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the mark below her collarbone and shook her head. “No. This is no joke. Your father told me this might happen, but I only halfheartedly believed him.”
    â€œMy father? I don’t know what he has to do with it, but he can help figure this out when he comes home. He’ll be back this morning.”
    â€œThat’s why you need to go away. Now.”
    â€œMother, you’re talking in circles. I don’t understand.”
    Mother reared up straight and gripped her by the shoulders. “Your father is not your birth father. Your real father was a Lander.”

3

    The Mountain
    Dr. Noah Everling sat at his wife’s bedside. He leaned over to kiss her hand, careful not to scratch her delicate skin with the two-day-old stubble on his chin. Bethany would chastise him when she woke to his disheveled appearance. His gray and thinning hair growing south of his collar was not a complimentary look—neither was an unstarched shirt minus a tie. And since there were no evening walks, just haphazard meals he’d cobbled together, his stomach had ballooned over his belt. At sixty years old, Everling made every effort to hide most of his new normal under his lab coat.
    His elbows rested on the mattress as he held her hand. Her translucent flesh showed every vein and artery. So cool to the touch. Almost like she wasn’t alive. The constant blip and clack from the machines testified she indeed remained among the living. He watched her chest rise and fall, agonizing over every shallow breath. He was losing her. He needed this experiment to work.
    As if on cue, a smattering of acid bile crept up his throat. He gulped it down and searched his pockets for an antacid, also a new element of his daily regimen. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and the next breath drew in the antiseptic fumes of the room sterilizer. He’d counted during the night. Every fifteen minutes, the soft swish of the jets embedded in the ceiling cycled the release. A column of sanitizing mist flooded the room to eliminate bacteria. He’d opted for the mist rather than an ultraviolet light sweep. He held misgivings about the effects the light spectrum might have on Bethany’s cancer.
    Rubber soles squeaked on the tile floor. Someone tiptoed to his side and a hand touched him on the shoulder. “Dr. Everling.”
    Everling recognized the voice of his assistant. His head rose. “Yes, Stemple, what is it?”
    Bethany had always referred to Stemple as “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.” She’d tried to fix him up with several of the younger women, but her matchmaking skills couldn’t seem to marry him off. At thirty years old, Drace Stemple declared his body fit and his bachelorhood permanent.
    Stemple glanced at his arm crystal. His eyes flashed concern. “It’s nearly 8:30 a.m., sir. You’ve been here all night. Your wife would not like that. You have an executive meeting in a half hour.”
    Everling relished his job as head of the Science Consortium. For the last twenty years his prime mandate had been to find ways to enhance the degrading genetic code of Mountain dwellers. He could readily command the necessary perks forhis ailing wife because she was also a scientist. But his father’s demise had made him the de facto leader of the Company. Recently, a group that wanted to take Company technology outside the Mountain had challenged his leadership.
    A loathing for politics pulled at his chest. He didn’t care about meetings, only Bethany’s survival.
    â€œI thought I asked you to clear my schedule today. I want to stay in the lab and work on the next set of tests.” Everling struggled to his feet. His joints had stiffened from long hours in a seated position. At his age he shouldn’t be this incapacitated, but the secret trial experiments on himself were taking their toll on his nervous system.
    Stemple shrugged. “The operational staffers were attuned to your