TRANSGENIC

a novel by

CDR Tom Cool, USN (ret.)

and

Dr. Stu Lessin, MD

Chapter Seven / The Manhattan Free Zone

  Madison Square Garden, a historic venue, seated over twenty thousand spectators. Thatcher Harriman led his entourage through multiple layers of security until they arrived at ringside. For team bouts, the octagon spanned eighteen meters wide, so the Harriman party occupied only part of the front row, directly behind their corner, designated the challenger's corner, since the Russians were the reigning world champions. Carlos Cajón had hired six additional men for his security detail to surround the Harriman party in the Garden, since he and his top assistants would be fighting the Russians.

The octagon itself was still a fenced cage, but rather than the primitive black cyclone fence of the early days of the martial sport, the fence was invisible carbonite webbing that became evident only when restraining the bodies of the combatants.

As an Ultimate Fighting Championship sanctioned bout, the event was being simulcast throughout the sporting world. The Russian mob had taken extraordinary measures to combat piracy of the broadcast, so the gate for the event had topped two hundred fifty million dollars, American. Thatcher had calculated the maximum expose that the event would draw so he had the evening scripted. Alejandro was resplendent in a tuxedo over a vest brocaded robotically fine in green silk and gold thread. He made sure that Sylvie looked radiant in a black sleeveless low décolletage evening gown with a diamond necklace and earrings. Justine, dressed in a green cutout mermaid dress, was instructed to refrain from her Australian Embassy performance so as not to detract from the main event.

Alejandro sat next to Justine and yearned to atone himself with her. He hadn't found the clarity of mind to confess or even to discuss lab issues. She sat at the edge of her seat, her skin pulsating subtly in rhythm with the pre-fight music, excited to witness the fruits of her labor in action.

One of the guests of honor and potential investors, Park Un Sun of the DPREA, sat on Justine's other side. Alejandro was grateful for the buffer that Justine was providing. While to his right, Thatcher chatted up the Dutch and Swiss guests, Sylvie was doing her best to help Justine to engage the North Korean oligarch. When she glanced at Alejandro, it was with the practiced repressed fury of a tormented trophy wife.

Park Un Sun had a tall, lean face with a broad high forehead, almost cubic cheekbones and a squarish jaw. His body mass index was so low that his teeth bulged out against his sunken cheeks. Alejandro had read that officials of the DPREA were hard-wired for control, so his expressions and demeanor fascinated him. In most moments, his face was an ascetic mask, but Alejandro could perceive microexpressions that appeared almost human, especially when Park Un Sun peered down into the intricately engineered contours of Justine's gown-snugged bosom. He also found most interesting the wince of pain that followed such expressions, before the mask of passivity returned.

Alejandro believed that in fact, Park Un Sun was ridden by some sort of robotic control, which probably used the star set in mid-forehead as its sensor suite. The star was the size of a quarter, with five red ruby rays, set in platinum and diamonds. All the high officials of the DPREA -- less the Supreme Beloved Leader himself -- wore such embedded jewelry, so that every time Alejandro spoke at the grim face of Park Un Sun, he found himself gazing into the star and imagining himself speaking to a totalitarian security apparatchik half a world away.

When, in his most self-indulgent fantasies, he had envisioned the reveal of his historic technological advances to the world, he had always dreamed of a more dignified venue, usually a Nobel Prize ceremony in Stockholm Concert Hall. He had never guessed that instead it would be this: a pay-per-view Ultimate Fighting Championship bout, viewed by hundreds of millions.

As the crowd continued to swell the arena, Alejandro knew they were getting plenty of screen time, too. It was true that the section behind the champions was thick with Russian women, most of them paragons of feminine allure so extreme that they were shocking, as well as many Kostoff sisters, beautiful and fearsome in black uniforms. Even these extraordinary women, however, could not contend with Justine. Aglow, she treated every cameraman with a captivating smile. Eventually, she was ringed three-deep by the paparazzi and broadcast lensmen.

Behind the opposite corner, the female Kostoffs were growing restive. Blonde, blue eyed with broad, impassive, almost bored faces, the female Kostoffs were so muscular and wide that they did not fit comfortably in the arena's seats, so many of them perched upon the backs of their seats, forming solid walls of dense muscle and bone that forced the spectators behind them to stand, for no one dared to tap the shoulder of a Kostoff and ask her to sit down.

Since Ultimate Fighting Championship bouts could be very brief, the preliminaries were long and elaborate. The undercard took more than an hour, culminating in a desperate title bout between a Brazilian ju jitsu challenger and the Croatian light heavyweight champion. Finally, with raucous fanfare, the main event unfolded with the entrance of the challenging team.

Carlos Cajón led his men into the arena. They all appeared normal enough, wearing hooded robes and marching down the long aisle, hands on each other's shoulders. Although most of the crowd supported the American team, the supporters of the champions drowned their cheers in a sea of guttural boos. The referees unsealed the cage and Carlos led his team of five combatants into the ring. With his newly generated foot, he would fight with his men this year. They lined up with their backs to the cage. Carlos went up and down the line, briefly speaking with each man. They stood, motionless, their faces obscured by their hoods as they watched the champions enter the great hall.

Each Kostoff was gigantic, over two hundred kilograms in weight, more than a meter wide. They hustled down the aisle in perfect unison, affecting a jogging march with short jabs of their colossal fists.

Alejandro had seen video of the Kostoffs, as had most people on the planet, but these had not prepared him for the sight of these performance-enhanced warriors. If he had not known about his team's abilities, he would have guessed that even one Kostoff alone would have mopped up the octagon with the entire team. As the five champions ascended the cage, the crowd went berserk, their screams and hollers painfully overloud. Still, the challengers stood like statues, shrouded in their silken robes.

The Kostoffs executed a pre-bout military demonstration, as horrifying as the synchronized charging of Silver-Back Gorillas. The referees, two human and one robotic, signaled for the challengers to doff their robes. Carlos and his men obliged. Compared to the Kostoffs, they appeared small and fragile, if incredibly wiry, standing quietly, wearing black skin-tight briefs and fingerless combat gloves. As the referees inspected the challengers, the jumbotron focused on their wiry and sinewy physiques, in contrast with the well-padded, heavily muscled Kostoffs.

The referees completed their inspection of the combatants, including their hair and mouths. No weapons were allowed within the octagon; biting, eye-gouging and fish-hooking were allowed, but considered unsportsmanlike.

"This is it, Alejandro!" Justine placed her hand over Alejandro's.

Alejandro glanced at Justine as she focused on the ring, unaware of his eye contact. Her lack of response sat oddly with Alejandro. He questioned whether he had heard her voice or imagined it. Distracted, he missed the first second of the bout.

"Fight!" the crowd roared.

Alejandro looked up to see the Kostoffs charging en masse at the challengers, low, fast and hard. The Cubans took several steps forward and struck defensive postures. The Kostoffs leapt to deliver flying kicks, but like matadors, the Cubans sidestepped them in a blur and reposition themselves behind them. When all five Kostoffs collapsed in a pile against the fence, the crowd gasped, then cheered wildly.

The Kostoffs regrouped and attacked again, but the Cubans evaded them by leaping with such superhuman speed that they simply reappeared in their corner. The crowd screamed in excitement.

The Kostoffs started yelling and motioning to each other, then sent out their Goliath-sized captain to spearhead their next attack. Luis, a full foot shorter, met him at mid-cage where they circled cautiously before the captain spun and launched a flying kick. Luis snapped his titanium reinforced left arm up to block the kick. The only thing the crowd saw was the sickening ninety-degree displacement of the Kostoff's right knee when his leg made impact. He crumpled to the ground and dragged himself in pain to his corner while Luis raised his hands overhead and played to the crowd that responded with deafening cheers.

The rest of Cubans went in for the finish. Moving with superhuman speed that seemed unconstrained by gravity, they somersaulted, twirled and spun their way across the cage. Luis joined them as they pummeled the Russians with precise blows to their most vulnerable targets: the eyes, the chin, the throat, the solar plexus, the groin and the kidneys. Despite the Russians thick armor of heavy muscle and fat, these blows were delivered with jackhammer force and robotic precision. As the beating went on, the mat grew red and redder from the Russians' blood.

The referees stepped in and suddenly it was over. All the Kostoffs lay in a heap, their identical limbs entangled and intertwined so that it was difficult to tell how many, in fact, were still breathing. It was an astounding victory. All of the Cubans, uninjured and smiling widely, were gathered by the referees at the center of the cage and declared winners, their joined hands raised overhead.

The upset victory enraged every Russian in attendance. The real brawl began. The Kostoffs among the spectators, male and female alike, assaulted the octagon. Some twenty warriors, each weighing more than two ordinary men, clambered up the cage and tumbled down onto the floor. The crowd went even wilder. Fistfights erupted on all sides.

Alejandro found himself engaged in a tussle, but his Russian was an aged gangster who had spent much more time at the banquet table than the gym, so Alejandro was able to maintain his footing and provide some sort of protection to Justine, who was laughing hysterically and shouting in Chinese.

The Cubans managed to escape from the octagon and began to coordinate an exit strategy for the Harriman party.

"C'mon boss!" Carlos shouted. "Let's get Miss Sylvie out of here!"

Thatcher, still smirking from the victory, squawked something unintelligible and attempted to shield the gravid Sylvie as best he could. Alejandro turned and grabbed Justine's shoulders and placed her in front of him. The escalating pandemonium surged through the arena.

A female Kostoff, dressed in black uniform, climbed up the cage and from its top rail, she launched herself down, aiming a flying punch at Thatcher's head. Carlo's superhuman reflexes allowed him to block the fist so that it didn't land home, but all one hundred and forty kilograms of the Kostoff sister landed atop Thatcher, Carlos and Alejandro. Sylvie squealed and, long legs parting her slit gown, attempted to climb into the next row and join the panicked gaggle improvising their exits over the seats. Justine tended to Alejandro as he struggled to extricate himself from the tangled mess. Miguel helped the group step over the fallen Kostoff sister and led them into the aisle where Justine began to strobe her skin a brilliant scarlet that served as a diversion to the surrounding crowd and allowed Carlos to organize their ascent up the aisle.

Miguel led in front of Sylvie and Thatcher with Carlos behind followed by Justine and Alejandro. The rest of Carlos' men gathered below to fight off the pursuing Kostoffs. As they approached the concourse and saw two Mitsubishi combat robots that stood there as immobile as statutes, they realized that the panicked mob had choked the exit toward which were struggling.

"Come on, Justine," Alejandro said, grabbing her by the elbow and attempting to pull her toward the right. His idea was to seek another exit, but all the ground floor exits were similarly blocked. Justine tugged herself free from his grip and began a mad scramble up the backs of the smothering mass of spectators clogging the exit. She bounded up a rail with the agility of a Spider Monkey, gaining the mezzanine, the lower portions of which had already been almost completely deserted. Alejandro attempted to follow her but found himself tumbling backwards, heels-over-head, back toward the main floor.

Justine had lucked into a fire exit corridor that serviced the mezzanine. Barefoot, she hustled down the darkened passageway, illuminated only by glowering exit signs. Her heart leapt as she heard an emergency exit door banging somewhere up ahead. A sixth sense caused her to glance over her shoulder. She saw a lumbering female Kostoff, hot in pursuit. She was about to turn and run, but survival routines millions of years old imprinted in her genes caused her to spin, face the danger, and attempt a bluff.

Her skin contorted and reddened and blackened until she presented the hideous aspect of a demon. Then her entire skin phosphoresced, illuminating the dark interior of the corridor with blindingly bright light.

The Kostoff stopped in her tracks, primordial horror distressing her normally placid features. Justine spat, turned and fled. She heard no Kostoff in pursuit. She banged out the emergency exit and joined other people crashing down the old twentieth-century fire escape.

Only when she reached the comparative safety of the darkened alley did Justine realize that she was running in the wrong direction. She had to save Alejandro. He was still back inside the auditorium. She would have to fight her way back inside in order to rescue him.

She would have to fight against the tide of the panicked mob, bursting and gushing out from every gate, every emergency exit.

The situation, already horrific, only got worse. Once the panicked mob began to stream out of every available exit from Madison Square Garden, two armed groups observed the chaos and responded by surging forward.

The first was a battalion of Kostoffs. The Brotherhood had distributed most of their fifty tickets to sisters who had distinguished themselves with exemplary service. Over one hundred brothers had occupied the ballrooms of the Hyatt Excelsior, which loomed above Eighth Avenue. Some twenty of these male Kostoffs, officially designated as a reserve force, had remained sober. Most of the others had been engaged in the futile exercise of attempting to drink their identical twins under the table. Why not? There were hundreds of microcephalic Kostoffs in reserve, hosting pink, pristine livers.

Between them, they had drained over six cases of vodka. Once their video feed showed their sisters assaulting the ring, the Kostoffs, sober and drunk, rushed out of the hotel. Their entry into the Garden was impeded by the tens of thousands of spectators jamming the exits, lobbies and staircases. The enraged Kostoffs unclogged the jammed exits, grabbing whatever body parts provided an adequate grip, tossing the mere humans over their shoulders or flinging them against the walls as if they were only so many ragdolls. After hundreds of injuries to the panicked spectators, the Kostoffs gained entrance to the main concourse and began to descend upon the ring.

The second group was a Venezuelan death squad, composed of three teams. While the command team hung back in their post on the seventeenth floor of the HBSC starscraper, the two action teams surged forward. Commandante Cero, their leader, had years of experience in setting and springing ambushes in both the jungle and urban environments. He was an opportunistic hunter who enjoyed the art of improvisation, so to him, the sudden chaos was like bloody chum in the water.

With these actions, the chaos in Madison Square Garden, in the heart of the anarchic Manhattan Free Zone, grew multi-layered, incomprehensibly complex, as irreducible to reason, and as worthy of years of deconstruction and analysis as any battle in the blood-soaked twentieth, twenty-first and twenty-second centuries.

About the Authors

Here we see the authors posing for their larger-than-life bronze statues, celebrating the possibility of Pittsburger-Philadelphian love.

These two adult men met when they were eighteen, next-door neighbors in Stuart Hall, East Halls, The Pennsylvania State University, State College, Pennsylvania. One of them went on to become a sailor, a spy, an engineer and an indefagitable fabulist. The other frittered away his existence as a medical doctor and researcher.

Somehow, the hero of TRANSGENIC, their satirical Sci-Fi thriller about on-demand, dynamic genetic metamorphosis, is Alejandro Fernandez, a medical doctor and researcher. The villain of the piece is his old roommate from Penn State, Thatcher Harriman, a thoroughly loathesome sprig of the East Coast oligarchy. Neither of the authors understand how this happened.

The story abounds with Illuminati dog whistles and shape-shifting women, random acts of violence and drug use that may not be illegal in 2037 A.D., but should’ll have been. It remains, however, suitable reading material for overly curious adolescent boys and other underserved demographic niches, such as people who know the difference between Harlan Ellison and Gene Wolfe.