*****
I reappeared in Mouse’s lab. My mentor was already there, along with BT.
“Right on time,” Mouse announced, glancing at a clock on the wall.
“Please tell me you guys have something,” I pleaded.
“We’ve got information,” BT replied, “but there are a lot of moving parts. Where do you want to begin?”
“I don’t care,” I replied. “Start with anything that’s going to distinguish this clone from me so I can clear my name.”
“Well, for starters, he’s not a clone,” Mouse clarified.
“What?!” I exclaimed, giving him a look of incomprehension.
“He said that Jack’s not a clone,” BT reported. “And he isn’t. Not a true clone, anyway.”
“You lost me,” I admitted, shaking my head.
“Let’s start with the basics,” BT said. “Cloning generally refers to producing a genetic copy of some biological structure or organism, and there are actually several different types of cloning. Gene cloning, for example, involves making copies of a segment of DNA. Therapeutic cloning, on the other hand, relates to copying genetic material for the ultimate goal of providing stem cells for the treatment of injury or disease. Then there’s reproductive cloning, which relates to creating an exact genetic replica of an organism.”
I nodded in understanding. “I take it that last – reproductive cloning – is the one we’re concerned with.”
“Correct,” Mouse agreed. “Without getting too far into the science, in reproductive cloning you take DNA from the original organism and use it to make a copy.”
“And that’s what they did to create Jack,” I concluded.
Neither Mouse nor BT immediately responded. Instead, they exchanged a knowing glance and then BT spoke up.
“That’s not exactly what occurred,” she intoned.
“You know, that’s the second time you guys have indicated that there’s something other than cloning going on here,” I remarked. “Can someone just give me the straight dope?”
BT sighed. “I’ve known you – your family – for a long time, Jim, and for most of your life I’ve probably been the closest thing you’ve had to a doctor. I’ve had numerous opportunities to examine you, check out your biological systems, analyze your blood and tissues. In the course of doing all that, one of the first things I realized is that your DNA doesn’t lend itself to cloning.”
“Hold on,” I almost snapped, suddenly anxious. “Are you saying you tried to clone me?”
“Never,” BT protested adamantly. “But based on my own experience, I could tell that traditional cloning methods aren’t feasible with you. There’s a portion of your DNA that, simply put, will not replicate the way typical genetic material will when cloning is attempted.”
“So is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked. “Because it almost sounds like you’re saying something’s wrong with me.”
BT laughed. “No, we’re not saying it’s bad. We’re just saying it’s different – your DNA simply doesn’t conform to normal behavior.”
“In other words,” Mouse quipped, “even at the cellular level, you won’t do what’s expected of you.”
“Funny,” I said sarcastically, while trying (and failing) not to smile.
“We assume it has something to do with your singular genetic make-up,” Mouse continued. “It’s almost as if some part of your DNA recognizes that cloning is not a natural process and refuses to cooperate.”
“So I’ve got good genes,” I concluded. “But if my DNA isn’t susceptible to cloning, how’d they create Jack?”
“We were able to retrieve some of his genetic material from the room in the mansion where he was shot,” Mouse said. “From all appearances, they seemingly replaced the uncooperative portion of your DNA with some other genetic stock.”
“Wait,” I insisted, holding up a hand for emphasis. “How’d they even get my DNA in the first place?”
Mouse gave me a patronizing look. “So you’ve never had a haircut? Have you hung on to every toothbrush you’ve ever used? When you finish a bottle of juice or water, do you take it home with you and put it in a hope chest or something?”
“Okay, fine – there’s a million ways to get my DNA,” I conceded. “Apparently just from stuff that gets thrown out every day.”
“Actually, Mouse may have slightly exaggerated,” BT said. “When you get a haircut, the hair that’s clipped is made up of dead cells that doesn’t contain viable DNA – just like your outer skin.”
“Huh?” I murmured, confused.
“She’s talking about the stratum corneum – the outer layer of your epidermis,” Mouse explained. “It’s made up of dead cells and a ton of them slough off every day, but there’s no useful DNA in them.”
My brow crinkled as I considered this. “So you’re saying that if you peel back the outermost layer of my skin, there’s like a fresh new me underneath?”
“Sort of,” Mouse said. “As I mentioned, there’s a thin mantle of dead skin covering your whole body, but human beings don’t discard it the way you’re describing. There’s not going to be some husk laying around like a snake that just shed its skin.”
“Unless, I just teleport the portion of me that’s beneath the dead skin,” I suggested. “That would leave a husk.”
Mouse just stared at me in disbelief for a moment, then muttered, “Why do I get the feeling that this conversation is foreshadowing some elaborate Halloween prank?”
I laughed. “What makes you think I’ll wait until Halloween?”
We both chortled at that, causing BT to huff slightly in annoyance (while trying not to smile).
“If I can get you two juveniles back on point?” she chided.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “We were talking about how Gray’s minions might have gotten my DNA – basically from things I regularly toss out. I guess I just hadn’t thought about the lengths someone might go to in order to get it, like digging through my trash.”
“From what I’ve heard of Gray,” Mouse said, “it wouldn’t surprise me if he sent guys crawling up your sewer line, if it would get him what he wanted.”
“Okay, that’s mental imagery I didn’t need,” I muttered, causing BT to giggle this time. “Anyway, I think I understand now why you’re saying Jack’s not a true clone. Genetically, he’s not a pure, one-hundred-percent replica of me because of the DNA substitution.”
“Right,” BT agreed with a nod. “He’s maybe ninety percent you, max, with the remainder coming from some other genetic source.”
I rubbed my chin in thought for a moment. “So, this replacement DNA – where’d they get it?”
BT shrugged. “Who knows? It could have come from anyone.”
“Well, can’t you guys look at the DNA string in question and figure all that out?” I asked.
“We appreciate the faith you have in our abilities,” Mouse stated, “but it’s not that simple. It’s like finding fingerprints at a crime scene. Unless you can match them to a set on file somewhere, you can’t say who they belong to without something more. So, unless you’ve got a genetic database for all the billions of people on this planet, we’re a little stuck on that front.”
“Not to mention the fact that the DNA segment in question might not have even come from a single source,” BT added.
“You mean it might have come from more than one person?” I asked, a little stunned.
“It’s unlikely they were successful in creating Jack with a single trial,” BT said. “My guess is they tried various formulations – including hybridized DNA – until they hit upon one that worked.”
I shook my head in dismay. “Okay, this is way more complex than I ever imagined.”
“Don’t get wrapped up in the minutiae,” Mouse advised. “The exact composition of his DNA isn’t pertinent. The main thing is that having his DNA gets us a lot closer to clearing your name.”
“But like you said earlier, this is the equivalent of prints
without a match,” I argued. “We need Jack in carne ed ossa.”
“‘In the flesh,’” Mouse translated, impressed. “Kudos on the Latin.”
I gave a brief nod to acknowledge his compliment, while BT stuck to the subject at hand.
“Holding Jack in place is easier said than done, given his power of teleportation,” she noted. “That’s one ability his handlers were effective in developing.”
Her words striking me as odd, I gave BT a curious look. “What do you mean?”
BT appeared to reflect for a moment before answering. “Do you recall when your teleportation ability first manifested?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I was like five years old and getting whaled on by an older bully. I kept wishing he was somewhere else, and all of a sudden, he was.”
“Using that as an example,” BT said, “under the proper circumstances, your powers seem to develop when needed. It makes you possibly the most versatile super on the planet. Understanding this and knowing your power set, Jack’s handlers were well aware of his potential.”
“In essence,” Mouse added, “they knew the types of abilities he was capable of developing. They simply had to coax them out of him.”
“Coax in what way?” I asked.
Neither BT nor Mouse immediately answered. Instead, my mentor pointed to one of the large monitors positioned around the lab.
The screen suddenly showed an odd scene: several people in white lab coats standing around an odd glass cylinder that was about six feet tall and three feet in diameter. Inside the cylinder, wearing what appeared to be a pair of swimming trunks, was a young boy – maybe nine years old. At that moment, my mouth almost fell open when I realized something: the kid in the cylinder looked exactly like me when I was that age.
Jack, I thought.
He looked nervous, and apparently he had good reason to be, because a few seconds later, the cylinder started filling up with water – fast.
The folks in the lab coats – presumably scientists – watched in utter fascination as the water quickly rose. Jack’s expression, on the other hand, had gone from nervous to anxious as the water climbed to his waist – and then to terrified as it reached his chest. By that time, he was beating on the interior of the cylinder (which I now recognized as a water tank), pleading with the scientists, beseeching them to let him out. There was no audio, but you didn’t need it to see that Jack was begging for his life.
As the water continued going up, Jack rose with it, frantically moving his arms and legs and tilting his head back to keep his face in the small but shrinking pocket of air at the top of the tank. He also still appeared to be screaming for help.
“He’s drowning,” I said flatly.
“Technically, he’s in aquatic distress,” Mouse corrected.
“The main difference,” BT chimed in before I could ask, “is that when you’re in aquatic distress, you can still move your arms and legs voluntarily, as well as call out for help. When you’re drowning, your body employs an automatic reaction known as the instinctive drowning response. When that happens, your arms move out laterally to the side and your head tilts back.”
“And it’s all involuntary,” Mouse added. “You have no conscious control at that point. You can’t even shout for help.”
“That’s not how they show it in the movies and on television,” I protested.
“Then I just don’t understand,” Mouse uttered in mock confusion. “Because they never put anything inaccurate in movies or on TV – it would be like reading something on the internet that wasn’t true.”
I was immediately tempted to give a smart-aleck response, and was on the verge of doing so when BT cut in.
“It’s called ‘dramatic license,’” she said. “Producers and directors portray certain things unrealistically to increase the drama or interest of the audience. But Mouse is right: actual drowning doesn’t involve any flailing about or shouting. Thus, a person could be drowning ten feet from you, and you’d never know it.”
As if giving credence to what I’d just heard, Jack no longer appeared to be calling for aid. His head was tilted back and his arms were out to the side, exactly as BT had explained.
“Now he’s drowning,” Mouse uttered dispassionately.
A few seconds later, there was no air left in the tank and Jack was completely submerged. He seemed to float for a few seconds and then slowly descend. As he did, his mouth opened, releasing a short stream of bubbles. A moment later, his chest expanded, and I cringed, realizing that he was breathing in water. His eyes, still open, began to take on a glassy look.
The attendant scientists abruptly began talking among themselves – hopefully discussing whether to get Jack out. However, the conversation was cut short as Jack, completely soaked, suddenly appeared on the floor in front of them, collapsing to all fours and spewing water from his mouth like a fire hydrant.
He had teleported.
An odd scene then ensued, with the scientists cheering, high-fiving, and otherwise enthusiastically congratulating each other, while Jack – still on his hands and knees – retched his guts out.
Chapter 61
“Okay,” I muttered as Mouse turned the video off. “That was unexpected.”
BT nodded. “As I stated, they had effective methods for developing Jack’s abilities.”
“You mentioned coaxing his powers out,” I corrected. “You made it sound like they gave him a cookie if he did something right. I wasn’t expecting this water torture cell.”
“Their approach was unorthodox,” BT admitted.
“Unorthodox?” I repeated. “Try extreme. What would they do if they wanted him to fly – toss him out of an airplane?”
Mouse and BT exchanged a glance, but neither spoke.
“You’ve got to be joking,” I said. “They threw him out of a plane without a chute?”
“Let’s just say we’ve confirmed that he can fly,” Mouse responded.
Incredulous, I simply shook my head. I took a few moments to get my head back in the game and then said, “Alright, what else you got?”
*****
We spent a little time watching more footage of Jack’s powers (or the attempted development of them). The videos came courtesy of BT, who – as previously mentioned – took in information the way ordinary people breathe air. With clones presumably at the highest levels of government, industry, and academia, there was little she couldn’t find out.
Of the other clips we viewed, the one that drew my attention the most involved an attempt to gauge Jack’s telepathic abilities. This one actually had audio, and essentially involved a female scientist pulling what appeared to be playing cards from a nearby deck. (At a guess, I thought it was the woman Gray had showed me a photo of, but it was difficult to tell without her face being twisted by paroxysms.) Jack, sitting at a table across from her, would attempt to guess which card she held.
More often than not, he failed at the task. This would result in Jack getting angrily berated by the scientist, with each additional failure causing a notable increase in the verbal abuse. At one juncture, she grew so furious and frustrated that she actually leaned across the table and slapped him. The blow was so forceful that it snapped his head to the side, and the sound of it seemed to reverberate in the air long after he’d been struck.
“I’d say that supports the theory that he’s not telepathic,” Mouse commented after we were done viewing that particular video.
“Yeah, but we still don’t know what he’s up to,” I said. “What’s on the next page of his playbook.”
“Maybe nothing,” BT suggested. “Maybe he just blends into the background now. Disappears. If he’s truly a shapeshifter, it should be easy enough.”
“But if that’s the plan, why reach out to Jim?” Mouse asked. “Why show up in Alpha Prime’s mansion? Why go on a date with Vestibule?”
“Li’s theory is that he wants friends,” I offered.
Mouse seemed to consider this for a moment. “It’
s possible. I mean, it’s not like his home life was warm and nurturing.”
“And maybe it’s easier for him to form relationships with people who already view him as a comrade,” BT suggested. “Or rather, those who view Jim that way.”
“Perhaps,” Mouse droned, not sounding convinced. “Anyway, we’ve been going at this for a while now. I say we break for lunch and then maybe BT and I can tackle this situation from a fresh angle with food in our bellies.”
“What about me?” I asked. “Aren’t I included?”
“Well, you certainly aren’t excluded,” BT assured me. “I think Mouse was just making it clear that you aren’t required to stay.”
“At the moment, I’ve got nothing more pressing than this,” I reminded them. “Plus, I’d probably be hanging out here anyway, even if we didn’t have this issue with Jack.”
Mouse glanced at BT. “He’s probably right. He spends so much time here that it’s practically his lab, too.”
“How about this?” I interjected. “I’ll run out and grab lunch – my treat – and we can figure out afterwards whether it’s worthwhile for me to hang around.”
“Far be it from me to turn down a free lunch,” Mouse said. “Alright, make it happen.”
Chapter 62
For lunch, I teleported from Mouse’s lab to Jackman’s – a local grill owned by a couple of former superhero sidekicks. It was an eatery that was frequented by a fair number of supers, and not just in support of two of our own. They actually served great food. The place was also a favorite hangout for a lot of super teens, including me and my friends, and we usually came by at least once a week.
I popped up in the parking lot. Based on the number of cars present, there didn’t seem to be a lot of patrons – a fact that was proved correct when I went inside the grill a moment later. (Of course, it was the middle of the school day, so the throngs of teens that I typically saw when I came here were all in class.)
I went straight to the takeout counter, intending to make a quick to-go order. When I got there, however, the waitress on the other side, a twenty-something brunette wearing a hairnet, placed a bag on the counter and pushed it towards me.
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