THE GOD VIRUS
A NOVEL
By Gary J Byrnes
Smashwords Edition
THE GOD VIRUS - Book One of The Seventh Coming - First published in 2011.
Copyright 2011, Gary J Byrnes.
The right of Gary J Byrnes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright & Related Rights Act, 2000. All rights reserved.
In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author‘s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Print version available from all good online retailers.
@garyjbyrnes
THE GOD VIRUS
For Bernadette
Juvenile Sacoglossan sea slugs capture DNA from the algae that they eat. They hold on to some of the plant's genetic material and use it to perform photosynthesis internally, providing their own, self-contained power supply. They don't need to eat any more algae.
This horizontal DNA transfer (as opposed to vertical, from parent to offspring) is hugely significant as it explains how bacteria manage to outsmart antibiotics and may help explain how all life on Earth evolved from one single source.
Chapter 1: BROTHER BRUNO
Campo de' Fiori, Rome, 1600AD
Night came. She brought her lover, death. In the alleys surrounding the open field, throats were slit for a few coins or in drunken revenge, the dying dispatched under starlight.
The space - an historical site of executions, duels and murder since Roman times - was crowded now. Torches threw jumping shadows across ugly and distorted faces. Thieves circulated easily. Couples slipped towards quiet lanes for the quick, illicit embrace.
The gathering was anxious. Cursing. Simmering. Always the unspoken fear that they would be denied their entertainment. The fat bishop sensed the mob's impatience, at last got awkwardly to his feet. Self-important in heavy robes, he carried a jewelled crosier. His purse bulged with coins for the night of whoring and gambling that lay ahead. He was a master of the uncouth, had a deep understanding of peasant ways and needs, as well as the perversions of their masters. The confessional, this was the secret of Mother Church.
The bishop's street wisdom had levered him to the very head of the flock of Rome - God's holiest, God's chosen. He eyed the boiling crowd - perhaps a thousand souls in all - blessed himself in exaggerated motions. The crowd took the cue, mostly imitated his symbolic gesture. The coarse chattering fell to a steady hiss.
Bishop Peter cleared his throat, spat a gob of phlegm into the blackness. He raised his arms, staff aloft. That brought silence. Good. With the symbol of his God-given power, he indicated the sorry figure before him. The man was broken, the circulation gone from his limbs, his will taken.
'So, Brother Bruno. What is your answer? Do you recant your heretical ideas? Do you acknowledge that there is but one oasis of life in God's Universe? Do you accept that this planet, God's sole Eden, is at the centre of God's Universe?'
The bishop stood on a raised platform beside the pyre. He was at eye level with Bruno. A file of Inquisitors - white robes, pointed hoods, slits for eyes - surrounded the pile of dry sticks that had the mad monk at its peak. They kept the crowd in check, their masks generating fear, gleaming spears held tightly.
It was intimidation that maintained the power of the few, observed Bruno. He gazed at the unknowable, then raised his eyes to the unforgivable lie.
'Bishop Peter, my friend. In the name of all that is holy, look to the stars,' he gasped.
The Milky Way glowed fiercely across the night sky, a river of light. A billion suns shone weakly on the depressing scene. But the crowd focused on just one light: the torch in the Bishop's hand.
'You recanted quickly enough in the water chair,' hissed the bishop.
'See!' continued Bruno. 'The heavens are filled with the light of God.'
The crowd wasn't listening. Impatience and selfishness led to calls of Burn, Devil, Go to Hell.
Bruno continued, his final action, thinking only to plant a doubt in the Bishop's smug indifference.
'There are hundreds of planets like our own jewel. To say that they cannot also be filled with God's life? How can this be? The evidence will come. One day soon.'
The bishop looked to the ground, spat again, muttered a prayer. It was time to discredit Bruno completely.
'Copernicus before you had similar delusions and he was proven to be a heretic, a womaniser, a gambler and a drunkard. You, Bruno, are a fellow traveller of Copernicus and you will share his fate, ignored by history, turned away from the gates of Heaven. So, burn.'
He casually threw the torch on to the pile of wood below Bruno. The crowd squealed. Joyous with relief, they had their spectacle. The Inquisitors moved nearer the bishop. Within seconds, Bruno was engulfed, tormented. The stink of burning flesh forced the bishop down from his platform. Thick smoke masked the stellar view, cutting the scene from the Universe beyond, keeping it secret, lessening the cosmic shame of it all. If angels had been watching.
Bruno writhed for a long minute as his nerves sparked. Then his body was consumed, his soul spent. The fire's ferocity faded fast and the crowd's anger and fervour dissipated. An odd sense of calm descended. The faithful, full of the whispers of observed death, quietened. The mob dispersed, some even saying a little prayer for the crazy monk. A few watchers lingered, taking the dregs of the heat, hoping for a morsel of sweet meat.
The bishop blessed the black, smoking bones of his dead friend. He chatted for a few minutes with some councillors and the parish priests. Then he made his way to the brothel quarter - he would contract syphilis that night, die in agony four months later - as the surrounding galaxy shone defiantly.
Just ten years after the Catholic Church murdered Bruno, Galileo Galilei invented the telescope and proved that Earth and the other known planets orbited the Sun. He proved that other planets had moons. He proved that there were far more suns than could be seen with the human eye. He proved that the Roman Church's stated and immutable truths about the structure of the Universe were wrong. Utterly and incontrovertibly wrong.
Chapter 2: IN THE BEGINNING
1 In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
2 And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
3 And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
4 And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.
5 And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day.
6 And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.
7 And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so.
8 And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.
9 And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so.
10 And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good.
11 And God said, Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed is in itself, upon the earth: and it was so.
12 And the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielding seed after his kind, and the tree yielding fruit, whose seed was in itself, after his kind: and God saw that it was good.
13 And the evening and the morning were the third day.
14 And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and years:
15 And let them be for lights in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth: and it was so.
16 And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: he made the stars also.
17 And God set them in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth,
18 And to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the darkness: and God saw that it was good.
19 And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.
- Bible, King James Version: Genesis: 1-19
Chapter 2: THE HISTORY OF BUNK
Today is Tuesday. It is a sunny day. My name is William Bunk. I am forty-two years on this Earth. I am a mess.
I know certain things. I know that I add up to approximately seventy-five trillion cells and am composed mainly of water. Then there are my organic minerals: fats, proteins, carbohydrates, nucleic acids. Finally my inorganic minerals, mainly calcium, phosphorus, sodium, magnesium, iron. That's what I am. At this level, I can kind of understand myself. I'm a chemical reaction. Food comes in - typically lamb curry (hot), rare steak, salad, chocolate, rum, Coke, orange juice, vitamin supplements - is broken down to useful molecules in my gut, retained or shat out. The process driven by my inherited DNA, the chemical code that powers us all.
And that's it. No need for rocket science. No need for any Gods. But if I can understand my life on this level, why can't I make sense of it on any other - more meaningful - level?
Nobody knows what's going on, what life's about or what happens afterwards. Nobody.
Want to know what God is? God is thunder and lightning. Earthquakes. Storms. Rainbows. Eclipses. Stars. The Sun. Sex. Birth. Death. Chemical reactions. DNA. The seasons. Art. Emotions. And everything that couldn't be explained in the millennia before true science. That's all.
In the Christian Bible, Book of Genesis, God created grass, herbs and fruit trees on the third day. He created the sun on day four. The Bible was written before we had any understanding of photosynthesis. Look it up.
Want to know what the Devil is? The Devil is the animal inside every one of us, the evolved animal whose key aims in life are to fuck, procreate and survive. We can dress it up. We try. These days, the Devil is also called DNA.
I am a scientist. I like to discover answers. The truth, if possible. It is my obsession.
My life has been mixed. Moderate successes, abject failures, long tracts of mediocrity. Childhood passed without great fanfare. Medical school at Cambridge entailed boring lectures, dissected corpses, easy sex, experimentation with a pharmacopoeia of drugs. Ask any medical student.
Early career in London's grimiest hospitals, my reward for finishing in the bottom third. I clawed my way through, shunned the political games, found my love. Sally. Her family set me up in my own general practice. At last, I had it all. Then I blew it.
A year or more of repetitive arguments, childish blame games and the simmering disappointments of married life gone stale. I occupied my brain by studying the emerging field of DNA. Then, redemption of sorts with a position in a Government lab, forensic DNA analysis, the chance to continue my research.
Analysis, comparison, conclusion. My first love. A period of a kind of happiness followed, my emptiness filled by work, affairs, booze. Then I was cast into Hell. Punishment? Karma?
For every episode, there is a wrinkle or a grey hair or a drooping fold of skin. Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the most fucked-up of all?
A dirty cloud has gobbled up the sun. Typical. Thank you, god.
Chapter 3: THE MERCIFUL
Allah is He Who created the heavens and the earth and what is between them in six periods, and He mounted the throne; you have not besides Him any guardian or any intercessor, will you not then mind?
He regulates the affair from the heaven to the earth; then shall it ascend to Him in a day the measure of which is a thousand years of what you count.
This is the Knower of the unseen and the seen, the Mighty the Merciful,
Who made good everything that He has created, and He began the creation of man from dust.
Then He made his progeny of an extract, of water held in light estimation.
Then He made him complete and breathed into him of His spirit, and made for you the ears and the eyes and the hearts; little is it that you give thanks.
- Qur'an: Surah 32: 4-9
Chapter 4: THE SYSTEM
When you were born, you knew nothing. Like, what's your first memory? Mine is from when I was four years old. First day of school. So many faces, so many competitors. A bright room full of exciting and colourful things. Some kids cried. I was quiet, torn between the novelty and wanting to be with my mother.
Before that, oblivion. Dribbling, pissing myself oblivion. Common to us all and sure to revisit if given time.
And in that oblivion - that primary oblivion - what did you know about anything? Zero. Clean slate, begging to be filled by experience. You had to be taught about stuff. What'll kill you, what'll just hurt. What'll make you sick, what'll make you feel good. What letters are, what numbers are. And on it goes. By the time you're making your own way in the world, you know that the Germans are okay now, that the Taliban are bad, that the locally dominant religion is the best, that stealing is wrong, that crime is punished, that the law is the law is the law, that some are rich while most are poor, that convention dictates sexual behaviour, that globalisation is good. Spring forward, fall back. Homework. Your attitudes are formed for you. Think outside the box and become labelled. Hippy. Freak. Communist. Convict.
That almost everything you know and do is based on what happened before you were born is an appalling proposition. How much of life is about true self-discovery and how much is accepting the patterns that have already been imposed?
DNA is the blueprint for ninety-nine point nine percent of what we are, driving us towards sexual maturity, reproduction and survival. These are the only actions that truly matter in our lives; nothing else counts. The system fills in the remaining point one percent of what we are yet, oddly when you think about it, strives to make the mundane matter.
Genes, chromosomes, the double helix. These words and phrases are familiar to all of moderate intelligence. Yet what meaning do they hold? What is the average person's genuine understanding of the most important discovery in human history?
I decide that I must reproduce.
Chapter 5: THREAT
The call came through on a private number, delayed his departure for dinner with the senators. On the line was a NASA operative, one whose anticipatory thought space had been abruptly shifted from his brother-in-law's secret recipe ribs at the Sunday barbeque. He was a low-level agent but, science-wise, a useful one. Active agents were known in the Foundation as angels. This was one angel among thousands: men and women who worked at all levels in the military-industrial complex, the political system, the education machine. All united by their devotion, their faith. Doctor Ryan turned away from his computer monitor.
'Ryan.'
'Doctor, Bill Reynolds here. Johnson Space Centre. Something you should know about,' said the caller.
He sighed. 'I'm already late for an important meeting.'
'Sir, we've been going through the samples. Well, a sample of the samples.'
'Which samples?'
'From Stardust. The probe.'
'Cosmic dust?'
'Yeah. But something really odd has shown up. We're doing more tests, but the findings come within my alert remit.'
'Get to the point.'
'All four proteins. Adenine, guanine, cytosine and thymine.'
'Jesus Christ.'
'Sorry, sir. It's just that some people here are pretty excited about this.'
Ryan pondered for a moment, held the earpiece to his chin.
'Are all the samples in one place?'
'Yes, for now. One is being sent to England for secondary analysis.'
'So we work fast. Keep me posted of any developments. Goodbye.'
Ryan held on to the receiver for a long minute. He stared out at Washington, muddy twilight gathering over the Nation's River, saw nothing.
NASA's first dust-gathering probe - Genesis - had been sabotaged on the way home, destroyed. Stardust had proven harder to crack. Now all the Foundation's fears were being realised.
He thought through the possible scenarios. The worst outcome would lead to the collapse of the system, an atheist in the White House. The heathen hordes - already at the gate - would succeed. The Long War would be lost. Soft liberalism was no match for the gathering enemies. All that he had worked for would perish and the gains of generations would be lost. God would die. There was just one course of action open. He dialled.
'Link.'
'Doctor.'
'Yes, Doctor?'
'You're taking a flight. Houston. Tonight. Mission details to follow by email.'
These were the End Times, bold moves necessary.
Ryan turned back to the screen, enjoyed one long last look at the beautiful boys.
Chapter 6: HYPOCRISY DEFINED
"Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye, and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye."
- Bible: Matthew: 7:1-5
Chapter 7: THIRTY
How I got thirty yesterday. Shower in the morning. Before lunch, before, dinner, before bed. That's four. Three times after taking a shit (bad dose, curry). Five times after urinating (though I know urine doesn't contain any gems, being good enough to drink and all. Old habits, conditioning). Three times before preparing food. Once, no twice, after rubbing the beagle. Before and after working with three samples at work makes six. Once after reading a cheaply-inked newspaper. Four times after sneaky cigarettes in the back yard. Once after examining my wife's vagina.
'I'm nearly ready to leave, Bill.'
'Yes.'
'Were you smoking again? Don't you know they'll kill you?'
'Ah, they'll have come up with the cure before then. Stem cells. No doubt about it.'
Secretly, I didn't care if I died.
'Sometimes I think you're mad, Bill.'
Change of subject: 'Do you really want to go to Blackpool, Sally? For an actual hen weekend?'
'No. I just feel obliged. You understand obligation, don't you?'
'Of course. It's what made Britain great.'
'Would you mind having a look at me. I'm really sore today.'
Once a GP, always a GP. So she got on the bed, lifted her skirt, spread her legs. No underwear. I got on my knees, gently pulled her inner thighs apart and had a close look. She was red, raw from scratching herself. The tell-tale white lumps around her labia betray the fungal infection. I don't need to see any more. Still, her inner thigh muscles are nicely defined, that adductor brevis standing out, trembling, causing a stirring from the past. Try it.
'I need to give you an internal, with my special probe,' I say.
'For fuck's sake,' she says. 'Give it a rest, will you?'
'Sorry. Old habits. Thrush,' I say. 'Again.'
'Christ, I'm sick of it.'
'Stop wearing knickers,' I joked. 'Eat less wheat, de-stress and get another of those over-the-counter antibiotics down the chemist. I'll write you a prescription for something stronger in case it gets worse while you're away. That okay?'
'De-stress,' she said. 'Yeah, thanks. I think I'll just dab some cider vinegar on.'
She fixed her skirt, got back to packing. Not the slightest chance of sex.
'Sal?'
'Yes?'
'It's not too late for us to have kids, you know. Even just one.'
'You know that's not for me.' She paused, hovered over the pile of clothes. 'I can't be a desperate housewife, soccer mom, whatever you want to call it.'
'It's just, I've been thinking. I've sort of concluded that the meaning of life is to have kids. That's what DNA is for.'
'The meaning of life?' she snorted. Was that a genuine smile? 'The meaning of life is to discover the self. I'm getting pretty close. Having a screaming baby to worry about would be... a distraction.'
'So propagating the species is a distraction? We're fucked. The human race is finished.'
'I'm surprised we've lasted this long.'
'Will you at least think about it?'
'You think about all the shit and vomit. Jesus. Do you really think that you could handle it? For God's sake, you go crazy when my sister's kids are here.'
'Well, they are wild.'
'All kids are wild. Now, do you mind if I get through this?' gesturing at the case.
'You go ahead.'
I sighed on my way downstairs, had to swallow hard to hold back a tear or two. I told myself that there was still hope. We were still together. Maybe after Sally found herself?
The thirtieth time was after touching my girlfriend in her sacred place.
I never used to wash my hands after sex. I enjoyed the fresh smell of woman being on me. Now I worry about germs and traces. Always germs and traces. Should I worry about all this? How normal am I? How obsessed am I?
So, how many times did you wash your hands today?
Chapter 8: SNOWBLIND
Though they could survive easily enough in the cold, they preferred the cover that the widespread pine forests provided. Out there, on the flood plains, they felt exposed. But they had to cut across the open space to reach the dense woods that led home.
The women were tired, but they kept moving, pulled the boy along. He wanted to stop, needed to rest, sleep even. His mother and her sister slowed, glanced at each other, thought that, yes, they could rest for a little while.
So they stopped. The youngster curled up in his mother's warm lap, took some of her milk as she rubbed his head. Then he dozed. His aunt picked her way down to the river, would drink her fill, use the pouch to bring water to the others.
The water was very good, clear and fresh. She smiled for the first time that day. Perhaps they would make it safely home to the others.
She froze, raised her head slowly. Yes, the cries. An evil whooping, the sound of hunters who have found the trail once more. In the open, there was no chance.
As she turned and ran to her dear sister and the boy, the heavy sky cracked open and thick snow fell. The hunters' cries - animal, bloodthirsty - seemed closer. The snow almost prevented the women from seeing each other. They were lucky, though, and clasped hands in greeting.
They moved on, knew that their only chance was to reach the hidden woods ahead. The uneven ground slowed their pace. The dense snow drove into their faces, but at least muffled the eerie sounds of the Neanderthal hunters. The fear in their eyes became muted.
But the snow. They were too hungry, too tired, too confused to fight it. It gathered so quickly, they could not lift their legs. A small depression, almost snowless in the lee of a boulder, appeared from the wall of white. They had to stop.
They huddled together beside the rock, happy at least that their trail would have disappeared. The followers' cries had stopped. Perhaps the snow would save them? The boy sobbed.
Chapter 9: THANK GOD
Work was a kind of refuge for my brain. Full of imponderables and unknowables, yes. But also certainties, confirmations and useful science.
My lab was organised, clean. I was lucky to have access to the best technology, the brightest graduates, generous funding. Being part of the establishment has its privileges, not least a fat pension. Plus, you don't have to work too hard, just keep your head down, never take chances.
It still bored me to the point of wanting to cut myself, though.
I busied myself in the semi-clean admin zone. The lab itself, through an airlock, visible through a wall of windows. My office, more a personal space than work place, was down the corridor. I preferred to be in this mid-space. Between things. Suited me. It was cleaner.
Peering at C samples through my microscope, I felt a strong hand on my shoulder.
'Morning William,' said my boss.
'Hello Lionel. Just re-checking the latest tests before I sign off.'
'Any results on our cause célèbre?'
'He did it, the bastard. He raped the child and, by inference, killed her.'
'That's for the judge and jury to decide.'
'True enough. But he did it. What a complete cunt.'
'God, William. I love this job. We've just taken a paedophile off the streets.'
'But for how long? No, you're right. Thank God for DNA.'
Fortescue flicked through the report sheets on my work bench. He wasn't interested, he was just reminding me who was boss. He nodded, made to leave, stopped.
'Oh yes. Department heads meeting at ten-thirty, okay?'
'What's up?'
'Something big. You'll love it.'
'Good. I need something big. Lionel, tell me this. Do you regret having kids?'
He laughed 'Regret? If anything, I regret not having a couple more. It's about the only thing the Catholics got right. Do you and Sally have news?'
'Lord no.'
'See you at the meeting, then.'
Chapter 10: A TASTE OF HEAVEN
The probe had travelled almost five billion kilometres, made its way home thanks to technology that still owed its magic to Galileo and Newton.
Shot into space in 1969, the machine met Earth again after two years, used its mother's gravitational power to hurtle out towards the icy comet, Wild 2. It snatched fragments from the comet's immense dust trail, trapped them in aerogel. That was the exciting part. Mainly it had been collecting in empty, interplanetary space. But space isn't empty, there's a huge spectrum of material floating around out there.
Stardust's aerogel had been very lucky. Besides the expected - organic particles, even amino acids from Wild 2; high velocity cosmic particles, supernova leftovers, Big Bang ashes from empty' space - Stardust had managed to collect a small number of extraordinary chemicals. On their own, the phosphates, simple sugars and nitrogenous bases would have been interesting enough discoveries for space. But in combination, they might shake a planet, that gorgeous blue and green and white jewel in the probe's path.
For they were in the form of deoxyribonucleic acid. More commonly known as DNA.
Chapter 11: DISTRACTION
So I signed off the results and they were couriered to the investigating detectives.
I passed the time before the meeting looking through pending casework. Nothing major, nothing really important. Millions of pounds worth of analysis equipment going through the motions: paternity tests for the nervous rich, cold cases, secondary comparisons. Still, we had to help the Government pay the bills and there was always the chance of a cold case review finally bringing some murderous prick to justice. Better late than never could have been our motto. A warm hand touched my neck.
'Doctor, I've got a temperature. Can you take a look?'
Tease.
I turned to face her. Jesus, she was beautiful - flushed with youth, fire in her eyes, voluptuous. My delight, all moist and perfumed and full mouth feel. And she wanted me.
'Good morning, Karen. You know I can no longer practice. Per se. Anyway, you look perfectly fine to me.'
Damn ethics.
She took my hand and placed it on her crotch, against the cool, light fabric of her black dress.
'Can't you feel it?'
'Yes. I think I'm getting it now.'
'Can we go to your office?'
I looked at my watch.
'Okay. But I've only got fifteen minutes.'
Plenty.
Chapter 12: DEEP FROZEN
The excavators loomed over the frozen landscape, oddly sculptural, evoking robot tombstones on another world. Someplace far from the sun. Some of the machines were iced rigid, would stay that way until the feeble spring. Others groaned and whistled as they churned the permafrost, smashing the delicate layers of ice that had built up over millennia.
The scientist stood on a small ice hill and watched the day dying. She saw the lights blink on in Salkhard, the regional capital twenty kilometres to the south. The Aurora Borealis flickered across the azure depth overhead, yellow and violet and cyan. She loved to watch it, almost her sole remaining pleasure. Turning back to the project, Anna savoured the icy sunset, smoked an imported cigarette. And another. Then she trudged back to work, depressed again at the pointlessness of her posting.
Strangely enough, this place suits my mood, she thought. A grim smile.
The hated wind roared then, slashing through her cold gear and scratching her bones.
'But what would I trade for a day in the Caribbean sun? Right now, one month's salary.'
The camp generators' constant whining increased in pitch as the primary task lights powered up. The work here continued twenty-four seven. Gazprom needed to find more natural gas. Get it pumped abroad. Bring in the petrodollars while the market value kept rocketing. She had a boring, shitty job, yes. But Anna was in the top ten percent of Russian earners. And there was always the chance of some interesting science.
She entered the canteen airlock wanting coffee, kicked the compacted ice from her boots. A scattering of workers at the trestle tables, every one smoking. Duty in one hour. She had finally removed her outdoors clothes when her name was called over the whistling speakers. The camp commander sounded unusually perplexed as he requested her presence at the leading edge of the western cut. She tutted, smoked a fast cigarette, scalded the roof of her mouth with the coffee. Then she dressed again, thinking What now, a fake fucking meteorite with alien life forms inside? The other workers debated what this announcement might mean, their theories ranging from Stalin-era mass graves to unexpected rock formations that might slow the project.
Anna hurried through the black night.
A cluster of men and women stood by the gash in the ground, an excavator's toothy bucket hanging open overhead. The commander spotted Anna. He was always alert to her.
'Anna,' he called, walking towards her. 'Thank you for coming so quickly.'
'What is it, sir?'
He seemed slightly excited, though not exactly happy.
'Something very interesting. Your speciality.'
As camp scientist, Anna analysed gas and soil samples and also monitored all the life they encountered: bacteria, lichen, not much else. That frozen baby mammoth was the most exciting thing that had happened in Yamalo-Nenetsk. Ever. A fading memory now. Still, she filled the days and nights by maintaining a perfect sample record, the raw material for a dozen frigid theses.
'Another mammoth, perhaps?' she ventured.
'Better, Anna. Better.'
Her heart jumped. The commander wasn't a joker. What on Earth could be better? A sabre-toothed tiger?
She followed him down a shaky aluminium ladder. Into the cut, into the permanently-frozen soil. Powerful task lights had been put in place, their glaring beams reflected and refracted by ice crystals. A frozen disco. The commander indicated. She saw a shape, a dim presence in the ice.
'There,' said the commander. 'Can you see it?'
'I see something. What is it?'
'Get closer. Lower.'
He pushed her forward until her nose touched the ice. She drew back instinctively - shocked - but she saw. A face stared out at her. It was almost human.
A sleepless twenty hours later, Anna stood alone in the primary lab. She was exhausted, yes, but giddy and breathless also. Like she was in love, a fading emotional benchmark.
Before her, on sled pallets, were two rough chunks of permafrost. Two adult females in one, a young male on his own, distorted by time. Everybody in camp was buzzing from the discovery, assumed they were cavemen, early humans. Anna thought differently. Even through the ice, she noted the brow ridges, the protruding jaws, the heaviness of the skulls. Not Homo sapiens, not us.
'Are you really Homo erectus?' she asked, her voice echoing.
The temperature in the lab was now carefully maintained at minus four degrees C, so the ice coffin wouldn't melt before the scientific teams from the Russian Academy of Sciences arrived from Moscow and St Petersburg. Maybe a day, maybe less. For now, Anna had her ancestors all to herself.
Using a small ice drill, she accessed the frozen flesh of one of the females. She removed fragments of flesh and carefully stored them in sample canisters. As she secreted one canister inside her jacket, the commander appeared behind her.
'Do you have the DNA samples ready?'
'Almost. Why the hurry?'
'Moscow wants them sent back on the plane that brings the scientists. I don't know why. It's not my job to ask why. Why do you think? Do they want to clone them?'
'Unlikely, sir. The cells will have been damaged by the freezing process. DNA we can retrieve, not cells.'
'So what?'
'If, as I believe, these are Homo erectus bodies, a complete DNA analysis would be incredibly useful.'
'Who cares about Neanderthals?'
'These are not Neanderthals, commander. And that's the crucial fact. Homo erectus was the evolutionary stage immediately before Homo sapiens. I've studied them. Quite distinct from Neanderthals, which were a different species. Homo erectus can tell us exactly where we came from. When we look at their DNA, maybe - '
Anna was lost in thought for a moment, the importance of the discovery finally hitting her.
'Maybe?'
'Maybe, by comparing their DNA with ours, maybe we can discover how and why we evolved.'
The commander nodded, not quite understanding. He did understand that his schedule was now shot to shit and, down the line, he would be yelled at because of it.
'We've lost a day,' he mumbled. 'I just want them out of here.'
Chapter 13: THE PLAIN TRUTH
Those who reject the Book and that with which We have sent Our Apostle; but they shall soon come to know,
When the fetters and the chains shall be on their necks; they shall be dragged
Into boiling water, then in the fire shall they be burned;
Then shall it be said to them: Where is that which you used to set up
Besides Allah? They shall say: They are gone away from us, nay, we used not to call upon anything before. Thus does Allah confound the unbelievers.
That is because you exulted in the land unjustly and because you behaved insolently.
Enter the gates of hell to abide therein, evil then is the abode of the proud.
Qur'an: Surah 40: 70-76
Chapter 14: PROBLEM CHILD
The classroom was stifling, airless. It was early spring in Des Moines and the sun casually displayed her power. The students were tired, their day nearly done. But the teacher wasn't finished with them yet.
'So, is there anybody here who doesn't fully understand how God created life, the Universe and everything?'
Twenty faces looked up at him, smiled. These were good kids. The future was secure. Then, one kid at the back - the problem kid - raised his hand slowly. The child lacked confidence in his half-beliefs, so the teacher wasn't worried.
'Yes, Adam,' he said coolly. 'What is it now?'
'Sir,' began the boy, it's the dinosaurs. I still don't get it. We've been told up to now that dinosaurs were around millions of years ago. But you say that's not true. How come?'
'It's not just my opinion, Adam.'
He was angry, thinking Go to Hell. His psoriasis began to flare, unbearable itching spreading down his arms to his fingers. He gripped the edge of the desk tightly, breathed deeply, practised his self-control mantra. In command of his emotions again, the urge to scratch faded. He left the desk, walked to the middle of the classroom.
'We had been told these dinosaur stories for many years. People just accepted that the scientists were telling us the truth. But recently we've begun to question the scientists. That's a good thing. Isn't it, children?'
'Yes, sir,' they chimed in unison.
'So God gave us free will and we use that free will to question certain theories. And that's a good and positive thing. Isn't it, children?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Now, it turns out that no scientist can actually prove beyond a doubt that the dinosaurs were around millions of years ago. It's just as likely that dinosaurs walked the land,' he gestured to the golden woods outside the window, just a few thousand years ago.'
A flock of doves wheeled across the yard. He laughed, changing tack.
'See the birds, Adam? You believe they used to be T-Rex?'
All the kids laughed at this. Adam reddened. The teacher moved closer to him, made full eye contact, hands on hips, a calm yet subtly threatening stance. Yet still he smiled and no answer from Adam.
'Adam. The greatest scholars on Earth have studied the Bible in great detail. Now, nobody disputes that the Bible is the Word of God. You don't dispute that, do you Adam?'
'No sir,' he said.
The teacher's gaze swept the class and he sensed a subtle change just then. He saw the child as a danger, a potential source of contamination.
'Good. Very good. So, by taking the literal Word of God into their calculations, these learned men have deduced that the world is nowhere near old enough to have sustained life hundreds of millions of years ago. It's actually impossible. This planet of ours is no more than ten thousand years old. Ten thousand. Not five billion.'
Standing at the top of the class, the teacher put his right hand over his heart, adopted a benign expression.
'Children. All our questions lead to one place. God. And all our answers come from one place. God. And the Word of God is to be found in the Bible. We don't need anything else. No phoney science. No vested interests. No atheistic fantasies. For what else matters, but God?'
His flow was interrupted by a hesitant knock at the door. The school principal opened the door a crack, peaked in, nodded at the teacher.
'If you'll excuse me, children. Please revise chapter six of your textbook, The True Age of the Universe.'
The teacher glared at Adam, gathered his material from the desk, locked it away in his briefcase, pocketed his phone.
In the corridor, the principal apologised for the interruption. The two men faced each other like reflections, with their immaculate grey suits, closely-cropped haircuts, shining faces.
'You wanted to see me?' said the principal.
Two issues. One, I've been called away on urgent business. Immediately. I will complete this module at a later time.'
'Of course, of course. We greatly appreciate your instruction of the children. We are completely flexible.'
Yes, thought the teacher, and you greatly appreciate the two million dollars per annum that you receive from the Foundation.
'I'll call you when I can return. And two, the boy Adam. I can't get through to him, I'm afraid. What are his parents like?'
'A tad liberal. His mother's a writer and his father works in publishing. They're decent people. I feel they're exaggerating their Christian principles to further their careers. And Adam's school options.'
'Get rid of him. He doesn't buy into the school's ethos. This is clear. He may yet poison the entire class. You can deal with this?'
'I can deal with it.' No hesitation. 'I'll come up with something. Fabricate a theft, maybe. Plant something in his locker.'
'Ideal. He'll have no choice beyond State schools then. That'll halt his progress. I must go. You can deal with the class?'
'Of course. Thank you again. God be with you.'
'God be with you.'
They shook hands and the teacher marched down the gleaming corridor to the staff carpark. The boy was instantly forgotten. Operational now, he thought only of his mission in Texas.
Chapter 15: END OF DAY
It might be morning, sitting in the kitchen conservatory, just a white Ikea bathrobe against the cold. The Guardian sprawls the table. The flatscreen web terminal jumps between news and work: evolution. Organised madness, things squared off.
The digital radio music is loud: Handel's Seraphim, Schubert, The Doors, BBC Five Live. I jump between stations and sites, write notes, record the fragments of my life and career. The great plans, the petty delusions.
But the drink is Captain Morgan's Spice Rum, a taste acquired on a Cuban holiday. The cigarettes compulsive, the psyche entirely alert. And the room is dark as a tomb, just some diffuse city light fuzzing the view and the PC's glare. The house is mine. I make espresso, a double. A mini revolution, a good change not to hear Why are you having coffee at eleven PM?
No intentions of early bed. Besides, there's a good view of the picture window in the apartment block beyond the garden. Other than that, just the leafiness of Buckhurst Hill, the aged trees of Epping Forest. The ideal home, a true sanctuary from the madness of life. And the view? A naked woman dancing. Mostly ballet, self-aware, shameless.
The perfume of brewing Arabica - Fair-trade from Oxfam - fills my space with a delicious bitterness, triggers brain events, memories of life episodes.
The Cambrian Era keeps coming back, pushes to the front. I look at the dancer, her dark hair up in a ponytail, her face oddly expressionless. Risk of fleeting obsession tingles in my innards.
But I look through her, to Planet Earth, five hundred and thirty million years before I was switched on. Full of life already, having been formed about four billion years before and life having ignited not too long after. But nothing more evolved than bacteria and ferns for four billion years.
She catches me again, finishing a dance with a gracious bow, her breasts near enough to appreciate their fullness, too far away to make out her nipples. Or maybe that's just my eyes. Her triangle - the ultimate target - is well-defined. She takes a break, out of my sightline. I make another Cuba Libre, the fresh lime makes up my five-a-day and I'm officially drunk. The Coke adds colour, mainly.
Then, the Cambrian Explosion. Not a meteorite or volcano, but an explosion of life. Within a few tens of millions of years - no time at all - the planet teemed with multi-cellular organisms. There is no explanation for this. No explanation. One nineteenth-century theory I discover is called Panspermia, the idea that micro-organisms and spores travel through space, to take root and grow on planets with suitable conditions. The scientific world ridicules the notion. But it interests me.
I take notes, diving into the web for scientific papers on fossils. The dog, Charlie, barks in his sleep, somewhere in the dark. He reminds me of Darwin, so I go back to the master as I try to work out the evolutionary path of bacteria.
I'm distracted by the Murchison meteorite, Australia 1969. It contains millions of distinct organic compounds, including seventy amino acids. Extraterrestrial origin proven.
I'm giddy. The faxed and copied report from the Johnson Space Centre sits on top of my papers. I pick it up again. The initial sample analysis from the comet probe. DNA from space. The shocking finding, dryly typed up by an impersonal particle analysis device. This could shake the planet. And the B sample will be with us tomorrow for corroboration. First thing.
DNA from space. I still can't believe it.
Hungry again, I call for food. Curry for martyrdom.
'Vindaloo, please. Lamb. Pilau and naan.'
'Yes, Mr Bunk. You sure? Very hot.'
'I'm sure.' It confirms that I am alive.
'Twenty minutes, okay?'
'Okay,' thinking how to pass twenty minutes of the dead hour.
I hang up and the phone rings. Sally.
'Who were you calling at this hour?' she asks, no friendliness in her voice. Just a chilly edge, enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck start. Something bad is coming.
'Hello to you too, darling. The curry house, actually. How's Blackpool?'
'Absolutely horrific. I hate it here. But - '
'But what?'
'But I'm not coming home. For now. It's easier this way.'
Instant dizzy spell. Booze, empty stomach, Earth-changing research, impending marital separation all spelling trouble for my nervous system. I panic.
'Pardon?' Mouth dry, I squeeze it out.
'I know about your girlfriend at work.'
'What?'
'You may be the forensic scientist and all, but I'm a woman not an idiot.'
Christ, what gave me away?
Shit, did I say that or think it?
'Darling, I don't think it's fair to do it like this. We've been married fourteen years.'
'Fourteen years wasted. But not too late to start again. I'll be down for the rest of my stuff at some stage. And don't call me darling ever again, you prick. Goodbye.'
Click. Repeating tone.
'Just like that,' I say to the dancer as she stretches for her encore.
I pour a straight rum. I watch the dancer but don't see her, gulp my drink, wait for my curry. I think to call Sally back, tell her all about the sample, the DNA. I decide against this.
At last, the curry arrives. But my hunger has gone to bed with the dancer.
Chapter 16: HUMAN ERROR
The mail room was dead, so hot outside that almost everyone had left early. All on their way to the Gulf or the Wal-Mart aircon or to lay in the garden under the trees with ice cold beers. Stan stayed behind to get the mail out. Reliable, dependable Stan. A pile of FedEx envelopes sat on the table, regular jiffies beside them, then a stack of labels and prioritised bundles of sample containers. Everything labelled, cross-referenced.
'Jesus H,' he said, hating this part of the job. The tedium. Monkey work was how he described it to his friends at parties. Since working in the mail room entailed monitoring all but the very highest level paper and electronic communications, Stan knew there wouldn't be a random drug test in the Johnson Centre for at least two months. So he figured Why not? Anyway, he kept a little shot of synthetic urine in the freezer, stashed under the ice crystals, just in case.
He went to the men's room, rolled a joint, made his way to the roof. Sam from security was at the last checkpoint, near the cool, dark corridors that hosted the big bosses. Stan nodded. Sam winked, followed him after a minute or two.
The Gulf of Mexico glistened on the horizon as they shared the joint at the sweet spot the cameras can't see.
'God, I love this job,' said Sam. Top benefits, no real stress, moments like this.'
'Just watch out for al-Qaeda, yeah?'
'For sure, but there's still the Chinese and even the Russians.'
'The Russians? Again? You serious?'
'Yeah, Stan. Everything's still to play for, world domination-wise. It's all fucked up. Those Russians are clever bastards, really smart. They've got the bread now. And they look just like us.'
Stan held his hands in front of his face, examined the backs of them with an exaggerated confused look on his face.
'Well, you know what I mean,' Sam said, embarrassed. 'Anyways, it's all fucked up.'
'White Russians. I could do with one of those. That's for sure.'
'For damned sure.'
Then they talked about the weekend, about Sam's eldest son's birthday party - ten, already! - and that kind of stuff, casual friend stuff.
And so to work, Sam first. Stan got back to a still-empty mail room. He rubbed his eyes, played some Nirvana, resumed his work of sticking the correct labels on the correct envelopes with the correct samples inside.
The FedEx guy arrived early, breaking his balls, saying C'mon Stan, I've got a plane to catch.
Then Stan fucked up.
Chapter 17: MORNING
I sat in my tiny office with a coffee, squared up the documents, files and notes on the desk. Big day, fairly enormous twenty-four hours, really. Still only halfway through it, less. A dark grey shape in the door's pane of frosted glass. Two taps. The supreme being, Dr Lionel Fortescue.
'Morning, William. You look like shit.'
In a Savile Row suit and with his trademark flowing grey locks and yachtsman's permatan, Fortescue was a living statement: Old money still rules.
'Thanks. I needed that.'
'What's wrong? Something's clearly wrong.'
'Sally's left me.'
'You're shitting me.'
'I'm not.'
'Does she know about Karen?'
'Yes. How do you know about Karen?'
'It's my job to know everything, William. Look, don't let it get you down. She'll be back, I'm sure. Let me take you to dinner tonight. My treat.'
I thought it through, put the shock of the easy knowledge of the affair to one side - Did everybody know? Was it that obvious? - accepted the situation.
'Thanks. I could do with some company.'
'Excellent. See you in the conference room in fifteen. We'll have the sample this morning. Excited?'
'Like it's Christmas Eve and I'm eight years old.'
'Me too. I'll call FedEx, see when Santa's due.'
And he was gone.
Next, Karen arrived. She was a bit of a mess, unshowered. Was she wearing those clothes yesterday? She was typically immaculate when it came to her personal hygiene. One of the traits that had attracted me to her in the first place.
'Morning, Doctor. Sorry I'm late.'
'No problem. At all. Sleep it out?'
I felt a bit cheated. Surely I had more of a right to look like shit?
'No. I stayed at a friend’s, unexpectedly. South of the river. Getting up here was a nightmare.'
South?
'Sit down. I'll get you a coffee. Brew's fresh.'
Should I tell her about Sally? Not yet.
'Thanks darling.'
Darling.
Chapter 18: THE EVIDENCE ROOM
Link got into Johnson easily enough. He had an excellent ID, a perfect profile. Investigator, Department of Homeland Security. Legit. He could go virtually anywhere, ask any questions, no questions asked in return.
He passed nicely-lit displays of moonrock, met the angel at the door to the samples lab. The zone's high security biohazard status was marked boldly on door, walls, floor. The man - Reynolds - was nervous, had to dry his palm on his lab coat before the scanner accepted him. In the airlock, they struggled into sealed overalls. Reynolds made smalltalk, Link was quiet. They put on face masks, clipped oxygen tanks to waist hooks, checked each other. It was like going into space.
Then they entered the next chamber, had an air shower. Powerful fans in the floor sucked away the contaminating molecules from outside this super-clean world.
The lab itself was a long room, brightly-lit, spotless, shiny, its air at high pressure. Two technicians peered at electron microscope screens. Nobody else apparent. Fine.
Link was led to the large refrigerator at the far end of the room. With a code keyed, the door popped. Bill Reynolds removed a stainless steel tray and, keeping his eyes on the space samples, brought it to an examination table.
'This is what all the fuss is about?' asked Link, his voice flat, modulated and electronically relayed through the helmet.
Little plastic boxes, smaller glass cases inside. Then a tiny slice of aerogel, impregnated with DNA from some other place.
'This is it. Now what's the plan?'
Link glanced over his shoulder at the technicians.
'Open the samples. All of them.'
Reynolds did as he was told.
'Is this enough to contaminate them?' asked Link.
'It's very clean here. Class ten, almost as clean as it gets. Contamination would require the introduction of foreign DNA.'
'I thought so.'
Reynolds nodded, an uncomfortable smile vaguely visible through his facemask. This wasn't supposed to be happening. But there would be no ribs on Sunday, this he knew.
Link looked toward the two technicians again, calculated, made his decision. He darted to a nearby fire point, pulled the alarm handle. A brain-piercing shriek filled the lab. The technicians panicked, left the room quickly. Returning to Reynolds, Link swept his left hand across the sample examination table, picked up a scalpel. The technician registered all this, stood immobile, too shocked to move. Link slashed, three times across his chest, then stabbed hard.
Then he pushed him onto the extraterrestrial samples, bubbly blood gushing from his ruptured heart. He held him there until the life was gone. There was only a weak, confused resistance.
Walking calmly through the airlock to the lab exit, Link eyed a security camera. He moved clear of its view, added it to his mental loose ends list, before removing his helmet and clean suit. Then he blended into the hurried file of escaping staff, quickly found himself back in the dusty Texan air.
Chapter 19: THE LORD'S WORK
The five paused together in the shadow of the heavy jeep, a moment of silent prayer. Hands clenched outside their chest-slung MP5 sub-machine guns, beads of sweat rolling into balaclava hoods, hearts beating rapidly under military-spec Kevlar waistcoats, enjoying the success that the Lord had granted. They were God's Marines and each had an angel at his shoulder today.
'Amen,' said their leader, finally. His eyes and ears hadn't stopped watching and listening since they drove into the thicket, stopped to finish the task.
There was a chorus of Amen, every man glad that nobody had been sacrificed, gladder still that the mission had been accomplished. A police helicopter buzzed past. Well to the south, no threat.
The leader held the bundle of heavy envelopes that contained Sterling bonds with a face value of well over five million pounds. These he threw into a steel drum. Then he poured in two litres of mineral water. He carefully opened a ceramic container of hydrochloric acid.
'Fire in the hole,' he called as he dropped the acid into the drum.
They stood back as the acid - the same stuff that causes gastric ulcers in humans - reacted violently with the water and consumed every molecule of the bonds, released clouds of toxic hydrogen chloride gas.
The job was almost concluded. The sample had to be delivered to Noah, the assault gear stashed. Then the day was done.
Praise the Lord.
Chapter 20: B SAMPLE
As the department heads and lead scientists gathered around the gleaming walnut table in the conference room, Fortescue stared through the tall window, spotted a small herd of deer at the forest's edge. This made him happy. The wonder of nature always had that effect. He turned to the room, counted heads, smiled as every gaze turned to him.
He raised his voice over the mannered din. 'Ladies and gentlemen. I'm afraid I have some bad news.'
Silence now.
'There was an armed robbery on the M25 earlier. It targeted the FedEx van that was carrying our sample. Bonds - millions of pounds - were stolen and the vehicle was, I'm sad to say, destroyed. It seems our sample was also destroyed.'
The announcement was met with the outrage, confusion and upset that he'd expected. But he hadn't expected laughter. Mine.
'You find this situation amusing, Bill?'
'Sorry Lionel,' I said. I stood, walked to Fortescue's side, addressed the room. 'I just find it beyond coincidental that some highway robbers steal some piddly bonds and, as an aside, destroy what may have been the most important sample we've ever expected.'
'So what are you saying, Bill?'
'Yes, what are you saying?' asked the room.
'I'm saying that I think the samples were the target, not the bonds.'
'Can we get another sample from NASA?' asked a level-headed molecular scientist.
Fortescue paused.
'Perhaps not. There was an incident in the Johnson Space Centre. I don't have the specifics, but the remaining samples may have been contaminated.'
Gasps. This was all too dramatic. I was emboldened.
'Back to our sample, Lionel. What are the specifics of the raid?'
'Such as?'
'You know, how many robbers, were they armed, did the police intercept them? Those specifics.'
'As far as I'm aware, there were four or five robbers. They were armed. No shots fired. No injuries. No arrests thus far.'
'And the value of the bonds?'
'Not known.'
'Have you spoken with the police?'
'Not yet.'
'But you intend to?'
'Immediately after this meeting. I will stress to them the importance of our sample. I'll keep you posted. Okay?'
'Okay. Thanks.'
I returned to my seat and the meeting continued. But without the main event it fizzled into abstractions, projections, nothingness.
I felt cheated. All my research and brain time was wasted. And so close to real achievement, something bigger than everything else put together. The other failures in my life had been put aside. Glory beckoned. Now only ashes. Ashes and despair and a whole new collection of shit from Sally on the way. I had to hide a quiet tear from the gathering as my heart pounded sadly in my head.
Chapter 21: THE ASCENSION
The restaurant - La Jour Verte - was about as French as it was possible to get in Essex. I sat alone at the tiny table for almost an hour before Fortescue arrived. The table setting was clean but I still wiped my silverware with the linen napkin. Habit. Then I drank. Every time a waiter passed by, my elbow and - by default - glass of Beaujolais was nudged. So I drank with my left hand, eavesdropped on the chatter all about, the air blue with smoke, bluer with words.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-35 show above.)