How to Kill Five Billion

How to Kill Five Billion

January 1st, 2063 – 00:37 a.m.

Genesis 3.0 Laboratory

Nothing in the lab suggested the new year had arrived. The monitors were the only source of light, and instead of cheerful tunes, there was the steady hum of air filters above, like a great machine quietly breathing in the dark.

In a pool of light at the far end of the room, a young woman in a white lab coat sat motionless. She stared at the screen, and if not for the subtle movement of her eyes across the data, one might have mistaken her for a mannequin.

The data updated slowly. Then, suddenly, she leaned back from the screen, her pupils widening slightly.

“Here we are,” she whispered. Then louder: “Keenan, they’re resistant, I think.”

The door to the adjacent office opened, and a man in his fifties walked in, holding a glass of whiskey. Without a word, he approached and looked over the woman’s shoulder at the monitor.

“Holy shit…” he muttered, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “They’re not just resistant, Meredith. They’re also…”

“Healthy,” she finished for him, a cautious smile appearing. As if she still couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “No signs of autoimmune activity or cancer. No sign of infection…”

“Guess it’s time to retire the monkeys,” Keenan chuckled. “Long live human trials!”

He disappeared into his office and returned moments later with two full glasses of whiskey.

“You were right,” Meredith continued, focused on the data. “Subjects with compatible genetic profiles responded to the first injection of the modifier. But those with a DNA match below threshold required multiple doses. It took more time and resources, but the results were still—”

“Happy New Year, Miss DNA-Messiah,” Keenan interrupted, sitting beside her and handing over a glass. “Our names will go down in history.”

She didn’t look away from the screen, so Keenan set the glass beside her and went on.

“If this had happened back when the Nobel Prize still meant something, we’d have won it,” he said, lifting his glass. “No doubt.”

Keenan took a slow sip, savoring the moment.

“But I’ll settle for the financial reward. I’m not vain. Global fame doesn’t interest me,” he added, clinking his glass against hers — which remained untouched.

Meredith didn’t respond right away. She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. Keenan glanced at her from under his brow. Sometimes he wondered if she had been built in the same factory that churned out robotic pets. But tonight, for the first time in months, she looked unmistakably human. And strangely, he liked that.

“I was born a year after bacteria became resistant to the last antibiotic,” she said softly. “My mom died of pneumonia when I was two. My sister…” Meredith hesitated, “it was appendicitis. I know it used to be considered minor. But now, even with sterile ORs and machines in place of surgeons… it’s still a death sentence.”

Keenan raised an eyebrow and silently poured her drink into his own.

“I believe we’re on the right path,” Meredith said, still staring at her hands. “If my family were alive, I’d want them to be among the first to receive the injection.”

“If they were lucky enough to have the ‘right’ genome,” Keenan replied flatly, “then yes. They would.”

Silence fell.

Meredith finally looked up, her eyes filled with quiet surprise.

“You don’t think we’re saving the world here, do you?” Keenan smirked. The thought that cold, distant Meredith might be sentimental felt absurd to him.

“Then what are we doing?” she asked. Her voice was steady, but the confusion in it was genuine.

“Oh, come on, Meredith…” Keenan leaned closer and set his glass down. “You’re not that naïve. This isn’t vaccination. You’ve seen how many resources it takes to upgrade even a single organism. On a population scale, it would only work for those who are genetically compatible.”

“But we’re not the only ones close to beating the infections,” she said. “Phageon Corporation’s results are more than promising. Including—”

He cut her off.

“While they’re playing with phages (*bacteriophages — viruses capable of infecting and destroying bacteria), we’re building something that will work tomorrow,” Keenan said, finishing his drink. “And honestly? Even if they find a so-called universal solution, it won’t last longer than antibiotics ever did. We already know bacteria adapt faster than we do.”

He stood and paced slowly before turning back to her.

“We’re not a charity, Mer. Our ‘investors’ want results. Around twelve million people have the right DNA. That’s enough for a few clean cities.”

“Which cities?” Meredith echoed. Her tone was still calm. “Fine. Say the modification isn’t for everyone. What’s the point of this selection?”

“If you haven’t noticed, we’re no longer ten billion strong,” Keenan said with a dry laugh. “And bacteria aren’t our only problem. Humanity can’t afford to carry the weak anymore.”

With that, he turned and walked toward his office.

“The other five billion, then…?” Meredith asked quietly.

“Collateral damage,” Keenan replied from behind the door.

She turned back to the screen. The last results were glowing green. Like holiday lights.

***

January 1st, 2064. 08:12 a.m.

High-Security Penitentiary for Convicted Terrorists

The cell was so quiet you could hear the water dripping behind the wall. On a narrow bed, turned to the wall and curled up in a fetal position, lay a woman.

Opposite her, on the bare concrete wall, dozens of carefully arranged newspaper clippings hung in a tidy mosaic. Their headlines screamed a single story:

“A Betrayal of Humanity: Who Sabotaged DNA Modification?”

“Meredith Klein — The Angel of Death in a White Coat”

“From Breakthrough to Breakdown: What Happened at Genesis 3.0?”

A sudden knock on the door shattered the silence. A folded newspaper slid through the slot near the floor.

“Happy New Year, Miss End-of-the-World,” called the guard. “You’re back in the news, in case you care.”

His footsteps echoed away down the corridor.

Meredith slowly pushed herself up from the bed and walked to the door. Bending down to pick up the paper, her eyes caught the headline — and her legs nearly gave out: “The Battle Is Over: Bacteriophages Save Humanity.”

She lowered herself onto the cold floor and gripped the paper. Her eyes darted across the lines. Then again. And again.

For the first time in many months, a smile spread across her face. She folded the newspaper with care, held it tightly against her chest — and wept.