by GJ Fortier
“To be honest, some declined. Most were eliminated because of the results of their psych eval. Some were already involved with other special access projects, and a few got killed.”
“Leaving how many?”
“Leaving you.”
“Me? Please don’t tell me I'm all that's left?”
“If you walk out now, the program will fall apart. But it's more important to me that you do what your gut tells you to.”
But Rob wasn't concerned at all about what his gut was telling him. The captain was getting short. How could he let his friend, so close to retirement, go down at the end of his career with a failure on his record because of him? He didn't need to see evidence of the success of the project to help him to make up his mind. The question of his involvement was too basic for that.
“And no one and nothing gets hurt by this?”
“Absolutely not.” Relief washed over Benny as he thought that Rob had decided to bow out, to obey his moral convictions, misinterpreting Rob’s question.
Rob had other ideas. Do unto others …
Standing, he turned and opened the door. “Professor?”
Benny smiled. He was ready to call Kingsley and give her the bad news. As much as a part of him may have wanted to see the end results of the experiment, he didn't want to coerce his friend into doing it. This would be for the best, no matter what the career consequences were.
Yeoum appeared at the doorway with his trademark scowl, arms folded.
The captain picked up the phone and asked the guard on the other end for an outside line, but his stomach dropped to his feet as he heard Rob speak to the professor.
“Okay, when do we get started?”
15 Meet Chloe
OVER THE NEXT WEEK, Rob was subjected to a regimen of examinations and physical tests. They collected several samples of DNA, the most uncomfortable of which was the lumbar puncture when Greg withdrew some cerebrospinal fluid. The nausea that had followed had Rob bedridden for the rest of that day. The rest of the tests were quite standard.
On the day of his arrival, he had learned of the contempt that Jimmy had for him, and for the military in general. The young man spared no expense in making the commander as uncomfortable as possible during the initial testing. “The best is yet to come,” Jimmy had promised. But Rob declined to hear any of the details of the procedure until later.
Yeoum was extremely pleased that Rob was in as fine a shape, both physically and mentally, as he was. He had been following the diet of fruits and vegetables as ordered. The professor had even announced that the cloning process could proceed a full week ahead of schedule, due to the commander’s state of fitness.
Rob was sitting on the all-too-familiar examination table in only his boxers as the doctors—Yeoum, Don, and Greg—discussed how the next day’s events would unfold.
“I would have never believed it if anyone had told me there was a sailor out there who had no tattoos,” Greg joked.
“Hey,” Rob played along, “you can't improve on perfection.”
The men laughed, even Yeoum. It seemed there was nothing anyone could do to ruin the professor’s mood since work had resumed. He laughed and joked, however poorly, right along with the rest of them. The other members of the team were unnerved at first, save the major who had not experienced much of his darker side. But after a few days, everyone became accustomed to the lightened atmosphere in the lab.
“We'll start at noon tomorrow.” Yeoum turned to Rob. “Commander, it is imperative that you do not consume anything other than clear liquids after six o'clock this evening, and then have nothing to drink apart from water after midnight. Understood?”
The butterflies in Rob's stomach, such an unfamiliar feeling a week ago, suddenly felt as if they were playing the drums to the tune of Fleetwood Mac's “Tusk” as the UCLA marching band was warming up in his spleen. He looked at the clock behind the diminutive man. “Two seventeen. I got me some eatin’ to do. Hey Doc, how 'bout I start off with the house salad with ranch dressing, followed by a nice thick porterhouse, medium rare, a little Lea and Perrins on the side, a baked potato with the works, some steamed asparagus, and for dessert, a slice of New York style strawberry cheesecake?”
Yeoum smiled. “My, doesn't that sound nice. I tell you what. After tomorrow, you can have anything you want. Anything. But today, you just stick to the salad.” He held up his finger as a warning. “No dressing.”
“Aw, c'mon Doc. Even a condemned man eats a hearty meal, right?”
“You are hardly a condemned man, Mister Tyler.” Yeoum's tone indicated that he was done with the discussion, and he changed the subject. “Up to now, you haven't asked a single question about the procedure. Would you like Doctor Cook and Jimmy to explain the process to you now?”
He had put this off as long as he could. “Why not?” Rob attempted to hide his discomfort as he hopped off of the table and donned his scrubs.
“Alright! We're taking him to the torture chamber,” Jimmy said sadistically.
Don, standing beside Jimmy, backhanded him on the arm.
“Ow!” Jimmy massaged his bicep. “That'll leave a mark.”
“Don't mind the idiot,” Don said to Rob. “He's just a Canuck.”
Jimmy immediately snapped to some semblance of attention and began singing “Oh Canada.” Don stuffed a pair of surgical gloves into Jimmy’s mouth, nearly losing a fingertip in the process.
“This way,” Don said as he proceeded out the door.
Rob put the scrub covers over his shoes, and followed him down the hallway.
Yeoum and Greg were busying themselves straightening up and returning equipment and utensils to their proper places as Jimmy spit the gloves on the floor, grinned at Rob’s back, and started after him. The professor grabbed him by the arm and looked at the gloves on the floor.
“It was the dark-skinned guy with the long curly black hair,” Jimmy said innocently.
Yeoum’s gaze didn't change, and Jimmy knew it wouldn't. He cocked his head, smiled widely, and picked up the gloves, depositing them in the bio-hazardous waste container. “Buh-bye,” he said happily as he left.
Jimmy had given up on his attempt to intimidate the commander after he had hacked into the Navy's database and took a look at Rob’s record. Seeing that he was once a Navy SEAL, he did some research into just what that meant. After discovering the number of enemy kills Rob had acquired, he concluded that it would be best not to irritate him too much. A little teasing would have to do.
Don led them down the corridor where it ended with another door, this one locked. He punched a five-digit code into a hidden panel in the wall and the door slid open, revealing another changing area, smaller than the one at the entrance of the facility, with only four dressing rooms.
“Really?” Rob asked.
“Really. We even get to wear masks in there. This lab is absolutely contaminant free.”
Rob and Jimmy entered the chamber and Don closed the door behind them. The three showered—again. They then dressed in fresh scrubs, which included a plastic jumpsuit that zipped up the back, surgical masks, gloves, hairnets, and shoe covers. Meeting back in the hallway, they proceeded to another door at the opposite end of the compartment.
Rob had an image in his mind of another brightly lit room with tables full of beakers, test tubes, microscopes, and all manner of gadgets, charts, and other equipment. The kind of things he had seen in laboratories before. But when Don opened the door and the three stepped in, there was none of that.
The room itself was small, measuring fifteen feet square. When Rob first stepped in, the floor under his shoes felt odd. Looking down, he could see in the low light that it was carpeted. Decontaminated carpet? Is that even possible?
On the far wall was a bank of television monitors, all dark. On the right were three computer stations that were on but displayed only blue start-up screens. Close to the center of the room were two rather comfortable looking black leather recliners angled
slightly toward each other with a small wooden pedestal table between them. On Rob's left, there was a glass wall with another step-over threshold door in the middle of it, but he couldn't see anything beyond that.
There were recessed lights in the ceiling, but only the one in the center was lit, giving off a soft white glow. Jimmy went to one of the computers and immediately started tapping keys.
Don stepped over to the glass wall, motioning for Rob to follow. Slowly, as the light in the enclosed room increased, he could tell that the ceiling, walls, and carpet were mauve.
“Who did the decorating? Mary Kay?” Rob asked, drawing a chuckle from the others.
“Let's start with this,” Jimmy said. The light in the enclosed room began to increase, but bathed it blood red, adding to the submarine feel of the room.
“Who's in there, Captain Nemo?” Rob’s second nervous quip garnered another laugh from the other two.
The room on the left was of equal size to the one they were in, but it was filled with equipment. Through the doorway Rob could see a chamber on the left side that was featureless except for a computer keyboard and monitor mounted on it next to a glass portal, which was closed. On the right side of the room was what appeared to be a large aquarium of some kind. It was resting on a featureless stainless steel frame three feet high. The tank itself was another three feet high. It was rectangular, about ten feet by four feet. The long side was parallel with the glass wall. It was three-quarters full of some kind of milky liquid. Behind it Rob could see that there were hundreds of plastic hoses attached to the wall, each about a half an inch in diameter, and connected to the back of the tank.
“This is gonna be a piece of cake, Commander,” Don said, trying to relieve some tension.
“Yeah! No worries, Neel,” Jimmy chimed in behind them.
Rob looked at Jimmy. “Neel?”
“Don't worry about it. Canadian slang,” Don said.
“Yeah, it means that you’re a really cool Yank, eh?” Jimmy added with a grin.
“Uh huh.” Rob turned back and found Don pointing toward the chamber to their left.
“There’s where you'll be spending about six hours of your day tomorrow. We call her Chloe.”
“Chloe?”
“I'll explain later.”
Rob’s eyes knitted together. “Six hours? What is it?”
“That's the specimen chamber … and you’re the specimen,” Jimmy explained without ceremony.
Don shook his head. “You know Bennett, the devil has a special place for people like you.”
“What?” Jimmy protested innocently. “That's what it is.”
“Actually, all bad people are going to the same place.” Rob looked disdainfully at the chamber, trying hard not to imagine what went on in it.
Don gave him a strange look. “Do you know what a mass spectrometer is?”
“An instrument that measures the masses of concentrations of atoms and molecules.” Rob turned to look at Don, who was still looking at him strangely. “CSI,” Rob offered in explanation.
“Okay. Then think of this as a mass spectrometer on steroids. See, the average human body, weighing seventy kilos, is made up of six point seven times ten to the twenty-seventh power of atoms.”
“What's that in dog atoms?” Rob asked matter-of-factly.
“A lot. And Chloe here is gonna look at every single one of yours tomorrow. Sort of.”
Rob gave Don a doubtful look. “Every atom? Every one?”
“Yes.” Don attempted the short answer.
“How is that possible when atoms are always in motion?” Rob frowned.
“I could explain it to you, but it's very technical.”
“I have a master’s degree in nuclear engineering.”
Don sighed. “Do you really wanna know?”
Rob paused for effect, staring at the chamber. “No.”
“Anyway, by tomorrow afternoon, Chloe will know more about you than is known about anyone else on earth. A side benefit is that if you have anything going on inside of you that you should know about, we'll be able to tell you.” He gave Rob a sideways glance. “If you want to know.”
“Some things are better left unknown,” Rob said stoically. “Will I be knocked out during this?”
Jimmy answered Rob's question. “'Fraid not, Neel. Unfortunately, you gotta be awake the whole time. And you hafta stay as still as possible.”
“Why?” Rob asked doubtfully.
“Because,” Jimmy smiled, “if you start to feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and warmer and fuzzier, and warmer—”
“Enough, Jimmy,” Don interrupted. “It's just a precaution, Rob. That's all.”
Rob thought about asking what the precaution was against, but thought better of it.
“One more thing,” Jimmy said, painting on a serious look. “You're gonna be nekked.”
“Naked?” Rob looked at Jimmy again. “Not even a hospital gown?”
“Nekked,” Jimmy repeated.
Rob turned to Don. “How about a blanket? Or a sheet?”
Don gave Rob an apologetic look. “I'm afraid not. There can't be anything inside the chamber but you when we start the process.”
“And somebody is responsible for checking inside the thing for bugs, right?”
“That would be me.” Jimmy waved vigorously at Rob, grinning from ear to ear.
Rob's expression changed from that of confusion to one of alarm as he pointed at Jimmy. “He's—”
“I'm the hardware guy.” Jimmy sang to the tune of the Tums jingle.
“That's enough, Jimmy,” Don demanded more seriously. He looked back at Rob. “Don't worry. Nothing will happen to you if the chamber is in any way contaminated.”
“But you said—” Rob began.
“All precautionary,” Don assured him. “It would only affect your clone.”
“Nekked, nekked, nekked,” Jimmy repeated over and over, like an obnoxious teenager.
Rob ignored him. “Still—” Rob began to protest, but Don interrupted.
“And if anything like that happens, we can terminate the procedure early, before he becomes viable.”
Rob didn’t like hearing the terms Don was using. Words like “he” and “your” were uncomfortable to hear in reference to the clone. Since the captain had told him his purpose for being here, he had made a concerted effort not to think about the potential results. He thought for a moment. “Is that why I can't eat or drink anything before?”
“Yes. You can't have anything in you either. Well, at least not much of anything.”
“So you hafta have an enema,” Jimmy added.
Rob gave Don a disgusted look. “That sucks. How cold is it gonna be in there?”
Don couldn't contain a chuckle. “Don't worry, we'll keep it comfortable for you.”
“That is my job, too,” Jimmy sang, to the same Tums tune.
Rob hung his head. After a moment he turned his attention to the liquid-filled tank on the other side of the room. “What is that?” he asked.
“That's the nursery. That's where we're going to make the magic happen.”
Rob glanced at Don and then back at the tank. “Where the—”
“Where the clone is born,” Jimmy piped up.
Rob could see Jimmy's reflection in the glass, twirling gleefully in his chair. “What's that liquid in it?”
“Amniotic fluid,” Don said.
“Like in a woman's uterus?” Rob wrinkled his nose, his apprehension replaced with curiosity.
“Yes, with a few extra things thrown in for good measure.”
“Is it synthetic?”
“Nope.” It was Jimmy again. “It's the real deal, Neel.”
Don nodded. “Yeah, it's real.”
Rob screwed up his face in disgust. “Well, whose fluid is it?”
“Yours,” Don said.
“Mine? How could it be mine?”
“We manufactured it.”
“How?”
�
�What did you think we took all those samples for?”
Rob smirked. “I don’t have amniotic fluid. I have man parts.”
“Its all still in there, Commander.”
Rob frowned. “Why is the tank so big? Isn't the”—he searched for any other word, but he couldn't find one—“clone going to be a baby?”
Don smiled. “Not with this method. We've avoided the growth process entirely. The clone will be, in every respect, a perfect replica of you, as you are today. Well, tomorrow, to be precise. Except for things like scars, like the one on your lower back.”
“How did you get that one?” Jimmy asked.
“I can't remember,” Rob said truthfully. He had been shot while on a clandestine mission nearly ten years before, but he had no memory of the event. He only knew what Sack had told him. Besides, the mission was still classified.
But Jimmy already knew how the commander got the scar, and a few others like it.
Don spoke up to get them back on topic. “Imagine a man your age that has sclerosis of the liver from heavy drinking. He needs a transplant. Well, it would do him no good if he had to wait fifteen or twenty years for a clone to reach maturity. He'd be dead by then. Using this method, we can grow the clone to full maturity in a week, harvest all of its organs, and then terminate it while never having given it consciousness. It's both efficient and humane.”
Rob nodded. He thought, albeit briefly, that the way Don described it, the endeavor could actually be a good thing. The knowledge allowed him to relax a bit more.
“Your clone will be as much you as, well, you are. He may even have some of your more recent memories. From the time we woke them, Angelina and Brad recognized and responded to all of us exactly the way Paris and Charlie did. They knew us.”
“Wait a minute. I thought you said that you wouldn't wake it up.”
Don berated himself mentally for the slip. “Well … we'll need to make sure he’s functioning properly.”
Rob accepted the explanation, but he had that doubtful look again. “But what if it has … cloned … memories? Which, by the way, is just way too creepy.”
Don smiled with reassurance. “He probably won't remember anything from more than the past day or two.”