Then I remember Mary Nell. I open a file on my handheld to view a clip of my three-year-old granddaughter in her frilly swimming suit on the white, sandy beach. She has two more months of life. That’s it. Who will defend her if I give up? In her smiling face and squinty eyes, I find the courage to keep fighting, to keep hoping for some miracle that will save her.
I change directions, heading back for the office. I do not have ready access to my granddaughter, and can’t see how that could make much difference anyway, given my daughter Savannah’s commitment to have her replaced. Every attempt I make to change her mind seems to cause her to dig her trenches deeper—with Morgan’s help—and become even more determined to resist my counsel.
However, I’m the CEO of the business where Mary Nell’s scheduled to be butchered. That tilts the outcome slightly in my favor.
31
WHEREAS BEFORE I WAS ONLY casually interested in the wording of the ethics recommendations we were planning to submit to the President, now I wholly devote myself to it. I accept the limitations of my ability to immediately criminalize the termination and exploitation of cloned people, and begin to work diligently within the law to undermine my company’s successes. Although I can never consent in my heart to the killing of one innocent person, I accept that an informed consent policy may be useful to save some lives and to awaken the culture to the crisis of the American holocaust.
In my position as New Body CEO, although I am subject to federal control, I have access to information that would otherwise be kept under lock and key. Having shut me out of my own company’s computer system, the feds appear to care little about what I do in my office, as long as I stay out of the forbidden wing that bears my name. So I spend most of my time on my personal laptop compiling information to hurt the industry. Any time there is a death or injury of a scientist or nurse from a clone’s outburst of violence somewhere in the world, any time there is an industrial accident in a cloning facility, or whenever an employee of a cloning facility is accused of a crime, I compile the information in an encrypted file online. I leak the hyperlink from an off-site computer to a pro-life contact, one who has a history of working closely with activists on the front line. Within a few days, the information is widely published on the web and in print, citing me only as “an anonymous source from inside the industry.” I take up the role of corporate spy, doing everything in my power to exploit the power of my position to undermine my own company’s success.
I constantly worry that one of the many federal agents embedded in the company will discover me, but surprisingly, using off-site computers at coffee shops, employing anonymous servers overseas, and working through underground contacts, it seems I am able to get away with everything.
Morgan keeps our weekends scheduled with parties and trips. I can’t believe one person can spend so much money for entertainment, clothes, shoes, and every conceivable form of pleasure. I tolerate her addictions and excesses as amiably as possible, careful to give her the attention she craves. Our next scheduled engagement, however, is one to which I have looked forward with eager anticipation.
It is only 8 p.m. and already the Country Club house wine is having its inebriating effect. My wife’s left arm is intertwined with my right, more to keep her on her feet than any sincere expression of affection. We are celebrating the conclusion of our ethics panel’s mission. We reached unanimity in our approval of our ethics recommendations, submitted it to the President, and just this very day, just an hour before the party was to begin, the President approved our recommendation without amendment! Everyone is ecstatic, celebrating the providence that clearly is on our side! The room is filled with tuxedo-clad men, their wives in colorful evening gowns, and alcohol-drenched mirth.
The conservative governors of Georgia, South Carolina, and Virginia are present. Dozens of representatives and Senators, including the Speaker of the Republican-dominated House, and several conservative judges are present. The room of pro-life and pro-family leaders herald the presence of these government leaders as if they were badges of honor. They especially savor the presence of the Senator who many predicted to be the next Republican candidate for President of the United States, a staunch advocate of limited federal control of cloning, who boasts that he is “personally” against the termination of clones but, with the separation of church and state, would not employ the power of government to enforce his religious views on the rest of the country. It’s amazing how the right will tolerate the leftward lean of their electable Republicans as long as they don’t lean as far to the left as their Democrats counterparts.
“Who cares if he’s personally pro-life,” I hold court with a group of pro-life leaders who cluster together in the corner of the room, “if he’s not going to act pro-life in his position of leadership?”
“At least,” a pro-life leader from Ohio boasts, “he would appoint strict constructionists to the Supreme Court.” He raises his eyebrows hopefully.
I cast a contemptuous smirk in his direction. “The same kind of Republican-appointed strict constructionists that have perpetuated legal abortion and physician-assisted suicide over and over again, and buried traditional marriage in our country?”
“Huh?” All three pro-life leaders exclaim with blank-faces.
“Come on, fellas. Those who don’t learn from history are bound to repeat it.”
These hypocrites are pathetic. For conservative leaders to so mindlessly echo the sentiment that Republicans appoint pro-life judges is gross incompetence at best, or being an accomplice to mass murder if you view their incompetence in the worst light.
Thomas overhears our conversation and steps into our circle. “Even Jesus left the ninety-nine for the one, brother.”
Now it was me giving him the blank stare. “Huh?”
The Right to Life leader from Ohio glances at Thomas and nods. “The parable of the shepherd and the lost sheep.”
“That’s correct.” Thomas rests a hand on my shoulder, and gently turns me until I am facing him. “The point of the parable is that sometimes Jesus leaves the majority to save the one that is save-able. If we can’t save all the children, we try to save the one lost sheep we can save. And when we do so, we’re in good company.”
Good point. Except the 99 left behind weren’t lost and didn’t need saving.
Most of the conversation in the room lacks spirituality and depth. I’m floating on a sea of sugar cubes and Champaign bubbles, all smiles and small talk, but no truly gratifying substance. Just listening to all of the insincere adulations soon becomes laborious. Every conversation seems to be teeming with futile vanity. Every person who utters a word of praise to anybody is simultaneously spreading a net before his feet. I would have left after half an hour if it were not for my wife’s manic determination to share cheek kisses with every politician in the room. Their gawking stares at her low-cut silk blouse and her tight, skin-colored miniskirt are growing less obscure with every emptied wine bottle.
A spoon clinks against a half-filled wine glass. All eyes turn to my brother. “I raise a toast.” He pauses, as everyone hushes and turns to him. “A toast to my big brother and bigger friend.”
Thomas will be the first of many to raise a toast to honor the exploits of our historic panel, filling me with a nauseating dread.
“With Dr. Raymond Verity at the helm of this ship, we have done something heroic, something historic, something that has never been done before. For a panel of pro-life and pro-family leaders to agree on a formal recommendation of ethics policies for the largest cloning research facility in the world and the newest Fortune 500 company to break the trillion-amero mark . . . ” His words are punctuated with cheers and slurred ‘Here-here’s’! “ . . . And to put that recommendation on the desk of a Democratic President and have her approve it with such speed—that, my friends, has never been done before!”
The place practically explodes with the jingling of spoons tapping against wine glasses, vigorous applause, and exuberant ovation.
Thomas clears his throat, and raises his Merlot solemnly into the air. “To my brother.”
“Cheers!”
We all share a drink, but I have reached my limit of both alcohol and homage. Especially given that the President approved our recommendations without amendment. You would think that would be a strong hint that our recommendations were pathetic and toothless, but these leaders didn’t get it. We should have asked for more. We were so scared of rejection that we signed off on an ethics recommendation that possibly would not save a single life—not even the “one lost sheep” in my brother’s parable.
Another beckons everyone to listen to his belched tribute to me and our historic panel. I set down my wine glass, pry my arm free of Morgan’s grasp, and weave my way through the admiring eyes, ignoring the amiable words and outstretched hands, making my way into the men’s room. Even there, I cannot escape their backslapping congratulations of narcissistic, self-promoting fund-raisers and perpetual campaigners.
Risking the charge of rudeness, I bypass several commendations and slither my way into a stall. I lean against the locked, gray metal door. Why have I become so sickened of the commendations in this circle of powerful leaders whose whims sway the world?
It is quiet for several moments, and I think the men’s room is empty when a gentle rap of knuckles on my door startles me. “Dr. Verity? May I have a word with you?”
“No, you may not,” I blurt out more rudely than I should have.
“I bring thanks from Alabama Governor Maurice Whetley, and from your sister.” Those unexpected, whispered words have the aura of one of those silk-tongued word masters who are recorded reading popular novels for people to listen to when they don’t have the time or the inclination to read. Those words snatch the breath out of my chest.
I throw open the stall door and am taken aback by the ordinary appearance of this thinly gray-headed, short man sporting an overgrown, pepper-gray mustache. “Where is my sister?”
He smiles, and in an artful tone, declares, “In the sovereign state of Alabama.”
I’m not surprised. “How does someone who naively thinks Alabama is a sovereign state, someone close to Maurice Whetley and my felon of a sister, find his way into this elite gathering?”
“She’s not a felon. She was released on a technicality.”
Here I am reminded that my secrecy as to the true cause of her release is a condition of her continued freedom.
“How did I get here, you ask?” He shrugs his shoulders, with caution in his demeanor, as if to remember he should craft his sentences carefully in my presence. I suspect another self-adulating fund-raising pitch. I cast an optimistic glance toward the door, hoping for an interruption to save me from this unwanted smooth talker. “Let’s just say that the Alabama and Mississippi state governments think you are worth the expense.”
Something doesn’t smell right. “Me? Why would Governor Whetley want to thank me? The federal law legalizing the terminating of clones bears my name. This very celebration commemorates a pro-life panel that formerly condemns Maurice Whetley by name for defying federal law and disobeying a federal judge in his state government’s prosecution of clone industry leaders.”
“He thanks you for not taking the President’s bait after the murder of Jim Keppler. It would have been easier for you to simply join her in blaming Alabama leaders for attempting to assassinate you. Although, praising us for saving your life when we clearly did not was unnecessary, and still has you in hot water with President Sayder. You’ve yet to endure the peak of her wrath for that bit of sophistry.”
I laugh at his comment. “Please tell me that you are kidding me! This has got to be some sort of sick joke.”
He doesn’t flinch at my mocking chortle. “One of the President’s many secret black-op agencies was probably setting everything up to garner your condemnation of our leadership, and to take out your limo driver, who we suspect was compiling evidence of the President’s personal conspiracy to extort you.” He flashes me a wide smile, beaming with enthusiasm. “If she hasn’t already. But you didn’t fall in line like she expected you to. That’s admirable, though it doesn’t . . . ”
“Admirable?” More accolades, yet not as nauseating as those previous, as it comes from the unlikeliest of sources.
He bulldozes over my interruption, “ . . . It doesn’t quite make up for all the stupid things you’ve done trying to regulate the killing with this panel of slave traders and flesh peddlers.”
Admirable and stupid—now those are two words I certainly never expected to hear directed toward me in the same sentence. I straighten my posture. “Slave traders and flesh peddlers? Who do you think you are?”
He keeps calm. “No need to put on a show, Dr. Verity. I know about your corporate espionage to help disparage the New Body science, and I thank you.”
What? How could he possibly know about that?
“You are probably more disturbed about selling out to the butchers as anybody in this gathering.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Isn’t that what you squabble about in your panel discussions? What category of innocent people should you permit to perish in your pro-life laws, all for the hope of some speck of success at the table of blood-letters?”
I can’t figure out if he’s a fan or a critic, but I know for sure he’s a stranger and I’m in no mood to bend my ear to his reproofs. I aim a stiff finger toward the door of the restroom. “These people sincerely want to save lives, sir. I agree that our ethics recommendations do not go far enough, but it’s a foot in the door, and there are more to come. You have no right to indict our motives.”
“Oh, yes I do. God said, ‘Do no murder’—none! God forbids extending leniency to murderers. You either agree or disagree—there is no middle ground. He that is not for Him is against Him. You unwittingly worship the author of the standard by which you live, whereas you should worship the Lord your God, and Him only should you serve. In your counterfeit laws and your”—here he flashes two fingers with each hand as makeshift quotation marks—“ethics recommendations, you permit the murder of some innocent people. That is a clear violation of divine law, all your sincerity notwithstanding.”
“People are dying anyway. At least we are saving those who can be saved.”
“It remains to be seen whether you will save anybody, Dr. Verity. You certainly won’t save your granddaughter.”
It’s as if he has plunged a hot knife into my gut, and holds it there to sadistically observe my response to his cruel experiment. I try to hold my countenance firm, to conceal from him just how his intrusive reminder of my granddaughter’s fate has pained me. I take several deep, cleansing breaths. “I assume Tamara told you about Mary Nell.”
“Do you have a plan to save her, besides your worthless ethics recommendations to the President?”
Worthless?
That did nothing to prop up my dwindling self-esteem. I judge it less painful than what I deserve, and simply respond to the question without criticizing the demeaning choice of terms. “I tried to save her. My daughter Savannah would not be dissuaded. It’s an impossible situation. I’ve managed to postpone the transfer, but besides that there’s nothing I can do.”
“Unbelief is not a good platform from which to save lives. You cannot rise above your faith, Dr. Verity.”
I poke my chest with both of my thumbs. “I work within the system. Unlike Alabama’s and Mississippi’s leaders, we believe in the system.”
“We believe in God.”
“And your God, has He stopped the Holocaust?”
“He shows us how to. He shows you how to. But you can only conquer that Promised Land through faith, my friend. Faith is the victory that overcomes the world. You may build a grand castle on any other foundation, but it won’t quench bloodguilt any more than it will withstand the fast approaching storm on the horizon. Unbelief leads to fatal compromises, Doctor Verity, and compromising God’s principles is not the pa
th to success, no matter what your brother tells you. Spurning God’s Word for alternative standards, however promising and seductive, lets you continue to gain wealth in the largest corporation in the world that kills people for profit. Blood money—that’s what it is.”
“I do a lot of good in that position!” I raise my voice.
“Yes, you and Dr. Redd Cranton, your partner in virtue.”
“Innocent until proven guilty,” I remind him.
He nods. “Of course, and in a court of American law where people are property, he probably won’t even be charged.”
I hold my peace. My words are just giving this fanatic more wood to throw on the fire of my guilt.
“You’d fare better on Judgment Day if you would shed Saul’s armor and trust God. Quit being the President’s puppet—and your brother’s. God will show Himself strong on behalf of him whose heart is perfect toward Him.” He assumes a humble posture, shoving his hands in his pockets and waiting patiently for my response.
Shed Saul’s armor? What’s that supposed to mean?
For a long moment, I just stare at this strange messenger. How could so much time possibly pass without the hordes of wine guzzlers with enlarged prostates entering the restroom to interrupt us? There’s no avoiding this moment of painful self-reflection. This messenger’s poignant words resonate eerily with my conscience, though I am loath to admit it to him.
I have to appreciate him for his edgy, but honest assessment of our pathetic panel of wet-finger-raisers. They—no, we—abandoned every single proposal that would have clearly been more protective, in favor of the weakest possible proposal that was more likely to win the President’s approval. Why? Because we didn’t believe that more protective laws were possible. Unbelief—that was our chief motivating factor to determine where we were going to draw our battle line. But we have drawn it so far to the left that even many of the scientists and physicians on the New Body killing squad were on our side of the battle line!
Body by Blood Page 20