The Athena Factor (38 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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“Yeah. In fact, they got an ID on one of the muggers. Get
a load of this: It was such a fuckup on Lymon's part that a paparazzo followed him and Sheela on their little ride. The guy had an IR camera … got photos. They got a facial shot of an ex-FBI guy. One of Christal's old boyfriends, or some such thing.”
Tony pursed his lips, eyes unfocused. “No shit?”
“No shit. Look, I wanted to get together and let you know the score. I'm at the end of my rope. Bridges is butting into Sheela's business. We just lost a major film.”
“They looking for this guy? The FBI guy?”
“I assume. Tony, are you listening? We've got trouble brewing here. Sheela's at the top of her trajectory. She can't take time off—if she does, she loses leverage. Leverage means money in our pockets, mine and yours. You getting this? So, what does she have on tap? How many options with how many producers?”
Tony frowned, lifted his cognac, and sipped. “For the time being, she can pretty much write her own ticket.”
“For how long?”
Tony considered. “To keep her current contract, she's got a couple of months before her value starts to slip. That's depending on what happens with the release of
Jagged Cat.
If they market it right, position it right in the schedule, if they can cover for Manny's breakdown, if the postproduction and editing work …” He shrugged. “You know the variables. A film's a crapshoot, Rex. With lots of different people throwing dice. If any one of them makes a bad cast, they can scuttle it.”
“So, you're telling me that Sheela's career rests on this picture's box office?”
“That's the film biz.” Tony sniffed, rubbed his nose, and gave Rex a serious look. “I saw some of the dailies. Sheela was brilliant. My impression is that Bernard's got chops as director. Now it's up to the editors, but my gut tells me that Sheela's performance is going to keep the thing afloat.”
“But your gut could be wrong.”
After a long and pensive silence, Tony asked, “You thinking about bailing, Rex?”
He lifted his scotch, tossing back a full swallow. The amber god warmed his throat with its sweet burn. “If I told Sheela
she had to pick between me and Lymon, what would she do?”
“Hell, I don't know.” A pause. “Is the guy really that big a problem?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure this is all professional?” Tony lifted an eyebrow. “Like … maybe there's some jealousy here? You know, the old bull is walking stiff legged because a younger bull is mounting the lead cow?”
“Fuck you.”
“Okay, so now that we've got that figured out, what do you want me to do?”
“Put pressure on Sheela. Let her know that she's flushing her career. I want her back on track, Tony. She's got another ten years, fifteen at the most, before she's a has-been.”
Tony smiled, amused. “Yeah, I get it. Not only is she getting fucked under your nose, but your own mortality is chewing at the edges of your well-being. Greed, jealousy, and desperation. You're a sad case, Rex.” He paused. “So, what's my incentive to convince her to ditch Lymon?”
“About ten million if we can keep her working for another ten years.” As Rex stared into his scotch he could feel Tony's probing eyes, and asked, “What?”
“Last time I saw Sheela, she looked pretty ragged. I've seen 'em crash before, Rex. They go down in flames and explode when they hit the ground. You can squeeze only so much out of a person. Some take it better than others. As to Sheela, you sure this is the time to press?”
“At twenty million a picture, you tell me.”
“What if she has a breakdown? What if she snaps? You know, you can kill a goose by forcing it to lay too many golden eggs.”
“There are ways to handle stress.”
Tony chuckled. “Yeah, pills, drugs, booze. It's the old Hollywood dance. Wring 'em dry before they burn out.” He slapped the bar. “Damn, Rex, you're the only man in this town who's shittier than I am.”
“You going to tell her?”
Tony lifted his snifter, clinking the rim on Rex's scotch glass. “To partners.”
C
hristal made a fierce face and ignored her burning muscles as she finished her last reps. She pulled her knees up, gasping after her seventy-five sit-ups.
Falling back, she pulled strands of sweaty hair to one side, rolled over, and began her battery of push-ups. Outside of staring at the whitewashed steel walls, there wasn't much else to do, so she had determined to shape up. And, who knew, it might be her ticket off this ship of fools.
All she needed was an opportunity.
Her shoulders bunched as she pushed herself up, lowered, pushed herself up, and stopped as a hesitant rapping sounded on her door.
She jumped to her feet, clawed her long black hair back out of the way, and said, “Yeah? What's up?”
The lock clicked, and a fit-looking young man glanced uncertainly around before stepping into her cabin. “You alone?” he asked quickly in a voice literally dripping with Australian.
“Nobody here but us mice. Who are you?”
“Brian Everly.” He closed the door behind him, leaving it ajar. He stopped short, staring at her as if he'd never seen a sweaty, panting, and disheveled human female before.
She used the moment to take his measure. Tall, square-shouldered, he had longish sandy blond hair, weathered skin that betrayed faded freckles, and the most fascinating pale blue eyes. A sheepish smile teased the lips of a decidedly masculine mouth. His red-checked flannel shirt couldn't hide the deep chest that tapered to a thin waist where it was tucked into faded Levis. Buff leather shoes with crepe souls shod his feet.
“God,” he whispered. “You're …”
“Yes?” She wiped at the perspiration that trickled down the fine hairs at her temple.
He seemed to catch himself on the verge of doing something foolish; and was that a hint of embarrassment that crossed his pale eyes? “Sorry, but you look a little, well, flushed.”
“You caught me exercising.” She arched a brow. “Uh, you got a reason for barging in? Or were you just in the neighborhood checking out the latest kidnap victims?”
He smiled, shifting from foot to foot as if nervous. “Oh, yes, sorry for that.” He seemed genuinely contrite. “I'm one of the fellow inmates here, actually.” He glanced back at the door. “I'm not supposed to be here. Talking to you, I mean.”
“Really?” She crossed her arms, feeling the heat from her exertion through her damp clothing. Having nothing but the tiny sink to wash it in, she was suddenly aware of a warm odor rising from the fabric.
“Yes, you see, I've been working on your DNA. That's how I found out you were aboard. Um, your name is Christal, right?”
“Yeah. Christal Anaya.”
“Beautiful name.” He seemed to mean it.
“Thank you,” she said dryly, tilting her head in a questioning manner.
He took a step forward, hands spread in supplication. “Look, I just need information. You came from the United States, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you hear anything about a woman, Nancy Hartlee? She would have swum ashore off New York about a week and a half ago.”
Christal stared at him. The name rang a bell, but where had she … Sid. On the phone. “Nancy Hartlee? A young woman? Geneticist?”
He nodded, hope in his eyes.
“She drowned.”
She watched the hope in his eyes crumble to despair. He looked away, shoulders dropping. “Damn.”
“She was a friend of yours?”
He nodded faintly. “What … what did you hear?”
“A friend of mine, an FBI agent, went to New York. He's working on missing geneticists. She was on his list. When the medical examiner's office in New York alerted the Bureau as to a possible ID, he went up to verify it.”
Grief had mixed with hope when Brian looked up. “You're part of the investigation? Is that why you're here? They're looking for the
ZoeGen?”
“Not that I know of. If they are, my source didn't mention it to me.”
His intent stare left her uneasy. “You're in a great deal of danger.”
She kept trying to see past his concern. Real? Or faked? “Why should you care? For that matter, who are you? What are you doing here? Why shouldn't I throw you out of here like I should have done with Hank?”
He gave her a fond look. “Good point. I'm a geneticist. Like Nancy was … and the others of us here. Like you, I can't leave. They need my skills, at least for the time being. You, on the other hand, are entirely dispensable. We've got our sample.”
“Then, why am I here?”
“They're waiting for the Sheik. As I understand it, he wants to see you.”
She felt a cold flush down deep in her guts. “Does he?” She hesitated, seeing the worry in his eyes. “You can tell me, Brian. I gave up on fairy tales a long time ago. What's the rest? I'm supposed to take my place in his seraglio? Is that it? A little rape before they throw me to the sharks like your friend Nancy?”
“Oh, no. Not like that. First off, Nancy dove overboard on her own. She was a brilliant swimmer, right? In high school. She thought she might make it to shore, tell the authorities what was going on out here. Perhaps save us all.”
“And the Sheik?”
Brian averted his eyes. “You're not a virgin, are you?”
“What?” Christal glared. “What kind of question is that?”
“If you're not a virgin, he's not interested.”
She just stared at him, hands clenched at her sides. Fear pumped adrenal unease through every vein.
Brian added, “It's something to do with his cultural upbringing, I believe. He won't take anything but a virgin to his bed. Before he'll have intercourse, she must be pure. His alone.” He made a dismissive gesture. “The stories are that he can't stand the idea of lying where another man has already lain.”
If anything her fear worsened. “Then, what on earth does he want with me? I haven't been a virgin since I was sixteen.”
“He wants to see exactly what you look like. I mean, how you will look when you finally go to his bed.”
“Whoa!” She raised her hands. “You lost me there.”
Brian wearily rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, Christal, you're going to be hearing a lot of shocking things, but the fact is, the Sheik isn't interested in you, but in how your duplicate will be when she comes to his bed in another fifteen years or so.”
Confused and wordless, she could only stare. He managed to look everywhere in the small cabin except into her eyes.
Her voice cracked as she asked, “You seem like a decent guy. How can you be part of this?”
He swallowed hard, turned away, and stepped to the porthole, where he looked out at the rolling ocean. “In the beginning, we were just afraid. We looked at our work as a way to buy time, to wait for an opportunity to escape. At first we didn't understand the amount of influence that Genesis Athena could wield. We always believed that the world would catch on. That the Royal Marines would land on the deck, and we'd be turned loose to expose this whole asinine mess. Time passes; things change.”
“Your friend McEwan doesn't seem to share your sentiments.”
In his profile she could see disgust. “Yes, well, Gregor would have been a shit no matter where he worked, or who he worked for. Most of us, the Westerners, have been replaced over the years with the Sheik's people. They came, studied the procedures, and have taken over the lab.” A grim
smile played. “Smart lad, Gregor. He's cut his security risk down to just me.”
“Smart? He seems to be one of them.”
“He is. He went right over to them when we figured out the potentials.”
“Why?”
“For a share of the profits, of course. Do you realize the potential this industry has? Genesis Athena controls the modern science of genetics. We can reproduce any organism that has ever lived if the DNA's intact; cure most of the genetic diseases. Technology developed here has been licensed to labs around the world. We're talking in terms of billions of dollars from that alone. Not to mention people who have lost children and want them back, or those who have lost a spouse. People will pay incredible sums for a second chance. They'll pawn their souls to cure a dying loved one.”
“And the celebrity DNA? Gregor mentioned Princess Diana.”
“That's what we call the luxury market. People like our dear Sheik. By the time he's done, his collection of the world's most beautiful women will be unmatched.”
“But they have to grow up first, right?”
Brian shrugged. “The Sheik is a very rich and powerful man who also happens to be young. He's smarter than so many of his peers in the Arab world. Most Arab leaders want to make life the way it was in the tenth century—reestablish the caliphate—and they're doomed to failure. With fuel cell technology, petroleum will eventually fade. The Gulf States that have lived off oil profits will have nothing to offer. The Sheik, however, wants to create the future. He expects to be one of the most powerful men in the world. If you ask me, it's as if he's challenging the Prophet himself.”
“These are
human beings
we're talking about! Not just cattle!”
“Is there any greater power, Christal, than the ability to control people? We're talking the ability to create, modify, utilize, and dispose of them. To own them, body and soul. That is the ultimate power, matched with unlimited money. The Sheik holds the future of humanity in his hands.”
Christal sank onto her bunk, trying to comprehend the immensity of Genesis Athena. Finally she asked, “How do they keep you? I mean, can't you jump overboard when the ship docks?”
“Docks where?” he asked. “
ZoeGen
puts in at select ports: Aden, Doha, Karachi, Bandar-e-Abbas, Tripoli. These places raise any flags? You'd be surprised how tight security can be.”
“Doesn't anything ever break? Don't they need parts? Something?”
“The machine shop is downstairs and aft. Out of bounds for us. Just like the Royal Australian Navy, we're supplied at sea by a tender. Food, water, fuel—it's all piped aboard, right?” He gestured around. “You have no idea what a perfect prison a ship can make. You're currently in the old crew section. It's completely sealed from the rest of the ship. There's one access in and out, and it's locked and guarded twenty-four hours a day. The other hatches are welded. The ventilation system is barred with titanium grating, but you'll trigger the pressure sensors under the ductwork before you get that far.”
“What about the cafeteria staff? How do they get in and out?”
He crossed his arms as he turned her way. “They're implanted with small subcutaneous chips. They don't make it past the controlled entry unless they provide a fingerprint, retinal scan, and the chip reads correctly.” The corners of his lips curled. “We thought about taking a sample and cloning one to get the fingerprint and retina, but the chip would still elude us.”
“I'm surprised you're not all nuts.”
“Oh, they take pretty good care of us. We get the latest movies, supervised access to the Internet, time off to read or study. The latter is encouraged, by the way. And we teach.”
“Teach?”
“Members of the Sheik's extended family, mostly. Them, and some other young people from around the Persian Gulf who are likely prospects.”
“What do you mean, likely prospects?”
“As I said, the Sheik knows that petroleum is only a temporary means of wealth. The world will find alternative sources of energy. When it does, the elite families in the Gulf will collapse like a house of cards. The Sheik's family and friends will be right there when it happens, but instead of oil, their monopoly will be molecular biology. If you want a cure for cancer, you'll be coming to the Sheik.”
“This is a nightmare.”
“Wasn't there a song? ‘Welcome to my Nightmare'?”
 
 
At the sound of his doorbell, Lymon padded down the hallway, crossed his living room, and looked through the small window in his front door. Movement had already activated his porch light; he could see Sheela standing there, expression pinched, her hair shining like flame in the light.
“Sheela?” Lymon asked as he opened the door. “What's wrong? What are you doing here?”
She stepped in, glanced around, and walked into his arms after he closed the door. “I needed to see you.”
He stood, holding her close, feeling her cool body against his. “You could have called. I would have—”
“No. I wanted out, Lymon. The dreams … God, nightmares, I mean.” She shook her head where it was buried against his shoulder.

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