The Miracle Strain (43 page)

Jasmine was about to ask Tom why they were all here, when she suddenly registered the thirteen places set around the table. The place at the head of the table had just a pad and pen laid out in front of it, but the other twelve had a pad, a pen, and two other items that made Jasmine finally understand Tom's plan. She gasped and felt a rush of blood to her head when she took in the single syringe and glass vial of serum laid out neatly by each place setting. If she looked closely at the vials, she could just make out the handwritten labels bearing what appeared to be the name of each intended recipient.

"So," she said eventually, trying to keep her voice steady, not sure how she felt, "this is what you've been doing for the last three weeks? Flying around the world recruiting your twelve apostles."

Tom smiled at that. "I prefer to see them more as a jury than apostles. A jury to help decide what we should do with this socalled miracle strain. The twelve are spread around the world. Most are doctors or nurses. But not all of them. The only common bond they all share is that I respect and trust each and every one of them, and their motives."

Tom paused and took Jasmine by the arm, leading her toward the doorway. "The way I see it is that the twelve should meet at regular intervals to keep track of how much good--or harm--we think we're doing. Then, if it's appropriate, we either make more serum and recruit more like--minded members, or keep the number to only twelve, replacing members as they die. And of course if it proves a disaster, we can simply abandon the whole scheme. This way we can at least control the effect the genes might have. Do good without tempting evil, if you like."

They were now by the doorway and Jasmine felt dazed, not sure why she was here. As they entered, all the people looked toward them and smiled, then quickly made their way to stand near the place with their labeled vial.

Jasmine tugged on his sleeve and whispered, "Tom, you've shown me your plan. I don't need to be here anymore."

His big blue eyes opened wide in surprise; then they creased into an incredulous smile.

"I thought it was understood," he said. "The Nazareth genes are as much yours as anybody's." Then he gestured to the one remaining free place, on the right-hand side of his own.

Jasmine turned, and there by the hypodermic was a small glass vial. On the label she could read a name written in Tom's scrawl; it was her name: Dr. Jasmine Washington.

But before she could register the implications of possessing the genes herself, she saw Tom turn to address the others, all still standing by their places.

"Welcome," he said, "and thank you for coming. Before I continue I suggest you all sit down. There's something rather important I want to ask you..."

EPILOGUE:

:

Three months later

The tall man dismounted stiffly from his horse. He was not a natural rider, but a horse was useful to get to this remote place. He could have used a helicopter; he had access to almost limitless amounts of money. The numbered accounts in the Geneva banks had shown him that. But he needed to search the area discreetly, and a horse offered him the required flexibility and anonymity.

He checked the ancient map--something he had also found in the bank vaults, just as his Leader had told him--and studied the five rocks rising steeply out of the desert sand. The place was deserted in the merciless sun except for the four men digging into the face of the middle rock, their pickaxes falling in rhythm on the hard surface. They had been working there under his instruction for the last two hours, but had so far found nothing.

He had studied the map intensely from every angle, riding around the rocks, comparing their configuration in reality with their counterparts on parchment. The symbol on the map was in exactly the same spot, relative to the real rocks, as the place the men were now digging. It had to be the right place. Admittedly the entrance had been unused for over a thousand years, but it should still be there and it should still be serviceable--if the ancient engineers had been correct in their calculations.

He lifted the broad-brimmed Panama from his head and wiped the sweat from his bald head, before replacing it. Blinking through his thick round glasses, he walked toward the men.

Suddenly one of them stood and shouted something he couldn't quite hear. The man, naked to the waist, lifted his pickax high in the air and beckoned to him.

He broke into a run and hurried across the baking sand. "What have you found?" he asked when he eventually reached them.

The stocky man who had wielded the pickax pointed into the hole they had dug. "Father Helix, look!"

Helix looked into the hole and his heart beat faster. There was the unmistakable square shape of a stone lintel; a small doorway. Grabbing one of the men's pickaxes, he stepped into the hole and began to chip away at the rock covering the lintel. But it wasn't rock, only clay, designed to disguise the opening. After a few feverish blows he revealed the four-foot-tall doorway to the tunnel.

"A flashlight! A flashlight!" he demanded. The Brother with a curly, dust-covered black beard stood by an ill-tempered camel, laden down with panniers of equipment. He pulled out three large Maglites. Helix grabbed one of them and started into the opening.

Ahead, in the beam of the Maglite, he could see what was effectively a steep ramp. It dropped at a forty-five-degree angle, with large ridges of rock carved into the floor like vicious, toothshaped steps. There was no handrail to steady him, but every ten yards or so the ramp turned back on itself so if he did fall he would be stopped by the turn. However, he had no intention of falling onto the jagged rocks underfoot.

"Be careful!" he called back to the two men following. "I don't want any of you falling on me."

The air was stale and the incline made his thighs ache, but he was so focused on his descent that he ignored the discomfort.

Ten steps. Turn. Ten steps. Turn.

He tried to count the number of turns to temper his mounting excitement, but lost track after forty. Just as he was beginning to despair of ever reaching the bottom he saw something below him. He felt a tightness in his throat and turned off the flashlight. He could still see it, even this deep down in the rock. The light that twinkled like a beacon in the stygian darkness was unmistakable through the crack in the wall, and its white brilliance told him he wasn't too late.

With new energy rushing to his tired muscles, he switched on his flashlight and hurried down the last ten-yard ramp till he was in a small space, four foot by four. Straight ahead was a stone door, beside it a heavy wooden lever. The lever was unnecessary, because the door had been riven from top to bottom, leaving a gap through which he could just squeeze. Beyond the door he could see the pure white flame burning even more fiercely than he remembered it.

Helix paused then, waiting for the two men gasping with wonder and exertion behind him to arrive. "Stay here!" he said. "When I've checked inside, I'll call you." Then, ignoring the disappointment on their faces, he pushed through the gap. As he entered the Vault of Remembrance he almost stepped into an ugly crack, six inches wide, that ran all the way across the floor. The Sacred Flame issued from the other end of this fissure, illuminating a pile of charred remains that sat in the doorway between the vault and the far antechamber. Helix knew that beyond that antechamber lay the remains of the Sacred Cavern where the sacred light had originally burned. He again thanked God for his deliverance when he remembered how he had escaped in the confusion of the cavern's destruction.

To his right was the covered recess containing the golden tabernacle and relics of Christ. The secret door he had just come through had looked indistinguishable from the wall when he had last been in the vault. Was it only four months ago that he had been here to collect the ritual oils and herbs with which to anoint Maria's body?

He looked around the vault. The rope ladder was gone; only a charred trail of black marked where it had been. But aside from the blackened ceiling and the remains in the far doorway, there was remarkably little damage. None of the artifacts on either side of the fissure had been harmed. Only the mighty sword appeared to have been touched by what had happened here. For some reason it was lying on the floor in the middle of the vault, its blade severed at the very point it crossed the fissure.

With hesitant steps he moved toward the burnt remains by the far door. He soon realized it was a man, and when he saw the ruby ring on one of the clenched black fingers he knew who it must be.

Grimacing, he bent down and removed the ring of leadership, rubbing it on his shirt. After removing most of the soot he stared with wonder at the blood--red gemstone, its inner fire glowing like embers. The cross--shaped mounting of white gold had been superficially blackened, but was otherwise undamaged. With trembling hands he placed the ring on his own finger and was gratified when it fit perfectly. A rush of emotion suddenly welled up inside him.

When he had become Champion of the Primary Imperative, he had been briefed on succeeding Ezekiel De La Croix. He had been shown all the mechanisms of leadership: the Brotherhood's numbered accounts, the security boxes containing the ancient maps, the roll call of members, and the original documentation of the rules and objectives of the Brotherhood. But with the chaos four months ago he hadn't really felt that his succession had been legitimized, not until this simple act of placing the ruby ring on his finger. This digital coronation symbolized the passing of the mantle of leadership to him, and brought home the full impact of the duty and honor that now rested with him. He removed his thick glasses and rubbed the dusty sleeve of his cotton robe across his eyes before he realized they were filled with tears.

Composing himself, he started to straighten up, preparing to usher in the two Brothers waiting patiently beyond the fractured door. Then he noticed the smaller pile of ash next to Ezekiel's charred body, and an inch square of white cloth beside it.

His mouth went dry.

He had been so engrossed in the ring and his leadership of the Brotherhood of the Second Coming that he had momentarily forgotten the very purpose of that high office. Kneeling on the stone floor, he studied the pile of ash. Composed of black planes and contours, it looked like unraveled folds of charred fabric. He touched it and the pile collapsed into dust, all semblance of structure lost. Then he picked up the inch square of white cloth, one edge browned by flame. With exaggerated calmness he slowly brought the fabric to his nose. It smelled predominantly of smoke, but he immediately recognized another smell: the cloying aroma of the ritual herbs and oils.

This square of cloth was all that remained of the shroud he himself had helped prepare four months ago.

But as for the body that had been wrapped in it, there was no sign.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Although this novel is set in an alternative reality, much of the technology is already possible.

Gene therapy has been around for years, as has the Human Genome Project, which was completed on April 14, 2003 (exactly fifty years after the structure of DNA was first discovered in Cambridge, England), mapping each and every gene that specifies a human being.

Tom Carter's Genescope is a product of my imagination, but similar sequencing machines were instrumental in decoding the human genome. Even as I write this, DNA sequencers are being used to predict certain patients' cancers and likely lifespan.

Similarly, Jasmine Washington's Gene Genie software is an extension of what is already being developed in the United States by law enforcement agencies--the physical depiction of subjects from their DNA.

Science is moving ahead at such a pace that throughout my research I found the most taxing questions rarely related to the future at all, but to the past.

Two questions in particular still keep me wondering:

Could a genuine biological relic of Christ be found today? And if so, what might it reveal?

---Michael CordyLondon, April 2004

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Giving up a good job to write a first novel, just because you have an idea in your head that won't go away, isn't easy. Especially when you haven't a clue what the process entails. I was lucky because I have a wife of unusual courage and belief, who has been a genuine partner throughout the venture. Apart from offering financial and emotional support, Jenny stiffened my resolve to resign and initiated much of the early re search, finding relevant magazine articles and key books, such as Perilous Knowledge by Tom Wilkie and

The Transformed Cell by Steven A. Rosenberg, M. D., Ph. D.

Jenny was also my first reader, editor, and story consultant. Together we learned what did and didn't work. My harshest critic and most fanatical supporter, she was forever giving me ideas on how characters such as the Preacher could be improved, and the plot tightened. I am not being over dramatic when I say that this book would not have been written without her.

My other major thank-you is to my parents, Betty and John Cordy, who encouraged me from the start.

Particularly my mother, who provided invaluable feedback on the novel throughout the process.

For checking and correcting my understanding of genetics, I am grateful to Susan Robinson, who gener ously gave of her time while studying for her Ph. D. in