Body by Blood

by Patrick Johnston

  Everybody in the room had already read the article apparently, but they had not yet made the connection between this setback for the New Body science and the solemn mission that brought the leaders of seven states together in this room. A gasp of awe sounded around the room as they begin to realize the perfect timing of the publication of these findings.

  “God is again confusing the language of those who aspire to heaven without God,” Tamara comments.

  Whetley’s thin grin beams with determination and confidence. “God is fighting for us.”

  “Doesn’t this resolve our dilemma?” the Florida governor asks. “Doesn’t this make the purpose of the meeting null and void?” Everyone is silent as they consider the question. “After all, the industry is done, for now. The New Body science cannot survive this.”

  Georgia Governor Jeffries adds, “Felipe has a point. This politically risky venture may be completely unnecessary at this juncture.”

  Whetley raises his eyebrows, as if the governors have made an undeniably good point.

  “Why would the federal government release these findings to the public?” I ask aloud. “It certainly may help justify increasing federal control, but it can only hurt the New Body industry, in which the federal government has invested much. Why didn’t they vigorously conceal their findings?”

  “This very meeting may be the reason the findings were released when they were,” Jeffries opines. “Perhaps they wanted to snatch the motivation out of the uncommitted state leaders, turn us back to apathy.” He makes eye contact with the Florida governor, who turns away. “Perhaps they wanted to give us all a false hope that the killing industry would falter without any state having to make hard, costly choices to resist the feds.”

  “Regardless, we cannot let these findings dissuade us,” Tamara answers. All eyes turn to her as she stands to her feet. “Did the Confederacy’s banning of the import of slaves at the commencement of the Civil War protect the ones that were already here?” She pauses to let the others think about that for a moment. “Did it protect the ones the North were still importing?”

  “No,” Shane Mease concedes.

  “Neither did it abate the wrath of God, or mitigate the judgment they had coming to them,” Tamara continues. “There are thousands, if not tens of thousands, of people whose lives are at risk, people who will be exploited and experimented upon if we don’t protect them, even if the New Body scientists have to go back to the drawing board for better ways to modify the human genome.”

  “Expect more federal government intervention.” Stephens taps his pen—a truly rare sight in today’s technologically advanced world—against the desk. “Expect more control over the industry, and in the name of the public good, more bloodshed.”

  “I’ll tell you exactly what the New Body Research Center will do in response to this.” All eyes turn to me. “For a handsome price, they’ll market out the existing clones to research companies for exploitation, and probably start growing clones from unmodified donor DNA, or modify it only with non-viral vectors. They won’t stop killing, be sure of that—especially with unaccountable federal bureaucrats at the helm of the company.”

  No one can argue with that.

  “You have to protect them,” I insist. “These clones are real people with genuine emotions, with souls. We do them a terrible wrong—you do them a terrible wrong every single day you hesitate to come to their defense.”

  “This,” Stephens adds, his gaze drifting from governor to governor, “does make your job significantly easier. You all have a sworn duty to protect the innocent within your states. Your obligation is not assuaged by the fact the federal government is the one you need to protect the innocent from. Yet you each are democratically-elected politicians who want to stay in office. With this news,” he motions at the news report still projected on the wall, “the public opinion will turn against the New Body science.”

  “Dr. Verity, can you help us?” Whetley asks me. “You wrote the law that gave us this problem.”

  “You had this problem before the law was written,” I respond, “and you didn’t prosecute murderers then. And I didn’t write the law. The President’s people wrote it. I just defended it.”

  “The President wrote it? What? I’m confused.” Governor Whetley’s eyes drift from person to person around the table. “I thought President Sayder opposed your law just as vehemently as you opposed hers.”

  “The President recruited me to oppose her initial proposals, predicting I would be launched into hero status on the right. From the beginning, she admitted that my counter-proposal to her attempt to legalize cloning and clone termination was all she really wanted all along.” I clear my throat to let those words sink in. “Her first bill was a ruse. She tricked the Republicans into thinking my proposal to compassionately regulate the technology was the best way to protect the nation from her radical proposals. It was all a farce. The President’s debate team instructed me on how to defend the law she penned, and her media managers scheduled my appearances around the nation.”

  The state leaders are aghast. My face burns with shame. “I’m sorry.”

  Several moments pass as the leaders begin to comprehend the gravity of the conspiracy they are up against.

  “If God has tilted the battlefield in our favor, thanks to this new devastating side-effect to cerebral-ocular transfers, then you need to move quickly before the federal-government-controlled media begins its spin campaign to fix the public image or appeal to the crisis to justify more government control.”

  “It’s already begun.” Someone at the far end of the table has their gaze fixed on their handheld computer. “They’re putting the blame on you, claiming that you sabotaged the CMV and Epstein-Barr viral vectors to cause the rapid-onset dementia. They claim they have documentation of several attempts on your part to destroy your own company.”

  “What?” several simultaneously exclaim.

  “Yep. Quoting Dr. Redd Cranton and several CDC and WHO leaders at a press conference that concluded just a few minutes ago.”

  “It’s true.” Another briefly raises his handheld.

  I take a deep, raspy breath. I came here to help, but it seems I have only become a liability. The CDC leaks the story about dementia-related side effects to strike up fear and rouse anger, to justify federal intervention and further regulation of private industry involvement into New Body science, and to throw frigid water on these conservative governors’ determination to unite in resistance to the feds. Then government-employed medical leaders step in to put the target for all this fear and rage right on my back.

  “Did you?” Governor Whetley leans forward. “Did you sabotage the technology?”

  I shake my head. “No. If customers who underwent transfers before six months ago are experiencing rapid-onset dementia induced by a pathologic viral vector in the modification of the dupe’s DNA, how could I have been responsible for that? I was on ice. It was not until at least a couple of months after my resurrection that I got so fed up with the killing that I tried to dismantle the company.”

  “How did you try to dismantle your company?” someone asks.

  “When Ivan Wilkes was killed and I was at the helm, I tried to simply dissolve it before the government took over and prevented me. Then I exploited my access to company records and concealed studies to disseminate dirt on the industry to negatively affect its public image. Finally, I kidnapped a dupe slated for destruction.”

  “Your granddaughter?” Whetley asks.

  I nod. “Yes, sir. My Down Syndrome granddaughter, Mary Nell.”

  Means turns toward me, his elbows on the table. “With this publicized indictment of you. I suppose that our chances of leveraging your influence with the public to help us protect cloned humans in our states have shifted from good to extremely slight. That you were willing to risk your life to save your Down Syndrome granddaughter worked in our favor, as you earned the respect of the common man with a functioning conscience. But with
the accusation that you sabotaged the viral vectors to cause rapid onset dementia, this drastically hurts your influence with the public.”

  As the disappointment in the room rises, my sister sighs noisily.

  “Not necessarily.” I turn to Mease. “You have arrested David Starr, but do you have a good case against him?”

  “Unfortunately not.” His tone is gloomy. “Those who stepped forward to testify of his order to kill cloned humans have since retracted their story. Right before being whisked off to the Bahamas or the Swiss Alps for a six-month paid vacation, landing back in D.C. soon after for a cushy job, of course. A federal judge has blocked my ability to go after the company records, saying that it violates constitutionally-protected policy. The front door of Starr’s office is protected by armed federal Marshals. We’re still working on the case,” Mease assures us. “We’re not giving up.”

  “Has any one of you prosecuted a single murderer of a clone yet?”

  There is silence.

  “Then, I can help you.” I extend my wrists to Mease. “Prosecute me.”

  Several simultaneously object and I raise my hand to halt them. “Starr’s company, Mirror Mirror, operates under the direct supervision of my company as a kind of subsidiary, cloning and recycling clones—that means killing them.”

  “Then testify against him,” Mease suggests.

  “It’d be my word against his.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “No. You need a case to turn public opinion quickly, and discovery would be dramatically shortened if I gave you a full confession.” Everyone seems to hold their breath as I lay my neck on their chopping block, offering myself up as an opportunity for them to prosecute a murderer of clones under state law.

  “I need to prosecute a crime in Alabama. By law, I need a body and a weapon—or a means.”

  “Dr. David Starr murdered human beings in Alabama with my permission and under my authority. I can tell you exactly which research companies in Alabama receive his dissected organs and tissue, and there you will find evidence that they are shipped from his facility. That is a body, a genetically verifiable human body. David Starr admits to the means. It’s a clean case. I’m probably the greatest mass murderer in Alabama history, even though I have never stepped foot in Alabama.”

  A long silence follows, as everyone just stares at me wide-eyed in wonder, like flames had just burst out of my ears as I spoke.

  “What more do you need, Mr. Mease?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t prosecute you. Not you. Not now that you’ve done a 180.”

  His confidence in me alleviates my fears. I don’t have a death wish.

  Tamara speaks up, “Doesn’t the same God that insists you protect the innocent people in your state also forbid you to extend leniency to murderers? Is that all a murderer has to do in Alabama? Convert to Christianity, and then the Attorney General foregoes prosecution?”

  Wow. That’s a surprising twist, my sister urging the A.G. to prosecute me.

  Mease takes a deep breath, fixing his eyes on Tamara. “When a murderer like Saul of Tarsus becomes Paul the Apostle, the rules change, Tamara.”

  “The rules do not change,” she insists. “It was not illegal when and where Saul of Tarsus was arresting and persecuting Christians, and even aiding and abetting the murder of Stephen. Should it have been, Mr. Mease?”

  Momentarily, he answers, “Of course.”

  “If you protect the innocent in Alabama, as you are obligated to do, you must not pervert justice in the cases in which our brothers and sisters are the accused. Someone on death row may be forgiven their sin, yet it is still your duty to do justice.”

  Mease is speechless. My sister may have just single-handedly spear-headed the line of reasoning that could lead to my prosecution, conviction, and even my execution. I, too, am speechless.

  The Alabama Supreme Court Justice nods at Mease. “His prosecution would add teeth to your heretofore untested law, Mr. Mease. You want a law that holds, maintains public opinion in your favor, and impacts the other states to follow your lead? Prosecute him, convict him, and have him approve of your defiance of the predictable federal judicial attempt to negate your law.”

  From the looks on people’s faces, they pity me, and I don’t like it. “Stop acting like women,” I say. I turn to the corner of the room where several women sit. “No offense.” My gaze darts back to the men. “Little girls. My sister is right. The New Body science is my technology. Mine!” I raise my voice. “All the blood-letting for profit”—I slam my fists against the table and leap to my feet—“it was my idea! I made billions off it. I have cut open premature babies who survived abortions to simply observe or harvest their organs for profit. I’ve counted the body parts after elective abortions, as all abortionists do. I don’t deserve your pity. At least now, I know where I’m going when I close my eyes for the last time.”

  All eyes fix on Mease. “Did you sabotage those vectors?”

  “No. But you can bet that they’ve invented evidence that they will surely expose to the public any day. If you want to turn my presence here into an asset instead of a liability, prosecute me. Please!” I smile warmly. “If my sister’s right—and she usually is—God is a much greater threat to your people than President Sayder, because of the shedding of innocent blood of those you are obligated to protect. It would be my greatest honor to take the fall I deserve to help you protect them. Can there be a better case, Mr. Mease? I’ll even surrender my right to an attorney to keep costs down.”

  I glance over my shoulder at Tamara. Tears drift down her wrinkled cheeks. It wasn’t as easy for her as it sounded.

  “Isn’t that what our Lord did for us?” I smile warmly, fully embracing my inevitable prosecution, and feeling a great peace flood over my body. “Aren’t we called to take up His cross and follow His example? He became a curse that His children might be saved, right? His blood, it, it speaks better things than that of Abel.”

  I hear Tamara sniff, and I look back to see her wipe her tears and nod at me, affirming my decision, accepting my fate.

  “Mr. Mease,”—I extend my wrists toward him—“so will mine.”

  44

  IN LIGHT OF MY SACRIFICE, the resistance of the reluctant states fades and they come to a unanimous consensus. They rally around my sacrifice. The governors and their respective Statehouse leaders will assert before their legislatures that they must proactively protect all the innocent within their state, and not wait for that elusive Supreme Court majority to give them permission. Duty is not diminished by the negative consequences at the hands of tyranny. In response to the forthcoming long list of federal charges against me, Mease planned to both pull jurisdiction and to cite my constitutional right to a trial; he will claim his duty to prosecute for murder under Alabama law takes precedent over the accusation that I intentionally manipulated viral vectors to induce dementia in clients of the New Body science—especially since I would not be granted my constitutional right to a speedy trial under federal policy.

  Mease orders me to be taken into custody, kindly sparing me the cuffs. Tamara smiles warmly at me as I am led from the room, tears still streaming down her withered cheeks, but I do not feel the emotional heaviness that I expect to feel. I am elated! The leaders stand and applaud.

  I try to spurn their praise. “Quit. I’m only doing my duty, which is the least . . . ”

  The applause increases and drowns me out, resonating throughout the room as I am led out the side door, down the long marble hall into the elevator.

  The elevator doors shut. I take a deep breath. Everything is changing now.

  I step out a side door into the bright sun directly overhead under a cloudless, baby blue sky. I am surrounded by a half-dozen Statehouse security guards donning black masks, I suppose, to conceal their identity to protect them from federal charges. News station vans with satellites affixed to the roofs line the streets. Like the chaotic roar of an approaching fighter jet, the sound of a hund
red fast-talking media personnel rush around the corner of the building toward me, carrying microphones and cameras and shouting out my name. More security guards sprint in front of them and try to corral them onto the sidewalk. Several cameramen and journalists quickly carve out their square footage of the sidewalk in anticipation of the best view of my departure, whereas the more ambitious journalists push against the guards, shrieking my name and screaming out questions as if their life depended upon my answering. I am forced to a standstill in the middle of the lawn, as security tries to control the mob and one of Mease’s guards uses a specialized weapon to zap an approaching camera drone.

  Upon my insistence, Mease finally consents to let a Georgia deputy in the foyer put the cuffs on me. The bald deputy does not take Mease’s reluctance to do so under consideration, and is rough as he binds my hands tightly behind my back.

  Mease’s plan is to let the Atlanta police take me into custody now and transfer me to Alabama’s custody at the jail.

  An officer leads me and Shane Mease through the thick haze of cameras, frantic journalists, and extended microphones. Another police officer follows close behind me.

  “What would you say to your wife,” a female journalist shouts, “who was quoted this morning saying you have betrayed your family?”

  The question is unexpected and painful.

  “I adore my wife—and my family,” I shout back over my shoulder. I hope they play that on the news. That’d make Morgan’s day! “And my two grandbabies,” I add.

  The question instantly troubles my heart. Even if Morgan did say that, I do not condemn her. She may have been under duress. Who knows what threats she endured before they coerced her into making such comments to the press? I keep my eyes fixed on the flashing lights on top of the Georgia squad car beyond the throng of people, reminding myself not to be deterred by questions designed more to provoke an emotional outburst than to pursue any actual truth.

  Our pace slows as the maze thickens near the sidewalk. The shouted inquiries are unrelenting. “What happened to your face, Dr. Verity?”