Manuscript Preview - In Perpetuum - Chapter 1 - 3

Chapter 1

Unannounced Guests

Present Day – April 16th, 7244 A.Z.

Dr. Markus Freese didn’t react to the sudden opening of his study door, though he hadn’t been expecting company. On the surface he was calm, but pulsing fear shot like icy tendrils through his blood. Despite having anticipated this moment for far longer than he’d care to admit, a subconscious heightening of senses betrayed his internal struggle to accept it. The last stop on a train he’d never been given any choice but to board was fast approaching. To still his nerves, he focused on the book in front of him, the dark skin of his hands complementing its azure cover.

Not once did he glance in The Intruder’s direction.

“Hello old friend,” the doctor called. “It’s been a while.”

“Indeed it has, Markus,” the other whispered, voice glacial. Familiar though; there was no doubt this was the same man he’d once worked alongside, despite what the vast millennia had done to twist and torment his mind.

Bookcases canvased the entirety of the circular chamber, save the area broken by the mahogany doorway from which the man had entered. As if a welcomed guest, The Intruder paced, pausing only to scan the titles gracing the endless volumes upon the shelves. Once satisfied that what he sought was not contained within the tomes around him, he marched towards Dr. Freese, taking the seat across the table. A scene from Die Walküre played out from left to right on its face, inlaid seamlessly into the lacquered wood. Ride of the Valkyries; a fitting piece.

“Will you allow me to finish reading this? I’m curious as to how it ends, but in all my years I could never seem to find the time,” Dr. Freese inquired with feigned detachment, hoping his voice sounded remotely steady.

What he said was true. Though he’d cracked this spine a thousand times before, his willpower always faltered before the end. Perhaps somewhere in the forsaken catacombs of his mind he feared the tale would fall short of expectations? He’d always been so dreadfully afraid of disappointment.

“Of course,” The Intruder replied patiently, chair creaking as he lounged back into its frame.

Though there were more than a hundred pages left to turn, neither man paid mind to the clock’s pitiless ticking. Time meant less nowadays.

Eventually, the doctor mustered enough courage to glance in the newcomer’s direction. He wore his sandy hair long, tied back into a tail with chin clean-shaven. Unmarred by the passage of time, his face was the same as it had been when the two swapped stories over coffee after midnight in the lab. It was impossible to be any other way, of course. Maybe it was pure imagination, but the man’s eyes did seem burdened with a much more forlorn character than Freese recalled. Though their hue remained the same striking violet, the glimmer of optimism that had been so dominant within them ages ago had been forfeited along the way; a tithe taken for his transgressions.

Apart from his haunted gaze, only one detail set The Intruder apart from the person Freese had once called comrade. In a distant memory, this wraith had been the epitome of light-heartedness – jovial to the point of aggravation. On the darkest days of their endeavor, the man had forsaken his white lab coat for brightly colored garments; a vain attempt at lessening the cloud that hung heavy over their task. Now he sat before the doctor swathed head to toe in black, complete with a thick cloak lined in sable fur.

 “I expected you to try to reason your way out of this,” The Intruder stated into the void, breaking the hours-long silence.

It had crossed his mind to be sure, but begging would be a waste of words. Best to keep his dignity intact.

“When you’ve held a concept in your head for as long as you have, it seems unlikely to change over the course of a few fleeting minutes,” the doctor replied, not lifting his eyes from the page.

“So, you think me beyond redemption?” The Intruder offered sadly. “How tragic; the great Doctor Freese reduced to a pessimist.”

Another hour passed in silence.

“Why did you take his name?” Freese inquired. It was the only puzzle piece he hadn’t been able to place.

A momentarily flicker of surprise lit in The Intruder’s gaunt face.

Interesting, the doctor pondered. Did he honestly believe I wouldn’t figure it out?

“After everything we did, it seemed fitting,” the black-cloaked man replied simply.

“I always suspected it was you. Did you know that? In all my years, I’ve never told a soul – more so out of shame than loyalty to you. I tried to convince myself otherwise, but deep down; I knew. Just as well, I knew that you’d come for me eventually, once I realized I was the only one left.

“No matter how hard you try, you can’t change the past. Nothing you or I can do would be enough to wash our sins away. You started a war to justify your own selfish guilt. How many irreplaceable lives did it cost? Our species has no future because of your actions! And for what? All so you didn’t have to suffer through the eons alone with your own self-pity?”

The doctor knew that brand of guilt too well. Not a soul survived this long without inheriting an ocean of regret, but the share The Intruder carried dwarfed the sum of all others by a thousand-fold. However, – no matter how much he wished to deny it – Freese shared a portion of the blame; a sin the two committed as brothers, long before the wisdom of the ages taught him there could have been a better way. 

“Where is it?” The Intruder questioned. No rage flared in reaction to the doctor’s taunting. If anything, his resolve only strengthened.

“Someplace you will never dare to look. You can spend the rest of your depressing existence searching if you’d like! I know it’s safe, because I know who you are.”

From the wall, the clock maintained its timeless vigil as the pages left to turn dwindled towards nothingness.

“Which of my apprentices turned Judas on me?” Dr. Freese inquired, though he knew the answer would only bring him grief.

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose it doesn’t,” the doctor sighed. “But then again, there’s very little that matters anymore, is there?”

He’d had a wife once long ago – before the Darkest Day claimed her, – but now he lived alone. In lieu of a new spouse, he wed himself to work instead, all the while toiling towards his guilt-driven goal. The research he conducted in the public eye was no more than subtle misdirection. Freese’s true dedication was known only to a precious few associates and – judging by his unwelcomed guest’s presence – one of their number had betrayed him.

 “I hope you understand that your research has forced my hand,” The Intruder continued. “I never wanted to cut short your life nor the lives of those around you, but you’ve left me no other option. My work will be done, despite your efforts to postpone the inevitable.”

Those around you, Dr. Freese lamented. That could only mean that his friends – his family he might even have called them! – were already gone. Though he’d been open about the risks from the start, he doubted most had truly understood the gravity. At least he wouldn’t live long enough to add that guilt atop the mountain he already shouldered. A small mercy.

“Your work will never be done!” The doctor proclaimed. “Strike me down, but there will always be another!”

“Not always.” The whisper was a viper rustling through the undertow

Freese grew tired of the conversation and The Intruder appeared content to let him leaf through the last pages tranquilly. After another hour, the doctor snapped the tome shut, tossing it onto the table.

“So how did it end?” The Intruder queried grimly.

“Foolishly. I guess in that aspect the damned book and I have something in common.”

“Two things, in truth; you’ll never reach your green light either.” The Intruder rose. From his cloak of midnight hue, he drew a long-bladed knife, slender birch tree engraved into the metal. Dagger in hand, the phantom crossed the table.

“Is there anything you’d like to say?” The Intruder asked, placing his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. It was oddly soothing.

“Nothing comes to mind. It’s strange, isn’t it? I’ve been contemplating the moment I would die for a hundred lifetimes, but now that the time draws near, words escape me.”

“That saddens me to hear,” The Intruder confided. Though his face wasn’t visible from Freese’s vantage, what sounded like a steady drip of tears echoed quietly as they struck the floorboards below.

“I hope one day you find the peace you’ve been so desperately searching for, Jeremiah,” the doctor whispered gently.

“I don’t go by that name anymore.”

Dr. Markus Freese felt the knife slip painlessly into the base of his skull. As the blade inched forward, his vision slowly faded, like the gentle wilting of daylight at dusk in the closing days of fall. Peacefully, he drifted into oblivion, confident that the man who ended his life would never unearth the secrets buried within the folios around them.

Present Day - April 17th, 7244 A.Z.

I wonder what this means? Hale reflected as she flicked her hand over the canvas.

She never painted with a plan in mind, instead letting each brushstroke choose its own path. The image was becoming clearer, though how her subconscious had conjured such a scene eluded her. A man and a woman – their features indistinct – sat across from one another with a single apple resting on the simple wooden table between them.

Painting was something she’d avoided dabbling in, but as the years passed fewer activities piqued her interest. Even the most extreme of vices can’t keep their flame kindled forever. This was far from a passion, but rather just another entry on a long list of diversions; one she might have even enjoyed, if not for the sour memories it dredged to the surface. Her mind was wandering – a dangerous thing. Ghosts cut deeper than those still alive at times.

So much for a peaceful day, Hale mused.

 As a distraction, she hummed in tune with the music that played; an indie track first heard in a childhood so distant it might as well have been someone else’s. One would imagine that seven-thousand years alive would be enough to wash her blood clean of teenage angst, but her heart appealed its disagreement, pulsing in rhythm with the bassline. Recently, it seemed the spark of youth had been inexplicably rekindled, coursing through her veins alongside a hearty dose of nostalgia. Both were drugs best avoided; time spent dwelling in the past only serves to intrude upon the future.

The song itself was a reproduction, of course, – very little data outside of the mainstream had survived the War – but the cover artist hit close to home. Not perfect, though. There was something off in the tempo that she couldn’t quite put her finger on; a half-note missing somewhere in the riff, perhaps?

Hale had tried to correct the mistake once long ago, going as far as to record her own version. She thought her voice suited the melody well, but it could never match the nonchalant, airy sentiment that made the original so heartwarming. Whoever Molly was and what she’d meant to the artist – friend, family, lover? – was a mystery. It was better that way; sometimes reality fails to live up to the poetry of verse. As her morning faded away in solemn serenity, she brandished her brush against the nemesis named boredom, oblivious to the ticking of time.

Buzz. Her hand slipped as the jarring wail of a doorbell reverberated throughout the antechamber. A vein pulsed angrily in her forehead as she assessed the damage.

It’s not that bad! A few extra layers and you won’t even be able to tell, she fantasized, but the thought did nothing to sway her heart. No. She’d only spent a year on this one; easier to toss it and start fresh! Not like she would have finished it anyways.

“On screen,” she called. A flash flickered briefly on the paneled wall before warping into a mirror image of her doorstep. Atop the portico stood a scruffy man, white mess of hair matching an unkempt goatee and cleanly pressed suit clashing intrinsically with the rest of his disheveled appearance. In his hands was a bouquet of flowers, petals as vivid and varied as a rainbow.

What could Matt want? She pondered.

“Let him know I’ll be right there.” The man on the screen cocked his head as the intercom relayed the message at her command.

She turned, passing through an arched doorway into the master gallery. Works of art ranging from mundane to exquisite dotted the walls, with marble statues lining the path piercing the heart of the display. A Versa-Bot dusted in a corner, it’s crablike appendages gripping a feathery pole.

“Hey, you,” Hale called to the automaton. Its red lens swept towards her as it hovered patiently. “Clean up the mess in the other parlor. Take the supplies – and the whole damned canvas, too! – to Recycling.”

Wordlessly, the machine darted to obey, hulking mass of its angular frame weaving effortlessly between her and a bust of Sophocles. A tinge of regret shot up her spine, but it vanished like dew at sunrise. The painting was ruined; no use in mourning its loss.

For a moment, she considered detouring to change – her green blouse being splotched with paint at present – but decided against it. Whatever brought Matt to her doorstep must be urgent. He wasn’t the type to disturb someone without good reason. If it had been anyone else, she might have dallied, but for him she took the most direct path through her sprawling abode.

“Good mornin’, Hale,” Matt greeted as she bade him into the reception hall. His voice was gruff, usually, but today the drawl was overpowered by a thick layer of somberness.

“Been a while, Matt,” she replied curtly. “Was hoping to keep it that way, no offense. They did tell you it’s my decade off assignment, right?”

The ashen-haired man nodded. “My hands are tied, I’m afraid. Mayor asked for you personally.”

“These are for you,” he added, handing the bouquet to Hale. “They’re real, too; none of that Synthed crap. Picked ‘em from my personal garden this mornin’!”

She barely avoided rolling her eyes. It’s not like being real made it any better; the Synthesizer recreated things down to an atomic level! Only the principle set a copy apart from the natural and that was enough for some people to cling to.

“They’re beautiful, thank you!” She humored him. In truth, she’d never been one for flowers. What use was something that withered away so quickly? Still, it was a nice gesture and the fragrance was pleasant.

“Mind if we take a seat? There’s a lot to talk about.”

 “Of course,” Hale agreed, gesturing towards a set of leather chairs opposite the entryway.

“Strike up the fireplace,” she ordered as an afterthought. Within moments, two Versa-Bots entered hauling tinder, setting the logs ablaze atop the hearth as she placed the bouquet carefully onto an end table.

“I see you changed the décor,” Matt commented, taking his seat. Above the mantel hung an enormous mountain landscape draped in the vibrant colors of spring.

“My husband thought the last piece a bit too drab for a welcoming room,” she reminisced. They must have changed it over a century ago now! Had it been that long since Matt last visited? “Care for anything? You’re a whiskey man, if I remember right.”

“No thanks. Partner’d have my head if he found out I had a drink on the job.”

“What John doesn’t know won’t kill him. How is he by the way? I’m sure his damn pride must hurt to hear Glenn sent you calling for me.”

Matt let out a nervous chuckle. “All due respect, I’d rather keep myself out of your little rivalry.”

Hale smiled slyly. It may have been a rivalry in his eyes, but to her there was no such contest; John would always be second best.

“Besides,” Matt resumed carefully. “The matter at hand is grave enough to warrant putting any petty matters of pride aside. There’s been an incident.”

Cutting right to it, are you? She mused. Decorum usually dictated a fair bit of conversation before diving into business. Patience had become a common virtue for the remnants of humankind, given the vastness of time at their disposal. Hale admittedly lacked that quality, but it was an area in which she was trying to improve.

“What sort of incident?”

Matt seemed hesitant to reply. His eyes darted rapidly, looking anywhere but at her face.

“Five citizens were murdered last night.”

It took a few moments for Hale to process. The words didn’t seem right, as if Matt had spoken several different languages at once and she’d mistaken the translation. In all of Respite’s history, there had never been five murders in a century, let alone a single night! The last had occurred over 250 years ago and she’d held hope – perhaps foolishly – that it would be the last. As that case drew to its conclusion, Hale nursed a childlike optimism that after seven thousand years the last of the violent and unhinged had finally been whittled away. With a few simple words, Matt dashed that hope like salt in the wind.

“What happened?” Hale eked out, body suddenly feeling ten times heavier.

The man just shook his head as he stared pensively into the flame upon the hearth. “I don’t know and even if I did there’s no time to explain. You know the rules; 24 hours before details must go public. Mayor’d like all the crime scenes fully cased before then. The sweepers already compiled their initial report.”

Reaching into his suit, he produced a small black orb no larger than his fist. Hale’s heart sank even further at the sight of it. “Everything you need to know, PRIA can tell you.”

As if this morning couldn’t get any worse, she lamented. With great reluctance, she took the orb into her hands, running her fingers over its smooth surface before stowing it in a pocket.

“What will you do?” Hale asked, voice surprisingly calm.

Surely, her heart broke with the news, but buried somewhere in the medley of sorrow was a fraction of guilt. It excited her to have a case to work, she was ashamed to admit! Not that she would ever wish for such a tragedy to happen, but – through its occurrence – she felt a sense of purpose once more. The monotony of life in Respite stacked upon itself until it became too much to bear. In her dreams, she spent the restless nights wandering through an endless desert with nothing but the grains of sand to count to pass the time.

“John and I are investigating one of the other scenes,” Matt replied. “When you’ve dressed, there’s a car waiting for you outside. It’ll take you where you need to go.”

Hale nodded. The silver-maned man cast one last glance at the painting above the mantel before standing to leave. “Tell your husband I agree with him; the piece is definitely more welcoming.”

“You can tell him yourself,” she sighed, rising from her padded chair. “I’m sure we’ll both be seeing him before this is all over.”

“Right you are,” he smiled. The two embraced, Hale barely reaching the man’s chest. “Try not to be reckless?”

“And you do the same,” she chucked in reply.

As Matt gently closed the door behind him, Hale pulled PRIA from her pocket, caressing the surface of the sinuous sphere as if entranced. Such a simple thing it was; far too plain to conjure memories as painful as it did!

Alone in the room, beside the blazing hearth she whispered, though her words fell on deaf ears.

“Here we go again, old friend.”

Chapter 2

They’ll Fix It Later

July 19th, 2024 A.D.

Hale unpinned the badge from her blouse and tossed it unceremoniously onto the mantel. Today marked the one month anniversary of her graduation from the police academy; one month down and only a few decades to go till retirement! If every month went the same as this one, she would likely die of boredom long before turning in her gun and uniform.

For as long as she could remember, she’d dreamed of being an officer, but in her fantasies the profession had been much more glamorous. She’d envisioned car chases and bank robberies, but reality was mostly parking violations and speeding tickets instead. At least she had the next two days off. A small blessing.

Unbuckling her holster, she placed the weapon onto the kitchen table beside a growing stack of bills. Not paying the mail any mind, she rifled through the refrigerator, snagging an apple before retreating further into her modest abode. In the living room, Daniel – the only person that kept her motivated through this dull existence they called adulthood – sat silently on the couch, eyes glued to the television.

“Hey, you,” she muttered, plopping down and planting a kiss on his scruffy cheek. A stone would have reacted more strongly. She turned to the screen, wondering what had drawn his attention. Her jaw dropped at the headline.

July 25th, 2024 A.D.

“What about all the stuff they’re saying online?” Hale asked timidly as they lay in their shared bed. Her alarm clock was snoozing away, but soon the blaring bells would signal her departure. Neither of them had been able to sleep much since hearing the news.

“That it’s all a scam? I’ve done my research,” Daniel reassured. “I love you! Do you really think I’d ask you to do anything dangerous?” He had a way with his words that put her mind at ease. She found the quality both endearing and infuriating.

“How would we sign up?” She asked after a pause. In the dim morning light, Daniel’s eyes lit up like emeralds. “That doesn’t mean I’m agreeing! Just theoretically; if we were to go through with it, what do we need to do?”

“From what I’ve read, it’s pretty simple. Doctor Honoré made it clear that there’s plenty enough for everyone! According to him, developing the serum was almost impossible, but they have all they need now that a sample exists. I don’t understand what that means, but I trust him. Besides, how can it be a scam if they’re giving it away for free?”

She remained unconvinced. “That seems sketchy to me.”

“Come on, Hale!” Daniel wrapped his arm around her and squeezed.

“That’s all you’ve got? ‘Come on’?” Hale chided, but her heart wasn’t in it. She allowed herself to be pulled into a warm kiss.

Even as a boy, Daniel had always been stout and sturdy, but that taught him to be gentle. When you were as big as he was, you quickly learned how to control yourself or else risked causing unintended harm. He would sooner hurt himself than an ant. His passion was art, dabbling in painting and sculpting, but it failed to pay the bills. To make up for it, he doubled as an usher at the local cinema three days a week. Hale didn’t mind; she loved to watch movies and getting in for free fit perfectly into their miserable budget.

In contrast, she herself stood short and slender, but had been blessed with the heart of a lion as compensation. From a young age, she’d earned every dollar she possessed through sweat and grit alone. Her parents did what they could, but times were tough and money was hard to come by. As soon as she was old enough, she’d registered for the police academy, just like she’d always wanted.

She was engaged to Daniel, too, just like she’d always wanted – though it’d been up to her to pop the question. They couldn’t afford a wedding yet, but in the meantime, she wore the ring he’d scrounged for with pride. The diamond wasn’t real, but it made no difference; she didn’t need fancy jewelry to feel loved. It was just a worthless stone, anyways.

Quite a few of her friends and family begged her to ditch him, accusing Daniel of being parasitic. In all fairness, they were probably right, – she was the breadwinner after all! – but nothing they could say diminished the fact that she adored everything about the man. If being with him meant making sacrifices, so be it. They were radically different, but Hale believed that was what made them perfect for each other. She was happy – that’s all she could ask for in life!

“Are there side effects?” She questioned, pulling away from his kiss reluctantly. “Like I always say, ‘if something sounds too good to be true, it is.’”

“I,” he stuttered, clearly hesitant to voice what was on his mind. “I think there are. I did some digging while you were at work yesterday. I couldn’t find anything concrete, but Dr. Honoré is expected to explain everything during his interview tomorrow.”

“So, they haven’t started distributing it yet?”

“They have,” he answered. “But they’re releasing it in phases. They’ve been extremely secretive, too; probably afraid of people stealing it, or worse. For the first phase, they shipped some to hospitals for use on the elderly and terminal – the ones that don’t have time to wait. The next phase is due to be announced soon.”

“Oh,” Hale said simply, biting her lip. She needed to kick that habit; it was a clear sign that she was nervous. Daniel took one look and knew for certain how she felt.

“Let’s just watch the interview tomorrow, okay?” He whispered soothingly. “You don’t have to commit right now. We’ll scope it out and make our decision together!”

“Alright,” she agreed, pecking him on the cheek. On the nightstand, her alarm blared jarringly. “I have to go to work, though.”

As she rose out of bed, Daniel latched onto her arm.

“Wait,” he pleaded, worry dripping in his voice.

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t go in today.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you stay with me instead? Call in sick or something, I don’t know! What if something happens to you? What if you get shot or wreck your cruiser?”

She never missed work! Daniel was being ridiculous, though deep down she knew his heart was in the right place. How could she fault him for being concerned? On the other hand, what use was living in constant fear of what could happen?

“I can’t; you know that!” She stood at the bedside, arm slipping out of his grasp. Daniel stared at the floor dejectedly.

“I’ll be fine!” Hale assured while dressing. “It’ll probably just be more parking tickets, anyways.”

And it was.

Day Zero - July 26th, 2024 A.D. or 0 A.Z.

A white-haired man – perhaps in his early fifties – stepped out from behind the curtain, striding gracefully toward his seat next to the news anchor. The suit he wore was deep navy, cleanly pressed with neat lines and a red tie resting between his lapels. Something halfway between scruff and a beard dominated the lower portion of his face; an expertly groomed portrait of professionalism.

The banner on the bottom of the screen announced his name, but Hale wagered there were few alive who needed a reminder. Dr. Nicolas Honoré; Nicolas the Lifegiver.

In the studio was a small audience, with the president herself among them. A stillness resonated throughout the chamber, stealing every breath as it spread like wildfire across the globe. For a few short moments, it was as if the air around Hale had evaporated. She forced herself to inhale deeply, heart racing at a pace so quick that it threatened to burst. As the doctor took his seat, he scanned the room.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions; all of which I intend to answer. I have prepared a statement that I will recite before opening myself to be interviewed. I assume that will not be an issue?” Silence answered and the man took it as affirmation. He had a slight accent that Hale couldn’t place, though she admittedly wasn’t very learned in those sorts of things.

“First and foremost, let me be outstandingly clear regarding the topic that has brought me here today. I, alongside a small team of colleagues who wish to remain anonymous, through years of diligence and painstaking research, have manufactured a serum that – when administered – prevents senescence, more commonly referred to as aging. Not only does the antigen contained in this vaccine halt the deterioration of cellular matter caused by the passage of time, it also instills the body with regenerative capabilities against external wounds.

“Theoretically, a human exposed to this compound – or the by-products thereof – can continue living indefinitely, frozen in the aging process at the exact state of first injection.”

A small murmur rose from the crowd inside the studio. Hale let out an uncharacteristic gasp. She’d anticipated the announcement, but hearing it stated so plainly was shocking nonetheless. Around the world, people from every creed, race, and culture were watching with a unified sense of wonderment. In Hale, that feeling was strangely tinged with a small portion of fear.

“Please allow me to remedy a misconception that I – that we, I should say – knew would arise from announcing our discovery,” Dr. Honoré continued, spreading his hands wide and gazing into the camera, as if to speak directly to the millions – or perhaps billions – watching. “This is not immortality. It is very close to it, in respect to the current human condition, but death is still an unfortunate possibility. A severe injury to the brain will terminate an individual even after treatment has been administered.

“A more apt word over immortality that I will posit is that this compound Perpetuates the subject into which it is introduced. It forces the subject’s body to remain in a perpetual state so long as the organ that controls it – the brain – remains operational. That is the most detailed explanation.

“At this time, I will now open myself to questions,” he concluded abruptly.

It was a few moments before the anchor remembered that he was the one tasked with conducting the interview. His wild eyes betrayed a mind that had completely blanked. No amount of rehearsal could have prepared someone for this! He jerked his head away from the doctor and towards what Hale guessed was an off-screen teleprompter.

“Thank you,” the man started shakily, “Dr. Honoré; for both the part you’ve played in bringing this astonishing discovery to light and for agreeing to this broadcast! You are correct in assuming that I, alongside our audience and everyone watching from home, have many questions roiling in our minds.

“Let me begin by asking you to outline the history of your research; what brought your team together? What was the inspiration behind this serum you claim to have created?”

“Mr. Bames, I would ask you to kindly avoid using any doubt mongering words such as ‘claim’ in this interview. I assure you that after tonight there will be no reason for disbelief or suspicion.” The doctor’s tone wasn’t unkind, but it did have enough bite in it to show he had taken grave offense at the interviewer’s choice of words.

“My sincerest apologies, doctor. Allow me to rephrase my poorly phrased query; what brought your team together and how were you able to make such an amazing discovery?”

“All living members of my organization, which – as I’ve stated before – will remain anonymous, have been working tirelessly for over two decades. We received generous financial backing from a lesser member of our research team and have driven towards the singular goal of solving the aging problem since our inception. Though the title is purely ceremonious, we’ve agreed to name our discovery ‘The Davis Elixir’, in honor of that aforementioned, lesser member. Mr. Davis died four years ago; four years short of the longevity he so desperately desired.” Melancholy was clear in the doctor’s eyes, mixed with a measure of guilt.

“To say that your colleague’s death is a tragedy would be a titanic understatement. My deepest condolences, Nicolas,” the anchor offered sincerely before continuing his line of questioning. “You mentioned the name is purely ceremonious; care to elaborate on that?”

“The title is meaningless in that the serum no longer exists, nor is it likely to ever exist again. Only one vial was produced through our research and it has already been expended,” a confused uproar worked its way through the audience. Hale’s still-racing heart sank towards the floor. Dr. Honoré silenced the crowd with a simple wave of his hand. “I assure you that the compound itself is no longer necessary, as the blood of anyone who has been treated contains everything necessary to bestow Perpetuation onto others.”

“How does this process work?” Questioned Mr. Bames, regaining his composure.

“Through injection, a genetically modified cell – engineered to the exact specifications of the human genome – is introduced into the body. Once administered, this cell replicates infinitely without degeneration and acts to suspend natural, biologic decay associated with senescence. In addition, this antigen also reacts to external sources of trauma and repairs the associated damage, though to be transparent, we aren’t quite sure how this side effect manifested in the finished product. Imagine a fourth type of blood cell – in addition to platelets, red, and white – coursing through your veins. The sole function of this new cell is to keep you in exactly the same condition you were when it was first introduced into your system. It’s a simplified explanation, but serves as a close approximation of a far more complicated mechanism.

“Normal physiological processes like digestion and hair growth will continue, but all living tissue is Perpetuated by the cells until such a time when a severe brain injury destroys their ability to function. When differences are detected – like with the present of a new abrasion for instance – the cells work to repair it, leaving behind absolutely no trace that the injury ever occurred.”

“How?” A flabbergasted Mr. Bames sputtered.

“When the antigen is injected into a new host, they map the individual’s DNA, constantly scanning for changes. If deviations are detected, the cells use other base material – from sources such as eating – to synthesize replicas of the matter that has been altered and restore it to the original state.” He explained it so simply – as if he hadn’t just expounded upon the most crucial discovery in human history. Mr. Bames took another moment to catch his breath.

“How do you know it works?”

“Because I – together with my associates – am part of the first and only trial group of The Davis Elixir. I have already been Perpetuated.”

Hale squirmed in her seat uncomfortably at the admission. Just looking at him felt perverse, as if her bright, green eyes were seeing something cosmically forbidden. Is he even human anymore? She wondered.

“How long has it been?”

“A little over a year,” the doctor replied. Another uproar rippled its way around the amphitheater and the world beyond. A look of grief spread itself across Dr. Honoré’s face. It was clear he’d been dreading this admission.

“I understand your outrage,” he continued, trying his best to calm the crowd. “I know that in this time many have died that would’ve been spared, had we not hesitated in coming forward. My colleagues and I did not take the decision to delay our announcement lightly. There were so many unknowns that had to be answered before we could be certain our discovery was for the betterment of humankind!

“Understand that these cells are crafted specifically for the human genome; therefore, animal testing was impossible. We had no choice but to act as the metaphorical guinea pigs ourselves! It would have been irresponsible to release anything before we found answers to the multitude of questions this serum warrants.”

“What sort of questions, doctor?” Mr. Bames inquired, distraught but curious.

“Would storing new memories be possible or would the antigen prevent any new synapse paths from forming? How would the cells react when exposed to infectious diseases? Was there any risk of mutating into something that harms the body rather than aiding it? Are emotions possible or would the chemicals our bodies release be suppressed? There are thousands of others, all answerable only after running a litany of tests! I implore you not to judge us too harshly in our decision to err on the side of caution.”

By the time the doctor finished his justification, he seemed on the verge of tears. Mr. Bames allowed the crowd to settle before continuing. “What were the results of your clinical trial? Are there any negative side effects the public needs to be aware of?”

“Memory creation is possible, we found. Due to the fact that the brain is the control center for the antigen, the cells do not impede its normal functions, serving only to repair damage and prevent deterioration without undoing routine changes.

“Any disease or injury that involves the human genome – such as cancer or autoimmune conditions – existing in the subject at the time of injection will be Perpetuated without prejudice alongside other physical characteristics. These conditions are recognized as part of the body and are treated as such indiscriminately. This is not necessarily a downside, as these types of disorders will never spread due to the antigen keeping them in a frozen state, but if there is any discomfort associated, it will need to be alleviated before introduction or else the subject will live with the pain perpetually in consequence. In simpler terms, illnesses involving the host’s DNA will not be cured by the serum, but will also never worsen once introduced.”

“Is there anything else?” The anchor prodded. Dr. Honoré fidgeted with the arm of his chair. Hale feared he was about to reveal some terrible downside. Everything that sounded too good to be true was, after all.

“First, the process is irreversible. Once Perpetuated, the only way to stop the replication of the antigen is to destroy the cells’ control center, which is the subject’s brain.

“Second, after the subject has been Perpetuated, new growth will not be possible; therefore, a child will remain a child until death once the cells are introduced. This can be remedied by postponing until natural aging has been achieved, of course. However, in the presence of terminal childhood diseases, a subject can be saved through treatment, but will never progress to adulthood.

“Third, the antigen is easily spread from host to host through exposure to blood or other bodily fluids. Therefore, if an individual wishes to forego the procedure, they must be excruciatingly careful not to come into contact with a carrier, or risk being Perpetuated undesirably.”

“Finally, because the cells will recognize and eliminate any tissue or foreign body that was not present at the moment of Perpetuation, new formations aren’t possible, whether they be malignant or desired.” Dr. Honoré paused, letting this revelation sink in.

“Do you understand?”

“I think so,” replied Mr. Bames neutrally.

“A Perpetuated subject can never have children.”

August 7th, 0 A.Z.

Hale held Daniel’s hand as they stepped into the clinic.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked.

“Are you?” he replied.

“No. But we’re here, so what the hell?” she flashed him a smile and he returned it nervously.

“You have to be sure, Hale! This is a decision you’re going to have to live with for a very, very long time, remember?”

“What if we want to have kids, Daniel?” She voiced her lone concern once more.

He rolled his eyes. “We’ve been over this a dozen times! I’m sure they’ll fix it later! We’ll have all the time in the world for scientists and doctors to figure out a solution to that little problem.”

His attempt to comfort her failed. If it was that simple, why had Dr. Honoré seemed so hesitant?

“Unless you want to have one now? I’d be willing to wait nine months, if that’s what you want.” She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“I’m not ready.”

“Then it’s settled! By the time you’re ready for kids, they’ll have it all figured out. Trust me!”

“I do trust you. And I love you.”

“I love you, too! And now I’ll get to love you that much longer.” He hugged her tightly and they strolled to the waiting area, hand in hand.

A few moments later she found herself in the back room with a nurse. The white-clothed woman plunged her syringe into a vial of blood, extracting a small sample.

“Does it hurt?” Hale asked, biting her lip. She wasn’t concerned with the pain, but she needed to speak to calm her nerves.

“Not in the least bit, aside from the prick,” the woman replied as she tapped the sanguine container with a finger. “Are you ready?”

Hale nodded.

“What’s it like?” She asked timidly.

“You tell me.”

With that, the nurse pierced the needle into a vein deep inside Hale’s arm, slowly plunging the contents inward. For a brief moment, all the blood in her body turned icy, before gradually warming back to normal temperature. She gasped for air as if she had just resurfaced from the ocean depths.

So, this was it. She was immortal – or as close to it as was possible. Was this what it felt like to be immortal?

She couldn’t tell the difference at all.

Chapter 3

What We Leave Behind

Present Day – April 17th, 7244 A.Z.

The vehicle hovered at a snail’s pace, carrying Hale through the Residential Circle towards City Center. She rarely made use of the autonomous fleet under normal circumstances, but when she did it was with speed cranked to max. Restraint better suited the mood today, however. A slow ride would buy her time to analyze the case file.

So, this is how the other half lives, Hale thought snidely. Most citizens chose to ride at this excruciating pace, though there had never been a single accident in Respite’s history. It was hard to blame them; not many made it this long by taking unnecessary risks. To be fair, she walked most places herself, but only because she found using her own legs calming. Or at least that’s what she told herself.

Beyond the glass capsule surrounding her was a wash mansions in styles as unique as the residents themselves. Many of those residents were making use of the artificial morning light, tending to gardens or trees in their front yard. Some gave Hale’s vessel a friendly wave in between snips of their shears.

Trees were a common pet, as they were the only thing that lived long enough to form a meaningful bond with. Dogs and cats were extremely uncommon, though a few Respitians kept the old tradition. Their lives passed by in the blink of an eye, leaving in their wake the only sort of grief that never seemed to lessen with the years. Attempts had been made to Perpetuate other species, but never succeeded in reproducing the results of the human antigen. Dr. Honoré refused to participate, arguing that animals couldn’t consent to the treatment and it would be inhumane to force the decision on them. Besides, without consciously understanding their condition, they would likely die inadvertently far before their human companions.

Hale realized she was distracting herself and turned from the window. The moment she dreaded was drawing near, despite her best efforts to stall the inevitable. She turned the smooth, black sphere over in her hands. Though it made no sound, from it she imagined phantom whispers; echoes of the lowest days she’d known since coming to the Last City.

“Showtime PRIA,” she whispered.

With great hesitation, Hale squeezed until a soft click signaled the resurrection of an ancient comrade she hoped to never see again. Moments later, her Personal Robotic Investigation Assistant sparked to life, lifting off and floating eagerly above the leather dashboard. Its camera lens – illuminated in red light – was the only item breaking the otherwise sinuous orb.

“Hale,” the unit spoke in his warm, male tone. “By my clock, it seems to have been quite a while since last we spoke. No time to spare for dusting off an old friend every now and then?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she chided in return. “Trust me; I’d rather you were still sleeping!”

They’d programmed the third generation of PRIA’s to be more amiable, after complaints the detached demeanor of the first two had made them uncomfortable to work with. Hale suspected they’d endowed hers with an excessive amount of neediness out of spite. Being the top in your field inevitably leads to its fair share of jealous rivals.

“Is that any way to treat me after all we’ve been through?” The hurt in his voice was almost believable.

Although PRIA’s nagging could be draining at times, his company wasn’t as bad as she made it out to be. Unfortunately, the circumstances under which they collaborated made his presence difficult to bear. Being around him reminded her of moments she’d sooner forget, though – as time went by – the need for his use was becoming more and more seldom. Crime slowly edged its way towards extinction hand in hand with the humans that invented it.

“If I say I’m sorry, will you shut up and get to work?” She muttered in reply. “Let’s make a deal; help me with this investigation and I promise to let you stretch your legs every now and then.”

“I don’t have legs, Hale,” he commented dryly.

She stared at him blankly, already annoyed. “I meant that I’d turn you on from time to time.”

“In that case, how can I help?” PRIA asked with simulated excitement, not catching the venom in her voice.

I bet there are rocks with a better sense of humor, Hale grumbled.

“Just download the dossier the Mayor sent out this morning. Please.”

The automaton’s processor whirred as he complied with the order. “Five victims? There must be some mistake.”

“I’m afraid it’s true, pal,” she relayed heavyheartedly. “What can you tell me about the victims?”

“What would you like to know?”

“Any common threads? Any chance this was an Ageist incident?”

“No,” the robot chirped. “It appears only two of the five were possible Afterlings. The other three have records validating they are true Firstlings.”

That rules out the easy explanation, Hale mused. No matter; it’s not like finding the motive ever brought anyone peace.

Since the War ended, violence between Firstlings – those born before or around Day Zero – and Afterlings – those born later – erupted sporadically. The exact dates of those classifications were fluid, but most made the cutoff at the time of humanity’s separation between mortal and Perpetual.

A lot of good that did, Hale lamented.

At the time, segregation was deemed a necessary evil to prevent the antigen from spreading to the point of no return. In the end, it only served to fan the flames of distrust until it was too late to quench them. Both sides held the other accountable for what happened, though incidents of violence were extremely rare nowadays. Time dulled all emotions and hate was no exception to that rule.

“Is it possible someone snapped?” Hale suggested. Mental health was an issue in Respite, to say the least. Having thousands of years to dwell on mortality takes a toll on a person’s psyche, it would seem.

“A random rampage didn’t fit either,” PRIA explained. “The victims were found in three different districts. Four of the five were found dead in their residences, with the other being discovered in an alley near the Eternal Plaza. Three of the five showed signs of torture, with hundreds of cuts dotting their bodies, though only the final wound to the skull would have proven fatal, of course. The other two – the victim found in the alley and the one we are on our way to investigate – received only a single stab wound and showed no signs of struggle.”

The more details shared, the angrier she became. None of it made sense!

If it was an easy case, I’d still be at home painting, she reminded herself in an attempt to keep calm.

“There are two threads I can see linking them, however,” PRIA continued. “First, they shared a background in various medical disciplines, though it seems they’ve not collaborated in quite some time.”

“But you do have record of them working together?”

“Yes. In fact, I think their shared project will prove most interesting to you. All five participated in Project Rebirth.”

“What were their names?” Hale asked numbly.

Her assistant listed them, but only one sparked something in her mind.

“Markus Freese,” she repeated.

“Did you know him?”

“I don’t think so,” Hale answered, tapping a finger to her lips. The name seemed familiar, but in truth, there were few in Respite she hadn’t met. “Is he the one that lived at our destination?”

“Yes,” PRIA replied simply. “125 Rosewood Lane. The report includes a floorplan. I have no visuals available to share with you, unfortunately. It seems the late doctor had the entire residence Protected.”

“I see.” Hale was only half paying attention, still lost in thought trying to figure out where she had heard that name before. The face that Dr. Freese’s residence was Protected wasn’t surprising. Protecting an area meant that any mechanisms that entered would have their recording devices automatically deactivated – with the exception of PRIAs, of course.

It was a simple matter, controllable by a Central Control Unit installed in each building. Privacy was an unalienable right in Respite and if someone wished to sequester themselves away from the world – for a short period, or forevermore – it was made painless to do so. The designation itself was private, with only the Mayor having access to view it in case of dire circumstances such as these.

In truth, Protection was purely ceremonious, as the recordings themselves went largely unmonitored. Crime was so sparse that keeping up with surveillance served little purpose and Headquarters lacked the manpower to staff all the cameras. It was likely that the few officers they had to spare were currently pouring over any available footage from the surrounding areas, though Hale thought it unlikely that they’d find anything amongst the mountain of material.

“Can you show me a photo?” Hale asked, hoping that his image would jar some recollection.

PRIA abided, casting the image of an elderly man with pensive, black eyes onto the dashboard. She stared at it for a good minute, but no memories popped into mind.

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“Not much,” PRIA admitted. “The man was a Firstling, Perpetuated in his early fifties. He was born in southern Africa to a local mother and an immigrant father. In his twenties, he moved to the former United States to escape discrimination during the Apartheid period. Records show that he received his Doctorate in Medicine shortly after relocation.

“Oddly enough,” he continued. “The report also mentions that Freese remained active in the medical field well after the foundation of Respite, having dozens of scientific articles published on the subject, the last being as recent as 212 years ago.”

“Does that lead you to any conclusions?” Hale asked. The need for medicine perished alongside the Endlings; that the doctor had continued his research millennia afterwards was interesting.

“There are no indications as to what the victim had been doing in the two centuries since his last publication,” PRIA replied. “However, paired with the information that the other victims also shared medical backgrounds, it is easy to infer what they most likely were researching. There is only one topic still relevant to you humans, after all.”

Hale nodded sadly. What motive could an assailant have for interfering with that sort of work? Perhaps the perpetrator had tracked them down as punishment for their failure on Project Rebirth? Four millennia seemed far too long a time to kindle that brand of anger, but for someone demented enough to commit a crime such as this, it dwelled within the realm of possibility.

Regardless, her intuition told her that if any clues remained to be found, they’d be hidden somewhere at their destination. She’d heard all she needed to hear, for now. With a twist of a dial, the vehicle tripled its pace in an instant. Silently, the vessel shepherded them forward in the direction of Headquarters – an ivory tower at the heart Respite that soared over the other structures, reaching upwards until it joined with the simulated clouds on the Great Dome’s surface.

Hale busied herself with reviewing the Mayor’s report, until a sharp turn took them down a side street. The craft gently slowed to a halt in front of a mansion unremarkable compared to its many neighbors. 125 Rosewood Lane. As the cream-colored cloth doors folded in on themselves to open, she bit her lip lightly, fiddling with the badge pinned to her uniform. Nervous, she realized. It had been a long time since she’d felt this anxious. A long time.

A day ago, the good doctor had lived here. Now he didn’t live anywhere. As she exited the vehicle, the baton hanging at her hip suddenly felt far too small a protection against what may lay ahead. It was all she had at home and a trip to Headquarters to pick up a Shock Lance would waste precious time – not to mention give them impression that she was nervous. Violence against law enforcement was unheard of and defenses were an afterthought nowadays. Still, she felt inadequate. It’s not like a mass murderer would pay any heed to etiquette.

“Come on PRIA,” she commanded, stepping towards the residence with her companion in tow. “And try not to look so worried,” she added with a wink.

Like all of Respite’s structures, the façade of Freese’s mansion was kept immaculate by robotic caretakers. Two ionic pillars – juxtaposed in black and white – guarded the veranda leading to the grand entryway. Carved into each pillar, a full-figured effigy stood watch.

The likeness of Hippocrates, a serpent and staff intertwined in his hands, graced the snowy right pillar, a regal – albeit melancholy – expression forever ingrained onto his face. Below the hem of the meticulously sculpted robe was scribed his mantra; Primum Non Nocere – First, Do No Harm.

Opposite Hippocrates, standing defiant and arrogant in ebon stone was Josef Mengele; The Angel of Death. The sculpture’s smiling face was cocked at an angle towards his neighbor, mocking eyes locked upon the staff. Inset with bronze below his swastika emblazoned boots were the infamous words; Arbeit Macht Frei – Work Sets You Free.

“It is odd to feature such a reviled man in this manner, isn’t it Hale?” PRIA asked, often curious of human nature.

“Not exactly,” she replied. “I think it’s more of a metaphor.”

In another lifetime, the enshrinement of Dr. Mengele next to the Father of Medicine would have disgusted Hale, but the irony was not lost on her today. She cracked a sad smile.

“A metaphor for what?”

Hale shrugged. “Probably something about how two people in the same profession can lead radically different lives.”

To her, the men were testaments to the best and worst the human species had to offer. Both were doctors and scientists, but had utilized the disciplines in prodigiously different ways. She, however, believed that a tool should not be feared for what it can do in the hands of the evil, but instead praised for the good that it can do in the hands of the righteous.

“Good and bad can be found in both pieces,” Hale conjectured. “Originally, the swastika symbolized a peaceful religion, but was forever bastardized by one group’s use. The Rod of Asclepius – the Staff and the Serpent – is meant to represent the fine line medical practitioners walked between saving and ending life. Do you understand?”

“Not really,” PRIA admitted. “Abstract concepts are difficult for me to grasp, though I do find such notions deeply interesting.”

I’m lecturing philosophy to a piece of scrap, Hale realized. She was stalling. Prying her hazy green eyes away from Hippocrates, she turned towards the marble door.

An inkling of discomfort pressed itself into her back as she passed between the two doctors; the unmistakable, unexplainable sensation of being watched. Violently, she swung herself around to face the courtyard and road beyond. It was empty, save a lone Versa-Bot tending to the foliage; its long appendages configured into shears.

First, I’m nervous, now I’m paranoid, Hale scolded as she inhaled a calming breath.

Her hand ran along the doorknob as she threw one last uneasy glance over her shoulder. The caretaker continued its task with cold disinterest. Nothing else stirred. She turned the knob.

The doorway led to a majestic, high-ceilinged parlor with a granite staircase dominating the room. Along the maple paneling hung various paintings, with the largest perching above the fireplace and taking up half the wall opposite the entryway.

Hale recognized the scene on the canvas at once; a man in a courtroom being judged by a jury of seven angels. It was an illustration of one of Saint Andrew’s many parables; Purgatory. She averted her eyes as a burst of sadness washed over her like an icy wave, sucking the warmth from her bones. In her home was a piece much like this one, painted by a person she’d lost long ago.

Movement caught the corner of her eye and she pivoted again in a panic, only to spot another Versa-Bot emerging from the door to her right. Its steely, crablike frame jetted across the room to begin sweeping soot from the fireplace.

“Are you sure you wish to continue alone?” PRIA asked with concern, clearly sensing her tension.

“I can handle myself,” Hale muttered stubbornly. “Besides, that’s what I have you for! Can you lead me to the study where Dr. Freese was found? Keep an eye out and try not to be useless for once.”

Without replying, PRIA zipped his way towards the master staircase, forcing Hale to jog to keep pace.

Did I upset him? She wondered, but shook the thought from her head quickly. The tiny sphere of metal and plastic was incapable of feeling anything, after all.

PRIA led the way up the stairs and through a maze of winding corridors before stopping outside the entrance to their destination. The doorway in front of her seemed simple, but beyond its wooden frame was a world she’d hope to never face again. This kind of investigation was a form of suffering that even the vast millennia of life she’d been bestowed with could not numb. A bit of her died with each case of homicide she’d ever been involved in. With an excruciating sense of loss, she turned the knob and entered.

“You have permission to follow,” Hale stated, allowing PRIA to join her inside. The study had been Deleted, according to the report, marking it off-limits to robots unless permission is explicitly granted. If not for the fact that this room had been marked for cleaning, it was possible Dr. Freese’s remains would have never been found.

Aside from the obviously absent body, the room was exactly as described in the report. The lacquered wood table stood in the middle of the room carved into what Hale assumed was a scene from Wagner, though she’d admittedly never had an eye for operas. A black rose had been left on that table, lying just beyond the fingertips of Freese’s outstretched hand. Whether it was in his possession prior to the murder or had been planted by the assailant wasn’t clear, so it had been sent to the lab for further analysis.

Books spread in messy heaps around the perimeter with thousands more still resting in their alcoves, untouched. Most of the disheveled volumes had been thrown from a concentrated section of shelves. Her forerunners had neglected to make note of the pattern. Amateurs, she thought in exasperation.

 “Scan the books and make a recreation of how they were originally organized, then report back to me.”

PRIA whirled around the room, red light spilling from his lens as he mapped out the crime scene. In under a minute, the task was complete.

“From my recreation, I have two findings and one inference.”

“Report,” Hale commanded.

“Finding one; all shelves were filled at the time of disruption, confirmed by the dust patterns analyzed. Using this information and extrapolating from the average dimensions observed, I can calculate that between 134 and 156 articles are missing from this room with a six-sigma confidence level.”

“Continue,” Hale instructed.

“Finding two; from analysis of the unperturbed items, this library was first arranged by subject matter and then sub-organized in alphabetical order by the author’s last name. This reveals that between 86% to 92% of the missing items were removed from the Medical section, which is also the largest category in the collection by a factor of two. This data piece can also be reported at a six-sigma confidence level.”

Not surprising. Hale had surmised as much considering the background information on the victims. It was likely the culprit was searching for something within their scope of research.

“And the piece of inferred evidence?” Hale asked.

“Inference one; from analyzing the author’s names and cross-referencing our investigation files, it can be insinuated that a great deal of volumes in this library should belong to the owner. Dr. Freese registered a total of 82 full-length articles with the Respite publication board in his lifetime. Furthermore, it is reasonable to assume that the doctor would have possessed other, unpublished works within his personal archive.

“In the Medical category, there is a significant gap between the E and G last names, leading to the inference that all articles authored by Dr. Freese have been removed. Calculating the distance and extrapolating from the average dimensions recorded, I can infer with 73.6% confidence that all 82 of his published works as well as between 9 and 12 unpublished articles have been removed from this collection.”

“Maybe you’re not as dumb as you look,” Hale joked, patting PRIA as he hovered close at hand. She glanced over the wealth of tomes still littering the walls around her. There was an itch in her head – a tickle of suspicion that a piece of the puzzle was missing. A library this large was far more efficient than any lockbox. Countless secrets could be buried somewhere in the myriad of pages, lying in wait like a viper in the brush. It would be neigh on impossible to uncover anything Freese wished to keep hidden, unless you already knew what you were looking for.

“PRIA, in your scans, did you notice any titles that seemed out of place from the rest of the collection?”

“Apologies Hale, but the late doctor appears to have had eclectic tastes. There are no clear patterns that I can map with a significant confidence level. Is there a particular item you would consider out of the ordinary that you’d like me to search for?”

Nothing popped into her mind. “What about dimensional nonconformities? Cross reference each item and compare to nominal. Report back anything deviating more than one-page thickness back to me.”

PRIA took a few moments to process, before responding, “Only one item matches your criteria. Genre; Philosophy. Author; Andrei, Arsen. Title; On the Nature of Purpose. Location; 4 o’clock from entryway, 3rd shelf from bottom, 15th book in row. Deviation of 1 average page thickness from nominal.”

Eureka! Hale exclaimed mentally, striding to the area her assistant had indicated. She knelt, dropping to waist level to get a clear view of the shelf. To her annoyance, the book was exactly where PRIA had indicated. His perfection was infuriating. Though she spent a great deal of her free time reading, the work was unfamiliar. On the cover was a divided illustration, with a great tree sprawling across the left and a tiny, arboreal seed standing alone on the right.

Eagerly, she flipped through the pages. Tucked into the introduction of a chapter entitled “What We Leave Behind” was the source of the deviation; a simple slip of blank paper. She carefully picked the scrap from its resting place, turning it over to find the other side just as devoid.

“PRIA, analyze this paper. Look for any chemical signatures and report,” Hale commanded.

“None found, Hale,” the robot responded. She clicked her tongue in exasperation and stowed the slip in a pocket. Perhaps examination at the lab would uncover something her assistant had missed? It was unlikely, but her pride made her reluctant to admit PRIA’s analysis was foolproof.

Hale flipped through the book one last time to assure she hadn’t missed anything before returning it to its alcove. Only then did she notice what loomed so innocently upon the shelf next to it. The spine was black and wordless, but she knew beyond a doubt who the author was. Such an insubstantial, unassumingly thing, but the words within that accursed piece of penmanship were as heavy as the tallest mountain. Those words had catalyzed the darkest days in human history. With shaking hands, she slipped the tome from the shelf.

“Didn’t think this worth mentioning?” She asked, brandishing the simple square of leather and vellum.

“I’m not a mind reader,” PRIA defended, his tone snippy in an almost human way. “It’s outside of my capabilities to guess what you would consider unordinary.”

He had a point. Admittedly, most of her colleagues would have scoffed at the book as well, refusing to touch it. When it came to Saint Andrew, – better known as Saint Misery – there were only two types of people; those that possessed the entirety of his works and those that saw ownership as sacrilege. Nobody owned just one. Coupled with the painting in the main parlor, Hale was sure it surpassed coincidence.

She scanned the table of contents, familiar titles jumping off the page at her – Factory of Man, Cruel Life, The Hammer and The Gavel – before finding the one she already knew would be included; Purgatory. It was but a few paltry pages in length, as was common in the so-called saint’s allegories. How many lives had this brief collection of words cut short?

With bated breath, she flipped to the tale’s beginning. Nothing out of the ordinary. She leafed through its entirety. Nothing. Not a mark in the margins, no underlining of words, nothing left behind.

For a fleeting second, Hale’s resolve waivered. Her hand fluttered as she considered for the flash of an instant to slam the cursed tome closed and toss it from her sight. No, she pulled herself together. I missed something. I’m sure of it!

Again, she skimmed through the pages, almost failing to spot it once more. She was taken aback, reading the sentence five times over to assure her eyes weren’t playing tricks. Scribed so as to blend into the print like a chameleon on the branch were three characters. 45°.

She snapped the book shut and slipped the tiny volume into a jacket pocket. She didn’t know what it meant, but she knew it meant something. That was enough for now. There was more work to do. A lot more work to do.

“Is something wrong?” PRIA asked with concern.

“Nope,” Hale replied heartily. “We’re done here.”