I found my grandparents in the breakfast area again, huddled up against each other as before while looking through the paper.
Indigo greeted me with a smile, saying, “Good morning, Sxibbo.”
“Good morning,” I said in response, then pointed towards the newspaper with my chin. “Wow, you guys are really getting into the periodicals lately.”
“It’s your grandfather,” Indigo contended. “It’s been awhile since he’s seen his name in the paper, but after they ran that picture of us a few days ago, followed by articles about the party, he’s become obsessed with seeing his name in print.”
“Not true,” Gramps protested. “First of all, I generally read articles online, but when they printed our picture, the newspaper also gave us a free, one-year subscription. So the paper in my hand every morning is a sign of free delivery, not egotistical obsession.”
“Oh, just listen to him justify his actions,” Indigo joked, giggling.
Ignoring her, my grandfather went on. “Second, if you must know, rather than scouring for something about myself, I’m actually reading an article about a congressman who voted to raise the minimum wage yesterday, even though he was opposed to the law up until a few days ago. Claims he must have been hypnotized or drugged, because he doesn’t remember the vote at all.”
My grandmother rolled her eyes. “Seems that politicians are the same everywhere – always trying to avoid taking responsibility for their actions.”
Her comment was a subtle reminder that, back on Caeles, she was always neck-deep in political intrigue and hated every second of it. However, despite her disgust at the constant shifting of alliances, backroom deals, and so on, she was actually very good at it.
“Anyway,” I said, “I’ve got some things to do, so I’m going to take off.”
“Not without breakfast,” Gramps admonished. “It’s still the most important meal of the day.”
“Yeah – right after breakfast,” I concurred. “I was going to say that, but you didn’t let me finish.”
My grandparents snickered, then Indigo said, “That’s your grandfather’s ego again. He made pancakes this morning, so nobody’s escaping today without trying them.”
“What do you mean, ‘escape’?” Gramps asked indignantly. “No one tries to get away from my pancakes. People run to my pancakes. Ex-cons break back into prison for my pancakes. Olympic athletes trade their gold medals for my pancakes. World-famous chefs call me, begging for the recipe so they…”
Chuckling, I left my grandparents and headed to the kitchen, with my grandfather’s praise of his pancakes echoing in my ears.
Chapter 60
After locating a stack of pancakes in the microwave, I wolfed down a couple of them in short order. Gramps may have exaggerated about their appeal, but not by much, in my opinion. He really did have notable culinary skills, and his pancakes (which were truly delicious) were just a small example.
Upon finishing, I noted that it was close to the time I was supposed to meet with Mouse. I told my grandparents that I would see them later and telepathically passed along the same message to Mom (who was once again in her office, working). Surprisingly, no one in my family seemed to express an interest in the situation with my evil twin. I took that to mean that Myshtal had done as promised and apprised them all of recent events. Then, after promising to be careful, I teleported.
*****
I reappeared in Mouse’s lab. My mentor was already there, along with BT.
“Right on time,” Mouse announced, glancing at a clock on the wall.
“Please tell me you guys have something,” I pleaded.
“We’ve got information,” BT replied, “but there are a lot of moving parts. Where do you want to begin?”
“I don’t care,” I replied. “Start with anything that’s going to distinguish this clone from me so I can clear my name.”
“Well, for starters, he’s not a clone,” Mouse clarified.
“What?!” I exclaimed, giving him a look of incomprehension.
“He said that Jack’s not a clone,” BT reported. “And he isn’t. Not a true clone, anyway.”
“You lost me,” I admitted, shaking my head.
“Let’s start with the basics,” BT said. “Cloning generally refers to producing a genetic copy of some biological structure or organism, and there are actually several different types of cloning. Gene cloning, for example, involves making copies of a segment of DNA. Therapeutic cloning, on the other hand, relates to copying genetic material for the ultimate goal of providing stem cells for the treatment of injury or disease. Then there’s reproductive cloning, which relates to creating an exact genetic replica of an organism.”
I nodded in understanding. “I take it that last – reproductive cloning – is the one we’re concerned with.”
“Correct,” Mouse agreed. “Without getting too far into the science, in reproductive cloning you take DNA from the original organism and use it to make a copy.”
“And that’s what they did to create Jack,” I concluded.
Neither Mouse nor BT immediately responded. Instead, they exchanged a knowing glance and then BT spoke up.
“That’s not exactly what occurred,” she intoned.
“You know, that’s the second time you guys have indicated that there’s something other than cloning going on here,” I remarked. “Can someone just give me the straight dope?”
BT sighed. “I’ve known you – your family – for a long time, Jim, and for most of your life I’ve probably been the closest thing you’ve had to a doctor. I’ve had numerous opportunities to examine you, check out your biological systems, analyze your blood and tissues. In the course of doing all that, one of the first things I realized is that your DNA doesn’t lend itself to cloning.”
“Hold on,” I almost snapped, suddenly anxious. “Are you saying you tried to clone me?”
“Never,” BT protested adamantly. “But based on my own experience, I could tell that traditional cloning methods aren’t feasible with you. There’s a portion of your DNA that, simply put, will not replicate the way typical genetic material will when cloning is attempted.”
“So is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked. “Because it almost sounds like you’re saying something’s wrong with me.”
BT laughed. “No, we’re not saying it’s bad. We’re just saying it’s different – your DNA simply doesn’t conform to normal behavior.”
“In other words,” Mouse quipped, “even at the cellular level, you won’t do what’s expected of you.”
“Funny,” I said sarcastically, while trying (and failing) not to smile.
“We assume it has something to do with your singular genetic make-up,” Mouse continued. “It’s almost as if some part of your DNA recognizes that cloning is not a natural process and refuses to cooperate.”
“So I’ve got good genes,” I concluded. “But if my DNA isn’t susceptible to cloning, how’d they create Jack?”
“We were able to retrieve some of his genetic material from the room in the mansion where he was shot,” Mouse said. “From all appearances, they seemingly replaced the uncooperative portion of your DNA with some other genetic stock.”
“Wait,” I insisted, holding up a hand for emphasis. “How’d they even get my DNA in the first place?”
Mouse gave me a patronizing look. “So you’ve never had a haircut? Have you hung on to every toothbrush you’ve ever used? When you finish a bottle of juice or water, do you take it home with you and put it in a hope chest or something?”
“Okay, fine – there’s a million ways to get my DNA,” I conceded. “Apparently just from stuff that gets thrown out every day.”
“Actually, Mouse may have slightly exaggerated,” BT said. “When you get a haircut, the hair that’s clipped is made up of dead cells that doesn’t contain viable DNA – just like your outer skin.”
“Huh?” I murmured, confused.
“She’s talking about the stratu
m corneum – the outer layer of your epidermis,” Mouse explained. “It’s made up of dead cells and a ton of them slough off every day, but there’s no useful DNA in them.”
My brow crinkled as I considered this. “So you’re saying that if you peel back the outermost layer of my skin, there’s like a fresh new me underneath?”
“Sort of,” Mouse said. “As I mentioned, there’s a thin mantle of dead skin covering your whole body, but human beings don’t discard it the way you’re describing. There’s not going to be some husk laying around like a snake that just shed its skin.”
“Unless, I just teleport the portion of me that’s beneath the dead skin,” I suggested. “That would leave a husk.”
Mouse just stared at me in disbelief for a moment, then muttered, “Why do I get the feeling that this conversation is foreshadowing some elaborate Halloween prank?”
I laughed. “What makes you think I’ll wait until Halloween?”
We both chortled at that, causing BT to huff slightly in annoyance (while trying not to smile).
“If I can get you two juveniles back on point?” she chided.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “We were talking about how Gray’s minions might have gotten my DNA – basically from things I regularly toss out. I guess I just hadn’t thought about the lengths someone might go to in order to get it, like digging through my trash.”
“From what I’ve heard of Gray,” Mouse said, “it wouldn’t surprise me if he sent guys crawling up your sewer line, if it would get him what he wanted.”
“Okay, that’s mental imagery I didn’t need,” I muttered, causing BT to giggle this time. “Anyway, I think I understand now why you’re saying Jack’s not a true clone. Genetically, he’s not a pure, one-hundred-percent replica of me because of the DNA substitution.”
“Right,” BT agreed with a nod. “He’s maybe ninety percent you, max, with the remainder coming from some other genetic source.”
I rubbed my chin in thought for a moment. “So, this replacement DNA – where’d they get it?”
BT shrugged. “Who knows? It could have come from anyone.”
“Well, can’t you guys look at the DNA string in question and figure all that out?” I asked.
“We appreciate the faith you have in our abilities,” Mouse stated, “but it’s not that simple. It’s like finding fingerprints at a crime scene. Unless you can match them to a set on file somewhere, you can’t say who they belong to without something more. So, unless you’ve got a genetic database for all the billions of people on this planet, we’re a little stuck on that front.”
“Not to mention the fact that the DNA segment in question might not have even come from a single source,” BT added.
“You mean it might have come from more than one person?” I asked, a little stunned.
“It’s unlikely they were successful in creating Jack with a single trial,” BT said. “My guess is they tried various formulations – including hybridized DNA – until they hit upon one that worked.”
I shook my head in dismay. “Okay, this is way more complex than I ever imagined.”
“Don’t get wrapped up in the minutiae,” Mouse advised. “The exact composition of his DNA isn’t pertinent. The main thing is that having his DNA gets us a lot closer to clearing your name.”
“But like you said earlier, this is the equivalent of prints without a match,” I argued. “We need Jack in carne ed ossa.”
“‘In the flesh,’” Mouse translated, impressed. “Kudos on the Latin.”
I gave a brief nod to acknowledge his compliment, while BT stuck to the subject at hand.
“Holding Jack in place is easier said than done, given his power of teleportation,” she noted. “That’s one ability his handlers were effective in developing.”
Her words striking me as odd, I gave BT a curious look. “What do you mean?”
BT appeared to reflect for a moment before answering. “Do you recall when your teleportation ability first manifested?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I was like five years old and getting whaled on by an older bully. I kept wishing he was somewhere else, and all of a sudden, he was.”
“Using that as an example,” BT said, “under the proper circumstances, your powers seem to develop when needed. It makes you possibly the most versatile super on the planet. Understanding this and knowing your power set, Jack’s handlers were well aware of his potential.”
“In essence,” Mouse added, “they knew the types of abilities he was capable of developing. They simply had to coax them out of him.”
“Coax in what way?” I asked.
Neither BT nor Mouse immediately answered. Instead, my mentor pointed to one of the large monitors positioned around the lab.
The screen suddenly showed an odd scene: several people in white lab coats standing around an odd glass cylinder that was about six feet tall and three feet in diameter. Inside the cylinder, wearing what appeared to be a pair of swimming trunks, was a young boy – maybe nine years old. At that moment, my mouth almost fell open when I realized something: the kid in the cylinder looked exactly like me when I was that age.
Jack, I thought.
He looked nervous, and apparently he had good reason to be, because a few seconds later, the cylinder started filling up with water – fast.
The folks in the lab coats – presumably scientists – watched in utter fascination as the water quickly rose. Jack’s expression, on the other hand, had gone from nervous to anxious as the water climbed to his waist – and then to terrified as it reached his chest. By that time, he was beating on the interior of the cylinder (which I now recognized as a water tank), pleading with the scientists, beseeching them to let him out. There was no audio, but you didn’t need it to see that Jack was begging for his life.
As the water continued going up, Jack rose with it, frantically moving his arms and legs and tilting his head back to keep his face in the small but shrinking pocket of air at the top of the tank. He also still appeared to be screaming for help.
“He’s drowning,” I said flatly.
“Technically, he’s in aquatic distress,” Mouse corrected.
“The main difference,” BT chimed in before I could ask, “is that when you’re in aquatic distress, you can still move your arms and legs voluntarily, as well as call out for help. When you’re drowning, your body employs an automatic reaction known as the instinctive drowning response. When that happens, your arms move out laterally to the side and your head tilts back.”
“And it’s all involuntary,” Mouse added. “You have no conscious control at that point. You can’t even shout for help.”
“That’s not how they show it in the movies and on television,” I protested.
“Then I just don’t understand,” Mouse uttered in mock confusion. “Because they never put anything inaccurate in movies or on TV – it would be like reading something on the internet that wasn’t true.”
I was immediately tempted to give a smart-aleck response, and was on the verge of doing so when BT cut in.
“It’s called ‘dramatic license,’” she said. “Producers and directors portray certain things unrealistically to increase the drama or interest of the audience. But Mouse is right: actual drowning doesn’t involve any flailing about or shouting. Thus, a person could be drowning ten feet from you, and you’d never know it.”
As if giving credence to what I’d just heard, Jack no longer appeared to be calling for aid. His head was tilted back and his arms were out to the side, exactly as BT had explained.
“Now he’s drowning,” Mouse uttered dispassionately.
A few seconds later, there was no air left in the tank and Jack was completely submerged. He seemed to float for a few seconds and then slowly descend. As he did, his mouth opened, releasing a short stream of bubbles. A moment later, his chest expanded, and I cringed, realizing that he was breathing in water. His eyes, still open, began to take on a glassy look.
The attendan
t scientists abruptly began talking among themselves – hopefully discussing whether to get Jack out. However, the conversation was cut short as Jack, completely soaked, suddenly appeared on the floor in front of them, collapsing to all fours and spewing water from his mouth like a fire hydrant.
He had teleported.
An odd scene then ensued, with the scientists cheering, high-fiving, and otherwise enthusiastically congratulating each other, while Jack – still on his hands and knees – retched his guts out.
Chapter 61
“Okay,” I muttered as Mouse turned the video off. “That was unexpected.”
BT nodded. “As I stated, they had effective methods for developing Jack’s abilities.”
“You mentioned coaxing his powers out,” I corrected. “You made it sound like they gave him a cookie if he did something right. I wasn’t expecting this water torture cell.”
“Their approach was unorthodox,” BT admitted.
“Unorthodox?” I repeated. “Try extreme. What would they do if they wanted him to fly – toss him out of an airplane?”
Mouse and BT exchanged a glance, but neither spoke.
“You’ve got to be joking,” I said. “They threw him out of a plane without a chute?”
“Let’s just say we’ve confirmed that he can fly,” Mouse responded.
Incredulous, I simply shook my head. I took a few moments to get my head back in the game and then said, “Alright, what else you got?”
*****
We spent a little time watching more footage of Jack’s powers (or the attempted development of them). The videos came courtesy of BT, who – as previously mentioned – took in information the way ordinary people breathe air. With clones presumably at the highest levels of government, industry, and academia, there was little she couldn’t find out.
Of the other clips we viewed, the one that drew my attention the most involved an attempt to gauge Jack’s telepathic abilities. This one actually had audio, and essentially involved a female scientist pulling what appeared to be playing cards from a nearby deck. (At a guess, I thought it was the woman Gray had showed me a photo of, but it was difficult to tell without her face being twisted by paroxysms.) Jack, sitting at a table across from her, would attempt to guess which card she held.
Replication: A Kid Sensation Novel (Kid Sensation #6) Page 27
