Now for the Future

NOW FOR THE FUTURE

By Kahlil Lawless

Doctor Octavio Bent is a man with the power to choose the destiny of mankind. Empowered by science, he must choose between two evils, and set in motion events that will change the world.

Now for the Future shows in a most chilling fashion how the responsibility of new and potent technologies force us to confront the moral questions of our lifetime. Beginning in Melbourne, Australia, it delves into an underworld of money, drugs, and violence that spans the globe, contrasting it with the selfless generosity and kindness of spirit humanity is capable of. From bustling cities to tropical jungles, trough love, pain, ecstasy and betrayal, this debut offering from author Kahlil Lawless will leave you profoundly unsettled.

Now for the Future

Complete 2011-12-08

Copyright Kahlil Lawless. All rights reserved.

Published by Kahlil Lawless at Smashwords 2012

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover art by the Author

Please Note: At the time of publishing neither the author nor manuscript are under contract with any publishing house or literary agency. If you are interested publishing or representing this work professionally please contact the author at kahlillawless@gmail.com

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Acknowledgements – Thank you to everyone who inspired me and supported me through the writing and polishing of this manuscript. Here are but a few of which this book would not have seen the light of day.

Peter, Micah, Gus, Corinne, Dizzy, Gerad, Larissa, Jason, and Gideon.

Contents

i – Prologue

Part One

1 – Octavio Bent goes to a party

2 – A tender resignation

3 – A problem at hand

4 – Welcome to a new land

5 – Earning respect

6 – Saru’u’s revenge

7 – A new friend

8 – A breakthrough

Part Two

1 – A new arrangement

2 – A brand new lab

3 – Three jobs

4 – Further down the rabbit hole

5 – A turn for the worse

6 – Preparations

Part Three

1 – Death rides a pale horse

2 – The East

3 – Brian Wood takes the stage

4 – Where bigger is better

5 – Latin dreaming

6 – Limbo

7 – The end of the road

ii – The Letter

iii – Author’s note

For all the people, past, present, and future, who work themselves to death in defence of our delicate balance

The power of population is greater than the power in the earth to produce subsistence for man

Reverend Thomas Robert Malthus, 1798

Prologue

There are many people who will not support the publication of this book. Too close to home, they say, too soon. We know now who it really was that created and initiated the Great Plague. The rumours are dying down, speculation is abating, and the lies of individuals and governments have finally begun to evaporate. There are still corners of the world that believe it was an act of God punishing us for some sin. There are none more stubborn about denying truth than the religious. Historians, priests, politicians, social scientists, and pretty much every man and his dog had theories they were ready to disseminate without foundation, save their conviction. This has been a harmless fancy to cope with the trauma thus far, but after a time it may blind us to our future.

Our civilisation stands upon yet another critical point in history, a point which may pass unnoticed if we do not grasp it with vigour. It is the point at which we are rebuilding. Today, we are presented with the opportunity to recreate an entire world as we see fit. We have the power to prevent the problems with the pre-Plague systems that are now so glaring in hindsight, and we must not let our vision for the future become obscured by our nostalgia for the past.

One man, and one man alone, was responsible for changing the course of history. I challenge any and all to fault my research, and if they cannot - to accept the truth once and for all so we can end this fruitless bickering about blame.

Many years ago, when I was young and full of hope, I was the recipient of a letter. It burdened me with a responsibility that I wish had not been mine, so I too could have given in to the simplicity of hate like so many others. But, like the man who wrote it, I have served my responsibility, putting my own life and emotions aside in order to do so. He inspired me to rise to my challenge, to look beyond my own petty concerns, and be the voice nobody wants to hear because it is right.

I am trying here to demonstrate to unbelievers how one man was capable and did make it all happen. This is why I have detailed precisely how he was able to achieve so much, with so little. Also, by delving deep into the complex morass of emotion and morality that was his life, I hereby attempt to explain how a sensible law abiding man was driven to break so many laws, and ultimately kill, in pursuit of his goal.

But this book is principally a reminder about why the Great Plague was. We have been given a great gift, and our benefactor had one simple request: that we not forget Why. I hope to help you understand Why by reliving this mans life. Today, united, we close the book on the past and usher in a new era of harmony with our environment, long may it last.

He sacrificed his now, for our future. Now for the future…

***

Back to contents

PART ONE

Octavio’s feet hurt. The sweat pours off his nose in a constant stream and his shirt is plastered to his back. Although his eyes are beginning to adjust to the gloom, there is no moonlight under the high canopy of the jungle. The uneven road is deeply rutted and treacherous, pitted with chunks of volcanic stone. Frequently he stumbles, skinning his knees and hogtied hands, making them bleed. He is running downhill.

The incoherent hoots and jeers of his pursuers hound him from behind, drivin him on. Brief flashes from their burning torches cast dancing phantasmal shadows through the trees.

Octavio is a long way from home. Through the terror that fills his brain, a chiding voice is asking questions: Are you satisfied now? Is this change enough for you? Should have stuck with your test tubes little man!

After a time, the chase is given up. The torchlight is lost as the villagers return to their huts, but Octavio is still running. His pace slackens as the pounding in his chest becomes unbearable. His legs, bruised and bloodied, refuse to carry him further. He vomits, partly digested chunks of meat coming out, the bile burning his parched throat.

The inky blackness of the night closes in on him like a vice. The only sound is his gasping for breath between broken sobs. He is terribly and utterly alone in the wilderness of a foreign land. He is going to die and he knows it.

How did I get here? He thinks. It all began with a girl and a party.

***

Part 1 Chapter 1

Back to contents

OCTAVIO BENT GOES TO A PARTY

"In news tonight: category Hurricane Janet pounds America’s eastern seaboard. Storm sure destroys coastal housing. Meanwhile while up north category four cyclone Sam hammers Queensland. Details of damage in both areas are sketchy due to downed communications lines. Billions of dollars worth of damage to both areas is likely. Once again the entire banana crop is expected to be destroyed. The result is all too familiar for residents of these areas as extreme weather patterns follow an alarming trend. The increasing frequency of catastrophic weather events in tropical and subtropical areas may be linked to Climate Change, CSIRO scientists have warned. The debate continues between believers and sceptics as world leaders meet for the latest summit in Sao Paulo, Brazil. In a report tabled by Climatologists from the IPCC it is estimated that once four hundred parts-per-million CO2 in the atmosphere has been reached, the warming process may be irreversible. In line with current emissions projections from the IPCC, this will be exceeded within ten years.

A fatal crash in Frankston today...."

Click.

Octavio Bent switched off the radio on the lab bench. What a luxury, he mused, to be able to switch off the outside world and nestle in his comfort-zone, his micro-climate. I wonder if the Trojans, in their ten years besieged, ever managed to switch off the hordes of warriors armed to the teeth on their doorstep and get on with daily life?

He glanced at the clock, and then the window. It was already dark. Late at work again. Not that he minded of course. Octavio preferred to be at work in the evenings, so peaceful, with the cavernous archaic laboratories of the Melbourne University Department of Biosciences all to himself. No distractions, no rush. In this time Octavio felt his most clear-headed. It was also when he did his best work.

Tonight, however, was going to be a break from routine. Tonight, Octavio was going to go to a party. His associates at work, all nice people, had asked him many times to join them in festivities, and not insincerely, as Octavio was well liked amongst his peers. To date, almost without exception, Octavio had politely refused, citing work commitments. Both parties knew well this was merely a pretext; Octavio was not overly fond of gratuitous drinking and meaningless banter. In these instances, retrovalidating his excuse, Octavio did do work instead, well into the evening, and then retired to his small cluttered apartment where he lived alone and read books, his second passion after science.

You are young, you should go sometime. Who knows, you might accidentally enjoy yourself. The words of Professor Thomas Nossal, Octavio’s supervisor and long time mentor. Thomas never went either, but at over eighty, possessed a better excuse than did Octavio at a mere thirty-two years of age. Perhaps Thomas is right. Octavio enjoyed his solitude, yet was not immune to the weight of loneliness that sometimes invaded it.

Carefully he returned his cell cultures to the incubator, cleaned his instruments, disinfected his workspace with ethanol and ultraviolet radiation and, with a clear hand, noted down in detail the day’s activities in his laboratory notebook, signing and dating each page as he went. Today’s results had been good, Thomas would be pleased tomorrow. Octavio gave a mild sigh as he switched off the lights, leaving just the twinkle of green and red lights scattered through the lab, letting everyone know all the equipment was turned on and functional, like Christmas decorations, only this year Santa had spent a few million dollars. The research at Melbourne University was well funded. The simple reason for this was because the work they did was very good. Octavio’s work was no exception. As a young post-doc in virology and proteomics, his work had been published in Nature and other prestigious journals. This is not to say that Octavio was possessed of a vast intellect, he was merely a clear headed and thorough scientist. The kind that comes to the right conclusions through meticulous experimental design and methodical execution, not by shouting eureka! in the bathtub.

Breezing past his desk, Octavio polished off the remainder of a now cold cup of tea before shutting his laptop down and taking it with him. The cool winter night air woke him as he stepped out from the perpetual 20OC of the office and laboratory. He imagined he could see the wear from his footsteps as he trod the familiar path home, weaving between the buildings of the University, some old and majestic, others garish and new. Absentmindedly he fingered the note in his pocket with the address of the party on it, so entranced in routine that he had forgotten he was going to a party at all. The only thing on his mind was the hefty slice of fruit toast lathered in butter that awaited him upon his return home, for which he always had a plentiful supply. He rubbed his hands against the cold, winter was setting in.

The brain uses one fifth of the body’s metabolic energy, while comprising only five percent of its total weight. Thus a hard days thinking can work up just as much of an appetite as wielding a pick or spade. So it was that Octavio, on his last and glorious bite, his attention now released from the grip of hunger, recalled his social obligation, and readied himself to depart. He checked himself in the mirror. Lean features under heavy brows looked back. His hair he left as an unkempt hedge behind which to hide as much of his head as possible. For clothes he would wear his standard uniform – wool pants, plain collared shirt, mismatched suit jacket, no tie. To the unfamiliar it would appear he wore the same clothes every day. It was not so. He owned a fair size collection, all in varied shades of browns, blacks, and tans. As a rule, he looked good, but not great; no unwanted attentions.

The party was to start at eight pm. Octavio arrived at eight thirty, hoping to avoid that uncomfortable first half hour humouring the host as to where everybody is. Here Octavio’s lack of party experience went against him as most of the guests fashionably failed to arrive until after nine. The host was one Gregory Cheeseman, a fellow post doc in immunology whose work on malaria had earned him credit.

Doctor Bent! I don’t believe it, spouted Gregory. Welcome to my humble abode, his elegant Victorian terrace house anything but. It was not opulent either; he was not rich enough for true opulence. No scientist ever is. The furniture looked freshly unwrapped from the Ikea delivery truck. Octavio could swear he smelt the plasticy ‘new’ smell exuding from the bright red couches. It was not a smell he liked, unlike some.

Thank you for inviting me, murmured Octavio.

I still can’t believe we finally managed to drag you away from work, guwaffed Gregory.

I brought my laptop just in case I get an idle moment. Gregory’s face dropped, taken in by Octavio’s dead-pan expression, before erupting into hearty laughter.

"He’s found his funny bone too. Ha haa! What a change this is. Here, meet my wife, Valerie." Octavio and Valerie shook hands and exchanged pleasantries while Gregory eagerly watched Octavio’s face for signs he found her beautiful so he could gloat. Their eyes met but Octavio found no source of beauty in the soft, fair, plain features before him. He looked back at Gregory who gave a minor huff before deciding to have a gloat anyway for the benefit of Valerie and the other occupants of the room.

Beautiful isn’t she? A rare orchid. Valerie blushed as Gregory gave Octavio a friendly elbow in the ribs. A drink, look at him! The poor man needs a drink. Wattle it be? Beer? Whisky? Cocktail? He motioned toward a table laden with liquor. Hmmm?

Octavio looked a little sheepish. Actually, I could really go a cup of tea.

Tea? said Gregory, taken aback. Good lord. The poor man’s lost his mind. Are you... Valerie cut him short.

I’ll make you a cup of tea, she said and silenced Gregory’s forthcoming protest with a smile and disappeared into the kitchen. Gregory shrugged and cracked open another beer.

So, Octavio, work is good is it not? Octavio shrugged. C’mon, Thomas waxes lyrical about your research. I have to say I’m rather impressed too. Shuffling his feet, Octavio planned escape routes. Praise made him distinctly uncomfortable, like a gift unasked, when one is obliged to feign gratefulness.

Work is good for all of us at the moment it would seem, continued Gregory. Did you hear the good news about my inhibitor paper? Accepted to Cell it was, just this week. The reviewers didn’t even touch it. How about that?

Congratulations, Octavio said without enthusiasm.

Thank you replied Gregory. I’m quite proud of that piece of work. However, one cannot always rest on ones laurels. The burning question is: what next?

Oh god. Where is my cup of tea?

If we can elucidate the mechanism of the inhibitor-receptor interaction we can start thinking about drug design. Do you see where I’m going? Just a few small steps and soon we can take this work out of our pokey little laboratory and into the market.

Octavio eyed the door.

Octavio, said Gregory, clasping him by the shoulder, with your expertise in proteomics we can do this. Think about it – recognition, and maybe a mint to be made down the track. All we need is a little more funding and the whole Department will be swooning over our success. Whaddyasay? Octavio knew full well that such a task was more easily said than done. The process would take years. He also knew that in all likelihood Gregory would succeed in his plan, and he would help him along the way when he needed it. None of it was news. Gregory was just tooting his own horn in front the crowd.

Octavio replied slowly. I was under the impression the purpose of a party was to forget about work.

Gregory took the rebuke good naturedly, Quite right, a toast to that fine notion, but couldn’t resist a parting dig, whoops! I forgot you are still vesseless. Where’s that tea? Valerie! At that moment, Valerie appeared with a cup and saucer of piping hot sugary black tea. Octavio took a sip.

Perfect. Just the way I like it. How did you know?

Women aren’t the only gossips you know, quipped Valerie shooting Gregory a cheeky look.

Touché, replied Octavio taking another sip. He was certainly a creature of habit when it came to tea. Unless he was in his laboratory, where food and drink are strictly prohibited, his left hand sported a hefty mug of hot black tea at all times. Jokingly he called it Ambrosia, nectar of the Gods, the secret to eternal life. The likelihood was it would prolong his life as the caffeine acted as an appetite suppressant, and studies show those on a meagre yet sufficient diet enjoy a longevity not shared by gluttons.

Lucy! Gregory was waving at someone across the room. Lucy. Come over here. I’d like you to meet someone. Looking up from his tea, Octavio saw an advertisement walking across the room, cocktail in hand.

Gregory, replied Lucy, giving him an affectionate European not-quite-kiss on the cheek.

I give you Doctor Octavio Bent, announced Gregory. Lucy turned her head, but not her body, earrings swaying, and looked him up and down with pursed lips before proffering her hand.

Lucy Venter, she said without removing her painted gaze from his face. Octavio shook the hand. The grip was weak and the hand soft, undoubtedly from the regular application of a myriad of expensive creams and lotions. They were petit hands, unaccustomed to physical labour of any kind, or the harsh kiss of the southern hemisphere sun. She was pretty by conventional standards; feminine, thin, and blonde.

Gregory, Valerie broke the moment’s silence, I do believe Robert has just arrived, pointing across the room.

So he has. Bob!

And the Cheesemans were gone. A setup, I should have known. Octavio was too polite and gutless to make a hasty exit. He had to ride it out.

Lucy continued. So, the illustrious and elusive Doctor Bent. You could hear her linger and taste the word ‘doctor’ as it went past her lips, like a fresh cherry. Greg speaks highly of your work. It must be exciting to be at the forefront of modern disease research. Are you also working on Malaria?

No, said Octavio. She raised her eyebrows in question. My work is on viruses, not parasites.

Viruses, she repeated, obviously impressed. Octavio winced. Bird Flu by any chance?

Octavio had a sip of tea before replying. Well, no. I work on the Common Cold. Her face visibly dropped and she looked into her drink for a second before taking a sizable gulp. A pang of pity for her moved Octavio to ice the cake, which was a gift obviously lacking in sugar. It’s actually a lot more interesting than it sounds. She glanced up hopefully. The Common Cold is arguably the most successful human disease of all time. It has afflicted mankind for thousands if not millions of years. It mutates so fast you wind up catching the same disease over and over again year after year; a permanent global pandemic. People don’t see it as exciting because it doesn’t kill anyone. She shrugged, spilling her drink a little. It is an amazing disease for exactly that reason though. What do you call a disease that doesn’t kill the host? A success! Everyone is shit scared of Ebola. Why? Dead in a couple of days. What good is that? It would wipe out the human race and then discover there were no hosts left. The Common Cold has achieved a near perfect equilibrium with humankind. Commensalism, explained Octavio, - parasitism without significant detriment to the host. Her eyes glazed over and wandered about the room. He cursed getting carried away and retreated to his cup up tea, only to find it empty.

This game was not Octavio’s forte, probably because he did not enjoy playing. Never would he brave the turbulent waters of the social Aegean to return triumphant before the populace with the hand of the fairest maiden.

What do you do? asked Octavio, not really wanting to hear the answer. He didn’t hear the answer. As she reeled off the familiar rant about her occupation, his mind wandered into times of heroics, wars, and great deeds thousands of years ago - none of this piffling nonsense. The biggest event of the evening would be a one-too-many Gregory lifting Valerie’s skirt in the middle of the party.

Now it was Lucy’s turn to trail off, snapping Octavio out of his trance. He looked at her sheepishly. I think I need another cup of tea.

The kitchen welcomed him with its absence of partygoers. As luck would have it, all the elements of tea production were still on the bench from the last cup. Octavio busied himself about another brew as the muffled hubbub of the party wafted down the hall, punctuated by bouts of laughter. Gregory laughed loudest. Probably at his own jokes, mused Octavio. He watched the tea draw, mesmerised. Curling wisps of tannins diffused outward from the bag and sank to the bottom of the cup. Grains of sugar released shimmering heat mirage streams. The steam gathered furtively on the surface and vanished at his every exhalation. He stood, poised, teaspoon at the ready for the moment of emulsification.

Made it levitate yet? A timid female voice interrupted his repose. Octavio looked up and beheld a short, dark featured young woman standing in the doorway. Her long hair was drawn back in a ponytail, and a pair of dark gemstones, perhaps garnet, glittered on her ears. The rest of her attire was form concealing and rather boyish: long trousers, a formal jacket and short heeled shoes. She held a glass of white wine in her hand. Sorry for breaking your concentration, she apologised self consciously. Octavio just stood there dumbly brandishing his spoon. The girl eyed him curiously. Are you alright? she ventured.

Um, yes, replied Octavio, a little flustered. Quite alright. I was just, um, making a cup of tea.

Hence the spoon? she added with a smile, raising her eyebrows.

Um, yes, replied Octavio looking at the spoon as if for the first time, hence the spoon, how very observant. He put the spoon to use stirring the tea.

Tea at a party? I thought men drink beer.

Yes, well, I don’t go in much for parties, conceded Octavio.

Clearly.

Is it really that obvious? he asked, looking at his clothes. She smiled and did not respond, instead she took a sip of wine. Octavio put the spoon aside and also took a sip. The familiar taste and weight of the mug in his hand made him feel immediately more at home and he leaned back on the edge of the bench.

The woman took a few steps forward and offered her hand. I’m Ana.

Octavio, he said nervously, studying her face in more detail now it was closer. She was a few years younger than he, in her mid twenties, and was wearing very little makeup. Her eyes were a pale blue, set in contrast to her dark brown hair and dark brows. She had a small mole at the base of her left cheek. He was unable to hold her open gaze. Octavio shook her hand awkwardly and retreated his own to his jacket pocket. He had never been particularly good with women in social situations.

Octavio. That’s an odd name. Mean anything?

He hazarded a little humour. In Spanish, I’m sure it does. In English, I believe it means my mother was a hippy. Ana gave a short chuckle.

I thought hippies liked parties, said Ana.

Octavio looked down into his tea mug with a pained expression. "Yes, well, she did like parties."

Ana quickly apologised, I’m sorry.

That’s alright, replied Octavio taking a swig of tea, you weren’t to know. A short uncomfortable silence ensued. Octavio avoided her eyes. Ana changed the subject.

So how do you know the Cheesemans? she asked.

The Cheesewhos? Oh yes, Greg and what’s her name.

Valerie, Ana corrected.

Yes. From work. I don’t really know them that well.

Ana considered making a quip about this being because he did not go to enough parties, but thought better of it. So you are at the Department?

Yes, virology.

What field?

The common cold, he replied concisely, looking to avoid a repeat of his conversational disaster with Lucy the walking doll.

Ana took another sip of wine. There was a slight shine to her eyes. It was her third glass. Why?

Why what? I don’t understand the question, said Octavio, confused.

Why virology? For that matter, why science? Ana’s gaze had shifted off to Octavio’s right, her eyes unfocused, as if she were asking herself.

Octavio tried to reply, as if the answer to this question should be obvious, but it was not. He had been immersed in science for over a decade, devoting his life to it, yet this was not a question he had ever been asked. He enjoyed science, he knew that much, but was that his reason why? He guessed it was, not having any alternative, and was rather perturbed by this revelation.

Because... I enjoy it, to put it simply. He swallowed the last of his tea.

No other reason? queried Ana.

Nope.

No high-minded motives? A quest for knowledge? Relieve suffering? Save lives? Ana tilted her head questioningly.

Nope. I just like it.

Fair enough, she said apparently satisfied. It was a more honest answer to that question than she had encountered in a long time.

And you, Octavio countered, following her lead.

I just started at the Department, informed Ana.

Really? exclaimed Octavio looking up, catching her inquisitive eyes.

Doing what?

I’m doing a PhD in Epidemiology under Paul Delavaney.

Oh. Octavio sounded disinterested. Ana sensed his aversion to talking about work, and attempted to lead him on.

But I don’t really like talking about work. I’ve talked about nothing but work since I started. My real passion is the environment.

Oh? said Octavio, digesting this new information, and then added mischievously, why?

Necessity.

Not solely aesthetics? queried Octavio, a mite rudely.

Sadly no, replied Ana. Until recently matters regarding the environment have been largely based on individual values and the noble ideal of preservation. It is now a matter of urgent action to avert global catastrophe. I'm talking about Climate Change, Global Warming, whateveryouwannacallit. It has come to a point where our actions will no longer just mar nature’s pretty face, they will cripple our economies, change our lives, our entire civilisation. And once its done, Ana finished her wine with a gulp diverting her gaze to the kitchen bench, her words slowing in