Genesis Alpha

by Rune Michaels

  “You feel guilty because you know what’s right and wrong.”

  “Rook knows killing is wrong. Doesn’t he?”

  I nod. “I think so. He just doesn’t care. He wants to do it, so he doesn’t care if it’s wrong. He just wants to, so he does.”

  “But there’s something crazy in wanting to do something like that. Knowing what’s right and wrong is what should stop you, but what makes you want to do it in the first place?”

  We stare at each other. We’re asking questions that have no answers.

  “Rook likes hurting people,” Rachel says. “People like him want to know that their victims suffer. He probably wouldn’t even have bothered to kill her if she hadn’t suffered. It wouldn’t be any fun that way. It wouldn’t be any fun to kill a person in their sleep.”

  Thinking about what Max did, how he did it, gives me the shivers. An icy feeling inside, and the urge to squeeze my eyes shut, tighter and tighter until I can’t see anything but random explosions of color.

  “I want to figure it out,” Rachel says, “where evil comes from. If I want to become an expert in evil, what should I study?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would it be biology or psychology or law or philosophy?”

  “Probably a bit of everything.”

  Rachel laughs. I don’t like the sound of her laughter. It’s like a mechanical noise. Like a laughing doll in a toy store, when you push a button or pull a string or activate it with a shouted command. “Yeah. Perhaps I should major in a bit of everything.”

  I feel foolish. “I just meant—”

  “I know what you meant.” Her tone is patronizing again and I hate that, I hate it when people make me feel stupid. I clench my fists because I want to yell at her and I can’t. I feel like slamming my fist against the wall and I can’t. I feel like grabbing her and shaking her and shoving her out the door, but I can’t. I won’t. I won’t do any of that. So I wait, and let Rachel play her game.

  “Maybe the only way is to learn by doing,” she says. “Do you think that’s it? Do you have to become evil to understand evil?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You said evil is human. Cruelty is human. Human is intelligence. So it makes sense that cruelty stems from intelligence. Maybe it’s a side effect of intelligence.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you know your own IQ?”

  “No,” I lie. I do know. It’s one of the things Dr. Ashe has in her files, and last time I demanded to know the results. But I’m not going to give Rachel a number to tag me with.

  “I bet it’s pretty high.” Rachel looks at me, calculating, and I don’t trust her one bit. “For you and Rook both. Both your parents are scientists. So you’ve got smart genes.”

  “Genes aren’t everything.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  “No. They’re not.”

  Rachel lines up two tiny kitten tails, gently loops them around each other. Blue and sorrel. “You breed cats. For color and looks.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And personality. Behavior. So they make good pets.” She looks at me when I don’t answer. “Right?” she snarls.

  “Right.”

  “You can do that because the way they look and the way they act is in their genes. So when you breed a king with a queen, you know what you get.”

  “No. We don’t know. We can affect the odds because we are familiar with the gene pool of each parent, but we don’t know.”

  “Yeah. Odds. Like the odds of you and Rook being alike.”

  “Or you and your sister.”

  “Karen wasn’t always a very nice sister.”

  I consider telling her Max isn’t the best of brothers.

  “When I was little, I loved to play with Karen. But she didn’t like playing with me. I was such a baby, she said. She didn’t want me touching her stuff, either. But I still thought she was the most fantastic person in the universe. Big sister. Nobody was cooler, smarter, prettier.” Rachel tosses me a cat toy, a spongy ball she’s dug up from behind the mattress, and gestures for me to throw it back. “Is that what you thought about your brother?”

  “I guess.”

  “He’s a lot older than you are.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Big brother. So he must have been your idol. Your hero. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rachel smiles. Like she’s won a victory. Her teeth don’t show. Her lips are dry, chapped. I think she gnaws on them, like on her fingers.

  “You look a lot like him on the outside. You must be similar on the inside too. You must think like him. Feel like him. If you have any feelings at all.”

  The walls seem too close and I want to lash out at Rachel again, punish her like she’s punishing me. It’s stupid to feel trapped. Max is the caged animal, not me. I’ll never be like him. I won’t let it happen. I stand up. Reach out with my arm, steady myself against the wall and look defiantly down at Rachel. “No. I’m not a killer.”

  Rachel is leaning back against a big bag of cat litter. She holds a kitten to her cheek, and she looks cute and sweet and normal for a moment. Then the rubber mask is back. It stretches as she smiles at me. “Not yet.”

  She’s so damn good at this. I give in to the fear and the fury and leave the shed, slamming the door on Rachel’s cackle. I’m not like Max. I’ll never be like Max.

  In the morning Mom is putting down the phone as I trudge down the stairs. She hurries toward the television and rummages around for the remote. “Jack!” she calls, and Dad emerges from his study. “It’s Diane. She was watching the news—Max’s new lawyer is on the morning show. Costello. On television. Now.”

  “Costello?” Dad repeats. He removes his glasses and polishes them with the loose hem of his cotton shirt, puts them back on, and peers at the blank TV screen. “About Max? Why?”

  Mom switches on the television. Max’s face fills the screen. By now we should be used to it, but Mom winces.

  “What’s going on?” Dad asks, but nobody has an answer for him. He grabs the phone, but before he can dial anywhere, the new guy, Dan Lione, appears on the television, sitting in an armchair next to the famous talk show host. In front of them, a small audience. Cameras visible in the background.

  “I don’t like that guy,” Dad mutters. “He’s a sleazebag. He just took Max on hoping to milk some media attention out of the case. Max should have kept Richard Harris.”

  “It’s Max’s choice,” Mom says. “He’s an adult, after all. . . .”

  “But what the hell are they—”

  Mom shushes Dad as Mr. Lione starts talking.

  “Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Costello,” he says to the host. “I really appreciate getting this chance to tell you my client’s story.”

  Mr. Costello leans back. “The audience is all yours, Dan.”

  The camera zooms in on Mr. Lione, away from the talk show host. For long moments he gazes out over the audience, and an excited murmur starts. When it dies down and there’s silence, he starts talking.

  Dad drops into a chair. Mom falls onto the sofa. I sit down silently on a chair in a corner behind them, barely daring to breathe for fear they’ll tell me to go to my room and make me miss this. “I’d like to tell you a story,” the lawyer says. “A story of a little boy. I want you to listen carefully. It’s a long story, but it has a very important point.”

  On the screen behind him a picture shimmers into life. It’s a childhood picture of Max, sick in his hospital bed, looking tiny and pathetic.

  “This is Max. He’s five years old. Max has cancer. For three years, Max has fought. As long as he can remember, he has fought. His allies are alien chemicals ravaging his body, radiation burning his insides, a scalpel slicing through his flesh. But no treatment has worked. Nothing works. Max is dying.”

  Pictures flash on the screen in a slow slideshow. Max with tubes stuck to him everywhere. Max in surgery. Max in chemo. Max in isolation. Max smiling while Dad open
s a birthday present for him, but too weak to hold his head up, let alone his toys.

  “Where did he get these pictures?” Dad asks angrily.

  “I e-mailed him some photos,” Mom murmurs.

  “You did what?”

  “He called me yesterday, asked for some childhood pictures of Max. He said he might need them for the defense. That it would help if the jury saw how ill Max was . . . all the pain and misery he suffered . . . how that must have scarred him . . .” Mom’s voice trails off. “I thought he was on our side! I didn’t dream he’d use them like this! How could this possibly help his defense?”

  Lione continues while the photographs keep flashing on the screen. “Max grew up with death. As long as he can remember, he’s been surrounded by death. He makes friends at the hospital, only to watch them quietly disappear. At first he asks about them. Then he doesn’t. By the time Max is six years old, he has decided he wants a cremation. He wants his ashes scattered to the wind. When he is seven years old, he’s ready to die. He’s been sick as long as he can remember. He’s in constant pain. He’s unable to play like other little children. Stuck in a bed, sometimes too weak to even smile at his favorite cartoons, he watches as his parents have already started to grieve. Sometimes he feels they are waiting for it to be over. Waiting for him to die.”

  Mr. Lione takes a slow, deliberate drink of water. Looks up, smiles. A new picture flashes on the screen. It’s me. A baby, beside Max in the hospital bed. Max is looking at me. My hand is around two of his fingers.

  “Then, a miracle. A miracle of science. A baby brother. A brother carefully chosen. A baby brother whose tissues match his, a brother whose cells can cure Max. A brother created to heal him. And the miracle works. Max receives his brother’s healthy cells, and he starts getting better. He’s in remission. Soon there is no trace of the disease anymore. The doctors are optimistic that it will never return. His brother has cured him. Max can play outside. He can have a pet. He can go to birthday parties. He can make friends and they don’t die on him. He can do anything now. Life is perfect. But . . .”

  Mr. Lione pauses.

  “Max is jealous, too. Of course he is. It’s only normal. His parents are preoccupied with the new baby, now that Max is healthy. The baby is more needy now. He takes up their time, their attention.”

  Dad shifts in his seat, looks at Mom. “Where is he going with this? Is he saying we neglected Max after Josh was born?”

  Mom doesn’t take her eyes off the screen.

  “Then one weekend, Max gets sick,” the lawyer continues. “He’s weak. He has a fever. He throws up. His parents are terrified. They leave his little brother with a neighbor and rush Max to the hospital. More tests. More needles. Another white hospital bed and doctors with eyes Max doesn’t trust anymore. But he’s fine. It’s just a flu, the doctors say, smiling at Mom and Dad. Nothing to worry about.

  “That evening Max sneaks down the stairs. He’s an intelligent and inquisitive little boy. He wants to—he needs to—know everything. He wants to know every detail about his disease, and if he’s really dying, he wants to know that, too. Sometimes his parents and the doctors have tried to hide the facts from him. Did he really just have the flu—or are his parents trying to protect him from the truth?

  “He’s done this before. He’ll sit on the bottom stair and listen to their voices drift to him, and he’ll learn about his blood count, his prognosis, all the things they won’t tell him in person. But this time, they aren’t talking about him. They’re talking about Josh. His baby brother.

  “Max isn’t very interested in their conversation about Josh. But he sits there for a while, listening, growing more and more confused by what they’re saying. It’s then that he hears the word for the first time.”

  The lawyer pauses. Dad looks at Mom. Mom looks at Dad. They both look back at me. Mom shakes her head. Dad shoves both hands through his short hair. “What—” he says.

  “It can’t be,” Mom says. “It’s not possible.”

  On the television screen, the lawyer is again taking a drink of water. The host is silent. This is Mr. Lione’s moment. Whispers spread across the studio. A feeling of dread crawls up my spine. “Max holds his breath,” the attorney says, almost whispering, and the room falls completely silent. “He keeps listening. He moves closer, so he doesn’t miss a word. They’re still talking about his little brother, Josh. Josh, who is a designer baby, created to heal Max. But Josh is more than that. Josh is the perfect designer baby.”

  The lawyer pauses. Once again he brings the glass to his lips and sips water. “Max’s mother is a biologist,” he continues. “Dr. Seville works at one of the best research facilities in the country. She works with world-renowned scientists. A new law has been passed, stopping them from continuing their research. They are disgruntled. Some of them are furious. Their lives’ work has been stopped, just as they’re on the cusp of many important breakthroughs. Their lives’ work—which could save so many lives. Including the life of Dr. Seville’s little boy.”

  Dad is leaning over, his elbows on his knees, his knuckles in his eyes. Mom’s hands hover over her ears, like she doesn’t want to hear what the lawyer is saying. I slide down in my seat, but although I want to escape, I can’t bring myself to run away.

  “Whose idea is it? Who’s the first to voice it? The mother? One of her colleagues? It doesn’t matter. The result does matter. The result is there. The result saved Max’s life.”

  My picture flashes on the screen behind the lawyer. It’s side by side with an old picture of Max. Mr. Lione looks straight into the camera, and I recoil as the illusion of television makes our eyes meet.

  “A clone,” the lawyer says. “That’s their solution. That’s Max’s cure.”

  I laugh, because it’s too ridiculous. I can’t help it. I look at Dad, wanting him to shake his head in disbelief at what the man is saying. But he doesn’t. He stares at the lawyer, his jaw clenched. Mom’s face is white.

  On the television, Mr. Lione continues, and I’m vaguely surprised because I feel like the whole world should be frozen still right now.

  “Max’s baby brother is one of the first human clones in history. Perhaps the very first. But it’s a secret. What they did wasn’t exactly legal. Not exactly ethical. That’s what their parents talk about while Max listens. The importance of keeping this a secret. A secret forever. It is never to be mentioned again. Not even between the two of them. The boys will never find out. The world will never find out.

  “Max is a smart boy. From his hospital bed he has watched countless hours of television, read hundreds of books. He knows what a clone is. He knows what it means. Max sneaks back upstairs, and his parents never know he was there. He crawls into his bed, shivering, even though it’s not cold. He thinks about his baby brother, asleep in the nursery next to their parents’ bedroom, his old room. It dawns on him what this means. His parents got a new baby, not only to heal him. They also got a replacement, in case the cure didn’t work. They have a new Max. An identical child, this one without the disease. This one will grow strong and healthy. This new Max will be the child they wanted—and it no longer matters whether Max lives or not.”

  “No . . . no . . . no . . .” It’s Mom’s voice. She’s barely moving her lips, but I hear her. “Oh, Max . . . no . . .”

  “That night Max closes his eyes and meets darkness. He sees himself walking into the nursery. He sees himself holding a pillow over the baby’s face, until the new Max stops moving. He fantasizes about reclaiming his rightful spot in his parents’ hearts. It is the first of many fantasies. It is Max’s first journey into the shadows that later will consume him.”

  The lawyer pauses. He looks away from the camera, down at his notes, then at Mr. Costello.

  “Fascinating. Chilling,” Mr. Costello says. “But I must confess, hard to believe. It sounds like science fiction. Do you have any proof? And how will this help with Mr. Seville’s defense?”

  “I know it sounds unb
elievable,” Mr. Lione says. “It is unbelievable. But it’s not science fiction. It’s science fact, and it really shouldn’t be that surprising. We’ve had the technology for a while—of course someone, somewhere has taken advantage of it. Imagine the psychological devastation for a young child. Imagine the scars on his psyche. And we have seen the heartbreaking consequences. . . .”

  “But can you prove any of this?”

  “Yes, quite easily.” He looks into the camera and our eyes meet again. “All we need is a cell sample from the cloned child.”

  The cloned child.

  That’s me.

  I feel dizzy. Almost like that time when I was little and fell from the swings and got a big gash on my head. I lost so much blood I nearly passed out. That’s how it feels. Like there’s no blood left in my head anymore, like there’s nothing in there at all.

  Mom’s lips are pinched white. Dad’s face is red. Neither of them is looking at me.

  “Is it true?” I ask, but nobody hears me. Maybe I didn’t say it loud enough. “Is it true?” I ask, standing up. “Is it true?” I yell. My fists are clenched, and when I feel my nails dig into my palms, feel the bite of it rush through my numb system, I almost understand why pain is Rachel’s friend.

  My mother looks absent and tired, like the answer doesn’t matter anymore. Her eyes are on the television where Mr. Lione is still answering Mr. Costello’s questions. “Yes, Josh. It’s true.”

  I can’t breathe. Dad sits me down. His arm is heavy over my shoulder, and he says something, but I hear nothing. Blood is rushing through my head again and then I’m breathing hard, as if I’ve just run a long way.

  “Josh?” Dad’s saying when I start hearing again. His hands are warm on my cheeks, holding me steady, and I realize I’m shaking hard. “It’s okay. Everything will be okay. I promise.”

  “How can it be okay? How can it ever be okay, Dad?”

  “Nobody was supposed to know,” Mom whispers. “Ever.”

  “Max has always known,” I say. Dad’s hands slide away from my face when I twist around to look at Mom. “Since he was little. Since I was a baby. Max has always known. He has always hated me, hasn’t he?”