had been accepted, adopted and legalised.
Richard knew that the scientific community would never have accepted the story that he himself had invented the drug, and Albert’s ‘sad and untimely’ death allowed the drug’s genesis to be fabricated, manipulated and, most importantly, kept as opaque as possible. Meanwhile, he had taken his place at the helm of the most powerful company in the whole world. But now . . . now . . . now he needed the formula, needed to understand Albert’s scribbles. But instead of helping him, they were as impenetrable as ever. He could almost feel Albert mocking him from beyond the grave.
Richard brought his fist down on the desk so hard that the papers jumped up in the air. ‘What is the bloody circle of life?’ he shouted. ‘Is it the formula? Where is it? Where is it? You bastard! You bloody sanctimonious, conniving bastard!’
Even as he shouted, he knew he had to stop this momentary lapse of control. Anger would solve nothing. But this was anger that had been building up for years – anger and fear that one day Albert’s words would come back and haunt him. Richard always liked to have all ends tied up; it was why he had told Derek to dispose of Albert rather than lock him up somewhere. Neat ends enabled you to move forward. Opponents, problems – they had to be dealt with efficiently, not left to fester. And he had succeeded too, except for the formula. However much he had told himself that he didn’t need it, that an exact copy was perfectly adequate – more than adequate – he had always suspected, known even, that this ragged end, this unfinished business would come back and haunt him. When Dr Thomas had been blathering about viruses mutating, Richard had dismissed him immediately. He knew what the problem was. Derek knew too. He suspected that they’d both been half expecting it for years.
He had to think. He had to think hard. He would find a way forward – he always did. And in doing so, he would turn the situation to his advantage. There was always an opportunity in crisis, however desperate things seemed.
His phone started to ring and he looked at it with loathing – it would be Hillary Wright, head of the Authorities, haranguing him for more information, for explanations. Dead bodies were not easily hidden in a world where no one died; illness was not easily explained away when Longevity stopped even the tiniest of infections from taking hold. As he’d predicted, the number of deaths was growing – single figures had become double and now there were hundreds of corpses piling up at Pincent Pharma, buried in hastily dug shallow pits. Pincent guards were taking them when they were ill, before anyone could witness the horror, the blackened corpses. Thankfully, living forever had meant that most marriages had broken up – a lifetime’s commitment was now rather too long for most to stomach. With no children any more the vast majority of people lived alone, making it much easier for the Authorities police to take them away in the middle of the night and bring them to Pincent Pharma to die and to be examined.
Richard ignored the phone. Hillary could wait, he decided. She would have to – he had to think, had to find a way through the maze. So far he had evaded her questions, lied to her when necessary. He would not admit there was a problem until he also had the solution. He needed the formula; that was the quest. But how? It was like a puzzle, a game, only one with terrible consequences if he lost. Could he dig up Albert’s body? Bring him back to life? Torture him into revealing the exact formula?
Nice idea, he thought wryly.
But no. There had to be another way.
He stared again at Albert’s notes. Impenetrable scribblings, little doodles around the page – he’d got his best scientists to work tirelessly in an attempt to interpret them, but to no avail. The formula could not be concealed within their pages; it must be hidden somewhere else. But
Richard knew that the scientific community would never have accepted the story that he himself had invented the drug, and Albert’s ‘sad and untimely’ death allowed the drug’s genesis to be fabricated, manipulated and, most importantly, kept as opaque as possible. Meanwhile, he had taken his place at the helm of the most powerful company in the whole world. But now . . . now . . . now he needed the formula, needed to understand Albert’s scribbles. But instead of helping him, they were as impenetrable as ever. He could almost feel Albert mocking him from beyond the grave.
Richard brought his fist down on the desk so hard that the papers jumped up in the air. ‘What is the bloody circle of life?’ he shouted. ‘Is it the formula? Where is it? Where is it? You bastard! You bloody sanctimonious, conniving bastard!’
Even as he shouted, he knew he had to stop this momentary lapse of control. Anger would solve nothing. But this was anger that had been building up for years – anger and fear that one day Albert’s words would come back and haunt him. Richard always liked to have all ends tied up; it was why he had told Derek to dispose of Albert rather than lock him up somewhere. Neat ends enabled you to move forward. Opponents, problems – they had to be dealt with efficiently, not left to fester. And he had succeeded too, except for the formula. However much he had told himself that he didn’t need it, that an exact copy was perfectly adequate – more than adequate – he had always suspected, known even, that this ragged end, this unfinished business would come back and haunt him. When Dr Thomas had been blathering about viruses mutating, Richard had dismissed him immediately. He knew what the problem was. Derek knew too. He suspected that they’d both been half expecting it for years.
He had to think. He had to think hard. He would find a way forward – he always did. And in doing so, he would turn the situation to his advantage. There was always an opportunity in crisis, however desperate things seemed.
His phone started to ring and he looked at it with loathing – it would be Hillary Wright, head of the Authorities, haranguing him for more information, for explanations. Dead bodies were not easily hidden in a world where no one died; illness was not easily explained away when Longevity stopped even the tiniest of infections from taking hold. As he’d predicted, the number of deaths was growing – single figures had become double and now there were hundreds of corpses piling up at Pincent Pharma, buried in hastily dug shallow pits. Pincent guards were taking them when they were ill, before anyone could witness the horror, the blackened corpses. Thankfully, living forever had meant that most marriages had broken up – a lifetime’s commitment was now rather too long for most to stomach. With no children any more the vast majority of people lived alone, making it much easier for the Authorities police to take them away in the middle of the night and bring them to Pincent Pharma to die and to be examined.
Richard ignored the phone. Hillary could wait, he decided. She would have to – he had to think, had to find a way through the maze. So far he had evaded her questions, lied to her when necessary. He would not admit there was a problem until he also had the solution. He needed the formula; that was the quest. But how? It was like a puzzle, a game, only one with terrible consequences if he lost. Could he dig up Albert’s body? Bring him back to life? Torture him into revealing the exact formula?
Nice idea, he thought wryly.
But no. There had to be another way.
He stared again at Albert’s notes. Impenetrable scribblings, little doodles around the page – he’d got his best scientists to work tirelessly in an attempt to interpret them, but to no avail. The formula could not be concealed within their pages; it must be hidden somewhere else. But
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