The Athena Factor

by W. Michael Gear

  “God,” he whispered. “You’re …”

  “Yes?” She wiped at the perspiration that trickled down the fine hairs at her temple.

  He seemed to catch himself on the verge of doing something foolish; and was that a hint of embarrassment that crossed his pale eyes? “Sorry, but you look a little, well, flushed.”

  “You caught me exercising.” She arched a brow. “Uh, you got a reason for barging in? Or were you just in the neighborhood checking out the latest kidnap victims?”

  He smiled, shifting from foot to foot as if nervous. “Oh, yes, sorry for that.” He seemed genuinely contrite. “I’m one of the fellow inmates here, actually.” He glanced back at the door. “I’m not supposed to be here. Talking to you, I mean.”

  “Really?” She crossed her arms, feeling the heat from her exertion through her damp clothing. Having nothing but the tiny sink to wash it in, she was suddenly aware of a warm odor rising from the fabric.

  “Yes, you see, I’ve been working on your DNA. That’s how I found out you were aboard. Um, your name is Christal, right?”

  “Yeah. Christal Anaya.”

  “Beautiful name.” He seemed to mean it.

  “Thank you,” she said dryly, tilting her head in a questioning manner.

  He took a step forward, hands spread in supplication. “Look, I just need information. You came from the United States, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you hear anything about a woman, Nancy Hartlee? She would have swum ashore off New York about a week and a half ago.”

  Christal stared at him. The name rang a bell, but where had she … Sid. On the phone. “Nancy Hartlee? A young woman? Geneticist?”

  He nodded, hope in his eyes.

  “She drowned.”

  She watched the hope in his eyes crumble to despair. He looked away, shoulders dropping. “Damn.”

  “She was a friend of yours?”

  He nodded faintly. “What … what did you hear?”

  “A friend of mine, an FBI agent, went to New York. He’s working on missing geneticists. She was on his list. When the medical examiner’s office in New York alerted the Bureau as to a possible ID, he went up to verify it.”

  Grief had mixed with hope when Brian looked up. “You’re part of the investigation? Is that why you’re here? They’re looking for the ZoeGen?”

  “Not that I know of. If they are, my source didn’t mention it to me.”

  His intent stare left her uneasy. “You’re in a great deal of danger.”

  She kept trying to see past his concern. Real? Or faked? “Why should you care? For that matter, who are you? What are you doing here? Why shouldn’t I throw you out of here like I should have done with Hank?”

  He gave her a fond look. “Good point. I’m a geneticist. Like Nancy was … and the others of us here. Like you, I can’t leave. They need my skills, at least for the time being. You, on the other hand, are entirely dispensable. We’ve got our sample.”

  “Then, why am I here?”

  “They’re waiting for the Sheik. As I understand it, he wants to see you.”

  She felt a cold flush down deep in her guts. “Does he?” She hesitated, seeing the worry in his eyes. “You can tell me, Brian. I gave up on fairy tales a long time ago. What’s the rest? I’m supposed to take my place in his seraglio? Is that it? A little rape before they throw me to the sharks like your friend Nancy?”

  “Oh, no. Not like that. First off, Nancy dove overboard on her own. She was a brilliant swimmer, right? In high school. She thought she might make it to shore, tell the authorities what was going on out here. Perhaps save us all.”

  “And the Sheik?”

  Brian averted his eyes. “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

  “What?” Christal glared. “What kind of question is that?”

  “If you’re not a virgin, he’s not interested.”

  She just stared at him, hands clenched at her sides. Fear pumped adrenal unease through every vein.

  Brian added, “It’s something to do with his cultural upbringing, I believe. He won’t take anything but a virgin to his bed. Before he’ll have intercourse, she must be pure. His alone.” He made a dismissive gesture. “The stories are that he can’t stand the idea of lying where another man has already lain.”

  If anything her fear worsened. “Then, what on earth does he want with me? I haven’t been a virgin since I was sixteen.”

  “He wants to see exactly what you look like. I mean, how you will look when you finally go to his bed.”

  “Whoa!” She raised her hands. “You lost me there.”

  Brian wearily rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, Christal, you’re going to be hearing a lot of shocking things, but the fact is, the Sheik isn’t interested in you, but in how your duplicate will be when she comes to his bed in another fifteen years or so.”

  Confused and wordless, she could only stare. He managed to look everywhere in the small cabin except into her eyes.

  Her voice cracked as she asked, “You seem like a decent guy. How can you be part of this?”

  He swallowed hard, turned away, and stepped to the porthole, where he looked out at the rolling ocean. “In the beginning, we were just afraid. We looked at our work as a way to buy time, to wait for an opportunity to escape. At first we didn’t understand the amount of influence that Genesis Athena could wield. We always believed that the world would catch on. That the Royal Marines would land on the deck, and we’d be turned loose to expose this whole asinine mess. Time passes; things change.”

  “Your friend McEwan doesn’t seem to share your sentiments.”

  In his profile she could see disgust. “Yes, well, Gregor would have been a shit no matter where he worked, or who he worked for. Most of us, the Westerners, have been replaced over the years with the Sheik’s people. They came, studied the procedures, and have taken over the lab.” A grim smile played. “Smart lad, Gregor. He’s cut his security risk down to just me.”

  “Smart? He seems to be one of them.”

  “He is. He went right over to them when we figured out the potentials.”

  “Why?”

  “For a share of the profits, of course. Do you realize the potential this industry has? Genesis Athena controls the modern science of genetics. We can reproduce any organism that has ever lived if the DNA’s intact; cure most of the genetic diseases. Technology developed here has been licensed to labs around the world. We’re talking in terms of billions of dollars from that alone. Not to mention people who have lost children and want them back, or those who have lost a spouse. People will pay incredible sums for a second chance. They’ll pawn their souls to cure a dying loved one.”

  “And the celebrity DNA? Gregor mentioned Princess Diana.”

  “That’s what we call the luxury market. People like our dear Sheik. By the time he’s done, his collection of the world’s most beautiful women will be unmatched.”

  “But they have to grow up first, right?”

  Brian shrugged. “The Sheik is a very rich and powerful man who also happens to be young. He’s smarter than so many of his peers in the Arab world. Most Arab leaders want to make life the way it was in the tenth century—reestablish the caliphate—and they’re doomed to failure. With fuel cell technology, petroleum will eventually fade. The Gulf States that have lived off oil profits will have nothing to offer. The Sheik, however, wants to create the future. He expects to be one of the most powerful men in the world. If you ask me, it’s as if he’s challenging the Prophet himself.”

  “These are human beings we’re talking about! Not just cattle!”

  “Is there any greater power, Christal, than the ability to control people? We’re talking the ability to create, modify, utilize, and dispose of them. To own them, body and soul. That is the ultimate power, matched with unlimited money. The Sheik holds the future of humanity in his hands.”

  Christal sank onto her bunk, trying to comprehend the immensity of Genesis Athena. Fi
nally she asked, “How do they keep you? I mean, can’t you jump overboard when the ship docks?”

  “Docks where?” he asked. “ZoeGen puts in at select ports: Aden, Doha, Karachi, Bandar-e-Abbas, Tripoli. These places raise any flags? You’d be surprised how tight security can be.”

  “Doesn’t anything ever break? Don’t they need parts? Something?”

  “The machine shop is downstairs and aft. Out of bounds for us. Just like the Royal Australian Navy, we’re supplied at sea by a tender. Food, water, fuel—it’s all piped aboard, right?” He gestured around. “You have no idea what a perfect prison a ship can make. You’re currently in the old crew section. It’s completely sealed from the rest of the ship. There’s one access in and out, and it’s locked and guarded twenty-four hours a day. The other hatches are welded. The ventilation system is barred with titanium grating, but you’ll trigger the pressure sensors under the ductwork before you get that far.”

  “What about the cafeteria staff? How do they get in and out?”

  He crossed his arms as he turned her way. “They’re implanted with small subcutaneous chips. They don’t make it past the controlled entry unless they provide a fingerprint, retinal scan, and the chip reads correctly.” The corners of his lips curled. “We thought about taking a sample and cloning one to get the fingerprint and retina, but the chip would still elude us.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not all nuts.”

  “Oh, they take pretty good care of us. We get the latest movies, supervised access to the Internet, time off to read or study. The latter is encouraged, by the way. And we teach.”

  “Teach?”

  “Members of the Sheik’s extended family, mostly. Them, and some other young people from around the Persian Gulf who are likely prospects.”

  “What do you mean, likely prospects?”

  “As I said, the Sheik knows that petroleum is only a temporary means of wealth. The world will find alternative sources of energy. When it does, the elite families in the Gulf will collapse like a house of cards. The Sheik’s family and friends will be right there when it happens, but instead of oil, their monopoly will be molecular biology. If you want a cure for cancer, you’ll be coming to the Sheik.”

  “This is a nightmare.”

  “Wasn’t there a song? ‘Welcome to my Nightmare’?”

  At the sound of his doorbell, Lymon padded down the hallway, crossed his living room, and looked through the small window in his front door. Movement had already activated his porch light; he could see Sheela standing there, expression pinched, her hair shining like flame in the light.

  “Sheela?” Lymon asked as he opened the door. “What’s wrong? What are you doing here?”

  She stepped in, glanced around, and walked into his arms after he closed the door. “I needed to see you.”

  He stood, holding her close, feeling her cool body against his. “You could have called. I would have—”

  “No. I wanted out, Lymon. The dreams … God, nightmares, I mean.” She shook her head where it was buried against his shoulder.

  He had just tightened his grip when Sid stepped around the corner, caught a glimpse, and spun on his heel to beat a quick retreat.

  Lymon called, “It’s all right, Sid. You don’t have to go.”

  When Sheela glanced up, startled, he could see that an unwanted third person was the last thing she’d counted on.

  Sid hesitated, and Sheela turned, waving, “Go away, Sid. Lymon is attempting to protect himself.”

  “Huh?” Sid was poised on one foot.

  “From me,” Sheela added, stepping away, her voice dropping. “He’s doing his damnedest to maintain his professional distance … and it’s driving me berserk!”

  Sid was canny enough that he promptly fled back down the hallway for the guest bedroom. Sheela met Lymon’s eyes, a glittering desperation there. “We’ve got to talk.”

  “What happened?”

  She took another step and turned. “Remember Joy’s Girl? I was told after I played Jennifer Weaver that men would be masturbating to that scene. Did I ever tell you about that? About the image of them that plays over and over in my mind? About how creepy it is?”

  He sighed, nodded, and walked over, placing an arm over her shoulder. “Yeah, I know. Can I get you a drink? Scotch? Orange juice? Coffee?”

  She shook her head. “No, thanks. I was trying to sleep. But the images, Lymon. You wouldn’t believe what my mind can create when it’s half turned off, free to conjure.”

  He glanced across at the clock. “It’s three in the morning. That’s when the world looks the bleakest.”

  She placed her hands on his chest as she looked into his eyes. “I could live with the knowledge that men watched that film and masturbated. I mean, I know enough about biology to understand about males being visually stimulated. I’m an attractive woman. I sell my sexual image for a lot of money. I play sexual roles. It’s part of the bargain, part of what I’m paid for.”

  “So what did your imagination come up with that was different this time?”

  She searched his face, as if willing him to understand. “Genesis Athena. They took my DNA to make little clones of me. I was thinking about why, Lymon. I was conjuring all of the ramifications. Why would someone want a little copy of me? Or of Nicole Kidman, or Sandra Bullock? What would they do with them?”

  “Sheela—”

  She took an agonized breath. “They’re breeding copies of me, Lymon. Selling them to people like Krissy. She said she was going to have my baby, right? How could she not have known about Genesis Athena? It was right there, tied to my Web site.”

  “We’ll deal with it, I promise.”

  Sheela made an anxious step, her fingers locked in her hair. “I keep imagining what Krissy will do to that little girl. It’s like Pandora’s box when you start to think about it. People who want my clone … God, that’s a terrible word! This is a child! This is me! My hand, my body, my brain and heart.” She placed a hand to her breast. “A breathing, feeling being. A being who’s what? Going to be made into a little sexual experiment? Is Krissy going to cut that little baby into pieces to show her how much she loves her?”

  “Sheela, you don’t know—”

  “Bullshit! Think about it, Lymon. Do normal people go out to buy a Sheela Marks clone? No, they want their own babies. They want a product of their DNA and their spouse’s. A child conceived in love, as part of a relationship!”

  “Sheela, settle down.” He disentangled her hand from her hair, and held it. “We’ll deal with it.”

  “Will we?” she asked in a small voice. “How, Lymon? We don’t even know where they are. What if we can’t stop it? What if I have to live the rest of my life knowing that because of what I did on-screen, some pervert is tormenting an innocent little girl? Can you imagine?”

  “Yeah, I know what happens to pretty little girls when psychosexually ill people get ahold of them.”

  “They won’t understand that I am a product of my own history. They won’t understand all the things that made me who I am. The mess I got into in Saskatoon. Finding my father’s body …” Tears began to trickle down her perfect face. “What’s a clone, Lymon? Is it like an identical twin, just one that’s delayed for a while? Or is it different? Does the soul make an imprint on a person’s DNA? Some essence that’s passed down?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Neither do I, and it’s driving me insane.”

  38

  An unfamiliar pillow pressed against her cheek as Sheela blinked awake in confusion. Horrifying images spun away as the last of her irrational dreams faded into shreds. In that last instant, she had seen her father as she had that last day—seen him hanging in midair, as if frozen in an aerial dance. His head cocked at an unnatural angle, his tongue protruding as if to blow a raspberry at the entire world, his eyes, bugged out but the pupils gray. He hung there, a broken puppet tied to the barn beam with a red length of plastic baling twine.

  I let
you down, Daddy. I’m so sorry.

  She turned, pulling her legs up into her belly, and looked around in relief. Lymon’s bedroom was Spartan, male, and neat. She could see his clothes in the open closet, and turning her head, could draw in his rich scent from the bedding.

  She blinked hard, struggling to shove the memory of that long-ago day in the barn back into the recesses of her mind.

  Lymon. Concentrate on Lymon.

  He had led her here, holding her in a spooned position as she cried. Now, in the morning light, she lay like a gutted fish, limp, with nothing left inside the arched cathedral of her ribs.

  Did she have any tears left? Or had she cried enough for all of them? How many? One? Ten? A hundred? Or would there eventually be thousands of little Sheelas being implanted in strange women?

  Are they mirrors?

  Would they see reflections of her life? Would they know that terrible day when she had walked into the barn to find her father’s body?

  How much of me is really in my genes?

  She had no idea. For the first time, she wasn’t even sure what it was to be alive. The notion of personhood had been irrevocably changed, mutated, and taken into another dimension.

  She pushed the sheet back and looked down at her body. She was wearing the blouse she’d donned in such a rush last night, and the white cotton pants she’d bought at Jones New York. She stood, walked to the full-length mirror on the closet door, and inspected herself.

  “What do they see?” She traced her fingers up her thighs, around the curve of her hips. She followed the narrowing of her waist and raised her hands to support her breasts. Her nipples raised the thin fabric of her shirt.

  Why is a body like this worth anything? She tried to comprehend the notion that people would pay to reproduce this flesh—her flesh. They would sacrifice so much to grow it inside their own bodies. Releasing her breasts, she ran her slim fingers along her face, following the indentation of her cheeks, along the bony sides of her eyes, and pulled back her thick mass of red-blond hair. She leaned close, trying to see into the depths of her blue eyes, to scry what really lurked there in the blackness of the pupils, and found nothing. Only the familiarity she’d seen in mirrors ever since she could remember.