Blake Schwendiman's Blog and Blook

Chapter 2

Wednesday, 09 March 2022 – 6:45 p.m. IST

The last sliver of sun faded into the horizon as Sireesha Naidu stood transfixed at her office window. Her view of Bangalore was rivaled by none. It had been her hard work and her effort that afforded this luxurious perspective. As the daylight faded, her office interior lighting adjusted itself automatically. For a brief second, Sireesha caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass.

Her dark eyes, focused and intense reflected a strength and vitality of youth. Her hands were manicured, her suit perfectly tailored for a figure that made women half her age resentful. She glanced at the reflection of her platinum wristwatch just as the tint of the window reduced to match the lighting and reduce internal glare. She turned her hand to see the watch. Five minutes, she thought.

She walked around the perimeter of her office, an enormous circular space with a full three hundred sixty degree view. The building was entirely occupied by the researchers and staff of Naidu BioGenics, the largest biotechnology and DNA research facility in India. It stood in the center of the Naidu Technical Park, a campus of ultramodern research facilities and manufacturing centers focusing on biotechnology, communications, and computer networking. Sireesha admired the park, but did not indulge in self aggrandizement. Her true goal was still years away from fruition. This development was simply a step along the path.

Moving quickly across the campus from the west, a motorcycle sped toward the central building. Dozens of the Naidu employees stopped to comment on the audacity of this rider. Not only was he completely without safety gear, the volume of the engine indicated a gasoline engine – something rarely seen in this era, especially on one of the most progressive campuses on the planet. Daniel Van Der Merwe was accustomed to the sidelong glances and the disgusted stares. His disinterest in political correctness was rivaled only by his apathy for humankind in general. He revved his bike and continued into the sublevel parking lot.

Sireesha accessed the security systems and traced Daniels movements through the building. He made his way through the external security and walked quickly to the high-speed elevators. His biosecurity implants provided the necessary credentials for access to the elevators.

“Apex,” he flatly instructed the elevator as he stepped inside. Only two people had direct access to the top floor of the building. Daniel was indifferent to the fact that he was one of them. It facilitated his employment, but represented no status in his life. He had no social circles to which this would be impressive.

Sireesha met Daniel at the elevator.

“Is everything in order?” she asked as he stepped out.

Daniel nodded.

Sireesha motioned to one of the wide exterior windows. The window transitioned from fully transparent to opaque, then brightened as a video display. On the display, a British reporter stood before an old building. The caption read Paul Davis: Live in New Delhi. The sound was low, but the reporter appeared to be discussing a recent advance in human cloning research. The building in the background came into focus. The façade of the building was a bit derelict, but the signage was new, Naidu Biolabs, it read.

The camera in the news report panned and the angle widened. It was dark outside, but there was clearly a crowd of protestors shouting toward the media and raising standards condemning human cloning. As the camera moved to focus on the reporter again, a flash burst onto the screen. Instantly the transmission cut to a central newsroom where a stunned anchorwoman stumbled to provide information. In a moment, the feed from New Delhi was restored. A frantic scene appeared. An explosion had ripped through the Naidu lab. The forward third of the building collapsed, fire rushed through the remainder.

Sireesha turned from the display. She turned to Daniel. Her eyes were stone, icy and dark. Behind her the display dimmed and the transparency of the window returned.

“That should catch his attention. The other message has been sent,” she said. No hint of emotion accompanied the statement. “Stay ahead of him.”

“I have some business here first,” Daniel responded. “Then I’ll leave for Durban.”

Chapter 1

Tuesday, 08 March 2022 – 2:25 p.m. MST

Though only nineteen, Thomas O’Grady presented himself with a polished charm and an oratory command that impressed and sometimes frustrated the politicians that were his future comrades and rivals. The son of the most powerful senator in the United States congress, his presence always drew the press. Thomas was respected in general, but he was just as likely to be the subject of a teen magazine article focusing on the merits of exfoliating skin creams as an exposition on the up-and-coming American political aficionados.

He stood at the base of the Dreamcatcher ski lift at Grand Targhee, a small, out-of-the-way ski resort in Idaho where he had hoped to avoid the press for just a day.

“How we deal with these issues is at the core of our humanity. While we may debate the ideological, philosophical and spiritual aspects of cloning for decades to come, we must come to action now. We do not have the luxury of eternity to prove these concepts. We are America. We set the standard both technically and ethically. We do now as we have in the past. We have a moral obligation to our past, our present and our future and we must decide and act today,” he finished, looking around the small group of local reporters.

“Mister O’Grady?” a young female reporter began.

“Please. Thomas. Mister O’Grady is my father.”

The group laughed.

“On a lighter note,” she continued, “we understand that you’re dating someone quite seriously now. Any chance we’ll be covering your wedding soon?”

Thomas hated those questions. He knew that being in the public eye would always bring scrutiny, but he never understood how his personal life was important to the media.

He made eye contact with the questioner. “When that day comes, make sure you bring your invitation.” His expression hardened for an instant then relaxed. “I only have two days here. It’s time I got about the business of skiing. You’ll please excuse me.”

Thomas shouldered his skis and expertly crossed the snow, meeting his younger brother Alan and his best friend Mike.

“Anything good?” Alan winked as Thomas arrived.

“Yeah,” he replied, “they asked about the last time I found you trying on mom’s shoes.” Thomas was more sensitive to personal questions lately and he knew it. He worked hard to cover that – it wasn’t in his nature to be frustrated by anyone. Especially not reporters. “Let’s get up there. No press at the top.”

Thomas led the way to the lift. “I love these old lifts. There’s something really exhilarating about being so...”

Thomas felt dizzy. He reached out to level himself and collapsed onto the hard snow. Alan and Mike rushed to his side.

“Tom?” Alan called. “Tom, what’s wrong?” Thomas writhed on the ground. His eyes reflected both fear and intense pain. He grasped the ground in terror as his mind spun in a whirlwind. He called out once, then it seemed he had no voice, no air. He shot forward, grabbed Alan and stared into his eyes.

“Help me!” His mind demanded. His body refused to echo the call.

“Help me.” Darkness collapsed inward. Silence.

* * *

Tuesday, 08 March 2022 – 4:25 p.m. EST

At five thirty, April knew it would finally be time for the party. Her father had been planning something special for this birthday. She knew it. She could see the excitement behind his eyes every time he spoke of it. He loved a secret and so did she, but now, with her eleventh birthday party just minutes away, April found it impossible to concentrate on anything. She sat over her homework, her pencil lightly dancing over the paper. She hadn’t done a thing.

She stood up. It was impossible to work now. “Maybe I better check my hair,” she thought. She had checked and re-checked. Her hair was perfect. Her clothes were perfect. She was ready for the party.

The door opened in the entrance on the main floor. It closed. April heard footsteps and the familiar muffled sound of her dad’s voice greeting her mom and younger brother.

“Daddy!” she called as she ran down the stairway.

“Who’s that?” came the reply.

“Daddy.” It was her you-know-who-it-is-and-I’m-not-amused voice. “It’s me.”

“Oh, yes, and who are you again?” he played.

“Daddy. Is it time?”

“Time? Time for what?” April’s father looked around.

“Daddy.”

He gave in. In a flash, April was scooped up and locked in a bear hug that only her daddy could endow. “It’s time. Let’s go.”

“Go?” April didn’t expect that. Her birthday party had always been at home. “Can you tell me where now?”

“Hmmmm. Nope. For eleventh birthdays, daddies get to keep everything secret.”

“Please?”

“Let me think about it.” He ran his fingers over his chin, pretending to stroke a beard. “Nope.”

April whined then giggled as she ran past her dad out into the front hallway. “I’ll beat you to the car,” she called back. “Last one in’s a rotten egg.” She twirled around, checking for anyone who might try to pass her up and nimbly bounced toward the front door. She reached up for the door.

Snap. Something inside April changed. She thought she heard a snap, then instantly her arms and legs tingled. April’s momentum continued to carry her forward, though her legs failed and collapsed under her weight. Her arms were useless in stopping her fall as she bounced into the hardwood door.

Somewhere behind her she heard screaming. It was distant, but it sounded like her mom. Someone lifted her head. Daddy!

* * *

Tuesday, 08 March 2022 – 3:25 p.m. CST

Ryland Ortega glided deftly over the ice, focused on the puck just passed to him. His skill on the ice, both as a hockey player and as a skater was known throughout his hometown of Conway. He was the best young player in the area. He was only thirteen years old, but he was taller and a bit bigger then most of the kids his age. He had always been a strong athlete.

“It’s like he senses the puck,” his mom always said when people asked about Ryland. “But he’s not just an athlete. He’s a straight A student, he plays the bassoon, and he’s a great cook.” Katherine Ortega beamed whenever she spoke of her only child.

Ryland caught the puck, positioned and shot.

“Goal!” the announcer called. He was clearly a fan of Ortega. “And Ortega snaps up another point for his team.” Really, the whole town was a fan of Ortega. In fact, most of the opposing team were fans. It was hard not to like Ryland. He was sociable, friendly and simply amazing on the ice.

He noted the praise of his teammates as he made a wide arc back to the opposing goal. Skating was like flying he always said. It made him feel free. Today he was playing as good as he ever had, maybe even better – and he felt it. He caught a glimpse of his mother as he sped down the rink. Instinctively he smiled.

“She’s always there,” he thought.

Ryland caught sight of the puck, set up and quickly switched direction. He crouched, lowing his center of gravity and minimize his presence as he moved in to intercept. He sped again, glanced quickly for defenders and dashed in. He grabbed the puck, turned to find his team and passed. Clack. The puck shot across the ice and all eyes followed it to the teammate.

Nobody saw Ryland falter. For the first time that he could remember he couldn’t get his feet under him. The retaining wall rushed toward him as he tried to regain control. It was too late. Every part of Ryland’s body felt numb. His senses dulled. He never felt the collision.

Prologue

Monday, 05 June 1995 – 8:48 a.m. MST

Quinn arched back away from his desk to stretch out. His fingers played quickly across the keyboard. He smiled. His first real job. He had graduated from Arizona State University in the spring of 1995. It had taken much longer than he had planned to get through his bachelor’s degree. He glanced up at the graduation card from his good friend, Bob. Congratulations! It read. You did it in just three terms – Reagan, Bush and Clinton!

He smiled again. He had interviewed at dozens of companies and had been offered four different jobs. It really was the job market he had hoped for. He finally settled on a small startup in Phoenix called AccuTel switches, a company specializing in high-speed networking equipment poised to take on the giants in the industry. Quinn knew that within a few short years his stock options would be worth millions, maybe more, and he was ready for it.

“Quinn, you’re needed in the conference room in ten minutes,” sounded the voice of the secretary over his desk phone. He lurched up instinctively, a little startled to be pulled out of his reverie.

“Thanks,” he called back, not completely sure if he could be heard. He pulled up his calendar and confirmed. He was expected to present his ideas for a better algorithm for packet loss identification and retransmission. He marveled at how fortunate he was to be able to make such a critical presentation to the whole company being so young. It was that which interested him the most about working for such a small company.

He glanced at his email inbox. It was cluttered and disorganized. Already a hundred new messages awaited response or categorization. “Spam”, he thought. His email reflected his generally disheveled manner in life. His small office was completely unorganized. Boxes of personal items still awaited unpacking. A small collection for the recycle bin formed behind his desk phone. The only time he had apparently spent in his office was to hang his authentic Revenge of the Jedi movie poster – one of the few – and to arrange a small Darth Vader diorama on his bookshelf.

No time like the present¸ he mused as he began opening his new email. Spam, spam, company, he thought to himself as he categorized items. Spam, spam, spam, Definitely Spam, he continued. Spam. He paused. He stared at the message for a moment.

To: qsorensen@sorensenaz.com

From: kbutler@worldcto.net

Date: Thu, 16 Dec 2004 23:38:23 -0000

Subject: Re: Interview

Mr. Sorensen,

Thank you for your quick response. I would be happy to meet with you after the holidays. My schedule is relatively free in the first week of 2005. I suggest meeting on Tuesday, the 4^th of January. Please confirm this time with my secretary as usual.

Sincerely,

Kevin Butler

Managing Editor

World CTO Magazine

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Quinn looked at the message for a moment longer. He began to drag the message into the trash bin. He paused then copied it into his personal folder. His calendar beeped, indicating that his presentation was about to begin.