Replica (7 page)

The Man shot his cuffs. "Consider yourself paid in full."

J
ACK
B
AKER STOOD UNDER A
eucalyptus tree and watched the rain pound the forest canopy. The others were packed tightly in a makeshift shelter and Baker found the idea of sharing a five by ten lean-to with three strangers uncomfortable at best. His claustrophobia wouldn't let him do it even if he wanted to, which he didn't. Night had arrived with a storm, and the rain seemed to be endless. Moreover, the temperature had fallen drastically, leaving him chilled to the bone and miserably soaked, despite the good-sized fire he built under the cover of some trees.

In the firelight, he also noticed something he ignored earlier. A jagged piece of metal had cut a gash in the back of his calf, and now that the adrenaline was wearing off and fatigue was setting in, the wound made its presence known like a white-hot knife. He pressed at it, hoping to bleed out any debris, but even the slightest touch sent a fireball shooting up his leg and right through his groin.

Tracy Mills came up behind Jack. "Ooh, that looks nasty."

"Ah, I've had worse. It hurts like hell, though."

"It needs a couple of stitches."

"Are you volunteering?"

"I was an OR nurse before I became a stewardess."

"What do you plan to use for sutures?"

"I saw the medical kit sticking in a tree at the crash site. I grabbed what was left in it," Tracy said, opening the canvas bag she'd been lugging with her.

Jack inhaled silently. "Good thinking."

"You do realize our plane broke up before impact."

"What are you saying? It was a bomb?"

"No. The velocity broke it up. That's why there's intact stuff everywhere. It launched us forward when we hit the water and landed in the trees. It's weird."

"Stuff must have flown hundreds of yards," Jack observed.

"Now, let's take care of that leg."

Tracy moved closer to the fire for light and reached in her bag. His leg was really throbbing now and he hoped she had something for pain in her bag of tricks.

She knelt down next to Jack. "Here we go. Now, let's see."

Jack pulled the cuff of his pant leg up past his knee revealing the full view of his wound.

"It's pretty bad," Tracy said. "I've got some lidocaine here to numb it up. It's gonna need a few more stitches than I thought, though."

Jack leaned back. "I barely know you and yet, here I am letting you sew me up. Can't you at least give me a little background on yourself?"

"I could say the same thing, except I'm doing the sewing."

"Fair enough." He took a deep breath. "Jack Baker. I'm thirty-eight. Associate professor of anthropology, Penn State. Born in Washington D.C.; raised in Seattle. There, now it's your turn."

"Tracy Mills.
Flight attendant of crashed plane.
Graduate of UCLA Nursing School and Pan American stew school. I'm a California girl, and I am not telling you my age. Pleased to meet you." She extended her hand and Jack shook it warmly. "You ready to get stitched?"

"Do what you gotta do, doc."

They were looking at one another at the exact instant they heard it. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees when an inhuman high-pitched howl pierced the pounding rain.

T
HE LITTLE
-
KNOWN COUNTRY OF
Dunali lies between Iran and Morocco on a chunk of desert that had unlimited oil and gas reserves. Prince Habib Hamel headed the monarchy that ruled the country. The crown had passed from father to son for generations and Habib was to pass it to his son, Ali. Now, that future for the young boy looked bleak. Khalid had become increasingly weak over the last month and the concerned Prince had sent the child to Dunali's medical center for tests. The results sent the Prince into a state of despair. His ten-year old son would not live to inherit the throne one day.
He'd be lucky to see his twelfth birthday.

Habib couldn't let his son die, no matter what the tests said. He would find a way. If he had to spend every penny that came out of the ground beneath the desert sand, his son would not die.

Then, like a thunderbolt from a desert storm, the answer to his dilemma was delivered to him. It came in the form of a magazine article. He recognized its significance the moment he'd laid eyes on it.

The Prince called his aide into his suite. "Jimi, I want you to search the Internet for every geneticist you can find. Narrow it down to the top five in the world and bring me the list. You are to do nothing else until you are finished."

His aide mounted strenuous objections.
It was impossible. In most countries, it was illegal. It was immoral, he argued, let alone the religious ramifications. And the odds were so far against it, it was probably incalculable.

Habib knew the arguments against it, but none outweighed his reason to proceed. He could not be persuaded.

"Your highness--"

"Enough, Jimi. I gave you an order. Now, do not worry about anything else. Time is running out. Do you understand, my friend?"

The aide relented. "I believe I do, sir."

That had been six months ago. Now, as the Prince stood staring out of his son's window into the desert below, he realized that the cure he so desperately sought, the cure they all said was impossible, might be just weeks away. He waved his aide to his side. Taking his hand, he spoke softly, "Jimi, I need you to go check on the progress at the compound. Let me know what the status is. I have to stay here with Ali."

"But, your--"

The Prince tightened his grip, making Jimi's knees bend a little. "Don't argue. The chopper will pick you up in one hour. Go now."

"Very well, Your Excellency."

T
HE SIGN ON THE DOOR
said
SEQUENCING
and, like all the other doors in the building, it opened with a security card. Peter Carlson slipped his card in the slot. The lights blinked, and with a click, the door opened. Inside, Peter saw a large room bathed in fluorescent light.

Peter wasted no time getting to work on the gene sequencing. Although he was coming in at the tail end of the project, his expertise was paramount for their success. He could feel the resentment Tibek harbored for him. After all, Prince Hamal had summoned him here to accomplish what Tibek had not been able to achieve.

Peter began by calling up all of Tibek's data thus far. He was surprised to find that several files were incomplete and several more required an additional security code to open. He found this odd because less than an hour earlier, Tibek had assured him of full access to all the sequencing data they'd amassed over the last three years.

Using his login information to enter the data bank, Peter typed in the proper security code.

GENE>THYLA>WHTIB:


The monitor flashed and a list of files appeared.

source 1..17411 Sept. 3, 2004
/organism="Thylacinus cynocephalus"
/organelle="mitochondrion"
/mol_type="genomic DNA"
/db_xref="taxon:9275"


tRNA 942..1009
/product="tRNA-Phe"


rRNA 1010..1961
/product="12S ribosomal RNA"


tRNA 1963..2030
/product="tRNA-Val"


rRNA 2031..3597
/product="16S ribosomal RNA"


tRNA 3602..3675
/product="tRNA-Xle"


gene 3677..4633
/gene="ND1"


CDS 3677..4633
/gene="ND1"
/codon_start=1
/transl_table=2
/product="NADH dehydrogenase subunit 1"


/translation="MFTLNLFLYIIPILLAVAFLTLIERKVLGYMQFR KGPNIVGPYG


LLQPFADAIKLFTKEPLQPLTSSWSMFILAPILALTIALTIWTP LPMPNALLDLNLGL


LFILSMSGLSVYSILWSGWASNSKYALVGALRAVAQTISYEVT LAIILLSVMLINGSY


TMKTLSITQENLWLIFTTWPLAMMWFISTLAETNRAPFDLT EGESELVSGFNVEYASG


PFAMFFLAEYANIIAMNALTTILFLGSSMSLLTPNINTLIFVIK TLLLTITFLWIRAS


YPRFRYDQLMYLLWKNFLPLTLALCLWFISM PISMSCIAPQM"


tRNA complement(4633..4701)
/product="tRNA-Xle"


tRNA 4699..4769


PRODUCTION NOTE: Sequence is tainted. Suggest abort!


SEQUENCE 1


ORIGIN


1 tagctcgcac gactctattt cagcggaaat aaaatcaatg atctatagac ataaaattaa


61 caaatcatc agttacaaca atatcaacat ctaagactac atacaatcaa tttcattaag


121 atcaataatc aatgatcgat agacataaca tcaagtatta ctaacatcat aaagacatat


181 tattatactt ccccccctgc aaacacgtat ttaccatcaa cgtttgcgtt ta cacgtata


241 tgcgtacaca cgtatatgcg tacacacgta tatgcgtaca cacgtatatg cgtacacacg


301 tatatgcgta cacacgtata tgcgtacaca cgtatatgcg tactgtgtac gtgtacgtgt


361 aaataataat taataataat taataataat taataataaa taataataaa taataataaa


421 taataataaa taataaataa taataaataa taataaataa taataaataa taataaataa


481 taatatataa taatataaaa taatatataa taaataataa taagtttctg at cattaaac


SEQUENCE 2


541 ccccctaccc ccttactaaa ttttatcgct tccgtcaaac ccctaaaccg gatgatagac


601 ctttagcaca atgaataatc atcgtacggg agaaaacatt ctaaacccaa atactattta


661 catttaactt attacctaat caaattaact aaccaaaaac aattaactaa ccaaaaacaa


721 ttaactaacc aaaaacaatt aactaaccaa aaacaattaa ctaaccaaaa acaattaact


781 aaccaaaaac aattaactaa ccaaaaacaa ttaactaacc aaaaacaatt aactaaccaa


841 aaattttctg attcaaaaag aaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaatt aaatactgac


901 atagtatata aattaaaaat ttcaaaaaaa attacttttt tgtttgtgta gcttaaccaa


961 agcaaagcac tgaaaatgct tcgatggatc ataatgggtc cca gaaacac aaaggtttgg


1021 tcctggcctt actgttaatt cttattagac ctacacatgc aagtttccgc gccccagtga


1081 gaatgccctc aaaactaact aatagttttt taggagtggg tatcaggcac actcaatgag


1141 tagcccatga caccttgcct agccacgccc ccacgggata cag cagtgac taatattgag


1201 ctatgaacga aagtttgact aaattataat aaagagggtt ggtcaatatc gtgccagcca


1261 ccgcggtcat acgattaacc caagttaaca gaaaaacggt gtaaagcgtg tttaagcgaa


1321 ataaataaaa taaagttaat acctgactaa gctgtaatac gccatagtta gtactaaaat


1381 acacaactaa cgtgacttta ctatagagct gaagacacta aagctaaggt acaaactggg


1441 attagatacc ccactatgct tagccataaa cttaggtagt cgaataacga gactactcgc


1501 cagagaacta cgagccactg cttaaaactc aaaggacttg gcggtgccct aaacccttct


1561 agaggagcct gttctataat cgataaaccc cgatacacct caccccttct agctctatca


1621 gtctatatac cgccatcgtc agctcacccc aacaggggac aaaagtgagc aagattatga


1681 aaccataaaa acgttaggtc aaggtgtagc gtatggaggg ggaag cgatg ggctacattt


1741 tctaaattag aacataacga attatctatt gaaacaaaga tatgaag gag gatttagtag


1801 taaattaaga atagagagct taattgaaaa aggcaatggg gtgcgta cac accgcccgtc


It was obviously the sequencing data for the Thylacine project, but Peter was shocked that huge chunks of data were missing from the files. There were supposed to be data from two specimens, yet there was barely enough data here for one specimen. More frightening yet, the end of the first file called for aborting the project.

The last entry made a chill climb the ladder of Peter's spine.

Sequence tainted?

The entry was dated September 3, 2003.
Two days before Whiting killed himself.

A mechanical click at the door jolted Peter from his thoughts.

Ellen Choy entered, wearing her white lab coat over a white polo blouse and khaki slacks. Her security card dangled from the chain around her neck. She carried a huge, white coffee mug with the GenSys logo on the side.

"Dr. Carlson, I wanted to apologize for Frank Tibek's behavior at the meeting yesterday. He can be a real jerk sometimes."

"I gathered that. But, it's okay. In this occupation, you meet a lot like him. It's their egos.'

"What about you?"

"I'm not in this for glory. It's more personal for me."

Choy set her mug on the table. "You mean your grandfather."

"Yes. Have you heard of him?"

"I've read some of his papers. He was very advanced for his time."

Carlson turned, hiding a smile. "I'm very proud of the work he did."

"You should be. He was the pioneer who brought us here."

"So how did you end up here? I mean, what's your official duty?"

Choy furrowed her brow. "You mean, duties,
plural.
I double as a doctor and researcher. Much of the research deals with cause and effect on humans. You know, because of the Prince's son's condition. I oversee that. But since I don't have a full-grown specimen to work with yet, a lot of my research is theoretical. I can only hope our ancestors were right about the medicinal powers of the Thylacine. I really don't understand the DNA sequencing part that well. It's not my field of expertise."

Peter smiled. "Don't feel bad. A tonsillectomy is beyond my expertise. Speaking of sequencing, you wouldn't know what happened to the rest of Dr. Whiting's files, would you? It seems there are large amounts of data missing."

"No. I came in on the tail end of this thing, just as you did. Frank keeps a really tight lid on everything around here."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Carlson turned back to the monitor in front of him and tapped the screen with his finger. "It looks like to me after the first batch of extractions, Whiting was questioning the growth pattern of the embryos."

Ellen Choy bent down and studied the computer screen. "That's the growth hormone issue you brought up in the meeting?"

"Yes."

"What do those numbers mean?'