Celerity, p.21
CELERITY, page 21
Please proceed to the BSL three lab, the woman said.
A door opened, and I stepped through it. Behind me, the room I just left, filled with some type of gas pumped out at high pressure.
The lab room was over one hundred feet long. Above me, hoses to feed oxygen to the workers extended from the ceiling. Along the wall, several biosafety cabinets. I am thinking, that’s where they store the pathogens.
Several sinks hung from the wall. Dangling from the ceiling were two large hoses with nozzles on the ends, I guessed to spray somebody down in an emergency. I heard a rumbling from the ceiling, like a machine starting up, and the hoses vibrated, like they were filling with something. Then the rumbling and vibrating stopped.
Uh, okay, don’t spray me with any of whatever’s in those things.
In the corner of the lab were three stainless steel autoclaves that looked like refrigerators with windows. Beside them, pass-through boxes used to move samples in and out of the cell culture room, I’m guessing. In the center of the lab were two twelve-foot steel work surfaces on legs.
A door was marked Negative Pressure Room. I heard the hum of the air generator filtering the air.
Please proceed to sealed room A, the English chick said.
Where the fuck is that?
To your right, ma’am.
I spotted the door marked Seal Room A, opened it, and stepped in, thinking the lab rat would be waiting for me. The room was twelve-by-twelve with a steel table, two chairs, a toilet, and a bed. A steel bed with nothing on it.
What the fuck? I said as I turned to exit.
The door slid shut.
Hello, Celerity, the lab rat said from a monitor on the wall. He was sitting in an office, no biohazard suit. Welcome. I’m just on the floor above you.
What have you exposed me to in this place? I said.
Exposed you to? Nothing. There are no pathogens in BSL 3 today.
Nothing? Then why did you have me put this shit on?
No pathogens except you. We put you in the scrub suit to protect us from you.
Celerity File 25
I couldn’t get the goddamn scrub suit off fast enough. I wadded it up in a ball and threw it at the monitor. I pulled on the door; it might as well been welded shut.
Fuck, I screamed. Fuck you.
Calm down, Celerity. We’re not going to hurt you, a booming voice said like it was coming from the heavens.
I looked up. No lab rat.
Another man.
I recognized him from the news, the biotechnologist billionaire. I studied his DNA sequencing and cloning work in a biology class at UCLA.
Let me out of here, I said.
The small vent on the wall to your right. We are running tests on your breath.
The BioMan touched the screen in front of him, and my view changed to nine windows of metrics running, then the view flipped back to the BioMan.
What, you think I have a pathogen?
We both know that to be true.
You think it might be airborne?
It’s not what one thinks, is it? You studied the sciences, as did your father. It is what we observe and test, yes? Your exhale is normal. For now. I want to congratulate you on doing what I have devoted my whole life to, but did not accomplish. I have so many questions for you.
I stared at this fucker. So, what? You wanna clone me?
Clone? Oh no. Cloning is a tangential endeavor of mine.
Tangential?
Yes. My focus, all behind the scenes mind you, is creating a high-performance human lifespan.
High performance?
In your case, the highest. At least in one narrow domain.
The door opened. I walked back into the main lab.
The BioMan appeared on another monitor. Are you hungry or thirsty? he said.
Neither, I said, which was a lie.
A door opened to another lab room, smaller than the main lab. In the center, a dining table, which did not fit the sterile surroundings. Also a leather chair, a plate of food, a glass, and a goblet. The glass appeared to be filled with water. The goblet I could not tell. I walked in.
The door closed behind me. I examined the plate of food. Filet mignon with some type of mushroom sauce on top, asparagus, a baked potato. On a side dish, butter, and sour cream. Silverware and a white cloth napkin were laid out next to the plates. I picked up the goblet. I smelled it.
It’s a 2013 Harlan Estate. One of my favorite napa cabs.
If he wanted to drug me, he coulda blown gas into the sealed room. I took a sip. Full-bodied, with notes of chocolate, berry, and palo santo, I said.
The BioMan laughed. I agree, many wine critics are self-absorbed con artists. I either like it, or I don’t. Please have a seat. The filet is medium-rare. I hope that is acceptable.
I sat down. What do you want with me? I said.
I want to earn your trust.
By kidnapping me?
Let’s change the context to being a guest in my home for a short time, shall we?
The lab room shook. I heard a metallic sound, like machinery. Then I felt movement. Movement like the lab was moving latterly. What’s happening?, I said. I heard the sound of a diesel engine.
Change of venue. Please sit back, enjoy your lunch. I will see you in a few minutes. Oh, you are not airborne. The monitor went dark.
The lab was moving, and I assumed I was in an eighteen-wheeler. I stood, walked to both doors, tried the handles, no luck. I sat back down. My mind raced—What does BioMan want with me? Was he working with the agent? Blackmail? No, I discounted that. The guy is a billionaire, doesn’t need my ill-gotten gains. I drank the wine. Jesus, I thought. This wine is incredible. I’m the lab rat now. Again. The rat in the lab. The rat awaiting the experiments. Drinking wine that costs who knows what a glass.
I made the wrong chess move coming here
And just lost my queen.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, the motion stopped. I heard the machine sounds again, then the diesel engine shut off with clank and a rattle. I took a last bite of steak and stood. I heard motion at the far door. It slid open.
I walked to the doorway. Before me was what looked like another bio lab anteroom. All stainless steel, sinks, shower, breathing tubes from the ceiling. I walked forward and the door closed behind me.
Welcome, Celerity, the British chick said, same voice from the infectious disease lab.
Where am I? I said.
Please proceed.
The far door opened. I continued and entered a laboratory area. This was not a BioSafety Level 3 Facility. Maybe a Level 2. It was several dozen feet long and outfitted with computers and worktables. On the other side, a double door. It opened. I walked across the lab and through the door. A long hallway.
At the end of the hallway, an elevator. It opened. I thought for a moment, exhaled, then stepped in. It started to move. I felt I was going down, but wasn’t certain.
The elevator door opened to a space I would describe as a reception area for a high-tech company, a well-funded one. Artwork, modern. Is that an original Miro? A Basquiat. Leather furniture, mixed with antiques. Sculptures. A dozen tropical plants, above them individual lighting. Very California niche billionairesque.
There was no receptionist behind the desk. I walked over to it anyway. A door on the far side swung open and revealed a foyer with hallways branching off in six directions.
Please bear to your right, the chick said.
I’m in the wolf’s lair. Guess just see how this plays out. The hallway expanded to another foyer-type area. Around me more artwork. This place looks like the Guggenheim. I have never been to the Guggenheim, but this is what I imagine it to look like. Or maybe MOCA, the Museum of Contemporary Art, the one in LA, which I haven’t been to either.
Another set of double doors opened, and I saw a room, no, not a room, an expanse. An expanse with fifty-foot ceilings. The room was not a rectangle, more of a pentagon. Two of the walls, at least a hundred feet long, had floor to ceiling exotic wood shelves filled with books. Many appeared to be antiquarian books. Two walls, more artwork. One wall a series of aquariums. Tropical fish, freshwater fish, small sharks.
There were several tables throughout the space, old wooden tables. Some with books, others with sculptures, others with artifacts. An antique chess table with the pieces in positions of an ongoing game.
Three-quarters of the way across the room, a fifteen-foot desk, also old wood.
Behind the desk stood the bio man, smiling.
He looked younger in person. Better. For a moment, I thought doable. Focus Celerity, this is serious shit.
Welcome to my home.
Where are we, Crab Key?
The BioMan laughed. He walked over to a living room setting and gestured for me to sit. I paused, then sat. He sat across from me.
Your NFL people have been racking their brains trying to figure out what PED you have been doping with, one that they can’t find. You must be laughing at them.
I never took steroids or growth hormones, I said.
That would be too predictably common.
He paused for a moment, looking me over like he just discovered a Jackson Pollock in a garage sale.
The insatiable desire to be unique or the fear of mediocrity?
I didn’t know how to answer that. He watched me fidget. Damn it, I’m fidgeting. So, you’ve studied my blood sample?
Let’s just say that there is no record of any human having blood chemistry like hers. You’re the index case.
Index of what?
You are the first genetically modified high-performance human. Your cell structure has been altered.
Huh-uh. I played poker.
The actin and myosin protein filaments of your skeletal muscle fibers have mutated, in the fast-twitch fibers. The chemical reactions that produce adenosine triphosphate, at this point only my theory, have been modified at the molecular level.
Shit, this guy knows way more about me than I do. Something is telling me there’s nothing this guy doesn’t know. So, I said something stupid without really thinking about it. I guess I missed that course in freshman pre-med.
He laughed. You could teach the course at the PhD level, my dear. The mystery is how you did it. I’m dying to know.
He knows. He already knows, and he’s playing with me.
A stare down contest, my expression unchanging.
You seem like a well-balanced young woman. Have you noticed unintended side effects?
I’m fine.
Any moments of rage?
Fuck, he knows.
Rage? Yeah. When I was locked up in a sealed room with a goddamm scrub suit on.
You handled that pretty well in my view. Do you want to hurt me for doing it?
I can, you know.
Oh, I know. But, I want you to trust me. I want to show you something.
The BioMan swiped something on his desk, and a display panel on the side of the desk lit up. He turned it so I could see it. It was a video of two white rats in a glass cage enclosure. In the center of the cage were two mini Ferris wheels. One rat jumped on the wheel and started to run, fast.
We timed this little guy’s kinesthetic movements. Could not find a record of a rat running this fast.
And let me guess, you injected him with my blood? He nodded.
But watch. Watch the side effect of your, shall we say, your enhancement of our rat friend here.
He fast-forwarded the video, then stopped it. The rat jumped off the wheel and onto the other rat, biting it, clutching the bottom of its throat. The aggressor rat, with one rip, tore its victim’s throat open and blood spurted onto the glass walls. After thirty seconds, the victim rat stopped moving. The aggressor rat took a sip of water, then jumped on the wheel again.
I can’t remember if I moved. I probably jerked backward and held my breath, blinked a lot—don’t remember. Then I said, What do you want?
I want to help you.
Why should I trust you?
You’re making some very powerful people look silly. These people are all about control, and when they feel they’re losing it, they get desperate.
I’m making them a lot of money.
You’re making a select few of them a lot of money.
I don’t trust you.
I know. What would it take for me to build that trust?
I thought about that for a moment. Let me go.
Of course. You can go. I will have my people drive you back to your car, should that be your desire.
I can go, just like that?
The BioMan slid a business card across his desk. I picked it up. On it, just a phone number.
Yes. As I said, I want to help you. When you want it.
I looked around wondering if this was like the let’s take a ride deal in the gangster movies. He saw my thinking. Or was reading my mind.
It’s nothing like that, I assure you. Before you go, may I ask you a question?
Maybe.
Tell me about The Darién.
Celerity File 26
Tell me about the Darién, he said.
Can I bullshit this guy? I’ve been trying. Kinda. This guy must have an I.Q. north of 180. If they were still doing the I.Q. test, which they’re not, but his would be in the Stephen Hawking zone. Whatever, he’s smarter than me. He is seeing six moves ahead. Or sixteen. I’m trying to figure out what to do next.
Maybe my move is to confuse and delay, the Bobby Fischer Iceland thing. Tell him I need to think about it. Don’t like the venue. Let’s talk in a few days. Meet for a Starbucks instead, neutral ground. Take it slow, build rapport, some bullshit like that.
Then get the hell out of here. Which I was gonna do anyway. Before I’m found out. Before those coming to get me, get me.
His eyes were penetrating me, like a solar eclipse or staring into a laser. I’m so fucked.
The Darién? My father spent a lot of time there studying plants and whatnot, I told him.
Whatnot? Such an interesting word choice, he said, not blinking. Does this guy ever blink? Maybe he’s an android.
The etymology of the term whatnot is interesting. It’s used as a final item of an enumeration or anything else, various things besides. And my favorite one; whatever you like to call it. So, let’s examine the last one, whatever you like to call it.
Whatever, I said.
What do we call what he was doing besides, he used air quotes, studying plants?
What? I said.
How about discovering?
Yeah, sure. Discovering plants.
Discovering what about plants? Which plants?
Now this fucker was getting close. Or like, not close, like he already knew everything. The old cop trick, asking the perp questions they know the answer to, stringing your strands of lies into a hanging noose.
Which plants? I said like a dummy. Lots of plants, I said.
He didn’t move a finger, not a twitch of his nose. And an image of a full-grown Nepenthes Celerity plant appeared on the monitor. What? Is his mind controlling some central computer?
Shall we say this picture’s got your name on it? He laughed.
I did not.
Sorry for the cheap joke. May I see your forearms?
What? I wasn’t prepared for that. Except that I had on black long sleeves. What for?
Not the rashes. I know about the rashes. You could not hide them from every photograph the paparazzi took of you over the past few months. I am curious about something else.
What?
May I see? Before you go?
Here we go again. I need to stall. Make up some lame comeback. Get outta here and disappear. Without thinking about it, my left hand, on its own, like a separate organism, reached over and brushed my right forearm, a clear tell. Damn, I said immediately, silently, in my head.
The BioMan noticed.
Of course he fucking notices, dumb ass. It wasn’t exactly a smile, it was the slightest of minutest of tiniest facial muscle movements, his reaction to my tell. If we were playing Texas Hold-em, he just went all in, and I’m fucked.
Don’t you want to know about the rat?
* * *
I left without asking about the goddamn rat. Screw the rat. He let me walk right out of BioXanadu. I kept checking my six, he just smiled and waved. His guy drove me to my Range Rover. I kept an eye on the driver, both eyes on him while he drove, he drove and I thought.
There were two of my bodyguards on either side of you, forty-five-degree angles, positioned slightly to my rear. Their .226 caliber Reece rifles trained on a spot equivalent to the location of your center mass with a proper lead, because of your speed. I figured at least one of my guys would make a kill shot, but couldn’t be certain, of course. But, for the first index case, patient zero, as it were, sitting right in front of me? I had made a calculation to take the chance. One mitigating factor is that I already determined that you were not shedding virus. Truth be told, I never thought you’d try to kill me.
I imagined the BioMan saying that. He didn’t actually say that, but, while sitting across from him, the thought crossed my mind. He watched me scan the bookshelves, the walls, any place a rifle barrel could be hiding. I’m sure he found my paranoia assuming. Maybe scientifically interesting also, but certainly amusing.
Driving home, I was numbstruck, thunderstruck, dumbstruck. How… where was I careless? Did BioMan have me under surveillance? Was he paying the reporter? Did he send Adam Eric in? All the above? No, that was the agent. I think. Now I don’t know anything.
I was rushing through Los Angeles traffic at high speed, passing on the right, passing where there was room on the shoulder. My heart was battering my chest bones, low thud concussions hammering my core.
Then I asked myself, where was I going to so fast? There was nobody chasing me.
Or was there?
What about a helicopter? I bet BioMan has a fleet, an air force. Or maybe a drone. I started looking. Looking and weaving. I was doing the Ray Liotta thing from Goodfellas, except I am stone cold sober. Drivers were honking at me. They must think I’m drunk.
