by Jade Kerrion
Xin took up the debriefing seamlessly when Lucien paused. “That tactic isn’t going to work once they hit D.C., of course. Regardless, the world now knows that they’re out there. It has resulted in a massive media backlash against Pioneer Labs and anything that even remotely hints of genetic selection, including in vitros and clones. Public fighting started in the streets of D.C. an hour ago. Humans are mobbing and killing in vitros and clones, and of course the derivatives aren’t exactly sitting back and allowing themselves to get killed. Unfortunately, the cops are taking sides. There are rumors that the president will declare a state of emergency and bring in the military, but there’s a good chance the military will take sides too, which is causing him to hesitate. At this point, just not adding to the chaos is a win.”
“And the mutants?” Danyael asked.
“They’re staying out of it, thank God,” Xin picked up a tablet computer, selected a media clip and handed it to Danyael to peruse. “I downloaded this clip fifteen minutes ago. The director general of the Mutant Affairs Council has issued an injunction to all mutants not to get involved. In fact, all mutants within a hundred miles of D.C. have been ordered to report to the council office, where they will remain in custody until further notice.”
“They’re locking down the mutants?”
“They can’t afford to have mutants involved,” Lucien said. “It’d escalate from knives and guns to telepathic and telekinetic battles. If I thought all the mutants would come down on one side, I wouldn’t actually oppose it, but some mutants are human-born, others are derivatives. We’re back to a stalemate.”
“Mutant fights are never stalemates. But you’re right in that it’s probably better not to escalate it beyond knives and guns.” Danyael set down the tablet and resisted the need to massage his aching temples or roll his shoulders in an attempt to dispel the tension Zara’s active dislike was triggering in him.
The source of his headache leaned forward in her seat. “Any news on Galahad?”
“They know he’s alive but they don’t know where,” Xin told Zara. “The lab was searched by rescuers. The western wing was found sealed, undamaged by fire. They’re looking for him now. No photos have been released yet, but in my opinion, that’s just a matter of time.”
Danyael shook his head. “So where does that leave us? I think we need to get Galahad out of the country.”
“What would you propose?”
“Brazil, maybe even Singapore. There are countries that accept, even embrace, genetic superiority, but America isn’t one of them. He will never be safe here.”
“Why?” Galahad asked.
Danyael did not take offense at Galahad’s tone or the strident demand. “The national approach toward genetic superiority is typically an extension of the majority opinion. Some countries embrace genetic superiority because they’ve been breeding for it for centuries, long before the launch of the genetic revolution. Culturally, they’ve always instinctively believed that power, wealth, and influence accrue to the strong, and make no apologies for that belief. Matches are made, children born, with the intention of ensuring that the next generation is stronger.”
“Why wouldn’t that be the natural, obvious thing to do?”
“Because deliberate genetic selection takes time and effort. It costs money. Today, in countries where wealth is a great deal more evenly dispersed, or where the government is wealthy, genetic superiority is an accepted way of life. In vitro testing and selection is actually mandated and paid for by the Singaporean government. But in America…” Danyael shrugged. “And I apologize in advance—there’s no way I can say this without sounding like an embittered mutant—our nation’s inability to wholeheartedly embrace the genetic revolution in large part derives from our founding beliefs in equality.”
“How can equality be at odds with success? Isn’t the former a requirement for the latter?”
“That’s one point of view,” Danyael said. “Another point of view suggests that even though most of us silently acknowledge that natural ability has a great deal to do with how far a person goes in life, it’s not politically correct to say that out loud. We apparently marry for love, not because our selected partner has genes that will complement ours in order to create a stronger next generation. So far, we’ve depended on government policies to balance out weaknesses in the gene pool, but our government does not have the kind of money to pay for everyone to be superior, so most of the country isn’t. Most people live in deadly envy of those who are superior, which includes many historic clones like Xin, most in vitros, all mutants, and most especially you, the embodiment of genetic perfection. While there very well may be a place for you somewhere in the world, America is probably not it.”
Lucien shook his head. “Getting Galahad out of the country is a perfectly viable option, but I think other things have taken precedence. If we can figure out why you two share a face, we could use that information to diffuse the tension. The party has started before us, but I don’t think the plan has changed, just the timelines. Xin, what do you have on Danyael and Galahad?”
Xin picked up the tablet, flicked through a few screens and commands, and handed the instrument to Danyael who looked over it in silence for a few moments before passing it to Galahad.
Xin summarized the report Galahad was reviewing. “Perfect physical genetic match but you’re not genetically identical. The majority of your genes, such as those that determine intelligence and personality, are different. However, small portions of the genes that are believed to contribute to Danyael’s empathic powers are also present in Galahad. Their combined effect is unknown.”
“Mutations are complex,” Galahad said. A warm, natural charisma eased out from beneath his initial wariness as he relaxed. “At the lab, I spent years studying genetics, among other things. The expressions of genes are usually best understood in comparison to something else—in this case, perhaps Danyael’s genetic code. What exactly are you trying to prove, Lucien?” he asked.
“I’m trying to understand how you and Danyael are related. What do you know about how your genetic code came about?”
“I was always told it was created directly from nucleotide base pairing. No one ever mentioned templates, but of course it’s logical to assume that there would have been templates. Anything short of using templates would be trying to replicate evolution all over again.” He set the tablet aside and looked at everyone gathered around the table. His gaze was strong and direct, his dark eyes compelling. “It’s obvious that Danyael’s genetic code was used as a template, but it’s not as simple as taking two chromosomes from Danyael and the rest from others and then inserting them into a cell. The genes that code for physical appearance are scattered across all forty-six chromosomes. Rakehell and Cochran would have known exactly which ones, of course. The human genome was mapped long before I was created. Still, it’s not a simple task, even with a template, or templates, to copy.”
Danyael leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes distant. It was easier to think coherently, easier to endure the barrage of Zara’s emotions, now that he no longer had to deal with Galahad’s emotions simultaneously. “Could they have cloned my cells, used restriction enzymes to cut out the sections they needed, and then combined them with genetic fragments from others?”
“Yes, but that’s leaving a great deal to chance. There would have been a high recombine error rate—”
“Which could have resulted in the creation of those other things at the lab,” Danyael said quietly.
Galahad arched a brow. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Do you know how those things came about?” Lucien asked.
“No.” Galahad shook his head, “No one ever discussed them with me. I have my suspicions, and they are as Danyael has suggested, that they were created in the process of creating me. Failed experiments, essentially.”
“Will their records be at the lab, or perhaps stored in a back-up drive somewhere?” Xin asked. “And more importantly, will they
be of any use whatsoever in solving this?”
“Perhaps. You have Danyael’s full genetic code, and if we can locate theirs, we can match portions of their code to incorrectly combined sections of Danyael’s. That would be strong enough evidence that they share Danyael’s genes.”
Lucien frowned. “We need to move on that quickly. If they have empathic powers, I want to know immediately.”
“All right, that’s something I can work on. I’ll see if I can locate their codes remotely; otherwise we might have to break into the lab and find them.” Xin glanced at Lucien and hesitated briefly before plunging on. “That could answer the ‘how,’ of course, but not the ‘why.’ Why did Rakehell and Cochran use Danyael’s genes to begin with? Someone out there must know.”
Danyael clenched his hands into fists; he had known the question was coming. He averted his gaze. “It’s not a good idea, Luce. You know that.”
Lucien sighed softly. “You are approximately three years older than Galahad, and there is no information about you prior to that age. Maybe that’s not a coincidence.”
“You have a police report.” Training and self-control notwithstanding, the hollow ache in the pit of his stomach took Danyael by surprise. His past was long buried; he had moved on and made something of his life since then. How could the past still hurt? “What more do you need?”
“What happened before the police report.”
“There’s nothing before the police report. The Mutant Affairs Council tried to figure out where I came from. They found nothing.”
“They didn’t know about your connection with Galahad. This is a definite link—”
Zara scowled. “You’re wasting time.”
Danyael winced as disgust fueled Zara’s irritation, transforming it into shards of anger, brittle and deadly.
She continued, “If you haven’t noticed, we have a crisis here. There is open fighting in the streets of D.C. People are dying, and we’re just sitting here trying to convince you to do the right thing.” Her scorn sliced into him. “We don’t need you. If we have to, we’ll stop this madness, without you.”
“Zara!” Lucien’s rebuke was sharp, but Danyael held out a hand to stop him.
“You’re right,” Danyael conceded. His voice was even, but it took a great deal of effort to keep it as steady as it sounded. He met Zara’s unrelenting gaze for a brief second and then looked away. His contact with most people was usually brief enough that he could endure their distaste for him without too much sustained effort. Zara, though, was another matter. Her reaction to him was profoundly negative and visceral. For reasons he could not understand, they cut right through his formidable emotional defenses and left him reeling from the effort of trying to process her emotions. “What do you want to know? How can I tell you what I don’t remember?”
“Let me see that report,” Galahad said. “A set of fresh eyes usually helps.”
“Here.” Xin picked up a folder at least an inch thick. “This is every publicly available report—and even some not-so-publicly available reports—on the first twelve years of Danyael’s life.” She pushed her plate away, her breakfast barely touched. “Lucien, I’m going to use the computers in your study. It’s time to hack into Pioneer Labs off-location records.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Lucien said. “I’ll clear out too, give you two some privacy to talk.” He rose and followed Xin from the breakfast nook. Carlos looked around the rapidly emptying room, shrugged, and stood up as well, taking his full plate with him as he sought another place to finish his meal.
Zara was the last to leave, but she paused by the door before departing. Not even dignifying Danyael with a glance, she looked at Galahad. “I appreciate your attempt to get to the bottom of this, but don’t waste too much time on him. I know his type. He’s like Jason Rakehell, too trapped in the past to face the present, let alone the future. He’s dragging us down with him.” She walked away, leaving Galahad staring after her.
Galahad’s stunned gaze shifted over to Danyael. “She’s not like that,” he said. “What are you doing to her?”
Danyael gritted his teeth. The surge of suspicion from Galahad bordered on defensive hostility and threatened to unravel the fragile rapport Galahad and he had shared moments earlier. He closed his eyes, a gesture of weariness, as he tried to explain. “I use psychic shields to contain my empathic powers, and one of their natural side effects is that they repel people, encourage them to overlook me, to ignore me.”
“Why?”
“You were raised in a lab, Galahad.” Danyael met his gaze squarely. “Here in the real world, looks like ours is more curse than blessing. All in all, I’d rather deal with apathy and indifference than suffer the attentions of others.”
“But why does she dislike you so intensely, when this barrier of yours doesn’t affect the rest of us?”
“Because first impressions matter, and they either amplify or counter-balance the repellant effect of the psychic shield. Your first impression of me was somewhat positive, Zara’s much less so.” A wry half smile tugged at Danyael’s lips. “And who’s to say you’re not susceptible to the shield’s effects? Zara verbally attacked me, I said nothing, and yet you came to her defense.”
Galahad’s eyes widened, surprise chased by the faintest flickers of guilt.
Danyael shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I tend to bring out the worst in people. It’s rarely their fault, and in this case, it’s most certainly not yours.” He gestured to the thick folder in Galahad’s hand. “Are you planning to read that report?”
Galahad turned his attention to the police report dated almost twenty-six years earlier, written by Jacob Johnson, police officer for the town of Franklin, West Virginia.
* * *
Subject admitted to the ER at 10:54 p.m. is a two- or three-year old male child, predominantly Caucasian. Subject does not speak and appears to be severely developmentally delayed. Significant evidence of abuse, including malnourishment, recently fractured right femur, and multiple partly healed fractures in the bones of the left hand. Eyewitness accounts report that a car stopped on a bridge at Mill Run River, and a person—likely female—emerged from the car at around 9:45 p.m., removed the child from the back seat, and threw him into the river before driving away.’
* * *
Mill Run River was a tributary stream of the South Branch Potomac River, and Franklin was a three-hour drive from Pioneer Labs in Boonsboro, Maryland, just an easy car ride away. Galahad was not convinced, though. “This doesn’t make sense. My life at the lab wasn’t easy. I spent hours every day studying or in physical training. And then there were experiments, a few of them horrific, but I’ve never suffered that kind of pointless abuse—not for a single day in my nearly twenty-five years at the lab. Whatever your association with Pioneer Labs, it was not as a subject there.”
Danyael’s response was a thin, humorless smile. “Just keep reading.”
In the folio was page after page of police and welfare officer reports, capturing the essence of Danyael’s life from the point where he had been found up until around the age of twelve. Almost an hour later, Galahad reached the last page in the folio and set it down with a troubled expression on his face. “You’re an alpha mutant,” he said.
“Yes,” Danyael said, his voice quiet. “There are only two ways to attain that classification. One is to have some truly devastating abilities. The other is to be born with the abilities, as opposed to having them manifest at puberty, as is usual with most mutants. I’m classified as an alpha mutant on both counts. The evidence, as you can see, is fairly convincing.” Actually, the evidence was damning. In the file were many interviews with people who seemed to be normal, decent people, people who claimed they had no idea what had come over them when they were found physically, emotionally, or mentally abusing a helpless, friendless child.
“How could it have taken them so long to figure out that you were a mutant?” Galahad asked, looking up at Danyael, who was standin
g by the French windows, staring out at the patio and the manicured lawn beyond.
“No one around me could think or feel clearly long enough to reach that conclusion until Lucien found me,” Danyael explained, his voice dispassionate. He fought to hold on to the center of calm deep within as hazy memories tumbled through his mind. Just memories. All in the past. They can’t hurt me now.
He glanced over his shoulder, then turned around fully, and rejoined Galahad at the table. “For reasons we’ve never been able to figure out, Lucien is immune to my primary empathic powers, which allowed him to react with his natural compassion. He was only fifteen then, but he was able to protect me from any further attacks. When I was finally diagnosed as an alpha empath, the Mutant Affairs Council assigned a telepath to work with me until I learned how to control my empathic powers.”
“How long did that take?”
“Years.”
Galahad slipped the reports back into the folder and shut it. “What is it like, being a mutant?”
“I can’t say. I’ve never had the privilege of being anything else. For now, I live in New York City. You can’t throw a stone without hitting a mutant. For the most part, I can keep a low profile there.”
“Why? You’re an alpha empath. According to the report, you’re among the most powerful in the world. Why do you hide?”
How could he explain, when he didn’t even know the answer himself? Habit? Training? Post traumatic stress disorder? Some of those, perhaps even all of those. Danyael shrugged, offered the simplest answer, because it was also the most truthful. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be normal.”