1981
Brooklyn Borough, New York City
A late winter blizzard slammed the city in the dead of night. A foot of snow had fallen already, with drifts twice as high. Saturday morning was going to be a fucking mess.
NYC DOT had just closed the outer lanes of the Williamsburg Bridge, but the inner lanes remained open for emergency vehicles and foolhardy drivers heading in and out of Brooklyn.
Mid-span, a Brooklyn-bound car swerved abruptly and honked at a man standing barefoot in the middle of the road. He was tall and athletic, his body wrapped in a ragged black overcoat â a silk bekishe worn by Orthodox Jewish men. Shielding his face against the blowing snow, he staggered forward, his head of thick black curls whipping in the wind.
Another car was approaching fast, engine revving as it fishtailed through the snow. This time, the man managed to stagger out of the way. But as the car careened by, someone leaned out of the front passenger window and lobbed an empty beer bottle into the air.
"Fucking kiiiiike!"âsmack! The bottle struck just above the left eye, and the man crumpled in a heap by the guardrail. There he lay unconscious in the swirling snow.
It was nearly half an hour before someone noticed him. A green Ford Pinto eased over and rolled to a crunching stop in snow, windshield wipers clacking, a single headlight illuminated the heap of snow-covered something lying beneath the guardrail. Out jumped a chubby young man wearing a Minnesota Vikings knit cap and a heavy flannel shirt beneath his greasy mechanic's coveralls. An embroidered patch above the breast pocket read "Lewis" in red cursive script.
Lewis approached the snowy heap and squatted low. Just as he feared, it was a person, probably a homeless man. Probably dead. He lay on his side in the fetal position beneath a fine layer of dry snow, arms covering his head. But his hands and feet were bare, the snow melting as soon as it touched the warm skin.
Lewis gripped the man's shoulder. "Hey! You're gonna die out here!"
The man moaned unintelligibly, lowered his arms and rolled onto his back. He had a young face, tanned and handsome, framed by long black curls matted with blood. A deep gash over his left eye had turned the snow to red slush.
Lewis shook the man again, harder this time. "Hey, you gotta get up! You can't stay out here!" He stole a glance over his shoulder. "The plows will be hear any second. They'll crush you!"
Together they managed to crawl back to the Pinto. Once they were safely inside, Lewis turned up the heat as high as it would go and had a good look at the stranger shivering in his passenger seat. He did not look like a homeless man. The gash over his eye was bleeding again. Lewis reached back to a gym bag on the rear seat and tossed the man a clean T-shirt.
With a grunt, he pressed it to his brow.
Lewis had worked as Brooklyn mechanic long enough to recognize the garb of an ultra-Orthodox Jew. Every Friday evening, he saw them walking past the shops in their long black overcoats, black boots and wide-brimmed hats. But aside from the coat, and maybe the hair, this man looked nothing like those slender pasty Jewish men. And this man's eyes. They were a shade of gray Lewis had never seen before.
It was then Lewis noticed something even stranger. The man had let his coat fall open in the front. Beneath, he wore a brilliant blue garment, a tunic of sorts. It fine fabric shimmered like water.
Lewis shifted the Pinto into gear, eased back onto the road and stole another glance at the stranger beside him. The T-shirt was soaked through with blood. "You got a real bleeder there, but nothing a dozen stitches and a shot in the butt can't fix. Let's get you to an ER."
Still shivering, the stranger scanned the car's shabby interior with his weird gray eye.
Lewis chuckled. "At least I got snow tires."
The stranger seemed to ignore him and instead focused on the car's AM/FM radio with its analog dial and six preset station tabs.
"Go ahead. Maybe we can catch the weather report," said Lewis.
But the stranger hesitated.
"Let me." Lewis turned on the radio, and the sweet tenor of Lionel Richie filled the hot and humid air.
The stranger grunted with seeming disapproval.
"No?" Lewis pushed in one of the radio's preset tabs, and Lionel Richie was supplanted by the ecstatic exhortations of a late-night televangelist.
The stranger removed the T-shirt from his brow. The bleeding had stopped. He frowned at the radio. "Eizo safa zot?" he said in a gravelly baritone.
"Whoa, that's deep rez, man. But you're gonna have to speak the Queen's English with me." Lewis switched off the radio.
The stranger rubbed a little porthole in his fogged-up window. "Dónde estoy?"
"Oh hey, you're Mexican. That explains things. Sort of. But sorry man, no hablo espanyolo."
Turning away from the window, he laid his big hand on the car's dashboard. "De combustión?"
"Uh, do you have a concussion? Probably, yeah. But don't worry. They'll take care of you at the ER."
The bridge soon delivered them to the other side, and Lewis brought the Pinto to a rolling stop at an abandoned intersection, where he dutifully waited for the light to change.
The snow had picked up, and Lewis squinted through the windshield. "Man, I can't even see where we are."
The light turned green. Lewis was about to ease the Pinto forward when he stomped on the brake pedal instead. "Jesus!"
Out of nowhere, an elderly Orthodox man stepped off the curb and crossed right in front of the Pinto, his frail form stooped as it passed through the headlight beam. Two more elderly men followed in single file, each holding down their wide-brimmed hat lest it fly away.
Lewis chuckled to himself. "Well, we're definitely in Brooklyn. That's for sure. Now, let's get you to the hospital."
***
Present
Dayex Corporation World Headquarters
Hillsboro, Oregon, USA
Sophea jogged to work like she did every morning. She wore light-as-air Nike trainers, her favorite purple tank top, and the skimpy running shorts her father accused of being underwear. Against her brown skin, the October air felt unseasonably warm and thick, grimy even. People were calling it an Indian summer, whatever that meant.
Waving to the security guard in his booth by the main gate, Sophea jogged down Dayex Boulevard, the four-lane thoroughfare running straight through the heart of Dayex Industries' North American campus. The way the road had been built up on a dike, with the forest pressing in on either side, always reminded Sophea of an ancient causeway leading to a temple, Angkor Wat or Chichen Itza. Except instead of a temple, there was a three-hundred-foot tower. Clad in smoky black glass, its acute triangular shape reminded Sophea of an obsidian blade jutting up from the bowel of Earth.
The sight of it caught her by surprise, and she came to a breathless halt, doubled over with her hands on her knees. It was just a lack of sleep, she told herself. In the middle of the night, an unexpected phone call had ripped her from sleep.
Catching her breath, Sophea scrambled down the edge of the dike to a trail leading through the surrounding forest. Beneath the canopy of yellowing maple and alder, the air remianed cool and earthy. She picked up her pace, stealing occasional glances through the trees at the endless concrete wall of Production Unit 3, wishing she worked there instead, mindlessly churning out biopharmaceuticals, nose to the grindstone, head down. That was how her grandparents had survived the Killing Fields of Cambodia.
The midnight call that ripped her form her sleep had come from Jonathan Avery, a coworker recently fired for drinking on the job. The man had a crush on Sophea, so she assumed the midnight call was the inevitable drunk dial, the blithering confession of love. It would not have been the first time. And Jonathan was drunk, wasted actually, the booze practically oozing from the phone. But there was no love or even lust in his voice, just hate and fear: hate for the company that had fired him, fear for his life.
Arriving at the Genomics Building near the heart of campus, Sophea showered, changed into work clothes, and hurried out again to the Dayex Tower courtyard where the press conference was about begin. She found a grassy spot in the shade of a tree and watched as caterers buzzed about linen draped tables groaning with pastries, fruit, and polished containers of steaming coffee. Two dozen reporters sat patiently in folding chairs arranged before a vacant lectern. Sophea scanned their unfamiliar faces. Where was Jonathan? Had he kept drinking and passed out? Or had he simply chickened out? Maybe he had been caught by security when he tried to cut through the perimeter fence. Whatever the reason for Jonathan's unexpected absence, it was a massive relief.
Still, Sophea was curious. In his drunken tirade, Jonathan had vowed to blow the whistle on Dayex Industries, and he had chosen this particular press conference to do it. So, who was going to step up to that lectern?
The answer soon emerged from a concealed door at the base of Dayex Tower. A murmur ran through the cluster of employees that had joined Sophea beneath the tree as a very tall man in a charcoal suit, flanked by two plainclothes security guards, strode toward lectern. He towered over it, his big hands seeming to pin it down.
Sophea had worked at Dayex for nearly five years, but not once had she seen its founder and CEO in person. Jason Dayan, leader of the world's largest biotech firm, was as reclusive as he was brilliant. And for a man in his late sixties, he looked surprisingly fit. The muscles of his arms and legs seemed to strain against the fabric of his tailored suit. Even at a distance, Sophea could see he was a handsome man, a square jaw, dark olive skin, striking gray eyes, and a head of thick salt-and-pepper curls.
He stooped to reach the microphone, his deep and gravelly voice amplified by speakers concealed within the lectern. "Good morning and welcome to Dayex Headquarters," he said with an accent Sophea could not place.
With only the briefest of introductory remarks, Jason Dayan got down to business. For weeks, there had been rumors about a new product, but now it was official. Dayex Industries' latest weapon in the battle against breast and ovarian cancer, DYX-247, was about to be approved by the FDA. Trade-named Shereva, the new product had all the hallmarks of a Dayex drug: sublimely innovative, miraculously effective, and shamelessly profitableâin this case, a nanoparticle smart bomb that homed to cancer cells and delivered a tiny payload of a toxin called ricin. Leave it to Dayex engineers to turn one of the deadliest weapons of bioterrorism into a life-saving cancer treatment. Holiday bonuses were going to be fat, and not just for management. Even those worker bees in Production Unit 3 were getting Xboxes for Christmas.
Dayan cleared his voice and called on a tall Black woman in the front row. She stood and identified herself as Uche Okafor from The Oregonian. "Dayex posted twelve billion in revenues last quarter. How much of that are you giving back to the communities that support your operations, both here in the US and abroad?"
Dayan offered a thin smile. "Actually, we're on pace to double our charitable outreach this year, from two hundred and thirty million to over half a billion. A press release has just been emailed to each of you."
While the other reporters frantically checked their phones, she snuck in another question. "Just who's benefiting from all this money? Certainly not the local community."
Dayan nodded to himself as if expecting the question. "Dayex Industries remains committed to its traditional causes. Roughly thirty percent of charitable donations are earmarked for STEM education around the world, but especially for youth from Indigenous communities and certain other minority groups. As you'll read in the press release, we've just doubled our commitment to supporting alternative and sustainable energy in these same communities."
Dayan gave the nod to a White man near the back.
He stood. "Seamus Durcan, The Irish Times. You mentioned certain other minority groups. Do you care to elaborate on which groups those are?"
Jason Dayan's gray eyes narrowed. "As a Jewish person, I am proud to say that Dayex Industries supports social services and education for Jewish communities around the world, including in Israel. If I were Irish, like you, I imagine I would support Irish causes. Surely you can appreciate that." Dayan shifted his gaze to entire group. "More importantly, as our press release outlines, we are set to increase significantly our longstanding support for international disaster relief agencies, as well as the Red Cross and the Red Crescent."
"That's bullshit!"
Everyone turned. Sophea clapped her hand to her mouth. It was Jonathan, drunk Jonathan, pale and sweaty, swaying in the aisle between chairs. With one hand, he steadied himself on the shoulder of a reporter, and with the other he shot a finger at Jason Dayan.
"Bullshit!" Spittle flew from his lips.
"Please sit down before you fall down," said Dayan.
Nervous laughter rippled through the reporters.
Sophea tried to look away, but she could scarcely blink.
Jonathan stood straight, sucked in his gut and straightened his stained shirt, his demeanor suddenly sober. "My name is Jonathan Avery. And I used to work for Dayex."
"I'll ask you once more to sit down."
"Tell them! Tell them what you're buying from the Red Cross. Tell them!"
Dayan reached into his breast pocket and appeared manipulate some hidden device. "Can someone please help this man take a seat?"
Jonathan swatted away their hands. "Blood! You're buying blood! Millions of specimens every week, from all over the world." He turned to the reporters. "I know, because I processed those samples every day for two years!"
Out of nowhere, the two plainclothes security guards seized Jonathan from behind and began dragging him toward a nearby hedge. At last, Sophea managed to close her eyes. But she could still hear his muffled screams. She could still hear his drunk and desperate words from that midnight call. He was right. They were going to kill him, just like they killed all the rest.
____________
Author's note:
Thank you for reading Chapter 8!
All comments and questions welcome.
-Frode