The spindle protein problem only mattered for primates, so it affected humans. Cloning Dolly in 1996 hadn’t involved dealing with this issue, so this 2002 paper was certainly ahead of its time, considering Snuppy the dog was cloned in 2005. A religious sect and Korean scientists had proclaimed they’d successfully cloned humans in the late 1990s and early 2000s, but none of these assertions had been proven. As far as the world knew, human cloning was not an option.
But these three crazy people showed us we were wrong!
He poured himself a strong cup of coffee, got a notepad and a pen, and then closed his office door. This was going to be fascinating, to say the least.
By 8 p.m., Luke had gone through the entire paper and felt like he needed to take a shower, both physically and mentally.
Dr. S. was a mad scientist, albeit a very clever one.
Luke couldn’t help but think of him as Frankenstein. He wondered where he’d conducted all of his experiments. His paper had been thoroughly researched, well-written. Based on the evidence and tests he claimed to have performed, Dr. S had solved the problems dealing with the spindle protein and resetting the DNA in adult primate cells.
While reading the report, Luke had handwritten notes that he could pass on to the FBI. He took out his laptop to type them up, so the agent in charge could understand what he wrote.
Summary of Dr. Moissonneau’s paper
- Cells harvested for human cloning are somatic cells (i.e., every cell EXCEPT sperm and eggs) thereby eliminating sperm banks as a possible source of DNA harvesting. Blood, skin tissue, organs, and other sources of DNA are all valid. Dr. Moissonneau mostly used fully-grown adult blood cells in his research, although adult skin cells were also used.
- Human cloning requires an ovum, so unfertilized female human eggs are required. Frozen egg clinics may be a target for the cloners as they would need a lot of unfertilized eggs. The DNA from those eggs would NOT match the clone’s DNA, so it would be impossible to trace.
- In addition to the donor’s DNA and a female egg, a female uterus would also be required, where the fused cell would be implanted until maturity. A large number of women would be needed as surrogate mothers (missing women? volunteers?), or they could have perfected an artificial uterus (technically challenging, but not insurmountable for someone with money and enough intelligence to clone human cells).
- The somatic cell nuclear transfer process discussed in the paper is very detailed, and irrelevant to this case unless you want to replicate it. It involves:
A- Retrieving a somatic cell from the “donor” (male or female).
B- Resetting the genetic information contained in the donor cell to an embryonic state.
C- Removing the nucleus from the egg.
D- Inserting the nucleus from the donor into the egg and fusing the two using electrical current and advanced techniques. This results in a cell very similar to a freshly fertilized egg, except that the DNA only comes from the donor. None of the mother’s egg remains.
E- Implanting the fused cell into a surrogate mother and waiting for it to mature, as a normally fertilized egg would.
Dr. Moissonneau’s research paper discussed how to enable the fusion of human adult cells, and how he reset their genetic information to return to the embryonic state. The closest proven technique was done in 1997, where another primate, a rhesus monkey, had been cloned but from embryonic cells, not from an adult monkey. If you need more information, I recommend following up with the scientists involved in the 1997 monkey cloning process or the 2014 mass-production of cloned pigs in China.
The following is speculation only: Dr. Moissonneau was likely discredited because he couldn’t demonstrate the new type of dye he had supposedly discovered that wouldn’t damage the cell and that helped him identify and remove the egg’s nucleus without removing the spindle proteins (without these proteins, cells can’t divide, so cloning would fail).
Luke printed a copy of his notes, reread them aloud to make sure they were written in plain English—or at least as plain as he could make them without losing the gist of what the paper was about.
The clock indicated 9:40 p.m. already, so he took out his phone to see if he had missed any calls. Not one. Not even from Kate. He wondered what she was doing right now.
Should I call her?
Nah, she’s probably busy or exhausted like I am.
Luke took the FBI biologist’s business card out of his wallet and dialed his number.
“Hi, Dr. Purdy?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Luke O’Brien from the crime lab.”
“Yes, have you found something?”
“I guess. The paper may help narrow down the search as to what type of cells were harvested for cloning. I can fill you in on the technical details tomorrow when we meet, but I thought I’d send you my notes and you can decide if you want to send them to Agent Lack tonight.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“May I email them to you at the address on your card?”
“Yes, please. That’d be perfect.”
“Will do. Call me back if you don’t get it within five minutes.”
Luke hung up, emailed the file, locked up the lab, and then headed home for a well-deserved shower.
Chapter Forty-Two
August 4, 2015
Christopher Kirk
The Colony
Christopher slid open the patio door and walked into the farmhouse, his boots plastered with wet mud.
“Smells like freshly brewed coffee,” he said.
“Just made it. Take your filthy boots off,” Stéphane said from across the room. “Juliet washed the floor this morning, and she won’t be pleased.”
Stéphane then saw the green camouflage bag Christopher had brought back and walked over to him to get it.
“What do you have in there?” Stéphane asked, smiling.
“Four dead rabbits, skinned, gutted, and quartered.” Christopher handed him the bag. “Ready for your magical hands. That should be plenty for our celebratory dinner tonight. I may even get No. 4 to join us.”
Stéphane rolled his eyes. “You know that’d be weird.”
“Fine, I’ll just bring her leftovers once we’re done.”
Now bootless, Christopher ambled over to the granite counter to pour himself a cup of coffee. He sipped it, and then backtracked on their conversation.
“Weird my arse. It was Juliet’s wish to clone ourselves in the first place. Not my fault she can’t stand seeing her younger self.”
“What about knowing what you do to her younger self? How would you feel seeing yourself at the table?”
“It’d be the dog’s bollocks. I’d joke with myself. I’d be my own best mate. Can you imagine? We could split our tasks amongst our twins. I could spend all day hunting, eating, and fucking. My No. 1 could do the weapons and martial arts training. No. 2 could dispose of the corpses. No. 3 could update and supervise training programs. What would No. 4 do...? Let me think...” He let his thoughts trail but remembered it was pointless. “Too bad our genes didn’t take. Did you ever figure out why?”
“Non,” Stéphane said. “Still hovering around a ten percent success rate. Cloning is more complicated than becoming a Master Chef. It’s unpredictable. Random errors occur with individual genes, which reminds me: I forgot to drain the dead ones today.”
“Nah. Don’t worry,” Christopher said, standing up and resting his empty coffee mug on the counter. “Cook dinner. I’ll take care of those before they contaminate the system. I’ll grab wine on my way back. What do you reckon would go nicely with rabbit?”
“See if we have any of the Château Fond Cyprès left. It was so delicious last time. Perfect match. If not, go for a Syrah or whatever tickles your fancy.”
“Where’s JJ?” Christopher asked.
“I don’t know. Probably down there, doing whatever she does.”
Christopher headed toward the elevator to go to the Incubator.
> As Stéphane had suspected, JJ was around, either in there or up in the master bedroom. Her stupid classical music was humming along, resonating through the room. She needed it to ground herself, she’d said.
Fucking crazy is what it was.
Before stepping amongst the plethora of throbbing wombs, he looked at the display: A dozen or so lights were flashing amber. These were the ones he’d have to drain now. At least they hadn’t turned red just yet, so the system was still uncontaminated.
He got dressed in the waterproof overalls hanging by the door, then put on a pair of rubber boots and thick black rubber gloves that covered most of his arms. He hefted the bulky wrench that leaned across the door frame and headed into the Incubator, walking toward the first amber light he saw: the third pod to his left. The display showed the clone’s name and age: Frank Saggs, 544 days. Christopher had gotten used to the conversion after all these years: about eighteen months.
The tosser will be heavy, nearly two stones.
He pressed the red stop button on the display, then closed two valves above the pod: the red one to cut off the blood supply, and the yellow one to stop the embryonic fluid intake. He bent down and closed the blue valve to disconnect the blood drainage line from the pod. He grabbed his wrench and loosened the drainage pipe connection, a smelly, slightly yellowish embryonic liquid oozed out, flowing through the metal grid and landing on the subfloor with a loud swooshing sound.
He waited until most of it had drained, then knelt underneath the pod, his shoulders supporting the weight of the dead fetus. He manually unscrewed the rest of the threads, until the nine-inch bolt came loose and landed in his hands. He pulled out the connection and stretched out the rubbery material that made up the artificial uterus wide enough so gravity could do the rest. The kid-sized slimy fetus landed, lifeless, at his feet.
What killed him? Heart defect? I’ll never know.
He followed the umbilical cord that still connected the corpse to the pod, and yanked on it, detaching the placenta from the rubbery exterior. A loud sucking sound resonated in the room before a gross pile of membrane joined the dead fetus on the floor next to him. Doing his best to ignore the nasty smell, Christopher bunched the rubbery uterus material again until he could squeeze it back into the connection, and re-screwed the nut back on, then the hose.
Christopher got up and headed to the console, carefully avoiding the dead body and gooey membrane, as these things were slippery as hell. He lifted the safety cover, and then pressed the button that opened up the floor underneath the pod. The body and tissues made a loud thumping noise as they hit the subfloor.
He waited until the surface pneumatically returned to its position and the safety clips re-appeared below the edges before stepping on it and using his wrench to reconnect the bottom. After opening a black valve underneath the pod, then another black valve above it, he allowed the cleaning fluid to work its magic.
After sixty seconds, he closed both valves and opened two white ones to rinse and drain the pod. Another thirty seconds then he was done with this one. He deleted the identity from the database and changed the unit’s status to “Empty,” which turned off the flashing amber light and lit up a blue one.
Taking his hefty tool with him, he stepped over to the nearest amber light. Juliet Jackson, 350 days.
No. 6. Now, that’s a shame!
He repeated the process and, two hours later, all fourteen amber lights had turned to blue. He was glad to be done, his shoulders a little stiff and his gut no longer able to stand the stench.
Christopher headed back out toward the entrance, but took off the rubber boots and gloves and hung them upside down on the rack just by the door. He then removed his overalls and hung them on another rack, and then put on a pair of flip-flops before stepping to the side to turn on the water.
He’d only forgotten to do that once, and the smell from his gear the following morning had been enough to teach him a valuable lesson: that shit stank like hell if he didn’t clean it up. So he did. They had a good set up, though. It didn’t feel like he was doing a bird’s job. It felt closer to cleaning a vehicle in a carwash. All he had to do was flip a switch to change between rinse and soapy water and just aim the pistol at his gear.
Voilà! Done!
It would drain and dry overnight, and then it would be good to go for tomorrow.
Time for a drink.
Wearing his flip-flops, he crossed the Incubator again to reach the other end of the house, where JJ and Stéphane’s bedroom was, but also where the wine cellar was located. As he opened the door, the music got louder, JJ was in there, somewhere.
“Hey JJ,” he yelled.
The music stopped. He repeated his greeting.
“What do you want?” Juliet’s voice asked from above.
“Just picking up wine for tonight.”
He heard footsteps above his head, coming toward the staircase.
“Did you catch anything?” she asked, peeking above the rail, her blonde hair hanging down.
“Rabbits. Stéphane’s cooking them as we speak.”
“Lovely,” she said. “Need help with the wine?”
“Should be all right. I’ll get a couple of Château Fond Something.”
Christopher stepped toward the cellar entrance, but he’d only taken two steps before she spoke again.
“No, we’re out of that one,” she said. “I’ll come down and pick one for you.”
She started descending the stairs while Christopher savored every second of her saucy approach toward him. First, her bubble-gum colored furry sandals appeared on the top steps, then her long legs descended, followed by some matching silk fabric dragging behind her like a cape. The pink baby-doll gown she wore soon came into view; it was barely long enough to reach her thighs, so he regretted not having stayed by the stairs as he was willing to bet she didn’t have panties on. Her waist and huge knockers appeared next, gently bouncing with every step she took. She was already drinking, carrying a glass of red wine with her.
She smiled at him. “I’m sure we’ll find something else that will pair just fine.”
He let her lead the way and inhaled her jasmine scent as she passed by him.
“Draining?” she asked.
“Yeah, is the stench still on me?”
“A little.”
“What were you doing up there?”
She shifted her eyes suggestively. “Reading. You should try that sometimes. It’s good for stress relief.”
“I’ve got a more effective remedy for that,” he said, grabbing his junk.
She shook her head. “Chris, you’ve still got one of them?”
“Yeah, No. 4 is young and healthy... for now.”
Juliet bent down and pulled one of the wine bottles out of the rack, then pushed it back in.
He knelt next to her and watched her repeat the process for a few more bottles.
“I wonder...” He stared at her, not bothering to finish his sentence.
She turned her attention to him, their faces inches apart. “What?”
He slid his finger along her shoulder underneath the silky robe. “I wonder if you feel it when I touch her, just like I used to touch you.” He moved his finger to the light freckles on her cleavage. “When I fuck her, when I make her come—”
“Stop it,” she swatted his hand away.
“Don’t you miss it?”
“No, I don’t miss it, and I don’t feel it.” She stood up, bottle in hand. “Take this one.”
Instead of joining her motion and standing up, he stayed on his knees and placed his hands firmly on her hips, which were now perfectly positioned for him. With his index fingers, he lifted the smooth, silky fabric up to her waist.
No panties. Just as I suspected.
A tiny strip of trimmed strawberry blonde hair greeted him.
“Chris, no.”
“For old times’ sake.”
He clutched a handful of her arse. Still firm.
�
�Stéphane could come in any minute,” she growled at him.
“Not a chance. He’s busy cooking us a nice meal.”
He traced the contours of her pussy with his fingers, then began licking her delicate skin. She tasted good, even better than he remembered.
“No, we shouldn’t,” she said, gently pushing him away from her.
Christopher got up and stood just inches from her before whispering in her ear, “Why the fuck not? It’s not like being married to Stéphane has made the two of you exclusive. Intelligence gathering or not. You and I, it’s been what... twelve years? Twelve years of build up? You want it, too,” he said, his fingers reaching down to touch her pussy again. “You’re wet already.”
He pushed her against the old wooden table that occupied the cellar.
“You stink,” she said half-heartedly.
“Get over it.”
Her sultry eyes locked onto his and she reached down to undo his belt, her breathing getting heavier by the second. He unzipped his pants, and she tugged at his engorged dick.
Back in his room, with No. 4 resting on the bed as she always did, Christopher hopped into his en-suite shower.
He would have liked to have lingered in JJ’s scent—it had felt good to get the real thing for once—but he needed to rid himself of the awful embryonic odor. He’d have to instruct No. 4 to update her grooming style to match JJ’s latest pubic do. He lathered himself with pine-scented soap and smiled. He’d made her come twice, all the while her stupid husband was cooking them dinner. Christopher would be willing to bet he was a much better lover than Stéphane was. Probably had a bigger knob than the gormless Frenchman, too.
“Bollocks,” he said aloud, turning off the water.
The Last Hope Page 30