CHAPTER ONE

THE BEGINNING

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   Screams pierced the air—an unmistakable, primal cry of pain. The two men in the room locked eyes, desperation mirrored in their gazes. Neither knew what to do; this wasn’t supposed to happen. They knew they had to act, but were paralyzed by uncertainty. Their eyes darted between the subject—the source of the screams—and each other. More than anything, they wanted the agony-laden howls to stop, but how? The terror and pain in the cries froze them in place. Something had to be done, yet they stood immobile, staring at the source of the chaos. The screams refused to relent. The pain refused to relent. The terror refused to relent.

 

   The taller of the two snapped into action.

 

   "Quick, check the equipment! Is there anything there?" he shouted over the screams, adding to the cacophony as he rushed to an equipment rack across the room.

 

   "On it!" The other man, with shoulder-length curly hair, sprang to life, spurred by the command.

 

   The tall man scanned the readings, struggling to decipher the cause of the screams through the flood of numbers. His counterpart took a more frantic approach, flipping switches and jabbing buttons, hoping to stumble upon a solution. To the side of the rack, an unmarked red button pulsed in time with the alarm’s rhythm. The screams persisted, unrelenting. The curly-haired man ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts scrambled by the noise. Focusing was nearly impossible. He tried to catch the tall man’s attention, but his partner remained absorbed in the equipment’s data. Unable to bear the screams any longer, the curly-haired man pressed the red button.

 

   Silence crashed over them, as jarring as the screams. The tall man spun around to stare at a needle plunged into the base of the subject’s skull, injecting a greenish liquid. Once emptied, the mechanism retracted it. An EKG monitor blared a flatline’s wail. Both men froze again, the oppressive tone drowning their thoughts as they stared at the now-still subject. The curly-haired man reacted first, locating the EKG and silencing the monitor. The room’s absolute silence was deafening. Moments crawled by.

 

   "What did you do?" The tall man’s voice broke the quiet.

 

   "I pressed that button."

 

   "But it… you… it…" The tall man stammered, his eyes flicking between the subject and his partner.

 

   "The screaming stopped." The curly-haired man shrugged, brushing a stray curl from his face. "If that wasn’t an option, the button wouldn’t have been there."

 

   They stood in silence, staring at the subject, letting the stillness consume them.

 

   Regaining his composure, the tall man straightened. "Yeah, well, you’re handling the paperwork for this."

 

   "Damn, I hate that part. But you’re on disposal duty." With each familiar word, the tension drained from the room.

 

   "That’s low, man. What, you expect me to fetch a new one, too?" The tall man disconnected cables from the pod, a routine task restoring a welcome sense of tedium to the room.

 

   "Yeah," his curly-haired counterpart replied, tapping data into a tablet. "But let’s wait until after lunch."

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

NOW

 

   Devon and Henry waited for their drinks at a table in their favorite pub. Devon slouched on his seat, face buried in his phone, while Henry watched the StreamCast displayed on a wall screen.

 

   "Welcome back, everyone. Today, we’re joined by Steve Carvey, CEO of Pacific West Labs, the company behind the Donor program that keeps so many of us alive and thriving. Mr. Carvey, thank you for joining us." The host, her pixie-cut hair shimmering with vibrant colors, beamed from the StreamCast screen.

 

   "It’s my pleasure. Please, call me Steve." The CEO of Pacific West Labs flashed a polished smile. Henry, rubbing a hand through his hair, could see why his boss was such a media darling.

 

   "Thank you, Steve. I’ll admit, I was starstruck when I heard you’d be here. You’re not only leading the world’s top company in artificially grown organs, but you’re also quite the charmer." Jane’s eyes sparkled with playful flirtation.

 

   "Thank you, Jane. And I’m single." Steve’s dazzling grin lit up the camera again.

 

   "No queens, he’s trouble!" Jane giggled, her hand lingering on Steve’s forearm with a teasing squeeze.

 

   "Only when I choose to be, Jane." Another megawatt smile.

 

   Henry groaned, rolling his eyes at the spectacle.

 

   "Anyway," Jane said, giving Steve’s arm a final pat. "We’re here to mark the anniversary of the first organ transplant. In 1954, Dr. Joseph Murray and Dr. David Hume performed the first kidney transplant between twins, followed by a groundbreaking transplant from a deceased donor to a living recipient. The rest, as they say, is history. Right, Steve?"

 

   Henry stared at the StreamCast, noting how the camera adored the man. Being one of the world’s wealthiest men didn’t hurt, either.

 

   "Yes, Jane," Steve replied, his baritone voice smooth. "We’ll soon share major announcements to celebrate this milestone. Organ transplants have saved countless lives." His smile faded into a somber frown. "But before Pacific West Labs, those lives often came at a terrible cost." His voice carried quiet gravitas. "Even when a willing donor was found, both donor and recipient endured long recoveries and bureaucratic nightmares. Brave donors and grateful recipients suffered together, and that didn’t account for the costs or wait times. How many people died waiting for a matching donor? Worst yet, how many lives were affected by black-market organ harvesting? Unacceptable."

 

   "And now, over a century later," Jane declared, her cheerful smile and high-pitched voice cutting through the broadcast, "we have Pacific West Labs and their Donor program." She clapped and giggled, as if the milestone and the company were one and the same.

Henry noticed Devon glanced at the giggles before returning to his phone. The other bar patrons ignored the screen.

 

   "Yes, we do, Jane." Steve’s practiced smile returned, flawless as ever. "Early attempts at lab-grown organs were unreliable, with only a forty percent success rate. Even successful transplants rarely lasted more than a few years before requiring replacement."

 

   "I didn’t know it was that low," Jane said, her bubbly demeanor dimming with a pouty frown.

 

   "It was," Steve replied, offering a reassuring smile. "But those organs impacted only one life—no one else was involved. Over time, the success rate climbed to eighty-nine percent as we grew organs from the recipient’s own cells. Still, the process was slow, and time was often critical." He raised a finger for emphasis. "Plus, the organs’ longevity remained a challenge."

 

   "And that’s where the Donor program comes in, right?" Jane perked up, her pixie energy returning.

 

   "Not quite, but close." Steve flashed another polished grin.

 

   Henry, leaning back in his stool, admired how effortlessly Steve commanded the camera.

 

   "You see, Pacific West Labs wasn’t alone in this field. Other companies made strides, too. But we at PWL stabilized the decay of grown cells, extending the organs’ lifespan—pardon the pun." He paused, letting Jane’s giggle fill the air. "We pioneered growing organs in sets, hosted within flesh containers. These are not human bodies, just biological vessels, nothing more."

 

   "The Donors?"

 

   "The Donors, our pride and joy." Steve’s voice brightened, his smile gleaming. "Thanks to one of our brilliant scientists, PWL perfected viable organs. Using a proprietary—and highly confidential—method, we created the Donors: biological hosts that grow full sets of organs, compatible with nearly everybody, with near-zero rejection, side effects, or complications." His voice rose to a triumphant crescendo.

 

   "You’re referring to Dr. Murray, right?"

 

   "Yes, Dr. Joseph Murray." Steve nodded. "Over a century after the first organ transplant, our Dr. Joseph Murray ushered in the modern Donor program."

 

   "And can you share what’s next for the Donors?" Jane asked, twirling a bright blue lock of her pixie-cut hair.

 

   "Not yet, but soon." Steve leaned forward, his tone conspiratorial. "Let’s just say many will welcome the news."

 

   "Well," Jane giggled, "that’s all the time we have today. Thank you, Steve Carvey, CEO of Pacific West Labs, for joining us. Steve, come back anytime!"

 

   "Thank you, Jane. And remember, with Pacific West Labs, life is yours to live." Steve flashed his dazzling smile, his perfect teeth catching the light.

 

   As long as you can pay for it, Henry thought, turning from the screen to the freshly arrived drinks.

Jane’s voice droned on, but Henry tuned her out once his boss’ segment ended. Devon, still scrolling on his phone, barely noticed the auto attendant delivering their drinks. Henry, assuming the tab was his, switched his tablet to interface with the bar and ordered another round. Closing the screen, he scanned the room.

The pub was their haven, nestled near the lab and on their route home. Its location and vibrant crowd—beautiful people chasing a good time—drew them back. The space buzzed with upbeat music and sparkling lights, both of which were low enough for conversation. This wasn’t a place to drown sorrows or escape them; it struck a balance, lively yet intimate.

 

   Early as it was, they’d snagged a prime table. Henry savored the calm before the happy hour rush.

 

   "Where is he?" Henry asked, glancing at Devon.

 

   "Huh?" Devon looked up, noticing the drinks and setting his phone down.

 

   "I said, where is he?" Henry repeated, as the auto attendant whirred back with another round of drinks.

 

   "I don’t know. He might not show." Devon shrugged, pocketing his phone. "You know he’s not exactly Mr. Social. Hell, I don’t even know why we’re friends with him."

 

   "What can I say? I like the guy, but I told him this meant a lot to me." Henry swiped his wrist over the auto attendant’s scanner to pay for the drinks.

 

   "I like him, too. No clue why." Devon grinned, grabbing his drink. "Oh well, cheers."

 

   They clinked glasses. Devon sipped his while Henry downed half in one go. Setting his half-empty glass down, Henry spotted Joseph at the door and stood, waving him over.

 

   "He showed?" Devon turned, following Henry’s wave.

 

   Joseph stepped into the bar, dressed in his usual light-colored short-sleeved shirt and dark gray slacks—practically a uniform. His short-cropped brown hair gave him the look of an accountant, not the brilliant biophysicist who’d single-handedly made Pacific West Labs the global leader in organ reproduction. Thanks to his breakthroughs, PWL dominated the industry, leaving competitors scrambling to catch up or forced into partnerships.

 

   Joseph nodded at the wave and headed for their table. A few patrons glanced his way. Built like a solid athlete, he drew attention, which irked Devon more than Henry. Countless arguments about Joseph’s exercise habits—or lack thereof—frustrated them both. All three men, in their early forties, looked younger than their years. Still, Joseph managed to do so without the need for transplants, therapies, or augmentations. That topic always ended with Joseph shrugging it off as ‘good genes.’ Devon suspected good gene therapy but had no proof. Henry wasn’t so sure. Joseph was too straight-laced to lie, even if they all bent the truth sometimes.

 

   "You’re late, Joe," Henry said, settling back into his seat.

 

   "C’mon, Henry, give ‘the father of the modern-day Donor’ a break," Devon teased, sipping his drink. "Joe was probably off being brilliant, dreaming up new ways to keep us alive and thriving."

 

   "What?" Joseph blinked, settling into his chair. "I was at work, but—"

 

   "Never mind, Joe." Devon grinned, downing his drink. "The boss was singing your praises on a StreamCast."

 

   "He tied you to the original Dr. Murray," Henry added, draining his glass. "Blame your parents for the name. Maybe they saw your future?" He smirked, mocking Joseph.

 

   "How would they know my career path?" Joseph asked, unfazed.

 

   "You’ve got no sense of humor, Joe. Maybe that’s why you’re so ‘brilliant,’ huh?" Henry made air quotes, chuckling.

 

   "And for that, you’re buying the next two rounds," Devon said, slapping Joseph’s back.

 

   "How many are those for you?" Joseph eyed the empty glasses littering the table.

 

   "Fourth or fifth," Devon replied with a shrug.

 

   "Which means you’ve got catching up to do," Henry said, tapping another drink order into his tablet. "I just got a new liver—enhanced model—and I’m giving it a proper test."

 

   "You went for it?" Devon leaned forward, intrigued. "The one you were eyeing?"

 

   "Yep," Henry said, grabbing his drink from the auto attendant’s tray. "Thanks to our good Dr. Murray here, I can celebrate big tonight and be sharp for work tomorrow."

 

   "Finally!" Devon said, snatching his drink. "What’s this big news?"

 

   "Hold on for Joe’s drink," Henry replied, nodding as Joseph grabbed his glass and swiped his wrist over the auto attendant’s scanner.

 

   "Thanks," Joseph said to the machine.

 

   "Why do you always thank it?" Devon rolled his eyes. "It’s just a metal bin with wheels, servos, sensors—"

 

   "And microprocessors," Henry cut in, grinning. "He always does it, and you always rag on him."

 

   "It’s artificial, but there’s some consciousness there. Why not be polite?" Joseph shrugged.

 

   "Don’t start," Henry said, raising a hand to stop Devon’s retort. "I’ve got news, remember?"

 

   "Right, sorry. Spill it," Devon said, lifting his glass.

 

   "I’m getting married," Henry announced, his grin widening.

 

●●●●

 

   Joseph hunched over his desk, analyzing the latest trial results. Promising, but imperfect. Seven displays cluttered his workspace, each flashing metrics from the newest Donor test. Beyond the desk and chair, only a wardrobe and a sofa—doubling as a bed most nights—occupied the spartan office. Despite years at PWL, Joseph had added no decorations. He’d been offered grander spaces—windowed offices, corner suites—befitting his fame as the Donor program’s architect, but he brushed them off. Clutter-free, this small room sufficed. His real work lived in the labs, not here.

 

   A knock at the door broke his focus. Before he could respond, Steve Carvey, CEO of Pacific West Labs and the world’s richest, most influential man, strode in. At first glance, Steve didn’t look the part of a corporate titan. His casual attire—jeans and a fitted shirt—suggested a man out for a walk with his dog. But Joseph knew better. Those clothes, obscenely expensive, set global fashion trends. More than vanity, they were practical: fire-retardant, acid-resistant, and bulletproof against small-caliber rounds. His boss’s paranoia matched his wealth, and Joseph figured he had enough enemies to justify it.

 

   Estimating Steve’s age was futile. Likely older than Joseph’s forty years, the CEO’s constant organ upgrades, gene therapies, and rejuvenation treatments kept him looking like a tanned, athletic twenty-something, straight out of a vintage cologne ad. Joseph had once asked about it. Steve flashed his practiced smile, claiming it was good business: if the CEO trusted PWL’s products, so could the world. Joseph nodded then, unconvinced. The answer didn’t explain the three camera drones buzzing around Steve like flies over a long-extinct savanna elephant. Steve insisted his social media presence drove PWL’s success as much as its technology. Joseph didn’t get it, but he didn’t need to.

 

   "Are you always working?" Steve Carvey asked, his smooth baritone filling the room.

 

   "While I’m here, yes," Joseph replied, eyes flicking back to his displays.

 

   "Good. That’s why I pay you," Steve said, flashing his famous half-smile. "But, Doc, are you happy? I need you happy." He glanced around the sterile office. "We’ve got to move you, though. Appearances matter, and I want you looking like the man who’s made the world better—and keeps me looking this good."

 

   "Sir, are those necessary?" Joseph gestured at the camera drones buzzing faintly.

 

   "Hold on." At Steve’s gesture, the three drones settled onto the desk with a soft whir.

 

   "Thanks. I don’t know how you tolerate them," Joseph said, eyeing the sleek machines.

 

   "Public life demands it." Steve’s smile widened. "Don’t worry, Doc. My ‘pets’ aren’t live-streaming. My social team edits the feed for maximum impact."

 

   "I’ll take your word for it."

 

   "You need a proper chair, too." Steve nudged a few tablets aside and perched on the desk’s edge. "Were you busy?"

 

   "I’ll requisition one," Joseph said, securing the tablets. "I’m busy, but I can make time. How can I help you?"

 

   "Actually, this time I’m here to help you."

 

   "Have we missed a milestone?" Joseph’s brow furrowed. "The project manager said our last tasks met all parameters."

 

   "No, no, stop." Steve raised a manicured hand. "Not work. I’m talking about your look. Your clothes are tired, Joseph. Frankly, you look like you’ve been sleeping in them." He nodded toward the sofa. "Have you? Is everything okay?"

 

   "I’m fine," Joseph said, glancing at the sofa. "I stay near the lab during trials. Saves time."

 

   "Then we’ll get you better furniture," Steve said, his smile unwavering. "You look well-rested, at least, despite the rumpled clothes."

 

   "The sofa’s comfortable enough," Joseph said. "But what help, sir?"

 

   "Perception," Steve replied, leaning in. "You represent PWL, and I need you looking the part."

Joseph stared, expression blank.

 

   "Like it or not, you’re the father of the modern Donor program—one of our stars." Steve’s grin turned playful. "I’m the face of PWL, but you’re the organs." He laughed, pleased with himself.

 

   Joseph suppressed a groan at the ‘father of the modern Donor’ label but didn’t argue. "I still don’t follow."

 

   "I’ve booked you with my stylist. He’ll overhaul your wardrobe, top to bottom, to get your image up to par."

 

   "If I must—"

 

   "You must. What’s on your mind, Doc?"

 

   Joseph wanted to confess he’d always been an outsider, awkward everywhere but the lab, where he belonged. Instead, he said, "You’re the boss, sir."

 

   "That’s right." Steve winked, his grin sharp. "And as your boss, I need you presentable for our StreamCast appearance."

 

   Joseph’s jaw dropped.

 

   "No need to worry." Steve’s smile widened, all charm. "My assistant will send the address. Meet Carter at the boutique first thing tomorrow. He’ll handle everything." With a flick of his wrist, the camera drones buzzed to life, lifting off the desk. "Just enjoy the pampering, Doc." He strode out, drones trailing like obedient pets, leaving Joseph stunned in the sterile office.