Carson Evolved

Author's Notes:

Set in a subtly-alternative near future, this is my first attempt at Sci-Fi. This series takes one perspective on the question of "nature vs nurture" and follows the thread to see where it goes. I don't have it mapped out or anything, so I can't tell you how long it will go. I don't imagine it will be quite the endeavor that "Constant is Change" has become. But, if I plan it right, it could tie into the story that comes after that one. Hope it works out.

I've had the beginnings of this story going through my head for a while and just wanted to let it out. I hope you like it.

This chapter has no sex in it.

-MB

*****

Xavier

Xavier Sloane was an easy man to overlook. Nothing about him physically would draw your eye. He wasn't especially tall or short, fat or thin. His suit was tasteful, but not particularly expensive or flashy. At 58, he retained a certain seriousness to his demeanor, but it could never be interpreted as a commanding presence. He was polite, but reserved, and was not given to speaking about himself much at all. Not that he had many opportunities; the job required a level of dedication that usually precluded interpersonal relationships.

He wasn't even all that smart, when it came down to it. Realistically, in most ways that a man might be evaluated, Xavier would come up at the very tip of the bell curve. Overwhelmingly average.

Being the non-descript individual that he was, it had been extremely easy to follow the target to his favorite bar and grill. He'd maintained a respectful distance of course, and then slipped into his own booth nearby where he could monitor the young man while making his final preparations. People who weren't expecting to be followed didn't check for tails, and even if the target had looked around, nothing about Xavier would have tipped him off.

He understood that he would always be considered average and was completely at peace with that evaluation. He did possess one gift: Xavier could read people. A good mechanic could close his eyes, listen to a motor run for a few minutes, and then tell you if the seals were going bad or a bearing was worn. An experienced psychologist could listen to someone explain a problem and knew almost instinctively the right questions to ask to lead a patient to a resolution. In a way, Xavier was a combination of the two. He could tell what made a person tick after only a few minutes of speaking with them, and he was adept at taking that knowledge and using it to guide a person to a place they needed to go, even if his own motivation for doing so was based on the desires of his employer. It was a skill that he'd honed to a razor's edge over the years, and it had made him a very valuable employee indeed.

For the final time, the enigmatic man reviewed the information gathered by the surveillance team. It was standard practice once a candidate was identified, either through chance or by recommendation of someone already involved in the project, to gather as much information as possible about the person. Theirs was a delicate operation, conducted in the shadows and at the very edge of society; it wouldn't do to approach the wrong person with the kind of information that would by necessity need to be revealed for the recruitment to be successful. Xavier had often considered that at least half his job was done for him by the people whose talents lay in information gathering.

Name:

Carson Thomas Jayne

Age: 29 years, 4 months

Height: 6' 2" (188 cm)

Weight: 197 lbs (89 kg)

Spouse:

Mara Elizabeth Jayne

(née Livingstone) (* in the margin, in his own handwriting Xavier saw the word "asset," meaning she was already part of the project)

Children:

None

Father:

Thomas Martin Jayne

—

Deceased

Mother:

Aubrey Nicole Jayne (née Smythe) — Deceased

Xavier knew the personal information by heart at this point. In fact, he had committed to memory quite a bit of information about his target, Carson Jayne. Financial history, medical details, surprisingly, even as much of his sexual history and proclivities as could be ascertained without directly approaching the man. In short, he probably knew as much general information about Carson as the man himself.

With so much at stake, not wanting to make a mistake, Xavier reviewed what he knew about his target once more before initiating contact.

Carson was a natural-born leader. That's what his report cards had said all through his elementary and junior high years. A review of his high school years was like reading the bio of a future president. Team captain of both the soccer and debate teams. President of Student Council. He'd been elected Governor at Boys' State, for crying out loud. Homecoming King. You name a position that relied on personal gravitas and charisma, he'd probably held it. Simply put, he was the kind of guy that people were drawn towards.

According to the interviews with key individuals from Carson's high school and college years, he was unfailingly kind; he could have maintained company with only the "popular" or "beautiful" kids, but he had no patience for people who placed a premium on appearance over substance, on power over compassion. Carson had always seemed to look deeper than the surface before making a judgement. Thus, his circle of friends had been just as likely to include "geeks" as "jocks." It was a stance that had cost him social status occasionally, but the reports suggested that he considered it a reasonable price for remaining true to his conscience.

Looking once again at the surveillance photo, Xavier imagined that it hadn't hurt that Carson was a good-looking young man. Moderately tall, he possessed a dazzling smile, curly, milk chocolate brown hair and light, almost golden, brown eyes.

It was almost unfair that his gifts continued past the physical and personal; he was also gifted academically. When he graduated high school with a perfect 4.0 gpa, he was one of two valedictorians for his class.

In short, he'd been a golden child. Exactly the kind of man that

Orriri

sought out.

Carson's college years had been a continuation on the theme. Attending small, private, Hillsdale College in Michigan, he'd quickly gained popularity among the small student population, as well as the faculty. He could have joined any of the four fraternities on campus but chose Alpha Tau Omega. Academically, his innate ability to rapidly assimilate and recall large amounts of information had served him well as he pursued and earned dual undergraduate degrees in pre-law and political science, graduating

summa cum laude

. Following up his stellar undergraduate career, he'd done well enough on his LSAT to have his pick of law schools. He could have chosen any school he wanted—the big boys in the Ivy League, the University of Chicago, Stanford University—they'd all wanted him. Instead, he chose a still highly-ranked, but perhaps less well-known school in Atlanta, Emory University.

And then, like everything else he'd ever attempted, he'd excelled in law school too.

His one flaw, his kryptonite, so to speak, was that he was uncomfortable with uncertainty. When he could study a subject and educate himself, he was completely at ease. Ask him to give an extemporaneous talk on one of his many areas of interest, and you'd likely have to ask him to sit down long before he was ready to finish. But when he felt like he was missing key information, he could experience paralysis by analysis. That is, he could be forced into inaction by the feeling that he was unprepared. On the rare occasion when that happened, his discomfort was intensified because he also did not like to have an issue hanging over his head without resolution for any extended period of time.

Xavier sat back and considered how best to make his approach. Carson had come to the attention of

Orriri

through the recommendation of the man he knew as his father-in-law, Thurston Livingstone.

Mr. Livingstone was a mid-level functionary in the organization, sharing the dream and benefitting from its network of contacts, but not a product of its machinations. While his wealth was substantial, and it was routinely put to good use by the project's directors, his real value lay more in acting as the gatekeeper to the genetic line that ran through his wife's family and into his daughters, Mara and Mila.

They

were an outcome of the project, and it was only because of his own family's long involvement in the project that Thurston had been allowed to marry their mother in the first place. Of course, it had been a big blow to his ego when he'd been informed that that tradeoff was that their children would be conceived with sperm donated from a more suitable candidate. But he was a firm believer in the goals of the organization, and they'd assured him that he could have as many children as he wanted on the side; they'd just never be included in the project. So, he'd acquiesced, and when the girls had come along, he'd loved them as if they were his own.

When Carson had met and courted Mara as they both attended Emory, he in law school and she as an undergrad studying business and society, a preliminary dossier had been compiled. At the time, they considered him to be what they called a "rogue" candidate. Typically, that meant that his lineage and upbringing had not been under the auspices of the project. Far from a negative, that actually weighed

heavily

in a candidate's favor, because it added diversity to the pool. Genetic diversity was critical in staving off some of the potential negative outcomes. Years of intermarriage between the royal lines of Europe had demonstrated that. On that basis, his relationship and subsequent marriage to Mara Livingstone had been approved and promoted. Subsequent discoveries had only made him a more attractive candidate.

His personality characteristics, his intelligence, and his professional success—he'd benefited, of course, from surreptitious influence from

Orriri

—had simply increased his value to the project. After careful consideration and ungodly amounts of research, the decision had been made to attempt to bring him more fully into the fold.

And that was why Xavier Sloane was sitting in a bar and grill this evening, no more than 30 feet from Carson Jayne, pondering the best way to approach him. He looked up from the photo included in his dossier, checking one last time that it was the same man. And, once again, he felt the excitement build in his stomach. The same excitement that he felt at this exact moment each time, just before making initial contact with one the organization's potential recruits, as his competitive juices began to flow and he prepared to bring his own skills to bear. Leaving a substantial tip along with payment for his meal, he grabbed his beer and made his first steps towards a brighter tomorrow.

*****

Carson

It's interesting how easy it can be to feel alone in the midst of a crowd. Carson had sought out the familiar surroundings of his favorite bar and grill, not for companionship, but more because he knew that weeknights like this one didn't draw heavy crowds. He wanted the comfort of the familiar, but the security of relative anonymity provided by an isolated booth. As he signaled for a fresh beer, his mind returned to the problem he'd been stewing over for weeks. The question, of course, was whether or not his wife was cheating on him.

The worst part about it was that he couldn't even be sure. He

thought

his wife was having an affair. He

suspected

that she had been for some time. But he didn't

know

. If he knew, if he had evidence of the affair, then things would be much, much simpler. Their marriage would be over. He'd take the necessary steps to separate the lives that had inevitably been knitted together, and then he would be alone. It would be painful, and traumatic, and it would not be something from which you just brush yourself off and move forward. But at least then he'd know where he stood.

The uncertainty was driving him crazy.

He was most certainly

not

comfortable at the moment.

One of the reasons he'd matriculated to corporate law, choosing to focus specifically on international clients, was his aversion to risky decision-making. In this world, he rarely had to make split-second decisions that had potentially life-altering consequences. There's no doubt that he could have been devastating as a prosecutor. With his good looks and easy manner, it's hard to imagine a jury that he couldn't have eating out of his hand at will. The problem was, there would always be the possibility in his mind that he was making a mistake. The stakes in criminal cases are high, and the fact of the matter is that not every case is clear and convincing. Carson simply didn't want to deal with the uncertainty. As a defense attorney, he'd have no more certainty, given the proclivity of the criminal element to "bend" the truth. No, criminal law was certainly out. Corporate law, with its more black-and-white nature, was the way to go. As a bonus, it was significantly more lucrative than public service.

The root of the problem in his marriage, if indeed a problem existed, was that they had wildly different priorities in life. It should have been apparent much earlier in their relationship, but Carson had been uncharacteristically charitable with respect to his future wife's proclivities during their courtship; he'd assumed that her priorities would fall more in line with his own over time. Unfortunately, that hadn't been the case, and their differences had become a wedge between them. Even without hammering, given enough time the presence of a wedge alone will force two pieces apart. It seemed to Carson that the wedge they'd both been aware of and accepted from the beginning, was greater in magnitude and more difficult to overcome than they'd previously imagined. Money will soothe many hurts, but it's no substitute for the connection that comes from being physically present together through the experiences of life.

As a newly minted lawyer, he'd understood the need to sacrifice the hours away from home in order to establish himself as a valuable asset to his firm and someone to keep an eye on. Thus, 60-, 80-, sometimes 100-hour work weeks passed in the blink of an eye. When a senior partner came to him late on a Friday and informed him that he'd be departing on business early the next morning for a few days with an overseas client, there was no one at home to complain. He'd taken to maintaining a "go bag," for just such occurrences. It hadn't been common, but it wasn't exactly infrequent either. Bachelorhood had accommodated that lifestyle just fine.

Married life, or perhaps more appropriately, married women, were apparently not prone to be quite as accommodating excessive working hours. These days, his weeks were something closer to 50 or 60 hours most of the time. Only 29 years old, he wasn't at the point that he could ease up too much at the grindstone. He still worked a lot, but it was much better than the early days. He rarely had to take those "emergency" trips anymore, travelling more sporadically on business throughout the year. A few days here, a week there...it added up, and all the hours and days apart were like the steady erosion of limestone by the desert wind. The damage to their marriage might not be immediately apparent, but the effects over time were undeniable.

All those billable hours had swollen his bank account, true. And his work ethic had drawn the attention of his firm's senior partners early on. Despite working for a large firm, he'd just received an invitation to become a junior partner, and he expected to become a full partner in another 3 years. By investing wisely and spending, if not frugally, at least non-extravagantly, he'd put himself on a path to greater wealth than he ever could have expected growing up, and he was looking forward to the day when he'd be able to enjoy his growing fortune.

The hours he spent at work had increasingly been a point of discussion over the past year between himself and Mara. Mara Jayne, née Livingstone, was his wife of just over three years. Their engagement and subsequent marriage were the kinds of events that graced society pages. Himself, a handsome up-and-comer at one of the city's most prestigious law firms, wedding the youngest daughter of Thurston Livingstone, multi-multi-millionaire entrepreneur and venture capitalist—it captured the attention of a public that is too infatuated with the lives of the wealthy and successful.

It was also, Carson secretly believed, a tremendous mistake.

He'd come

this

close to leaving her at the altar, and if he'd gone with his gut, he wouldn't be in the current predicament. Well, perhaps he would, but it would be with a different woman. Yet another layer of uncertainty to consider.

Unfortunately, as so often seemed to be the case these days, he had plenty of time this evening to ruminate on the status of his marriage. Mara was, at heart, a socialite. She sold commercial real estate by day—she was actually pretty good at it—but her real passion lay in the never-ending world of charity fundraisers, club openings, and random assortment of other social events that seemed designed to say, "Look at me! Watch me flaunt my wealth while I pretend to care," to anyone who wasn't a part of that world. Mara's problem, which naturally became Carson's problem, was that he had no interest in rubbing elbows with the people he ran into at these events. Thus, there was no shortage of opportunities for their differing outlooks on social interaction to cause friction between them; Mara looked for

party invitations

and Carson looked for

ways out of attending

. Tonight, she was attending a fundraiser for some animal rights groups looking to save the Miniature Eastern Diamond-nose Skink or some such ridiculous thing, and Carson was sitting down to enjoy a giant steak and a cold beer. If that didn't sum up their differences, what would?

*****

Mara

Sipping her Chardonnay, Mara sighed in frustration. Carson should be

here

. Not because he cared about the environment or animal rights or any of the other causes that Mara supported. Half the time, she had no idea what the cause du jour was when she showed up. That was entirely beside the point. Mara came to network, to keep her name on the lips of the other well-to-do people who attended these events. That way, when they needed a contact in the real estate world, she'd be the one they called.

Even that wasn't the

real

reason that Mara came, or why Carson needed to be here. There was an entirely

other

kind of networking that took place here as well. Mara, and her sister Mila, had been brought up in

Orriri

. They had certain responsibilities to the project as well. Their first responsibility was to either identify a rogue candidate, or accept a candidate selected by the project's directors, and begin producing the next generation of progeny. Mara had few reservations about the project, but the idea of having her mate selected for her had been one. So, she'd worked very hard to find a man like Carson. Her entire family had been pleased with her selection, and that was reinforced by his acceptance into the program.

The second responsibility assigned to project women was to scout for suitable female candidates. It was a sort of negative of the network girls and women formed to pool information about guys. That kind of pooled intelligence was instinctive for females, and

Orriri

took advantage of this tendency to develop a similar information pool about women as well. Women who had family histories of infertility or genetic defects in their offspring were automatically eliminated from consideration. Likewise, women whose upbringing was too rigidly entrenched to be compatible with the project's goals. In short, just as with the men, there were specific physical and character traits that were desirable, and project women were always on the lookout for new candidates.