Transhuman (12 page)

“… I'm feeling better, really I am,” Angela was saying to an image of her parents that Luke had put on the screen. “Grandpa says I'm coming along fine and maybe I'll be home with you before long.”

Standing beside the bed, Luke told himself for the hundredth time that a Skype message to Norrie and Del was safe enough. It wouldn't be traced. He'd arranged with Merriwether to have the message sent from an Internet café coffee bar in downtown Baton Rouge. That'd be safe enough, he tried to convince himself.

Tamara was sitting at the desk in the bedroom's far corner, going over the results of the newest round of X-rays and blood tests Angela had gone through earlier in the day.

Merriwether had been as good as his word. Angela's bedroom had been transformed into a clinical facility, with an IV stand and medical sensors stacked by the bedside.

Angela's message was interrupted by the growl of a diesel engine rumbling outside. Going to the window, Luke saw a semi-trailer rig pull up and huff to a stop in the driveway, its flank emblazoned with
BATON ROUGE MEDICAL CENTER
.

“What the hell is that?” he wondered aloud.

Angela pulled the bedcovers off and hurried to the window, her eyes wide with curiosity.

Tamara went to the window, too. “The portable MRI rig is here,” she announced. “Courtesy of Mr. Lorenzo Merriwether.”

“I'll be damned,” Luke muttered.

They quickly dressed Angela and led her downstairs, where a pair of medical technicians took her inside the trailer for the MRI scan of her brain.

Merriwether was standing by the door, grinning at them, when they brought Angela back inside the house.

“I didn't realize it'd be so big,” Luke admitted. “When you said ‘portable' I didn't understand that it needs a semi-trailer to haul it.”

“Main thing is it got here,” said Merriwether, jauntily, as the truck chugged noisily down the driveway.

That afternoon two uniformed nurses arrived with their equipment and helped Tamara give Angela a complete physical.

By the time Angela returned to her bed and Luke's laptop, her cheerful tone from earlier in the day had faded noticeably. “I wish I could be home for Christmas,” she said to her parents' image, “but Grandpa says I've got to stay here for the treatments he's giving me.” Brightening, she said, “For Christmas we're going to have turkey with all the trimmings! Grandpa said I can even have some pumpkin pie!”

The child prattled on for several more minutes, then ran out of words. She ended with, “Merry Christmas, Mommy and Daddy. I love you.”

Luke patted her shoulder. “That was very good, Angel. Wonderful. Your mom and dad will be very happy.”

“I wish they could call me, talk to me.”

“They will, honey. In a few days, you'll see.”

Luke took the DVD of Angela's Christmas message to Merriwether, who assured him all over again that it would be sent to Norrie and Del that evening without being traced back to Nottaway. He was taking a chance, he knew. The FBI might be able to trace it anyway, and if they did they'd come swooping down on them.

But I couldn't let Angie not talk to her parents on Christmas. That'd be inhuman.

He hoped his decision wouldn't boomerang on them.

Angela looked good, he thought. The telomerase inhibitors were starting to have an effect on her. Her hair seemed thinner than before, not quite as golden as he remembered it. But that might be just a subjective outlook, maybe some guilt feelings working inside his head.

He took the child's hand in his own and patted it tenderly. “You want to watch some TV now?”

“Can I play a game on your laptop, Grandpa?”

“Sure,” he said. “What would you like?”

It took half an hour of fiddling with the laptop before Luke finally acquired the computer game Angela wanted: something about a fairy princess in a castle.

Leaving his granddaughter leaning raptly toward the laptop screen, its glow lighting her face, Luke walked across the room to where Tamara was bent over the screen of her own laptop.

“How're you doing?” he asked.

Without looking up at him, Tamara murmured, “The MRI shows the tumors haven't progressed since her last scan.”

“That's good.”

“But her blood test shows an elevated blood pressure. That's not good.”

Luke leaned over her shoulder and peered at the graph on the screen. “High blood pressure,” he muttered.

Tamara turned toward him. “It doesn't necessarily mean anything. It's just an uptick in her pressure. But there's no obvious reason for it.” She got to her feet and stretched, catlike. “We'll take another look the day after tomorrow.”

“High blood pressure,” Luke repeated. One of the possible side effects of suppressing Angela's telomerase production was progeria, premature aging. Luke had seen victims of the condition back in Boston: six-year-olds who had atherosclerosis, cardiovascular problems, kidney failure. Preteen kids who looked like bald, wrinkled, dying old dwarves.

Tamara caught the expression on his face. “Luke, what is it?”

“HGPS.”

“Hutchinson-Gilford progeria syndrome.” Tamara looked shocked. “But it can't be! That's a genetic disorder. She doesn't—”

“One of the effects of suppressing telomerase production is that the somatic cells stop reproducing, as well as the tumor cells. That causes the symptoms of progeria.”

They both stared at Angela, busily tapping away at the laptop's keyboard. Luke thought the child's arms looked wrinkled. And her hair was definitely thinning.

Merry Christmas, he said to himself.

 

Christmas Day

“
M
ERRY CHRISTMAS!” LORENZO
Merriwether loudly proclaimed as he wheeled a shopping cart piled high with brightly wrapped gifts into Angela's room.

Merriwether wore a fire-engine red shirt, dark slacks, and an elf's fur-trimmed cap. His face radiated good cheer.

Sitting up in her bed, Angela clapped her hands with delighted surprise. Luke, who had been shaving in the next room, stuck his lathered face through the doorway to see what the commotion was all about.

As he rolled the cart up to Angela's bed, Merriwether explained smilingly, “Santa Claus came by last night and left all these gifts for you, Angela.”

Luke saw that Angela was beyond believing in Santa Claus, but she laughed as she got up on her knees and leaned into the shopping cart to start tearing open the wrappings.

By the time Luke finished his shave and pulled on a shirt, Tamara had come in from her room down the hall, wearing a forest green sheath decorated with Christmassy red jewelry. Angela was half-buried in torn gift paper, surrounded with digital games, a fully programmed smartphone, beautiful clothes, and a robotic fox terrier that was eagerly wagging its tail.

As Tamara began clearing away the wrappings, Luke said to Merriwether, “You didn't have to do that.”

With a dazzling smile, Merriwether replied, “I couldn't let the child have Christmas without any presents. And I knew you weren't going out to do any shopping. So…” He gestured toward Angela, who was aglow with pleasure.

“Thank you,” said Luke. “I owe you a lot.”

“Think nothing of it. As I told you before, any friend of Quenton Fisk's is a friend of mine.”

Luke started to say, “We're not exactly friends—”

“By the way, he's coming here. This afternoon.”

“Quenton Fisk?”

Merriwether nodded vigorously. “He'll be here in time for Christmas dinner. Says he wants to talk with you.”

*   *   *

F
ISK ARRIVED IN
a chauffeur-driven black sedan in midafternoon. He was wearing a navy blue blazer over gray slacks. No luggage. Not even a briefcase or a computer.

He bounded up the front steps of the mansion, where Merriwether and Luke stood to greet him, a small, intense man with a luxuriant crop of dark wavy hair and penetrating gray eyes who radiated energetic good health.

“Lonzo,” he said, with a big grin, as he took Merriwether's hand. Then, turning to Luke, “Professor Abramson,” less warmly.

Luke blurted, “What brings you down here on Christmas Day?”

Draping a hand on Luke's shoulder, Fisk replied, “You do, Professor. I've left my home and hearth to talk with you, face-to-face.”

“Really?” Luke felt impressed.

Fisk laughed brittlely. “Actually, Lonzo's more like family to me than any of my ex-wives.”

As they walked inside, Merriwether asked politely, “How was your flight, Quenton?”

“Uneventful, thank God. Even though we filed our flight plan at the last minute my pilot got into the Baton Rouge airport, despite all the little creeps buzzing around in their Cessnas.”

Luke realized that Fisk had come in his own private jet. Must be nice to have money, he thought. Come and go when you please, where you please.

Christmas dinner was festive, the five of them seated at one end of the long dining room table, by the ceiling-high windows that looked out on the Mississippi. The room was decked with bright green loops of ivy, tinsel dripping from the ornate crystal chandelier, and flickering candles in silver holders at the middle of the table.

Sitting between Luke and Tamara, Angela wilted noticeably as the various courses were served. Just before the pumpkin pie was served, she asked if she might be excused.

“I'm tired, Mr. Merriwether,” she said, her voice soft, weak.

“It's been a big day for you,” Merriwether said. “I hope you enjoyed it.”

“I did. I really did.”

Tamara took the child back to her room, and Merriwether promised to have a helping of the dessert sent up to her.

Luke watched them worriedly. He himself had eaten more than he had expected to. And drunk several glasses of the excellent Beaujolais that Merriwether's servants had poured generously. Now the three men sat together over the crumbs scattered across the tablecloth.

Without preamble, Fisk said, “I came here to get a few things straight with you, Professor.”

“Luke. Call me Luke.”

Fisk nodded briskly. Then, “I want you to sign a privacy agreement.”

Surprised, Luke asked, “Privacy agreement?”

“It's strictly routine,” Fisk said, with an impatient wave of his hand. “Since the Fisk Foundation is funding your research, you agree not to reveal details of your work to anyone outside the foundation.”

“You mean I can't publish?”

“In time, of course you can. Publish in any journal you like. But first we have to go through the legal process of establishing our proprietary claim. That takes some time, I'm afraid.”

Luke objected, “But the university—”

“The university has fired you, Professor. You're a fugitive from justice, a hunted man.”

“I've got tenure!”

Shaking his head, Fisk said, “Not anymore, you don't.”

“This FBI business is all a misunderstanding,” Luke said. “I didn't kidnap Angela, she—”

Waving his hand again, Fisk said, “My lawyers will straighten all that out for you. Once you've signed the agreement.”

Merriwether, sitting at the head of the table, had been swiveling back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match. Seeing the discomfort on Luke's face, he asked, “This is about your work on aging, Luke?”

“Life extension,” Fisk corrected.

“Oh.”

“We need to lock up our proprietary claims,” Fisk repeated.

Luke saw iron-hard resolve in Fisk's cold gray eyes. “I'm not sure my work is patentable,” he said.

“Let my lawyers be the judge of that,” said Fisk.

Merriwether seemed puzzled. “And now you're doing aging experiments on your granddaughter?”

“To cure her of cancer.”

Fisk tapped a manicured fingernail on the tabletop. “His work will make old people young again, and as a by-product it'll cure cancer! How's that for an investment?”

“It's very preliminary,” Luke cautioned. “I'm working on Angela because everybody else has given up on her.”

“But you believe you can cure her, don't you?” Fisk asked. The question was almost like an accusation.

“I think so. I hope so.”

Merriwether gave out a low whistle. “So that's why you're so interested in his work,” he said to Fisk.

With a tight nod, Fisk said, “Luke, I need you to sign the agreement. We'll take care of your legal problems, and you can treat the kid right here at Nottaway until she's either cured or she's dead.”

“If she dies,” Luke retorted, “then my research isn't worth much, is it?”

Fisk eyed him for a silent moment. Then, “If she dies you could be accused of murder. You'll need my lawyers more than ever, in that case.”

 

Statistical Analysis

T
HE WEEK BETWEEN
Christmas and New Year's is usually a slow time for businesses and government agencies. People take vacation time, or use their available sick-leave days to stay away from the office. Most schools are closed. Across the nation, almost everyone is in a holiday mood, partying and reuniting with families. Hardly anyone expects to be working during the final week of the year.

Hardly anyone.

Yolanda Petrone was surprised when her supervisor phoned her at home and asked her to come in for a meeting with the National Institutes of Health's budget committee.

“Budget committee?” she had asked, into the phone. “Why do you want me to talk with the budget committee?”

The voice on the other end sounded pained, irritated. “It's that report you sent in on Professor Abramson's work.”

Petrone felt her brows knit. The report was part of her normal year-end routine, a summary of the work that the Cancer Institute had been funding. In Luke's case, it was a final report, since the agency had canceled his funding.