FSF, September 2007

by Spilogale, Inc

  The PF couldn't hear the man's response, but he felt the heat when a last long glance was thrown his way.

  Mr. Olsen wasn't any threat.

  More than likely.

  But because it was his job, the PF filled out the standard form used to report suspicious occurrences, and he sent his work to a national clearinghouse where the paranoia of a world was gathered together—twenty thousand forms on the average school day, each one searched for patterns, tendencies, and the scent of even one worthwhile clue.

  * * * *

  The Pool

  "Did you see what they found?"

  "Found?"

  "In Thailand. You hear the big news?"

  Two mothers were visiting the water park, sharing the shade of a single enormous umbrella. It was a Saturday in June; schools had just let out for summer. The women were acquaintances whose paths occasionally crossed at the grocery and church. One was large and loud, the other as small as some children and naturally quiet. But they shared all the topical fears of their day. News from Thailand? That could only mean one thing!

  "Did they find children?” asked the little woman.

  "Eight of them,” her companion said with disgust.

  "No, I hadn't heard—"

  "Still babies,” the big woman added. “Caucasian. In some sort of jungle compound, from what I saw on the Web."

  "Whose children are they?"

  "A couple keepers have been arrested."

  "No,” the little woman explained. “I mean, where did they come from? Does anyone know?"

  "Nobody's admitting anything. Not publicly, at least.” Pausing for a moment, the big woman scanned the crowd until she found her daughter—a substantial girl in her own right. “They've already done the usual tests. Put the kids’ DNA on the Websites. But how many people know their own genetics?"

  "I do. I had my DNA mapped..."

  The confession took a moment to be noticed. “Yours, or your kids'?"

  "All of us have,” the little woman admitted.

  Her companion found that intensely amusing. But she managed not to laugh, throwing a joke at herself instead. “Nobody wants my chromosomes. Good God, I can barely get my husband interested in this cranky old body."

  But the small woman had always been pretty and quite sensitive about her looks. “This is a real fear of mine,” she offered.

  "It shouldn't be."

  "Ever since that time in Russia...."

  What an awful business that had been! Two years ago, a routine drug arrest in Moscow led to a warehouse where thirty blond toddlers were living in pens. Or chicken coops. Or in some stories, prison cells. The girls were two and three years old, and each one had the same beautiful face. Subsequent tests determined that they were genetically identical, but with the shortened telomeres and the occasional mutation common among cheaply rendered clones.

  The subsequent investigation proved that the poor toddlers were being groomed for sale to highly motivated customers.

  That's when the nightmare began.

  "I know it's not likely,” said the little woman. “The odds of that happening to my family ... or to me...."

  "Very, very unlikely,” the big woman promised. “Besides, gene thieves aren't sophisticated. If they want to make a profit, they need young DNA. But inside you and me is nothing but muddy old genetics, and our telomeres are already gotten too short.” She threw out a big laugh, adding, “It's sad to hear, but they'd throw our junky old cells out with the trash."

  "Unless somebody made a mistake,” the pretty woman argued, her voice soft and sorry. “If they aren't sophisticated, like you said, then they could easily clone the wrong skin cells."

  "Sure, that's possible. I guess."

  "I believe in taking precautions.” She tried deflecting her acidic fears with her own laugh. A tight, unconvincing laugh, as it happened. “I mean, what if those babies in Thailand turned out to be me?"

  "What would you do about it?"

  "I'm not sure.” She shrugged. “If I had legal rights and they would let me ... I guess I'd try to help the poor girls somehow."

  "With money? Or would they come live with you?

  "I really don't know,” she admitted. “I'd have to pray about it. Of course. And then I'd do whatever's right."

  "Who wouldn't want to do what's right?” asked the big woman.

  Yet the world was full of evil people. After a few moments of dark reflection, her friend begged, “Can we please change the subject?"

  "Thank goodness, yes."

  Two hours later, the fearful woman was sitting alone, napping until the umbrella's shade pulled away from her tiny, lovely face. When she woke, she noticed two police officers talking to a young boy. With pride, the boy was showing off a fresh scrape on his leg, and then with a matter-of-fact gesture, he pointed the officers toward the smallest slide.

  The woman instantly shouted for her two children.

  Her oldest was a girl at least as pretty as her mother. She looked a little worried, but impressed. “It's inside the tube,” she reported. “Down at the bottom of the slide."

  "What is?"

  "The thing."

  "What thing?” the woman asked.

  "It's sandpaper, I guess. Stuck there with glue."

  She began to tremble.

  "Some kid did it,” the daughter offered. “Wanted to be an idiot, I guess."

  "Where's your brother?"

  "How would I know?"

  "Did you get scraped?"

  "No, Mom.” Then after a watchful pause, the girl asked, “What is the matter with you?"

  "Find your brother, meet me at the gate. Right away."

  "Why?"

  "Just do it."

  Lifeguards had turned off the slide's water, and the more athletic officer did her best to climb down to the abrasive pad. But she didn't remove the object. Instead she climbed back out and called for a biohazard team. And then the public address system screamed to life, offering a few apologies and then a warning that for the next little while, no one would leave the grounds.

  A blond boy and a brown-haired man were standing nearby. “Did you see it, Dad?” asked the boy.

  "Nope."

  "You didn't get cut?"

  His father looked himself over. “Guess not."

  "But you went down that slide."

  "I don't remember. Did I?"

  "You did. I saw you."

  His father didn't speak.

  "Just before the kid got scraped."

  "Pepper,” said the man quietly, but with feeling. “This is nothing, believe me. Some kid's dumb-ass prank, and it doesn't mean anything."

  "But, Dad—"

  "Son,” said the man. “Shut it."

  The boy nodded, quietly accepting that nugget of parental logic.

  That's when the man glanced over his shoulder, staring for a moment at the prettiest face in the crowd.

  When he looked away again, the woman sobbed. She dropped into the nearest folding chair, feeling a great weight bearing down on her racing heart.

  * * * *

  The Fair

  "I promise. This is going to be a waste of time."

  Silence.

  "I don't even know why I'm here. And I'll be damned if I see why you got pulled in on this."

  "My son—"

  "Pepper, is it?"

  "Where's my boy?"

  "His mom's sitting with him now. I can let you see him, maybe in a few minutes. Just as soon as we get our business done."

  The subject didn't ask, “What business?” Nor did he offer any of the other obvious, urgent questions.

  Interesting.

  "My name's Steve,” said the investigator. He gave the files another cursory glance. “And you're Gary?"

  "Yes."

  "Your wife's name—"

  "She's my ex-wife,” the subject said, with feeling.

  "Sorry to hear that."

  Silence.

  "So you came to see the State Fair, Gary? You and yo
ur son did?"

  "Yes."

  "How is it?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "I haven't come here in years. Is it any good?"

  "Bad food. Dangerous rides.” The subject managed a smile. “Yeah, it's pretty much like always."

  "How old's the boy?"

  "Thirteen."

  "And you?"

  There was a pause. Then with a loss of patience, the subject said, “You know how old I am. You've got my files in front of you."

  "Fifty-five."

  A pause. “So what do they say?"

  The investigator lifted his gaze. “What does who say?"

  "My files."

  "This and that. Not much, from what I can tell."

  Silence.

  "Know why you were picked up, Gary?"

  "I can guess.” The subject had a tight, smart face, and he was definitely restraining his emotions. “Something happened at the Fair tonight. Didn't it?"

  "We're still trying to decide that."

  "But you, or somebody else, felt an obligation to round up every person of interest. Is that right?"

  "You know how it goes.” The investigator shrugged and managed a put-upon expression. “We look at the databases, and the AI hunts for tendencies, and of course there's about a thousand cameras scattered around the Fair grounds—"

  "Was I someplace I shouldn't have been?"

  "Damned if I know. I'm not even sure why you got swept up in this nonsense."

  The subject shifted in his chair, volunteering nothing.

  "I see two past incident reports,” the investigator mentioned. “At your son's school, and less than a year later—"

  "Does that matter?"

  "Incident reports? They can matter, yes."

  "No. You said, ‘Less than a year later.’ As if that's an important detail."

  "Oh, that's, no, not at all.” The investigator was honest, admitting, “It's just that two incident reports are more likely to trigger an AI's attention. About five times more likely than a single hit. But of course, other factors come into play here."

  "Like what?"

  "During the second incident...."

  "With the crazy woman,” the subject volunteered.

  "Yeah, she does come across that way. I guess. Although I think ‘neurotic’ is the more accurate description."

  "She pointed her finger at me."

  "She thought you were acting suspicious."

  "Of doing what?"

  "There was an abrasive pad—"

  "For cleaning dishes!"

  There. Real emotions started to boil. With an agreeable nod, the investigator said, “Sure, it was a nothing incident. Just some unidentified kid and his mom's scouring pad, plus some glue. The kid probably just wanted to make his world crazy for a while."

  "I was not a suspect."

  Gary Olsen had been a suspect, but only briefly. The investigator said, “Tsk,” while staring at the subject. “Actually, I've got to tell you. It's not those two incidents that got the software's attention. It's your job."

  The man flinched.

  "If I'm not mistaken, you're a trained biologist."

  "I have a degree in limnology,” the subject replied. “Do you know what that means?"

  "Water stuff."

  "Not genetics."

  The investigator shook his head. “Fish don't have genes?"

  The man took the Lord's name in vain.

  "I know this doesn't seem quite right, Gary. But it's just the way these stupid systems work. You have two prior interviews, plus a specialty implicated in a series of horrible crimes that are occurring worldwide."

  Again, the man swore.

  "Hardly fair, but my hands are tied.” With some subjects, he might have shown his hands. But this fellow didn't seem likely to fall for cheap theatrics. “I've got a girl from the Fair who's got a deep cut in her leg, and she's claiming that some strange man jabbed her with medical equipment."

  Silence.

  "You wouldn't know anything about that, Gary?"

  "No."

  "If we showed her your picture, and a few other photos too ... just to play by the rules ... do you think she'd pick your face out of the pile?"

  "I have no idea what she might or might not do."

  "I guess you wouldn't know, would you?"

  Suspicious silence.

  "Limnology, huh?"

  "I quit the field years ago."

  "Why? Got tired of water?"

  "No,” he said in a smoldering tone. “I didn't make tenure at the university and decided to change careers."

  "Probably smart."

  The subject paused before saying, “It's all in those files. I'm sure. Today I sell real estate."

  "Hey, so does my sister-in-law,” the investigator offered. “Tough business these days. She says we're in a big down cycle."

  The subject sighed. Then he looked at the floor, a contemplative mood ending when he asked, “How many cases of bootleg cloning are there? In the average year, worldwide?"

  "I'm really not sure, Gary."

  "On average, three-and-a-half,” the subject offered.

  "Which means—?"

  "Two to five cases every year, and not even for a decade now. And the total number of Americans who have had their DNA stolen is exactly five. Five. Which puts this panic into a different light, if you actually bother to think things through."

  "If I was smart, you mean?"

  The subject saw his misstep, but he couldn't stop himself. “I'm not talking about you. I mean everybody. When another illegal cloning operation is discovered, it gets attention from every medium. The crime is sensational, and nobody's sure how to react, and when you see images of little kids being raised for some purpose or another that has to be immoral—"

  "The sex industry is the usual client,” the investigator interrupts.

  "And that's a very narrow, very select market,” the subject pointed out. “Some pedophiles will pay a fortune for four or six or a dozen kids with the same looks and mannerisms. Sure. That's what keeps this tiny industry alive."

  "We can't say it's tiny,” the investigator countered. “We don't know how big it is, since we can only count the cases we actually uncover."

  "Right.” The subject was red-faced, agitated to the point where he made fists in his lap. “There could be a thousand cloning farms scattered across the world—secret facilities selling tens of thousands of infants to an underground world of sick men and sick women who not only can pay the enormous costs of cloning, but then manage to keep their huge, same-faced families a secret from neighbors and friends and everyone else in their twisted lives."

  The investigator remained silent, waiting for whatever came next.

  "Hey, I want this business stamped out,” said the subject, spit flying for his quivering mouth. “More than anybody else, I want it gone. We'd have a lot healthier world if people started to consider the genuine dangers. But as long as the public fear is stirred up by these rare incidents ... these awful but very rare crimes ... we're going to keep making ourselves crazy about things that happen a lot less often than ... well, than people getting killed on faulty amusement park rides...."

  "Now you're the one sounding a little crazy,” the investigator mentioned.

  "No, I'm just a neurotic,” the subject snapped. “You blame me?"

  "Hey, Gary. Play along here. I'm just doing my job."

  The subject nearly said something else, but caught himself. Then another thing occurred to him. Looking hard at the investigator, he said, “You already showed her my picture. Didn't you?"

  "That girl? Yeah, a colleague of mine did that chore about an hour ago."

  A look of undiluted disgust came into the subject's face. “What did she tell you? Did she pick me out of the lineup?"

  "Actually, she picked me.” The investigator had to smile and shake his head. “No, we don't think this kid's very credible. She was doing something she shouldn't have been doing, and she got hurt, and now sh
e's telling a dumb story. But really, you can never be sure about appearances. That's why I decided that you and I should enjoy this little chat...."

  * * * *

  The Sandbox

  When Evan was at a very delicate age, his older brother tormented him with the idea that he was a clone.

  "You were born in Brazil,” his brother claimed one day, pointing with authority at a random, erroneous point on a brightly colored map of the world. “You and your clone brothers ... you were being raised by cannibals."

  "I wasn't."

  "Oh yes, you were,” the eleven-year-old warned him. Then with a grim smile, he added, “Those cannibals had you living inside cat cages. You couldn't move, and they force-fed you all sorts of goodies."

  Evan was a pudgy, desperately insecure child.

  "Know what veal is?"

  "We ate it last night. Right?"

  "That was veal made from a fat calf. But you were going to be a special meal for somebody else's family."

  "I was not!"

  "Sure, you were."

  The boy considered his dire situation. “Then how did I get here?” he asked.

  His tormentor licked his lips and giggled. “We bought you, of course. And next Christmas, we're having you instead of an old turkey."

  It was the worst kind of lie, and his brother was punished severely for what he had done. But that early horror left its mark. Or perhaps something in Evan's nature assured that regardless of what happened in his childhood, he would grow up scared and unhappy. Maybe the story was a convenient excuse. Whatever the reason, twenty years later he was slender and strong, but preyed upon by doubts and black fears. Even on his best days, he suffered from the enduring conviction—indeed, the muscular hope—that the world was rich with evil.

  During college, Evan gravitated toward the conservative groups still in the fight against immoral biological sciences. He marched with Christians, chanted with Muslims, and for an entire semester, he allied himself with a band of zealots who used cloning as an excuse to make pipe bombs that were detonated only in empty fields. Plainly, the cause was a mess, and its warriors were unfocused and unable to achieve even tiny victories. The old ideas about bioethics had evaporated. Virtually every type of research was allowed now. Around the globe, the elderly and sick were routinely given tissues and organs grown from stem cells that might or might not belong to them. Athletes, even weekend amateurs, routinely doped themselves with extra muscle and lung tissue. The wickedest nations, where almost anything was legal, allowed the wealthy and self-obsessed to make clones of themselves. Even one of the girls that Evan dated in college—a good little Southern Baptist from Alabama—confessed that what he loved best about her body had been cultivated in a sterile laboratory.