mother, holding hands, his dark brown complexion contrasting sharply against the warm New Orleans honey of her skin. He had the kind of face that some Americans would have described as exotic—both broad and angular, an unexpected bone structure that snagged the eye. Immense cheekbones, high and sharp, dominated the proportions of his face. Many times growing up, Silas had noticed people lingering in front of that picture, as though his father was a puzzle to figure out. What did they see in that dead man?
While in her twenties, Silas’s sister had leveraged their father’s bone structure and long limbs into a modeling career. It had paid for college when she chose to go against the tracking of her state sponsorship. A thing most young people couldn’t afford to do. Ashley was married now, and had a young son. She still had a year left on her primary nuptial contract, but they were a happy couple and already had plans to re-up lifelong at the first option. He envied them a little. What they had was so different from what he’d shared with Chloe all those years ago.
He remembered the arguments and the shouting, the slammed doors, the things said that couldn’t be taken back. But it was the silences that did the most damage. The interminable quiets that ate their evenings, growing longer over every passing month as they each came to terms with the fact that there was nothing really left to say.
Neither of them had wanted children, and eventually there had been nothing there to hold them together. Their careers became their partners. In the end, they had simply let their contract expire. They didn’t even talk about it. The third anniversary came and went without either of them filing for a continuance, and the next day, they just weren’t married anymore. A lot of marriages ended like that.
Still, on the evening she’d moved out, he’d felt crazy. He hadn’t wanted her to stay, but as he stood there, watching her walk through the door for what would be the last time, he felt … grief. Not for the loss of her but for the loss of what there should have been between them. The enormous emptiness of his life had almost overwhelmed him.
As always, his work had been his savior. Later that month, he won the Crick Award for his contribution to design in the
A buzz on the intercom interrupted his thoughts.
Lightning flashed. Silas took a deep breath and watched sheets of rain cascade down the glass. He wasn’t looking forward to this. There was a mutual dislike between him and most of the members of the Olympic Commission, and this year things had come to a head over their decision to use Chandler’s design.
The buzz came again.
“Yes,” he said.
“Dr. Williams, Mr. Baskov is here to see you,” his secretary said.
Silas was surprised. “Send him in.” It was hardly an industry secret that Stephen Baskov represented more than just another faceless vote in the commission. His reputation was widely acknowledged and served him well in the shark-infested waters of the Olympic politico. Officially, he merely chaired the commission. Unofficially, he ruled.
“Hello and good morning, Dr. Williams,” Stephen Baskov said, switching his cane to his left hand and holding out his right.
Silas shook it, then gestured toward a chair. Baskov sank into the seat graciously, letting his feet stretch out in front of him. He was a broad man, with even, ruddy features. He wore his snow-white locks combed in such a way as to get the most economy from a diminished budget of hair. He looked to be about eighty years old, an affable old man—grandfatherly, almost—but Silas knew better. His simple appearance was in stark contrast to the reality of the man. Within his worn face, beneath his bushy white eyebrows, shone eyes like hard glacial ice.
“I hear you had quite an exciting time last night,” Baskov began.
Silas eased back in his seat and propped his feet up on the big desk. “Yes, it was an eye-opener.”
Baskov smiled, resting one grizzled hand on each knee. “My people tell me you’re responsible for the successful birth of another gladiator. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I assume that’s not all you heard.”
“Why do you assume I heard something more?”
“Because if that was all your people told you, then you wouldn’t be here right now.”
“No, probably not.”
“Then what did bring you here? What can I do for you today?”
“The commission decided not to wait for your report. I’ve been sent to find out just what exactly we’re dealing with here. To be honest with you, the description we’ve been given is a little disconcerting.”
“Disconcerting? An interesting choice of words.”
“Oh, there were more words used than just that.”
“Such as?”
“Inexplicable,” Baskov said. “Disquieting. Disturbing.”
Silas nodded. “I’d say those fit pretty well.”
“None of those are words the commission likes to hear in association with its investment in this project.”
“Nor would I.”
“Is it healthy?”
“Vigorously,” Silas said.
“That’s a good sign.”
“For now.”
“Do you foresee any problems, any reason why it may not be able to compete?”
“All I do see are problems. As to whether or not it can compete, I have no idea. We’re going to have to get the blood results back before we can even speculate if it’s going to survive the week.”
“Why is that?”
“I can’t even begin to guess what sort of immunity haplotype it might have. A common cold might kill it.”
“A common cold? That’s rather unlikely, isn’t it?”
“Sir, I have no way of knowing whether it’s likely or not.”
“You’ve never had a problem with disease susceptibility before.”
“Exactly. I’ve also never had a problem accessing the template protocols.” Silas let a challenge slip through the cracks of his expression.
Baskov noticed it in an instant and turned the tables. “I sense a climate of animosity here,” he said, as a smile spread across the lower portion of his face. His voice rose a subtle, questioning octave. “Do you have a problem with me, Dr. Williams?”
The directness of the question took Silas aback. He toyed with the idea of meeting it head-on, but then decided to change tacks slightly. His job as program head was nearly as much a political appointment as it was a scientific one, and although he hated that aspect of the job, he’d learned a few things about diplomacy during his years in the position. Meeting something like the commission head-on was a good way to get a broken head.
“Let me ask you a question, Mr. Baskov,” Silas said. “I’ve overseen the Helix arm of Olympic Development for twelve years. In that time, how many gold medals has the United States brought home in the gladiator competition?”
“Three,” Baskov said. His brows furrowed. He wasn’t a man used to answering questions.
“Three; that’s right. Three games, three wins. They were my
Baskov sighed. “This event is different from the others; I shouldn’t have to tell you that. There are factors involved that you aren’t aware of.”
“Make me aware, then.”
“Most of the other Olympic events haven’t changed much in the last hundred years. The marathon is still
