, the clapping and whooping of men, electronic beeping noises.

She leaned against the wall, thinking back to the layout. After zigzagging around three or four turns, she'd be smack-dab in the center of the action. She'd need to march straight into the open to reach the door. That meant walking normally, head down, until she got outside. Then she'd head to the nearby safe house.

She remembered the address from the time Galileo had ordered her extra pills. She didn't know who owned the house, but she was sure she could talk her way into getting online and figuring out where to buy a phone. Then she'd map out her route back to New York, using whatever combination of trains and buses she could find. Gramps couldn't have wandered too far from home—where else would he go?

Maybe her worry was for nothing. Maybe he was staying at a hotel, ordering room service and watching old black-and-white movies, having the time of his life. Hopefully he wasn't lonely. As soon as she was on the bus or train, she'd start calling every Manhattan hotel she could think of until she found him. Once she got home safe and sound, she'd prove to her parents there was no reason to be mad at him, and they'd let him come back. It would all be fine.

She tucked her long hair into her shirt and wound her way around the hallway, putting on her best poker face. The beeping and chanting and clinking sounds got louder. People gambled this early in the morning? Who did that?

As she rounded the last corner, she learned the answer—obese cigar-smoking old men. She couldn't have felt more conspicuous on a courtroom stand. Yet nobody was looking in her direction. A bunch of them were standing around a craps table, chanting numbers at a bald guy who was shaking a pair of dice. After he threw them, a raucous cheer rose up from all sides and the dealer started to parcel out chips.

She knew what Gramps would whisper in her ear.
If there's a job to be done, just do it.
The time was now.

Holding her breath, she looked down and shuffled past the table toward the large door a few yards away.
Too fast, not so fast
. A tuft of uneven carpet tripped her up and she remembered to slow down.

That was when she heard a gruff voice call after her:

“Hey, is that the girl from the news?”

Shoot.

She couldn't help speeding up—the door was so close, she could almost reach out and grab the handle.

“Stop her!”

Heavy footsteps came up behind her and a hand clamped down on her bruised shoulder. She shrieked.

“Get off me!”

The man spun her around to face him. About ten gawkers gathered to watch her squirm. He had the slow eyes and hulking build of a gorilla. Keeping her in place with one fat hand was a cinch.

“What was her name again?” he asked the group.

“Zoe something?” someone suggested.

“Kincaid, I think,” another man volunteered. “Damn, she looks
just
like her.”

Gorilla refocused his gaze on her, exhaling sweet smoke into her face as he spoke. “Are you Zoe Kincaid?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Just let me
go
.”

“A little girl like you?” His grubby fingers dug into her shoulder. “Where's your parents?”

“I don't have to answer to you,” she retorted, and kicked him in the shin.

A few onlookers gasped. The man's lips parted, but before he could scold her, a menacing voice snarled at him from across the room—a voice so familiar that she froze.

“Get your hands off my daughter.”

Everyone turned to size up the approaching stranger, a formidable, hard-jawed man whose blue eyes were flashing with rage. Zoe didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

It was Galileo.

She wrenched herself free and raced into the shelter of his arms, pressing her face into his stomach. His shirt smelled of clean laundry, a welcome breath of freshness in the smoky casino. Apologetic voices chorused around them.

“Hey, man, we didn't mean any harm—”

“She looks like that kid—”

“The kidnapped one—”

“Didn't see you there—”

Galileo cut them off, the vibrations of his stern voice rumbling from his chest to her ear.

“I don't know who you're talking about, but
my
kid is not your concern.”

“Sorry. She just looked like she was running away.”

“With her backpack and all.”

Galileo's voice sharpened. “We're about to hike Pajarito Mountain, if you must know.” He leaned down to address her. “Now, sweetie, want to get a move on?”

“Yeah,” she said, “let's get out of here.”

Unsure which direction to go, she waited for his lead. He glared at the crowd, took her hand, and marched outside into the sweltering morning. When the door closed in their wake, she gazed up at him, awestruck.

“How did you—?”

“You crossed the sensor in the tunnel. It set off the alarm in the Brain.”

“Oh yeah.” She closed her eyes. “You told us about that. I forgot.”

“Where were you going? And if you wanted to leave, why didn't you tell me?”

“To find my grandfather. I wanted to do this one thing on my own. You've done everything else.”

“But it's not that easy. Especially not for you.”

“What's that supposed to mean? You think I'm some dumb kid, too?”

He shook his head with a concerned look that made her uneasy. “I should tell you something, but we first need to get out of here. I don't want any more trouble.”

She glanced back at the casino, crossing her arms. “I'm not going back in there. I'm not going back at all.”

“Before you decide, hear me out.” He tilted his head toward the parking lot, where the morning sunlight was glinting off a few scattered cars. “Let's go for a drive.”

She raised her eyebrows, but knew better than to be surprised by anything he said or did. “You're going to steal a car?”

He smiled. “What do you think I am, a criminal?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of shiny keys. When he clicked a black button, a silver Toyota Camry in the middle of the lot beeped twice.

“How did you think I come and go?”

She shrugged. In truth, she had never given it much thought.

Once they were in the car—black leather, clean as new—he revved the engine and maneuvered out of the lot onto the open road. The land around them was as barren as New York was crowded. Instead of people, dry shrubs stretched in every direction. Instead of buildings, jagged mountains pricked the blue sky.

“Is the thing you want to tell me about Gramps?” she blurted.

She couldn't stand suspense, especially if the news was bad.

He shook his head. “This is about you.” He turned to look at her, his face grim. “I didn't want to have to tell you this, but the guy who's in charge of rescuing you, the guy everyone thinks is the good guy—he . . .”

“He what?”

“He wants you dead.”

She was too shocked to respond. Too disarmed by the sudden vision of herself lifeless and limp in a coffin. Underground. Like the elevator in the tunnel, but forever. Forever meant long after anyone had ever heard of her, after the Earth stopped turning and the sun exploded and life went on somewhere else in the universe, she would
still
be dead. Just another piece of galactic debris.

“Because of—my condition?”

“Unfortunately, yes. There are drug companies right now fighting each other tooth and nail to make deals with him and try to get a piece of your DNA, if he ever tracks you down. But he thinks if they mass-produce some drug that mimics what you have, it will wreck the world with overpopulation.”

Like a plague,
she thought, staring out the windshield.
Theo drops me, Natalie uses me, Gramps is missing, and now I'm a danger to the whole freaking world.

Anguished words spilled out of her mouth, the admission of a worry almost too horrifying to voice. “What if he's right? Maybe we'd all be better off if I was dead.”

“You can't mean that.”

“I'm serious! What Natalie's doing back there might help science, but what about the outside?” She swept her arm toward the expanse of ruddy desert around them. “Here, in real life?”

“Think about this,” he said. “You take any past era in history, and propose that one day the Earth will sustain seven billion people. They'd never believe you. They'd think everyone would starve and die. And yet the industrial revolution proved that a growing population could thrive. In a scientific world, there's no limitation to how many people can live in it. We'd be able to cultivate it. Look at this empty desert! There are so many unused spaces, vast oceans, mountain ranges, other planets, if we can figure out how to live there. Time and again, people have created solutions to the most challenging problems and generated wealth in the process.”

She frowned. “Okay, so maybe more people could find a way to coexist. But that doesn't mean life would be better.”

“People aren't irrational. If they get to a point where there's too many, they'd adjust to have fewer offspring. You could offer the same argument against curing
any
disease that kills off a large number of people, but you won't find anyone against cancer research. You know why?”

“Because aging is natural,” she replied, thinking of her parents' view. “Aging is part of the cycle of life.”

“That's right. That's what people are taught. But just because something is
natural
doesn't necessarily make it desirable. Aging is natural just as living outside in the freezing cold or dying of an infection without antibiotics is natural. One great legacy of our species is the ability to shape nature to make our lives safer and happier. Aging is the leading cause of death in the civilized world, responsible for the equivalent of six Holocausts every year
.
But if science could stop it, if we could all stay young like you, think of the possibilities: Whatever values you have or want, there would be almost no limitation on your ability to go after them. You could have unlimited goals, multiple careers, travel everywhere, listen to all the world's music, and read a billion books, cherish countless years with your family across generations. Think of all the wisdom and joy to be gained. Time is the essential commodity of life—and you have it in spades, Zoe. The world is yours to win.”