Then he thought of his parents on their farm, and even though he had chosen not to stay and farm the land, they had to be so proud that their only child, a son no less, had at least chosen to pursue an extremely lucrative career in crops—corporate, genetically modified crops, in his case. He was bound and determined to fulfill his father’s vision of returning the American farmer to his rightful, exalted position of honor in the greatest country on God’s green earth.
The Vice President of Marketing was up at the podium, grinning like an egg-sucking shark. “Imagine, gentlemen, a corn seed booby-trapped with its own built-in pest control. No more pesticides, no more chemicals. This will improve our image among the organic fruitcakes and hippies whining about all these so-called ‘genetically modified Frankenseeds.’ No. That era is over. We are—”
That’s when Dr. Deemer or Beemer or something lurched through the whisper-quiet double doors to the conference room, waving an old German Luger around. The scientist shouted something unintelligible to someone out of sight beyond the doors.
Bob Jr. recognized the gun because his father had one just like it. Supposedly Great-Granddad had brought it back from someplace in France or Germany just after D-Day, depending how much booze the storyteller had swallowed when the pistol was taken out of the family safe and passed around. Bob Jr. always got an extra swallow of beer after he held the pistol and aimed it; it always reminded him of Han Solo’s blaster in Star Wars.
And because he was the new guy, Bob Jr. thought at first it was just a gag, some kind of lame hazing prank. He’d almost laughed out loud when the scientist had staggered into the room, waving the handgun in one hand and a bottle of Jameson in the other.
The gun-toting man, one of the leading eggheads who had actually developed all the genetic codes that lay dormant within the seeds, moved as if he were being forced to dance halfheartedly to music only he could hear, almost as if he needed to create momentum to keep going. It didn’t look like the old man had gotten the memo that this was a triumphant, joyful occasion. His face, framed by unruly tangles of gray hair, had a haunted, lost quality. The skewed, smudged glasses didn’t help the impression.
Given the circumstances, Bob Jr. figured the man was probably drunk. It made the most sense. After all, this whole trip, the tour, the conference, it all was one big celebration.
Either that, or he was having a stroke.
The scientist shuffled to the front of the room like someone in physical therapy learning how to walk after a serious car accident. He leaned into the podium at the head of the gleaming teak table and took a moment to catch his breath. If he was drunk, he wasn’t a happy drunk, like everybody else.
The VP of Marketing finally edged back in and said, “Dr. Deemer?”
Dr. Deemer was either having hearing problems or ignoring the questioning tone. He glared at the twenty or so executives and said, “I hope you all are enjoying yourselves, but I am afraid I have some bad news.” His voice barely rose above a whisper and the microphone only caught every third word. “Because this,” he waved the pistol around, “…this, this is all a mistake. It is over. Finished.”
“Perhaps it is,” the VP said smoothly, gesturing at the table. “Nevertheless, we want to make sure everyone involved understands how vitally essential—”
“Shut your mouth, you simpering mongrel.” Dr. Deemer’s arm flopped over, and suddenly the barrel of the Luger was aiming in the direction of the VP. Even then, even when Bob Jr. should have known to run for the doors, he still thought it was all fake. Despite all of his instincts, he thought he was invulnerable. He was his father’s son, and there wasn’t anything he couldn’t tackle. He knew the Luger, and even though he hadn’t looked at the real thing since he was a child, he still thought it wasn’t happening; he had convinced himself the gun in Dr. Deemer’s hand was plastic, that it was a stupid cigarette lighter or even one of those gag toys where a little banner that said “BANG” popped out when you pulled the trigger.
Bob Jr. was hoping Dr. Deemer would snap out of it and cough and laugh and admit that it was all just a joke. After all these speeches, Bob Jr. had been promised a thirty-six-hour binge of drinking, women, and food, and maybe even a few illicit drugs. He had been focusing on these particular thirty-six hours for weeks now. Nothing would come between him and total hedonism. Nothing.
That’s why the next logical choice was that it had to be a gag, part of some goofy ritual. Everybody would have a good laugh at the nervous looks on the couple of new executives, and then the lead scientist would follow the program and proclaim how these new seeds were officially vastly superior to all of the previous strains.
Goddamn, Bob Jr. was willing to drink to that. These new genetically modified corn seeds were going to make them all millionaires, if not fucking billionaires.
And the thing was, all this pomp and circumstance, all the dull speeches, all of it was unnecessary. The safety and effectiveness of the seeds had been cleared months ago by the internal research and development geeks. Hell, Bob Jr. had quietly shipped off a package to his parents once he’d heard that the seeds had been declared safe after the first round of test results. That was three, four months ago. His father owned one of the largest farms in Manchester County and couldn’t wait to get the seeds in the ground. Allagro protocol demanded that the rest of the time was spent in equally useless further tests and buying off their pals in the Department of Agriculture. The whole process was like being wrapped in red tape and falling into bureaucratic quicksand, until finally, finally they were permitted to start test trials off the island.
Hence the celebration.
The punch line to the joke never came. Nobody broke character. Dr. Deemer said, “We are reaping what we have sown, gentlemen.” He took a long swig from the bottle, swallowed, and wiped at his face. Bob Jr. was shocked to see tears streaming down the old man’s face, spilling along the contours of the wrinkles.
There was a banging on the conference room doors.
“I warned you!” Dr. Deemer shouted at the doors, and then, without any further hesitation, turned and shot the VP of Marketing.
Everybody flinched.
And even then, Bob Jr. thought it was staged. There was no deafening blast, no explosion of blood that splattered across the wall behind the VP like in the movies. No, it was just a little pop, and the marketing guy twisted, giving the surprised, harsh grunt of someone who’d had the wind knocked out of them.
Bob Jr. didn’t know whether to grin or react in horror.
The VP clutched at his throat, took two steps toward the wall, and collapsed. He kicked once or twice in mindless spasms, gurgling his last breath as he slid down the wall and sprawled on the floor.
The doors were silent.
Now that he had everybody’s attention, Dr. Deemer said, “This, this is one time where I will not be interrupted.” He took the time to meet each executive’s eyes, like a snake waiting for a mouse to emerge from under a log; and only until he had stared each of them in the eyes for a long two or three seconds did he move on.
When he met Bob Jr.’s eyes, Bob Jr. felt like he might piss his pants.
Dr. Deemer straightened. Put the Luger on the podium. “I hate to rain on your parade, as they say. However, I am afraid I have some bad news. The… organisms contained within this new seed have developed in reaction to its environment in remarkable, unpredictable forms.”
“So this, this fuckup is your fault, is that what you’re telling us?” the CFO, Howard Slade, asked with an air of patient nonchalance. He had an antique pocketknife out and seemed to be paying more attention to cleaning his fingernails than to the gun.