The God Organ Read online

  A flurry of voices erupted. There were several local reporters representing a variety of news streams in the front row of the auditorium, while the rest of the seats were filled with projections of reporters, their voices transmitted via the 3D audio system installed in the room. Preston gripped the sheer glass podium with sweating hands.

  During LyfeGen’s past press conferences, Joel had known many of the reporters by name and could verbally wrestle the most persistent and aggressive of them with a handsome grin spread across his face. In contrast, Preston felt diminutive and cornered as the urgent faces in front of him belted out questions. He stood alone on the stage except for the large banner behind him emblazoned with the blue-and-green LyfeGen logo next to the image of a beaming toddler and his parents.

  The boy in the image, James Burr, was now ten years old.

  After James’s birth, he had grown increasingly sick. His liver and spleen had been bloated and the boy had constantly cried. The doctors had performed a genetic assay before the boy’s birth and had found that he had a lysosomal storage disorder. The infant’s lysosomes, the recycling center of the body’s cells, hadn’t functioned properly. Cell waste products had been accumulating in the boy’s tissues and each cell had been poisoning itself with its own metabolic products and self-destructing. James’s cells had been missing the crucial enzymes necessary for healthy cellular digestion, due to his genetic disease. Immediately, he had been sent to the Mayo Clinic for enzyme replacement therapy. When the therapy was unsuccessful, the doctors had attempted viral delivery of new, fixed genes for the boy. Unfortunately, each successive viral delivery had grown more ineffectual as his immune system suppressed delivery by attacking the viral vectors delivering the genes that should’ve saved his life.

  Since Preston subscribed to a variety of medical-related news streams, he had run across James’s story in a piece from Medicine Today. He normally regarded the news stream as nothing but inflated shock stories. Still, he had watched which stories were popular in the stream through data tracking on his comm card. If a story caught fire, he ensured that LyfeGen had at least one ongoing research project related to that story. Investors’ willingness to pump money into the company through share purchases surged when LyfeGen publicized special-interest stories.

  So when Preston saw James’s dilemma, he had worked quickly to determine whether the Sustain could be programmed to correct the disease.

  Sure enough, it had been a relatively simple project for his research team. Although lysosomal storage diseases were relatively rare and the cost to produce the specialized organ was high, Preston had offered a Sustain system for the boy pro bono. LyfeGen would hit the news streams with updates on James’s condition if the Sustain worked and their shares would rocket skyward. On the other hand, if it failed, LyfeGen’s reputation could be tarnished and the stocks would suffer tremendously.

  Preston had gone to the Mayo Clinic with his delivery team to oversee the implantation of the Sustain. Throughout the five-hour-long surgery, he had ensured that the surgeons connected every tiny artery, arteriole, and vein perfectly to the Sustain. He had also been with the surgeons when they met James’s parents after the successful implantation and had hugged a crying and hopeful Mrs. Burrs.

  “This is it,” she had said. “This has to work.”

  “It will,” Preston had told her. “I promise.”

  Seven years later, James was still healthy. LyfeGen had benefited enormously from the story and Preston was rewarded with a significant bonus. More than the financial success, he remembered the look of immense gratitude in Mr. and Mrs. Burrs’s teary eyes when they sent him a video stream of thanks on James’s recent tenth birthday. Preston had long forgotten about the bonus, which paled in comparison to his current annual salary, but the Burrses’ sincere smiles were still clear in his mind.

  A reporter’s voice brought Preston back to the present.

  “Mr. Carter, can you address the possibility of an FDA audit targeting the efficacy and safety of the Sustain?”

  “We are committed to both the safety and efficacy of our entire product line. Because of the Sustain’s revolutionary position in the healthcare field, we are constantly validating the device in our regulations and research labs, while monitoring its success in the hundreds of thousands of patients who have benefitted from the device. At this time, we are unaware of any plans the FDA may have to audit the technology. There is no sign that Joel Cobb’s stroke was related to the Sustain. There have been no other incidents which would impugn the Sustain’s reliability.”

  A female reporter with deep red hair managed to get his attention. “Can you comment on what might have caused Mr. Cobb’s death? How could he suffer from a stroke if he had his own Sustain?”

  “Any comment I might be able to offer would be pure speculation. Again, let me stress the safety of the Sustain and our validation processes. Mr. Cobb was the victim of an extremely unfortunate situation.”

  She appeared unimpressed with Preston’s answer. “Are you ruling out the possibility of the Sustain’s failure? And if so, on what basis?”

  “Of course, we will not rule out anything at this point. We are also obligated to respect patient privacy. But I assure you, there have been, to this date, no, I repeat, no reported incidents of Sustain failure or deaths due to a disease that could be prevented by the Sustain. We have an impeccable track record in helping our patients.”

  “So there’s still the possibility that the Sustain was responsible for Mr. Cobb’s death?”

  “I believe I’ve answered your question already, Ms.—”

  “Childs,” the reporter said. “Beth Childs.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Childs. Now, let me get to some other questions.”

  The din of voices exploded again. Preston pointed at one of the projected journalists dialed in from New York. He recognized Steven Krieger’s thick jawline and signature swept-back blond hair. The man’s voice was as attractive and distinguished as his face. He worked as a featured reporter for the New York Standard, one of the most subscribed streams in the United States.

  “Mr. Carter,” he said, “will you be so kind as to enlighten us on the Board’s decision to have you step into Mr. Cobb’s shoes as CEO? Given your lack of experience in financial management and business issues, how will you approach the position?”

  Preston peered back at the reporter’s hologram. Krieger’s expression dared him to falter, to appear intimidated.

  Instead, Preston stood straighter, hoping that he gave off an air of confidence. “Thank you, Steven, for your question. I assure you that I will be working closely with Meredith Saunders, our talented CFO. Her expertise is invaluable to the company and will complement my own strengths. To answer your question more directly, the Board of Directors, if I may speak on their behalf, feel that LyfeGen’s success in developing and distributing the most revolutionary healthcare technologies relies on our ability to perform cutting-edge research. Staying on the forefront of the tissue-engineering industry was always a focus of Mr. Cobb’s. The Board and I agree that the best way to commemorate Mr. Cobb’s vision is to strengthen and promote research, a task which the Board believes I am well suited to carry out.”

  Reservations regarding Shaw’s instructions to avoid warning patients about a possible issue with the Sustain haunted Preston’s thoughts. While they had no concrete reason to believe a widespread problem existed, he couldn’t imagine the consequences if the FDA or the press discovered an issue before LyfeGen’s personnel did.

  Besides those challenges, he was still struggling to work cohesively with Meredith. Her response had been telling: “Why the hell did they put you in charge instead of me?”

  After the press conference had ended, the dialed-in reporters disconnected, their holograms vanishing. The local reporters filed out of the auditorium, ushered by a couple of suit-and-tie-clad security personnel.

  Beth Childs stayed behind and approached Preston. A security guard tried to wave her o
ff, but she protested.

  “Please, just one second. Mr. Carter, please!”

  Preston was wary of her, but figured he might as well hear what she had to say. He signaled to the security guards to let her stay.

  “Thank you very much.” She strode down the aisle in short but determined steps. Her fiery hair bounced behind her. “I really do appreciate the time. I know you’re very busy.”

  “What do you need to know that’s so pressing?”

  “Mr. Carter, there are some issues that I’m sure you’d rather talk about privately, and I didn’t want to bring up any sensitive topics in front of the whole audience.”

  “I’m not wasting my time with tabloid gossip.”

  Beth ignored the accusation. “I’ve heard some disquieting information from my sources—”

  “What sources?”

  “My sources tell me that there are rumors of how you convinced Cobb to put you in the position you’re in now.”

  Preston scowled. Still, an anxious feeling crept over him. “Excuse me?”

  If Beth noticed his anxiety, it wasn’t apparent in her expression. “These might be baseless rumors, but sometimes rumors are just distorted facts. They say that you rose to the top through, well, unconventional means.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Logic told him he should just ignore her and leave, but curiosity filled him.

  “I’m not suggesting anything. Merely, my sources—”

  “I’ve heard enough about your ‘sources.’ Let’s cut to the chase.” A fire burned behind his eyes. Frustration overcame embarrassment. His words became barbed and terse. “Please, what is it you want to know?”

  “There are accusations that you slept your way to the top, taking advantage of Joel Cobb’s unconventional personality and appetite for an exciting extracurricular lifestyle.”

  “If you’re suggesting what I think you are, I would like you to know that I am a committed and faithful family man. A proud husband and father. I’m disheartened that this is what passes for journalism.”

  Beth stumbled for words. Her mouth opened and shut as the aggressive glimmer in her eyes turned sympathetic. “Please, Mr. Carter, I don’t want to turn this into a story. I’m more interested in quelling these rumors and getting to the truth. I wanted to let you know what you might start seeing on the news streams, if those rumors spread any further. I just want to do you a favor.”

  “Do me a favor and leave.” He motioned for the security guards to take her outside.

  “I can help you, Mr. Carter. If you change your mind, here’s my contact information.” She sent a contact request via her comm card to his, but Preston turned away and left the auditorium without giving her another glance. His mind swirled in confusion and anger. Maybe Beth was bluffing to get an inside scoop, but on the other hand, she might have been telling the truth.

  When he returned to his office, the scent of cinnamon and autumnal spices was drifting through the hallways. Normally, he enjoyed the seasonal scent. Today, it only antagonized and disgusted him. Joel had cared about trivial details like the smells that permeated the hallways but hadn’t had the foresight to prevent whatever problem had plagued his own Sustain.

  Anil, bright and beaming as ever, greeted Preston from his desk. “How’s it going? You’re looking a little pallid. Need a coffee or anything?”

  Preston brushed him aside and closed the door to his office. He sulked at his desk and toyed with a brushed-aluminum fountain pen. He saved the pen for when he needed to sign a physical paper, which happened rarely these days, thanks to all the electronic documentation and contracts that circulated through the company. It was a relic by today’s standards, but he still favored the satisfaction of pen and paper.

  After cooling off for a couple of minutes, he pressed a button on his comm card and Anil came in.

  “You rang?” Anil flashed brilliant white teeth that glowed against his mahogany skin.

  “I need a favor.”

  Anil took a seat in one of the cushy brown leather chairs facing Preston’s desk. “Anything you need, I can do.”

  “I want you to find out anything you can about, say, any rumors circulating around the company about me, about the Sustain, anything at all.”

  “What for?”

  “I just want to see if there are any internal issues we might need to address, with all the internal upheaval we’ve experienced in the past few days.”

  “Are you worried about something in particular? What kind of rumors have you heard?”

  “Nothing yet.” Preston could tell Anil didn’t believe him.

  Still, Anil smiled and his head bobbed emphatically. “I understand. Don’t worry; I’ll see what flies I can catch. Anything else?” Anil’s eyes flashed eagerness.

  Preston shook his head and waved Anil off. Scrolling through his comm card, he eyed Beth’s contact request, his finger hovering above the button that said ‘decline.’ He decided to ignore it for now, and turned the comm card display off. Beth seemed sincere, but he was cautious that she might be setting him up. Her words had struck a chord in him that he had dealt with in the past and hoped not to confront again.

  Beth, brash as she was, had entangled Preston in a web of worry. He prayed that he could trust his own confidante to handle the situation.

  Chapter 7

  Monica Wolfe

  October 16, 2063

  “You done with that yet?”

  Spittle flew across the open computer case and onto the thumb-sized motherboard Monica Wolfe was repairing. She tried to dab away the wet droplets, sighed, and looked up at her portly boss.

  Sam scowled at her, his teeth bared behind his grisly brown beard. “That finance guy—what’s his name?”

  “Adam.” Monica brushed her blond hair out of her eyes as she concentrated on connecting two tiny red wires to the projection port of the computer.

  “Yeah, Adam wants to know when you’ll be done. Says he can’t go over the payroll accounts today if it isn’t done. I told him he didn’t have to pay you if you took too long, anyway.”

  She remained silent, balancing the case’s screws on her thumb as she closed it. Sam stuck his face next to hers and peered at the computer. Stray, wild hairs from his beard scratched at her cheeks. His breath smelled like a putrid mix of rotten eggs and strong coffee.

  “Get out of my space.”

  Sam held out his hands, feigning offense. Then he put them on her shoulders. “Grumpy Mon just needs some love.”

  Monica slapped at him. “Leave me alone.” She finished screwing in the side door to the case and handed it to him. Sam slipped the computer, the size of a drink coaster, into his pocket.

  She put the small tools into a leather pouch. All the while, Sam stood with his arms crossed. His stare burned into the back of her head. She refused to acknowledge him.

  “Well?” Sam said.

  “I finished it. What do you want?”

  “Blondie has an attitude today.”

  “Just give the computer back to Adam and leave me alone.”

  “Come on, Mon.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Aw, you know what I’m waiting for.”

  Monica ignored him and started to delve into some customer database storage issues the sales team had reported earlier. “Just go give it to Adam.”

  “Not until you say ‘please.’”

  “You’re a goddamn child.”

  “I like it when you act tough. I can play tough, too. You know that I have access to the email administration software for the whole company network. I can log into anybody’s account.”

  Monica furrowed her brow as she navigated the reports on her holoscreen. “I’m all too aware of that.” Sam’s extracurricular interests included sifting through coworkers’ emails, digging out affairs, backstabbing, and general gossip. The fraternity atmosphere of the information technology department encouraged his weekly email roundup, in which he presented the most lurid emails he had found.
r />   When a new hire, Noah Choi, had threatened to report Sam’s habit to human resources, a cache of dominatrix pornography was coincidentally found on Noah’s work computer and his company-issued comm card, along with several recent inquiries that he had purportedly sent to fellow NanoTech employees soliciting sexual favors. He was promptly fired.

  Monica rolled her eyes. “Could you please, oh great and wonderful Sam, give the computer back to Adam and take credit for what a wonderful job you did?”

  “A little sarcastic, but I’ll accept it. You going to take me out for a drink after work?”

  Every day Sam asked her. “Nope.” She upheld her role in the daily tradition.

  “Another day.” Sam rubbed her shoulder.

  She cringed.

  Sam let go. “That boyfriend—excuse me—ex-boyfriend of yours certainly doesn’t know what he walked away from. I can show you how a man should appreciate a woman, Mon.”

  Disgust flowed through her, but she ignored him. She bit her lip to refrain from yelling.

  She hated working for Sam and felt imprisoned in the IT department. There was no career ladder up and out of her position. All the positions with possibilities for advancement were already filled by better-paid employees who could afford NanoTech’s own nanoparticle treatments or the LyfeGen Sustain or some other artificial anti-aging, hippy-dippy organic bullshit treatment that kept those people alive far longer than they should have been.

  Monica could at least admit to herself it wasn’t hatred for those people that boiled inside of her. Rather, it was envy.

  ***

  “Monica.” Sam called over the top of the gray cubicle walls. “There’s a meeting in the Kay Boardroom. The conference dial isn’t working. Apparently, the people calling in to the meeting are all fuzzy and the sound isn’t on. Go fix it.”

  She shut down the projection screen on her desk and headed out of the cramped zoo of cubicles in the IT department.