Darwin's Bastards

by Zsuzsi Gartner

  In about a minute the shaking stops, which, I have to say, is a really impressive reaction for a consumable. I’m holding up my hands to Johnny to show him the result when it suddenly becomes difficult to breathe. Like I’ve got a chunk of something in my throat that the air is whistling around. I cough but it’s still there. The next thing I know I’m retching on the floor. My heparin lock snags and rips out of my arm, but that’s the least of my worries. My vision tunnels with little white lights dancing all around the edges. I hear feet on plastic flooring, the chang-chang of the alarm, and then it’s like my life is on a vid display, I’m watching it all from across the room for a few seconds until something switches off the program that was me.

  The next thing I know I’m on a gurney in a hallway I don’t recognize, Dr. Ryan hanging over me. I’m being pushed along. “Whew, Cliff,” he says, when he sees my eyes are open. “Whew. Boy oh boy, you really did us there. You really. . . you put a scare into me.” His ears are all red and there’s a vein standing out on his neck.

  There’s some kind of ventilation bag over my face and I can see an old-fashioned direct-to-vein IV in my arm. The kind they hang the drip from on a metal cart on wheels. Dr. Ryan looks from one eye to the next. “You can hear me, right?”

  I nod and the ventilation bag crinkles.

  “Fine . . . See this?” He waves his fingers in front of me. “How many?”

  “Five,” I croak.

  “Fine. Look, Cliff, this is a serious setback. I’ll have to leave you in a minute. You wouldn’t believe the forms. My week, I’m sorry, my week is basically fucked.”

  The gurney taxis towards a set of doors with light streaming through them and Dr. Ryan takes a quick look at my drip and then turns back to me. “All right, Cliff. Take care, right?” He gives a reassuring tug to my gown and then starts talking to someone else on his ear-set.

  In the next room, Mr. Jeffries, who admitted me almost three months earlier, raises an auto-jot to my ventilation bag. It’s got all my stats on the screen. He flashes through a few pages until we get to “known medical concerns,” which I tabbed in myself when they were checking for suitability at the initial assessment.

  “Vanillin,” he says. “You’re allergic to vanillin. How can anybody be allergic to vanillin?” He taps the word forcefully into the keypad and it appears beside my allergy stats: VANILLIN. His thin face overtop of me is full of blood. “Or, more to the point, how can anybody not know they’re allergic to vanillin? Not much on the sweets, Cliff?”

  It dawns on me then that they’ve brought me past the inner perimeter, where, as a test patient, you can’t go without a full counter-contagion body bag. That it’s all over, then. That I’m out.

  Violet. Andre. Little girl with the messy brown hair. Polly. I’m sorry.

  Mr. Jeffries begins arranging with someone on his ear-set for a wheelchair to be delivered to his office ASAP. I can hear that other voice—you know the way you can—like a little bee trapped under a glass. There’s a garbage bag on his desk with a paper form stapled to it. It’s got my own handwriting on it from when I filled it out months ago on the other end of things. I remember taking the time to really make sure it was all legible, to impress upon these people with my carefully printed r’s and q’s just what sort of man I was. It looks ridiculous now. I’ve always had the worst handwriting. Mr. Jeffries looks up at me while he’s talking. From the gurney his head is sideways. The whole room is leaning. Vanillin. Who knew?

  The upshot is that three weeks later I’m able to walk around again just fine. Upstairs, downstairs. I’m back sleeping on the air mattress in my mother’s living room. As for Violet, she hasn’t once returned any of the texts I drop her from my pearl. The sweetheart symbol that lights up when I select her from my contact list has gone out, meaning she’s clicked it off. What did I do? How am I supposed to know? Daytime, I walk the path along the inner harbour that winds through the park towards the downtown bridges. It’s not a special life. I have money left over from the trial still but I can’t think of where to put it. I fritter it away on mocha-whips at the Caffeine-arena in Sweetgrass City and mope along the pebble trails.

  One Thursday afternoon I’m in the park close by my home. Draped overtop of the wooden fence that surrounds the play area is some kid’s single woollen mitten waiting there to be reclaimed. It makes me feel so sad I almost pick the squishy little thing up and bury it in the sandbox so I don’t have to look at it ever again. Someone has a family. Someone else’s little girl is curled up on his lap while he toasts her delicate hand between his own two rough paws.

  As I’m standing there thinking this I hear someone calling me. “Clifferino, hey hey.”

  It’s Polly. His hair has grown back and he’s walking normally, but it’s still him. He’s got these two Alsatian pups yoked together on a single leash. They’re straining forwards on their giant paws, sniffing the rotten leaves like maniacs.

  “Polly. The colour’s really come back into your cheeks.”

  “It’s just a trick of the light,” he says. One of the Alsatians lifts a leg and urinates on the other Alsatian who doesn’t seem to mind. Polly shakes his head and pulls a rumpled T-shirt from out of his backpack to wipe the one dog down. “Christ, what I don’t do for these guys.”

  “I saw YL97 went market. Congratulations.”

  “Yeah, SylvaBen. That pretty much wins the war on impetigo.” He puts the T-shirt into an empty grocery bag. “What about you? Catching any rays in your free time?”

  “Ah.”

  “Hmm.” He kicks a little bit at the stones on the path. “You know we all really were shocked, just shocked, Cliffy. . . Guy that came after you was complete trash. He didn’t last two days. Between you and me and these pups here, they’re not gonna see quality like what you brought into the bargain anytime soon.”

  What he’s saying, Polly, he’s saying to make me feel better. I can see him thinking it through before he says it—poor Cliff, what do I say? Polly’s jacket is a new Dupont clear-film jobbie and he’s fidgeting with the metal flap at the elbow where it caps the plug, snapping it open and closed.

  “What about Violet, Polly? Did she say anything?”

  “Ah, kid, forget her. Look at us out here. We got the sunshine and later on I’m gonna walk these guys all the along the shore, right under both bridges and back. Remember that old macaroni kind of smell in the vid room? Taking a dump and having to call Johnny in for a look before you flushed? That stuff’s in there. We’re on the outside now.”

  Polly knows he didn’t answer my question and we can both feel it hanging there. He looks down and so do I. “Would you look at that? Some little tyke lost his mitt.”

  Reception at AtGen has no idea who I am at first. I wait in line like everybody else, enjoying the free donuts and Herbavit. But as soon as I press my thumb to the ID patch my stats scroll across the woman’s screen.

  “We’ve processed your payment, Mr. Gordini. You should have received it weeks ago.”

  “No. Um. I mean, yes. I have the creds. I’m good. But Violet Mitchell. She was working with me in the gastro ward.”

  “I’m sure you understand that we can’t release information on any of our staff. You’ll have to . . .”

  “I have her chat code keyed into my pearl.”

  “. . . leave a message in the general system.”

  The guy behind me, a hulking heavy-breather who must know he’s about fifty pounds past the cut-off point for any trial, starts pressing into my back. The receptionist looks up at me, then at him, and warns him back behind the yellow line. “All I can tell you is that she’s over in Military this month. That’ll have to do, okay?”

  She didn’t have to tell me that. We both know it. She’s got a kind face, this receptionist. All of these people, day after day, wanting. If I’d only lasted to market, she would’ve said, “Cliff!” when I walked through the sliding doors, motioned me forwards with the wave of a comrade. It’s good to see you. How’ve you been? I’m g
reat, Shirley, I would have said. I can’t tell you how good.

  There are no beds in Military, which is divvied up mainly into chemical and physical divisions, most of that buried underground and stretching for miles—they say—right out under the Georgia Strait. And no lineups around admitting, either. No screening or welcome video, just desperates who wander in from God knows where and come out seven hours later with 500 creds in their pearlchip and piece of plastic permanently grafted onto their calf. Or blind for a month in one eye. Or don’t, once in a while, come back out at all. It’s a very deep waiver you sign. They don’t call you a Participant here. They call you a Body.

  They put me in a Supersuit. Seamless NanoFab that sucks tight over my body like a wet T-shirt. Boots and a helmet. It’s the helmet they’re checking, I think, or maybe it’s the gas. They don’t tell the Bodies anything.

  Even though it’s made of glass and you can see out of it just fine, the test chamber is claustrophobic. I mean, I’m not particularly sensitive, but it’s really not much more than a tube just big enough to fit one person standing up. If I fell down in here the walls would catch me before I hit the floor. The glass is maybe half a foot thick and when they close the door behind me after I step in I can hear bolts slide into place with a whir. Then it’s very quiet, just the sound of my own breath, in and out. It always screws with my mind to listen to my own breath like that. What happens if I forget to breathe, and then begin to suffocate?

  And what makes it work, anyway, when I’m not paying attention?

  It’s me in the room in my tube, shielded from these three people whose names I don’t even know, who themselves— just in case, I guess—are wearing little plastic masks over their mouths and noses. They look up at me and then down at a screen glowing in front of them. Then up, then down. Before I know it, there’s a fog between us and I can only see them like shadows. The tube is full of gas.

  The question is: what angel comes to tend to you when it’s over? When the gas leaks up under your chin and, before they can flush the chamber, curdles the skin around your nose and eyes? Who wipes your forehead with a cool cloth and says it’s okay? That you did good and the world’s going to be a better place and we know that you helped? Everybody knows.

  “Please raise your hands over your head and then lower them repeatedly,” says a voice inside my helmet, so I do.

  “Please simulate walking.”

  I walk the way a soldier might. For five foggy minutes I imagine I’m on this giant battlefield, stepping over bodies. The guns have stopped and it’s just me now with a head full of the terrible stories of the things I’ve seen and the things I’ve had to do. And my family when I come walking through the door, when I come bleeding and bruised. How they thought I was dead, how my little girl upstairs dreaming in her pyjamas will look when I peek in at her through the bedroom door, the light in the hallway spilling in just enough to see her. And my love, her hands on my face and her own full of tears and kissing me and the cold tip of her nose against my cheek. And bringing me home. Thinking that I’m a part of something. I’m a part of something and it’s bigger than myself. And it’s worth fighting for.

  MATTHEW J. TRAFFORD

  THE DIVINITY GENE

  1.

  JESI

  From Poplopedia, the original free encyclopedia

  The term Jesi refers to any of the viable human offspring created from the DNA formula released by Dr. Maciej Wawrzyniec on October 17, 2006, at 9:57 PM (GMT), believed to be the accurate genetic code of Jesus of Nazareth (see also Jesus Christ). The term can include the miraculous or biological descendants of Jesi, although the latter are also referred to as demi-Jesi/ semi-Jesi, quadrajeez, octajeez, etc.

  ORIGINS OF THE JESI

  Dr. Maciej Wawrzyniec, a Polish geneticist who attended the International Academy for the Advancement of Science between 1962 and 1968, posted a 144-page document to no less than 18 known Internet forums at 9:57 PM on October 17 of 2006. Referred to as The Post, this document had been downloaded over 80, 000 times by 6:00 AM on October 18. The first section of the document expanded upon his research into the standard cloning procedures of the early millennium (see somatic cell nuclear transfer), and outlined his instructions for how to choose the suitable woman to carry the Second Coming of Christ. The second section of the document, in 98 pages, gave the full genetic sequence for the DNA of Jesus Christ.

  The cloning method proposed by Dr. Wawrzyniec and later practised by several private companies, national governments, and educational organizations, now known as the Dr.W. Method, requires an egg donor surrogate mother. One per cent of the offspring’s DNA, the mitochondrial DNA, therefore belongs to the mother. Dr. Wawrzyniec’s document outlined criteria for selecting the New Mary (see also Semper Virgin, Mulier Amicta Sole), including genetic history, IQ, religious affiliation, age, sexual history, and “moral orthodoxy.” His wishes were ignored.

  By November 23, 2006, the Newcastle Centre for Life (United Kingdom), the Microsoft Corporation, Professor Hwang Woo-suk (South Korea), and the national government of Russia had each announced their intentions to generate one clone of Christ. The women chosen to carry these four original clones were kept under 24-hour surveillance and medical care, and the video feed of each woman during the duration of her pregnancy was broadcast over the Internet (for archives of the videos, see www.watchthejesi.org/archives). Under the aegis of the United Nations, many world leaders made statements against the cloning of Christ, the most vocal of whom was President Bush of the United States of America (click here for a copy of his speech). After the events of the Munich Miracle (see below), this outcry against the cloning stopped. Dr. Wawrzyniec had become the most recognizable name on the planet (although, as the North American Consolidated Press quipped that December, still the hardest to pronounce). He had, however, disappeared from the public arena by then and become a recluse. He had no further known involvement in the development of the Jesi.

  The source DNA for the Jesi remains a subject of some controversy, and as Dr. Wawrzyniec never revealed how he procured his base genetic sample, nothing definitive can be said. There is consensus, however, in scientific, religious, and academic circles, that the DNA used was indeed that of the historical Christ.

  BIRTH, EARLY LIFE, AND PROPAGATION OF THE JESI

  The first Jesus was born in July of 2007, to the South Korean mother (for the birth dates of the other Jesi, click here). According to the doctors present, the mother did experience the normal pain of childbirth, but the baby did not cry. Ethnically, the baby appeared Middle Eastern. Three days after the South Korean Jesus was born an assassin successfully shot the mother, although the shooter missed the child. A witness held the silent child to his mother’s side, and the baby suckled at her breast. Reportedly, the woman’s wounds were healed and she returned to life. Many dismissed this as global myth; however, later events imply it may well be true. The assassin remains at large, and no group or individual has ever claimed responsibility.

  The four original Jesi grew and learned at an accelerated speed, which was unexpected. According to the four Biblical Gospels, the original Christ had grown as a normal child. The Jesi appeared adolescent after only one year. This may have been due to an imperfection in the cloning process (see Dolly the sheep, premature aging, and telomeres). When questioned about it, the Jesi simply responded: “Things have been changed.” Other than the incident in South Korea, no miraculous behaviour was noted during the first two years of life. After several articles about the Divinity Gene and coverage of the drastic increase in pressure from anti-reproductive technology activists to prevent future instances of human cloning, the media buzz died down somewhat. Public interest in the Jesi resumed in May of 2009, when the British Jesus showed his capacity for granting miracles.

  At a photo op with Prince Harry, the British Jesus (named Hugh at the request of his surrogate mother, a fan of British actor Hugh Grant) was approached by a tearful woman of Argentinean descent, pleading that she was a
“pure vessel” meant to carry a Christ-child. The Jesus touched her and said, “It is done.” She reportedly took three pregnancy tests that afternoon, all of which came back positive. On February 14, 2010, Valeria Paz gave birth to the first Miraculous Jesus. (Gestational time of Jesi embryos is not accelerated, for unknown reasons.)

  Following the successful fertilization of Valeria Paz, many women the world over sought to be impregnated in a miraculous manner by the various Jesi. For approximately the first year it was the standard for the “Pilgrim Wombs”—women who sought to carry a Jesus clone—to be virgins, due to the Catholic doctrine that holds that the mother of Jesus Christ conceived without having sexual intercourse (see Virginal Conception). When it became clear, however, that the Jesi would grant pregnancy to anyone who asked for it, women of any sexual history or creed became mothers of Jesi using the miraculous method.

  By June 2013, it was estimated that there were at least 700 existent Jesi, and the numbers have grown exponentially from that point forward. All of the known Jesi are male. Jesi conceived miraculously show the same advanced rate of aging as the cloned Jesi, for unknown reasons. The Jesi, before the age of 12 (the equivalent of the mid-thirties in a normal human male), are often sexually active, and many have reproduced biologically. These unions have thus created hybrid Jesus-human children, and have effectively mixed the Jesus DNA into that of the human species. Given the miraculous capabilities of the Jesi (discussed below), many prominent members of the scientific community have come to accept the theory of Intelligent Design in some form, and to regard the addition of the Jesus DNA as the most significant advance in human evolution since homo erectus became bipedal.

  MIRACULOUS CAPABILITIES OF THE JESI