Once again tea, the ice thunking in frosty aluminum glasses. Gabe was hosting. Jen was there. Ximena was there, as was her friend, now with a first name, Isaiah—or at least that’s what he told them. Neither Mary Sue nor Zach were present. Curtains shut, phones of co-op members left at their homes. Jen’s was still on, but parked in another room, because this was simply a normal visit to her mother, wasn’t it? At first they spoke quietly, not because they worried anyone could hear them, but because the news seemed too explosive to discuss in anything more than whispers.
Introductions over, they turned to Isaiah. He looked to be in his early fifties. Everything about him said cool and calm. Respectful. His hair was buzzed short, with only a hint of a retro decorative pattern in the back. His skin was very dark, the color of espresso. Trim goatee and wire-rim glasses, both several years out of style but that looked good on him.
Everyone grew quiet. Isaiah spoke. “The development of the treatment took fifteen years. And this was after much of the basic science had been worked out. It was hellishly difficult and staggeringly expensive.”
Like everything else about him, Isaiah’s voice was calm and authoritative. The type that didn’t try to convince you and yet was immediately convincing. “This complexity is precisely what gave birth to the idea of the consortium. Not only did each compound and each process require testing, but it was imperative to test how everything interacted. Even though it was extensively computer modeled, the number of permutations of different compounds and gene therapies that went through animal and then human trials was mind-boggling.”
Gabe said, “How mind-boggling?”
“I don’t have those numbers, but certainly hundreds and hundreds of different trials. The expense was high, even by pharma standards, in excess of a hundred billion dollars.”
Gabe gave a low whistle. “But you’re using their research for your own Eden. Don’t you think they deserve to earn that back?”
Isaiah said, “Their own documents show they have already made three times their investment. And they will continue to make a fortune on the full longevity treatment, even if we’re able to distribute Eden. Anyway, within the consortium, GPRA and Xeno/Roberts/Chu—”
“Teena Archambault’s and Taika Mete’s companies,” Jen said to no one in particular.
“—had responsibility for the second stage of the treatment, the one that includes gene therapy. There was one particular Phase One trial—an extremely tiny group, only eighteen subjects took part—in which they were doing a complicated modification to several genes and testing this in combination with one particular compound.” His voice grew even more serious. “You can probably guess what happened.”
Jen said, “They all grew old and died within a few days.”
Isaiah nodded. “All the symptoms of Berardinelli-Seip lipodystrophy. None of the scientists predicted anything like this could happen, especially not so rapidly.”
“When was this?” Gabe asked.
“Eleven years ago.”
“So,” Jen said, “you’re saying that what we’re seeing now has happened before.”
“Which could mean,” Ximena said, “that whoever has developed this bootleg treatment made the same mistake as GPRA.”
Jen said, “Was this research published in a science thing?”
“In a journal?” Isaiah shook his head as if this was absurd even to imagine. “These particular trials were conducted in Cambodia. There were rumors in the company about the results, but they were quashed. You see, if this had come to light, it would have crushed public confidence in the whole project. I am certain that most records were destroyed, and what was kept is buried a mile underground.”
“Then,” Jen said, “how do you know?”
Isaiah reached into his pocket and pulled out a memory button. “Because I have a copy of the research report.”
“From?” Gabe said.
Isaiah shook his head, but he held out the button to Gabe. “Do you have an air-gapped computer?” he asked. When Gabe said yes, Isaiah handed it over.
Ximena said, “Maybe you’re not the only one. Maybe someone else has the report or remembers. Could they be the ones behind it?”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Gabe said. “Anyone with access to this would also have access to, or at least knowledge of, what did work. No reason why they’d reproduce the company’s biggest failure.”
Ximena held up a finger. “Unless they wanted to sabotage the company.”
“Maybe,” Jen said. “But they did nothing to link these deaths to the company.”
“Then why is the company trying to shut this down?”
Jen said, “Are they?”
“At any rate,” Isaiah continued, “this isn’t the work of an individual. Or even a small group. To produce these compounds and the gene therapies requires not only knowledge but a significant quantity of resources. This isn’t cooking up a batch of amphetamines. But in a way, that’s not the issue. You see, for the limited treatment, the gene therapy we use—”
“Which we?” Gabe frowned. “The company you work for? The groups making the real Eden?”
“We, the good guys, the co-op network. Our gene therapy is fairly minimal. We are not trying to reverse the aging process. We’re not fantasizing about eternal life. We’re not trying to produce a cure-all for every ache and pain. In the second stage, there are one or two quite simple splices—that’s one of the things that makes our process quick and relatively inexpensive. But the research disaster happened with a very complicated combination of therapies—no way anyone else would stumble on it.”
“Then …” Jen said.
“Then, Jen, I’m with you,” Isaiah said. “I believe the only group that has the knowledge of this particular modification plus the motive, the expertise, and the resources to produce this horror is the consortium. I figure they got wind of the real Eden we were working on. Our network started developing this six years ago and started phase testing on ourselves three years later. The consortium couldn’t let that happen, could they? So they decided to get one step ahead of us. Scare the living hell out of people who messed with an underground version.”
Gabe said, “Why does the fake treatment need to be so complicated? Why not just shoot people up with poison?”
Isaiah said, “I believe they want it to be particularly gruesome and utterly memorable. This isn’t a random overdose or a bad batch.”
Gabe looked up from his notes. “The doctor who treated Jen said the bad results happened in the second stage of the treatment, with the gene therapy. So perhaps the first treatment is a total fake—just a saline solution.”
“Yes, that’s possible. But my guess is that they wanted to make sure this totally mimicked their botched research results. That means following the whole protocol in both stages of treatment.”
Gabe said, “Can you prove any of this?”
Isaiah spread his arms in a show of defeat. “We’ve been trying to, believe me, using our network and contacts in the companies, but it’s extremely dangerous to snoop around. It might help if we could get samples of their compounds and the program they’re using for the gene splicing. We could at least see if it matches exactly what GPRA and Xeno/Roberts/Chu did.”
Jen said, “What would that look like?”
“The compounds? I’m guessing pretty much like you saw. They’d be prepackaged in syringes to be injected into the IV line.”
Ximena said, “So we’d need to get this from someone who’s administering it.”
Isaiah said, “Or where they’re making it, or even packaging it.”
“And the gene editing?” Jen said.
“The equipment’s computerized. Which means there are programs. Unless we somehow lucked into a sample of edited biological material, the software or programmed hardware might actually be the key thing to come up with.”
“But,” Jen said, “we also need evidence linking Archambault or Teko Teko to all of this.”
The compound. The software. Hardware. A link to the drug companies.
A mood of hopelessness descended on the room.
Gabe said, “We may need to run with the story we have. It’s already incredible. First of all, Jen gets Eden, the real Eden, and it works.” He turned to her. “Did it?”
“I’m still here. I feel good. But I need to wait for a new round of tests.”
“Well, assuming it works, we have that.” He made a tick on his pad. “And we have the documentation about the GPRA research.” Second tick. “And, third, we have the fact that a senior person with GPRA, along with head of security for Xeno/Roberts/Chu—which together are responsible for the genomic editing and application—have been working here in DC.”
Ximena looked doubtful. “Which might only mean they’re working to stop this thing. That’s certainly what they’ll say.”
“But don’t forget,” Gabe added, “from what you’ve said, Jen, your Teko Teko arrived with a fake name and was meeting with cops before the first case anywhere.”
Ximena said, “They’ll claim they’d been hearing rumors.”
“No doubt they will. But many of the biggest scandals didn’t come out all at once. A journalist working with a whistleblower gets the ball rolling. Once that’s out, hundreds of journalists and witnesses will jump in. Heads will roll.”
“We’re not interested in a few heads rolling,” Ximena said. The room suddenly seemed very still. “Gabe, let me tell you what we want. We want everyone to have access to Eden, at cost, as a basic human right. We want exit to end.”
Nighttime. Candles. Zach’s bed.
“Like, do you feel younger?” He stroked Jen’s hip with the back of his hand.
“No, Zach, I don’t feel any younger.”
“Healthier?”
“Nope.”
“Then how do you know it worked?”
“I’m not dead, for one thing.”
“And another?”
“I’m still not dead. Anyway, it’s not supposed to make me feel younger. It’s going to keep me from getting knocked off by a bunch of different things.”
“And then you’ll die.”
“Yeah, well, that is part of the program, isn’t it?”
“Born, live, die.”
Her voice turned serious. “We couldn’t have joked like this a month ago, could we?”
Slowly he shook his head. “No.”
“If this works, will you do it?”
“Yes.”
“And your parents. I hope we can convince them.”
Zach said yes again, then abruptly shifted gears. “But how will you prove the consortium is behind the lethal treatment?”
She had told him all about the meeting that day with Gabe and the folks from the co-op.
“Wish I knew.”
“And how will you get a sample?”
“Pretty much ditto. Even with police on this everywhere, no one’s been busted with the stuff.” They had arrested more people who’d been administering it, but all of them said they’d been approached by someone, and no one had yet managed to track down those someones.
“Do you think it’s being made here or brought in?”
“Isaiah said that some of the compounds would have to be shipped in because they’re proprietary. Or maybe they’re not even including those. Others are pretty simple and could be made here.” Jen stewed on this for a moment. “But Isaiah thinks the lab would have to be nearby because of the quick turnaround on the gene splicing.”
“Where have the cases come up? The US ones.”
“Most in DC. Baltimore. Philly. Richmond. Newark.”
“None very far away.”
For the next two days, Jen chewed over her discussion with Isaiah and the others. She’d concluded that the only chance she had of getting a sample of the deadly treatment or the program used for gene splicing was to follow the one person she figured had contact with the whole business. And if she could, and if he led her to it, then she’d also be able to show the connection. Likely more ifs than she’d be able to manage. What the hell.
God, Chandler again. This would be infinitely easier with him. Sort through data, follow someone’s movements, identify people, make obscure connections. But more than his function, she’d been missing him. Missed his chatter and his bluster. Missed his questions and that bogus tough-guy voice.
She received an unexpected letter from police headquarters. An actual paper letter, dated that morning: Monday, September 8. The department had reached a settlement with Richard and James O’Neil. Jen was now off the hook for assaulting him. Her first reaction was relief. Her second was that the department was cleaning things up. Wiping out anything they thought had to do with her investigation.
She had a third reaction, a nicer thought: Richard O’Neil had ended the lawsuit because he now saw her as a person who deserved his trust.
Maybe, maybe not.
But whatever it was, she still wasn’t reinstated as a cop.