The Babel Tower Page 8

  “He was glad to be his own boss.”

  Her mom sighed, eyes closed. “He was tortured, Liz. Tortured by his gifts that led him nowhere. He responded by internalizing it all, working harder, spinning his wheels. Don’t do that. Please.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mom. I’m more worried about you.”

  “I’ve been alone for a long time.”

  “Daddy loved you.”

  “Yes, but…not as much as you, Liz.” Now the tears came. “Never as much as you.”

  Mom had left after that, leaving Liz alone in the garage. It had been one of their last conversations. Within a month they’d found her body, overdosed and hollow.

  Liz forced her eyes away from the picture of Mom. The picture on the other side showed a group of guys at some building’s ribbon-cutting ceremony.

  Then there was the picture in the center. The picture that, despite every ounce of fight in her, made more tears come to Liz’s eyes.

  I will not cry, Daddy.

  Her breath was uneven, her vision blurry, as she stepped toward the canvas. It showed her young face as she spun in the air in Daddy’s arms. Only his profile was visible, but that was all it took to see the joy radiating from him and into her. It was the joy she still felt, dimly. It was the joy that made the tears spill over her cheeks. It was the joy of his love, surviving death and giving her reason to go on.

  Her fingers reached out and touched the sharp lines of his face. He still felt so close.

  She glanced back to his desk, half expecting him to be sitting there. He wasn’t, but as her fingers moved along the bottom of the canvas, the picture budged and made a strange sound.

  She moved it again. Metal.

  She remembered. This is the last of my vault. Behind the veil, the girl, and the hope...

  Holding out her arms, she gently lifted the picture and revealed a metal plate along the wall. She set the picture down and stared at the safe. She turned the hatch, expecting nothing.

  It opened. He’d left it unlocked. Why have a safe and keep it unlocked?

  It was empty except for an old dusty book and a few letters in envelopes. Wiping the dust off the book, she saw it was a Bible. Probably some family heirloom. She carried the book and the letters to the drafting table, where she started gently opening the envelopes.

  The first two were nothing special—just directions for materials and design tweaks. The third was in Russian, dated one month before her father’s suicide. As she scanned the letter, her Babel performed the text-to-speech translation. She heard the words in the familiar British accent.

  Dear Mr. Trammell,

  We have evaluated your proposal. We find it appealing in virtue of its materials. Much is to be said of steel. It harkens to our military might.

  However, the design is far too simple. The open glass exterior promises a false freedom. Our instructions were clear: this is to be Tatlin’s tower restored, an inspiration for the proletariat. It must be active, leaning, and immense—not thin, simple, and straight.

  You are welcome to submit another proposal. We complete our evaluation in two weeks. Study Tatlin, the Monument to the Third International, and then perhaps you will know what we seek.

  Kind regards,

  Vladimir

  Liz’s gaze moved to the scribbled note below. Her father’s distinct handwriting: Another rejection. Build free or die.

  She flipped through the rest of the papers. Most seemed trivial, but the last letter was typed in English on thick ivory paper, and signed by the Emir of Dubai.

  Dear Mr. Trammell,

  Thank you for your submission. I received many worthy candidates, and I regret to inform you that I have chosen another. It is a personal matter, not of quality. But as you have requested feedback, I will say that not even we have unlimited resources. Your aspirations exceed all, perhaps by too much.

  Sincerely yours,

  Omar al-Aqib

  The letter, unlike the Russian one, bore no handwritten note from Daddy, but the last two words—“too much”—blurred into a wet smudge. Liz imagined Daddy’s thumb pressing into the ink, as he gripped the paper tight.

  She turned to the last paper in the stack. It was a small sheet from her father’s notepad. His name appeared at the top in bold, block letters:

  REGINALD AUGUST TRAMMEL

  The scribbled words below were simple. Build it, please build it.

  A sketch of a building filled most of the page. It showed bowed edges at the bottom, pillars like legs stretching to widen the foundation. Unlike the blueprint from Dubai, it showed detailed drawings of the underground mechanics. But the overall motion of the design was the same. Shafts of steel curved up from the wide base and stabbed into the sky like a ladder to heaven.

  A small person was drawn at the pinnacle, as if standing on top of the building, leaning over, as if ready to jump.

  Liz knew what the person meant. It was her father. And now it was her.

  Build it or jump.

  Maybe those were the only options for the Trammells. She leaned back in her father’s chair, hands covering her moist eyes.

  “I will build it,” she announced to the empty room, so any ghosts could hear. “No matter what it takes.”

  16

  You have to see this. Swing by my lab?

  It was a simple text. A shot in the dark. But Dylan felt desperate to see Liz and show off his idea.

  Okay, she’d responded. Tonight? 10 pm?

  Dylan had cancelled his dinner with students. Liz almost never had time any more for this kind of thing, and he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity.

  He readied his research station while he waited for Liz to arrive. He loved the space late at night. With the students gone, the high ceiling and concrete floors gave the feeling of a cave, and in the heart of it was the light shining on his work. He’d read enough Plato to feel like a shadow dancing on the cave wall.

  His phone buzzed. Liz was outside. Dylan rushed to the front doors of the research building.

  Liz stood there in blue jeans and a green sweater. She looked like the same girl Dylan had fallen for back in school.

  “I’m so glad you came,” he said.

  “I just got back from Chicago.” Her voice sounded heavy.

  “Why’d you go there?”

  “I went to the house.”

  “Oh.” Dylan wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to pry, because he knew what that house meant to her. He’d spent so much time there, working with her and Jax on Babel’s early designs. But he’d always known that the place weighed on Liz. She rarely left her room in the garage.

  “I had to go,” Liz said. “I found some more details about my dad’s design for the tower.”

  “Where?”

  “My dad had some papers hidden where I hadn’t seen them before.”

  Dylan hadn’t heard her sound so somber in years. “It must’ve been hard going back.”

  “Yeah.” Liz stared down at her feet. “I guess that’s why I came. I thought it might be nice to see someone who understands.”

  “I’m always here for you.”

  She met his eyes. “Thanks, Dylan. I know. But I don’t really want to talk about it much... What did you want to show me?”

  “Come on, it’s amazing.” Dylan led her through the empty and quiet building, their footfalls echoing together.

  They reached his research station, which had a clean, sterile feel, with a large white table in the center of the room. On the middle of the table sat an enclosed cube of glass, with two holes for gloves so someone could reach the two mice inside.

  “This is it,” Dylan said, pointing to the mice in the cube. “The first step to living forever.”

  Liz leaned closer and peered at the mice. “They’re cute, cuddling while they sleep.”

  “Not quite.” Dylan reached his hands into the gloves, then gently nudged one of the mice. As the mouse moved, it revealed that the two animals were connected. “See, they’re stitched tog
ether.”

  Liz stepped back. “That’s awful.”

  “It’s not so bad. We can undo it later. We have a strict ethics code.” Dylan motioned to a computer by the wall. “Let me show you what we’ve found.”

  Liz followed him to the screen. It was full of biometric details about each mouse, comparing them across two columns.

  “This is Roscoe.” Dylan pointed to the left column. “He’s the old mouse. He’s been alive four years, but most mice live only two or three years.”

  “And the other one?” Liz asked.

  “Chip. He’s our youngster. Six months old. His blood is pumping in Roscoe’s veins. That’s one secret to Roscoe hanging around.”

  Liz moved back to the glass cube and the mice. “What does it do to Chip?”

  “Ah, well, he’s aging fast. But we’ll separate them soon.”

  “So, you’re showing me this because…?”

  “Because I think you should make this idea part of your tower. You said you wanted to tackle the world’s biggest problems. What’s bigger than death?”

  “Nothing.” Her voice was quiet, her eyes fixed on the mice. “You want to use my tower as a place to…stitch humans together?”

  Dylan laughed. “No, not at all. This is just an example with the mice. We can use blood transfusions for humans. It’s totally legit, and it’s only the beginning. Blood is basic stuff. Our geneticists are matching this with DNA studies. They’re making progress on gene design. We can really start to help people live longer.”

  “It’s impressive, I guess,” Liz said. “But…you’re already doing the work here. Why make this part of the tower?”

  “You still need to convince the board about the tower, right? And to convince the world to get excited about it? Well, what better way than a research contest for the holy grail—living forever?”

  “It might help. Katarina is also developing a reality TV show to get more attention.” Liz leaned against the table, looking down and shaking her head. The room fell quiet.

  Dylan hadn’t seen Liz so troubled in years. He wondered if it was all about her dad, or if it had something to do with Katarina. Did Liz know that Katarina wanted to make the data accessible? Dylan found himself agreeing more and more with Katarina’s idea, and not just because of their night together. Liz didn’t need to know about that. It wasn’t like a relationship or anything. Katarina was just right—the data shouldn’t be kept locked away when it could be used for so much good. They were like modern nobility in Silicon Valley, with a responsibility to use their success for the benefit of the world. But Dylan didn’t think there was much chance of Liz allowing it, and now wasn’t the time to bring it up anyway.

  He made his voice soft, gentle. “Liz, you okay?”

  “Yeah.” She looked up with moist eyes. “I just…I want to do the right thing for my Dad.”

  Dylan reached for Liz’s hand. She didn’t resist. “How better to honor his memory than research about life?”

  “Maybe you’re right…this is harder than I thought.”

  He moved closer and slowly wrapped his arms around her. “You’ve never let anything hard stop you before. You can do this.”

  She buried her face into his shoulder, her body shuddering lightly.

  Dylan held her tight, amazed that this unstoppable and unreachable girl of his childhood dreams was right here in his lab, crying in his arms. He said what he thought she most wanted to hear.

  “You can do this, Liz.”

  17

  Twelve people sat on Babel’s board of directors. Seven women, five men. They lined the glass conference table, with Liz at the head, wearing jeans and a red sweater, because it was Thursday. Katarina sat to her right. She had spent the past week laying the groundwork and preparing the presentation. Now Liz just had to nail the delivery. So far so good.

  She rose from her boardroom chair. “The tower will captivate the world’s attention.” The design projected onto the wall behind Liz. “It will be the largest in the world. It will rise almost a mile high, dwarfing the tallest buildings of New York, Dubai, and Shanghai.”

  Liz glanced at the image. The simple, steep lines of its steel and glass façade were the hallmarks of the architect. Don’t think about Daddy, she told herself.

  “But of course it will be more than a building,” Liz said. “This will secure Babel’s hold on the market. We’ll bring workers from around the world, equip them with Babels, and follow the most fascinating crews. We’ll televise it like reality TV. We’ve consulted with Hollywood and producers. We’ve tested the idea, and people are going to love it. No one will be able to think about translation—or even about building something epic—without thinking about Babel.”

  “Why would anyone want to watch you build a tower?” The question came from a grey-haired woman who wore pearls and a stern face: Susan Deschamps, the leader of the board’s opposition. She’d never liked Liz much, because after a career climbing the corporate ranks, Mrs. Deschamps expected more respect for tradition.

  “We’re not just televising construction,” Liz said. “We’re capturing drama between the workers and their cultures. Imagine welders from Iran and Israel having to work together.”

  The older woman shook her head. “I thought you wanted to build it, not start a war.”

  “It will all be carefully monitored. We’ll have team-building competitions as outlets for conflict. That brings me to another reason why this is going to be huge hit.” Liz took her seat again at the head of the table. She leaned forward, meeting the board members’ gazes.

  “We’re going to tackle the greatest challenge of humankind.” She used the words as Dylan had explained it. They were as audacious as they were enticing. “We will invite the world’s best scientists—geneticists, biochemists, doctors—and we’ll ask them to work on conquering death.” Liz noticed looks of surprise and confusion, but she marched ahead. “We’ll provide the best research facilities. We’ll offer millions for anyone who makes advances. And, of course, they’ll be wearing Babels as they work. Can you think of any project people could care more about?”

  The room was quiet, until the old lady in pearls let out a snort of dismissal. “It sounds a bit…silly. How much will it cost?”

  More questions like hers came.

  “Why would anyone believe it’s possible?”

  “Will this be funded out of the operating budget?”

  “You can’t use the equity from the IPO for this…”

  Liz listened to the questions. She smiled in response, nodding, letting more challenges come. She had learned more than body throws in jiu jitsu. Let your opponent make a full first move before reacting. The conference room eventually grew silent.

  “I understand your concerns,” Liz said. “We have two options.”

  They eyed her skeptically.

  “First, we start our plan for ad revenue early.”

  A few of them shook their heads. One man spoke up: “You know the market isn’t ready. It’s a year away, minimum. The saturation estimates…”

  Liz held up her hand. “You may be right. It’s a big step for people to start hearing ads from their devices. That brings us to option two.” The only option. “I will sell my shares in the company to fund construction entirely by myself.”

  “You can’t,” one woman said.

  A man nodded agreement. “The company needs you. You’re our Steve Jobs.”

  “I will stay with Babel to lead our new business ideas, and as a figurehead for the translation work.” Liz motioned to Katarina, who had been sitting quietly at her side. “You’ve already approved Katarina to take over day-to-day operations. And those operations will continue at the new headquarters.”

  The business minds gathered at the table did not need much time to process the implications of her proposal. “You would own the building?”

  Liz nodded.

  A woman asked: “And, what…lease space to Babel?”

  “Exactly,” Liz said. “Bu
t the payment would be nothing more than the agreement to operate exclusively from the headquarters.”

  A few of the hard stares softened. This was the key to the deal. This made business sense.

  Katarina spoke up. “It would cut costs by millions, hundreds of millions over time. Imagine explaining to the shareholders why you turned that deal down.”

  A few members of the board exchanged glances, heads starting to nod in understanding. “We’ll need to see the figures.”

  “Of course,” Katarina said. She walked them through the numbers, an elaborate presentation that she navigated with ease. Her logic was hard to resist.

  The oldest man in the room had not broken his gaze away from Liz. He was Paul Fielder, and he had been a CEO before Liz was born. His wrinkled eyes studied hers. “You really think the staff will move to Nebraska?”

  She smiled. “Yes, Paul. It may take some convincing at first, and we may lose a few. But they will come. Our people joined Babel because they love exciting ideas, changing the world. This tower will be a phenomenon. A whole new Silicon Valley in one building. Who wouldn’t want front row seats to conquering death?”

  “You won’t be the first to try…” Paul said.

  “It’s different now.” Liz had had her doubts, too, but Dylan had convinced her that the idea was worth trying, or at least worth selling. “This is the first time in history when we have the human genome mapped, and when the smartest people in the world can work side by side regardless of their language. Here’s the thing. Whether we get someone to live to 150 or not, can’t you see how inspiring it will be to try? Babel’s translation work is just the beginning. We can’t always be a company that does only one thing. We’ll take on the biggest challenges humanity faces.”

  “Sounds nice,” Paul said. “But Liz, why do you want to build the tower?”

  Liz had prepared well for this question. “When I started Babel, I wanted it to be something different.” She looked around the group, playing her audience, giving them the piece of the truth that they wanted to hear. “We’re not just another Silicon Valley start-up. With this tower, I want to see if we can build a place that’s a world unto itself, a place where people can stay and they can shine. It will have everything anyone could need. Its own schools, a hospital, you name it.”