Christ Clone (21 page)

The tone lightened considerably. 'Didn't recognize the number.'
Dale couldn't tell if it was Tony or Terry. Either way, it didn't matter.

'The subject's name is Michael Malone, and he needs to be dissuaded from carrying on his current line of investigation.'

'Is this a removal or an education job?' The voice at the other end of the phone asked.

'Education!' Dale gasped. He knew removal meant neither he, nor anyone else, would see Mr Malone again. Education on the other hand meant a very informative talk, with minimal rough stuff.

He calmed himself, and then continued more professionally. 'This is strictly an education job.' He proceeded to give basic details of the subject's misguided investigation, and his address. He finished with tonight as the time frame, and hung up.

The scientist attached the final monitoring strap to Aloysha's chest.
Drug cocktails had already been administered and the clone drifted slowly away on the bed. The lights were dimmed and the scientist returned to the other side of myriad machines and monitors to take notes. His role was to create the perfect environment for dreams and flashbacks but, above all, to keep his patient in complete safety. He checked the slowing heart rate and respiratory gauges, made notes, and moved on to the head/dream monitor that looked rather like a seismograph as the needles began to move. He looked over to the patient and was satisfied, knowing it wouldn't be long before the dreams would begin.

In the two days since Aloysha had been returned to the facility, he'd been probed, prodded, tested, and interrogated. He'd been thoroughly examined both physically and mentally. Everyone needed to be sure their subject had not been contaminated in any way. Thankfully, the clone's physical condition was good; he had only suffered from a lack of the right food, which had left him in a state of mild malnutrition
— nothing that a few hours of intravenously fed supplements wouldn't rectify. There were however, two small abrasions no one could explain; one in each of his palms. The tests for infection were negative, but he'd been given a tetanus shot anyway. His mental state was a different matter though; it would be almost impossible for them to ascertain whether or not Viktor Borgoff had corrupted the experiment. As part of the project, virtually every piece of information had to be approved before it could be given to the clone. The prohibited topics were anything to do with religion, early history, and certain geographical areas such as Israel, Palestine and many parts of the Middle East. The intention was to keep a clean slate. In the event the clone came up with anything that could be considered biblical, it would be clear that Past
Life Recall had occurred.

Through the glass from the next room, Borgoff's Fab Four watched intently as the sleep process progressed. Aloysha's arms twitched and his legs kicked out as his dreams took hold. Observing their subject was for them rather like a spider waiting for the fly in its web to stop struggling. With Viktor Borgoff now completely out of the way, there were no obstacles to really examining the boy's mind.

All four had previously worked with the military drones, gathering secrets and political dirty laundry, but the information that awaited them this time was mind-blowing, a genuine previous life and a monumental one at that.

Viktor Borgoff's fate had yet to be decided. He'd been tortured almost to death in their efforts to find out what had occurred between him and the clone. Once they were satisfied he hadn't ruined the experiment, his future use to them was minimal. And if it hadn't been for one of the investigation team suggesting his life might be useful as a bargaining chip with Aloysha, he would almost certainly have been terminated. Instead, he was drugged and relocated to a small confinement unit some miles from the facility.

Aloysha awoke from a deep sleep, but still felt tired. The Fab Four were there to meet him the moment he regained consciousness. They immediately fired rounds of questions at him, keen to exploit their small window of opportunity before his dreams became hazy and faded away.

What had he seen? Could he describe his surroundings? Who was with him? How was he dressed?

Unfortunately for the interrogators, all that Aloysha could recall this time — between yawns — was his escape. He saw snow, it was mainly dark and Viktor was with him. He was dressed virtually as he was now.

They probed him for a while longer before accepting that it was a waste of time. They would try again later.

B
ERLIN

Having received the web update about the Easter deadline, the team at PSI was starting to panic. The feedback Klaus received from around the boardroom table was mixed. Some thought that considering the recent attempt on Ansgar's life, it was way too soon to start pushing him. The others felt the human mind was a phenomenal instrument, capable of withstanding immense pressure. A full-on argument ensued. Voices were raised and tables were banged, but Klaus remained silent.

He was silent because he was thinking. He was thinking about his attachment to the boy. Thinking about what the sponsor intended to do with the clone once this was all over. Thinking about Ansgar's mother, and what was to become of her. Thinking about the sheer magnitude of what they'd accomplished. Thinking about what to do next, but most of all, as he looked around at the group squabbling like children in a playground, he was thinking that maybe they shouldn't have started this project in the first place. The argument was still in full flight when one of the men looked at Klaus and immediately fell silent. Following his gaze, the others turned one by one to look at
Klaus, then fell silent themselves.

Klaus was crying. It had started as just a small tear slipping down his cheek, but now his broad shoulders were hunched over and he was openly sobbing. To see any man crying was quite a spectacle, but someone as large as Klaus, almost at bawling point, was enough to stun the entire group into silence.

The chairman asked everyone, apart from Klaus, to leave the room.

'What is it Klaus?' He pulled up a chair next to the big man.

Klaus wiped his eyes with his thumb and index finger, pulling them away when they met at the bridge of his nose. He took a couple of large sniffs as he collected himself. 'Everything has gone so fast.' He was struggling to understand why he'd just broken down.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, we've created life, and if we're right, then we've recreated an extraordinary being. In theory, a being with a direct line to the overall creator of life.'

'We knew what we were getting into from the moment we started
. . .'

'Did we?' Klaus butted in, 'Did we really? Besides the illegal aspects of this project, what exactly is going to happen to the clone of Jesus once we have finished with him and, more important, what is God going to say about all of this?' He took a deep breath. 'I'm scared; okay, there, I've said it. I'm scared of what we've created, and I'm scared of what is going to happen to him . . . and what is going to happen to us.' Tears were starting to well up again.

'All we've done is recreate a human being who existed over two thousand years ago. We have no real idea who he was or what he did.
Everything seems to be normal with the clone, nothing unexpected or out of this world. I'm trying to say that if someone is willing to pay us twenty-five million US dollars for a two-thousand-year-old clone, then that's what they'll get. We'll try to see if this PLR — or whatever the hell it is — works, but believe me, if he doesn't show himself to be the
Son of God soon, we'll study every Jesus, Moses, and Roman movie ever made and he will
learn
to be!' Greed and survival seemed to have utterly overtaken compassion and morality.

Klaus was stunned. 'Are you saying you don't think we have a true clone of Jesus out there?'

'No, I'm not; I'm sure we've cloned the man who claimed to be the
Son of God. What I am saying is, I don't know if he was actually the
Son of God, and to be honest, I don't care. All that matters is, by the time Easter comes around, we'll be presenting the clone of Jesus and picking up the pay-off. If that makes you feel better about the possibility of him not being a supernatural power, then great; if not, once again I don't care. All I want is a walking, talking clone of Jesus. At the end of the day, how's the sponsor going to prove any different?'

Klaus' fear had been replaced by revulsion. He'd had no idea he was working for such an asshole.

Klaus left the boardroom determined to prove they'd cloned the real thing. Although he was a man of science, he needed to believe there was more to life than a seventy or eighty-year term of existence.
He needed to believe there was a life after death: a heaven, a hell, and a superior being watching over him. He made his way straight to
Ansgar's quarters, and set the PLR process in motion.

The examination room was set up in accordance with the wishes of the psychiatrist. Most of the monitoring equipment had been hidden, replaced with couches, desks, and a bookcase. A plasma TV had been set below waist height and displayed an image of an open fire. The temperature was increased a few degrees and the lights were dimmed, giving the room a homely feeling. The clone was given a hot chocolate laced with drugs, and he settled into the leather couch waiting for sleep to arrive . . .

'There's a parade of people heading north from the city, towards the small fishing town of Capurnum,' he said, feeling very tired.

Ansgar's visions were brief and flashed in and out of his mind.

I'm in a room with people sobbing around a small boy; after a while, there is joy and laughter.

There is a man ranting and raving, but then he becomes calm.

These images grew in speed and number but all followed a similar theme — unhappiness changing to feelings of elation.

Now there's a violent storm outside the shack, howling winds and torrential rain. There's sobbing and moaning filling my ears so loud
I can hardly think. Then it changes to silence. Outside the storm has passed, the sky is blue again. As I walk around the town, its sodden earth has dried and small wisps of dust are raised by my feet. I look out at the lake — the water is still. How could such a storm pass without trace?

Ansgar couldn't work out what it all meant, and when he snapped out of his dream he felt frustrated.

Klaus and the doctor were standing by as he awoke. Having watched his eyes flicker and his body jerk about, they were anxious to hear what he'd been dreaming about.

As Ansgar began to recount his visions the doctor showed increasing signs of confusion, patting his pockets and looking anxiously around the room.

'What is it?' Klaus asked.

'My pen, I seem to have mislaid my pen.'

As Klaus handed him one of his, the doctor muttered, 'I could have sworn I had it here a minute ago.'

Klaus ignored him; his attention was focused on the clone who'd taken his first significant step towards confirming his true heritage.

After his meeting with Dale, Travis sat in his office alone with his thoughts. Where did you buy this? Dale's question was still bouncing around in his head as he stared at the model inside the case. As he focused on the model of the spaceship, he drifted back in time to a
Christmas long past . . .

Eight-year-old Simon Travis wakes, knowing Santa has visited.
Running into his parents' room he jumps on their bed. 'Has he been yet, has he been yet?' He's so excited he bounces up and down, shaking the sleep out of them.

'Enough Simon!' They try to be strict, but know he won't go back to sleep. His father sees it's six o'clock and is surprised Simon has let them sleep so long.

His mother looks like she has a cold, but perks up at the sight of her son's excitement. 'Come on then, let's go see what Santa has brought you,' she says, and they all go downstairs to the living room.

His parents have a large colonial home, set in substantial grounds.
It was modernized and expanded some years before, and among its many features is an extensive conservatory with a games room, gym, and indoor swimming pool. Despite the sheer size of the house, his mother has made it a home.

Most of the family's time is spent in the same few rooms: the kitchen, the lounge, the dining area, and the conservatory — most of the time favouring the kitchen. Even from an early age, Travis has known they are wealthy; he's always had more than his friends — more toys, more things to do, more holidays abroad. They are a close family, and for as long as Travis can remember he's been spoiled. His mother almost smothers him with love and affection, and his father always has an open wallet. With Travis being borderline hyperactive, his father prefers to buy his way to peace and quiet.

The Christmas tree is huge. It takes up a very large corner of the room. In the weeks leading up to Christmas Day, Travis and his mother have spent their evenings trimming the tree, and talking about what Travis has learned at school. The tree is grotesquely over-decorated with almost the entire range of Nordstrom's Christmas tree ornaments; they dangle from every one of its limbs. The forest-pine smell fills the room and the bright red, silver, blue, and gold colours of the tinsel and baubles sparkle from among the green needles. The individual chains of lights flash in a random pattern around the tree inviting the viewer's eyes to dance around, drawing attention to the small stories the tree's decorations tell. From the elves at the bottom making toys for the children to Rudolf with his shiny red nose at the top, leading Santa on his moonlight delivery service.

Under the tree are stacks of presents; they flow from beneath the bottom limbs. Like children a mother has failed to keep in check, they spill out everywhere, jostling to be the first gift opened.

Travis is beside himself with excitement and anticipation. He hops from foot to foot as he looks up at his mother. 'Can I open them?
Pleeease,' he begs.

'Well, first we must be sure Santa has finished his work and has . . .'

Before she can finish, Travis runs to the fireplace and checks the top of a small table beside the hearth. 'It's all gone — the milk
and
the cookies.' Travis is brimful of confidence because Santa has taken the gifts left for him. It's an age-old game, one the whole family enjoys, especially Travis. His mother loves watching his face, and she throws her arms open for a congratulatory hug. He runs to her, momentarily forgetting the gifts.

Permission is given him to open his first present, and he grabs the nearest box, ripping away the multi-coloured paper to reveal its contents.
The Atari tennis game, hailed as the greatest home video game available, can be played by two players, or alone against the computer.
His father likes the latter option. It is, of course, just what Travis has asked Santa for. He desperately wants to play the game immediately, but there are other gifts to open. He grabs the next nearest package and opens it: a remote-control Porsche. Pretty soon he is tearing the wrapping from every gift he can lay his hands on; the stack of toys gets bigger and bigger. Clothes, shoes, books, and board games — Travis is lost amid a sea of shiny paper. With each present he opens, the smile on his face widens.

Nestled at the back of the tree is a medium-sized package, something purchased by his father as a stocking filler. The wrapping is bright red with small green trees dotted around the box. Simon rips off the wrapping and finds a kitset model of the USS
Enterprise
. He doesn't quite know what to say about this gift. His parents look at each other, sure he won't have the patience to build the toy.

'Thanks Mom, Dad, it's just what I wanted.' Although he's too young to understand the concept, there's a tiny hint of sarcasm.

When all of Travis' presents have been opened, his dad picks out a present for his mother, kissing her forehead as he places it in her hand.

She delicately unwraps it, revealing a small wooden box. As she lifts the lid, what lies within lights up her face. The diamond necklace is beautiful; a cluster of small rubies surrounding a large diamond set in gold. The diamond is the purest white she has ever seen, and on the back of the setting is engraved:
To the love of my life.

Travis never forgot that moment. His father seldom displayed such feeling, and a love like his parents' was something he continued to search for in his adult years.

Travis moves into the playroom clutching his Atari system and his father follows. They set up the game on the TV and then he leaves
Travis to it. Standing in the doorway, he watches his son begin to master the controls, smiles and turns to leave. The beep-beep sound it makes will soon have as much appeal as fingernails being dragged down a chalkboard.

Travis' mind raced forward a couple of hours.

While his father moves to the study to finish some work, Travis joins his mother in the kitchen. She's given the cook the day off.
Christmas dinner is the only meal his mother insists on cooking herself, and cook she does. The kitchen is a mass of pots and pans, and the mouth-watering aromas of roasting turkey and Christmas pudding fills the room. It isn't too long before she has him mixing pastry and chopping potatoes.

'Santa has brought you such wonderful gifts, you were obviously a good boy this year,' she says as she examines the contents of the oven, checking on the turkey's progress.

Travis is unusually quiet.

'What is it, son?' she asks, sensing his anxiety.

Travis searches for the right way to proceed. 'On the TV earlier they were talking about the birth of Jesus and how he was God's only son. Then they talked about God, and how he created everything. But our science teacher told us that we were involved.'

His mother smiles at Travis' mistake but lets him continue.

'I don't understand how God could create the whole world and the universe, but we were all once apes.'

'Different people believe different things, honey. Some people believe we are all here simply because all of the elements to create life were here. A bit like that cake you were mixing. If all the ingredients are already in a bowl and the bowl revolves — mixes them around
— and, if the bowl is in a really hot place, a cake is made. Other people believe you can't do all of this without a cook. Someone to gather the ingredients and measure them out. Someone to set the temperature and watch over the whole process. Someone to fix things should they go wrong.' Her eyes start to well up.

'Which one do you believe?' he asks. It is such an innocent question.

'To make a perfect cake like you, there would have to be a high-class gourmet chef. But sometimes I think he missed out on some of the ingredients!' Taking a small scoop of the cake mixture on her finger, she wipes it on Travis' nose and they both laugh.

The meal looks amazing; the table, set for three people, could easily feed twenty. Travis' mother looks tired but beams with pride at the meal she's prepared for her family. At the head of the table his father admires the turkey, brandishing the largest knife and fork Travis has ever seen. Before Father can start to carve the bird, Mother speaks and asks him to put down the cutlery for a moment. She takes their hands and tells them to bow their heads for a prayer. This is an unusual request, and as Travis takes his father's hand, they both look sideways at her. She catches the look but continues, unfazed.

'Lord, we thank you for providing the meal we see before us, and for keeping us safe and warm this year. We want to spare a thought for those less fortunate, and pray that you will watch over them. I pray you will keep my family together in the future, and that you will help them to overcome any loss, distress, or adversity that may come their way. Amen.'

'Amen.' His father gives her a puzzled look, takes a long sip of wine, and starts to carve the bird.

After the meal, his mom takes some of the plates to the kitchen and his dad takes his glass of cognac into the living room. Travis knows it won't be long before his father will be snoring, so he makes his way back to the playroom to master the Atari system. The game seems to swallow time. Moving the paddle dial on the game and bashing the computer bricks with the ball is enthralling, but as the day progresses, there are only so many times he can knock the video tennis ball back against the screen's wall, and he begins to feel bored with the game.

Sifting through the stack of toys, he picks up the large model of the
USS Enterprise
again. He looks at the instructions on the back of the box, and then turns the box to the front to look at the spaceship's picture. He really likes the TV program, and would love to have a spaceship of his own. Maybe he can get one of the maintenance guys to build this for him; then from the other room, he hears the hacking sound of his mother bursting into a round of deep coughing.

Travis became aware of his office again for a moment and found himself staring at the model in the case. He started to remember the work that had gone into building it, and his mind immersed itself again in his childhood.

His mother's Christmas cough had gotten progressively worse over the next few months; sometimes he felt sure she was going to bring up a lung. He could see himself in his parents' bedroom; his mother was sitting up in bed. Her hair was virtually gone and she looked anaemically white. He sat on the chair next to her and lifted the lid off the model's box. Lying inside were large and small plastic pieces of the spaceship fixed to outer frames. The pieces were all numbered and bore no resemblance to the picture on the front of the box. They were more like pieces of a 3D jigsaw puzzle that would be daunting to a child many years older than Travis. He was about to close the lid again, when his mother spoke.

'Bring it over to me, Travis.' Her voice sounded hoarse and weak.
'What a great looking plane,' she said looking at the image on the box.

'It's a spaceship,' he corrected.

'Sorry. What a great looking spaceship. Are you just going to look at the box, or shall we see if we can put it together?'

Travis' face brightened, and he pulled the top two frames out of the box, ripping the main body of the ship from its plastic casing.

'Careful Travis, shouldn't we look at the directions and make sure we put it together in the right order. Tell you what, you run downstairs and get some glue, and I'll read the assembly instructions.'

Travis jumped off the bed and ran to the door. He looked back at his mother. Her eyes were on him as he was about to leave, and he noticed they looked alert and alive, more so than they'd been for a long time. He came back quickly with the glue and they put the first few pieces together. Then they talked a little about her illness. He was too young to understand cancer, but he knew it was serious.

The next day his father had one of his staff set up a workbench in place of the bedside table; this was to be the 'paint shop' of their project, the place where each glued piece would dry. In front of his mother was a breakfast-in-bed table, now named the fitting room, the place where they'd piece together their project. They picked up the first pieces from the previous day and — following the instructions
— started to put the ship together.

With each part they assembled, more of his mother's illness revealed itself. First the cough, that nasty, deep, lung-tearing cough that doubled her over and made her eyes stream. Then the nosebleeds that came from nowhere, and for no particular reason; sometimes a trickle, other times a flood. And last, but by no means least, the unpredictable bouts of heavy vomiting, producing putrid green bile long after the contents of her stomach were emptied. Each time, after the storms of illness had subsided, they would discuss it. How it made her feel, how it was all a part of her getting better.

Production stopped for a few hours during each chemotherapy session, and Travis wasn't allowed to be present during the process.
Sometimes he'd observe what went on through the keyhole, witnessing his father holding his mother's hand, overhearing him tell her that it would all be okay.

As the weeks went by, the spaceship took shape. His mother always seemed to brighten when it was time for them to build together. In some way, Travis believed, for as long as they were building the model his mother would be fine. So he took his time in the meticulous painting and shaping of the model. But one day, after a very long consultation with the doctor, his father came to Travis with tear-filled eyes and told him that his mother had only a few days left before she would pass away.

'But you can't die, the model isn't finished,' he told his mother.

She explained to him that she'd be going to another place, and that she'd be looking down on him, loving and protecting him forever.

The very next day she was gone.

For a few weeks after the funeral Travis kept to himself; he stayed in his room, and seldom spoke when he did venture out. His father tried everything he could think of to get Travis to open up and grieve.
One day he decided to try another, unexplored, avenue; he went to
Travis' room and sat on his bed.