The Experiment

by John Darnton

  Fifteen minutes before the appointed time, a car pulled up. It was a black Lexus, Raymond's own. He'd probably made a point of using it, knowing that Jude would recognize it from the ferry.

  A lanky figure got out and looked toward the pine grove. Jude pulled on the cigarette to make it glow, signaling his presence, and the figure walked across the tarmac.

  "I keep telling you, but you don't listen," said Raymond. "That stuff's gonna kill you." He was back to his old self.

  "Yeah, and I lead such a healthy life otherwise."

  Raymond looked around. "Quite a spot you picked out here."

  Jude knew Raymond was registering everything—looking for other cars, another person, something out of place. He thought of a wisecrack, decided against it.

  Jude gestured up a pathway that led into the woods behind him.

  Time to deal.

  "Let's take a walk," he said.

  Raymond shrugged. "It's your dime."

  They were silent, trudging up through the darkness. The pine needles softened their footsteps and warmed their nostrils with a pungent smell. Jude led the way and, nervous with Raymond behind him, began to breathe heavily as he made his way up a slippery incline. His body took over its own defense, listening intently to the night sounds around him, a rustling here, a small animal darting across the leaves there.

  They walked for a good ten minutes, following the path. Twice, Jude had to pull out his flashlight to find the way.

  "Don't forget, we gotta find our way back," complained Raymond. "I'm a city boy. Put me in Central Park and I'm helpless."

  Jude grunted.

  At the top of the slope, they came to a flattened ridge that ran in a straight line in both directions; in the darkness they saw two parallel bands disappearing over the horizon—railroad tracks. Jude stepped on the bank of coal and then onto a wooden tie between the steel tracks. Raymond followed him and looked up and down as far as he could see. It was pitch-black except for what looked like a green signal way off to the east.

  Raymond reached into his pocket, pulled out a bottle of pills and tossed one into his mouth. He took out a hip flask and swigged it down. When he turned, Jude got a whiff of whiskey.

  "Like I say, a helluva spot," said Raymond. "I hope you checked out the train schedule. What tracks are these, anyway?"

  "A freight line. The old Pennsylvania."

  Time to end the small talk. Jude started walking west on the railroad ties, with the FBI man at his side.

  "I need your help, Raymond. I'm in so deep in this thing, I don't know which way is up."

  "You're right about that. Don't say I didn't warn you." He stopped in his tracks. "By the way, that day you guys came to the Bureau, why did you run away?"

  "I thought I'd be the one to ask questions."

  "You ask some, you answer some. It's called give and take."

  "Fair enough. I'll answer it. But first I'd like to know something—those were your guys on that island, right? Crab Island. You were after us, right?"

  "Let me repeat something I tried to get through to you last time, on the ferry. You're at a disadvantage here. You don't have a lot of information. You're caught up in something that's big, very big. It's complicated. You don't know who you can trust. So if your question is: were those guys FBI, the answer is, yes, they were. But you asked if they were my guys, and the answer to that is no."

  "What are you saying? The agency is split? You have some guys on one side and some on the other?"

  "Split is one way to put it. At war is another. Spying, phone tapping, betrayal—you name it. Look, this thing—this conspiracy, whatever you want to call it—I suppose you've figured out by now that it involves some pretty well-connected people. It goes way beyond a couple of crazies who dropped out of medical school because they were convinced they found the fountain of youth."

  "Tell me about it."

  Raymond sighed. "In a nutshell, there's an inner circle of scientists who have mastered new techniques. Big stuff. Genetic research. They're in league with various high-placed, wealthy individuals. These constitute a conspiracy—I call them 'the Group,' for lack of anything better. It's made up of big names from various power centers—business, politics, the government, the media. They've got millions of dollars at their disposal. Their aims are not altogether clear—other than to keep the work secret, to hold on to the levers of power and to live for a very, very long time."

  "How did it get so big?"

  "I'm only guessing the general outline. There's this brilliant doctor, right? Rincon. He's loaded with charisma, one of those types who comes along every so often—you just want to follow him, do whatever he says. He's talking about a brave new world. And he delivers—a small investment, a couple of smart medical researchers in an underground lab, and they hit a major breakthrough. They figure out how to clone. First time in history. Mucking about with basic nature—turning two cells into two identical people. That's heady stuff. Now you're prepared to follow this guy anywhere.

  "So what do they do with it? The procedure they developed only works at the very earliest stages of life—the fertilized egg. So it has only one application for humans—you can clone an embryo, and that's it. So they cloned their own children shortly after conception. Like you. Like your girlfriend. That much you've already figured out. The original impulse was parental love, mixed with a healthy dose of narcissism. If you can't live forever, at least fix it so your children can. Part of you will endure. Which brings us to what the clones are for. That's the gruesome part—and not incidentally, the illegal part. They're there to supply organs for transplant. You need a new liver, you've got one—your own private stock. So basically, you're creating a whole subclass of humans who are just there to serve you. They're grown to be harvested. Like plants. And you space them out—you have some born five years later, some twenty years later. You keep going."

  "The kids on the Nursery. What happened to them?"

  "I'll get to that. Don't interrupt. You may learn something. Where was I? You raise the clones on an island. You treat them well—up to a point, because you need them. Your only concern is to isolate them from the general population. Because whatever happens, you can't let them meet up with the originals. That's disaster, because that's when the cat gets out of the bag. As you proved only too well."

  "Skyler proved it. He's the one who escaped. I didn't do a damn thing but accost him in the hallway of my building."

  "Whatever. Anyway, these scientists are under the spell of this Rincon. He's directing their research. Things are going along okay. They're way ahead of anyone else anywhere in the world. Partly because no one else is really going after it like they are—fanatics, very shrewd, very methodical. Here and there, some legitimate scientists are busying themselves in university labs, but for the most part those guys are regarded as cranks. Sometimes our guys even plant one or two of their own at universities. They do phony experiments on cloning—pretend they've done it, mess it up and end up being disproved. Throw people off the track. Disinformation experiments. Smart, huh?

  "Meanwhile they keep working away like busy little beavers in the secret lab. And at some point they succeed beyond their wildest dreams. They are able to clone an already existing adult. We think they made this breakthrough at the underground lab in Jerome—nice work in getting there, by the way. Anyhow, that's really big stuff. That takes it to a higher level. Now you're in the Big Time. Suddenly you can clone anyone. You can clone the President, the postman, your favorite cousin. You can even clone yourself. And that means that you can live forever. Well, not forever, but maybe another fifty, sixty, seventy years. Not bad—a whole second life. All you need to do is raise your clone up some place safe and get him old enough, get him through adolescence."

  Jude interrupted. "But these guys, the original scientists—they're already old. They couldn't use a clone as a donor until it was old enough to have full-sized organs."

  "You're right. We don't know if the original scientists
made clones for themselves. You're not so dumb for a reporter. But you still have to learn something."

  "What?"

  "Don't interrupt when you're finally getting the story."

  "Sorry. Go ahead."

  "Back to the Lab. The breakthrough is important in another way. It provides you with what you need more than anything else—money. Because now, you see, you can sell your little experiment. It's a dream. Who wouldn't want to buy a longer life? So what if it means you have a clone somewhere—you never see it, you never even really think about it. Maybe you're not even told about it. All you know is you've got your own private little organ bank. It's like insurance. So Rincon and his boys are operating in a sellers' market. They become choosy. They sell it to people of influence. Very hush-hush. A discreet visit to the office. And once they're hooked, they're in your little net, and then they'll use their influence on your behalf. So now you have both money and influence. There's no stopping you."

  "So the people they sold it to had clones, too?"

  Raymond shrugged. "Who the hell knows? We're talking way-out stuff here."

  The railroad track came to a bridge over the Delaware. There was a walkway to one side, and Jude crossed the tracks and took it. Raymond looked out over the expanse of water beneath them.

  "Christ, where we going? Across the river?"

  "Why not? It's a nice walk."

  Jude started across the bridge and, reluctantly, Raymond followed. They could feel the wind whipping down the ravine.

  Raymond fell quiet. Jude wanted to keep the conversation going.

  "So what are they really after?"

  "That's a hard question. I'd say this group—the Lab—they made all these important scientific breakthroughs. That's quite a kick, I'm sure. Must make you feel like you're God or something. Playing around with the cradle of life. They're convinced they really can extend human life—and more important, they've been able to convince others that they can, too. They're selling it. Starting at ten million bucks a pop, from what we hear."

  "My God. People would really pay that?"

  "Are you kidding? You're talking about some of the most powerful people in the country. People at the top of the world—they've got power, money, fame, access. They've got all that, but they're missing something. What is the one thing they all want from life? To be able to hold on to it. If you could offer these people an extra fifty, seventy years—good, productive years—you don't think they'd take it? You don't think they'd do anything to get it?"

  "So you know what they're up to. Why don't you arrest them?"

  "It's not so easy. For one thing, you've got to know who they are—all of them. If you screw up and you get only some of them, no good. Then you've just driven them underground and made them even more dangerous."

  "For another?"

  "Another what?"

  "Another thing—you began by saying 'for one thing.'"

  "Oh. Well, for another... a lot of what I'm telling you is conjecture. It wouldn't stand up to a clever defense attorney."

  "Sounds to me like you've got a lot."

  "You haven't seen the file. It's pretty thin. A lot of field reports, some transcripts from phone taps, newspaper clippings. A lot of blank spaces. If I didn't know better, I'd say somebody's been cleaning it out."

  Jude didn't need any interpretation. Somebody within the FBI was working the other side of the street.

  "These other guys—in the Bureau—they're the ones who almost killed me in the mine and chased me afterward?"

  "Check."

  "And blew up the rooming house in Washington?"

  "Check again."

  "Why don't you stop them?"

  "Easier said than done. I think they're more of them than there are of us."

  "Who do you trust?"

  "I trust nobody. Just myself. And my partner, Ed—that's Ed Brantley. I almost brought him, but I figured you'd freak."

  "Why not arrest somebody?"

  "Who?"

  Jude was quiet for a while.

  "How about this multimillionaire you talked about? What's his name?"

  "Billington. Sam Billington. Yeah. He was critical. He bankrolled them at some point. Got them out of Jerome. Gave them enough money to buy that whole little island you explored. Not a bad setup, is it? Without that, I don't think the whole scheme would have worked."

  "Who is he?"

  "Who was he. He's dead, remember. He made a lot of money in plastics. Made a good life for himself—didn't want it to end. He became obsessive about it, attended conferences, sponsored research, even advertised. So when he met up with the Lab, it was a natural match. He gave them millions and millions, even on his deathbed. The breakthroughs didn't come in time to do anything for him. But they froze his body, like Disney. So he figured someday science would catch up and they'd thaw out their benefactor. He died happy, from what we understand."

  "Let me ask you something else—that web site called W—all about life extension. Did they run that?"

  "Maybe. Don't know for sure. I figure they started it, probably as a way to attract clients. But you get too many kooks and freeloaders. It wasn't worth the effort. So they probably dropped it and it just kept going on its own."

  "So how did they get clients?"

  "Dunno for sure. Maybe super-expensive health clubs. Maybe word of mouth. You get one top guy in there, he's gonna want to tell his friends. They all know each other anyway, these guys who run the world. Like kids in a clubhouse."

  "Do you know who they are?"

  "Frankly, no. We know one or two. But we need the complete roster. That's why we're hoping to meet your buddy. We wondered if he could identify them for us."

  Jude did not want to go down that path, not right now.

  "Do they have a name?" he asked.

  "Not that I know of. That's why I call them the Group. The way I figure it, there are the original scientists and their kids—that's the Lab. Then there're the rich people they sold their little secret to—that's the Group."

  "So the two are separate?"

  "Yeah. Probably."

  "Did you ever hear of something called the Young Leaders for Science and Technology in the New Millennium?"

  "No," replied Raymond. "Quite a mouthful. Who are they?"

  "Just a name I heard. Probably doesn't mean anything."

  There was a pause as Raymond looked down at the swirling currents below. He seemed suddenly reflective.

  "We think there's been some kind of screw-up," he said. It seemed to be bait. Jude took it.

  "What do you mean?"

  "We're really into conjecture here. But I think something's gone wrong."

  "What?"

  "Dunno. But maybe they've screwed up something basic."

  "Why do you think that?"

  "A couple of reasons. One: there's been a flurry of activity lately—phone calls, meetings, that sort of thing. I wouldn't be surprised if they all congregated. Something's going on, some urgent business. We know some of it from the few taps we have. Of course, they don't spell it out; you have to read between the lines. Like I say, we're really into conjecture here.

  "And the second reason—that's the Nursery. Yes, we found those kids. They've been transferred to a hospital in Jacksonville. But I can't say the outlook is good."

  "What do they have? What's wrong with them?"

  "Progeria. Vastly premature aging. Technically, it's called Hutchinson-Guilford syndrome. The key thing about the disease is you take these kids and they're just like somebody who's ninety years old. That's what the doctors say."

  "Christ. To die of old age at twelve. Those poor kids."

  "It's extremely rare. Those kids on that island are more than all the cases that have been reported worldwide to date. The doctors are stumped."

  "You're right—something must have gone wrong."

  "Weird things have been happening. Like McNichol's autopsy lab in New Paltz. You went up there. Did he tell you somebody broke in there, actually
stole some of the samples? Why would anyone do that?"

  "Raisin."

  "What the hell is raisin?"

  "That's who was killed. He's the clone. He was trying to reach the judge."

  "Well, he succeeded. And they killed him for it. And whoever did it suddenly wanted a piece of him back—at least that's my guess. Where'd he get a name like that anyway—Raisin?"

  "Doesn't matter. But tell me, the judge—"

  "He's been ill lately, hasn't been to work."

  "That's not what I was going to ask. Why did you give me his ID? Was it that you wanted me in the game?"

  "Yep: I always thought you were a pretty good reporter."

  "But why not tell me he was still alive?"

  "You may not believe this, but you got to that particular piece of information before I did."

  "And why did he freak out when he saw me?"

  "Good question. He's about your age, he had a clone, so he was in the Lab. Maybe he recognized you from those happy days back in Jerome, though that's unlikely. Or maybe the whole group knew that your guy Skyler had escaped. Maybe there was an all-points bulletin out for him. Maybe his picture was circulated. Maybe the judge thought you were Skyler. Anything's possible, if you think about it."

  Raymond hunched down in his jacket for warmth. The wind had a chilling edge to it. They were almost across the river now.

  Jude's mind was churning with questions.

  "Those guys who came when we were on the island?"

  "They were after you. You were lucky to get away. Otherwise, all I can say is—we wouldn't be talking like this."

  "And those other guys who've been following me—the Orderlies—what about them?"

  "You know as much as I do. All I can say is I've seen them, and they look like psychopaths to me. I'd stay out of their way. They may be the clones of somebody who is... how shall we put it?... undesirable. You've seen horror flicks, you've read sci fi novels. Once these mad scientists begin brewing things up in the lab, they start thinking about security. If you were in their shoes, you'd probably want a Boris Karloff around—or two or three."

  "Tizzie."