Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
C.P. made a noise that could have meant anything, and given the way she was staring into the middle distance in front of her face, he knew he’d lost her attention.
“If this is not yours,” he said, “then I think there’s someone else out there looking for immortality.”
This got her to focus and her eyes shifted to his. “What do you mean?”
Daniel put his hand on the biomechanical soldier’s shoulder. “Whoever is making these has serious resources, and they’re not using them for medical research. This is about war—someone has developed and is testing a better-mousetrap soldier. So I’m curious, has Vita-12b or any of your compounds—do any of them have chemical weapon applications?”
C.P. recoiled. “No. I mean, we work with the immune system. Ten years ago, the original compound I was trying to develop was about reversing the aging process—or at least slowing it down. Through our results, we sidestepped into immunotherapy for cancer. That was when I hired Gus. I’ve been parallel processing the two strains of research ever since, but Vita was what took off. Mother Nature is stingy with her life cycle secrets, as it turns out. It’s not just about the length of the telomere.”
Daniel pursed his lips. “Okaaaay, I’m going to pretend I understood any of that. But my question stands. Are there any applications for warfare from your research?”
C.P. crossed her arms over her head physician and researcher’s fleece.
Former head researcher, that was, he tacked on.
Then one side of her lips lifted in a smile that absolutely did not reach her eyes. “Not that we’re aware of. But you know, just because you’re not looking for something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”
* * *
As Gus hopped onto the pediway that progressed out to the remote parking lot, he had a hard time believing that it was the last time he was making this smooth, gliding trip. And in the manner of a final passage, he found himself absorbing details he’d never noticed before: From the tube-like nature of the corridor to the all-white, George-Jetson-techno-futuristic design of everything, it all made him think of what an airport in 2050 was going to look like.
One thing wasn’t new. At the end of the ride, as he stepped off and the double doors automatically opened for him, he once again felt as though he’d been shit out into the garage.
While the stainless-steel panels clicked shut behind him, he stopped and looked back, marveling at how you didn’t always know when you were going to do something for the last time. When he’d come into work today? After he’d gone home to his rental house for just a shower, a change of clothes, and a bowl of cereal?
He hadn’t known his work with C.P. Phalen was going to end.
Walking over to his Tesla, he remembered arguing with her about the damn thing. And then he thought about nothing in particular as he drove out of the garage, hooked up with the rural road, and eventually found his way to the Northway.
His commute back and forth to the lab was a good twenty-five minutes in each direction, even if you assumed he went eighty, which he always did because his version of rush hour was either crack-of-ass early or red-eye late. And as for why the distance was necessary? Walters, New York, where C.P. had located her lab, was in the middle of nowhere. If you wanted to live in a town where you could order Thai food and get it Ubered to your door? You needed to put in the miles.
The next thing he knew, his headlights were washing over the front of the condo he’d been in for the last three years. Thanks to renting the modest, two-story crib, he’d banked plenty of scratch—in the back of his mind, he’d always known he wasn’t staying permanently, so there was no reason to commit a bunch of cash to a real estate anchor. Good thing he only had two months left on his lease, not that it would have mattered.
His new boss had put his money where his mouth was—
I’m not just putting my money where my mouth is—I’m putting my life on it.
As C.P.’s voice barged into his head like a squatter pitching a pup tent in the front yard, he punched the garage opener as if his forefinger were a fire poker.
Great. If these sound bites were the way shit was going to go from now on? He was going to lose it.
As the horizontal panels took their sweet time ascending their track, he glanced around at the condo development. There were probably fifty units circling a central core, and most of them had an extra vehicle in their short driveways or parallel parked on the street in front because no one had a two-car garage. Landscaping was kept to a minimum, but maintained well, and the streetlights were glowing peach in the darkness, turning the cold night into something that made him think of an old-fashioned movie set.