Columbus Ohio.
1919
Thomas Martins was twenty-one years old, and according to his tutors at the Franklin University he was a medical and scientific genius. Professor Ivan Borkollov and he had been working together for the past year in the hope of understanding the true nature of stem cells, and why they had the incredible ability to turn into any other cell type.
Martins however wasn’t interested in the whys and wherefores of stem cell research, he had his own secret agenda for this potentially wondrous replicating phenomenon, and was why professor Borkollov was not privy to Martins’ personal journal.
Professor Borkollov had been rather ill of late, and knowing Martins’ methods were exceptionally more advanced than his, he had left Martins to do most of the research. Eventually handing complete control over to him and only wanting daily reports on his progress.
One evening at around 10pm whilst walking back from the university’s library, Professor Borkollov heard a noise coming from inside the lab. The vacant halls he trudged through were dimly lit, and at that time of day usually absent of any sound.
Borkollov was sixty-three and only five-feet in height, and even though his arthritis was rife; he entered the room waving his cane ready to confront the intruder. ‘Thomas?’ he said mystified. ‘It is after ten o’clock, why are you still working at such a late hour?’ his soft accent flecked with Russian.
Martins shot bolt upright from his microscope. ‘Professor you, you gave me quite a start there.’
‘So it seems Thomas, what have you there?’ He asked indicating with his cane.
‘Oh it’s nothing, just checking on some results from earlier today. Actually I was about to pack up for the night. Care to lend a hand?’
‘If I were not so tired Thomas, and this damn arthritis,’ he said slapping his leg with the cane, ‘was not so feisty, I would gladly assist you.’
‘Not to worry professor. I shall see you in the morning then?’ he said ushering Borkollov from the room.
‘Yes, tomorrow.’ Borkollov turned to leave but noticed a green journal sat atop a table by the door. After reading the words hand-written in ink across the front cover he placed the book he’d taken from the library next to it. Then picking up the journal he turned to face Martins. ‘Trials and experiments in longevity? What is this Thomas?’
As Borkollov began to thumb through the pages of his journal Martins remained silent. The furrows in Borkollov’s forehead seemed to be growing deeper every time he turned a page. ‘Why am I not familiar with this research?’
‘I have kept it from you professor simply because it is still in its infancy. I have no positive results that will prove my theories as yet, but soon I will, and then we will fully understand the true nature of stem cell regenera...’
Borkollov scoffed at his feeble attempt to lie. ‘What kind of a fool do you take me for Thomas? What you have here is not even close to our research. And according to these notes…’ he said waving the journal under Martins’ nose. ‘You are attempting to hasten the work of nature, not trying to understand it.’ Borkollov looked away taking a breath. ‘Now, you will listen carefully to what I have to say to you. You are to cease in this foolish notion or you will leave me no other alternative but to have you thrown off the campus. I will not tolerate this kind of deception from you Thomas. Have I made myself perfectly clear?’
‘Look professor, when I’m successful and I know I will be, there could be a Nobel Prize in it. I could go down in history alongside Behring for his Serum Therapy, or-’
Professor Borkollov looked incredulously at Martins. ‘Are you serious?’ he said interrupting him once more. ‘Am I actually hearing this… this gibberish? Thomas, you are a worthy Scientist and a fine Physician, of that I have no doubt whatsoever.’ Borkollov slowly shook his head. ‘But you are not yet worthy enough to even tug at the hem of Emil von Behring’s robes. Let alone stand beside him. I will hear no more of this… this madness.’
‘It is not madness, and I will prove it to you!’ insisted Martins.
Professor Borkollov stood before him, his forehead meeting Martins’ chin. ‘Thomas,’ he said pushing the journal into Martins’ chest. ‘You have become a crank, and a dreamer. If you insist in carrying on with this nonsense, then I suggest you pack up your things this instant, and leave.’
Martins couldn’t understand Borkollov’s un-accepting attitude; so he decided to push back a little. ‘You foolish old man, look at you.’
‘What?’ Borkollov took a step back.
‘How can you even presume to comment on my research? I have carried you for almost a whole year now; if it wasn’t for me the Dean would have retired you months ago. Professor,’ he said bending to meet his gaze. ‘You have become a frail remnant of your former self.’ A look of fear quickly overcame Borkollov as he began to stumble back. Martins continued his verbal assault on the old man, moving forward with each backward step he took. ‘You are now no more than a relic, a relic whose usefulness has long since expired.’
Martins watched as Borkollov "Eeked" from deep in his throat, then dropping his cane and the journal to the floor he clutched at his left arm; his face contorted with pain as he dropped to his knees at the feet of Martins.
‘Help me Thomas,’ he managed.
But Martins just looked down at the man; a man whose stature in the field of medicine he once looked up to. Gripping Martins’ trouser leg Borkollov fell into him, and releasing a strangled last breath he finally stilled. Martins stood there looking down his nose at Borkollov waiting for him to move, but Borkollov remained silent and motionless. Reaching down he prised open Borkollov's grip and stepped aside allowing the man fall face first into the floor, the dull thud echoing outside in the empty corridor.
Martins knelt down beside him and touched his neck for a pulse, but found nothing. ‘Well professor,’ he said with some satisfaction. ‘It seems your usefulness has now truly expired. Wouldn’t you say?’
Martins looked about the lab; it was only around fifteen-feet wide by thirty-feet long, and because it was a small internal room it had no windows and only the one door. Looking from the door he checked up and down the long corridor outside. Moonlight flooded in through the window to his far right, and to his left the corridor gradually darkened to almost black, but for the few dimly lit gas lamps periodically positioned along the walls.
Martins began to casually clear the lab of his experiments moving them to his room. And before long there was no trace that Martins had even been in the lab that night, although that was not part of his plan.
Martins picked up his journal from the floor and also the book Borkollov had rested atop the bench. He turned and dropped the book at the side of Borkollov’s corpse, then before leaving for the final time he put the keys for the lab into one of Borkollov’s pockets.
As he exited through the door he turned to Borkollov. ‘You were a stubborn old man professor, and I can only hope that in one-hundred years from now, I will be dealing with men that have more prescience than you ever did.’ Then closing the door quietly he went to his room.
