Knife Edge

Knife Edge - chapter 14

Scott Stockton gazed over the LA landscape of glittering jewelled lights and thought about the future. Whatever it held, death was at the end of the line, the final terminus.

At the same time he felt the identical thrill of excitement he had felt the first time he had got himself laid. The idea, the very notion of cheating death, or at least of holding it at bay for years, maybe decades, was like a shot of the purest heroin. It's remarkable, he thought, how just an idea, a concept, can give you such a buzz.

He was tired and emotional. It had been some day. The launch of Genocel had taken the world by storm. The remarkable discovery of the retrovirus which could control and delay ageing had been launched officially to the press, and thence the world, that morning. There had been leaks of course. There had been research going on for years into methods of developing molecular tools and engines that could control mitosis, or the division of cells.

It had been the partnership of biotechnology with nanotechnology that had led to the technique of monitoring and controlling free radicals that had heralded the breakthrough. What had then resulted, after years of clinical trials, was a kind of genetic repair kit; a multilayered retrovirus that could prevent a good deal of cell mutation. The way he had explained it to the press that morning had been to say that Genocel was like a team of molecules that controlled the main business of the cell cycle. New cells would always be able to copy their DNA before mitosis began; and chromosome division would be held in check until the right moment.

His father had seen the wisdom of supporting what many thought was wacky research. Unfortunately for him, or fortunately depending on your point of view, he had not lived to enjoy the fruits of his vision and buy himself a degree of longevity only dreamed of by those of his generation. Scott Stockton was the beneficiary in more ways than one. He could see his lifespan extending into the misty and unknowable future. But, of course, he knew just where he was going.

He rose from his heavily cushioned cedar wood chair and strolled over to the darkened glass partition that separated his office from the rest of the executive floor. From here he could watch his key staff go about their work. Occasionally someone would throw a nervous glance towards the impenetrable glass wall on their side, not knowing whether or not they were being observed.

Scott smiled to himself. He had shown them. He had shown all those doubting Thomases and disbelieving pricks just what the latest Stockton was made of. He had taken a tour of duty at all of the company's manufacturing and marketing operations. He had watched, taken notes, drawn conclusions and when he returned to the boardroom he made changes. Stockton Industries was not used to reorganisation. Young Stockton, despite his years, had a savage streak that brooked no criticism and sometimes he had wielded power like a baseball bat.

Like many large conglomerates, Stockton Industries had become fleshy and overweight, whilst maintaining a good overall performance. Scott had cut out the dead meat, streamlined management and invested in new technology. Wall Street loved him. They loved his dash and his aggressive charm. They ignored the dark side, or knew little of it. His staff feared him by and large. He became known as the ice pick. His decisions were coldly calculating but his instincts were mercurial.

Two months ago he had been voted Young American Businessman of the Year. Now the Genocel division was going to breathe new life, literally, into the company and its profits.

The drug was expensive, deliberately so. It was only for those who had been medically checked out and who craved an extended lifespan. And that was a great proportion of the American population. Genocel would penetrate other markets in an orderly and disciplined fashion. It was all in the master plan.

Through his darkened spy screen, Scott noticed McBride lumbering through the open plan office, smiling at the pretty terminal operators.

There was one anachronism that had reached its sell by date. He watched as McBride met up with Fred Porter from R&D and headed off towards the elevators.