Christ Clone

by McLeod, David

  'By now, you all know what has happened. Let me fill in the details,' he said.

  The group sat forward in their seats.

  'It seems that Dr Borgoff has been planning the clone's escape for a number of days. We've found a small pile of notes that were slipped to the clone, detailing how his life was under threat, and how he was going to get him out.'

  'Where is he now?' the moustached man asked. It was a question they all had, and they all feared the answer.

  'At this point we are not sure; we have troops at the doctor's house and his known friends' places. All stations — rail and bus — and all local airports have been alerted, and we're working with the local traffic police to shut down the main roads. We're using the terrorist angle at the moment, but I'm concerned that will make the police trigger-happy. His car has been found east of here, but there are no traces of either of them. We think they're heading towards Europe, but . . .' He trailed off with uncharacteristic uncertainty.

  'I've brought you in here not to tell you that you've lost your patient, but to get all of you to turn your attention to Dr Borgoff. I want you to review all the tapes of his work with Aloysha, and try to give me an insight into his thinking. This could give us an indication as to where he's gone. The pile of documents on the table are his records and as much information as we have on him.' The files looked quite substantial.

  'We all know how vital a quick assessment is, so tell me what tools you need.'

  Taken aback by the request, they turned towards each other, unsure where to begin. After a moment, the woman stood up and moved to the pile of folders. 'Pardon the pun, but we really just need to clone this room, whiteboard, TV, video, etc. And of course a truckload of coffee.' Her weak attempt at humour went unnoticed as the group nodded in unison, and the colonel left the room.

  ***

  The old Lada complained bitterly at being dragged out of retirement. The sound of the transmission grinding and the knocking noise from the engine had become a source of amusement to them both. Viktor still couldn't believe he'd pulled this off. Drugging the monitor guard had been easy . . . he knew the guard would eat the ponchik donuts, what else was there for him to do so late at night? Watch monitors and observe the boy sleep? Even getting the boy off-site by hiding him below a computer on a goods trolley, and then into a false compartment of his car trunk, wasn't that hard in the end. No, the hard part was from now on. Where were they going to go? What were they going to do? Could they get away and live a normal life?

  He was sure that ditching his own car for the Lada would buy them some time, but the way the car struggled and moaned had made him think again. Also, the heavy fall of snow earlier that day did nothing to make their escape any easier.

  Staying off the main highway was becoming a nightmare. The roads were slow and winding, and the car struggled at every hill, misfiring and skidding. Viktor dropped down to the low gears on even the smallest of inclines. Every car headlight both oncoming and behind made his pulse race; if they were discovered it would be impossible to outrun them. At this rate, the bloody foot patrol could catch us, he thought.

  Checking the map at virtually every intersection didn't help their progress either. They were headed towards a small town he'd seen recently in a documentary on the news. The town had practically imploded on itself like a black hole. Once a bright, affluent place on the main route to and from Moscow, the town had enjoyed selling its wares to tired, hungry, or just curious travellers. However, in an attempt to speed up traffic flow, the government had built a three-lane bypass around the town, and its economy had collapsed as commuters no longer needed to stop for gas or food. It had become an out-of-the-way, faceless town. The documentary went on to say the bulk of the residents had left the town, virtually abandoning their worthless houses, and ending with a question — could this happen to your town?

  Driving around the town looking for suitable accommodation was a little unnerving. Houses were boarded up, and their emptiness conjured up images of ghost towns in American Western movies. Having passed through the town, Viktor spotted a likely looking house on the outskirts. He stopped the car part way up its secluded drive. He switched off the ignition, but the car spluttered and shook, refusing to die. Finally, after a couple of really loud knocks, the engine stopped.

  'Wait here,' he told the boy.

  Aloysha looked at the doctor, amazed at the big clouds of steam that came from his mouth as he spoke. He'd only ever seen this on TV, and once Viktor disappeared along the driveway he started to huff clouds of his own.

  Viktor checked for signs of life. No cars were visible, no tracks or footprints in the snow, and there were no lights on in the house. It looked as though it had been empty for a long time. The windows were covered with boards, and branches from nearby trees, and when Viktor tried the front door it was locked. He walked around the back and tried the door there; it too had been securely locked.

  Returning to the car, he started the engine and moved the car to a spot between two trees and away from the road. It wasn't well hidden, but good enough for the night he thought. Moving to the rear of the car, he opened the trunk and withdrew the tyre iron. Slamming the trunk shut dislodged some of the rusted undercarriage. It fell onto his foot, and looking down at the brown debris brought a smile to his face and eased his tension. He knew the car was a heap of crap, but he also felt proud that the old girl had come this far. 'Hang in there baby, we may need you again,' he said affectionately.

  Taking the bags and a torch, Viktor and Aloysha trudged up the driveway and around to the back of the house. Viktor wedged the tyre iron into the door crease to prise it open. It refused to give so he looked for a brace; there was plenty of stray lumber around and he picked up something suitable. The leverage of the wooden block, and both of them pushing, resulted in the door crashing loudly open. Startled, they turned and looked around, ready to run. But the house remained asleep, no alarms or shouting. It really was empty. Picking up their bags and shining a torch ahead of them, Viktor led the way into the house. They made their way through what looked like the laundry and into the kitchen. Viktor thought Aloysha looked tired and in need of food. Rummaging through the rucksack, he held some of the contents up to the torch until he found a dried protein meal and shook the packet in the air. 'Chicken Kiev, sir?' he joked.

  Aloysha looked at him and forced a smile. Starting on his left, Viktor checked the cupboards in search of a pan. He was impressed with the amount of crockery and glassware they contained, but started to get frustrated when he couldn't find a suitable pan; hunger and fatigue were getting the better of him too. Finally, behind the last door his search was rewarded. 'Always the way!' he huffed.

  After trying the kitchen taps and discovering that the water had frozen in the pipes, he took the pan outside to fill with snow. The cold air took his breath away and made his lungs sting. Squatting to scoop up the snow, he took a moment to listen for any sign of life; it was eerily quiet, making him a little frightened. Filling the pan quickly, he went back inside and closed the door.

  'It's not getting any warmer out there!' he said to Aloysha. The boy's attention was fixed on the kitchen doorway; Viktor followed his gaze and, startled by the man who stood in the frame, dropped the pan and his torch.

  The three of them stood silently, staring at each other. After the initial shock, the doctor realized it wasn't the police or military confronting him. The question racing through his mind was, is this guy the owner of the house? Slowly moving to the torch, he picked it up and shone it in the man's face. 'What are you doing here?' Viktor asked, trying to sound authoritative. Attack was the best defence.

  The man looked guilty and dropped his eyes to the floor. 'Just sheltering from the cold, sir.' His voice was quiet and trailed off as he said 'sir'.

  Feeling he was in control, Viktor continued. 'Well, you've got no right to be in our house. How long have you been here? And how did you get in?' He wanted to know how he'd missed the break-in.

  '
The key above the door,' the tramp replied quizzically, and then looked at the splintered frame of the door.

  Realizing he'd been sprung, Viktor once again went on the offensive. 'That's why I had to break in; you didn't put the key back in its proper place. Now what should we do with you?'

  Aloysha finally spoke. 'We can't send him away in this weather, Viktor; he should stay with us. Anyway, I'm hungry. Can we eat?'

  The tramp stuck out his hand and introduced himself. Viktor ignored the gesture and bent over the pan, rescuing the majority of the snow. The boy shook the tramp's hand, but didn't give his name.

  Viktor found the gas cable behind the stove and followed it to the valve; he twisted the knob, hoping it was still connected. Their luck was holding. The gas seeped through the cooker top, and when Viktor pushed the ignition switch the flame burst into life. Although he was using only one burner to cook, he lit the others for warmth and all three of them crowded around the stovetop.

  The hydrated food tasted terrible, but served its purpose. They all sat around the kitchen table with the hob still alight. The tension between them had dropped a little, and Viktor started to question the tramp again.

  'So how long have you been on the road? What made you turn to that life? What were you doing before? Has anyone else been here, tonight, or in the last week?'

  The tramp answered all the questions Viktor threw at him and came back with a few of his own. But Viktor sidestepped his inquiries conversation, or simply changed the subject.

  Before long, the boy started to tire and asked Viktor where the bedrooms were. He no longer enjoyed sleeping, particularly the dreams that came during sleep, but he couldn't stay awake any longer. Viktor once again caught a quizzical look from the tramp.

  'Aloysha, has it really been that long since you were last here? Your room is upstairs on the left.' A fifty-fifty guess of course, but an error that could easily be covered up. They bade their guest goodnight, and Viktor followed Aloysha upstairs in search of a room. The first one they found was the master bedroom. Not really suitable, Viktor thought. He checked the other rooms. The one at the rear of the house had two single beds in it.

  'We'll take this room, so I can monitor your sleep,' he said to the boy, motioning towards the room with the two beds. Aloysha went straight in and crashed onto the nearest bed, sleep coming almost immediately. Viktor unpacked the sleeping bags and put one over him, then stood back to look at the frail young man. For an eighteen-year-old, he thought, Aloysha is still in many ways such an innocent child. He went back through the bedrooms and checked on the tramp. The man had found himself a bed for the night and all was quiet.

  Viktor was startled into wakefulness by Aloysha's screams. The clone was sitting upright in bed with sweat pouring from him. His hands were cupped together, stretched out in front of his chest; he was staring at them in terror. Viktor rushed to his side and put his arm around him, trying to comfort him. 'It was just a nightmare — shhhhh,' he said, rocking the boy back and forth, trying to calm him by gentle persuasion.

  'What's going on?' The tramp blundered into the room. 'I thought you were killing him,' he added.

  'It's all right; everything is okay. It was just a nightmare.'

  'What's wrong with his hands?' the tramp asked as he moved towards the boy.

  Aloysha had put his hands against his chest, and the moonlight coming in through the window illuminated a large patch of blood on his shirt. Viktor pulled the hands away from the boy's chest to look at them; his palms were bleeding. Grabbing for the torch, he shone the light on the wounds. In the centre of both palms were deep lacerations, blood oozed from them, and Viktor looked at the tramp in bewilderment. The tramp raised his hands as if to say, I don't want to know, and backed out of the room.

  Viktor focused his attention on Aloysha again. 'What happened?' he asked, trying desperately to get a sense of reality back into the picture.

  'I dreamed there were people screaming and yelling at me. They spat and threw things at me, sticks, fruit, stones, anything. The abuse was awful; I didn't know what I'd done. I didn't know any of them. I, I . . .'

  'Calm down, calm down.' Viktor rocked him again.

  'Why did they hate me?'

  'I don't know, I'm sure they didn't . . . don't.' Viktor shook his head, trying to clear it and refocus. 'Tell me what happened next,' he asked.

  The clone drifted back into his dream . . .

  'There's something heavy on my shoulder, cutting into it, I can feel it hard against the bone, I can feel the pain. But the crowd of people scares me, the adrenaline pumping around my body tries to blot out the pain and the jeers . . . now I'm on my back, the sun is beating down on me. The tears in my eyes mix with my sweat and it stings, it stings so badly that they start to close . . . I want to rub them but I can't move my arms. The more I try to move my arms, the more pressure I feel on them. I struggle to move, and then a knee slams onto my chest; through the dust and my tears I can see a man in uniform, he looks like a guard. I can hardly breathe, and I feel like my ribs are going to cave in. The aching in my arm muscles is really worse than the pain in my chest . . . I look to the left and see more guards on my arm, and they're tying a rope around it. Then it happens.'

  Aloysha winced and tears began to flow.

  'It's okay,' Viktor said as he pulled Aloysha's head into his shoulder and let him sob for a moment. His interest in the dream was overruled by his fatherly instinct to console the young man.

  Aloysha pulled his head away and looked straight at Viktor. 'They hammered nails through my hands!' he yelled, and buried his head in Viktor's shoulder again.

  Viktor's mind was reeling, overwhelmed by the implications. How could Aloysha possibly know about this? Questions raced through his head. They pulled up short before one simple, stunning conclusion: I really do have the Son of God weeping on my shoulder!

  Viktor was both terrified and elated. He wanted to scream with joy — and maybe bow in honour. But something else came over him, simple humanity maybe, and all he could think of was the frightened young man he had in front of him. There were so many questions, but Aloysha had already been through too much. What he really needed now was rest. First of all though, Viktor felt he needed to pacify and comfort him. 'Would you like some hot chocolate?'

  The young man's bloodshot eyes looked up at Viktor. 'Can I make it?' he asked in a nasal voice.

  Viktor reached into his pocket for a hanky. 'Blow into this, and then we'll both go.'

  Taking the cloth, Aloysha blew hard, making a noise like a trumpet. The sound made them both laugh, and suddenly Aloysha's tears were happy ones.

  'Well, now that you've alerted the whole neighbourhood to our existence, let's go and make that drink.' They chuckled together as they went down to the kitchen.

  26

  LOS ANGELES

  Donaldson, Rory, and Galbraith was a prestigious law firm located in the Los Angeles business district. Dale Galbraith worked with only one client, which didn't sound like a lot when he told people what he did, but this one client brought the partnership a considerable number of billable hours — particularly in patent filing — and had secured his place in the partnership. The client was Travicom, and specifically Mr Simon Travis.

  Dale was the perfect product of an Ivy League education. Coming from a reasonably well-to-do family, he'd coasted though Harvard Law School finishing well above average thanks to his special gift — an almost photographic memory. Because of his background and excellent grades, Donaldson and Rory had targeted Dale to work at their firm, and from the moment he started with the practise he had worked diligently, confirming their choice. However, it was his serendipitous meeting with Simon Travis that really jump-started his career.

  Dale often told the story. He'd been dressed in a tight-fitting, mustard-yellow top and a pair of black trousers. He was engrossed in a computer simulation game, and repeatedly hit the light-speed button to get more power.

  It was Travis who had started the conve
rsation with a fake Scottish accent. 'Ya cannae push it any faster, Jim.'

  His concentration broken, Dale turned to see who had interrupted him and at the same time his ship hit an asteroid, ending the game. Travis was wearing an outfit similar to Dale's, but with a red top. Travis looked ridiculous, and this image, combined with the worst faux Scottish accent Dale had ever heard, changed Dale's irritation to laughter. He smiled and said, 'Then you'd better beam me up, Scotty.'

  Travis apologized for distracting Dale, and introduced himself.

  'Not the Simon Travis of Travicom fame? What are you doing here?' Dale asked.

  'Just having a bit of fun,' Simon said.

  Dale had exited from the simulator and they both moved on to the next exhibit.

  The annual Trekkie exhibition had been huge that year. Thousands of people went through, and there were well over a hundred exhibitors. They'd both looked at the life-sized exhibit of the teleportation unit, and then they started to discuss whether it could really be done. Dale and Travis went from site to site debating the possibility of transporting people by defragmenting human atoms, but with only one of them speaking with any authority on the subject. Travis finally convinced Dale that recent advances in technology meant it wouldn't be too long before it happened. Dale finally conceded after he realized he was debating the subject with an expert in the field. By the time they'd walked around the whole exhibition, not only had Dale become a believer in teleportation, he'd also picked up one of Los Angeles' most sought-after accounts.

  ***

  Malone was up early pacing around the house. The information Daniel uncovered had kept him tossing and turning most of the night. As he poured himself another cup of coffee he decided he owed it to himself to at least explore the theory. He called Veronica at the Missing Persons Office and told her that something had come up and he needed to take the day off. She thanked him for the call, and after asking if he was all right told him to take as long as he needed.