I’ve hardly heard Nellie speak a word. This little one-and-a-half-year-old is five pounds larger and several inches taller than her three-year-old genetic donor. She speaks as fluently as most adults. With a perfectly engineered genome, there’s no telling what magnificent gifts this little girl has trapped inside her, waiting for just the right stimulus to manifest.
“What is your understanding of what’s going on?” Savannah asks.
“Based on what I’ve overheard you saying, I know that legally you can only take me or Mary Nell. Not both of us. I know that you’re worried about what will happen to me if I stay there, just a number without a number. And I know that if you go through with the trade . . . ” She pauses and the biggest tears I have ever seen in my life come instantly dripping down her cheeks. She turns to Mary Nell, who plays with her doll on the ground. “I don’t understand everything, but I know we’ve got to take good care of my new sister.”
I reach over my shoulder to grab her hand warmly. “Nellie, you listen to me. We love you and we’re not going to let them keep you, but we probably are going to have to take you back there, at least for a while.”
Nellie begins to sob and beg, “Why? I want to stay with you. I don’t want to be a number without a number anymore. A dupe.”
Savannah also bursts into tears.
“Don’t worry. We’ll get permission to get you back.”
“You’re going to be safe,” Savannah encourages Nellie as Mary Nell affirms her mother’s affection with unintelligible gibberish. “Both of you.”
“What if they don’t give you permission?” Nellie tries to control her crying.
“They have to,” Morgan opines. “Your Grandpa is second-in-command of the company. Your mother, who’s in charge of you and Mary Nell, will not sign either of you over to them.”
“Tell me the truth. What will they do to everyone there? To my friends? Why do they teach me math and reading and so many wonderful things, and they do not teach the others? Why is everyone a number except a few of us who are given names? We are told that when we are ready, we get to move on to a better life. Every once in a while, someone disappears. But tell me, what really happens?”
Savannah and I trade glances in the rearview mirror. How can I lie to her? And if I do tell her the truth, how can I ever take her back there? How would she ever trust me again, knowing that just minutes ago, for fear of my own well-being, I insisted that we had to take her back?
“We’re not going to worry about that right now,” Savannah interrupts my troubling thoughts. I bring the limo slowly to a stop at the hotel at which Savannah and Argentino have a room.
“Do you all want to swim?” Argentino inquires.
The girls suddenly cheer and clap.
“No,” I respond. “You can’t.”
The girls settle down as Savannah leans close to protest my usurpation. “What do you mean? Why not?”
“Savannah, I need you to trust me.” I turn to make eye contact with Argentino and Morgan. “Will you both trust me?”
38
GUAVE SEALDOR NORMALLY WOULD NEVER desire to be present at such an interrogation. His job is to manage the government’s takeover of the New Body Research Center, not to coerce truth out of liars. But so much was at stake. President Sayder personally ordered him to “Make this legal! The law is a means to an end, Guave, and our end justifies any means. If we must modify the law to legitimize the means, so be it.”
If he were to fail her, he may, as a dupe with intimate knowledge of the President’s lies and abuses of power, be too great a threat to simply demote. A massive investment of federal ameros has already been allocated for the construction of three more medical centers integrating the New Body science into ordinary, every-day healthcare: one in Jacksonville, one in Sacramento, and one in Chicago.
“There’s too much power in the New Body Research Center,” the President told him. “We need to send in every medical expert at our disposal to master the science and force those we cannot co-opt into accepting our control.”
“Too big to fail” was what the President had told Raymond Verity, the board, the platinum investors of the New Body Research Center, and the press. But in the President’s words to Guave, “It’s too big not to fail.”
“We’re not going to sabotage the company,” she informed him, “we’re just introducing some fair competition. The needs of the public transcend the greed of the New Body patent holders. The law is irrelevant. If the public sector cannot compete because of New Body’s patents, then the government’s going to level the playing field. To respect the validity of those patents would be to sentence millions of Americans to their deaths every single year and risk the dwindling of national resources due to the overpopulation of ‘useless eaters’—to borrow a phrase from Sanger. For the greater good, we need to harness this technology and mass replicate it all over the nation, and if that puts the enigmatic Dr. Verity in bankruptcy, well, that’s a small price to pay.”
With the disappearance of Dr. Verity and his family with the dupe known as Mary Nell illegally in their possession, the federal investigation team had launched into high gear to find them, co-opting every agency’s resources and every security feed in the whole country. Turns out, Raymond Verity’s cloak device did conceal their hand-held computers because those computers also employed stealth technology that was very expensive. Both are traceable separately, but not in combination. The cloak device in the vehicle did not, however, secure their nanophones. Fortunately, the super-wealthy frequently purchased their nanophones from the Asian black market, since they did not have the GPS tracking capability of American-licensed nanos, and Dr. Verity and company all had the expensive foreign implants, a luxury politically tenuous for Congress to regulate. The feds easily confirmed that all their vehicles were stationary and unoccupied, and there was no trace of their presence in the vicinity of their homes or their properties. Thus, the investigative team had to resort to aggressive interrogations and relentless threats of those close to them.
Guave sensed his blood pressure rise as the beefy FBI agent with the big ears leaned in close to the sweating face of the aging secretary of Dr. Verity, the sly Mrs. Williamson.
“You already told me that!” the agent shouts. “We picked Sharon Molla up even before you! You’re not giving us any new information.”
The FBI had grabbed Mrs. Williamson and Ms. Molla soon after their arrival at work after the dupe was discovered missing. For the sake of time, these agents are interrogating the secretary in the back of a black, windowless van as we cruise the beltway around Baltimore.
“It’s the truth!” she insists. “It’s all I know!”
“Are you listening to what I’m saying?” The beefy agent pounds the car’s wall, frustrated at their lack of progress. “We sent agents to his Caribbean island to scope out his home. He’s not there! His jet has never even left the airport.”
“He asked for a favor,” she calmly states. “He told me not to tell anybody that he was taking his family to his island. He asked me to call his pilot and have him meet him at the airport.”
“So you knew he was kidnapping the dupe and leaving the country, and you didn’t report it?”
“I told you. I, I was going to. I tried to talk him out of it.”
The agent leans back and crosses his thick arms over his wide chest, sighing wearily.
“Please,” Mrs. Williamson begs. “I was due to get my new body next week.”
“You’re not getting anything until you can help me find Raymond Verity and his family. If I find out you are withholding anything from me, I will personally dispose of your dupe myself.”
“I am telling you everything I know.”
From the corner of the van, Guave glances at the laptop that shows the live feed of the interrogation of Sharon Molla, who was ordered not to let the dupe out of her sight. Guave is one of the few aware that his superiors had intentionally chosen Ms. Molla for this task because they deemed her most likely to be amena
ble to any potential persuasion or threats from Dr. Verity. They wanted Dr. Verity to take the dupe. It was part of the plan to push him out of leadership and justify perpetual federal control of the New Body science, and to simultaneously disarm him from ever being a threat to the industry again. Even so, Ms. Molla violated protocol and must pay the price for it.
Guave reaches for the earpiece and puts it in his ear to listen to the questions they are asking her between applications of violent coercion. But hearing the zaps of their electric batons, followed by her terrified shrieks of denial and fits of sobbing, he changes his mind and sets down the earpiece. They must believe she is withholding something from them, or they would not treat her so.
What is happening has already been hashed out in Congress and a consensus solidified, though the fact brings him little comfort. For fear of terrorism, the people gladly surrendered many freedoms. The people want this. Somehow, however, it doesn’t quite set his mind at ease. It could just as easily be him sitting in that chair if he had bumped into Dr. Verity on the day of his crime. Except he is not a legal person. He is a dupe. He is property. He has no human rights, unlike Mrs. Williamson and Ms. Molla, and thus has no expectation that he would be treated as humanely as they.
A text flashes on the top of his laptop screen. It is from the FBI’s Virginia office, addressed to all of the agents doing the interrogating. “We’ve found eyewitnesses that saw them at a pharmacy in Richmond, VA. More intel forthcoming.”
39
AFTER LEAVING SAVANNAH’S HOTEL, I direct the limo driver outside the city limits to a home where I remember seeing an “RV Hover for Sale” sign out front. Fortunately, the RV owner recognizes me and accepts my 55,000 amero bank transfer via his computer. It’s a great deal, given he lets us drive off his lot in a first class luxury recreational hovercraft, in spite of incomplete paperwork.
We pack into the RV and head south, with no particular destination in mind. I inform everyone we are going for a week of celebration at a park. Amidst the cheers of the girls, everyone settles into the RV’s cots to get some sleep.
Nellie and Mary Nell insist on sleeping together on the same pull-out bed. I glance at them through the night in the rearview mirror. They embrace each other so lovingly, as if they had known each other their whole lives. Before they drift off to sleep, they whisper back and forth for several minutes. I think I hear the humming of a tune—“Jesus, Loves Me.” It’s what I sang to Mary Nell as she dozed off on the beach the first day I met her. Now Mary Nell’s teaching the song to Nellie—at least the tune.
I turn off the A/C, hoping I can better discern their whispered discourse, and I overhear Nellie tell my granddaughter, “No, Mary Nell, you’re perfect.”
That’s the last thing I hear before Mary Nell’s gentle snoring informs me that she has fallen asleep with Nellie’s right arm draped over Mary Nell’s smaller frame.
To think that we were going to kill the weak for the strong, trade the imperfect for the perfect—the thought fills me with disgust. It seems as if the most defective of the two has been the missing piece of the other’s life. What a paradox! The defective one has perfected the flawless one. I study them for a brief moment in the rearview mirror. Mary Nell rests her palm against Nellie’s cheek. They have perfected each other.
“We should have flown to our island,” Morgan mumbles from the passenger seat as she has done through the night. She’s finally beginning to nod off, but continues to rouse herself intermittently to nag me about something. I wish she would be quiet before she wakens the girls. Her condescending and self-absorbed prattle has managed to help me more easily stay alert for the late night drive.
With as much adrenaline—and coffee—as I have coursing through my bloodstream, I think I may just continue all the way to Orlando. However, as dawn breaks just outside the city limits of Atlanta, an alarm on the dash informs me that I must re-energize the batteries in the next dozen miles. Hopefully, I have enough cash in my wallet—or Morgan does in her purse—so that I can refill without having to mooch off Savannah or Argentino or risk using my credit.
Unfortunately, most stores do not take cash anymore, but in poorer areas of a larger town I may find one. I check the pocket in my leather handheld cover, where I keep my credit cards and ID, and I discover eighteen 100-credit ameros. I predict it’s sufficient to energize the batteries at least twice more. I plug my handheld into the computer on the dash of the RV, ensure the stealth technology is active, and then begin a search for fuel stations nearby that will accept cash. I find one in downtown Atlanta. It’s not a good idea to refuel in a big city, given there are security cameras everywhere, but cash has become a rare commodity in our credit-saturated economy.
“Why don’t we just go to our airport and take our jet to our island,” Morgan mumbles. “Or just”—she yawns and points to the GPS on the dash—“just GPS the nearest port and buy a plane . . . ”
This woman will continue to nag me until she gets her way. She doesn’t quite understand the danger of using our credit and showing up on the grid, and I really don’t want her to. Since she’s even more impervious to reason when she’s half asleep as when she’s awake, I don’t have the inclination to try to explain myself.
It is exactly, after all, what I told Mrs. Williamson when we left my office: I am going to my island with my family. She promised to respect my privacy and keep my secret, but, upon reflection, I realized it would be unwise to trust her. If she is willing to go through with her own transfer, exploiting the killing of her dupe for her own health benefits, then she would have no ethical problem with ratting out my destination the first time she was questioned about where I might have gone with Nellie. You can never trust a murderer to be honest, especially when they have something to gain from the dishonesty, or discomfort to avoid.
I log into my security website to view the various camera angles of my two homes—the one in Baltimore and the one on my Caribbean island. I have been doing this every hour of our nine-hour drive thus far.
What I see now, however, makes me shudder and swerve off the road, lighting up the angry red warning light on the dash. The electricity has suddenly been shut off at my island mansion. With dawn just breaking in the east and the night sky still hovering overhead, the landscape lights should still be on. My battery-operated security cameras have switched into night-vision mode and there are black-clothed SWAT agents making their way down my long driveway. They creep toward my home, assault weapons at the ready. One of them taps the concealed camera with an object, and now I see only static.
I click the link of my Baltimore residence and witness the innards of that home being raided by FBI investigators. Normally, my handheld computer would buzz me if the alarm went off, but there was no warning. They are breaking into my safes, dumping out all of my drawers and cabinets, uncovering all of my secret compartments.
I try not to overreact, not wanting to startle my wife out of her uneasy sleep. She would be more troubled at the sight than I could possibly imagine.
Dawn begins to break on my left. The cloud of greenish-brown smog on the horizon ahead of me reminds me that Atlanta looms like a great big trap ready to clamp down on us. I am risking running out of power, but I am desperate to find a way around Atlanta. I take the exit before the beltway and park at the far end of the parking lot of a dilapidated truck stop, careful to keep out of the view of any security cameras that may be watching. It’s just a matter of time before federal investigators find out that I purchased this RV and begin to hunt us. Is it possible to stay off the grid on back roads and campgrounds? Maybe, if I drive the speed limit. I can probably convince some unsuspecting storeowners of small chains to let me pay cash for food and energy for the RV’s batteries, but how can I withdraw from my accounts without using my ID and pin-pointing my location for federal investigators? Have they tapped into my accounts already and confiscated my massive wealth and savings? Or maybe they will leave it like bait, hoping that I will be drawn to it like a hungr
y fish to an irresistible lure. I haven’t driven a vehicle since ten years before my retirement in my previous life, so reliant I have become on my chauffeurs and pilots. What do I know about living off the grid? As I think of it, my driver’s license probably expired forty years ago . . .
Argentino stirs. “We need a pit stop.” I see him turn on his handheld in my review mirror.
Hiding may not be as easy as I initially thought.
40
I LEAVE THE CREW AT Tofu Palace, a fast food restaurant that boasts an indoor playground for children, complete with colorful slides and mazes. I assure Morgan, “I’m just going to get some work done on the RV. Stay here.”
I urge her, Savannah, and Argentino to stay off their nanophones, and handhelds, even if they are in stealth mode. “I don’t want this much-deserved vacation ruined by having to consult my team of lawyers to stave off the company’s bureaucratic regulators. Let’s allow my secretary to stall and we’ll postpone that battle for next week.”
Thankfully, this explanation satisfies Argentino and Savannah. Morgan, however, remains resistant to my counsel and suspicious of my motives. She mindlessly believes that we have nothing at all to worry about and that everything will be fine if we continue life as usual.
“Oh, just call Vlad,” she mumbles. “He’ll handle it.”
Yeah, right.
I study the two girls on the playground. Savannah watches them from a distance, a thin smile on her face. Argentino holds his handheld with one hand, and his coffee in the other. I fear he’s going to start surfing again as soon as I leave.
“Please, Morgan. Please. For me. Stay off your devices.” Without another word, I dart out of the store and toward the RV. I don’t know how this is going to end, but if I am able to save Mary Nell and Nellie, I suspect things will get worse before they get better.
Inside the RV, concealed by the digital cloak, a quick search on my handheld informs me that there’s an auto repair shop across the street. Perhaps they have a mechanic who can disable any uncloakable tracking mechanism inside of our RV. Once my bank transfer to the RV owner’s account is investigated or my limo driver is questioned, I’m certain the investigators will discover that we are in this vehicle. It’s just a matter of time. Disabling a vehicle’s tracking mechanism is probably illegal, so I find a fellow in the bathroom, young, pierced, and tattooed, the kind of fellow who looks just like the person who’d take me up on my offer. As he’s washing his oily hands, I flash four of my 100-credit ameros in front of him. His eyebrows rise and the corner of one side of his mouth turns up. Now I have his attention.
Body by Blood Page 24