After a long absence, Jonathan Waterford returns home with a new look, new abilities, and a dangerous mission.
As the Lyft driver held out her card reader, she asked, “So, is this where they’re having the costume party?”
Jonathan smiled and tapped his credit card to the reader.
“Sure, this is the place. Everyone here will have on some sort of disguise.”
“At least they can tell who you are. I mean, they can still see your face, right?”
Jonathan nodded. “Yes. The real question is, will they recognize me?”
“Say again?”
“Never mind. Thanks for taking me all the way out here.”
“Hey, for what you paid, it was worth it. Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you to the mansion? I’ve heard that it’s quite a hike from here, and you aren’t exactly dressed for it. Even if they send a car for you, it could take a while to get here. I won’t charge extra.”
Jonathan could tell from the modulations in her voice that she was sincerely concerned about him, not trying to get a bigger fare. He estimated her to be in her late fifties, about as old as his mother would have been by now. For a moment, he wondered if his mother would have approved of his actions—but only for a moment.
“Thanks, I’ll be fine. I grew up in a…cold environment. I’m used to it.”
“Are you sure? My car thermometer says it’s 45 out there. It’s not t-shirt and shorts weather.”
Jonathan estimated it was more like 43.2 Fahrenheit, but he let that go.
“I appreciate it, but…they’re expecting me. I’m calling them now.” He held up his phone. “It won’t take them more than a minute.”
He hated fibbing, but it was less complicated that way.
“Okay, young man,” she said with a shrug, satisfied she had done due diligence. “You take care, alright?”
“I will. You have a good night.”
“You too.”
With that, Jonathan got out of the car. As his ride drove off, he put his phone away and turned to the gated entrance of his childhood home.
The wrought-iron gate and the white concrete walls hadn’t seemed that ominous when he lived here. Now, they were foreboding and uninviting. The harsh LED lighting Arthur installed over the entrance didn’t help.
Jonathan willed his vision to a higher level of sensitivity to chase away the dark shadows, hoping the scene would improve. It did not. He lowered his vision back down.
He stepped up to the kiosk located beside the gate entrance. A feminine voice boomed from the speaker.
“This is Waterford Mansion. Currently, we are not accepting visitors. Please vacate the…”
“This is Jonathan Waterford, requesting entrance into our humble abode.”
“…Jonathan, greetings. We were not expecting you this evening.”
“No shit.” Jonathan wasn’t sure his voice match would still work. At least, that hadn’t changed.
“Would you like me to inform your family that you have arrived?”
“Oh, no, no, please do not do that. Just open the gate, please.”
“Yes, Jonathan. Please place your palm against the scanner on the kiosk.”
Jonathan sighed. He hadn’t checked to see if his palmprint was still the same. Now he was going to find out. He placed his hand on the scanner.
The kiosk beeped for a few seconds, then the disembodied attendant spoke:
“I’m sorry, Jonathan, your palmprint does not match our current records. Do you wish me to summon the house or—?”
“Override, Waterford, Jonathan, access code Oscar-Kilo-Romeo-Mike-Eight-Five-Niner-Three-Tango.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Waterford, your access code was cancelled four months ago. To renew your access code, please enter your full Social Secur—”
“Cancel request.”
“Request cancelled. Is there anything else I can do for you, Jonathan?”
Jonathan considered his options, then said, “No, thanks. I’ll come back later.”
“Very well, Jonathan. Have a pleasant evening.”
Jonathan stepped up to the gate and peered between the bars. He ratcheted his vision back up again. He could see the laser beams crisscrossing the other side of the gate. He set them up last year to detect anything larger than a small squirrel. They covered an area that extended twelve—no, twelve point seven feet from the gate. Make it thirteen just to be sure.
He looked up. The sharp metal tips of the gate extended a good ten feet off the ground.
Jonathan turned around and crossed the road. He walked as far away from the fence as he could without standing in the drainage ditch. He had only six feet to run on the road before he had to jump. It was going to be difficult, even for him.
Jonathan knelt into a sprinter’s pose, then shot across the asphalt. At precisely thirteen feet from the fence, he launched himself into space. His body arced through the chilly December air. He stretched out his body as he passed a hairsbreadth over the top of the fence.
Thirteen feet inside the gate, Jonathan landed on his hands, tucked, rolled, and stood upright. He had turned down his senses in case he triggered any of the motion detectors. But there were no flashing lights, no alarms.
Jonathan felt a twinge on the outside portion of his left leg. Looking down, he saw a gash running from his knee to his ankle. He hadn’t completely cleared the gate after all. Jonathan closed his eyes, breathed in slowly, and concentrated. Blood trickled out of the wound for several seconds, then abated and was absorbed back into his skin. Within a few seconds, the cut sealed itself.
Jonathan smiled and started walking down the road toward the mansion.
Arthur Waterford enjoyed the silence. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the presence of his boys and his wife—most of the time. It was just that between the office havoc and the boys’ pyrotechnic science projects, he was constantly putting out fires, both metaphorical and literal. With the brood away and the staff out for the night, he and Emily could have indulged each other’s company in multiple rooms—but for some reason, neither of them had been in the mood.
Or, perhaps it was Arthur who wasn’t in the mood, and Emily was sweet enough to give him some space. She could have retreated to a room well removed from his study—after all, they were in the mansion, not the more modest townhouse they usually occupied in the city. But Emily knew it wasn’t the same as leaving him on his own for a few hours. She bequeathed him a double gift by going to see one of those art films she loved and he hated. She would extract her price later with a sexual demand of some sort. Arthur would pretend to be gently outraged, then reluctantly give in. It was a game they played—a fun game.
Now, though, was a perfect evening for that trashy novel he had been trying to get back to for a week. Arthur put on his sweats, sauntered to his study, and, book in hand, settled into his ratty easy chair.
The doorbell rang.
Arthur was irritated by the interruption. Then it hit him—how did someone get to one of the doors without triggering an alert?
“Computer! How many people are on the estate, including me?”
A pleasant feminine voice replied, “Two.”
“Designate their locations!”
“The Airlock and The Bridge.”
Arthur sighed. The boys had cracked the system password again.
“Restore locations renamed by Wally or Christopher back to their original names.”
“Done.”
“Designate their locations!”
“Wally and Christopher are currently at their grandmother’s estate in Venice…”
“Cancel! Designate the location and identity of everyone on the estate!”
“Arthur Waterford is in Arthur’s Study. A person of unknown identity is located on The Front Porch.”
“Display security feed from The Front Porch.”
“Displaying.”
The large-screen television came to life. A black-and-white image flashed on the screen.
Jonathan looked up into the camera and smiled.
“Hi, big bro. How’s it hangin’?”
Arthur’s jaw dropped. He stared at the screen in confusion.
“John?”
Jonathan said, “You need to unmute your microphone, Arthur.”
Arthur blinked, then said, “Unmute.”
“Mute off.”
“John?”
“There he is. You gonna let me in, or are we going to talk on the intercom all night?”
“What the hell, John? It’s been nine months. Where have you been?!”
Jonathan kept smiling that irritating smile.
“I know, long enough to have given birth, right? Let me in, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Arthur hesitated. Then he replied, “I need a minute. Wait there. Don’t go anywhere!”
“No problem. Take your time.”
“End security feed.”
The screen turned off.
Jonathan sighed and muttered to himself, “Same old Arthur. Didn’t even ask if I was cold.”
Fortunately, Jonathan was not cold—not even a little.
His book forgotten, Arthur quickly walked to the nearest bedroom to get a change of clothes. He started to put on his belt when he stopped in mid-buckle.
“Person of unknown identity?” he thought.
Arthur buckled his belt, started to speak, then, thinking better of it, picked up the tablet from his bedside table and tapped out on the keyboard.
Display Front Porch feed.
The high-def TV flared to life. To his disappointment, Jonathan was still there.
Confirm identity of person at the Front Door.
Identity unknown, printed out on the tablet.
Arthur pondered for a moment, then typed:
Compare identification markers of person at the Front Door with those of Jonathan Waterford.
Confirm 90% match.
“Oh, god,” Arthur thought. Still, he kept silent.
List mismatching markers.
The display showed a list of half a dozen items. Arthur’s fingers began to tremble.
Then it occurred to him: You need to unmute your microphone, Arthur.
How did Jonathan know Arthur was trying to talk to him?
Arthur checked the display to ensure that his audio was still muted. Then he asked, “Jonathan?”
Jonathan looked up at the camera.
“You can hear me, can’t you?”
Jonathan smiled. “Yes, Arthur, I can.”
“You bastard.”
“Hey! That’s uncalled for!”
“It’s very called for, John. What have you done?”
Jonathan sighed. “You know exactly what I’ve done, Arthur.”
Arthur didn’t bother to answer. He dropped the tablet onto the bed and walked out of the room.
Emily Waterford stuffed her red curls into her cap as she headed for the theater doors. She was glad Arthur had opted not to join her. The pace of the movie was glacial even for her taste—Arthur would have driven her to distraction, sighing and squirming around in his seat. At least Emily was able to indulge in an illicit bag of chocolate-covered raisins. As proud as she was of her tiny MILF figure and sculpted legs, she deserved a bit of fun now and then. She would work out an extra hour tomorrow to make up for it.
Emily maneuvered through the parking lot and around the other patrons leaving the theater, disconnected her car from the charger, opened the door, and settled in the driver’s seat. The car automatically started. As the heater dispelled the chill, she removed her hat. Her crimson locks spilled over her shoulders. “Time for a trim,” she thought.
She considered going to the townhouse in the city rather than back to the mansion—it would save her an hour’s commute during the morning rush hour.
She quickly rejected the notion. It was the first time in months that Arthur was all alone in the mansion without either the staff or the boys to distract him. George quietly informed her to avoid that circumstance, at least for the first few months. “A few hours alone is fine, Emily, even beneficial—but there’s a limit. Overnight is dangerous. He has to know that someone is going to be around before morning.”
“Won’t he feel kind of…hemmed in by that?” she asked. “Knowing that someone has to be around him all the time?”
“Yes, he will,” George replied. “But it beats the alternative.”
“I don’t know, George, if I pressure him…”
“Don’t tell him you aren’t going to leave him alone. Just…don’t leave him alone—at least, not for long. Don’t discuss it, don’t bring it up. He will know what’s what, and so will you. That doesn’t mean you have to talk about it. As long as neither of you brings it up, it won’t be a big deal.”
“So…don’t make it a big deal, and it won’t be a big deal. Make it a big deal…”
“…and that would make it a big deal.”
“Okay, George. Understood.”
Emily pulled down the visor to check her makeup. There were a few minor wrinkles that weren’t there when she and Arthur met, but she knew that didn’t matter to him. Still, her skin was as alabaster white and her eyes as shockingly green as ever. Framed by her red hair, her features made her look a good five years younger than most of her peers without the artificial tightness of surgery or Botox. Emily wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. And with the boys out of town, perhaps she could drag Arthur away from that soft porn trash he thought she didn’t know about and engage in some real-life porn. Yes, perhaps going back to the mansion would be just the thing. She flipped the visor back up and put on her seat belt.
“Set destination, mansion, execute.”
The car smoothly backed out of the parking space, spun around, and headed for the street. Emily thought, “Maybe it’s going to be an exciting evening, after all.”
Arthur opened the front door and stared at his brother. He said nothing.
Jonathan tried to match his brother’s reticence, but finally said, “Okay, invite me in or tell me to go away.”
Arthur replied, “Go away,” and slammed the door.
Startled, Jonathan stared at the door with the ornate gold knockers and rich inlaid paneling. Then he opened it back up. Arthur was already walking away.
“Hey, that was rude!”
“Rude is leaving for months with no word on your whereabouts and what you are up to,” Arthur replied without turning around or breaking stride. “I am responding in kind.”
“You had the resources of the entire company at your disposal. You had that bloodhound of yours, Forest what’s-his-name! You had to know where I was and what I was doing!”
Arthur didn’t bother to answer. He continued walking. The hallway lit up ahead of him and then slowly dimmed as he passed by one intersecting hallway after another.
“Hey, you could at least invite me in!”
Arthur said, “I have no intention of doing so.”
“Then why did you open the door!?” Jonathan was shouting down the hallway now.
Arthur kept his voice at the same level. “I have no idea,” he said, then turned right and entered the forward kitchen.
Jonathan had to shout even louder. “What if I need to be invited to come in, like a vampire?!!”
“Then I guess you won’t come in,” Arthur continued. He reached up to a panel high in the cabinetry, far higher than Emily or the kids could reach without a stepstool. It was supposed to be a fake panel. He twisted the knob back and forth with a certain non-obvious spin. The panel popped open. Arthur hesitated for a moment, then reached in, pulled out a bottle full of clear fluid, and closed the door.
Jonathan breathed in deeply. He walked in, shut the door, and proceeded down the hallway.
“Okay, coming in!!”
“Outstanding,” Arthur muttered to no one in particular. He opened another cabinet and took down a tall glass. By the time Jonathan entered the kitchen, Arthur had poured out half a glass of soda.
“Okay, I can tell you’re angry—”
“Is it my body language or your new supersenses?”
Jonathan hesitated.
“Oh, don’t be shy, little brother,” Arthur growled in a mocking tone. “You’re dying to brag, aren’t you?”
Arthur opened up the bottle with the clear liquid and filled the remaining half of the glass.
“Hey, layin’ it on there a little thick, aren’t you, bro…?”
“DON’T YOU BRO ME!!!” Arthur roared.
Jonathan slapped his hands over his ears, went down to his knees, and cried in agony.
Arthur took a teaspoon from a drawer and stirred his drink. Jonathan whimpered.
“Sensory overload,” Arthur said coldly. “I warned you about that. Don’t call me ‘bro.’”
Jonathan carefully moved his hands away from his ears.
“I can turn down my senses when I want to,” he said through gritted teeth as he struggled upright.
Arthur shrugged and took a long sip. “Good for you. Why are you here, John?”
“Br…Arthur, I wanted to show you…”
“Truth. Or I will turn on the fire alarm, sirens, and strobe lights galore. Then we will see how well you can ‘turn your senses down.’”
Jonathan considered for a moment. He finally said, “I’m ready to publish.”
Arthur took a long gulp, then refilled it with more clear liquid. Jonathan decided to say nothing this time.
“So, publish,” Arthur said. “Publish and be damned. Just leave me out of it.”
“Arthur, it’s your work.”
“Oh, it’s my work alright. But it’s your doing. I told you to leave it alone, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“Arthur, this is too important to bury. Too important to the world—”
“You mean, too important to you.”
“Please, Arthur, the consequences—”
“Computer, access fire alarm controls…”
“Okay, okay! Yes, too important to me! Why not!? It was always all about Dad, or you, or you and Dad. Why can’t it be about me for once? Is your ego so important that there’s nothing left for me?!”
Arthur shook his head. “Oh, John. You cannot imagine how much Dad and I envied—”
“Security alert,” the PA system announced. “Emily’s vehicle is entering the grounds.”
Arthur’s eyes widened with panic.
“Oh, shit, Emily! Couldn’t you hear her coming?”
“Like I said, I can turn it down. My hearing is hardly above normal sensitivity right now. Why are you so upset…?”
“You’ve got to go! Now! She can’t see you like this! Go out the back!”
Jonathan shook his head. “I’m not going to sneak out the back, Arthur. Emily’s going to have to see me sooner or later. Your kids, too, eventually. Why put it off?”
Arthur opened his mouth to reply, then closed it.
He finally said, “I…suppose you’re right. At least the boys are in—”
“I know, Venice. I heard.”
“Yeah…yeah. I guess you did.”
After a final refill, Arthur stashed the vodka under the sink.
Emily started to get concerned. Arthur knew when the movie ended. He often chided her when she left an event and failed to check in before driving back. He should have contacted her by now to make sure she was okay.
Once the security system flagged her through the gate, her worries escalated even further. Arthur surely knew she was on the grounds by now, yet there was nothing. It was time to be proactive.
“Phone call, Arthur,” she said.
“Calling Arthur,” her car AI replied. After several rings, the phone was answered.
“Hi, Emily.”
“Arthur! Are you okay? I figured you would have called by now—”
“I’m…Emily, I have to warn you…”
“Warn me? Warn me about what?”
There was a pause. Emily’s heart started to race. From Arthur’s tone, she could tell this wasn’t going to be good news.
The boys.
“Arthur, are the boys okay? Has something happened?!”
“No, no, Emily, they’re fine. There’s nothing wrong there…it’s just…”
Emily grabbed the wheel and pushed down on the accelerator to override the driverless mode. “For the love of god, Arthur, what is it?”
Another scary pause. Then, Arthur replied, “John is back.”
“John? Oh, for heaven’s sake…Is he okay? Has something happened to him?”
“It’s…hard to explain. He’s okay—”
“Hi, Emily,” Jonathan said.
“Oh, good god, John! Where the fuck have you been? We’ve been worried sick—”
“I’m fine, Emily. More than fine, actually. I’m a bit different from what you remember—”
Arthur interrupted. “He’s alright, Emily, but his appearance…you need to brace yourself. Like he said, John has changed—”
“Changed? What the fuck, guys? Did he lose weight, get a haircut, what?”
“Nothing like that, Emily. It’s…complicated. Better that you see him first. We’re in the kitchen. Meet us there.”
And, with that, he hung up.
Emily turned on her bright beams and honked the horn to scare away any deer that might be on the road. She hoped none of them got in her way as she wasn’t in the mood to stop.
Arthur sighed and took another big swig. He glared at Jonathan, but refused to say anything.
For his part, Jonathan knew it was best to wait. He could talk to Emily more easily than anyone else in his family. It was one of the things he loved about her.
The elevator from the garage hummed to life. Jonathan could hear it now and could pinpoint exactly where it was in the mansion’s infrastructure. It was like being in on a secret no one else knew. He wondered if Emily would see that as a good thing.
He could hear her footfalls as she entered the elevator and the click as she pushed the button for the main floor. Her heartbeat and breathing were elevated way over what he expected, even given the circumstances.
It wasn’t just excitement. As the elevator approached, the accuracy of his senses magnified…
Terror. Emily Waterford, the only person Jonathan ever met who was as tough as his father, was terrified out of her mind. Her fear was palpable even through the elevator doors.
As the elevator stopped, Arthur quietly poured his drink into the sink, then turned around and put the glass back in the cabinet.
The elevator doors opened and Emily rushed out. Her vitals were so elevated that Jonathan had to depress his senses to look at her. Her scent assailed him with primal dread.
She saw Arthur first. From where she stood, he was on the other side of the kitchen island.
“Arthur! Are you alright? Where’s John—?”
“Right here, Emily,” Jonathan said.
Emily looked sharply to her left, where Jonathan stood in the kitchen doorway. She gasped in shock and stared at him for several seconds.
Finally, she asked, “What the fuck?”
“It’s still me, Emily. I’ve made some adjustments, but it’s still me.”
“Don’t count on that,” Arthur interjected.
Emily looked at Arthur, then back at Jonathan.
“Am I going to have to get out the hot lights and rubber hoses? What the fuck is going on? John, what have you done to yourself!?”
Jonathan replied, “I had a medical procedure, Emily. It’s perfectly harmless—”
“You don’t know that!” Arthur exclaimed.
“So far, my health checks out fine—”
“You could have died,” Arthur growled, his voice deep with fury. “You could still die!”
“Okay, okay, okay!” Emily cried. “Macho Waterford men slamming their dicks on the table isn’t going to get us anywhere. Both of you—into the living room. Sit down, take a breath, and gird your loins. Then you are going to explain to me, in the King’s English, precisely what is happening here.”
Arthur started to speak. Emily cut him off.
“Shut up, both of you. I’ll tell you when to speak and when to shut the fuck up. March!”
Arthur sat in the deep, plush easy chair on the east side of the living room. Jonathan sat in an identical chair on the west side. On the northern wall, Arthur Waterford Sr. commanded the room from his painting over the fireplace.
Emily stood below the painting. She took a few calming breaths, then walked over to Jonathan and said, “Stand up.”
Jonathan frowned, but did as he was told.
“Emily, I—”
“Shut up.”
She put her arms around him, laid her head on his chest, and held him close. Jonathan was taken aback, but then returned the gesture. He thought her perfume was overwhelming, then realized it was simply Emily. Beautiful, beautiful, Emily.
“I wasn’t sure if you were alive, dead, or in some sort of religious cult,” she chided.
“I—”
“Shut up,” she said, releasing him. “Sit down.”
He sat. Emily returned to the middle of the room.
“Arthur, you’re up. What is this all about?”
“Short version or long version?”
“Short will do, please.”
“It’s about my private research.”
Emily nodded. “Of course, it had to be. What about it?”
She could see that Arthur was steeling himself, as if confessing a great sin. He finally replied, “I was trying to cure Alzheimer’s disease.”
Emily frowned. “Alzheimer’s? Winston’s group is tasked with that. Why would you work on it by yourself and keep it a secret?”
“Wait a minute,” Jonathan interrupted. “At the risk of being told to shut up—you didn’t know what Arthur was working on?”
Emily shook her head. “No. I knew he was working on something he considered incredibly important, but he refused to tell me what it was. Arthur used his discretionary fund to bankroll it, so he didn’t have to immediately report what he was doing to the board. And, believe me, the board and I had a lot of questions—”
“But Arthur told me—”
“I lied,” Arthur said, matter-of-factly. “I lied and lied—whatever lie was required to keep the secret, to maintain the façade. I lied.”
Emily and Jonathan stared at him. Emily started to feel the panic rise in her throat again.
“Arthur, I don’t understand…”
Then she stopped, slowly turned, and looked up at the portrait looming over them.
“Your father,” she said. “This has something to do with him, doesn’t it?”
Arthur nodded. “Everything to do with him. He was the reason I was trying to find a cure—had to find a cure. And quickly.”
A hush fell. Then, Jonathan spoke, incredulous:
“Dad. You’re saying Dad had Alzheimer’s.”
“Yes.”
“No! No way…!”
Arthur looked at him with sympathy. “He had good days and bad days. Whenever you talked on the phone about science and your studies, those were good days. When he told you he was tired, had to get some rest, and cut the call short, those were bad days. You were in the middle of your postdoc, too wrapped up in your studies to figure out what was happening. But I saw him in person every week. Over time, I noticed subtle changes in his behavior.”
Emily said incredulously, “Arthur, I saw him at the monthly board meetings and at occasional events in between. He seemed as sharp as ever.”
“Did you ask him to solve complex biochemical equations? Expound on the intricacies of cellular biology? No, of course not. He sat in on meetings as a technical advisor, but he slowly started to defer to the other experts in the room. And they were more than eager to show off their genius in front of the great Dr. Arthur Waterford, Sr. He would frown and smile and pretend he still understood what they were talking about. If anyone asked him for advice, Father told them that they should send him an email. No one questioned it when they failed to get a response. No one dared bother the great man and risk his godly wrath.”
Emily looked back at the portrait. “I…didn’t see it. It’s true, he wasn’t as…challenging anymore. I thought maybe he was getting less cantankerous, less combative.”
Arthur snorted a mocking laugh. “Father? Oh, no. He lived for the thrill of battle. Father made sure that everyone knew that he was the smartest man in the room—until he wasn’t.”
“His behavior did seem…a bit out of character for him,” Emily admitted. “Okay, a lot out of character. But it wasn’t enough to trigger any alarms.”
“He was always good at putting on a show,” Arthur replied. “He fooled almost everyone.”
Arthur stood up and walked over to the ornate chess set on an onyx table positioned between two armchairs. He looked down at the pieces still left in their final game.
“But chess reveals all. I have a grandmaster rating, but when I played Father, the best I could ever hope for was a draw—at least, that used to be the case. Then, two years ago, I started to win, not because I was getting better, but because he was getting worse. It was slow and ugly, a bit at a time. He invented more openings than I could ever hope to memorize. Gradually, he started to forget them—first, the more complex gambits, then even the simple ones. I knew something was deeply wrong.”
Arthur gazed up at the painting.
“His symptoms inevitably forced me to conclude that Alzheimer’s was the most likely candidate. I finally confronted him with my observations. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”
Arthur had to look away.
“Oh, that was a pell-mell battle! He didn’t want to admit anything was wrong with him, either to me or to himself. At first, I couldn’t say anything to convince him.
“Finally, I had to play a terrible card—I told him to look in his chess journal. It confirmed what he could no longer remember—that I had checkmated him every week for the previous three months. He couldn’t believe me, his own son, but the great Dr. Arthur Waterford Sr. couldn’t deny data collected by the great Dr. Arthur Waterford Sr.”
Arthur returned to his chair and sat down, nursing his smoldering anger and pain.
“He finally allowed me to arrange for Dr. Sampler to examine him and order a battery of tests, very discreetly, of course. The verdict was clear—it was definitely Alzheimer’s. It was in an early stage, so there were drug treatments we could use to slow it down. But his decline was inevitable.”
Emily came over and knelt beside him.
“Oh, honey, why didn’t you tell me? You know I would have understood.”
Arthur sighed. “I knew that, but Father insisted we keep it between us and Dr. Sampler. You had a fiduciary duty to inform the board. Once you did that, it would have inevitably leaked to the press. He couldn’t have handled the exposure.
“But it wasn’t just concern about the business or his reputation. He liked you, Emily—a lot. He would never say it out loud, but I know he thought of you as a daughter.”
“I…guess I knew that. He was always an old fogey to me. I was the only underling who wasn’t afraid to tell him when he was full of shit.”
Arthur laughed. “Yeah, as much as he yelled at you for that, he also admired you for it. He was too proud to tell you he had become…less than he had been.”
Emily sighed. “Okay, so you made this diagnosis. But surely, you didn’t think you could cure Alzheimer’s all by yourself? Winston’s geniuses have pounded away at that problem for years with minimal progress.”
“Of course I couldn’t. I knew the odds were astronomical. I was just trying to give Father some sense of hope. But he was so paranoid about anyone else finding out that I couldn’t tell our own experts what I was doing or enlist their help.”
“That’s why you took a sabbatical and started working nights and weekends. Oh, honey…”
“Yes. As futile as it was, I had to make my efforts look sincere for Father’s sake.
“I started by going through Winston’s research. The most promising approach concerned a protein called neuromelanin. It’s associated with certain high-level brain functions. I didn’t think anything would come of it, but working on it kept Father going.
“However, there was one thing I couldn’t do by myself. I’m great at coming up with theories, but they require complex computer simulations to test them out. Father wasn’t up to doing them, and I didn’t dare involve anyone else inside the company. Between my workload and dealing with Father, I didn’t have the bandwidth to do them myself. Besides, programming has never been my forté.”
“But it is mine,” Jonathan said. “Arthur recruited me out of my post-doc, telling me he had a super-secret proprietary project. The pay was a lot better, and all the cloak-and-dagger made it sound like fun.
“I only had one condition—I didn’t want to move back home. Talking to Dad every now and then was fine, but I couldn’t be around him on a daily basis. It would have driven me nuts. So, Arthur arranged for me to get remote access to the company servers from my apartment in Santa Cruz.”
Emily asked, “You didn’t know that your father had Alzheimer’s?”
“I figured out pretty quick that the research concerned Alzheimer’s,” Jonathan replied. He glared at Arthur. “But my brother never said it had anything to do with Dad—at all.”
“I’m sorry, John,” Arthur said. “Father insisted I keep you in the dark. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you. It was the same reason he didn’t want Emily to know. He was ashamed—ashamed that this terrible disease was robbing him of his intellect.”
Jonathan nodded. “Yeah, I get that.”
“Fine,” Emily said impatiently. “How did all that lead to…” she waved her hand at Jonathan, “…this?”
“You can say it out loud, Emily.”
“Okay, John. Why the fuck are you green?”
Jonathan smiled. “I thought you would never ask. This.”
He held out his phone. On it was a picture:
“Ooookay,” Emily intoned. “This explains it how…?”
“Do you know what these represent?”
“Yes, John, you don’t have to mansplain it to me. That’s the molecular structure of chlorophyll on the left and hemoglobin on the right.”
Jonathan blinked. “Um, that’s right…”
“Remember, I majored in business, but minored in biology and kicked ass in both. Whatever you’re trying to say, don’t dumb it down. Spit it out.”
“Very well. I converted the hemoglobin in my blood cells into chlorophyll.”
Emily stared at him for several seconds, then burst out laughing.
“That’s crazy. There are similarities in the molecules, yes, but…even if you could do that, which you can’t, you would be dead in more ways than I can count.”
“Well…”
“It almost did kill you, didn’t it?” Arthur asked.
Jonathan clenched his jaw, chagrined.
“Didn’t it!?”
Emily held out her palms to separate them.
“Explain now. Argue later.”
After a moment of tense silence, Jonathan took a breath and continued:
“I wrote an AI program to analyze the treatment options. The program generated several spurious solutions—”
“Hallucinations?”
“Yes, that’s one term for them. Most of these ramblings are so crazy that you immediately discard them. But, one of the ‘hallucinations’ seemed…well…intriguing. I thought it was worth showing to Arthur.”
Emily frowned. “Intriguing? In what way?”
Arthur interjected, “It wasn’t a cure for Alzheimer’s—nothing like that. Instead, it was a new technique for manipulating cell machinery. I would have never thought of it on my own.”
“Nor I,” Jonathan said. “Imagine Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, only for biology, and decades ahead of its time.”
“But it was half-baked, incomplete,” Arthur continued. “It would never have worked as it was. I don’t think either John or I could have carried it much further by ourselves.
“However, Father happened to come across the printout. We discussed it for a few minutes, but I figured he didn’t understand it any more than we did…”
Arthur stopped and gazed into the distance.
“He died two weeks later. After the funeral, I was cleaning up my office and archiving our notes. Most of it wasn’t worth keeping. As expected, we didn’t make any significant progress against Alzheimer’s.
“But as I went through the material, I found that printout. Father had written some notes and equations in the margin. They were the key to understanding what the AI had been trying to articulate…well, assuming it was articulating anything. It turned out that the great scientist had one last incredible discovery buried inside him. ”
Arthur went back to the chessboard and stared at the pieces.
“Father’s final endgame—and it was a doozy. It led me down this…dark path.”
“Dark path?!” exclaimed Jonathan. “Arthur, it’s stellar work, the greatest biochemical discovery in the last hundred years! Maybe ever!”
Arthur turned to him, his eyes flaring with anger. “It’s darkness, John! Darkness for you, me, Emily, the kids…if you expose this to the world, we will never be free of it!”
Emily stepped between them.
“Okay, down. What does this biochemical change do? What does it accomplish other than turn your brother into the Jolly Green Giant?”
Jonathan answered, “It comes down to calories.”
“What? Calories?”
“Calories. Do you know how many calories an average adult needs to consume in a day?”
“Um, let me see. It depends on factors like sex, age, activity level—”
“How much should I need?”
“Oh, a tall guy like you, roughly 2600 calories a day, give or take.”
“Over the last month, I’ve been consuming 200 calories a day.”
Emily laughed. “No way. That would be a starvation diet, emphasis on starvation.”
Jonathan smiled.
“You’re…you’re serious?!”
“Oh, he’s deadly serious,” Arthur said. “Emphasis on deadly.”
Jonathan continued, “I get most of my calories from sunlight and UV lamps.”
Emily gaped at him, unbelieving. “Like…a literal plant?”
“Yep. Think of me as half-plant, half-animal. Maybe a new classification—”
“All freak,” Arthur said, now slumping back down in his chair. “That’s what everyone will say.”
Emily looked between them, the shock of the implications starting to hit her.
“Guys, this…this is amazing! Hunger is one of the top problems of our civilization. This could rewrite history. John, can you duplicate this treatment?”
“Oh, sure, that’s not a problem…”
“Yes,” Arthur murmured through clenched teeth. “That’s not a problem. Not a problem at all.”
Arthur launched himself out of his seat and drew up to Jonathan, staring face-to-face. “Do you want to tell her what the problem is, John? Do you want to tell her why this will divide the world, rip up society, turn everything upside down and make our family a target for every nutcase on Earth?”
Jonathan was silent for a moment, then turned to Emily.
“The original research dealt with neuromelanin. But there are many varieties of melanin. Somehow, the AI analysis went sideways and focused on another type of melanin called eumelanin. Instead of finding a cure to Alzheimer’s, it did…this.” Jonathan gestured to himself.
“I see,” Emily replied. “But…Arthur, why does this make you so angry?”
Arthur paused for a few moments, then in a low voice replied, “The cell machinery used to produce eumelanin must be highly active in the subject for the transformation to work. This turns out to be a…limiting factor.”
Emily felt a chill. She moved close to Arthur and asked in a soft voice, “A limiting factor? What kind of limiting factor?”
Arthur cupped her face in his hands and marveled at her beauty—her scarlet hair, her green eyes, her gorgeous complexion.
Then he said the words she would regret hearing for the rest of her life:
“Emily, my love—it only works on Black people.”