“Six-hundred?” asked a female geneticist from Singapore, “Like this? Or are they embryos in glass jars?”
“No, no, my dear, not in jars,” Cain assured the woman. “There are currently six hundred more just like Evan. All in all, I have three thousand test subjects, in different stages of development of course, that are being grown, trained, conditioned, and educated as we speak.”
A very tall and striking gentleman, a biological engineer from South Africa, leaned forward in his seat and commented, “You said male. I’m assuming there are female clones, too.”
“Yes, we have females,” Cain proudly answered, “Seven hundred strong.”
Dt. Wyczthack once again slightly twisted his head and cut his eyes to the right. Bianca took her visual cue and returned to the hallway off the side of the stage. Cain made a few statements about the efforts he and his team have made, stalling until Bianca was back behind the curtain. From the corner of his eye Cain saw Bianca, but this time she had a female companion standing beside her.
He turned to the right, extended his arm, and boldly stated “May I now present to you, Chloe Athena One.”
Bianca and Chloe stepped out from behind the curtain and again a bright spotlight illuminated their faces. This time, however, the audience erupted in joyous applause. She wore a blue suit to match Evan and was absolutely glowing. Cain brought Chloe to stand beside Evan near the podium at the front of the stage. Several of those fortunate enough to be in the first row of chairs quickly gathered at the edge of the elevated platform to get a closer look at the couple.
“Chloe and Evan,” Cain shouted into the microphone, clapping energetically. He showed off the duo amidst shouting, cheering, whistling, and applause. More of the attendees rushed the stage and raised their hands, desperately wanting to touch them. Cain nodded his head to Bianca, who then briskly gathered Evan and Chloe and escorted them off the stage.
Cain stopped clapping but continued to bask in the limelight, smiling arrogantly as he crossed from one side of the stage to the other. He eventually signaled for everyone to return to their seats.
As the noise subsided, he addressed his audience “As you might have assumed, Chloe is also from a single, cryogenicized specimen, but from nineteen ninety-nine.”
A biophysicist from Brazil stood and inquired, “When you say you’re ‘growing’ … exactly what do you mean?”
“It’s taken us decades of man-hours to figure out, but we have at last devised the means to manipulate their genetic coding during mitosis. My colleagues and I have literally dissected the entire sequence of proteinaceous acid formulations in the human genome … .and I’m talking about coding in all five stages … prophase, prometaphase, metaphase, anaphase, and telophase … thereby increasing the rate in which their bodies build and develop. Their capacity for understanding, the absorption of knowledge and processing of information, is far beyond that of the average human being. This is due to expanded and accelerated performance in their brains. This exponential rate of increase in intellectual capacity is only surpassed by the amazing physiological development the clones undergo in their first three years. Ladies and gentlemen, we have moved far beyond Dr. Moreau and the Boys from Brazil.”
A German neurosurgeon rose from his chair and asked, “Are there any visible or noticeable side effects of these coding changes?” but did not sit down. He placed his hands behind his back, squinted his eyes, and waited for a reply.
“When we were first toying with the idea and began our preliminary experiments, we lost thousands of embryos. I mean tens of thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands. Male and female. We had to use reverse engineering to understand what was going to happen. Once we had a batch of fertilized eggs survive a new set of coding changes, let’s say during telophase, then we had a new and measurable baseline. We lost eggs, embryos, and fetuses at every level of development. Some of the sequence modifications were relatively easy to identify as the source for the loss. The most significant side effect we have seen is the life expectancy. We can harvest an embryo and grow a fully mature clone, male or female, in as little as eighteen months. At that time they will have actually physically aged twenty-five years. Unfortunately, the clones start to deteriorate after four years of maturity and die with a body age of forty-five years.”
Cain and the German gave each other a good visual go-over before the man slowly lowered himself into his chair.
The woman seated next to him, a fertility expert from Denmark, stood and stated, “So what you’re telling us, if I’m not mistaken, is that these life forms will live for a total of five and a half years, but will experience physical growth and decay comparable to that of a forty-five-year-old. Is that safe to say?”
“You are correct, madam.”
People leaned into one another, whispering their doubts and disappointment.
“Why such a short life span?” shouted a woman from the back of the auditorium.
“We believe this is due to the accelerated growth rate and hormone imbalances. To get this, you have to change that. When you do this, it makes that happen. We’re dealing with the creation of a new species of humans. I’m talking about breaking down and restructuring the human genome and the bond between atoms. This is all brand new. We are in uncharted territory.”
“So you’re basically playing God, aren’t you?” a man shouted angrily.
“God? Who said anything about God being involved? I am merely replicating human creation through design and engineering. Whether by natural chance or intentional interference, you’re going to have losses.”
“What will Evan and Chloe be used for?” a woman sheepishly asked.
“They will be very effective in the pursuit of medicines, military applications, physical labor, organ harvesting, blood donations … the list is long with respect to the potential of these wonderful creatures.”
“Why these two?” the German quickly inquired, standing once more as he spoke, “Didn’t you have genetic samples from all over the world to choose from? What makes Evan and Chloe so special that all other specimens were passed over?”
“You are correct, sir. We had blood, tissue, and other samples collected for testing from all walks of life on every continent. What sets the DNA of Evan and Chloe apart from our vast majority of samples is the fact that both Evan and Chloe, the real Evan and Chloe, are still walking the Earth, have been monitored since the late eighties, and both have exhibited incredible immune systems over the last thirty-plus years. Neither one of them, according to our records, has ever visited a doctor’s office, filled a prescription, been hospitalized, or missed a day of work due to illness. Couple that with their family histories of longevity and intellectual capacity, and you have a pretty clear choice as to which DNA samples you would prefer to experiment with.”
Satisfied with Dr. Wyczthack’s answer, the German slowly crouched into his chair, but never took his eyes off Cain.
A molecular engineer from Spain was next to be recognized for a question. His hips barely rose from the chair when he asked, “Who knows about this program?”
After looking about the room for a brief moment, Cain answered coldly, “No one. And that’s the way it will stay. I will make sure of it.”
CHAPTER 4
GMO
“I want these capsules registered, sequenced, and staged for final loading into the SUBOS elevator for immediate ejection!” the dock manager barked, pointing at the rows of double-stacked waste vessels.
“Yes, sir!” his pack of roustabouts quickly answered.
The assistant manager reviewed his elevator schedule and noticed a discrepancy in the SUBOS master schedule for the civilian, governmental, and carbon elevators.
“Sir?” the assistant interrupted. “It appears that the CARBEL is already scheduled for ejections throughout the week.”
“What?!” the manager snapped.
“Yes, sir. See here, we unloaded and sent up this week’s capsules for ejection late last week. Now we ha
ve these new manifests from France and Sweden and have nowhere to house them until the Aerie gives us the approval.”
“Why didn’t you let me know we have a logjam on our hands?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I thought you knew when….”
“Your job isn’t to assume what I do and do not know. Your job is to make sure that all materials received on this dock are distributed to the proper departments on the correct levels. That includes knowing the elevator schedules for said deliveries and distribution!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, by your estimates, how long will we have to wait before loading the waste capsules to go to the CARBEL?”
“Well, sir, last week we sent up fifty-seven capsules in six load-outs. That’s a full eight hours to go from the receiving dock to the….”
“Just tell me the time; don’t build me the clock!” the manager bellowed, obviously aggravated with the young man.
“In my estimate, I’d say we won’t have an open window for loading until … next week. Late … next week.”
“Are you out of your mind? What are we gonna do with sixty-four nuclear waste capsules? How are we supposed to unload the trains and trucks with fresh food for more than twenty-five thousand people when my dock is crammed full of radioactive waste?”
The ever shrinking assistant paused before meekly suggesting, “We can load the SUBOS elevator and deliver the capsules to the staging decks on 15A for temporary holding.”
The portly and aged supervisor fixed an unsettling squint on the apprentice as he elaborated on his idea.
“The whole mile is Engenechem. We can use the SUBOS to deliver these manifests to 15A until the Aerie is caught up. Once we get the all clear, we can get the capsules up to the Aerie for loading in the CARBEL. We can make the move to the Aerie in a matter of an hour while still receiving new deliveries here.”
The manager softened his furrowed brow and turned his eyes to the stacks of spent nuclear waste.
“Get me the deck supervisor for fifteen and the SUBOS Director of Operations.”
“Yes, sir.”
The puny man scurried away as the manager watched his men drive their tele-handlers back and forth to the primary cargo elevators. He tilted his head to gaze up at the mighty SUBOS and thought back to when he was hired as an assistant to the then-project manager so many years ago. When he was first hired, the tower was a mere two miles in height and projected to be another sixteen years under construction.
“Seventeen miles high,” he remembered, scoffing and laughing to himself. Slowly but surely, every few months he would set up deliveries to a new floor and section of the tower.
“All this for space exploration?” he asked himself as wave after wave of trucks came rolling in.
Hundreds and hundreds of miles of new train tracks were laid to allow thousands upon thousands of rail cars to deliver the much needed raw materials to construct the monolithic behemoth. The new airport recorded the monthly landings of hundreds of cargo planes from nearly every country on Earth.
He narrowed his eyes once more as he strained to see the top of the tower.
“Sir?” the assistant dock supervisor called, running straight at him. “I have her, sir.”
“Who do you have? Who is her?”
“A representative for Engenechem. Her name is Miss Bianca Doyle. She’s on my tablet cam right now.”
The eager-to-please young man handed off his tablet to his supervisor.
“This is Chief Dock Supervisor Light Huddleston. To whom am I speaking?”
“My name is Bianca Doyle. I am the senior secretary to Engenechem President and CEO Cain Wyczthack. How may I help you?”
“Ma’am, we have a situation down here with a backup of waste capsules. We do not, and I mean do not, have the means to hold toxic materials safely, and the Aerie is scheduled for ejections throughout next week. We just received an additional sixty-four nuclear waste capsules for ejection but can’t deliver to the Aerie because they’re falling behind on the CARBEL.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Well, ma’am, an assistant of mine recommended that we load the vessels and stop at one of your warehouses, specifically 15A, to temporarily house the capsules until the Aerie catches up. Once the Aerie gives us the green light, we can then reload the capsules for delivery to the Aerie for ejection via the CARBEL.”
“Give me a moment,” Bianca stated lifelessly.
She swiveled in her chair, turning her back to the video camera. Mr. Huddleston glanced over to his sidekick, shrugged his shoulders, and pointed at the tablet. Bianca was mumbling to someone behind her, a man. Light held the tablet closer to his ear. Nothing in the conversation between Bianca and the mystery man was discernable. Whomever she was communicating with didn’t sound positive, judging from the tone and volume. Bianca spun around abruptly to face the camera with all of the expression of a chastised child.
“Mr. Huddleston?” she asked politely.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m here,” Light answered, startled, and quickly moved the tablet away from his ear.
“Your request has been given approval. You can begin loading your capsules in the commercial cargo elevators.”
“Thank you, ma’am. You’ve saved me a lot of time and headache.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Huddleston. But we do have some procedural requirements and restrictions, for security and safety purposes, that you and your employees must adhere to.”
Light snapped his fingers to get the attention of his assistant. He motioned for him to come closer and held his finger up to his lips.
“Okay, what do you want us to do?”
“First of all, we’re giving you and your staff twenty-four hours to complete this transfer.”
“Twenty-four hours? Are you crazy? We’ve got sixty-four capsules! This will require no less than forty-eight hours. Sixty at the most.”
“You have twenty-four hours. Take it or leave it. We will allow you and your staff access to the Engenechem commercial elevators we use. These were designed by our engineers to accommodate our specific requirements. Their speed and capacity surpass the governmental elevators. You will complete your transfer under the deadline.”
“Um, okay, if you say so.”
“I know so. Secondly, none—may I repeat, none—of your staff is to escort the materials to 15A. You are to load the cab to capacity, notify me when you are ready for delivery, and we will override the access coding from our offices. Upon arrival on our deck, we have the means and manpower to unload the cab and place the capsules in a location that is satisfactory to our needs.”
“I don’t know about that, ma’am, you gotta be….”
“Mr. Huddleston, we designed and engineered this structure as well as the waste capsules you are so desperately trying to dispose of on a system we created. We also devised the means by which these capsules will be deployed to the CARBEL for ejection. I’m more than confident that my staff is perfectly capable of, and overqualified for, stacking your capsules.”
Light paused to take a deep breath.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll have my men begin loading the capsules in your elevator. I’ll notify you directly when they’re ready for the first delivery.”
“Thank you,” Bianca stated bluntly and disconnected the video feed.
Light’s shoulders sagged as he handed off the tablet to his assistant. “You heard the woman: load ‘em up.”
***
“Sir? I have an arrival on deck 15A authorized for receipt and unloading. I need supervisor approval to dispatch robotics,” said Titan, raising his hand.
A man in a dark grey suit approached Titan, leaned over his shoulder, and asked “What do we have here?”
Evan Titan Forty-Four, one of the cloned Evan offspring, pointed to his screen and video monitor, “The primary SUBOS loading docks have sent up ten nuclear waste capsules for temporary holding. Authority was given by Miss Doyle, directly.”
“Is
this the only delivery?”
“No, sir. There are a total of sixty-four capsules. We should expect six more deliveries.”
“You have my authorization for this load and the remainder of the deliveries,” the man said, swiping his hand in front of a camera with an infrared laser and typed a pass code on Titan’s computer keyboard.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Have the auto-handlers place them next to the blast doors for possible exterior extraction.”
“Right away, sir.”
“How are you feeling today?” the man then asked, partially sitting on the end of the computer bank.
“I feel fine, thank you. How are you?”
“Fine, fine. Never better. Will you please stand up for me?”
“Yes, sir,” Titan answered.
The pod of clones kept their heads facing towards their monitors but strained their eyes to observe the impromptu checkup.
“Any headaches? Nausea? Dizziness?” the man asked Titan as he held up a tiny flashlight to his eyes.
“No, sir. No problems whatsoever.”
“Night sweats? Difficulty with sleeping?”
“No, sir.”
“How’s your appetite? Are you eating well?”
“Fine, sir. I always finish my meals and drink my supplements. I’m nearly always first in my control group to receive injections.”
“Any adverse reactions to your supplements or injections?”
“None whatsoever, sir. I eat and drink everything in sight.”
“Good, good. How old are you?”
“Next Tuesday I will be two years and seven months.”
The man in the dark suit leaned over the console and picked up the notepad and pen lying next to the keyboard.
“Tell me, what is your control identity? And please identify your primary and secondary applications.”
Titan hesitated to answer and briefly glanced at his coworkers.
“Don’t look at them. You focus on me. What is your control identity and primary and secondary applications?”
“Evan, Titan, 44, communications, sanitation.”
The man in the dark suit held Titan in his gaze.
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