Transhuman (21 page)

*   *   *

“
I
THINK I'M
getting better,” Angela was saying.

Tamara had to trudge along slowly beside the child; her long legs could easily outpace Angela in a few strides.

“I'm sure you are,” she said. “When we do your next workup tomorrow, we'll see how far you've come along.”

“Grandpa says I can send a CD to my mommy and dad.”

“You must miss them, I know.”

“I do miss them. But Grandpa says once I'm all better I'll go home and they'll be terrifically happy.”

“You bet they'll be.”

Angela fell silent for a few paces. The brick path they were following wound between two of the facility's buildings. As they passed the end of them, a chill damp wind sliced along the crosswalk. Tamara shivered, despite her heavy coat and the scarf she'd wrapped around her head.

Frowning, she said to Angela, “We'd better go back in now, Angie.”

“Okay.” Glumly.

This kind of weather isn't good for you, Tamara said to herself. Wet cold, the kind that cuts right through you. You can feel colder here at fifty degrees than you do in Massachusetts when it's near zero.

As they neared the door to their building, Angela turned her eyes upward toward Tamara and asked, “I'm not going to die, am I?”

Surprised, Tamara answered, “No, honey. You're going to live. You're going to get all well again.”

Angela said, “My grandpa won't let me die.”

Tamara smiled. “That's right, Angie. He won't let you die.”

She hoped it was true.

 

Bartram Laboratories

O
NCE ANGIE HAD
fallen asleep, Luke took Tamara down to the cafeteria for a late dinner. The place was practically empty; most of the staff had gone home, and half the cafeteria's counters had shut down for the night. They picked from what remained available: tomato soup, cold cuts, and cookies.

“We should have come down earlier,” Luke said, half apologetically, as they unloaded their trays onto one of the long, deserted tables.

“It's all right,” Tamara said. “I had a good lunch with Angie. Her appetite seems to be coming back.”

Before Luke could reply, he spotted Shannon at the cafeteria's entrance. She quickly scanned the nearly empty room, then made a beeline for their table.

“What are you doing here?” she asked as she sat beside Luke. “Why didn't you go to the executive dining room?”

Luke grinned ruefully. “I didn't think they'd let us in without you.”

“I waited for you,” Shannon said.

Tamara said, “We stayed with Angela until she fell asleep.”

As if she hadn't heard that, Shannon said, “I've been going over the results of your physical.”

“Am I ready for the Olympics?” he joked.

Totally serious, Shannon said, “Your muscle tone is like a fifty-year-old's. Your reflexes are very good, too.”

Luke nodded.

“Telomeres are longer than any seventy-five-year-old's I've ever seen,” Shannon went on. “And your dermal pliability is excellent.”

“Great. The fountain of youth is working.”

“It is,” said Shannon. “But…”

“But what?” Tamara challenged, her voice tense.

Shannon said, “PSA is elevated. Not a lot, but it's higher than normal range.”

Luke frowned. “My proctology exam was okay.”

“You have an enlarged prostate.”

“Yeah, but I've had that for years. It's normal at my age. No nodules, no sign of cancer.”

“Your blood test shows a PSA higher than normal,” Shannon repeated.

Tamara asked, “How much higher?”

“A few percent above the upper limit for normal.”

“Damn,” Luke muttered.

“The accelerators are affecting your prostate.”

“Not necessarily,” said Luke. “This might be normal for a man my age.”

“But you're not ‘your age,'” Shannon argued. “All the other indicators show your physical age is much less than your calendar age.”

“Tumors grow faster than normal cells,” Tamara said, almost as if to herself.

Shannon said, “Luke, you've got to stop the accelerators.”

“No,” he said.

Very patiently, Shannon said, “The accelerators are extending your telomeres, but they could also be causing tumor growth. You've got to stop the treatment.”

“Not yet.”

“Why not, for God's sake?”

With a glance at Tamara's apprehensive face, Luke said, “I don't want to be old again. I'm going to continue the therapy.”

“But the tumor growth!”

Luke clasped his hands together on the edge of the table, like a schoolboy. It was a technique he used to calm himself. Fold your hands like a good boy. Take a deep breath. Sit up straight.

At last he said, “The PSA results might be just a coincidence, nothing to do with the telomere accelerators. And my MRI didn't show any tumors, did it?”

“No,” Shannon admitted. “But I want you to have another MRI tomorrow. Specifically of the pelvic area.”

Luke grinned at her, sardonically. “Give me enough radiation to start tumors growing?”

“Don't be sarcastic!” Shannon snapped.

He nodded. “Okay. I'll take another MRI tomorrow. But I'm not stopping the accelerators. I want to see how young I can get.”

“It's dangerous,” Tamara said.

“Maybe. But you don't understand, do you? I want to find out what happens! I started this experiment and I want to see it through. I want to know how it works out.”

“Even if it kills you?”

“It's not going to kill me. Besides, finding out how it works is worth the risk. I've got to know! I'm going to keep on going until I do.”

Tamara shook her head. “Luke, you're doing the reverse of Angela's therapy. You've killed her tumors but made her age prematurely.”

Shannon jumped in. “While you're making yourself physically younger but growing tumors.”

“Maybe,” Luke said stubbornly. “Maybe not. We'll just have to wait and see.”

“You're being foolish,” Shannon insisted.

“No, I'm being curious,” Luke retorted. “That's what science is all about, isn't it? Curiosity.”

“Which killed the cat,” Tamara pointed out. “And a lot of people, too.”

 

Boston FBI Headquarters

H
IGHTOWER GOT INTO
the office before eight
A.M
. and immediately started running down the list he'd obtained from the university of Professor Abramson's graduate students over the past ten years.

He was looking for someone from Oregon. But he drew a blank. Not one of the grad students hailed from the so-called Beaver State. He ran the list through his computer sorting program again. Still no joy.

The office was quiet, nearly empty this early in the morning. The secretary he shared with two other agents wasn't in yet, so Hightower got up from his desk and went to the coffee urn that the housekeeping staff kept on the hot plate in the supply closet. Whichever staffer came in earliest made it his or her first duty to start the coffee perking.

The hot plate was technically a fire hazard, Hightower knew. The director had told the staff to find a safer place for it, but he never had followed through to see that his command was obeyed. As long as his personal assistant brought him steaming hot coffee when he wanted it, he didn't investigate where the stuff was brewed.

Got to call the university and get updates on where all those grad students are, Hightower told himself as he headed back to his office, his mug of coffee in one meaty hand. Checking his wristwatch, he saw that it was too early to expect the university's offices to be open. The early bird might get the worm, he thought, but most of the worms aren't up early enough to get caught.

He was surprised to see a lean, almost stringy man standing in front of the secretary's empty desk. The visitor's face was hard, his head shaved down to a silver-gray fuzz, and he was wearing a dark blue jacket buttoned over a sports shirt and lighter slacks. He's carrying a gun, Hightower realized.

The man turned as Hightower approached. “You're Hightower?” he asked, in a low, rasping voice.

Hightower nodded once. “You must be Novack. Come on into my office.”

Hightower was three times Novack's size, but he got the impression that the man could take care of himself in a brawl, despite his smaller stature. Hightower gestured to the chair in front of his desk as he went around and settled himself into his comfortable swivel chair.

“Quenton Fisk sent you,” Hightower said, without preamble.

“Yeah,” said Novack. “I told him you wouldn't be happy with a civilian at your elbow, but Fisk is the boss.”

“And you follow orders.”

“That's right.” Novack's expression said that he was no happier about the situation than Hightower himself was.

“So what can you do for me that I can't do for myself?” Hightower asked.

Novack broke into a bitter smile. “You don't mince words, do you?”

“Not when I don't have to. So what can you do for me?”

“The Fisk Foundation keeps close track of the people it's funding. Names, associates, meetings they've attended, research papers they've published, that sort of thing. That might be helpful.”

“I can get that kind of information with a couple of phone calls.”

“Yeah, but we already have it.”

Hightower made a little grunt. “Okay. I'd like to see what meetings Abramson's gone to, what papers he's published.”

“You've got it.”

Straight-faced, Hightower countered, “No, I don't got it. That's why I'm asking you for it.”

Novack grinned again, wider this time. “Point taken. I'll get the poop to you before the day is out.”

“Fine. Any idea on where Abramson's gone?”

Shifting slightly in his chair, Novack replied, “I had a conversation late yesterday with the pilot that flew him out of Baton Rouge. Fellow named Kleiner.”

“And?”

“Apparently he took a bribe from Abramson to keep his mouth shut.”

“And?” Hightower repeated.

“I convinced him that it would be better for his health if he told me where they'd flown.”

Hightower realized that one advantage Novack had over him was that he didn't have to follow the Justice Department rules of procedure on interrogating suspects.

“How rough did you have to get?”

Novack spread his hands, palms up. “Not rough at all. Just the suggestion worked fine. He flew Abramson to Portland, Oregon.”

So he knows as much as I know, Hightower thought. Does he know more?

“Why Portland?”

“He didn't know.”

“You're sure?”

Nodding, Novack said, “He was almost crapping in his pants. I'm sure.”

“So we need to see who Abramson knows that lives in Oregon,” said Hightower.

“Yep. Like I said, I can drop that info in your lap before the day is out.”

Hightower studied the man's hard-cast face. Looks like I've got a partner working with me, he told himself. He was not happy about it.

 

The White House

P
AUL ROSSOV'S OFFICE
was little more than a cramped cubicle in the basement of the West Wing. Surrounded by men and women who measured their prominence in the executive chain of command by the size and sumptuousness of their offices, Rossov was content with his trappings.

He remembered from history earlier men who had worked in the White House and achieved greatness. In particular he was fond of Averell Harriman, a man who served half a dozen Presidents and never worried about the size of his office or the title of his job description. As long as he had his President's ear he had power.

The important thing in this rat race, Rossov knew, was to have power. And power was found by being as close to the President of the United States as possible. And you got close to POTUS by accomplishing what she wanted done.

Rossov had convinced the President that Professor Luke Abramson was dangerous. Once convinced, the President had told Rossov to deal with the problem. She did not want to know how he dealt with it, only that the task had been accomplished. If things turned sour, her skirts would be clean. Rossov took the risks, and Rossov was determined to please her and reap the rewards.

He had the Treasury Department's bean counters worried that Abramson's work could destroy Social Security and Medicare. Good. He had the Justice Department's promise of using all their muscle to find Abramson. Even better.

The question now was what to do with Abramson once the FBI found him. Jail him for kidnapping? That would mean a trial and publicity. Too risky.

The man's a scientist, Rossov mused. Maybe he'd be content to continue his research in some top government facility—under our control, of course.

How to work that? How to make Abramson
want to
work for us? We'll have to keep his results secret, certainly. Can't release the news that old age could be countered, that elderly people could be made young again.

At the same time, though, we should allow Abramson to continue his research. The Treasury Secretary had hit the nail on the head: Just because Abramson's results can't be released to the general public doesn't mean that a few selected men and women should be deprived of eternal youth.

Eternal youth. Rossov leaned back in his desk chair and pondered the possibility.

That would put me very close to old POTUS. She'd want that, and I'd be the one who could give it to her.

And to myself, of course.

But how to get to Abramson? How to make him cooperate with us?

Rossov pulled up the Abramson file and spent a good part of the morning studying it. His phone rang and he ignored it. A fellow worker popped her head into his cubicle and he waved her off. What makes Abramson tick? he asked himself. And then it all suddenly clicked together.