“Galen,” he repeated as if he was trying out the name. “You’ve named him Galen?”
Christine nodded and though she’d been terrified when the agents first burst through the door, her courage was quickly returning. “Thousands of people now know him as Galen,” she added.
Armstrong frowned in the silence and then a cell phone began to ring. It was Stanfield’s. He answered it quickly.
“Yes? No, at the moment we’re fine,” he answered and then remained quiet, clearly listening. The agent directly behind him shot Armstrong a questioning look. Armstrong gave a barely perceptible shake of the head.
“That’s fantastic!” Stanfield said into the phone, smiling brightly. “The DOE,” he answered and then, “I’ll contact you as soon as I can,” then he hung up.
“The story’s going nationwide,” he told the room. “CNN has negotiated to run it…and CBS will open with the story and then run the entire interview immediately after the national news.” Stanfield smiled. “Now what boys?” He asked Armstrong with just a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
“Where’s…Galen?” Armstrong asked clearly growing angry, but he was controlling it remarkably.
“He’s safe,” Adam answered.
“Is he?” A woman answered from behind him. “Will he be safe when this story gets out? Do you have any idea how the public will react to this? Because we don’t…which is why we didn’t want it out in the first place…at least not until we felt the reaction could be controlled.”
“Bullshit!” Christine answered, spinning to face the woman. “You were going to kill him, bitch.”
Agent Collier recoiled a moment, then smiled icily. “My name’s Rebecca,” she answered evenly and Christine immediately regretted the vulgarity, “and I wasn’t going to kill anyone.”
Christine swallowed and answered a bit more calmly. “The DOE then. You do work for them don’t you Rebecca?”
Collier hesitated a moment and then nodded.
“Galen’s death is no longer in question,” Armstrong told them all and then looked directly into Christine’s eyes. “You’ve seen to that,” he added. “But we will be taking him into custody…both to protect him and study him. He’s still aging rapidly isn’t he?” Armstrong asked on a whim.
Christine blanched and nodded. “I can’t deactivate the R89 gene,” she said simply.
Armstrong sincerely looked unhappy at the news. “Then he has what…maybe five years to live?”
Christine dropped her eyes. “Maybe less,” she conceded, deciding not to mention the fact that Galen now claimed to be in control. “The aging process is accelerating.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Armstrong answered. “I really am,” he added and for some reason Christine found herself believing him.
“Doctor Dawkins,” Rebecca Collier said softly from behind her. “He’s going to need our protection. People aren’t going to understand the difference between engineering and cloning, plus the religious implications are bound to stir up some of the folks on the right.”
“Where’s the boy Christine?” Armstrong asked softly. Adam fidgeted behind his sister but said nothing. To be perfectly honest he didn’t quite know what to do. This would have to be her decision. Hell, she was much smarter than he was, always had been.
Christine hesitated and then glanced up at her brother and then at John Stanfield, who smiled but shrugged. “The story’s out,” he told her, but offered no more advice.
Christine looked back to Adam. “We can’t keep running forever,” she told him and he flashed a grim smile.
“What of the women?” Adam suddenly asked Armstrong, now thinking only of Vio. He knew that it would be nearly impossible for anyone to hold her against her will, and he had a strange feeling that if they tried she would kill again or be killed. The thought made his heart beat wildly in his chest.
Armstrong held up his arm. His missing hand spoke loudly in the quiet room. “I would like to meet her,” he began, “the one who did this. Who is she?” He asked with an intensity that let Adam know just how much the answer meant to the man.
“Her name is Vio…Vio Valencia,” Adam answered. “She was just protecting Galen,” he added and hoped that would be enough. “She didn’t understand the situation.”
“And just where did she come from?” Armstrong insisted, thinking back to the night in the pavilion and the strange way the women arrived in the park.
Adam shrugged and smiled. “The answer makes my head hurt,” he answered back. “The claim they’re from Earth…the New Earth, and her people were led there centuries ago by Galen….Galen Dawkins.”
Everyone remained silent for a time.
“Yeah…right,” an agent in the far door said loudly under his breath.
“Where’s Galen?” Armstrong asked once more, his head spinning from the implications of everything he heard…everything he knew. “We need to get all of you out of here.”
“He’s in back, down by the lake with Vio, Avigail and the others” Christine told him quietly. “Where will you take us?”
“The FBI building downtown for starters,” Armstrong told her and glanced toward the rear of the house. “Will they give up their swords?” He asked impulsively and clenched the hand he no longer had.
Adam laughed. “I wouldn’t try it. They’re very, very fast, but they are reasonable and won’t attack unless they feel Galen is being threatened. I think we should lead the way,” Adam suggested, speaking more to the other men rather than Armstrong, who was already acutely aware of the skill of the women they were now going to meet.
Before Adam opened the back door he turned back to Armstrong. “Don’t draw your guns,” he told them, “and be extra careful when you move toward Galen. They will kill you quickly and without question if you make the wrong move.”
Armstrong nodded. “Collier, Garcia…you’re with me. The rest of you go back to the cars and wait. And for god’s sake do as he says when we return.”
†
‘Jesus H. Christ! The little bastard implicated me!’ Heyworth thought as he sat staring at the television screen, unconsciously sinking farther down into the thickly padded leather chair. The room was dark, lit only by the flickering light coming from the screen, the thick mauve curtains pulled tightly against the growing twilight. Heyworth liked the room this way and had argued with Alice about it so many times that now she rarely ventured in. The room was his, his sanctuary, his refuge, his escape. Every evening he would enter, flip on the television and flip off the lights and then watch the evening news, wallowing in the depravity that was the world of men. He was never disappointed…never. And each night the news would feed him any number of events on which to base his next sermon. The world was falling apart. Integrity, chivalry and honest goodwill were slowly dying out against the avalanche of hate, apathy and bitterness. Darkness now ruled the modern world, and Heyworth relished every bit of it. The more the world came to resemble hell on earth, the more people craved a piece of heaven. And it was Heyworth’s job to give them just that, to give them hope, love and everlasting life…for a nominal fee of course. Nothing was free or so people thought and in today’s world if you tried to give something of value away it only aroused suspicions. No, it was better for everyone involved if heaven cost something…so Heyworth charged and did so very happily.
But now that was all in jeopardy because of a boy, no an experiment, a smudge on the bottom of a Petri dish. How would his flock react to this news? Reverend Heyworth, who prided himself on understanding the common man, could guess. He knew that most in his congregation loathed science and progress; naturally conservative and resistant to all change, they would cringe at the mention of cloning. But what of the cloning of the Savior himself, that was the unknown. Jesus, walking once again on this Earth! Some might see the glory in that, the miracle, to have the son of God among them, preaching to them, teaching them, showing them the way and bringing about the end to all the godlessness around them. That was the true
glory in what he was trying to accomplish. The meek will finally inherit the Earth as God intended.
‘But if the boy would not take up the role of savior and bring forth the rapture every Christian hoped for, if all he did was talk and preach, then what good was he? Hell, I can preach!’
And then another thought hit the Reverend. If the boy did begin to preach…and if by chance, people began to listen…and to believe he was their savior, then what would they need him for or any church for that matter?
†
Alberto Torres flew into O’Hare three hours after watching the young Galen Dawkins on the nightly news. He was in high spirits. Heyworth had transferred the money as directed so the job was a go.
As Torres strolled through the immense Chicago terminal his eyes lit on the many television screens that were perched seemingly everywhere. Hundreds of people crowded around nearly every monitor, gazing up at CNN, anxiously waiting for any hint of new information about the boy who was interviewed earlier in the evening. Already the story was a phenomenon, captivating the general public like nothing since 9/11. Everyone was talking about it; everyone was curious and everyone had their own unique opinion about what should be done with the boy, the scientist and Cryogen.
With all the attention, the job was going to be…interesting. Torres had little doubt he would be able to complete the assignment. It might take some time, and some very careful planning, but the boy would die. He was the best, and short of holding the target in a maximum security prison or hiding him away under something akin to witness protection, Torres would succeed. It was much easier to kill someone than most people realized; the trick was not to get caught doing it and Torres knew all the tricks. Back in Colombia, nearly two decades ago now, while Torres was working under then President Cesar Gaviria and fighting against the Colombian drug lords, he had been trained by the best in the world…the CIA.
Torres was instrumental in hunting down and finally killing the notorious drug lord Pablo Escobar, but despite the success of his operations he had to flee the country in haste when it was uncovered that he received vital information from several of Escobar’s chief competitors. In his mind, his fall from grace was completely unjustified; his tactics were sound and his results were without question. What did it matter how he obtained his intel, it wasn’t as if he was actually working for the drug lords…at least not at the time. But after years of exile, his views began to shift. He never forgave Gaviria or the Colombian government and in time even began to work for the people he had fought so hard to bring down. Torres began to hand out justice in his own way, becoming the law unto himself but unlike Nico, his self-righteous brother, Alberto doled out justice for any that could pay. And he was very, very good at what he did.
Torres bypassed the luggage terminal having brought nothing with him other than a small carry-on which contained only a change of clothes. He had several contacts in the Chicago area where he could safely rest and outfit himself with all that he needed, which wouldn’t be much. His first weapon of choice was a knife; Torres liked to kill in close if at all possible. He liked to feel the breath leave his victims along with their blood. He would kill the boy in this manner if he could, but Torres was also a realist. Getting close to the target might not be possible, in which case he would garner a few extra supplies, the most important being a CheyTac M200 sniper rifle, which in his capable hands had an effective range of nearly 2000 meters. The rifle was state of the art, expensive and a staple of the US Army, but they were available to civilians at a price…a steep price. Torres had been a loyal fan of American made weapons ever since his days training with the CIA. Whatever else you might think of the arrogant people to the north, they made the finest weapons in the world, even better than the Germans, and in Alberto’s mind, that was saying something. But even though the rifle was very expensive, Torres actually owned nearly a half a dozen including the one being shipped overnight to an address in Downers Grove. With the national publicity and with the FBI involvement, the kill would unfortunately have to be long range; a pity really, for it took so much of the pleasure out of the job.
Yes, killing in close was the only satisfying way to take a life, but he would do whatever was necessary to complete the job and avenge his brother’s death. In his way, Alberto loved Nico, despite the fact that his brother had turned into a bible thumper shortly after coming to America. He found God relatively late in his life, and was extraordinarily passionate about his faith, as many late bloomers were, and for the past five years had taken to killing only in the name of Christ. In the beginning, such an attitude annoyed Alberto, but his brother was all that was left of his family, so in the end he accepted Nico’s choice. It also helped that in America, the Christian community supplied them with a great deal of work. Alberto was Catholic by upbringing, but had not set foot in a church since his mother died nearly a quarter of a century earlier. No matter, life had taught him that most of what his mother believed was nothing more than a fairytale for grownups. It was a lesson life had taught him well.
A car was waiting for him when Torres stepped out of the terminal…it was breezy and quite comfortable for this time of the year, but Alberto took little notice of the weather. The driver nodded but did not say anything, and quickly pulled away from the curb. The man drove fast, but not so fast as to attract unwanted attention, which was good. Torres felt the need to hurry. This job must be over quickly, he could feel it in his bones. Mateo Vargas was his contact in the area. He was a good man, a smart man. He stayed in Chicago and didn’t make trouble. Torres purchased his services on several past occasions and had not been disappointed. Mateo was the heavyweight in Chicago but never strayed from the city, and he seemed to be satisfied with the arrangement. That was good, if he ever got the urge to branch out it could cause real trouble. Torres would have to keep an eye on Mateo, but for now everything was in order.
†
They’d spent the night in the FBI building, in the central room of the temporary housing area, deep underground. Blue took the couch, while Adam spent a restless night on a cot three inches too short for his frame. It didn’t help that the cot was pushed all the way up against one wall and his head was directly next to a noisy, off white refrigerator. Galen and the women slept in the three bedrooms which were small and branched off the central room. Vio and Avigail shared one room, while Galen and Christine took another which left the remaining bedroom for Dorothy. The central living area was relatively small and contained plain furniture made of some kind of olive vinyl that protested loudly when you moved bare skin across it. It was obviously Government Issue, for no reasonably intelligent person would purchase anything quite so hideous.
“We might have been better off in prison,” Adam commented as he struggled from the cot and made his way over to the small wooden table that adorned the kitchenette.
The miniature kitchen contained a coffee maker, a refrigerator, a small microwave and a toaster, but knives were blatantly missing…as were utensils of any type. The walls of the main room held a couple of generic paintings, the kind you might find adorning a cheap motel chain. One depicted a typical seaside scene, while another was of a single chestnut horse grazing in a wide open field, a starburst sunset blazing gloriously in the background. Vio showed great interest in the works even after Christine explained the second rate nature of the pieces.
“I’m sure they would let you have one if you asked,” she said with a smile and Adam, who was sitting on the couch watching the local mid-day news, shot his sister a warning look. Galen’s story still dominated the news with nearly every channel reporting live from downtown Chicago. Most of the networks were showing the rapidly growing crowds that were gathering outside the Federal building. As far as Adam could tell the crowd was made up of a few supporters, a large group of simply curious folks and a host of vocal detractors. The later were far more enthusiastic than the rest of the crowd, alternating between waving signs bearing all manner of clever slogans to shouting about the evils of
cloning and the lack of integrity shown by the American Government.
“We may not be in prison, but are we prisoners?” Dorothy asked, nervously turning her cell phone over and over in her hands. Ned was on I-80 somewhere east of Des Moines and would be in the city before the day was out. She wanted to see him; she was frightened and missed him terribly. Since his retirement this was the first time they’d been apart for more than a few hours.
Blue grunted, somehow indicating that he was wondering the very same thing, but otherwise he remained quiet.
“I don’t think so,” Adam replied slowly, then pulled his attention away from the television as an ad for wrinkle cream came on. “I think if we insisted, they would let us leave, though I’m sure we’d be followed and watched very closely,” he added then glanced up at the closed circuit camera mounted in the corner of the room. “But I think for the moment it would be wise to remain here, at least until we know the mood of the general populace.”
“The DOE was going to kill him!” Christine hissed just above a whisper which Adam was sure was pointless. The FBI would have the room bugged from end to end.
“They still might,” Adam told her in his normal voice and felt Vio stiffen at his side. She was still wearing her swords which the feds wisely did not attempt to take away.
“Then many would die,” she said clearly, her accent growing less noticeable by the day.
Everyone stopped talking as the door to the main room opened and several burling men in suits entered, followed by Special Agent Armstrong, Dr. Ian Crane and finally Colonel Bradford.
“Ian!” Christine exclaimed, quickly standing, surprisingly happy to see him despite their current situation. The greetings however, were interrupted when Avigail burst out of one of the back bedrooms.
“He’s done it! He’s done it!” She yelled, her eyes searching out Vio’s. “He’s entered the Far Lands.”
The Best of All Possible Worlds Page 40
