Leaning
forward, he rested a forearm on his knee. “I watched Methuselah
Syndrome reduce my wife of twenty years to a gasping, frail shell
of a human being before it snuffed her life out completely. She
died two years before Ms. Fitzpatrick released the SP-64.”
“Did you take it, General Bettencourt?”
Tuesday asked.
Marc glanced at her. She was staring at
Bettencourt, her expression composed, nonconfrontational.
“Did I take Methuselah?” he asked and she
nodded. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Why? What made you first decide to take
it?”
He sat back in the seat, adjusting his tie.
“I saw how it worked with my wife Eleanor and couldn’t believe my
own eyes. It was as if she were frozen in time. She remained the
young, vibrant woman I’d fallen in love with, while I looked older
and more worn-out every year.”
Marc’s throat tightened, his chest burned.
What the general described had happened across the country—then
across the globe. Methuselah had been dubbed the most significant
medical discovery since antibiotics. He shuddered. Until his
brainchild turned out to be the most virulent killer since the
plague.
“So you took it too,” Tuesday went on. “Your
wife wouldn’t grow old with you, so you decided to stay young with
her.”
“But we didn’t stay young, now did we?
Eleanor died of heart failure directly related to Methuselah
Syndrome at fifty-three.”
“It wasn’t Mr. Sinclair’s fault.” Her tone
was soft yet definitive. “They didn’t even set out to find a cure
for aging. It was our obsession with youth, our fixation on
superficial beauty that brought about this tragedy.
Sinclair-Dietrich inadvertently discovered the formula, developed
the perfect combination of chemicals, but the discovery only had
significance because of our vanity.”
“Thank you, Job!” Bettencourt spat. “Talk
about PUREist propaganda. But then you never took Methuselah, did
you? You’re a 0.0, a true PURE, exalted and privileged in Job’s new
world order.”
Tuesday refused to dignify his outburst with
a response. If Bettencourt thought she wanted anything to do with
PURE, he was deluded. Unfastening her safety restraints, she
crossed her legs and changed the subject. “Tell me about Ms.
Rawsen. How was she recruited by PURE? How long has she been inside
the stronghold?”
“You aren’t actually thinking about doing
this, are you?”
She shot Marc an impatient glance. “You had
no problem manipulating me to get what you wanted.”
Her scathing glare cut short the general’s
laughter. She was tired of being a pawn, tired of playing by their
rules. Scooting to the edge of the seat, she straightened her back
and determined to gain some control over the situation. If she were
only a pawn, why were they so desperate for her to play?
Understanding, tranquil and sweet, unfurled
within her. Oh, she was no pawn; she was the queen, the most mobile
piece on the board. Not the most powerful, just the most useful.
Well this queen was finished being manipulated by men!
“There’s a small miscalculation in your
threat, General Bettencourt,” she began. “Revealing the identity of
Subject A might cast a shadow of doubt over the SP-65 Project, but
there will be nine more studies anyway. The only person you really
hurt by following through with your threat is Mr. Sinclair, and of
course, his daughter.”
“You don’t care what happens to the child?”
The general’s tone was provoking.
“You know I do. That’s why she was admitted
to the program. It certainly wasn’t her father’s charming
manner.”
“You’re getting at something,” Bettencourt
said.
“If you reveal the identity of Subject A,
I’ll reveal the identity of Rahab. What a scandal that would cause.
Not to mention what Job would do to her.”
“What do you want?”
“Blackmail isn’t so pleasant when you’re on
the receiving end. I wonder how the public would respond if
forward, he rested a forearm on his knee. “I watched Methuselah
Syndrome reduce my wife of twenty years to a gasping, frail shell
of a human being before it snuffed her life out completely. She
died two years before Ms. Fitzpatrick released the SP-64.”
“Did you take it, General Bettencourt?”
Tuesday asked.
Marc glanced at her. She was staring at
Bettencourt, her expression composed, nonconfrontational.
“Did I take Methuselah?” he asked and she
nodded. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Why? What made you first decide to take
it?”
He sat back in the seat, adjusting his tie.
“I saw how it worked with my wife Eleanor and couldn’t believe my
own eyes. It was as if she were frozen in time. She remained the
young, vibrant woman I’d fallen in love with, while I looked older
and more worn-out every year.”
Marc’s throat tightened, his chest burned.
What the general described had happened across the country—then
across the globe. Methuselah had been dubbed the most significant
medical discovery since antibiotics. He shuddered. Until his
brainchild turned out to be the most virulent killer since the
plague.
“So you took it too,” Tuesday went on. “Your
wife wouldn’t grow old with you, so you decided to stay young with
her.”
“But we didn’t stay young, now did we?
Eleanor died of heart failure directly related to Methuselah
Syndrome at fifty-three.”
“It wasn’t Mr. Sinclair’s fault.” Her tone
was soft yet definitive. “They didn’t even set out to find a cure
for aging. It was our obsession with youth, our fixation on
superficial beauty that brought about this tragedy.
Sinclair-Dietrich inadvertently discovered the formula, developed
the perfect combination of chemicals, but the discovery only had
significance because of our vanity.”
“Thank you, Job!” Bettencourt spat. “Talk
about PUREist propaganda. But then you never took Methuselah, did
you? You’re a 0.0, a true PURE, exalted and privileged in Job’s new
world order.”
Tuesday refused to dignify his outburst with
a response. If Bettencourt thought she wanted anything to do with
PURE, he was deluded. Unfastening her safety restraints, she
crossed her legs and changed the subject. “Tell me about Ms.
Rawsen. How was she recruited by PURE? How long has she been inside
the stronghold?”
“You aren’t actually thinking about doing
this, are you?”
She shot Marc an impatient glance. “You had
no problem manipulating me to get what you wanted.”
Her scathing glare cut short the general’s
laughter. She was tired of being a pawn, tired of playing by their
rules. Scooting to the edge of the seat, she straightened her back
and determined to gain some control over the situation. If she were
only a pawn, why were they so desperate for her to play?
Understanding, tranquil and sweet, unfurled
within her. Oh, she was no pawn; she was the queen, the most mobile
piece on the board. Not the most powerful, just the most useful.
Well this queen was finished being manipulated by men!
“There’s a small miscalculation in your
threat, General Bettencourt,” she began. “Revealing the identity of
Subject A might cast a shadow of doubt over the SP-65 Project, but
there will be nine more studies anyway. The only person you really
hurt by following through with your threat is Mr. Sinclair, and of
course, his daughter.”
“You don’t care what happens to the child?”
The general’s tone was provoking.
“You know I do. That’s why she was admitted
to the program. It certainly wasn’t her father’s charming
manner.”
“You’re getting at something,” Bettencourt
said.
“If you reveal the identity of Subject A,
I’ll reveal the identity of Rahab. What a scandal that would cause.
Not to mention what Job would do to her.”
“What do you want?”
“Blackmail isn’t so pleasant when you’re on
the receiving end. I wonder how the public would respond if
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