STAR OF HOPE. Book 1

STAR OF HOPE.

                                                   Synopsis

Professor Samuel Vine a diligent, caring scientist and Elis, an aspirational, aggrieved female embryologist, embark in secret to create a baby in an artificial womb.
Barron Pittassy, is a debonair billionaire of Bolivia. He is clearing up Space debris and building a hotel on his Space Platform. An accident thrusts one of his Shuttle into an anomalous zone. The Barron mounts several rescue attempts.
From then on all their lives entwine and the adventure begins.. Elis becomes more powerful, bitter and twisted. Professor finds new love. The Barron realises his true calling.

                                       *************************************

                                           CAMEBRIDGE. ENGLAND.

          The cold March wind whistled through the warped iron framed windows as Elis walked quickly, her heels echoing on the linoleum surface.
Her official duties had delayed her too long and she’s been eager to get here. Her heart fluttered with double edged feelings of excitement and dread. She stopped in front an undetermined colour door, with old, flaking paint falling of the panels like some kind of mangy paint disease. Just one of the neglected doors on this derelict passageway.
Nobody’s been this way for years, except for Elis and Professor Vine, but to make sure, she looked both ways vigilantly before she put her key in the brand new Yale lock.
          This part of the little cottage hospital had been designated for demolition in the immediate future a lot of years ago; failing many times in the high-powered negotiations at the last hurdle.
She turned the key and glanced about her once more as if she was a thief, not a doctor before she entered into the room.
It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim lighting. The little red dot on the computer lazily pulsated ready to be awakened at the slightest touch. Neatly stacks Manilla folders bulged in the office trays. A digital clock pensively marked the time making a dull clacking sound as the hand jumped in its indifference on its way away around the grubby enamelled face.
She walked towards the perfectly concealed door at the corner of the room.
At last. Everything she had been planning was coming to fruition in this little hidden sound proof room. As soon as Elis entered, she was immediately engulfed into her other world. Unfolding and evolving around her.
The rhythmical hum of the specially designed ‘Dialysis machine’ filled the room and mingled with Mozart’s Serenade in B flat playing softly in the background.
In a glass vessel filled with amber liquid, floated a precious little 'bundle' in its own unique entanglement. It was encased in a semi-transparent bubble which tapered into a thin pink cord which in turn was attached to the vessel’s cover. Numerous leads then were connected to a main computer.
          Elis watched the dancing lights of the ‘support machine’. She checked the charts and transferred the readings into her laptop. She believed that backing up data was a key to all successes. Body temperature, weight, hormones and vitamin levels among many others. Then she checked the most important reading, the oxygen mix coming from the artificial placenta. She recorded the waste material, then she squeezed a plastic bag full of vernix oil to inject an extra drop into the bubble to maintain the protection it was intended for.
As a scientist she wanted a triumphant success in this experiment, and her past personal misfortunes helped to reinforce her belief that she was doing the right thing.
Deep in her private thoughts, she watched the small, helpless little bundle stretch out one arm and with a tiny fist, punch the synthetic sack. The little legs gave a frog kick and then reverted back to the entangled position they were in before. Head tucked in, arms folded in front of her nose, and legs pulled up with her tiny knees in-between the curved fists.
The ultra-violet light switched on automatically and made the baby move again. She slowly moved her shoulders and turned her head to one side and stretched again as if she was enjoying the extra warmth. The luminous light showed the thin spindles of bone in faint shadows with the flesh around it like freshly made pink jelly.
                   Several times a day Elis recalled the suffering she had endured in her own experience of child-birth. The excruciating feeling of loss and distress when her baby aborted at seven months. She vividly remembered the inconceivable hurt that filled her then, and fought hard now, not to feel bitter towards ‘this’ baby.
The emotion she experienced as a mother, contradicted what she was feeling within her professional capacity. Giving life without pain or danger to mother and child and eliminating diseases, did not, in itself warrant the violation of nature, but as a scientist she felt compelled to it. She was constantly at odds with herself on the subject. On the other hand she found herself longing for the baby she had lost. She bitterly blamed the world and everybody in it for missing out on motherhood every time she looked at either this 'begotten' baby, or some other child outside of work hours.
‘You really love that baby don't you Elis?’
Professor Vine's soft voice startled her as she did not hear the ‘lab’ door open. She turned around to face him and gave him a restrained, benign smile. Hesitating momentarily before answering; trying to evade the question directly. She wanted to say what he wanted to hear.
She wasn't sure if she loved or hated this baby. She couldn't be certain of anything when it came to loving another person. After her husband’s desertion, she developed an abhorrent, alien feeling. Despite herself, it grew and multiplied like some poisonous mushrooms in a dense forest. Unstoppable. Relentless.  Murderous. 
He jilted her and almost certainly caused her baby to abort.
Luckily she managed to keep the resentment and bitterness hidden. She relished the fact that she managed to turn her life around successfully within a few months without a mental or physical break-down. She did it without professional help. It somehow made her a more confident person.
She adjusted one of the tubes which was nearest to her that didn’t really need adjusting and forced the uncertainty out of her voice.
‘Every time I attend to her needs I always think about the child I’ve lost.’
Her controlled voice trembled slightly from its usual creamy softness. She managed to sound sincere, because that statement was true. She realised it wouldn’t do for a doctor to admit confusion on this issue especially in her present line of work. She came to terms with the fact that she couldn’t have any more children and she substituted the loss with the rewards she obtained from her work.


                                                    THE BARON.

                           The Château. Bolivia South America.

‘...We lower his body to the unknown, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. James Craig Pittassy jnr. I commend your body to our Almighty God to watch over you and guide you to the everlasting light. He, who believes in God though he is dead, will live on, and who so ever has life and has faith in him to all eternity cannot die’...
Just as the priest spoke those words, the sun came out from behind a grey cloud and radiated streams of golden sunlight over the rusty coloured pile of earth that had been dug out. Despite heavy security it seemed the whole of Bolivia had turned up to say farewell to this little boy.
Someone tugged the Baron’s sleeve to remind him to scatter a handful of earth as the tiny coffin was lowered. Through blurred vision from choked back tears he could see the cold darkness of the grave, it matched the cold darkness carved in his heart caused by the loss of his only son. The Baron’s handsome thirty two year old face hardened with sorrow made him look years older. His proud athletic frame slouched negligently with the heavy burden in his heart. Deep furrowed lines cut patterns into the sun kissed skin.
A person handed him a single flower the Baron had picked earlier from the garden, and with a dull ache he watched it fall.
With it went the re-enforcement of his vow. The vow he made five years earlier, when he had stood at the same spot grieving for his wife. With the passing of the last person he ever loved, his secret now locked away for ever.
He remembered the delight on her face when she announced that she was with child again.
After three years of trying for a family and three difficult pregnancies and subsequent miscarriages they were finally going to have an heir. How strong she was at the birth, refusing all medications in fear of harming the baby. The joy of birth and then the cruel turn of fate: the horror of bearing a ‘monstrous’ child. His head nearly twice the size of a normal baby had caused un-reparable damage.
Alina died and the child lived, if only for a few short years.
He hated himself all over again. If only he had taken the doctor’s advice at the last miscarriage, he would still have her now. He would gladly give up all his wealth to have her back. 
Baron Pittassy lost in his grief did not hear the final farewell the priest had so carefully prepared.
‘The sadness we are witnessing here today will stay with many of us for a lifetime. The tragic circumstance of Alina and James Craig Pittassy will be remembered for many years to come. There has always been a Pittassy family in Bolivia for as far back as records have been collected, but never one as caring and benevolent as Miguel and Alina.
Their love and kindness extended far beyond the family boundaries. Hundreds of orphaned children have been given love and guidance and a secure life in the orphanage established by the Pittassy family.
They will never forget the compassion and generosity afforded to them without question and without prejudices. Each orphan enjoying unlimited financial support and many of them gaining university degrees and eventually becoming professors and teachers themselves. They will never be able to express thanks to Alina Pittassy or pay homage to the young boy they all come to love like a brother….’
The priest's soft voice drifted towards the short, fat elderly man running from the direction of the Château in his native attire. Constantly tussling and adjusting the colourful blanket, struggling to keep it draped over his shoulder. He slowed his pace as he neared the grave side bowed his head and stood behind the children from the orphanage who were standing motionless twenty deep dressed in their uniforms, tears falling freely from their eyes. Some muted sobs frequently becoming an uncontrollable cry of grief.
Among the many tear streaked congregation a dry, lavender coloured pair of eyes were glaring at Miguel menacingly. She was immaculately dressed in a Guy Laroche black two piece costume. Her eyes penetrating through the heavy chiffon veil. She stood rigid like an Oak tree. Strong and defiant. She liked to have met Miguel’s son but made no attempt to cultivate the feeling of erupting sorrow. It didn’t materialise for this little boy in the ground.
Out of breath, the old man’s squashed nostrils could hardly cope with his sporadic breathing. His overweight body heaved visibly under the strain from running. His short legs pounded the grass impatiently as if he wanted to go to the toilet, but could not leave the spot.
He looked agitated.  His fisted hands pumped his fingers intensely into the flesh of his palm so tightly, it forced his knuckles into white, peaked mountains. From time to time he feebly tried to get the Baron’s attention.
When he realised that the only way he would get anybody to take notice of him would be to interrupt the service, he gave up and bowed his head to listen to the eulogy. The lesser of the two evils, he thought was, the wrath of the Baron.
Colonel Cruin’s exact words were still ringing in his ears: ‘Joseph, go and get the Baron immediately, even if it means stopping the funeral.’ But when he got close and looked at the Barons distorted face, he could not do it.


ELIS.
Elis stood in front of the glass receptacle remembering how she came to be at this point in her carrier. She got back to work with the minimum of fuss. She made a clean break from her past life and moved to Cambridge. She decided to take an extra degree in Microbiology as she had loved bugs from an early age.
She was captivated by the microorganisms ever evolving ability. It fascinated her how they managed to survive in the constantly changing environment. She likened herself to them. Especially now. She was changing, surviving. She was becoming her new herself.
She found mental and emotional fulfilment while she was cramming all the new knowledge. She felt like a thirsty sponge soaking it all in.
Her most tedious obstacle to become her new, stronger self, was her name. Whenever anybody called her by her married name, she was instantly reminded of him. So she changed her name to Elis. She loathed her married name almost as much as she hated her maiden name because of her abusive father. She decided to choose a radically revised and shortened new single name. Elis. Just Elis.
She realised her colleagues only indulged her eccentricity because she was the assistant to the renowned Professor Vine. Unfortunately, by this simple change, she unwittingly drew more attention to herself than if she had used an unpronounceable foreign name. Subsequently, she found it stimulating to have achieved this. It suited her new personality. It gave her the edge she was aiming for. She loved these moments of surreptitious power.
She grabbed the chance to return to her much preferred job as soon as a vacancy came up as a Clinical Embryologist. Working with the professor they soon became recognized leaders in embryology all over the world.
Demonstrations and lobbying from religious and other groups stopped the advancement into ‘B.A.B’ (Begetting Artificial Babies) programme even before it could be fully proven. Their hopes in this field were shattered when the government refused them a licence to continue in this new technology.   
Paradoxically, they were welcomed with open arms to adopt the technique to reproduce endangered animals the ‘begoten’ way. They worked side by side with the top Veterinaries and very quickly had an enthusiastic team. Once the Government set up funds to let the technology continue at least in that area, the majority of people accepted them. All the ‘B.A.B’ team realised it would be a matter of time well into the future before human B.A.B. would be established again.
Professor Vine was even nominated for the Nobel Prize. He graciously accepted it in the names of the endangered animals the team managed to ‘beget’.
His acceptance speech had become legendary and went viral. Elis wrote it herself and she made it humorous and poignant at the same time. They were encouraged and generously financed from all over the Globe. Money was pouring in like a monsoon. The team called it their Eureka movement. Every new success was publicised worldwide, and blown out of all proportion. 
The momentary reminisces passed and Elis felt a little odd stroking the glass vessel with the Professor watching her every move. She wished he hadn’t come in so soon. She wanted to have time to really look at this baby now and take a closer scrutiny of her features.  She was sure he hadn’t suspected anything. Not yet.
Simon Vine crossed the distance between them in two strides. He put his hand on her skinny shoulder and gently turned her to face him, tilting her face upwards so he could look into her deep brown eyes. Her face became illuminated by the subdued red light coming from the vessel which gave her a conflicting glow of tranquillity and vitality in equal measures. Her eyes in this light became an even deeper brown, almost coal-black making the fiery warmth completely disappear, giving her eyes a cool aloofness. He was no expert in this field, but he interpret it as hidden reflections of pain and suffering.
He felt an uncontrollable desire to embrace her and comfort her. They had been working together a little more than two years and he had warmed to her. He came to rely on her more and more. He was sure he knew her and knew what she wanted.
She attained respect just by her presence. Her manner, her actions, the graceful movement of her body like an intensely charged athlete.
‘You are a remarkable woman Elis. You have been through a lot and still you never tire of devoting yourself to the project.’ 
He felt tempted to crush her tantalising body to his own to advocate his sincerity and show his appreciation. His outstretched fingers cooped her face as he lowered his own lips towards hers; his left hand trailed down from her shoulder and encircled her back. Finding a comfortable place he held her there tightly around her slender waist to draw her closer. With sudden urgency, he crushed her body to his and for a long moment they kissed, a rough and clumsy kiss.
To Elis the kiss would have been more be-fitting in a whorehouse. Not at all what she imagined their first kiss would be. With both hands still in her lab coat pocket she drew away first. She didn't feel embarrassed, she didn't feel shocked. She half expected him to do that for a long time. When they first realised that a human embryo was going to thrive in the grafted amniotic sac, just like the wild tigers and all the other wild animals they had 'begotten'. She knew then he wanted her to be more than a team-player.
Neither of them mentioned the impromptu kiss, the gap just widened between them and the whole episode had passed as if it had never happened.
‘In a few weeks we are going to have to look for a suitable mother Elis.’ Samuel Vine spoke to her with measured emotion. Embarrassed by his momentary lack of self-control. He focused his attention on the baby in the bubble who just delivered a kick on the stretched membrane just as if she had been in her mother’s womb. The grafted blood vessels stretched and contracted as they carried on pumping the vital nourishment into the 'host' placenta, sustaining her life.
‘I have a patient in mind Professor.’
Elis walked around to the other side of the vessel holding the baby so she could face him.
She wanted to see the baby and the professor in one frame.
The creator of life and an illegal child of ‘un-birth.’

                                                       JOSEPH

                                 The Château. Bolivia South America.

           Miguel Pittassy had seen Joseph running across the lawn and realised immediately something must be wrong. He couldn't care less if the sky fell in on top of him and he never saw anybody again. He had lost his wife and now the cause of the loss, the child he came to love because 'it' reminded him of Alina.
Every minute he had spent with his son he could see Alina in him.
Her shy smile was recreated in his innocence, her dark hair reproduced in his. The almond shaped brown eyes, just as Alina’s, danced with joy and sadness at the same time. He remembered the beauty of her face and it blotted out the deformities of his son. Miguel glanced at his watch, and realised it was just two hours since he had given his son a last farewell at his open coffin and already his distorted features were diminishing from his memory.
He wanted to etch a new image in his mind; One of purity and peace. That's how they wanted to be. His beloved Alina and James Craig, his son. He wanted to have what other people took for granted. A wonderful, happy family.
           He remembered her with pain in his chest like he had never felt before. Reopening the wound deep within him as if somebody had placed large stones into the cavity of his chest with hate, sorrow, guilt and remorse etched on each stone.
His silk jacket felt as if it was re-enforced with lead. It hung from his shoulders, dragging him into the grave to join his beloved family.
He saw white and cream flowers thrown in to the grave, transforming the black hole into a floating white shawl. The flower heads cascaded slowly turning into little fairies and butterflies dancing in a spiral, performing a last ritual.
They settled gently onto the tiny ivory coffin. Slowly they covered the twenty two carat gold family crest, and the symbol of wealth diminished under the tumbling flowers.
He felt hands shake his and comforting arms reached over his shoulders, in an eerie trance, all offering their condolences.
Through the blur of choked back tears, Miguel could not clearly make out the faces coming towards him, although he recognised each and every one as soon as they spoke. Words were offered in whispered tones, hands were shaken with a fleeting touch.
The long line of well-wishers were drifting towards the marquee, only the last few really close friends remained to come forward to comfort him. Among them a newcomer in the shape of a slender tall woman, her heady perfume drifting ahead of her like warning of a pending doom. The aroma conjured up an image to Miguel from his past. One he had fought hard to forget, and yet it sprung back into the present in an instant.  The slender woman approaching him did not speak, just held his hand in hers a little too long and moved on. Miguel felt her brush against him for a brief moment, just as the next person came with soft words of sympathies.
The old man watched impatiently waiting for his turn to deliver the message. He noticed the strange, heavily vailed woman lean close to Miguel; it looked to his old eyes that she had slipped something into Miguel’s coat pocket. Shaking his head, he dismissed the incident, and persuaded himself that he was mistaken. He was the last person to come to Miguel offering his compassion in his humble way, feeling very embarrassed about his stutter, but could not bring himself to say the urgent message, now about fifty minutes too late.
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