O Brave New World: Teilhard's Prophecy: The CRISPR Chronicles, #1

Chapter One

Sunday, March 16, 2014, 5:30 p.m. — Vaduz, Liechtenstein

Dressed in sweats and gym shoes, a tall, trim, athletic young woman in her mid-twenties was quietly pacing back and forth, across the length of a large room, lavishly decorated with French Provincial furniture, gold leaf mirrors, and rococo style paintings. In addition to a king-sized bed, there was a writing desk and chair, three walls of bookshelves, and a large chaise lounge. The only hint that it had been her prison for the last two days was the heavy iron bars crisscrossing its windows.

She turned towards the door, at the sound of a heavy bolt being slid to the side. A bearded man in a Catholic priest’s vestment walked in. Tall and slender, in his mid-sixties, he firmly closed the door behind him and turned to face the young woman.

Good evening Miss Meyers. I’m Father Franklin. How are you?

Just peachy, Father, the young woman answered, narrowing her eyes as she looked him over. Are you one of them?

"I’m not sure who you mean by them, my child," the priest replied.

Oh, I don’t know…let me think. An international secret society of cold-blooded killers who are intent on taking over the world? Does that sound familiar? Casey answered.

I think you’ve been reading a little too much Dan Brown, my dear.

Right. So, they locked me in here for…what? Being too well-read? Having too much imagination? Try again.

He shook his head. "You seem to have the wrong idea about us. You are correct that we are a society. A Jesuit society who, in the past, would have been called fallen Catholics for following the teachings of the founder of our order, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. But we’re well known within Catholic circles. Nothing secret about us. We’re not some hidden society of assassins."

And yet, somehow, you and your benign little religious society are fine with my incarceration and likely execution?

The priest walked over to the chaise lounge and sat down. Come over here, my child, and sit with me.

I’m not your child. I’m your prisoner.

He sighed. I can assure you that my nephew, David, will do all he can on your behalf.

That stopped her in her tracks. You’re David’s uncle?

Yes, his father Larry’s twin brother.

Oh, she said, looking at him more closely. I can see it now. The beard and clerical collar threw me. You know, that collar won’t keep you from going to prison with the rest of them. I’m an American citizen. You can’t keep me here against my will. I have rights.

Unfortunately, you’re not in America anymore. You’re here in Liechtenstein, at the beautiful foothills of the Alps. But you do have rights, and I’m confident David will protect them.

Sure he will. My right to a firing-squad.

Don’t be so quick to jump ahead of yourself, my child. And with that, Father Franklin got up from the lounge. I see I can’t offer you much solace in your present state of mind.

He walked over to the door and knocked on it twice. It was opened by a muscular guard on the other side, allowing the priest to exit the room.

He paused, as he looked at his watch. They’ll be bringing your evening meal shortly, my dear. Fresh Atlantic salmon. Delicious. We’ll talk again tomorrow morning, when you may be in a more receptive mood.

After the priest left, Casey walked over to a window on the far side of the room. Through its bars, she stared out at a defoliated oak tree in the distance. Perched on a gnarled branch, she spotted a squirrel.

High above, an eagle soared in search of prey. He too, caught sight of the exposed squirrel, and dove toward the tree. The squirrel attempted an escape, but was caught almost immediately, in the eagle’s sharp talons.

An apt metaphor, she thought to herself. Here I am. In the clutches of my own eagle.

She turned away from the window and sighed. The news story of the century, or any century for that matter, and I’ll never get a chance to write it.

Leaning against the wall, she slowly slid down to the floor, drew her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms tightly around them. She couldn’t believe she was being held incommunicado, in the middle of Europe, under sentence of death. A single tear formed and began a gentle journey down her cheek.

Flicking it away, the young woman took a deep breath and jumped to her feet. I’m not dead yet, she thought, although the grimness of her situation was far from reassuring.

Shit, she sighed, it would have been worth a Pulitzer.

She stopped and resolutely shook her head. Checking her watch, she knew that Adolf, as she unaffectionately called one of her jailers, would be delivering her evening meal at precisely six. She walked over to the door, positioning herself to its right. After what seemed like an eternity, she heard the key in the door and the bolt sliding out. Bracing herself, she watched the door slowly open.

A huge man with a pencil thin mustache entered carrying a tray of food.

Hey, Adolf, she playfully said. What’s up?

Miss Meyers, I’ve told you before that my name is Andrew, the guard said, in a heavy German accent.

I remember, she replied. Andrew, do you happen to know what a hockey player’s best friend is?

Andrew momentarily looked away as he pondered the strange question.

It’s a shiver to the chops, my friend, Casey exclaimed as she whirled and delivered a quick forearm and elbow to the side of Andrew’s jaw.

His head snapped back as he crashed into the wall and slumped to the floor unconscious.

Casey rushed to the door and screamed for help. A second jailer tentatively peeked inside and, seeing Andrew lying on the floor, pushed the door open and rushed toward his fallen comrade.

But Casey jumped in front of the startled guard, slammed her knee into his groin, and threw a right fist, which crunched into the bridge of his nose.

Number Two fell in a heap at her feet.

Oh, you forgot to wear your cup, Casey whispered. Coach wouldn’t approve.

Looking out the door and seeing a third guard at the bottom of the stairway to her right, she ran down the hallway to her left, to a back stairway leading to the first floor.

She crept down the stairs, which led her to a kitchen area. Unfortunately, two guards were sitting at a table having a beer.

Hoping she had the element of surprise on her side, she bolted past them and out the back door before they had time to react.

They immediately took up the chase, but she was faster than they were and began to pull away from them. She ran toward a stand of tall trees, fifty yards ahead of her. As she neared their safety, she heard a cracking sound.

Something hit her in the back of her right shoulder, sending her sprawling onto the soft grass.

Desperately, she haltingly got to her feet, and resumed her now-labored dash for freedom.

A mere ten yards from the trees, a second shot rang out. Casey fell to the ground.

One of the guards ran up to where she was lying. He bent over to check her body.

He called back, She’s alive.

Chapter Two

Nine Days Earlier. Friday, March 7, 2014, 5:30 a.m. — Chicago, Illinois

The Fulton Street ice skating complex contained two side-by-side rinks. On the north rink, figure skating classes were in progress, with individual skaters practicing their routines. Meanwhile, on the south rink, hockey players were skating in full pads, as a masked goalie deflected practice slap shots.

Propped against a wall was a large sign that read:

DOWNTOWN AMATEUR HOCKEY LEAGUE

TRYOUTS TODAY

A young man was standing off the ice, along the rail, watching the hockey action.

David, one of the players, skated over to him. Hey, Jay. What’s an old bond trader doing here this early in the morning?

Meeting my new girlfriend for coffee.

Another Hooters waitress? David laughed.

Nope. This girl’s beautiful and brainy. A Medill Journalism grad with a Harvard MBA. And she works as a reporter at Fortune Magazine.

Glancing over toward the figure skating rink, David asked, I take it she likes to skate?

You can say that, replied Jay. You here for the draft?

Yeah. They’ll look us over and assign us to teams later.

From the loudspeakers around the rink came a booming voice. Listen up, guys. Breakaway. Number One, you’re first up.

Excuse me, David said. Gotta teach these goalies a few lessons.

David skated out to the center of the ice. Cradling a puck on his stick, he began skating toward the goalie at the far end of the ice. Now at full speed, he feinted first to his right, and then to his left, before winding up and slapping a hard shot towards the goalie’s right.

The goalie made a kick save, with the puck dribbling off a little to the right.

As David flashed in for the rebound, the goalie moved out towards the sliding puck and, waving his stick in the direction of David’s head, landed a blow to his helmet that sent him sprawling to the ice.

No high sticking out there, shouted the voice over the loudspeakers.

As he sprang back up onto the ice, David muttered, So that’s the way you want to play, huh?

He retrieved the puck, and once again skated to the center of the rink. Building up another head of steam, he streaked hard towards the net, but this time there were no feints to either side. He just let the puck fly.

It was again rejected by the goalie.

But instead of going after the rebound, David barreled at full speed into the goalie, and delivered a forearm to the goalie’s head and mask.

At almost the same instant, the goalie drove the top end of his stick into David’s midsection, knocking the wind out of him, as he crashed hard to the ice.

Once again, the loudspeaker blared out, No spearing. That’s enough, Number One. Number Two. You’re next.

Struggling for breath, David finally picked himself up and limped back over to where Jay was standing.

You sure taught that goalie a thing or two, Jay remarked, facetiously.

You don’t have to rub it in.

As both men looked on, the goalie rejected four more rushes.

That goalie’s pretty damn good, David had to admit.

Next goalie, shouted the loudspeaker.

The first goalie skated out of the nets, toward the two men.

Hey, Dave, your goalie friend’s skating over this way, Jay warned. Looks like he may want a piece of you.

Then, he’s going to get more than he bargained for. David began skating towards the oncoming goalie, throwing his stick to the side, dropping his gloves to the ice, and clenching his fists.

The goalie did the same, dropping his stick and gloves to the ice…revealing ten brightly painted, red fingernails.

What the fuck? David exclaimed.

His look of surprise grew wider as the goalie ripped off the mask, revealing the long, thick, blonde hair of a young woman, Casey Meyers.

Hey, Jaybird, how are ya? Casey asked. Did you just get here?

No, I’ve been here long enough to view your handiwork. By the way, I’d like you to meet my friend, David.

We already met. I hope I didn’t hurt you too bad.

No, not at all, David sheepishly replied.

I’m glad. Turning to Jay, she said, I’ve got to get to the office before eight o’clock, so I’ll only have time for a quick cup of coffee at Starbucks after I change.

With a quick turn, she skated off toward the locker rooms.

"I must say, Jaybird, your taste is improving," David said, staring after her.

It sure is. She made all-state on the boys New Trier High School State Championship hockey team. She was also on the U.S. Women’s National Hockey Team, that won a couple of Olympic medals. She’s nothing like the skanks you hang out with.

You two an item? David asked.

I’m working on it. You’re welcome to join us for coffee at the Starbucks across the street if you have time.

Thanks, I will. David turned, and skated off toward the locker rooms.

The quickness of the reply got Jay to thinking that maybe he was a bit too hasty with the invitation.

Thirty minutes later, Casey joined Jay at Starbucks.

I invited David to join us, he told her, as she sat down. Hope it’s okay with you.

She shrugged. Cool. Who is he anyway?

"He’s a biochemist. Works for Biotech Systems in genetic research. His dad’s a trader over at the options exchange, next door to where I work. David’s over there a lot.