It had been easy to keep two sets of records. As far as the team was concerned, the embryos were all destroyed by the fourteen-day limit, and the failure rate had been high, averaging only four transgenic embryos out of 28 blastocysts per batch. But there was always someone ready to break the law when it came to trading in children; marginal fertility clinics, persuadable physicians, shady adoption agencies, and desperate would-be parents. There were always women willing to be paid surrogates, too. Kinnery thought he recalled what his motives were at the time, but there was only one that rang true today.
Because I could.
And where does it all start? An infertile couple wants a child. A government wants agents who can instantly blend into the group they're infiltrating. A scientist wants to be the first, the best, the groundbreaker. And the intersection of those desires is Ian.
Kinnery spread the stack of folders on his desk. Paper was a wonderful thing. If you kept a single copy, then one copy was all there would ever be, unless you let it out of your sight or were stupid enough to make copies – and he wasn't. Paper didn't reproduce itself across servers. It didn't get backed up automatically onto mainframes or portable drives, or attached to e-mails and carelessly released into the wild like a pathogen. After paper burned, the secrets written upon it only existed in the memories of those who'd seen it.
And memories, like people, all died eventually.
It was time to burn it all. He'd never work in human-animal chimera research again. He'd certainly never be able to publish his papers, not unless he wanted to spend his remaining years hiding in some third world hell-hole with no US extradition treaty.
Quite a few people spliced genes that they shouldn't have. They still do.
But nobody made it work like I did. And I still don't know how I did it. Ian. Proof of concept, and then some.
Kinnery thumbed through the papers, wondering if a solution would finally leap out at him, but if he hadn't had a breakthrough in eighteen years, then he wouldn't suddenly have one today. Gene expression was far more complex than anyone had known back then. He hadn't even been able to carry out tests on Ian. Maggie made damn sure of that. She never left him alone with the boy.
Burn it.
The few files he thought he might need in an emergency one day – medical reports on Ian's surrogate mother, handwritten information from the clinic that was very obliging with off-the-books work, the few details he had about the donors who might have been anonymous but were probably back-trackable – were scanned to an encrypted USB stick. He dithered: should he destroy that now as well? No, that might be the only route to finding a solution for Ian one day. He'd give it a temporary reprieve.
He rummaged around in the pantry for some disposable carriers and tried not to think too hard about what he was about to incinerate. His life's most brilliant work could fit in two grocery bags.
At the bottom of the garden there was an old garbage can he'd punched with holes and set on legs to make an impromptu barbecue, another hybrid thing he'd created and that now seemed a reminder of his reckless curiosity. He could burn the papers in that. This was a fire that needed feeding a few sheets at a time. He didn't want half-burned papers drifting on the wind and exposing his crimes.
How much of it will I recall? Names, addresses, the paths I took?
For a moment, he almost lost his nerve. I did it. I made it work. I just need to understand how. But he pulled out one of the thinner folders, slim enough to burn easily, and laid it on the barbecue.
The step to striking a match and watching it flare took an eternity. Holding the wavering flame under the corner of the cover to see the smoke curl up took a heartbeat, though, no more. The funeral pyre of Project Ringer was now an unstoppable blaze. It was cathartic. It didn't erase what he'd done, but at least the data couldn't fall into the wrong hands, either to recreate what he'd achieved or to incriminate him.
Kinnery fed in a few more folders, paper fanned out to let the air circulate. Gradually he found an unthinking rhythm like a stoker in an engine room, timing the surge and fall of the flames to decide when to add more paper.
The neighbours might complain about the smoke. Okay, a barbecue that got out of hand. Sorry, folks. Won't happen again.
He watched the last of the paper burn and fade to grey ash, then broke it up with the barbecue tongs to make sure that only dust was left. Now he needed a Scotch. But if he had a long drive ahead of him, he'd have to settle for a coffee. He brewed a pot and sat down at his desk, working out when to call Maggie's number again.
Shape-shifting – dynamic mimicry – was a goddamn stupid idea anyway. It was all about going grey, as the intelligence community called it, making yourself inconspicuous and melting into the background. Some people could do it with clothing and the right body language, but if you were the wrong ethnicity or age for the task in hand, it was a trick that might cost you your life. So a dumb what-if conversation over a beer one day solidified into a crazy project. KWA was cavalier enough to try it.
The money wasn't crazy at all, though. The prospect of exploiting animal genes to cure human defects made it worth swallowing the lunacy to get the funding. The techniques that Kinnery developed during the project were worth a fortune to KWA. And damn it, without him there'd never have been a KWA to start with. Shaun just wasn't good enough to build the company without him.
Kinnery had even thought he might get a Nobel one day. But now he could never go public about what he'd really achieved.
And here I am, teaching college. Lying low. Haven't done any research that important since the day I quit KWA. That's the true meaning of nemesis.
He thought he'd covered his tracks. There was nobody to object, not even that senator who'd been such a pain in the ass about it all. The embryo donors had been anonymized and the record of the original clinic had been erased. The woman who'd been paid as a gestational surrogate was long gone, and neither she nor the doctor who'd carried out the implantation had any idea what the embryo was, or that Kinnery hadn't been a frustrated father with an infertile partner.
Nobody checked. People rarely did. Marginal doctors who bent the rules didn't want to. It was disappointingly easy. Kinnery had no idea if the scraps of almost-life that he'd worked on were the fruits of musicians, truck drivers, storekeepers, or accountants, with lives and identities that would otherwise have been shaped by knowing those origins. They were simply surplus to requirements. He was always surprised how far some couples would go to produce children in the face of Nature's advice not to.
And who wants to know they were just spares?
He checked his watch. Everything that could identify Ian and link his existence to Project Ringer had ceased to exist except for the encrypted thumb drive.
So when was I supposed to dispose of Ian? Before he turned into a recognisable human, or before I gave him a name? What's the difference? I don't know any more.
Kinnery had reached the conclusion that science's price for answering questions was to pose ever more complex ones, an endlessly expanding list of ethical dilemmas. He checked his watch. It was time to try the number again.
This time, someone picked up.
"Ian? Ian, it's Charles Kinnery. I've been away. I just got back." He paused for breath. "Jesus, I'm so sorry. What happened?"
All he could hear was someone swallowing for a moment.
"Gran collapsed." Yes, it was Ian. "The doctor said she probably died right away. We cremated her."
"We?"
"Joe. Our neighbour. She left instructions. I did exactly what she told me."
"Look, don't worry. Stay where you are and I'll drive down. I can be there by two, three in the morning at the latest."
"No. Don't. It's too late."
"You shouldn't be on your own, Ian." You need supervision. You need a keeper. "Not at a time like this."
"Stay away. I know what you did. I know she wasn't my gran."
The room suddenly turned cold. Kinnery couldn't distinguish between
the slowly-growing acceptance that Maggie was actually gone and the dread of what was unfolding.
"Ian," he said carefully, "whatever Maggie did, she did it to protect you. She loved you. Look, I know you're angry. And upset." He had to coax more information out of him. "What did she tell you? Did she explain?"
Ian took a few seconds to answer. "She left me a lot of notes. She kept a folder and told me to open it if anything happened to her. So I did."
This was almost as bad as playing the how-much-do-you-know game with a journalist. Maybe Ian didn't know every detail. One more misplaced revelation might tip him over the edge. If he panicked and went to ground, Kinnery might never find him.
"You want to tell me about that?"
"You didn't call me back. Gran left a note telling me who else to contact if I needed help."
Christ. Maggie, what were you thinking? "Who?"
"A reporter she trusted."
It was getting worse by the second. Kinnery tried to sound calm. He probably failed. "And what did you tell the reporter?"
"I gave her some notes on Ringer. Just a summary. Gran left lots out."
"Oh, for God's sake."
"But I didn't tell her my name. Or where I lived."
Just my name, then. Great. It fell into place. Kinnery couldn't think of a way to retrieve the situation. "The media aren't your friends, Ian. Believe me." Christ, what a mess. "You know what's different about you, then."
"I do now. Why did you do it? Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"I didn't plan it that way, Ian. I didn't even know it would have that much effect on you."
"What are they going to do when they find me?"
Ian didn't say who he thought "they" were. It didn't matter. Anybody was bad enough.
"They're not going to find you," Kinnery said. "I'll see to that. But you really need someone with you."
"Stay away from me. I'm just an experiment to you."
"No, Ian, never that."
"I'd be gone before you were halfway down the interstate, and you'd never find me."
"Okay, okay. I understand. I'll leave you alone. Just don't run away. Nobody knows where you are, so you're safer staying there. If you go on the road, the cops might pick you up, and then I can't do anything to save you." I've got to get down there fast. Damn, has he even got a passport? How am I going to get him back across the border? "Look, write down my cell number." Kinnery spelled it out slowly. "Got that? Don't open the door to strangers, and call me if anyone tries to get in touch with you."
"Joe can take care of that," Ian said. "Thanks for the money."
The line went dead. Kinnery put down the receiver and stared at the wall for a few seconds, his mind in chaos. He couldn't just wait for the axe to fall. He had to get Ian out somehow.
How? Doesn't matter. It can't wait.
As he switched on the burglar alarm, he considered his sins and realised that reflecting on them was all he ever did. He told himself what a bad boy he'd been, as if that was enough to atone and that the act of self-flagellation would make him virtuous. Now he had to damn well put things right. He backed the car out of the drive to head south, cell docked on the dashboard in case Ian called again.
I didn't do the right thing. I forced a life on him. An unnatural life.
There'd be no right answers or good outcomes in this. Tragedy was guaranteed. Kinnery finally understood the origin of the phrase unable to think straight as his thoughts went around in loops, stumbling over the same arguments that he'd had with himself minutes or seconds earlier as if they'd never occurred to him before. There was nothing linear and logical happening. His thoughts were like ricochets.
Why didn't I think about this before? Maggie. That's why. I left it all to her. Send her the money and forget about planning for the worst scenario.
But this wasn't the worst scenario yet, or even close to it. He made a conscious effort to stop the churn of thoughts before he started blaming Maggie for being dead or Ian for being born.
His cell rang a few minutes after he crossed the border via the Peace Arch. He didn't usually give out his personal number because students sometimes had a strange concept of a reasonable time to call. It had to be Ian.
"Charles," a man's voice said, no hint of query in it at all. It certainly wasn't Ian. "It's been some time."
It took Kinnery a few seconds to place it: Shaun Weaver. That's all I need. "Hi Shaun." Old business partners never died. They only held off calling until the most inconvenient moment. "How's business?"
Shaun didn't ask if it was a good time to talk, but then he never did. "Fine. Enjoy your trip?"
"I didn't know you had my number."
"I rang the university. They said you'd been away."
"How very security-minded of them to tell you."
"Don't chew them out. I told them it was urgent. I've had a call from a journalist about Ringer. I'm just calling to let you know you might get one too."
Kinnery found it nearly impossible to concentrate on the road for a few seconds. "Give me a clue."
"This hack knew a lot about it, considering it was classified. In fact, she seemed to know more than I did."
Deny all knowledge, or brazen it out? "You're going to have to be specific."
"Charles, is there anything you want to tell me?"
It was all falling apart. "Do you want to tell me what she asked you?"
"Is there anything you've let slip that she might have picked up? I know this is ancient history, but she's making some pretty weird allegations about transgenic humans. If there's a grain of truth in this, you need to talk to me."
Kinnery measured his words carefully. He didn't know exactly what Zoe Murray had seen, and he wasn't about to volunteer information that Shaun didn't have.
"Yes, The Slide mailed me. I haven't responded. It's a glorified comic, for Chrissakes. You've got all the research documentation. That's about the size of it."
"Okay, Charles. I'm sorry to have to ask. Keep your mind on the road. You know what the highways are like. Safe journey."
Kinnery didn't even hear the call cut off. He was too busy looking in the rear-view mirror, breath suddenly jammed in his throat. Was he being tailed?
Come on. He knows I'm driving because he could hear it on the phone. He knows I'm more likely to be on a highway than not. Pure guesswork to shake me down.
But Shaun had never really believed Kinnery's excuses for leaving. He was still suspicious. Kinnery knew it.
He kept looking in the mirror. There were several cars maintaining a steady distance behind him. It wouldn't take a lot of effort to get a home address for him, and there were plenty of private detectives who'd happily sit and observe until Doomsday if you had the budget to pay for it. KWA probably did. He couldn't risk driving to the ranch now. It was as good as handing Ian over.
Shaun's got enough pieces of the puzzle. He could have me followed. He doesn't need to be the FBI to do it.
Kinnery switched off the satnav and his cell's GPS in case someone had managed to get access. Then he started looking for an off-ramp, thinking panicky, irrational thoughts about whether Shaun had already been keeping tabs on him the last time he'd visited Maggie. No, nobody knew, not then. This was all down to Maggie dying, all down to that stupid goddamn letter, and a phone that didn't forward a call when he most needed it to.
Sorry, Maggie. Jesus, I'm sorry. Why am I blaming you?
Kinnery pulled off and found a restaurant to have a coffee and calm down. When he went out to the parking lot, he made a discreet note of every licence plate and spent a few minutes looking around as casually as he could to make sure nobody was following him. Was he going to have to live the rest of his life like this?
Well, Ian had to, so there was no reason that he shouldn't share that sentence. He got back into the car and headed home, slow and suspicious, checking out every car that didn't pass him fast enough.
The cell rang again. The screen showed number withheld. He didn't assume it was Ia
n this time. Shaun was probably going to ask him if he'd remembered to switch off the oven.
"Kinnery," he said.
"This is Leo Brayne." It was another voice that Kinnery hadn't heard in a very long time, but one he could never forget. "It's time we had lunch. Next week sometime. Call my office and I'll clear my diary."
"Senator?"
Brayne didn't even wait for a reply. Kinnery had been summoned to Washington by a man he hadn't seen in nearly twenty years. He had no choice. If he didn't go, he was sure things would get worse rather than better.
He didn't need to ask what it was about. When he got back and checked The Slide site, it had already been updated. It talked about Ringer, how it had resulted in a live human subject who could change his appearance, and how he was now in hiding.
At least Kinnery wouldn't have to list the main points for Senator Brayne. They were now public knowledge, at least for people who took The Slide seriously.
FOUR
Leo, there's no possible way that this is anything more than industrial espionage. If we'd succeeded in making mimicry work in a live subject, don't you think we'd have been pounding on the door for more money? It's potentially damaging for KWA, but there are no security ramifications. I think it's in the interests of everyone to keep this off the law enforcement radar. I'll investigate discreetly.
Shaun Weaver, CEO of KWA, in a call to Leo Brayne.
LLOYD HOUSEHOLD, LANSING, MICHIGAN
JULY.
Something was burning.
Dru dropped her briefcase by the front door, wondering why the smoke alarm hadn't gone off. Clare sat at the kitchen counter, cell in hand, scribbling with her fingertip and apparently oblivious of both her empty plate and the pungent blue haze of smoke.
"For goodness' sake, can't you smell that?" Dru jerked the pan of smoking pancakes from the hotplate and turned off the heat. "Put that phone down right now."
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