Saturday, August 28, 8:07 A.M.
Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 99 hours, 53 minutes
It’s refreshing to be insane. Just as it’s liberating to be aware of it.
Cyrus Jakoby had known that freedom and satisfaction for many years. It was a tool that he used every bit as much as if it was a weapon. In his view it was in no way a limitation. Not when one is aware of the shape and scope of one’s personal madness, and Cyrus knew every inch and ounce of his own.
“Are you comfortable, Mr. Cyrus?”
His aide and companion of many years, Otto Wirths, was a stick figure in white livery, with mud-colored eyes and a knife scar that bisected his mouth and left nostril. Otto was an evil-looking man with a thick German accent and a body like a stick bug. He was the only one allowed to still call Cyrus by his real name-or, at least, the name that had become real to both of them.
“Quite comfortable, Otto,” Cyrus murmured. “Thank you.”
Cyrus settled back against a wall of decorative pillows, each with a different mythological animal embroidered in brilliantly colored thread. The newly laid luncheon tray sat astride his lap glittering with cut glass and polished silver. Cyrus never ate breakfast-he thought eggs were obscene in every form-and was never out of bed before one o’clock. The entire work, leisure, and sleep schedule here at the Deck reflected this, and it pleased Cyrus that he could shift the whole pattern of life according to his view of time.
While Cyrus adjusted himself in bed, Otto crossed the room and laid fresh flowers under a large oil painting of a rhesus monkey that they had long ago named Gretel. There was a giclee print of the painting in every room of the facility, and in every room of the Hive-their secret production factory in Costa Rica. Cyrus virtually worshiped that animal and frequently said that he owed more to it than to any single human being he had ever known. It was because of that animal that their campaign against blacks and homosexuals had yielded virtually incalculable success and a death toll that had surpassed World War II. Otto fully agreed, though he personally thought the hanging of prints was a bit excessive.
On the table below the portrait was a large Lucite box arranged under lights that presented it with the same reverence as the painting. A swarm of mayflies flitted about in the box. Tubes fed temperature-controlled air into the container. The tiny insects were the first true success that Cyrus and Otto had pioneered. That team at the Institute for Stem Cell Research in Edinburgh was still dining out on having found the so-called immortality master gene in mouse DNA, though they hadn’t a clue as to how to exploit its potential. Otto and Cyrus-along with a team of colleagues who were, sadly, all dead now-had cracked that puzzle forty years ago. And they’d found it in the humble mayfly.
“What’s on the schedule today?”
Otto shook out an Irish linen napkin with a deft flick and tucked it into the vee of Cyrus’s buttoned pajama top. “Against your recommendation Mr. Sunderland allowed the Twins to persuade him to try and capture the MindReader computer system. Apparently they feel they’ve outgrown Pangaea.”
“Capture it? Nonsense… it won’t work,” Cyrus said with a dismissive wave of the hand.
“Of course not.”
“Sunderland should know better.”
“He does know better,” murmured Otto. “But he’s greedy and greed makes even smart people do stupid things. I imagine, though, that he has a scapegoat in place in the event that it fails. Which it probably will. It won’t land on him and it won’t land on us.”
“It could hurt the Twins.”
Otto smiled. “You bred them to be resourceful.”
“Mm. What else do we have?”
“We’ve successfully launched test runs in Nigeria, Zimbabwe, Benin, and Kenya; and on the domestic front, the Louisiana test should be yielding measurable results soon.”
“Not too soon,” Cyrus said. “We don’t want the CDC involved-”
Otto tut-tutted him. “They’ll be out of action long before this comes onto their radar. Not that they’d be able to do much once our Russian friends crash their system.”
“Russians,” Cyrus sniffed. “I don’t know why you have such affection for those blockheads.”
“Affection?” Otto smiled. “Not the word I’d choose, Mr. Cyrus… but you have to admit that they’re enthusiastic.”
“A little too enthusiastic, if you ask me. You used to be capable of such subtlety, Otto. Using the Red Mafia is… I don’t know.” He waved a hand. “It’s cliche. And it’s not ‘us.’ ”
“It’s affordable and if the assets are taken out then so what? We lose no friends. And who would ever think that we, of all people, would rely on ex-Spetsnaz thugs? No matter how heavy-handed the Russians get, no one will look in our direction. Not in time, anyway.”
Cyrus made a sulky face. “I wish we had some of the Berserkers. That was the one thing I have to admit that the Twins did that was a step ahead of us.”
“Maybe. My sources say that they’re having some behavioral issues with the Berserkers.” Otto looked at his watch. “The North Korean buyers are waiting to leave and wish to say good-bye.”
Cyrus shook his head. “No, that’s boring. Send one of my doubles. Send Milo; he has good manners.”
Otto tidied the cutlery. “You shot Milo two weeks ago.”
“Did I? Why?”
“It was a Tuesday.”
“Oh yes.”
Cyrus believed that Tuesday was the dullest and least useful day of the week and he tried to liven the low spot of each week with a little spice.
“Shame about Milo,” Cyrus said, accepting a cup of tea. “He was good.”
“That he was. But that’s water under the bridge, Mr. Cyrus,” murmured Otto. “We’ll send Kimball.”
“Are you sure I haven’t killed him yet?”
“Not so far.”
Cyrus shot him a look, but Otto gave his master a small wink. No smile, though.
“Maybe I should kill you next Tuesday.”
“Mm, when you’re done threatening me I’ll go find a broom cupboard to hide in.”
“What else do we have today?”
“The latest batch of New Men has been shipped to the Hive. Carteret and his lot are conditioning them. We have orders for sixty females and two hundred males. We can fill those orders with the current batch; however, if we get the heavier requests you’re expecting then we’ll have to up production by twenty percent.”
“Do it. Speaking of the New Men-did that idiot van der Meer try to haggle on the per-unit price?”
“He tried.”
“And-?”
“This isn’t a buyer’s market.”
Cyrus nodded, pleased. He already had the money earmarked for a new research line. Something he’d been thinking about during those long hours in his sensory dep tank. He always did his best thinking in there-a place where he felt connected to the whole of the universe, a place where he could unlock every chamber in his infinite mind.
He lifted the heavy lid of the serving dish and studied the meal. Four slices of white breast meat were fanned out like playing cards in a thick cream sauce. He didn’t recognize the grain of the meat, though the accompanying vegetables were from a more familiar group of exotics-fingerling potatoes, whole crowns of dwarf broccoli, and a spill of hybridized spinach-carrots. Otto took the lid from him.
“Something new?” Cyrus asked.
“Something old, actually.”
“Oh?”
“Breast of dodo in a white wine cream sauce.”
Cyrus applauded like a happy child. “Delightful!” He reached for a fork, then paused. “Have you tried it?”
“Of course.”
“And…?”
“It
