“I don’t understand. How does it help us?”
“Because influenza is an RNA virus. Like Ebola and SARS. Which means we can piggyback Dr. Couzen’s non-coding RNA into it.”
Hawk wanted to ask an intelligent question, wanted it badly, but he had a feeling that if he opened his mouth all that would come out was ummmmm, so instead he kept it shut.
“Which means that more or less everyone will get my flu,” John continued. “And everyone who does will become gifted.”
Aaron’s mouth fell open. He hadn’t realized that happened, not really, not in life. “You . . . you’re going to turn the whole world . . .”
“Brilliant.” John dropped his cigarette into the Coke can. “Yes.”
“But that’s . . . it would . . . I mean . . .”
“It will be humanity’s biggest leap since the development of agriculture. Bigger. Because agriculture, like writing, and mathematics, and medicine, is just knowledge. Knowledge can be lost. This is different. This is evolution. The changes to gene expression will be heritable. Do you get what that means?”
“I . . .”
“I’m not just turning everyone alive today brilliant. I’m turning the whole human race brilliant—forever.”
Aaron had just managed to close his jaw, and now it fell open again. “My God.”
“Think about it. A whole new world. A better one, with better people. Smarter, more capable, unafraid. Think what that could look like. Imagine what humanity could accomplish if everyone was brilliant.”
“That’s amazing.” It felt like the bed was spinning beneath him. He had so many questions. But really, they all boiled down to one—Can I have some? He’d happily cut off a nut to be gifted. “What can I . . . what do you need from me?”
“Pardon?”
“Well . . .” Aaron paused. “I mean, there must be a reason you’re telling me. Right?”
For a terrible second, he thought he’d offended John. But then his friend smiled. “Smart man. There is. We know everything about the pathology of our modified flu. Our virologists have been refining it for years. Now we’ve got Couzen’s research, which we know works. And we’ve got detailed computer models of the two combined.”
Suddenly it all clicked into place. “But you haven’t actually tried it.”
“I’d take it myself,” John said, “but I’m already gifted.”
“So it won’t affect brilliants?”
“We’ll still get the sniffles. And more importantly, the inheritance trait. But it won’t change the way our gifts work.”
“So you need a . . . a guinea pig?”
“No. I need a pioneer. We don’t have time for clinical trials, Hawk. But I need to know how long this takes, and if there are side effects that we aren’t anticipating, things like that. Because this is it. This is the masterstroke. We either win everything, or we lose everything. And I want to win.”
It took all Aaron’s willpower not to agree immediately. It was the thing he wanted more than anything. He had ever since Mom had explained the difference between her and him. She’d been so sad and self-conscious about it, had tried so hard to make it clear that she didn’t think less of him because he was normal. And he knew she hadn’t. But it didn’t change the fact that he was less.
A thought hit him. “Dr. Couzen. You said he was going to die.”
“Yes.”
“Because he took his stuff?”
“The serum makes you brilliant, which means fundamentally changing the way the brain works. Couzen is too old for that not to have consequences. But you’re fourteen. I’m not saying this will be a trip to Disney World, but you’ll be fine. More than that. You’ll be brilliant.”
The phrase seemed to hang in the air. Aaron wondered what that might mean, specifically. Like turning into a superhero. “So old people who get this flu will die?”
“Some of them,” John said. “But it was old people who shaped this world. If building a better one costs the lives of the people who designed the academies, well, I’d rather them than you.”
Aaron bit at his thumbnail.
“Doing this,” John continued quietly, “would be a huge help to the cause. A huge help to me. But it’s up to you. It’s always up to you.”
He knew what Mom would want him to do. But she’d been his mom. It was her job to think he was perfect. Truth was, he knew better. Besides, this was his life, and his choice. He pointed at the cigarettes. “Can I have one?”
“You smoke, Aaron?”
“I don’t know.”
John looked at him appraisingly. Then held out the pack.
Aaron fumbled one free, put it between his lips. John Smith did the same, then snapped the Zippo again and lit both.
“Do me a favor?” Aaron held the cigarette. It felt weird between his fingers, but kind of good too. “Call me Hawk.”
CHAPTER 22
When Natalie opened the door, her eyes, red and sunken, brightened with relief. “Oh thank God,” she said, and then, “Come here,” even as she opened her arms and came to him.
Cooper clutched at her, the familiar scent of her hair mingling with a faintly humid whiff of tears. Natalie always smelled different when she’d been crying. There was a permission in it, and he felt tears of his own close to the surface. When was the last time he’d cried? When Dad died?
“I was watching the news,” she said into his shoulder. “I knew you weren’t there, but I couldn’t help it, when I saw that building, the same complex you went to work in every day, I just lost it.”
“I’m okay,” he said.
She heard the things he couldn’t say, and stiffened. Leaned back without breaking the contact of their bodies, her eyes widening. “Bobby?”
“And Val, and Luisa.”
Both her hands went to her open mouth, as if to contain the sound. But the cry made it through anyway. “Are they—are you sure?”
“I was talking to them when it happened. I . . . I saw . . .” He closed his eyes, sucked air in.
“Oh God, baby. Oh, Nick.” She pressed herself against him, hands tightening around his back, strong fingers digging in. He heaved a gasping exhale that felt like it tore something. She held him, rocking slightly. “Come with me.”
Cooper let her lead him into the apartment, through the kitchen, and down the hall to the bedroom. He was strangely aware that they’d made love the last time he’d been here, and then he realized he’d never get the chance to tell Bobby about that, to share his confusion and hear his old friend make an inappropriate joke, something funny and wrong that would get them laughing, and that was when he did start crying. Natalie climbed onto the bed and leaned against the wall and gestured him into her arms, and he crawled up after her and put his head in her lap and clutched her legs while she stroked his hair and knew better than to tell him it was all right.
It hadn’t been all right for a very long time, and he was starting to doubt it ever would be again.
The tears didn’t last long—he’d never had a problem with crying, he just didn’t very much—but after they ceased he stayed where he was, head on her thighs, staring at her feet and the gauzy curtains beyond which the day died slowly. She ran her hands through his hair and waited, infinitely patient and present.
“It’s wrong,” he said at last. “It’s just wrong. You know how many times Bobby and I were in danger? How many doors we kicked in, how many suspects we took down? Hell, the day of the stock exchange, he took a shotgun blast to the chest, broke two ribs. I was there, I knocked him down and . . .” He trailed off.