Fan Fiction ❯ Bad News ❯ Bad News ( One-Shot )

Okay! Little explanation here! I wrote this story eight years ago while working at OSU (can you tell?:-) I was just going over some old files and came upon it. You know how it is. You write something and forget all about it and then you look over something and there it is! So, I set this in the future and I wrote a scenario where they had a huge plague. Well, I noticed the date for the plague and it was 2002. I thought that was pretty funny that in 2002, I would come across this story after sop many years! So, I thought I would post it. See what you think! It's not too bad given it was my first attempt at science Fiction.

I call it, BAD NEWS

"We're just interviewing candidates at this time, you understand? This in no way guarantees your participation."

"I don't care." She persisted. "I simply must be included in this study." Monique had once been a beautiful woman. Now, at fifty-one, she was not unattractive, but her looks were declining and she was desperate to change that at any cost.

The interviewer looked up for a moment from his many forms to give her a penetrating stare. "You just have to answer one question. If you had the chance to look twenty again, would you do it, no matter what the risk?"

Monique looked down at her hands, noticing a new age spot as she did. Had it been there yesterday? "Yes."

The interviewer sat unblinking and unmoved. His world was not of flesh and blood, or the concern or care of it. It was in forms, charts, and correlating statistics at project's end. One's age was just another number and he already had to deal with far too many. He could not comprehend Monique's turmoil, therefore, he could not fathom her sincerity. "Are you sure?"

Monique put on a confident front if for no one but herself. "I am sure." She insisted. "I am so sure, I would lie, kill or sell my body to be in this study."

The interviewer betrayed no more humor than he had compassion. "That is exactly what you would be doing, Ms. Connifer."

Monique immediately lost her smile. She wanted to be angry with him but, she knew she could not. He was essentially right. With the benefits she could derive, she would be willing to sell her body and anyone else she knew to get in this study.

The interviewer looked down again at his desk, shuffling among the focal points of his very existence. "You seem to meet all the qualifications. Should we need any further information, we will contact you."

Probably recited that last bit, several hundred times that morning at least, Monique mused to herself. It was not beyond the bounds of reality, considering the volume of applicants Monique had observed. Polite and to the point, though. Don't let the door hit you on your way out.

"Two minutes!"

Averi launched down the corridor toward Studio Eight barely noticing the many offices now vacant since the merger. He wouldn't have noticed them at all had he not paused to reflect on his passing profile in their darkened windows. It was not the pleasant experience he had anticipated.

"Son of a bitch! Makeup botched it again!" Averi quickly and discreetly smoothed into his hairline, the artificial skinplast that covered what once was his perfect face. Never knew when some sneaky bastard with a camera could embarrass him in the tabloids. If his audience suspected for a moment he didn't look absolutely perfect, he might as well find himself a newspaper column on the travel pages. This was the third time this month makeup blew it! Averi soothed his fury with visions of firing makeup's entire staff when this broadcast was over.

"What's the word, Neil?" Averi charged into Studio Eight with an enthusiasm not shared by his set director. The hot lights glared off Neil's bald spot with a sheen of nervous perspiration as he hurled himself from one technical crisis to another. His haggard and anxious features, exposed someone growing old fast from meeting the constant demands of his ambitious employer.

"The word for today is small." Neil answered with as much dry sarcasm as he could muster between quick bites of what constituted lunch and dinner. Neil hunched over a monitor doing camera checks. The unholy glow from the monitor illuminated Neil's face in stark contrasts, making him appear stern and sinister. He motioned toward the audience without looking up. "I told you ratings would slip if you kept attacking that girl's reputation. Sexual harassment is still a sensitive issue, you know."

"Her legs were open anytime I came near her." Averi sneered. "Now that she's filed that damn civil suit, she plays the victim anytime a camera gets near her. A successful businessman should expect a few luxuries in life. I thought the backlash against feminism took care of this sort of thing!"

"Sixty seconds!"

The sound and vid managers gave Averi a 'thumbs up' from the control booth. Averi suppressed his desire to give them the finger. He checked his profile from the off-camera, display. What could he say! The skinplast was flawless on camera. The gray in his hair glinted silver in the hot lights. He struck a trimmer pose since he put that dietician on his staff. Averi, the package, had never looked better!

"Ten seconds!"

The usual bouncy intro music played in sync with the equally usual on-line graphics. "Three, two, one." Neil pointed to Averi as Averi advanced to take his position on the 'X' which indicated his first mark before the camera. Averi with an I was on-line.

"In the past, plastic surgery was a multimillion share industry. However, the dream of eternal youth has suffered a major setback. Antibiotic resistant strains of bacteria have made all but lifesaving surgeries too hazardous to risk. Are some people willing to risk lethal infections to obtain the dream of youth and beauty?" Averi walked over to a row of seated people obscured in shadows.

"Dr. Thomas A. Porter, of Dycon Research Laboratories, has for twenty-five years worked as a researcher in the field of biogenetics. Within this research, Dr. Porter has come upon a discovery that far exceeds many people's wildest dreams of youth and beauty."

Dr. Porter winced slightly as the first overhead light came on. It revealed a person unaccustomed to the spotlight, but who could soon get used to it. His restless intellect was vivid in his blue gray eyes as they darted over the crowd, surveying it for every scrap of information he could take in at a glance--every line, every flaw.

"Dr. Porter believes he has developed a process that will forever change the way in which women and men regard youth and beauty." Averi flashed the audience one of his trademark smiles. "He claims that after you see today's show, you will never put yourself under the knife to obtain youth and beauty, again."

The audience leaned forward in rapt attention. This was the kind of stuff they ate up and Averi knew it. A potion that solves all your problems. Live hard and still look beautiful. Have your cake and eat it too. Averi would have milked this a little longer, unfortunately, he only had so much bandwidth to work with. That meant his show had to move at a fast pace and Averi had to talk even faster. With a melodramatic wave of his hand, Averi motioned toward the silhouette seated next to Dr. Porter.

"I give you, Monique!" The next overhead light rose, obliterating the silhouette and replacing it with Monique. If Dr. Porter winced at the harsh light of publicity, then Monique positively blanched. Without looking, she reached out a hand to steady herself on Dr. Porter's forearm. Dr. Porter glanced at her with a small frown of disapproval and Monique quickly withdrew her hand. Monique's small build and Mediterranean features were a startling contrast to her aging counterpart. Her aquiline nose was not incongruent on her lovely dark features. It rather gave her a look of intelligence that also burned in her eyes with their own intensity and fever.

Averi glanced from Porter to Monique. "Dr. Porter," Averi said with feigned confusion, "I don't see what is so unusual about this young lady. She is very beautiful, yes. Most women in their twenties, are!"

"That is just it, Mr. Averi. Monique is not in her twenties." Dr. Porter turned to

Monique as if addressing a very small, star pupil. "Tell the audience how old you are, Monique."

Monique coughed nervously and responded in a quiet voice, "I'm fifty-two." She looked up balefully as voices in the audience barked for her to speak up. She repeated a little more loudly and sharply, "I'm fifty-two!"

It was impossible! There were gasps and whispers of disbelief from the audience. There was no sign from her dark hair, her flawless face, or her figure that she was one day over thirty years old! Averi furled another arm toward Monique as if he were displaying wares for sale. It was a motion not lost on Monique as she gave him a withering look for good measure.

Averi turned to the person seated next to Monique. "On the other side of this issue is Dr. Michael H. Crawford. Dr. Crawford believes that aging or the prolongation of youth is a part of human evolution that science should not interfere with in any way."

Dr. Crawford's graying hair and full waistline suggested a man at the age and place in life where he might have preferred a more sedentary lifestyle. His manner, however, was completely to the contrary. As the overhead spotlight gave Dr. Crawford recognition, he leaned forward in agitation--an agitation borne of his desire to be heard and heard first.

Dr. Crawford, nevertheless, was quickly disappointed.

"We will begin this discussion after our first break."

"And how are we doing?" Dr. Porter asked lightly. "Obviously, you are not in our control group." Monique blushed. It had been several weeks since she was just another number in a queue of applicants for this study. She was glad she could use her name now.

Dr. Porter nodded as he flashed a light in her eyes and observed her face and hands. The skin on her hands had lost its rough appearance and the age spots were completely gone. Dr. Porter appeared very pleased at her progress. Monique felt an odd sort of pride in how her progress pleased Dr. Porter. She chided herself for feeling that way. It was nothing she had done. It was his process, after all. Yet, she could not help feeling elated when he was pleased with her, regardless of whether it really was with her or not.

Dr. Porter turned her arm over and noticed a small pustule in the crook of her arm. His expression changed from smiling to an acerbic frown. Monique immediately felt crushed. She had so enjoyed it when he was pleased with her.

Dr. Porter noted the crestfallen look on his test subject's face and patted her arm reassuringly. "That little pimple on your arm, how long have you had it?"

Monique looked at the little bump on her arm. Hardly a reason to get upset, as far as she was concerned. After all it wasn't an age spot! "I don't know." She said indifferently. "It's the first time I noticed it."

Dr. Porter smiled that same tight smile she had seen on the interviewer's face the first day. "You let me know if you see any more of those, will you?"

"Of course." Monique assured him.

"Are you still having trouble with headaches?" Dr. Porter asked pleasantly. Monique nodded. Dr. Porter patted her arm again.

Why won't he just tell me if he suspects something, Monique thought furiously. I am being patronized like a child! The problem was she was not sure if she preferred it that way. What if Porter really suspected something was wrong? Would she really want to know until he was sure?

"Now back to our show." Averi unfurled his hand toward Dr. Porter. "Dr. Porter, if you will start our discussion."

Dr. Porter gave a curt bow and then began quite simply. "What is aging? Why do we start out so perfect and then slowly decline over time? Our skin that once was so supple, starts to wrinkle and sag. The ability to run or walk, becomes a memory. Even your memories and the mind itself degrades. Is it not because our cells lose the ability to properly replicate themselves? Instead, the body manufactures imperfect copies that never fully replace the original, eventually causing aging and death. If there was a process that could replace the information lost the body requires to make perfect copies, would it not be a boon to humanity?"

Dr. Crawford took that moment to interject. "This makes the assumption that the human body is meant to continue indefinitely. That it is not part of evolution for the human body to gradually age and die."

Dr. Porter eyed his opponent with all the contempt he would have for a global warmer. "I take it that you believe that prolongation of youth violates some sort of ethic?" Dr. Porter smiled with a reserved air.

"This is not about ethics!" Crawford thundered. "This is about evolution!"

"Evolution?" Dr. Porter chortled.

"Yes!" Dr. Crawford exploded. "Terminating life spans resulting from the evolution of cell death is a necessary key to survival."

"Don't you think that death and survival are a bit of a contradiction in terms?" Dr. Porter steepled his fingers in feigned innocence.

"Not in any sense of either word," Dr. Crawford returned with disdain. "You know very well the population limits of this planet per generation. If your process should cause people to outlive that generational limit, the resulting population explosion could be catastrophic!"

"Possibly, you hope to resurrect Social Darwinism." Dr. Porter chortled.

"This is not about an outmoded tenet for elitism!" Dr. Crawford remonstrated, his voice rising with his temper. "This is about an ever burgeoning world population already stretched to its limits. Your tampering with the very course of human evolution could jeopardize future generations!"

"My dear sir," Dr. Porter enthused, "how you love to exaggerate! I hardly think my process could change the entire course of evolution any more than plastic surgery changed the appearance of everyone. First of all, it is cost-preemptive."

"Just what is that supposed to mean?" Dr. Crawford eyed his opponent cautiously.

"Just this." Dr. Porter replied as patronizing as his voice could subtly convey. "Not every person desiring plastic surgery obtained it, primarily because of the expense. My process is in the forefront of genetic engineering. Certainly, you don't put any credence in the notion it will be available over the counter any time in the foreseeable future? Not at least until the Food and Drug Coalition approves it for that purpose. That could take decades and it would only be available in nonprescription strength."

"Of course," Dr. Crawford said scornfully. "I should have known. Beauty and long life for the highest bidder? An elite class of beautiful people?" A dark expression crossed Dr. Crawford's face. "It gives new meaning to the term social engineering."

"What is more important," Dr. Porter continued in a vain attempt to ignore Dr. Crawford's last remark, "this is a method to ensure those who can afford it, need not risk their health for beauty or longevity. Let us be practical for the moment, Dr. Crawford. What about personalities in the entertainment industry whose very livelihood depends on their appearance? What would you have these unhappy people do, hmm? Surely, you recognize the risk involved with conventional surgery. Since, pathogens have become immune to antibiotics, these procedures are far too dangerous. Wouldn't you want a better way if it were available? If you had the chance to look and feel the way you did at forty, at thirty, or at twenty, wouldn't you do it?"

Dr. Crawford looked at his opponent with increasing impatience. "Have you told these wonderful," he broke off, tersely waving a hand toward the studio audience. It was an action that did nothing to endear himself with them. "Have you told these wonderful people, how you intend to do this?"

"That's a good question, Doctor," Averi interjected and then acquiesced with a smile, "Doctors, but how exactly is this miracle done?

With condescending politeness, Porter leaned over toward Crawford as if to give him the first crack at it. Dr. Crawford was in no mood for Porter's games, and tersely waved a hand back at Porter to continue. Dr. Porter leaned portentously back in his chair; which he thought at the moment could have been more thickly cushioned. When he thought he had given the moment the proper dramatic pause, he continued.

"First, it would help the audience comprehend my procedure, if I could give them a short, verbal schematic. Human reproduction of cells depends on chemical information, known as DNA. As one ages, cells become less efficient in reading this information, generating incomplete copies or even wrong copies of themselves. These wrong copies, such as cancers, become an enemy to the body instead of an ally. This explains why the body eventually dies. It simply loses the ability to replicate itself, on a cellular level. I believe the key here is the loss of the genetic material needed by the cells to make the correct copies. This brings us to a long known adversary: The virus."

"For more than forty years, medical science has endeavored to engineer viruses to invade cells to replace defective genes. The experiments on cystic fibrosis proved that this could be done. You have perhaps heard of this?" Dr. Porter looked around him for confirmation, but was quickly disappointed.

Dr. Porter persevered. "Exactly what are viruses, you might ask? One might assume that viruses are simply living creatures, not unlike bacteria, which are simply far more minute. However, they are far more simplistic and far more complex! Viruses are coils of DNA or RNA in a protein membrane; the very information for life. Yet, without a host, the virus is as without life as a grain of rice that cannot come to life until it is planted. Viruses must also invade the cell of a host body in order to live. Upon invading a cell in a host body, a virus will quickly uncoil and go to work 'reprogramming' the cell to make more copies of the virus. Eventually, the cell makes so many copies of the virus, the cell bursts, effectively killing the host cell. These new copies of the original virus then spill out to invade other cells and the process begins again. This process then continues repeatedly until either the infection is halted or the host body slips into a coma and dies."

Averi interrupted at this point with a tone of concern--not so much for the subject matter, as from the squeamish looks from his audience.

"That sounds quite interesting! Dr. Porter will continue with further explanation, right after this."

The lab technician reviewed the notes again, becoming increasingly agitated as he read. "Your process is a failure."

"On the contrary," Dr. Porter countered in his usual assured manner, "my process is a success!"

The lab technician was appalled at his benefactor's confidence. "Surely, you can't be serious! Your most promising subject has contracted papilloma. You know what that means!"

"Has she or has she not responded to the thalidomide?" Dr. Porter asked impatiently.

"Of course she has, you know that!" The lab technician answered in exasperation. "But for how long? The hybrid reacted as you projected, but now it is mutating. We are losing control!"

"This is my process." Dr. Porter reminded him unnecessarily. "It was my vision that got us this far. Otherwise, we would still be filing the permits to use human test subjects. I will decide when we are losing control and not before!"

"You call it your process." The lab technician responded in disgust. "You make it sound like you have created some damn machine. Machines don't mutate or out compete their neighbors. Machines don't evolve to overcome the pressures put on them by their environment--and that includes your interference. Altering an individual or an entire colony is one thing, but altering the entire course of evolution is quite another. Evolution is about overcoming obstacles to survive. This virus developed a way to overcome just about any obstacle before you were deluded enough to think you could make it safe."

"The signs are very encouraging." Dr. Porter assured his subordinate. "It has worked exactly as I projected it would. It is a very positive beginning."

A cold sheen of sweat began to stand out on the lab technician's forehead. "Are you insane? This hybrid you have created has gone into reverse transcriptase. What did you expect? Viruses exist to overcome and survive. This virus already had a strategy for survival! Your engineering simply interrupted that strategy. It didn't stop it. You never thought what could happen after your hybrid did your bidding, did you? It is mutating out of control. Don't you understand? There is no way to stop it."

"Nonsense." Dr. Porter dismissed what he considered mere trivialities. "We have halted the hybrid's progression and will just have to wait until her immune system takes over."

"And if it continues to mutate?" That cold sheen of sweat had now moved down to include the lab technician's upper lip.

"Then," Dr. Porter began slowly as if loathe in admitting an alternative, "the thalidomide will hold it at bay, and she will live the rest of a normal life span."

"The concept behind this process was to prolong the life span!" The lab technician wished he had never gotten involved with this study. It was becoming obvious to him that in Dr. Porter's haste to succeed, he was less than objective.

"And it will, my dear sir!" Dr. Porter patiently soothed. "Eventually, we will make it work. In the interim, we cannot ignore what we have accomplished. We have halted and actually reversed aging. You cannot deny that this is so!"

"Yes!" The lab technician conceded tiredly. "But for how long? You engineered your hybrid with a killer! You concealed that fact from me, when I agreed to be part of this study!"

"What is there to conceal?" Dr. Porter replied. "It is a known killer that also uses the pathways in the body we needed to deliver our hybrid. Any other virus would have overwhelmed the immune system too quickly or vice versa. to be practical. I have genetically engineered this hybrid to use the survival strategy of this particular virus, while delivering the genetic material I need delivered to the target areas. Say what you like about side effects. My process is working!"

"Side effects!" The lab technician exploded. "She is dying!"

"Non Sequitur!" Dr. Porter chided derisively. "This is a minor setback. There are always failures on the road to success. Do you think Pasteur did not have his setbacks? We now know that we will have to greatly enhance the DNA in the hybrid and diminish the content of the original RNA makeup. Next time, we will not fail."

"Setback? Next time? You can't be serious! What happens when this woman realizes she is dying!" The lab technician demanded in a panicky voice.

"My dear sir," Dr. Porter spread his arms outward for dramatic emphasis, "there is nothing wrong with her that isn't wrong with anyone else! The thalidomide is keeping any symptoms in check. She will live the rest of a normal life and die, just like everyone else. I never promised immortality!"

"But, you infected her, without her knowledge, with something that will eventually kill her!" The lab technician almost whined as if hoping for some word of comfort or reason.

Dr. Porter waved a hand at him as if he were a minor irritant. "I did nothing of the kind. She volunteered for this study."

"Do you think she would have volunteered, if she had known what you intended to inject her with?" The lab technician straightforwardly accused.

"Frankly, no." Dr. Porter looked down as if not wishing to broach this subject. He took a deep breath. He was tired and disliked explaining himself. Porter looked up at the lab technician in what he hoped was an expression of frankness. "Other than the scientists assisting in the engineering of the hybrid, I did not feel it necessary to make the process common knowledge. As the old saying goes, 'too many cooks spoil the broth.' When there are too many hands, there is a greater chance of losing control over the study. The objections you raise confirm, that this was the right thing to do."

"Don't give me that! You didn't tell us because you knew we understood the implications. She doesn't! She's just desperate enough to try anything and stupid enough to trust you. You knowingly injected her with something you know will kill her and all because you wanted to take a short cut. That's it, isn't it? There was money to be made and you couldn't wait to stick your hands in it. Why take the long road in research when there's a quick fix? You could get the quick results and have the jump on anyone else seeking a patent for the same research. Don't you remember what it was like when this virus was out of control and what had to be done to control it? Now, you have engineered it to so closely mimic human DNA it might be undetected by any blood test. What happens when she finds out she is dying? She will ruin us!"

Dr. Porter eyed him with amusement as if reasoning with a child. "We can keep it tied up in the courts for years before she collects. That is, if she lives that long. Once we have the product on the market, the profits will more than compensate for any legal repercussions that might arise. Besides, as you said yourself, it closely mimics human DNA. Who says she has to find out? Unless you know what to look for, it is practically impossible to detect. As a matter of fact, the only ones who can detect it are on this staff."

The lab technician began to feel very ill inside. The sickness washed over him like the medical waste he knew Dycon was dumping in the Atlantic. It clung to him with the filth of complicity and the stink of money. It crushed his next words into a hoarse whisper. "You unfeeling bastard, and God help me, I'm no better."

Dr. Porter was an unmovable object. A fixed point of ambition that no words could move or change. "She is in her fifties already. With the thalidomide holding symptoms at bay, she will probably live until seventy or so before any serious symptoms surface. No one will think it unusual that a woman over seventy dies of pneumonia or other related ailment. Long before that time, we will find a way to correct the problem."

"It is all well and good using thalidomide on a woman past her child bearing years, but you can't use it on every woman." The lab technician protested. Then a new thought occurred to him. "That is why you only let a few scientists know the true nature of the hybrid virus, isn't it? So, you could control the information that leaked out. Gives new meaning to the old saying about living fast and leaving a beautiful corpse."

Dr. Porter looked for a moment as if he would answer, but then smiled and walked away leaving the lab technician to look on in bewilderment. He looked down at the clipboard again, willing beyond hope, there would be some missing information he would discover this time. Something that would give him another diagnosis. The test would not lie even for him. He dropped the clipboard in disgust. If only he could do the same thing with this study. That was impossible, and he knew it. Porter's ruthlessness would not stop at his test subjects. Knowing that, however, didn't make living with himself any easier. He picked up the clipboard and walked to his next destination, his feet clattering down the sterile corridors, echoing into silence.

"And we are back! Excuse me, Dr. Porter, but what does the virus have to do with this beautiful creature?" Averi motioned toward Monique. Monique tried to conceal her contempt at his comment, but not with any great effort.

"Exactly what I think the rest of us would like to know!" Dr. Crawford said with a feral light in his eyes.

Dr. Porter flinched with annoyance, but continued. "Viruses are pure information, DNA or RNA, in a protein membrane--the instructions to make a new generation of viruses. Through genetic engineering, we can splice into a virus our own information, in other words, DNA. We can produce emissaries that instead of slipping into host cells to reproduce their own kind, pass on information to manufacture younger looking human cells. Instead of a person infected with a potential killer, we have a person infected with the genetic information of youth." Dr. Porter nodded toward Monique with the satisfaction of a successful experiment.

Crawford shook his head incredulously. "You left out a vital piece of information in your explanation, didn't you?"

"That being?" Dr. Porter gave his opponent a sidelong glance.

"Viruses do not generate perfect copies of themselves. They constantly mutate. Viruses are the fastest evolving life-forms on the planet. Your genetic experiments cannot change that fact."

"It's not fact that I'm am changing here, Dr. Crawford. What I am changing is information--DNA and RNA, pure information in a protein membrane." Dr. Porter said with the passion borne of his convictions or lack thereof. "That is what I am modifying with my own information to do anything your own human DNA can do, only better."

"Then will you please explain how you keep your little emissaries on their predetermined course?" Dr. Crawford queried pointedly.

"That's a very good question." Averi interjected to the obvious exasperation of the two protagonists. "We'll examine this question after taking a few questions from our studio audience."

Averi was dashing up the aisles before his protagonists could make any protest. Not that it would have made any difference with Averi. Averi was too busy running a microphone into the audience to know or care about his guests objections. The first person he handed the microphone feigned bashfulness, but not with any great success. Her tight clothing and overly large hoop earrings said enough on how she felt about the attentions of others.

"Yes, Mr. Averi."

"With an I!" Averi unnecessarily reminded, pointing to his logo behind him.

"Yes," the woman continued with an irritated edge to her voice, "well, I would like to ask Dr. Porter one question. Isn't it dangerous to try to use something that's, well, so dangerous?"

"Not at all." Dr. Porter responded with an air of authority. "Fire has the potential for great destruction and yet we use it regularly as an aid for the advancement of humanity. Indeed, what advancements would we have made without the discovery of fire?"

"But you can't put out a pandemic by pouring a bucket of water on it." Dr. Crawford countered.

"Don't be facetious!" Dr. Porter spat out in disgust.

"What's a pandemic?" The woman asked twirling a finger in one of her earrings.

"This is!" Dr. Crawford excitedly waved a hand toward his opponent and Monique. "This whole travesty of science is a disaster in the making!"

Porter suppressed his desire to roll his eyes, which he felt would be far beneath him. Instead, he crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair to express his disapproval of his opponent's excitable nature--an action that again reminded him that the cushioning was far from perfect.

It was obvious even to Averi, this was disintegrating into some rather lowbrow tabloid hype. Good! As long as no one threw chairs, he intended to fan the flames. Averi carnivorously scanned the audience for anyone sure to infuriate his protagonists further. Nothing like a bunch of stupid questions to really exasperate a couple of academicians. Judging by his usual studio audience, this shouldn't be hard at all. He dashed up the aisles gleefully.

Deborah Carey had been a lovely woman in her youth. She married young and with her older husband, had four children. Now, at the age of eighty-five, her husband was dead, and her kids only visited once a year near Mother's Day, when they remembered. She lived all alone in a neighborhood that had once been quiet and beautiful. That was a long time ago when her children were small and her mortgage was large.

It had been just another day of loneliness for Deborah when she got the chance to be in Averi with an I's studio audience. At least she didn't have to watch the program alone. It was a chance to be with other people. It was too good to be true when Averi himself came up the aisles toward her. She stood up before he had even reached her seat.

Averi smiled warmly at her. Deborah smiled back with genuine warmness. How long had it been since a young man smiled at her like that! Far too long, Deborah thought sadly.

"Hello darlin'," Averi worked his charm on her. "Why don't you tell the audience your name and how old you are?"

Deborah blushed shyly. "Deborah Carey, and I am eighty-five." The audience sparsely applauded. Deborah nodded nervously in recognition of their halfhearted attempt at politeness.

Averi was taking far more time for this than either of his guests would have preferred. Averi knew this well enough and his intentions were to milk it for all it was worth until one of them cracked. "Well then, Deborah, what would you like to know."

"I was just wondering," Deborah asked hesitantly. "Is there a point of no return?"

The two protagonists swivelled their heads sharply at this question and then gave each other a sidelong glance.

"What I mean to say is," Deborah continued, even more hesitatingly. "Is there a point where you are too old for this thing to work?" Deborah looked hopefully, desperately, from one protagonist to the other, but they did not have to answer. She could read the answer in their eyes.

"Unfortunately," Dr. Porter began slowly, "the purpose of my system is to supply the genetic information to return normally aging cells to their peak performance. There is a decisive point where cells simply become too old and inefficient to return to their once efficient mode of replicating themselves."

Dr. Crawford leaned forward with a gleam in his eyes. "So you admit that this process is not a cure-all!"

"Of course not!" Dr. Porter thundered. "But since the failure of antibiotics, it is certainly preferable to surgery!"

Deborah watched as the two protagonists and Averi quite forgot all about her. Deborah looked from one to another and could not decide which one was worse. The small hope raised for Deborah had been dashed, and she would truly spend the rest of her life, old and alone. She inwardly chided herself for allowing herself such a hope at her age. There was nothing left for her in that studio and she slowly walked back to her home with its boarded windows and broken sidewalks.

The lab technician entered Monique's room as discreetly as possible. It didn't matter to him if everyone else considered the test subjects little more than laboratory rats, he could at least enter a room like they had some rights. A couple knocks while entering quietly, as far as he was concerned, was not too much to ask.

How long had Monique known him before she finally found out his name was Blinder? He didn't seem to have any other name, at least that was important to anyone else around the institute. Perhaps, it was a nickname? It was certainly obvious enough. The staff just called him Blinder and Monique went with that.

"Well I see we are doing much better." Blinder smiled tightly, peering at her over his ever present clipboard.

Monique couldn't help but note that everyone at the institute seemed to have the same smile. It was like the logos and security badges they wore on their lab coats, or the clipboards that were their constant companions. Something nameless unified them. Monique wasn't sure if it was fear or just mindless convention. Of the two, the former worried her the least.

"I was hoping to see Dr. Porter." Monique fretted anxiously and then felt guilty at having said it. "I, uh, I didn't mean I was sorry to see you."

"Of course not." Blinder's voice soothed unconvincingly.

"It's just that I don't see him anymore." Monique persisted. "Why doesn't he come to see me?" She almost demanded, but not quite. Blinder was her only friend at the institute and Monique knew she couldn't afford to presume on him too much.

"He's been busy, but he will be around." Blinder assured, trying his best to sound casual. His manner turned to one of concern. "You are not feeling sick again, are you? I thought your arms were doing much better?"

"Yes, yes, much better," she assured him impatiently. "The warts were all over my arm. They are all gone now."

"How about the headaches?" Blinder asked even more anxiously.

Monique lowered her head as if she were laying down the burdens of the world, squeezing the bridge of her nose. "I wish I could say they were better."

"They will improve in time." Blinder patted her arm as if he were Porter himself. She hated it when Porter did that. He patted her arm like she was a small puppy. When Blinder patted her arm, it didn't leave her with that feeling. His hands trembled slightly, and he actually made eye contact with her. His eyes were a rich hazel. She might have liked them in different circumstances. There was genuine concern in his touch, but also trepidation. He was holding back, and Monique wasn't quite sure if she preferred it that way.

"I would feel much better if I could hear Dr. Porter tell me that." Monique said pointedly.

Blinder smiled even more tightly. Monique was beginning to really hate that smile. If he had something to say, why in the hell didn't he just spit it out! His face looked like it was going to positively split open. It was like a dam threatening to burst at any moment, ready to catch Monique in its torrential wake.

Blinder just looked at the floor for a few moments and then sighed. It was a sound like the death of innocence or the sadness and wisdom born from it. It was a very tired sound. When he looked up again, Monique sensed a change. He didn't look like a dam holding back the inevitable anymore. He looked serious and yet relieved, as if he had made some terrible decision and was glad he had done so. The flood had won.

"Dr. Porter may be telling you a lot of things, very soon." Blinder began very slowly and deliberately. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. We were so wrong, but I can't stop now."

"What are you talking about?" Monique demanded sharply, tired of the mystery.

"Just that I made a bad decision and I intend to put it right with Dr. Porter." Blinder smiled at her. It was warm and genuine, yet somehow sad. Blinder patted her arm again and walked out.

Monique started rubbing her arms as if there was some contagion on them she could scrape off with her furious scrubbing. She was beginning to feel sullied by the whole atmosphere of the place. They were always patting her arms! She hated it. How she hated it. She walked over to the sink in her room and looked in the mirror. A face, she no longer knew, looked back. It was absolutely flawless, seamless, down right surreal. Why had she wanted this so badly and now that she had it, it frightened her? No longer had she control over her own body. It was a lump of clay the gods of market forces and the prophets of research fashioned to their own tastes. That's how Porter would think of it and himself, she thought bitterly. I found a face I lost long ago and I lost myself in the process. Maybe, age has a purpose, Monique thought staring at the stranger she had become. It left behind the person you no longer are, and gave you a chance to turn the page.

She was tired of thinking about it and it was not helping her headache. She left her musing and her mirror to lie down in blessed forgetful sleep, if only for a while.

"Welcome back to the show!" Averi turned to Crawford to ask him to continue, but Crawford was out of the gate before Averi could give him the nod.

"And just what happens to the immune system in your wonderful process or have you forgotten about autoimmune diseases, hmm?" Dr. Crawford eyed his opponent sardonically. "A massive infection of even the 'healthiest' virus could cause a violent auto-immune reaction. Especially, if you plan to infect so many tissues at once. Your virus will overwhelm the immune system or vice versa. Either one would be detrimental to your patient, don't you think?"

Dr. Porter's eyes twinkled with patronizing amusement, hooking a thumb toward the subject of his experiments. "Monique here is healthy enough."

"Yes, what about Monique?" Dr. Crawford asked, turning his attentions toward her. "For all the success of your experiments, your recipient seems very quiet on the subject."

Averi immediately picked up on this change of focus to Monique. He charged toward her thrusting the microphone like the weapon it was. "What do you have to say about all this?" Monique made as if to speak, but then faltered and eyed Dr. Porter, attempting to pick up her cue from him.

Dr. Porter quickly interceded. "Monique is unused to public speaking, and is not qualified to comment on the subject."

"Why not?" Dr. Crawford demanded, hoping to gain the upper hand in this verbal tetrad. He motioned toward Monique with superlative condescension. "Is she not a guest on this program also? Surely, as a by-product of your success, she is capable of hazarding some sort of opinion."

Monique's response was electric. She turned to address Dr. Crawford before Porter could intercede again. "I am not a scientist, Dr. Crawford, but that hardly makes me a 'by-product'." Her voice was tightly controlled, but still conveyed the proper amount of anger. "I came into this project fully informed of the pros and cons of participation. I took the risks and you see before you the results. There is an old saying that fits this situation. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Which one of us looks like they might be more familiar with it?" Monique smiled slyly and turned from Dr. Crawford dismissively.

Dr. Crawford's jaw twitched in anger. It ran red right up to the temples nestled in his thin graying hair. It was bad enough having to put up with Porter's self-importance; losing a battle of words to someone he considered little more than window dressing was simply intolerable. He had to take command of the situation immediately.

Dr. Crawford smiled sweetly. Leaning seductively toward her, he conveyed well enough his opinion of her and the importance of their discussion. "And with all this 'gainsaying', have you considered exactly what the cons are?"

"Such as?" Dr. Porter interceded, this time successfully, while giving Monique a quick warning out of one eye not to interfere any further.

"Such as my earlier question on how you expect to get around the human immune system? The immune system wouldn't know the difference between your virus and any other infection."

"I don't expect to get around it at all." Dr. Porter grinned knowingly. "It is engineered with human DNA. It is only an infection in terms of the method I use to deliver it. Therefore, one's own immune system would not react to it."

This was getting Crawford, nowhere. Porter was being intentionally evasive and what was worse, he was enjoying it. He had to pin him down on the specifics. "But how do you deliver it? You have told the means by which it travels, but not the 'road' it travels on. What, so to speak, is the route? Some viruses target nerve tissue, some lung tissue, some muscles, et cetera, et cetera. How do you infect an entire body with one virus, even a genetically engineered hybrid?"

"By using the immune system itself!" Porter exclaimed triumphantly, like an excited child telling a peer about a favorite toy.

"The macrophages?" Dr. Crawford absolutely paled and choked out his next sentence. "You can't be serious!"

"Quite serious!" Dr. Porter affirmed jovially. "In doing so, we can utilize the immune system to disperse the virus in the body. "

"But, this is too horrifying to even consider!" Dr. Crawford's voice rose to near hysteria. "Do you understand the full implications of this?"

"What implications can you mean?" Porter asked evenly with no suggestion of innocence.

"What are you two talking about?" Averi blurted out in exasperation at their constant bickering. They were definitely not taking into account that they were talking over just about everyone's head--including Averi's.

Dr. Crawford turned to Averi and for the first time Averi could see that there was no longer anger in his eyes. They were now hollow vaults of cold, dread fear. "HIV!"

Dr. Crawford hissed. "This madman is tampering with the virus that causes AIDS!"

"My dear sir," Dr. Porter countered as if Crawford were bringing up a mere trifle. "Monique is right here! If you can find HIV in her system, I will withdraw not only all my claims, but this product from the market."

Averi's heart pounded with Crawford's accusation. Averi's audience had become bored with the portentous bickering of the two protagonists. The very mention of the word AIDS galvanized the audience to attention borne of fear. There was no one who did not remember the great epidemic of 2002 and the drastic methods it took to bring it under control. The licensing reign of terror. The ghettos. It brought civilization to the brink.

Now the world was facing a new brink. Humanity in its folly, really believed it would wipe out all diseases before the turn of the century. Their boasts brought about a worse folly. Not only had bacteria not been wiped out, now they were antibiotic resistant, making them even more virulent than ever. A threat of an even worse killer would be enough to start an all scale panic and his show would be responsible for starting it. It would send the ratings through the roof! Averi could hardly contain his glee.

Dr. Porter looked from face to face as his own fear began to surface. The tide in this argument may have turned, at least in the eyes of the audience. That indeed concerned him. The marketability of his process pivoted on public opinion. "There are many viruses that target specific areas of the body. We have simply isolated information that specifically targets the macrophages, and have spliced that information into our own virus." He spoke in a calm and even voice, hoping it would have the same effect on the audience.

"What information or virus could you mean but HIV? It targets the macrophages!" Dr. Crawford exploded. "How could you possibly guarantee your virus would not mutate to a deadlier form of HIV through reverse transcriptase?" Dr. Crawford exploded.

"Mutate?" Averi asked suspiciously, getting as caught up in Crawford's words as everyone else.

"HIV is composed of RNA: ribonucleic acid. Reverse transcriptase is basically the process by which RNA is changed to mimic the double helical DNA strand of a human host cell. This DNA is inserted into the host cell's chromosome. Thereby, the host is forced to manufacture more viruses encoded with viral RNA. This process is very error prone, of course. If there is even one mistake in the copying of RNA into DNA and back into RNA, the result is a mutation. In reverse transcriptase, the mutations are prolific. The immune system cannot manufacture antibodies fast enough to combat these prolific mutations. HIV eventually just overwhelms the immune system."

"But my virus is engineered with DNA, not RNA." Dr. Porter countered, trying his best not to sound defensive. "How then do you account for this paranoia of yours regarding mutations?" Porter smiled shaking his head at Crawford as if assuring an imaginative child there were no monsters under the bed.

"Your genetic engineering cannot stop the mutations of natural selection." Dr. Crawford practically wrung his hands as he remonstrated with his colleague. "Your virus, is still driven by the same forces of survival. Those traits that make your virus more successful will eventually overcome anything you have engineered into it, and face it, HIV is an extremely successful pathogen. You may have engineered it with DNA, but the main force of HIV's survival is changing DNA back into RNA. Once your hybrid has done what it was engineered to do, what would stop this from occurring? This monstrosity could mutate into the killer you took it from.

Dr. Porter smiled, feigning amusement at his protagonist's apocalyptic warnings, but his eyes narrowed as he considered this bothersome man for the first time as a real threat. "Are you suggesting," Dr. Porter began with deceptive pleasantness, "in that fevered imagination of yours, that a killer virus would survive in a host body longer than a virus genetically engineered to work and live in the body as long as the host lives?"

"But HIV can be dormant in a host body for a decade or more before any symptoms occur!" Dr. Crawford remonstrated. "Your hybrid could work along predictable guidelines for years, without any indications of a problem. Don't you see? If part of the information contained in that hybrid is from HIV, isn't it possible that after a length of time, that information could go to work?"

Dr. Porter sat back in his chair and stared at Dr. Crawford, no longer concealing his distaste. He despised his lack of vision. Individuals of his ilk were only in the way of scientific progress or profit. Why couldn't they understand any sort of progress involved risk? Crawford would have to be discredited in some way and very soon. Porter had to keep public opinion swayed to his way of thinking. Shouldn't be too hard, he assured himself. There had to be some dirt he could find on him. Crawford would not be in his way for long. No one ever was.

"Do you understand," Dr. Crawford continued, not realizing at that moment his protagonist was considering his fate, "that macrophages are even in the brain fluid? If anything were to go wrong, with your hybrid, it could cause tumors, and dementia of the worst sort!"

"Surely you are not suggesting," Dr. Porter said in mock alarm, "that Monique here is going to suddenly foam at the mouth and leap for our throats?" Dr. Porter turned to Monique with deceptive mildness designed to conceal his rising anger. Monique pulled away. Monique knew well enough, when Porter was angry, he cared little whom he took that anger out on.

"Besides," Porter continued, "you have absolutely no proof at all that I am using HIV. Your conjectures make entertaining tabloid, but would hardly be taken seriously by the Food and Drug Coalition, which, for your information, has already approved my process. I say again, you will not find HIV in Monique. If you have any doubts, I insist you take a blood sample from her now." Monique shot Porter a quick glance. She hated needles, and Porter knew it. As far as she was concerned, she had been put through quite enough.

"The Food and Drug Coalition would approve anything for the right price. You know that! Why do you think cigarettes are still on the market?" Crawford finally lost all vestiges of patience.

Then Crawford's temper cooled as a cognitive light began burning in his eyes. "That wouldn't prove anything, would it? You've engineered it with human DNA. It so closely mimics normal cellular proteins on its outer sheath, it would be almost impossible to detect. That's what natural selection does. It takes advantage of those traits that benefit survival--any advantage at all. Of course, you know that. That's why you are not worried. Don't you see the nightmare in the making you have created here?" Crawford said the last in pleading desperation. If he had hope of reaching some inner core of reason in Porter, that hope died when he looked in Porter's eyes. They were as soulless as Averi's taste in studio furnishing.

Averi interrupted. "I'm afraid that is about all the bandwidth we have ladies and gentlemen." Averi said hurriedly as the arguments were running decidedly over the bandwidth they had been allotted. "Please tune in tomorrow for a nostalgic reunion of internet gender benders. Goodbye everybody!"

Monique breathed a sigh of relief. She would never have forgiven Porter if he had required her to submit to some half-assed blood letting for the public eye. She looked at Porter and Crawford as they continued to argue, oblivious to the fact that the program was over and no one was even paying attention to them. Monique brought her head down wearily to her hands. The headaches were worsening and their bickering did not help matters at all. Porter had assured her that this was just a temporary side effect, but he had been so insistent she accompany him on this show. She thought he could have waited until the side effects improved. The pain in her head was constant and as of late walking was uncomfortable from the boil on the sole of her foot.

Dr. Porter slid into the waiting limousine taking no notice of whether Monique was following him. One thing he had to admit about Averi, he spared no expense for his guests. The cushioning in the limousine fared far better than that dreadful studio. Monique slid in a few moments later. If she were annoyed at Porter's rudeness in not waiting for her, she made no sign of it, at least not outwardly.

"Well, my dear." She hated it when he called her that. "We did very well."

"According to Crawford, I'm not well at all." Monique responded dryly.

Porter bristled for a moment, then shrugged as if the allegation was the merest trifle. "Crawford is a lunatic who can prove none nothing. A side effect is not a pandemic."

Monique had a hard time believing Porter could take everything in stride as he did. "What if people believe, Crawford? Lunatic or not, if people believe his claims, surely no one will buy your product."

Porter patted her on the arm like a favorite pet. "How many years have people known the effects of smoking cigarettes? People die of lung cancer every year. Would you like to know the tobacco companies' profit margin last year?"

"But the headaches are getting worse." Monique protested. "You told me they were going to get better! I believed you. Everyone believes you. Why?" Monique shook her head tired and bewildered. "You have to be wrong. You simply must be!"

"You got what you wanted!" Porter's voice rose sharply. "You asked to be beautiful. You didn't ask how, you just asked me to do it. Well, I have done so! You can't have everything in life. There are always trade offs. Grow up and get used to it!"

Monique looked at Porter in amazement. It was the first time he had been forthright with her. It was a relief, even if it made her realize what a fool she had been.

Porter was a conscienceless sociopath, but he was also right. Monique had asked to be beautiful. She told the interviewer the first day she would lie, kill, or sell her body to be beautiful. In the end, she did all three. She lied to Crawford about knowing the pros or cons of the process. She didn't ask how it was done, and she didn't care how. She sold her own body for it. Now, her body didn't belong to her anymore. It belonged to Dycon. Just another public relations tool. Finally, Monique had killed to get what she wanted. She killed herself. Crawford had to be right. She was dying and it was far too late to ask questions now.

Monique smiled with bitter irony in her voice. "Like the old saying goes, huh?"

"What saying is that?" Porter murmured a bit distractedly.

"Live fast and leave a beautiful corpse." Monique said to Porter's laughter.

"What's so funny?" There were tears in Monique's eyes and she hardly thought it the time for laughter.

"Oh, it's just that Blinder said almost the same thing to me once." Porter said shaking his head bemused.

"Whatever happened to Blinder?" Monique asked curiously. "I haven't seen him since that morning, he told me he was going to speak to you. He sounded so upset. I've worried about him."

"Oh, you needn't worry about Blinder. He just had some problems he needed to attend to. I made sure he was taken care of." Porter smiled sweetly.

The pain in Monique's head was beginning to make her feel dazed. She laid her head in Porter's lap in defeated exhaustion. "And will you take care of me, also?"

"Of course, my dear." Dr. Porter said smiling even more sweetly. "I always take care of everybody."

"You have to be wrong about people buying something they know will kill them." She murmured against hope, falling into a hazy sleep. "People are smarter than that. You must be wrong."

Averi went back to his dressing room without bothering to have makeup remove their handiwork. The dressing room was dark and he didn't bother turning on the lights. He preferred being in the dark. It protected him from the reality in the mirror. With one hand he grasped the area that he had smoothed down earlier, pulling the layers off. Underneath was a face he wished he could forget. Roughened and haggard from fast living and the even faster pace of the years. He stared at his appearance with mixture of sadness and wonder.

His face looked so tired and wizened, but the eyes burned with the fire and ambition of the man he once was. Age couldn't change his eyes, why had it changed the rest of him?

He had the connections. Averi knew that. He would get a hold of Porter's wonder potion before it hit the market, no matter how many roadblocks the Food and Drug Coalition put in his way. Oh, how the bureaucrats love to make you wait for something when it is at their convenience. They had the convenience, but they didn't have a Senator desperate to keep himself off Averi's program.

Averi liked that sense of power. The Senator would get it for him, no questions asked. He damn well better if he planned to be reelected. What the Hell did it matter to Averi, if the 'wonder cure' eventually killed him? No one stayed in the business forever, and he'd leave one Hell of a corpse.