VIABLE (2 page)

If only he had reacted then. He could have dropped back, let his friend take over. Mitchell would have known what to do. But instead he had frozen, precious seconds lost as, paralyzed with fear, he sat there, the stick dead in his hand. Mitchell’s voice, no longer calm now, shouting at him to break hard to the left. Rounds from Rudy’s cannon already tracing bright lines only feet from his wing tips.

Then Mitchell calling out that he was taking hits. He had watched, helpless, as the hydraulic brakes on the old ship deployed and suddenly Little Bitch was decelerating, shooting backwards towards the Russian jet just as the first shells started to tear into her fuselage. An instant later the canopy had flown off, the ejector seat turning over as it arced through the air. An explosion, bright even against the morning sun, as the Russian’s wingman had flown straight into the wreckage. Somehow Rudy had managed to avoid the disintegrating Sabre but his MiG was out of control, spinning towards the deck.

And then as soon as it had begun it was over, the skies quiet again, his ship the only one remaining. He had looked down to see a ’chute opening, already hundreds of feet below, beginning its slow descent to the ground. He felt his eyes burn, blinking back the tears as he remembered. That far inside enemy territory they hadn’t even bothered to mount a rescue. His stupidity had cost his friend dearly.

Well he may not be able to take back what he had done, but here was an opportunity to set the record straight. He would attend the ceremony, and he would walk right up to Rudy or whatever his goddamn name was and tell the Russian what he suspected the man already knew. He might have had more kills, but there was no way he had been the better pilot. The only reason he’d managed to knock Little Bitch out of the sky that day was because his friend had switched roles with his goddamn idiot of a wingman who had led them into a trap and then not known enough to get them out of it.

He sat back in his seat. There. That was it. That was exactly what he would say. When it came down to it there was no other way to put it, even if he’d had the inclination to sugarcoat it some, which he did not. He no longer cared if he caused a fuss, if he became an embarrassment to his country in this new era of
détente
, or whatever the hell they were calling it now. It wouldn’t change a thing, of course. His friend had still died half a century ago somewhere in North Korea and the Russian would still end up with his picture in the base’s Hall of Fame. But it was important to him that they understood how it had
really
been. After that they could do what they pleased.  

He looked up, wiping his eyes with the back of one liver-spotted hand. The kid who owned the crotch rocket was coming out of the Chevron, returning to his bike at the pump, his helmet in the crook of his elbow. He was still in the shade of the forecourt awning, his face obscured, but there was something in the easy way he walked that caught Rob Dylan’s attention. He watched as the young man strolled back to his bike, throwing one leg over before sitting astride the Yamaha in the sun. As he lifted the helmet over his head the old man caught a glimpse of his face.

The tub fell to the floor, half-melted chocolate ice cream oozing slowly into the Excursion’s beige carpets. Little Rob Junior began to laugh. For once he would not be the one getting in trouble for spilling food in the backseat. Today it was grandpa’s turn. Beside him Lucy May was looking from him to her mother and back again.

‘Mommy, is Grandpa Dylan alright?’

But he didn’t hear. He was pre-occupied with opening the back door, frantically tugging at the release, banging on the window, realizing too late that Brad had switched on the child locks as soon as the kids had climbed into the back. Lucille was turning around in her seat, asking what was wrong.

He ignored her, continuing to stare across the road at the gas station, his fingers still working the door handle. The young man on the bike paused for a second and turned to look directly at the Excursion, as if something there had caught his attention, although there was no way he could see him through the heavy tint on the windows, no way he could have heard him above the traffic. Now he saw him clearly, and there was no mistake. He called out his name, screaming at his son to let him out of the goddamn car.

Brad’s finger hovered over the switch that operated the child locks in the back, but Lucille’s hand batted it away. She fixed her husband with a stare, the one she reserved for those times when he needed to listen to her, and listen good. She didn’t know what had brought it on – maybe the heat, maybe the thoughts of the ceremony had brought back too many old memories, maybe he was just plain tired from the trip – but she was sure her father-in-law was having some sort of turn, and she certainly wasn’t going to let Brad release him onto a busy road in his current state. They had passed a hospital not five miles back on their way out of Montgomery. That was where they were going, right now, if he kept this up.

Brad complied, as he was apt to do on the rare occasions he got that look from his wife. His hand retreated from the switch. Lucille was right, something was wrong with the old man. He had never seen him this agitated.

‘Dad, what in the hell’s wrong?’

Across the road the young man stared at the Excursion for a moment longer before pulling the helmet down over his head, turning the key in the ignition. Rob Dylan ignored his son. There was no time to explain; already the bike was idling out of the forecourt of the Chevron. His fingers scrabbled for the switch that operated the electric windows, realizing too late that the child locks had disabled those too. And then the young man was flicking the visor on his helmet down, turning his attention to the highway. A gap in the traffic and the Yamaha accelerated smoothly away, merging with the stream of cars and trucks flowing south on 65. The old man shifted around in his seat, desperate to catch one last glimpse through the Excursion’s rear window but already it was gone.

2

Berkeley, California - October 2014

GHOST
TANGLES
;
hyper-phosphorylated tau protein, twisted into paired helical filaments. The silver stain showed clearly that the fibrillary material had become extraneuronal, that the host neurons were already dead. Morphological hallmarks of the disease in its final stages.

Alison Stone stood up from the microscope. It was already dark outside; once again she’d lost track of time. The last of her colleagues had left some time ago and she was alone. Which suited her fine; she liked it when the lab was quiet. She wasn’t hungry, but there was enough work to keep her here for a few hours yet and she knew she probably would be later. She could wait until she got home, but she wasn’t even sure there would be anything in the apartment’s tiny refrigerator. She checked her watch. If she hurried the cafeteria might still be open.

She grabbed her pass, swiped out, and took the stairs. As she walked through the lobby the security guard stood up from behind his desk.

‘Doctor Stone, you had a message from Professor Rutherford.’

Shit
. She had forgotten she was supposed to be having dinner with the dean. She had unplugged the phone in the lab so that she could concentrate and had forgotten all about him.

‘Thanks Ryan. When did he call?’

The security guard looked down at the post-it note where he had scribbled the messages.

‘Just after seven. Again at seven-thirty. And just before eight.’

Three calls. That wasn’t good.

‘Did he leave a message?’

‘Just for you to call him when you got out.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘I would have come get you but I’m not supposed to leave the desk. Besides, I know you don’t like to be disturbed when you’re working.’

‘Of course, Ryan. Thanks for taking the message. I’ll give him a call.’

‘You need the number? Professor Rutherford made me write it down each time.’ He held up the post-it note by way of proof.

‘Thanks, I got it.’

The security guard resumed his seat, blushing. He liked it when Doctor Stone smiled at him.

Her cell phone was back in the lab, also switched off. No doubt Rutherford would have left more messages for her there. For a moment she considered going back up to get it, but then decided against it, continuing out through the automatic doors. It had been another perfect early October afternoon and even though the sun had set the night air still felt warm, the late summer rasp of cicadas loud after the air-conditioned solitude of the lab.

At this time of night she’d need to go to Sproul to get something to eat. She hesitated for a moment outside the Life Sciences building, choosing left, the path through Eucalyptus Grove and Grinnell. It was slightly longer but she had the time. Berkeley was famous for its blue gums and the impossibly tall hardwoods with their thick, shaggy bark always lifted her spirits after time spent studying the disease. As she made her way towards them a young man stepped out of the darkness. For a split second as he moved into the pool of light cast by the lobby she could have sworn his eyes had shone, flashing luminescence in the darkness.

She froze.

Had she really seen that?

She quickly glanced around to check that Ryan was still sitting behind his desk in the lobby. But as she turned back to face the stranger whatever she thought she might have seen was gone. Of course it had just been a trick of the light, her eyes adjusting to the darkness after the harsh fluorescent strip lighting of the lab.  She felt foolish for having been so skittish. 

‘Doctor Stone?’

The accent was hard to place. Neutral, perhaps British, but with a slight twang. Not American, but maybe someone who had lived here a while. He was tall, lean but muscular. His hair was dark brown, almost black, thick but cropped short. He was wearing old jeans and a faded khaki t-shirt. His arms and face were tanned, and he gave the impression of someone who was used to more physical activity than an academic environment would typically provide. Her father had served a tour as a helicopter pilot in Vietnam and there was an old photo of him on the sideboard in her parents’ house, standing next to the open cargo door of a Huey in his baggy flight suit, squinting into the baking sun. She didn’t know why but for some reason he reminded her of that. He didn’t look like he belonged here, on campus.

But then this was California; she was still getting used to the fact that everyone seemed to have a tan. And many of the students at Berkeley were here on athletic scholarships, so finding someone that worked out among all the jocks really wasn’t that hard. As she looked more closely she could see he couldn’t be much more than nineteen or twenty. Only his eyes, which she now saw were the most incredible shade of green she thought she had ever seen, and the ease with which he carried himself seemed to suggest he might be older.

He held out his hand. Again, a bit unusual. He was respectful, but the deference that her students usually showed was missing; she felt like she was being addressed as an equal. His handshake was cool, the grip firm. She was certain now that she hadn’t noticed him around campus before. She would have remembered those eyes. She found herself wondering what combination of genes had resulted in their almost incandescent hue. She really had to get out more.

‘How can I help you?’

‘I’ve read some of your research and I have a couple of questions.’

‘Sure. Mind if we talk on the way to the cafeteria? I need to grab something before they close.’

‘Of course.’

He walked beside her among the trees. As they entered the grove the leafy canopy closed high above them.

‘It’s the article you wrote on cybrids.’

Alison’s heart sank. Not another one.

Stem cells possessed the ability to differentiate into almost all types of bodily tissue, a flexibility that was invaluable to medical research. But in humans and other mammals it was only early embryonic cells that exhibited that ultimate plasticity. And the status of the human embryo remained controversial. It was what had brought her to California, one of the few states where funding was still available for her work. Even in California human eggs remained in chronically short supply however, forcing a search for alternatives. Cybrids – cytoplasmic hybrid embryos – were created by transferring nuclei from human cells into animal eggs that had had almost all of their genetic information removed. A tiny jolt of electricity to encourage the egg to divide, and the resulting embryos could then be harvested for stem cells. But earlier that year a senator from Arkansas had proposed legislation banning the creation of such hybrid embryos, effectively criminalizing an entire branch of biomedical research.

And so she had written an article arguing that given its potential, the responsibility for the regulation of stem cell research was simply too important to be left to politicians, the majority of whom seemed at best ill-informed, at worst determined to frighten and confuse an already skeptical public. The article had stopped short of accusing the senator of what she suspected – that the Bill had been funded by one or more right-wing religious groups, determined to establish rights for embryos long denied to them by the U.S. Supreme Court since
Roe vs. Wade
.

She had not counted on the reaction her comments would generate. Hundreds of protesters had set up camp outside her lab the morning after the article had been published, and the dean had suggested that she continue her work from another campus until things died down. Thankfully after a few weeks the protests had fizzled out, although she still received the occasional piece of hate mail, most of it addressed to her office at the faculty. Those were easy to ignore. Occasionally something would arrive at her apartment, however. So far no-one had called in person, but it troubled her a little that they knew where she lived.

‘So what was your question?’

‘Mixing genetic material the way you do, it doesn’t concern you?’