The Cicada Prophecy: A Medical Thriller - Science Fiction Technothriller Read online

  “Everyone knows Eva, the so-called ‘Queen Bee,’” Jennifer remarked.

  Eva Bronwen was one of a select few adult females specifically bred to carry on the bloodline, by virtue of her mature ovaries and fully-functioning womb. It was a purely voluntary role, for which virtually no one volunteered, since passing through sexual maturity was seen as a guaranteed death sentence. But Queens were very generously rewarded by the state, and held a kind of celebrity status among the general public. Eva’s mother, and generations before them, had carried on the same tradition, so the family was considered royalty. The not-so-flattering nickname ‘Queen Bee’ referred to her unique status as sole propagator of the race and her prodigious output of fertilized eggs.

  “Did you want me to review her file?” Jennifer asked.

  “Yes,” Rick advised. “She’s my personal patient. I see her from time to time in my midtown office to monitor her general health. She’s scheduled for another round of harvesting.”

  “Do you want me to prepare her next treatment?”

  Jennifer knew that in order to maximize the Queen’s productivity, she would require a special concentrated course of sex hormone injections at precise intervals in her reproductive cycle to induce the ovaries to produce a plentiful supply of eggs. These would then be fertilized from frozen stores of sperm, after which the embryos would be cryogenically saved for implantation as needed.

  “Yes, I think she’ll like you very much, Jennifer,” Rick said. “But whatever you do, don’t bring up the ‘Queen Bee’ thing; she’s very sensitive about that.”

  “Of course. I’d never want to make her feel uncomfortable.”

  “Excellent. If you’d like to attend to Jason’s immediate needs, I’ll get back to you soon with more details on the timing for Eva’s treatment.”

  Rick breathed a sigh of relief. The hypophysectomy operation had been another stellar success, and he felt comfortable placing his special patient Eva Bronwen in the capable hands of Jennifer Austin. Eva had an appointment with him at his private Park Avenue office in a couple of hours, and he decided to soak up some of the Indian Summer sunshine by walking the two miles down Fifth Avenue to the south end of Central Park.

  Strolling slowly through the Hospital’s Guggenheim Pavilion, designed by the renowned architect I.M. Pei, he could feel the bright sunlight cascading through the tall glass ceiling beginning to warm his skin. Normally, Rick would take the rear exit directly into the staff parking area, but today he wanted to feel the energy of the city and walk amongst the people. Anticipating the magnificent view of the lush park across the street from atop the steps of the hospital, he stepped through the front doors of the Pavilion.

  Immediately, he regretted his decision. Instead of being greeted by the majestic sight of mature elm and ash trees in autumn bloom, his view was blocked by a throng of demonstrators waving placards and shouting noisily.

  Oh great, thought Rick, not again.

  He immediately recognized the familiar slogans painted on the boards above the protesters’ heads as belonging to the Garden of Eden religious sect. Led by the fervent Calvin James, their mission was nothing less than the return of civilization to the natural order of God, whereby men and women were allowed to age gracefully and reproduce in the intended manner.

  To make matters worse, the group recognized Rick as the infamous doctor who they saw as championing the charge into the new, unnatural order.

  “There he is!” someone yelled. “The evil doctor!”

  Oh no, Rick groaned.

  Before he could turn around and retreat into the protective sanctity of the Pavilion, the group surrounded him and began chanting boisterously.

  “Infidel!” growled a distinct voice from deep in the crowd—a much deeper voice. Rick knew it could only be one person. Turning in the direction of the husky sound, Rick could see a form standing head and shoulders above the mass.

  Calvin James was a hulking man who would stand out in any crowd. The only adult male still alive under the age of ninety, Calvin’s father had hidden him from the authorities until his son had passed through puberty to protect him from an unwanted removal of his pituitary. Now in his mid-40s, Calvin, like his father before him, was a deeply religious man who took it upon himself to lead a ‘divine revolution’.

  Fashioning himself as the Second Coming, he looked the part, with long brown hair and an equally long beard. This only compounded his sinister appearance. Muscling his way through his group of juvenile followers, he confronted the neurosurgeon.

  Calvin towered over Rick’s diminutive frame. “You must stop this affront to God’s will!” he bellowed.

  Rick knew from previous encounters of this kind that this man was not open to reason. Calvin had long ago been brainwashed by his pious father, and there was simply no room in his belief system for an alternate view, no matter how life-affirming it might be for everyone else. Unlike his juvenile supporters, he had a very finite life—and predictable death—ahead of him. It had been the custom of mankind for millennia to seek answers and comfort in the mystical realm, with the easy promise of an everlasting afterlife.

  Why should it be any different for this mortal man?

  Rick wasn’t about to engage Calvin and his followers in a confrontation he could never win. He knew that a security detail would soon be responding to the turn of events on the front steps of the hospital. In the meantime he simply had to keep everybody calm.

  “Dr. James,” Rick replied, trying to massage Calvin’s ego with reference to his doctorate in Divinity. “I’m simply upholding the law, as set out in the Articles of the United Nations, as determined by the will of the people.”

  “These are children whom you are mutilating,” Calvin sneered, ignoring Rick’s statement.

  His flock roared in agreement. “Shame! Shame!”

  “Sir,” Rick replied, “as you know, these actions are taken with the fully informed consent of the children and their parents.” He was simply biding his time, wondering what was keeping the security detail. “Furthermore, we replace all the hormones that are removed.”

  “Only enough to keep everyone in an unnatural state of juvenile development,” Calvin countered.

  “Sin-ner, sin-ner, sin-ner!” his followers began chanting loudly.

  Rick was growing weary. He could only keep the group at bay for so long with this kind of open dialogue.

  “Yes,” he continued, “but as you know, this allows everyone to live happy, healthy, empowered lives, far beyond what they could otherwise hope for.”

  “God already enabled everyone to lead full lives then to live for eternity in his domain.”

  Another loud cheer rose from the crowd.

  Rick wondered how so many juveniles could fall under Calvin’s spell. It was one thing to quietly contemplate one’s place in the great scheme of life, and quite another to jump headlong into the uncertain realm of the spiritual world. Just as he was about to consider pushing his way through the crowd, it began to break apart amidst some commotion.

  The police had arrived and with tasers deployed began motivating everyone to retreat. As the gendarmes cautiously converged on the hulking leader at the middle of the circle, Calvin glared at Rick.

  “This is only the beginning, Dr. Ross. God’s will be done—I’ll see to that.”

  As Rick continued down the hospital steps with the sound of angry chants ringing in his ears, he couldn’t help wonder how one mortal man could hope to change the world.

  3

  Eva Bronwen sat impatiently in Dr. Ross’s waiting room. Though his private office was beautifully appointed with tasteful Impressionist prints, rich mahogany paneling, and comfortable high-back leather chairs, she felt exposed waiting for her uncharacteristically late doctor. He had never kept her lingering like this before—he’d always greeted her promptly and escorted her into his private office as soon as her arrival was announced.

  Other patients were beginning to stream into the office, and Eva coul
d feel many eyes upon her. As the only mature female of reproductive age they’d likely seen in person in decades, she was more than a curious oddity. Even though she was widely respected for her role as the reigning matriarch, for most people this was of little personal relevance to them. With every juvenile now fully embracing the promise of indefinite longevity and everlasting youthful vitality, the continued protection of the species seemed relatively inconsequential. She was more a subject of sympathy and intrigue than anything else.

  The longer she waited, the more Eva began to feel like some kind of circus attraction, there for the amusement of its patrons. This was not the way it was supposed to be, she thought. She was supposed to be admired and uplifted for her selfless act of humanity. She was supposed to be feted and celebrated at every turn. After all, she alone was the savior of the bloodline and the link to the next generation. There were no guarantees that some plague or unforeseen event couldn’t wipe out civilization at any moment. The human race literally depended on her and a select group of very few others to ensure its continued viability.

  It seemed that with every passing year, the juveniles were growing more and more complacent and confident of their special status. It had been over a hundred years since the first hypophysectomy experiment, and once it was proven to be safe and to indefinitely arrest aging, virtually everyone wanted to drink from the fountain of youth. It was barely an afterthought to encourage some to forego the magic elixir for the benefit of future generations. Now, the only ‘generations’ referred to in the lexicon were associated with the Queens’ own offspring.

  At least the United Nations recognized and rewarded her for her role. She and her family were generously compensated with large monthly stipends, ostensibly as payment for their egg production, with even larger payments for every new child carried to term. Plus, she was given a beautiful apartment on the Upper East Side, and an open credit line that allowed her to indulge virtually all of her needs, carte blanche. And of course, she was invited to all the best parties and social gatherings.

  But she knew that outside this select circle, there were less flattering perceptions amongst the general population. To the average person, she was little more than a baby-making machine and the occasional object of ridicule. She also knew most people referred to her pejoratively as the Queen Bee, and she resented this objectification.

  Eva had always hoped that she could somehow raise her standing and esteem among the public to that of a real queen. She wondered why Dr. Ross’s secretary hadn’t shown her into the examining room instead of asking her to wait in the main lobby with the rest of his patients.

  What could be keeping Dr. Ross? she thought.

  At that moment, Rick swept through the front door, looking harried and unkempt.

  “I’m sorry for being late,” he announced, hoping to allay his patients’ consternation. “I had an unexpected emergency at the hospital.”

  He noticed Eva shifting uncomfortably in her chair, and motioned to her immediately.

  “Eva, I believe you have the first appointment—won’t you please join me in my office?”

  With great relief, Eva followed Rick into the adjoining room.

  “I was getting worried about you, Dr. Ross,” she joked as Rick closed the door behind them. “It’s not like you to stand me up like this. In your busy waiting room, I was beginning to feel like another exhibit in the medieval collection at the Metropolitan Museum!”

  “I’m so sorry Eva, I’ll be sure to ask Marie to show you directly into my office if this ever happens again.”

  “It’s all right,” Eva smiled. “I suppose I could use a thicker skin anyway.” She noticed Rick was looking unusually flustered. “You seem even more high-strung than me today—what’s got my normally unflappable doctor so unsettled?”

  Ordinarily Rick wouldn’t burden his patients with his own troubles, but he had a special relationship with Eva, and he knew that she wouldn’t let up until he was fully forthcoming about his delay.

  “I just had another little encounter with our mercurial local minister, Calvin James.”

  Eva knew very well what Dr. Ross meant, having had her own share of run-ins with the Garden of Eden leader. Calvin had confronted her frequently outside her apartment building, imploring her among other things to stop provisioning eggs for the ongoing cloning campaign.

  “I think you’re being generous referring to him as a minister, Dr. Ross,” Eva said. “He’s more like a cult leader, if you ask me. At least you’re lucky all he wants from you is to stop your operations. I think he has other designs on me.”

  Rick had long imagined Calvin would desire some kind of union with Eva. On the one hand, it seemed only natural for the two lone adults. Eva was a beautiful, full-figured woman in her sexual prime at twenty-five years of age. But quite apart from Calvin’s potential negative influence over her harvesting role, he was obviously unstable—and Rick feared for Eva’s security.

  “Has he been threatening you?” he asked warily.

  “Leering mostly. But it’s beginning to feel more like stalking. He caught me last week as I was coming out of Saks, for crying out loud.” She scrunched her face in disgust. “And he’s more than just a little creepy, with that long curved nose and straggly beard. As much as I sometimes long for a real man in my life, I wouldn’t have him if he were the last man on earth.”

  “Which he very nearly is,” Rick joked.

  “Don’t start with me—I’m serious!”

  “I’m sorry Eva. You know we can arrange to step up your security at any time. Would you like me to call my contacts at the State Department?”

  In accordance with its obligations under the United Nations Headquarters Agreement, Rick knew Eva officially came under the protection of the United States Department of State Diplomatic Security Service, but to this point she had refused to avail herself of their services.

  “No—at least not yet,” Eva sighed. “I’m still trying to get out among the people and show that I’m a real person. The last thing I need is to become a recluse in my own building.”

  “Well, please don’t take any unnecessary chances, and do let the authorities know if you feel the slightest bit threatened.” Rick decided to shift the discussion onto the main reason for the appointment. “How are you feeling, otherwise?”

  “On the whole, pretty good. But I have to admit, I am getting tired of these unending fertility treatments and egg donations. Sometimes I wonder how much this mortal body can take.”

  Rick fully understood Eva’s dismay.

  “I’m sure everybody appreciates how difficult it can be for you, both physically and emotionally. Which is why the state only seeks to harvest eggs from you twice a year.”

  “I don’t even know why it’s necessary that often,” Eva argued. “It’s not as if anyone is rushing to have babies any longer. Why do we need so many eggs anyway?”

  Rick nodded in sympathy. With juveniles having foregone the ability to reproduce naturally, most people had long ago lost their natural coupling instinct. A few people still opted for the cloning option, utilizing the Queen’s harvested eggs and surrogate womb, but the cost of carrying a child to term was usually considered too steep for both the donor and the Queen. The harvesting procedure was now considered mostly a prophylactic measure to protect the population as a whole.

  “The problem is that human eggs are very difficult to store and keep viable for long,” he explained. “Because it’s the largest cell in the human body, the large volume of water within its membrane expands upon freezing and can easily damage its delicate internal structure. Only about two percent of mature oocytes that are cryopreserved and subsequently thawed are in fact successfully fertilized.”

  “But doesn’t the inordinate number of eggs that my fertility treatment produces make up for this low percentage of viable eggs?”

  “Well, it’s true that the special hormones you take prior to harvesting do produce fifteen to twenty eggs, instead of the one norma
lly released in a natural ovulation cycle. But two percent of twenty is still less than one. We’re lucky to produce one successful fertilized egg between your two harvestings each year.”

  “But you told me once that those successfully fertilized embryos are much easier to freeze and store,” Eva said, still unconvinced. “Why then do we need even one more of them per year? Hasn’t it really boiled down to the fact that we only need one live birth each generation, to ensure at least one child-bearing female is always available to carry on the propagation of the race?”

  “Yes,” Rick continued patiently, “it’s true that multi-celled embryos freeze and store more easily than single-celled eggs; however, the successful pregnancy rate from frozen and thawed embryos is still far lower than with fresh ones. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want to subject yourself to more pregnancies than necessary—nor increase the possibility of a miscarriage. Plus, the state would like to build up the bank of potentially viable embryos in the event of an unforeseen calamity.”

  “Oh great—to make me a full-time baby-making factory?” Eva said, imagining how this would only reinforce the prevailing Queen Bee association.

  “Well, I expect not so much for that as to protect against the possibility of your becoming infertile,” Rick said, trying to allay Eva’s concerns.

  “Either way, I’m still just being viewed as little more than a machine!”

  “Well I assure you Eva, I don’t think of you that way—I value your courage and commitment. Plus, you’re far too feisty to be considered anything but a full-blooded woman as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Dr. Ross,” Eva replied. “I just wish everyone else could see me the same way; to them I’m just the Queen Bee of their little colony. And the ironic thing is that real queen bees live twenty times longer than all the other bees in her hive—yet in my case, the situation is reversed.”