The Journal of Mortimer Anhingas
December 12th
The cure is finished. Phineas still won’t take it. He’s being such a stubborn prick about it and I don’t know how to change his mind.
So… maybe I have to force him.
I can’t lose my brother.
I can’t.
…
He can forgive me later.
~Mortimer
The Mental Observations of Mortimer Anhingas
December 14th
I have heard nothing from Iris. I’m getting quite worried.
Of course, no one in my family knows that. Even now, despite sitting at the table where my parents and my brother are being unusually talkative, I feel all the more alone with thoughts and anxieties I don’t dare voice.
I’ve tried several times to call her, wondered if I should even try to write her, but now, a letter wouldn’t arrive in time for Christmas.
Reception is just bad in the tundra. It’s happened before. It’s nothing to get worked up about.
Then why does it hurt so much this year?
I glance up from my barely-touched pasta around the table, taking stock of the conversation around the room. Mother, dark hair silvering with age, chatters on about the Christmas Eve party she’s throwing tomorrow and how many of Dad’s new coworkers she’s invited. The British accent I’d inherited from her only seems to make her words seem more self-righteous and prim, in a way that leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Dad nods, only half listening, really more engaged in conversation with the only son whose existence he seems to acknowledge, the doppelganger Phineas.
In the harsh lightning of the dining room– I wish I was allowed to wear my sunglasses at the table, the lights give me awful headaches– the difference between me and my dark-haired family feels ever-more stark, and I stab at my green beans, forcing myself to eat something to steady my churning stomach.
I never belonged here, did I?
The thought makes the gaping hole in my heart feel ever more raw around the edges.
“How close is A.S.H.E.S. to finding a cure for the Altered Virus?”
Phineas’s sudden, seemingly-not-in-topic question draws my attention away from my food.
Mother huffs, irritated, but Dad leans back in his chair, mulling over the question.
“The Altered Virus is a tricky thing,” he murmurs. “From what the researchers have told us, it seems to be an mRNA virus. That is, it specifically attacks the part of the cell that edit and copy DNA. So the virus’s coding gets implanted into the DNA itself, healthy mRNA copies it and gets infected, and so on and so forth.” He sighs deeply. “There’s been debate over developing an mRNA vaccine that could combat it, but considering the death rates caused by similar vaccines in the past… well, we don’t need to go into that whole scandal.”
My free hand curls into a fist under the table.
Therein lies my mistake. This entire time, I’ve been treated the Altered virus like a normal virus. But a virus that attacks mRNA?
My cure won’t work for that.
Struggling to keep my voice from shaking, I ask, “So what is their plan for a cure?”
Dad startles, like he’d forgotten I was there, then regards me with something between curiosity and suspicion.
“They’re trying to see if healthy mRNA injections work.” He steeples his fingers in front of him. “Problem is, there’s concern about the body attacking foreign DNA, and since the patient is already infected, there’s no way to take healthy mRNA from that patient.”
“Have they considered any of the anti-viral properties of less conventional medicines?” I ask, my mind turning with possibilities. “Have they tested–”
“Why are you so interested in this?” Dad asks, cutting me off. Is that… genuine interest I hear in his voice? I don’t think I’ve ever heard that from my father.
I shrug. “It was talked about a lot at the school. Some of the students knew friends who died from the virus. It caught my attention.”
Phineas, originally smirking, probably at the prospect of me getting a lecture, suddenly changes his expression to an unnerving shade of neutral that I’ve never seen from him before.
Is that what his ability does? Watching him this week has barely given me visible proof of his ability, besides the quiet in the house and his ease with talking to my parents.
Dad raises an eyebrow. “You haven’t been researching it, have you?”
I blink. “Would I be breaking some kinds of laws if I was performing independent research?”
“You would now.”
If my skin had more melanin, I’d be blanching right now. “Since when?”
“The UN passed an international agreement this morning. All rights of researching the Altered Virus have been handed over to A.S.H.E.S., for the sake of controlling potentially harmful unmoderated human experimentation and avoiding as much of a potential for a pharmaceutical money grab scheme by hiring a company outside of the CDC’s normal circle of influence.”
A.S.H.E.S. I know it’s an acronym, but I’ve only heard pieces about it here and there. The rumors around it have been very quiet.
“Remind me what A.S.H.E.S. stands for again.”
“I’m not sure this is appropriate dinner table conversation,” Mother says, probably irritated that we’re not talking about her party anymore.
“Relax, Elinor. It’s good for the boys to get a dose of reality now and then. Mortimer’s probably become one of the researchers at A.S.H.E.S. sooner or later.”
The unexpected sort-of compliment eases some of the raw feeling in my chest. I didn’t think my father had been paying attention to exactly what line of education his funds were going to.
“A.S.H.E.S.,” Dad continues, “stands for Altered-Virus Superhuman Housing and Examination Settlement. Located in Nevada, around the old Area 51 site. Government is so broke they had no use for it, so A.S.H.E.S. bought up the property and then asked for volunteers for their program to find the cure. As a main investor, I get first-hand knowledge of the research going on. Fantastic advances are being made. If anyone can find the cure, it’s them.”
“The UN must trust them a lot to sign over all rights of research to them.” I remark.
He shrugs. “They get the job done. They’re even coming up with ideas to make the Altereds useful while they’re still infected.”
I tap my fingers against my leg, carefully considering whether or not I want to ask my next question.
“You know, they are looking for more interns.”
My eyes widen, startled by not having to ask my question after all.
Dad shrugs. “I could even put in a good word for you.”
What. Is. Happening.
Dad hasn’t done a favor for me, ever. There are strings attached. There has to be.
“But studying for my pHD…”
“You can do both. With your dual enrollment classes, you only have a few years left of college studies after graduating, correct?”
I nod, feeling a little numb.
“Great. Then there’s no problem.”
“But…” I drag a hand through my hair, reeling. “Why… why are you doing this?”
What are the strings?
My father shrugs. “You have a sharp mind. You’d be an asset to them.”
And to him.
Clarity sharpens around his words. He invests. He gets firsthand knowledge. But having someone close on the inside? What better security to know that his precious cash is being spent well?
But the caveats hardly compare to the opportunity before me.
“I would greatly appreciate a word being put in for me,” I say, squaring my shoulders.
Dad nods once. “Excellent.”
“What are they doing with infected Altereds?” Phineas asks, no longer wanting to be left out of the conversation.
“Currently, they aren’t giving us that information.” The disgruntlement about this shows clearly in his tone. “There’s some discussion about the military, and talk of an “intriguing” concept with the entertainment industry, but that’s all I know for now.”
Mild unease washes over me. “The entertainment industry?” What on earth could they want to do with Altereds that involves that?
Dad shrugs and takes a large bite of food. “Your guess is as good as mine. But like your mother said, they’ll be here at the gala on Christmas Eve. I’ll introduce you, and maybe set up that internship.”
Mother beams. “Oh, wait until I tell you what music I have planned…”
But her explanations of high-end chamber groups fade from my mind, my thoughts settling on one thing.
A.S.H.E.S.
Finally, an organization actually trying to do something.
I eat my food a little more cheerfully after that, only to look up halfway through my plate to find Phineas staring daggers at me.
I almost choke on my green beans.
“You all right, Mortimer?” Mother asks.
“Fine,” I mumble, clearing my throat.
The murderous look from Phineas is gone. He’s back to chatting amicably with dad, voice so pleasant you would have never guessed that the little brother glaring at me and one smoothly taking his place as favorite child again were the same.
What’s his problem?
That I still want to help find a cure? Is he worried that I’ll tell Dad about his Altered ability?
He’s just too juvenile to understand.
Altered powers are dangerous. The sooner we can get those infected back to normal lives, the better.
He’ll understand.
Eventually.