Shield of Life

By Dan Frishling

Climate change...? Global warming...? Important issues for humanity to solve. But, is global warming really the most severe environmental concern facing mankind? How vital is it to ensure that global temperatures do not rise by more than a few degrees, and does the survival of humanity rest on achieving this goal? Or are there other environmental problems more dangerous to life, which are ignored by our political leaders and scientists?

SHIELD OF LIFE is the story of a world suffering from today’s cavalier release of contaminated gasses into the atmosphere, the benign neglect of ozone-layer depletion, the careless embrace of genetic research gone awry, and a spoon-fed thoughtless television culture.

About thirty thousand years ago, the Neanderthals and other archaic human species were driven to extinction, and our ancestors, the Homo sapiens, inherited the earth. The SHIELD OF LIFE narrates the onset of a new era when we, Homo sapiens, are on the verge of being displaced by a more resilient species, the genetically engineered Bio-Gene sapiens.

The year is 2138, and Earth is approaching ecological devastation. The ozone shield - which has made life possible - is slowly thinning, resulting in environmental calamity. Countless have perished, while others - afflicted by the sun’s radiation - have given birth to an exponentially growing number of mutated offspring, loathed by the majority.

Under the threat of intensification of the sun’s malignant rays and the increasing mutant birth-rate, the influential media cartel, the powerful bio-pharmaceutical conglomerates and the shadowy Trade Societies have schemed, and successfully managed to manipulate mankind into undergoing a genetic procedure that will forever alter the human species.

Only a small group of people, headed by Dr. Adam Cosmos and his brilliant fiancée, Shannon, attempt to counter the conspiracy and preserve humanity, though aware that their lives will be in grave peril once their strategy is brought to light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491785294

Dan Frishling

Dan Frishling — Author of “Shield of Life” and “Atlantean” have served in the IDF for five years. Dan is also an ex-engineering manager, an R&D engineer and holder of a number of patents, with a Bachelor’s degree in Electronic Engineering from Cal Poly University and a Master’s degree in Business Administration from Cal Lutheran University. Currently, a retiree, whose interests are traveling the world, studying History, and reading Sci-Fi, Historical and Fantasy novels, amongst others. Many of these pursuits are shared with Dinah, his best friend, lover and wife for over half a century.

Book preview

SHIELD OF LIFE

Copyright © 2015 Dan Frishling.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-8528-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-8529-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015920291

iUniverse rev. date: 12/16/2015

Contents

Thursday morning, November 6, 2138

Thursday noon, November 6, 2138

Thursday afternoon, November 6, 2138

Friday, November 7, 2138

Saturday, November 8, 2138

Sunday, November 9, 2138

Monday, November 10, 2138

Tuesday, November 11, 2138

Friday, November 14, 2138

Saturday, November 15, 2138

Monday, November 17, 2138

Friday, November 21, 2138

Thursday, December 11, 2138

Friday, December 12, 2138

Saturday, December 13, 2138

Sunday, December 14, 2138

Monday, December 22, 2138

Monday, December 29, 2138

Tuesday, December 30, 2138

Friday, January 16, 2139

Tuesday, January 20, 2139

Wednesday, January 28, 2139

Friday, January 30, 2139

Saturday, January 31, 2139

Saturday, February 7, 2139

Sunday, February 15, 2139

Saturday, February 21, 2139

Sunday, February 22, 2139

Wednesday, February 25, 2139

Monday, March 9, 2139

Epilogue

Sabbath, 28th day of Spring, year 22

For Jakob Frischling,

My Father,

A Gentle Soul

This novel could’ve never been written without the love,

patience and active support of Dinah, my wonderful partner in life.

THURSDAY mORNING, NOVEMBER 6, 2138

Curse these rotten cards! Surecee uttered in disgust, throwing a well-used card on the makeshift stone table and spitting on the ground, just missing his dust covered boot.

Surecee Slit, nicknamed Butcher, was a powerfully built, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested mutant, with a grotesquely warped head, the only surviving chieftain of his small, genetically mutated clan, numbering mere thirty-nine souls. A year earlier, his splinter group, calling the western North American zone home, had numbered over one hundred, but most had been killed in a series of clashes following a chance discovery by an Oregon corporate security ranger. After months of fight and flight, evasion and rediscovery, corporate police invariably on their heels, the worn-out survivors had found temporary refuge in the heart of the desert, east of Los Angeles. Most of their belongings were lost, and the precious few they currently possessed were in large part donated by tribe brethrens located in places as far as Tashkent, in the Ukraine zone, and ferried in by smugglers’ gyrocrafts.

Their current refuge was carefully selected. Hidden in a small valley surrounded by rocky hills, the parched land was blanketed by hundreds of dead and dried tree-stumps. Narrow ravines crisscrossed the hills and the valley, providing numerous escape routes. The camp, a circle of dome-shaped camouflaged sleeping tents encircling a larger central one was virtually undetectable from the air. The tents appeared in good condition though well used, their adaptive outer shells generating a simulated surface image that matched their surroundings. A small condenser stood by each tent, extracting moisture and providing the precious water so crucial for survival.

Most of the camp inhabitants, dressed in gray garments, were gathered in a clearing north of the tents. None of them wore an oxygen-enriching mask, and unlike the majority of humanity, none needed it, their genetically engineered, mutated lungs’ capacity being twice that of normal people.

A group of six teenagers exercised under the watchful eyes of a large woman. One threw daggers at a circular target marked on a dead stump. Another, using a similar target, hurled spiked metal balls with a sling. Two others were honing their fighting skills with long pointed staffs, while the oldest two trained in the proper use of the garrote. One by one, stealthily, they inched their way to a tree trunk shaped to represent the upper body of a human, swiftly wrapping the thin metal cord around its neck and pulling in simulated chocking or decapitating motion.

Some of the adults stood around watching the youngsters, encouraging and advising, but the majority were honing their own skills, a few quite strenuously, the depressing heat notwithstanding. A couple of the women were taking care of young children, and a few others were cleaning, mending and cooking.

The card players remained apart. Absorbed by the game, they paid little attention to the rest, chatting and cussing one another in mock anger while enjoying the comradeship gained by years of close quarters, shared dangers, and family ties.

The small band of mutants was composed of proud members of the infamous Slitter clan, the most dreaded mutant tribe on the face of the globe. Their oddly shaped, warped heads, agility, strength, courage and intelligence, as well as their chosen vocation, all contributing to the well deserved reputation. Known throughout the world as ruthless, throat-slitting contract assassins, the Slitters’ forte was the merciless dispatch of their client’s chosen target. And for an additional fee, the slit could even take place at a location or time chosen by the customer. Their only proviso: one attempt per contract, successful or not. Still, their record boasted of ninety-three successes for every hundred attempts.

The leader’s brother, Sollas Slit, nicknamed Slicer, smiled triumphantly as he picked up his brother’s discarded card and used it to complete his suit. Got you! he declared, slapping the victorious combination on the stone table. That’s two slits each of you owes me, he gloated, rubbing his hands together.

Yeah ... yeah… yeah, mumbled his cousin, Silance Slit, called Savage, as he carefully shuffled the all-too-used deck. But, if this coming slit is finalized before the fifteenth hour, it’s still yours…

Of course… A deal is a deal! Have I ever dishonored the code? Slicer replied, eagerly hoping that the contract would indeed be sealed. It would be his opportunity to settle an old score between himself and the target.

Butcher had informed them of the impending contract the day before yesterday, confirmation to be received before the fifteenth hour, this afternoon. The target was to be the same person who had humiliated Slicer three months earlier, in Las Vegas. It was Slicer’s first and only miss after ten perfect years, and the bitter taste of failure and disgrace were very much with him, raw and depressing, as if it had happened only yesterday.

He would never forget the target’s mocking expression, standing there composed and confident, arrogantly sneering down at him. It was such an unexpected reaction. And it had baffled and slowed him down. Experience had taught him that target behavior fell into one of two categories, either shocked immobilization or panicked run. Yet this one stood there grinning, as if Slicer were an impotent child or someone to be dismissed as incompetent. The target had watched him calmly as he approached, his mocking eyes glancing down at the unsheathed menacing blade Slicer held, then rising back to his face, eyes locking, even as his grin widened. Then, as if by witchcraft, when they were a mere twelve feet apart, the target swung his hand and a dagger sped straight toward Slicer’s heart. He had stood there, stupefied, watching the blade as it closed in on his chest, time seeming to slow. It was the last thing he had expected from an intended victim. Luckily, his genetically enhanced quickness and hours of training had saved him at the last second. Instinctively, he had veered to the right and ducked, the sharp projectile scratching his shoulder without causing real damage. But the man had used the diversion to jump into a platinum-colored vehicle that had appeared out of nowhere, and escape.

Unconsciously, Slicer rubbed the healed wound as he remembered his humiliation. Upon returning to the clan, he had faithfully reported the failure to seemingly sympathetic listeners, each keenly aware that not all slits were successful, yet each believing that had it been him he would have succeeded.

Savage began dealing, eleven cards to each. His hands were practiced and the cards fell into neat piles in front of each player. Suddenly, he froze. The buzz of the com-unit brought all eyes to the leader. Conversation and activity ceased.

Butcher’s hand, stretching for his cards, froze in mid air. He let the buzzing continue, extending the drama of the moment, then plugged a remote earphone into his ear and reached for the small instrument by his side, switching it on. Surecee speaking, he said, listening to the voice at the other end.

Are you sure that is the way you want it? he asked after a few seconds, his eyes moving from the discarded cards to his brother. For a brief second their eyes locked, and Slicer nodded. Butcher turned his gaze to his cousin who watched intently. The glance was all they needed. Still listening to the remote voice, the leader moved his head, gesturing toward the encampment’s central tent.

The signal was clear. Without awaiting further clarification, though somewhat puzzled, Slicer and Savage got up and walked in the indicated direction, a pitched tent some thirty feet away.

Yes, Mr. Vee. A two man slit team is awaiting final orders as we speak, they heard Butcher say. Yes, Sir. I do understand. Still, that is a most unusual request… Okay, Sir. As long as you are willing to pay the supplemental fifty percent, we will be happy to oblige.

The last thing they heard before entering the tent was Butcher’s apologetic response. Sorry Mr. Vee. But we do not provide such guarantees!

By the time the two mutant assassins exited the central tent, dressed and armed, the whole group had gathered for the customary send-off. Both wore the clan’s traditional black caftans, marked by three red crosses above the heart. The traditional wide-brim, black hats were loosely hanging by strings behind their backs, sun visors attached. The only visible equipment each carried was a sword-shaped weapon sheathed at the left side of a wide simuleather red belt.

Butcher inspected them, nodding approval. As you well aware, he said, the target is clever and bold, apparently well trained in the martial arts, and in top physical condition. Moreover, he had managed to escape a slit once before. The voice was low, for their ears only. Still, Slicer resented the implied reference.

Is that the reason for the two-man team? Savage asked matter-of-factly.

It is the client’s choice, and it is his contract, came the response, as if the answer was obvious. But remember, we cannot afford another flop! Butcher was emphatic. Our reputation is at stake. Now, pay attention. Here is the target.

Surecee Slit held a small holographic display unit. A hologram of a man’s upper body floated above it, slowly rotating. Slicer needed no reminder; he remembered him well! Yet he joined his cousin and studied the face for a time, recommitting the likeness to memory.

The target is wearing a blue jacket and white trousers, no hat. He might be with a taller, redheaded companion. Avoid killing the other… unless he interferes. Next… This is not going to be a standard operation. The target was last observed in the Center’s theater, attending the Symposium. But, by the time you reach there, it may be lunchtime and he may be anywhere. You are to drive to the Center and wait. Someone, on behalf of our client, is trailing the target. The client reserved the right to choose the slit site, at the last moment. When he makes his choice, I will be informed. So, keep your comlink open and I will forward the information. Time window for this contract ends at the eighteenth hour, which affords us seven and a half hours… plenty of time.

Did he provide a reason for reserving a specific site?

He mentioned something about ‘an opportunity to increase viewership’. And your guess as to his meaning is as good as mine. He did not elaborate. However, he did say that he may postpone today’s slit at the last second.

As long as he pays for it…

He is aware of the contract’s provisions.

Then, let’s hope we’ll get a delay, Savage said with a grin, his huge yellow eye sparkling. That’ll ensure another commission, later on.

From your mouth to the Slit Prophets’ ears! the gathering listeners echoed their consent.

I hope it will go through today! Slicer countered, the only dissenter. "I want this man! And a personal score must be honored," he added between clenched teeth.

As long as you remember that this is only business, Butcher retorted, wondering whether to assign someone else for the job. There is no room for personal vendettas. Not on a contract mission.

Of course, Brother, Slicer responded, cursing silently for having revealed his innermost feelings.

Okay. Now check the blades, Butcher said, aware that for peace of mind Slicer must participate, despite the danger of a second failure. The clan’s traditional punishment for two successive failures was for that member to become a living target for the children’s training, until death releases him. He was well aware of his brother’s distraught state of mind since the Las Vegas incident, and knew that the only cure was a successful slit. Without seeming to do so, he scrutinized his brother, noticing the proud, eager attitude. Yes, he must go. And may the Slit Prophets watch over him, he silently prayed. Then, turning to the gathered group, he called. I need volunteers.

Four eager youngsters moved forward, shoving each other for the privilege, but maintaining the customary distance of ten paces from the two black-clad warriors.

In a single, swift motion, Slicer drew a sharp machete-like weapon and swung it viciously, slicing a dry branch off a dead tree to his left before re-sheathing the blade. Then he searched the faces of the four youngsters that had formed a line, and beckoned to one. Without a hint of hesitation, back straight, the large yellow eye observing the warrior, the youth proudly advanced four steps. Will you sacrifice your life for the Clan? Slicer asked. The question was traditional, as was the answer.

To the glory of the Slit Prophets! Anyway! Anytime! Anywhere! The response was stated arrogantly, the voice communicating a sense of scorn, as if the answer was obvious.

The youth has not yet reached the last word when Slicer began his charge. He let go an earsplitting, paralyzing, vicious scream, savagely charging forward, attacking the proud, seemingly fearless child. The onlookers watched, holding their breath, as Slicer’s sharp weapon was unsheathed, raised, and wildly lowered, swiftly and powerfully, ferociously slashing sideways and down at the exposed throat of the seemingly stoic youth. The silence following the scream was absolute. The only sound was the whooshing of air as the blade cut through it. Yet the youngster remained controlled, almost at peace, his only reaction the fluttering of eyelashes.

The blade’s sharp edge abruptly stopped a miniscule distance from the youth’s exposed throat in a demonstration of perfect control. Some of the onlookers sighed in relief. Accidents had happened before, and on rare occasions even fatal ones.

The buzzing sound of electric discharge was suddenly heard, and blue sparks leaped from the blade to the brave youth who began quivering uncontrollably. His body trembled as if a powerful hand was viciously shaking it. At last, the child collapsed like a toy puppet, shivering and convulsing, and Slicer removed his finger from the key on the handle, ceasing the emission.

The weapon the Slitter used was more than a cutting or slashing sword. Upon command, the blade emitted high intensity, wide spectrum electric energy designed to confuse the brain’s neurological transmissions and render the victim helpless and incapable of resistance.

Savage repeated the gruesome performance with another Slitter youngster who was as brave as the first. Again, without incident or permanent harm.

The two Slitter assassins left the small encampment immediately thereafter, even before the youths regained control. Within an hour, their hover was cruising around the Center, as they waited for further instructions.

Mr. Valerian Lumakh, President of CBN, the largest global news and entertainment media conglomerate, grinned in satisfaction as he concluded the agreement with Surecee Slit. This was the second ‘contract’ the mysterious Mr. Vee had concluded, and although the Slitter chief was unaware, the Slit assassins would be kept in reserve.

The events Valerian had set in motion were designed to accomplish two distinct goals: an increase in CBN’s news broadcast rating, and on a personal level, ridding his lover of a thorn in her side. Leisurely, Valerian reclined onto his chair and watched the monitors before him. Six of CBN’s remote holovision cameras were tuned to the theater and Symposium procedures, placed in strategic locations — four more than the competition. But then, CBN’s competitors didn’t know of the coming attraction he had planned.

This is from me to you, my beloved, he thought, grinning to himself, his finger tapping the adjustment knob to center the seventh balcony’s camera, on Dr. Adam Jordan Cosmos — Tallia’s thorn, and thus Valerian’s target.

THURSDAY nOON, NOVEMBER 6, 2138

The large, semi-oval theater was now pitch dark, concealing the gathered multitude whose attention was focused on the speaker commanding the well-lit podium. His voice had been carefully trained, rising and falling to create the desired effect. He was a superb orator, able to sense his audiences’ emotional needs and satisfy them, playing them like a teenage idol leading a throng of loyal and adoring fans. Listening to him reminded some in the crowd of the now almost-vanished breed of evangelical crusaders, so prevalent just nine years earlier.

To accent and emphasize his comments, the speaker flashed holographic illustrations and images that appeared and disappeared behind him, floating in front of a translucent holopanel that facilitated the capture and retransmission of the images by the holovision cameras lining the rear wall of the theater.

A place of honor was reserved for the sponsors, organizers, speakers and their guests on the seventh balcony. There, in the center of the left aisle in the third row, sat Dr. Adam Jordan Cosmos, President, Chief Executive Officer, and major stockholder of Cosmos Incorporated, the world’s largest producer of sun-protective domes. But, unlike the majority of the audience, Adam was far from being impressed by the message he was hearing. Although impressed with the masterful oratory skill, his displeasure with the message and thus the messenger — a representative of the research arm of Envirozone Corporation — grew with each word.

The fool should cut his speech short, admit his company’s deficiencies and vacate the podium, Adam thought angrily. As it is, all he is doing is rehashing useless verbiage and repeating the hollow promises of the previous speakers.

Absentmindedly, Dr. Cosmos pressed the tab and raised the refreshment straw from the left armrest to his lips. He then drew a mouthful, and almost choked in disgust as he tasted the heavily sweetened, cherry flavored, carbonated water. He let go of the flexible tube and watched it disappear into the armrest, the sickeningly sweet taste lingering.

This Symposium has turned out to be a total waste of time, he contemplated, upset with the speaker on the podium as well as himself. Not one presenter — myself included — had the guts to say what we, the professionals, know to be true. We’ve danced around it, hinted at it, but never quite stated it, avoiding the simple proclamation that the end of the human race, as nature intended, is all but assure. Or perhaps, he thought with a mental shrug, it is kinder to keep the more distressing facts away from the public. God knows, they have enough to worry about.

For two and a half days, the majority of the world’s population was glued to the holovision sets, listening to speech after speech with hope and prayers. The Symposium was dedicated to a single theme: ‘How to reverse the depletion of the ozone layer and counter the devastating effects of the searing sun’s radiation’ — which emerged in the wake of the so-called Climate Change or Global Warming. But sadly, what the public heard was that the cure they were praying for, and promised, was nothing more than a sugarcoated placebo. The stated message turned out to be, ‘Don’t worry… Trust us! True, we have no solution, but we are getting closer! It’s within our grasp… perhaps. And once we have found that elusive solution, if we do, we might be able to do something… we hope!’

What a sad, pitiful joke we’ve been playing on the human race, Adam thought, shaking his head imperceptibly. A solution was forecasted, years ago, yet at best, we’ve barely managed to moderate the ozone shield’s rate of decay. It’s almost as if a powerful, malevolent entity has decided to push humanity to the brink, by keeping ‘the shield of life’ in a depleted state, while preventing mankind from regenerating and replenishing the layer. And to top it, most of the speakers keep pushing this horrid Biogene treatment as a cure-all, despite the fact that the ultimate effect of the Biogene will be humanity’s doom! Don’t they realize that the use of the Biogene will actually usher the replacement of the human race by biologically engineered mutants? Adam contemplated angrily even as he tried to calm himself by taking deep breaths of the oxygen-rich environment, force pumped by the newly installed equipment on the theater’s roof, and willing his body to relax.

I’m just sorry that despite all efforts we won’t be able to save more than a few thousand, Adam contemplated dispiritedly. Still, with luck, the species will survive, he reflected, aware that the clandestine Cosmos Habitat Division he had secretly established may be humanity’s sole salvation.

The display above the stage abruptly altered, and the changing scene interrupted Adam’s train of thought. It was an uplifting, lifelike hologram of a coastline peninsula at sunset. A golden, sandy beach merging into a green mountainside, a large reddish sun partially immersed in a sparkling, shimmering ocean, slowly submerging, while flocks of seabirds crossed the face of the blazing fireball.

Adam took another deep breath, exhaled and then inhaled again, filling his lungs, attempting to shake the malaise that has taken hold of him, the calming setting on the stage helping. He turned his attention back to the speaker and noticed with relief that the tiny amber light marker on the podium was flashing, indicating the concluding five minutes.

The display flickered and changed again. The speaker aimed a light pointer to a large, three-dimensional holographic time-chart. And like millions of others around the globe, Adam watched and listened.

This timeline displays the various investigative procedures we have discussed; the milestones, the successes, and the failures. It has been a long, arduous and expensive search, Adam heard the presenter say. During the past eight years, Envirozone has dedicated over twenty-seven percent of its research and development resources to the difficult problem of ozone replenishment. We have tried to revitalize the ozone shield using various approaches, leading in the past three years to the seeding techniques I have discussed. We have used laboratory praxis layers that we ionized, charged and seeded — at times producing the desired effect and recreating the tri-atom ozone molecules. Some of our results were so promising that on nine separate occasions — with the support and blessing of the UN — we have attempted an actual seeding of the ozone layer. A most expensive undertaking, I can assure you, as we had to lease and refurbish an obsolete space shuttle for the task. In fact, in the last four attempts we’ve executed our seeding technique after first ionizing the layer with charged particles, in an attempt to bond and capture the destructive chlorine molecules — an improved technique, first considered over a century ago. But alas, like the many attempts to reverse global warming, although promising, to date our efforts to reinstitute the ozone layer have all been in vain. At best, we managed to create a transient layer that collapsed or disintegrated within a relatively short period. It seems that with time, the sun’s radiation releases the bonded chlorine to destroy yet again the ozone molecules.

Grumbles from the audience indicated its frustration with the last statement, a frustration that the speaker clearly understood and wanted to deflect. Sadly, ladies and gentlemen, he said, we have heard this morning of similar attempts, made by our most illustrious competitors — distinguished and forward-looking companies, I assure you — and like us, they too have reported comparable disappointing results.

The display changed again, this time showing the speaker’s company logo of twin rocky peaks under a blue sky, with the name Envirozone, appearing as a colorful rainbow between the gray, rugged peaks.

Ladies and gentlemen, if I may be permitted… the orator continued, I would like to reaffirm that we at Envirozone Corporation pledge to all who are within the range of my voice, that our endeavor will not cease until a resolution is at hand! The Envirozone research team will not shirk its responsibility to mankind and its progeny! We will not be discouraged by time, cost, or hardships. We will fight this battle until the ozone layer is once again a shield of life, once again, protecting us from the sun’s lethal rays! For we dare not stop until the Freaks that the sun’s radiation spawned, and is spawning, even as I speak, are forever eradicated off the face of our planet! The speaker paused for a moment, modestly allowing the audience to applaud and voice their support, aware that people everywhere loathed the ever-growing number of mutant humanoids in their midst.

The Freaks, as the mutants were derogatorily called, began appearing in large numbers during the middle of the twenty-first century, ushered into the world by chromosome mutations attributed to the sun’s radiation, brought about by ozone depletion. A popular conjecture explained the phenomenon by insisting that either the freaks were the unintended offspring of genetically engineered-gone-astray humans, or else, that coincident with sun-flares, the sun’s lethal radiation caused some embryos to deform within days of fertilization.

The spokesperson switched the hologram display, this time showing lush, green foliage at the foot of cypress forest covering a hilly landscape, under a bright, cloudless blue sky. The image filled the stage, engulfing the podium, though maintaining an enhanced vision of the speaker as he raised his hands in a gesture appealing for silence.

When the crowd obliged, he slowly turned his head from left to right as if his eyes could penetrate the darkened hall and see the gathered multitude. Ladies and gentlemen, he called, his voice deeper. Observe… This is the kind of Earth we want! It is the lush green planet we crave. And it is this that we are trying to achieve!

The applause resumed. He waited, an outstretched hand remaining high, pointing and emphasizing the vivid natural setting. Fortunately, he continued once the quiet returned, "as other speakers before me have correctly indicated, the condition of earth’s life sustaining ecosystem has not yet reached the catastrophic state some ‘professional whiners’ have led you to believe. The key to the rejuvenation of the ecology is the revitalization of the ozone layer’s shielding properties, and that is precisely the goal to which we have dedicated ourselves!

Unfortunately, although a solution will most certainly be found, we can no longer afford to sit idly by and live our lives as we have for the past century. The time, ladies and gentlemen, has come for each member of the community of man to embrace new and bold measures. Almost a century ago, our great-grandparents adopted a daring genetic experiment that extended the so-called middle-age years. The result, as we all know, is that today a person of one hundred years is still in his prime, and will likely live another three-quarter of a century. This type of bold vision, resulting in the betterment of the human species, will be required of us. Within a short period, as others before have reported, the human race will need, once again, to adopt brave genetic measures. I am referring, of course, to the long awaited Biogene treatment! The applause were enthusiastic, and he continued. "Developers of the Biogene appeared before you yesterday. And thankfully, as you have heard, they will provide the long awaited key to mankind’s survival! A silver bullet, if I may borrow an ancient cliché. An inexpensive genetic procedure that will assure the resilience of our species and the future of our progeny despite the sun’s deadly rays, global warming, the crossing of the nine hundred parts per million carbon-dioxide mark, and the decreasing balance of oxygen in our atmosphere.

"This evolutionary new genetic alteration product will enable our children to thrive even under the harsh ecological conditions our scientists predict. The Biogene treatment will enable our children and children’s children to follow our footsteps and succeed, even where we have failed.

Ladies and gentlemen, he called, his hands and voice rising in emphasis. In the name of our children and our future generations, I salute the Biogene treatment developers!

Moron! Adam snarled in disgust, shaking his head. But his voice was drowned by the enthusiastic applause of the large crowd.

The speaker kept one hand raised and continued in a somewhat calmer tone. Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to thank the corporate community of Southern California, the city of Greater Los Angeles, and the United Nations Scientific Council for sponsoring and organizing this important gathering. I would also like to add my voice to those before me, and acknowledge, yet again, the pharmaceutical and biogenetic companies that for the past seven years have dedicated themselves to the salvation of the human race through planned evolution. Please, join me in thanking them for their magnificent achievement — and yes, even altruism — in spearheading the costly development of the Biogene.

Achievement…? They’re ushering our doom, you idiot! Adam whispered, appalled, clasping a mental fist, while the large audience rose to its feet and rewarded the orator with an enthusiastic ovation. Still, Adam took heart when he heard scattered boos, hisses, catcalls, and whistles.

The majestic, seven-balcony, scarlet and gold theater usually reserved for live plays, concerts and operas was filled to capacity for this most important Environmental and Ecological Symposium. The lights were slowly coming on, and the cheering majority, tired after a solid morning of speeches and lectures, was on its feet. Most were wealthy executives, dressed in splendid simusilk caftans or business coverall garments.

The words Lunch Break began flashing above the stage. The podium carrying the speaker descended under the floor until it disappeared, and the stage assumed a bright red glow. Adam turned his eyes to Bashir, his closest friend since their university days, and watched him applaud enthusiastically, his expression reflecting complete approval. Somewhat surprised and disappointed, Adam raised himself to his feet and stretched, trying to shake off the sense of frustration he had been feeling since the Symposium’s opening day session. He looked at the faces of those around him and shrugged in bewilderment at their naiveté.

People loathe the mutants, he thought, yet here they are celebrating Biogene, a genetically altering treatment, which will ultimately mutate the whole human race. Blockheads! Can’t they see that this ‘silver bullet’ will transform man into some sort of freakish humanoid? Don’t they realize that a falsehood, though reiterated a thousand times is still a lie? Evolution indeed… he whispered to himself as another burst of catcalls and hissing, emanating from somewhere behind him, reached his ears. He didn’t know what they were booing, and it didn’t matter. He grinned, then whistled, delighted when others joined in, the vigorous energy of the few disgruntled unexpectedly overwhelming the majority.

Adam glanced at the radiant stage, now cherry-colored, when a high-pitched screech reached his ears, coming from behind him. He turned to look, and noticed an argument quickly turning into a brawl. A woman slapped another, and others joined in, first trying to separate the two, but ending up mingled together in an ever-growing circle of brawlers; frustration, normally held in check, erupting. The melee was so much out of context that Adam burst into laughter. Within moments, groups of people, men and women, were fighting all over the balcony, mostly tossing punches or wielding charged defense sticks, and at times even managing to shred expensive garments.

Mr. Valerian Lumakh, CBN’s President, scrutinized his company’s Symposium-hooked monitors. From time to time, he spoke into a microphone, clandestinely directing his paid agitators, orchestrating the various ‘spontaneous’ fights from his office chair, grinning with satisfaction. CBN was the only media company with cameras on the balconies where the brawling was taking place. He checked his comp-screen. It was showing that sixty-nine percent of the global viewers had switched to CBN or one of its affiliates, the number growing by the second.

By the Prophets, I’ve done it! he thought, smiling, knowing that the fees CBN charged were related to the number of viewers tuning in.

Time to unleash the next surprise, he thought excitedly, sending a remote command, and eyeing the seventh balcony dedicated monitor. Among others, it showed a laughing man watching the fights. Go on, Mr. Cosmos, enjoy yourself… laugh. For your time is almost done. Valerian whispered in anticipation, focusing on a group of brawlers closing in on the man he targeted. You were fortunate in our previous attempts, but your luck is about to run out, he murmured wishfully, mentally urging the brawlers to close on their target faster. I just hope she is watching, he added to himself, knowing that his lover of many years would be more than delighted to witness the demise of this man.

Adam’s laughter ceased, abruptly, when a comlink implanted behind his right ear came to life, the voice carrying a familiar Scottish accent. You’d better get the hell out o’ there, Chief, the voice warned. My instincts tell me that the three brawlers, behind you… the ones in pinstriped green coveralls… it’s you they’re after!

Are you sure? he asked, forcing a calm voice, even as his heart rate increased. There’s no sign—

Take mi word, Chief. I smell a trap, the voice in his ear broke in.

How close are you? he asked as he leisurely turned to search for the three. He found them, noting that they were slowly closing in on his position, seemingly without intent.

Too far to give’ya a hand. the voice replied.

Adam studied the three as they fought, noticing that every few seconds one of them would glance at him. He needed but a moment to analyze their apparent skills. It looks like your instincts are as sharp as ever, he said, conversationally. Though, in truth… these three bums don’t seem to be trained professionals.

That’s na reason to underrate the danger. Not against three.

You should have more faith in your pupil, he replied confidently, even as light perspiration appeared on his brow. Bashir, he called, turning to his friend and cutting off the comlink.

Bashir was standing by his side, watching the slowly approaching brawl with a bewildered expression. Ah… what?

This melee… It’s getting too close for comfort. Let’s get out of here. Use the terrace door, out there. Adam pointed to the packed exit aisle. And wait for me there. I’ll cover your exit.

There’s no need—

Go on, pal. I’ll be right behind you, Adam replied and turned, determined to cover his friend’s retreat.

Just as Bashir reached the exit, the first of the brawlers jumped at Adam and attempted to slash his throat with a polished military knife. The attack was blocked contemptuously, with an instinctive hand movement and a well-aimed kick, the assailant finding himself squashed between chairs, two rows from where he had stood.

The other two fighters approached more cautiously, openly threatening with their own blades. Adam retreated to the aisle, hoping the space would enable him to better utilize his agility. Which one of you, bums, wants to die first? he called to the two attackers, his voice level and the smile on his face mocking. The two halted momentarily, their eyes locking on his, measuring. They edged forward, and then swung into action as if synchronized by a silent signal.

And just then, Adam heard a shout. Behind you!

He changed his maneuver mid-stride, stepped to his right, swerved and kicked, his foot smashing the chin of yet another knife-wielding opponent he hadn’t noticed earlier. The man, totally surprised, flew backward and tumbled onto the carpeted floor, unconscious. With a fluid motion, Adam dropped to the floor, rolled to his side and rose, catching the arm of one of the remaining two attackers and deflecting his blade to the chest of the other. The sharp point pierced the skin, hit a rib and bounced off, dropping to the floor, the superficial wound painful but not life threatening. The wounded man cried out, clutched his chest and backed away, his friend assisting him. The two drew back, glancing at their opponent as they backed off, one holding his chest and blocking the flow of blood, the other supporting and commiserating.

Adam waited a moment longer, breathing heavily, but energized by the added adrenaline in his body. The altercation dissipated as suddenly as it had begun. Adam took a deep breath, wiped his perspiration with the back of his hand, and checked himself for bloodstains, finding none. He then walked to the exit to find his friend, strangers congratulating and slapping his shoulders as he passed by. He was puzzled by the encounter, and alert against any other surprise, but the people around him were friendly.

Miles away, in CBN’s lavish office, Valerian watched the monitor and cursed silently. Still, the benevolent, charming smile that was his trademark and had made him so appealing to holovision audiences the world over never left his face. So, you’ve won the first skirmish, he then whispered, raising a partially filled martini glass in mock salute. Enjoy the victory, Dr. Cosmos. Just remember, the day is still young.

Adam stepped onto the open terrace and waved to his awaiting friend. What took you so long? Bashir asked, dusting a tiny, almost invisible speck off Adam’s jacket sleeve.

Adam examined the sleeve. It was clean. I just waited until they got out of the way, he replied, seemingly nonchalant. Was this a random incident or a pre-meditated one, like the previous encounters? he wondered to himself, a shiver running down his spine, though his face remained a mask of calmness. Anything to drink up here? he asked, using a simusilk handkerchief to wipe the perspiration off his forehead. The air outside was warmer and damper than in the theater.

You can have my Orangeade, Bashir offered, handing him a bottle of fizzing liquid.

Brrr! Adam uttered in disgust, shaking his head. Thanks. But I don’t like these sweetened carbonated beverages.

B’icky, b’icky… Bashir chided with a smile. Born and raised in Lebanon, and speaking Arabic most of his life, Bashir found it impossible to pronounce certain hard P sounds, which he articulated as B’s.

Look… a water dispenser. Adam pointed to the other side of the long terrace after scanning for the appropriate sign.

I’ll wait here.

What for? We’ve got a couple of hours to kill, Adam reminded him. Let’s go somewhere.

I don’t mind a stroll… as long as we’re back for the afternoon session. I could use the exercise.

I suppose taking a stroll could be considered exercise, Adam said with a smile, glancing at the street below. Come on, then, he added, leading the way and pushing through the crowd, with Bashir in tow.

Street level was fourteen stories down, a bi-directional, old fashioned, busy boulevard. At some point in its ancient past, trees might have grown down its center, but once the greenery died, the center was tiled over with synthetic, oval shaped river stones. Despite the heavy traffic speeding along the six lanes below, the level of noise reaching the terrace was practically nil. Most of the vehicles passing were of the standard four-wheel electric engine variety, the majority privately owned, with a few yellow intracabs and red public transporters mixed in. Intermittently, a more expensive, though less efficient, hover passed by, whooshing its way as it hugged the road.

As they walked across the long terrace, Adam observed the buildings near the aged hotel and cultural center where they were. Most were of the twelve to fifteen floor variety, earthquake proof, square, gray and dull, having lost their glitter years earlier. Even the hundred-square-mile protective dome, screening the Center and its inhabitants from the sun, was old, gray, and cracking, permitting the humidity to accumulate while allowing only a fraction of the sun’s brightness to penetrate.

As they approached the water dispenser, Bashir felt lightheaded, as if slightly asphyxiated. His lungs labored, but seemed unable to provide adequate amounts of nourishment to his oxygen-hungry brain. He grabbed the air mask hanging loosely over his chest and placed it over his nose and mouth, taking a few deep breaths until the sensation eased.

The transparent breathing mask, redesigned from the customized, more sophisticated one used in the thin atmosphere of Mars, was made from light, clear glasstic materials. Narrow passages sucked the outside air into two pressure chambers under the chin, where oxygen molecules, reconstituted from carbon dioxide, supplemented the oxygen in the air, enriching the breathable mixture entering the lungs. Pumping action was achieved through normal breathing, and the exhaled vapors were directed out via small unidirectional valves located over the cheeks.

Adam noticed Bashir’s action and quickly followed suit, although as yet discerning no discomfort. He then pointed to a symbol of a bottle at the corner of the terrace. Do you want some? he asked, the voice unhindered by the mask.

Thanks, but I’ve had my fill, Bashir replied, dumping an empty bottle into a recycling chute by the dispenser.

Adam approached the unit concealed by a wall-panel, raised his sleeve, and placed his left forearm in front of the debit sensor marked by a blue circle. His personal computer, or Companion, which he had nick-named Ace, made the selection and provided the appropriate credit through the implanted arm interface, while the dispenser’s sensor scanned Adam’s skin tissue for authentication. A tray containing a clear, glasstic, half-liter thermo-bottle popped into view. He picked it up, looked at it for a moment, and changed the temperature setting, regretting he had left the purity tester in his car. Then, placing the bottle in his jacket outer pocket, he joined his friend.

Dr. Adam Jordan Cosmos was Canadian born, forty-one years of age. Athletically proportioned, he was quite strong without being overly muscular, a five feet eleven inches tall man entering his mental and physical prime. His head was held high, his thick brown hair wavy and casually combed, but unlike the prevailing style, trimmed short. His eyes reflected earnestness and warmth and were mostly brown with specks of green, though when angry they flashed green with inner fire. Defiant of the sun’s rays, he kept his chin clean-shaven, revealing a small scar on the right jaw, the result of a recent sword-training exercise. But the red scar only served to emphasize his strong, handsome features.

A serious, inquisitive and self-driven man, Adam’s interests ranged far and wide, from biology and history, to archeology and the martial arts. Ten years earlier, he had lost his entire family to a freak accident. They were aboard a gyrocraft, on their way to Cosmos Incorporated anniversary celebration, when it crashed, killing all fifteen members of his family. Adam remained the sole survivor and the reluctant beneficiary of his family’s fortune, which included Cosmos Incorporated as its crown jewel. As the last member of the Cosmos family and the majority shareholder, he was expected to take over and head the Company. At first, he refused, but after weeks of soul searching and external prodding, and with much trepidation, he agreed to assume leadership of the Company. His uncommon style of liberal management, which included shared responsibilities at all levels and the free exchange of ideas, launched the Company into new and expanding markets while strengthening its dominant core position in the sun-protective dome industry.

Contrary to current fashion and the environmental demands of the era, Adam dressed casually, wearing a loose-fitting jacket and trousers, and carrying his old-fashioned sunglasses atop his uncovered head. Almost everyone wore sun-blocking visors and hats in addition to protective garments such as caftans and boots, though they were unnecessary under a dome. Adam’s footwear was different, too: white simuleather moccasins, matching the color of his trousers and open collared shirt. His light, shimmering, bright-colored blue jacket was partially open, revealing a large, gold medallion shaped like a spinning galaxy hanging over his bare chest by a golden chain.

I wonder what that crazy brawl was all about? Bashir reflected, grinning.

Who knows? Adam replied. Perhaps they didn’t like the last speaker.

Oh, c’mon… He was terrific. A real energizer.

For someone who had nothing to impart and little to show for the money his company invested… I suppose he was that, Adam acknowledged cynically, his eyes on the boulevard below as a bright gold and red hover zipped by. He reminded me of those fire breathing evangelical scientists we used to see on the holo some years back. Do you remember them?

Oh, yeah. Bashir responded with a sneer.

"The difference is that they sermonized on the importance of space exploration and the finding of the lost tribes of aliens, Adam commented with a mocking voice, while this talker ended up raising the banner of the Biogene treatment."

The evangelical scientists were men and women whose self-imposed mission was to preach and promote space exploration for the sole purpose of finding intelligent life on far planets. The cult came to the forefront in the mid twenty-first century, and was supported by millions and millions of faithful followers whose generous contributions sponsored the pseudo-religion. Only when space exploration was banned, by order of the UN in 2129, did these missionaries slowly disappear.

Bashir chuckled, amused by Adam’s contrast. Yeah. He did sound like one of those crusaders, didn’t he?

Most definitely. Still, why preach the gospel of Biogene? Adam asked.

Opposing the concept of Biogene designed mutations, and resisting those who promoted it had been Adam’s passion for almost three years. It was a