The Experiment

by John Darnton

  The two Orderlies switched places. The second one leaned back, held the pose for a long half second, and brought his fist up straight up like a hammer. Jude turned his head, and it struck him in the left temple, so hard that he gasped for air and lost his balance. He was held up from behind.

  They blame me for their brother's death, he thought. And he knew then that that was why he had feared them.

  They've come to kill me.

  And that knowledge struck him as a cold ache in his stomach and spread through him, through his whole system, like thickening oil. His mind raced: they were not open to dissuasion; there was no help at hand. This is it. He stopped thinking, only feeling. And he was surprised by something. He had always feared dying—with a cold dread impossible to describe. It was not death that he had feared so much, but the moments preceding it, the knowledge that it was imminent. That is why he had always thought he would crumple into a helpless coward under torture. But now that the moment had come and was actually upon him, he felt a cool detachment. Not bravery, exactly, but a disassociation from what was happening that could pass for bravery. He was watching himself. And he was surprised—how well he was holding up and also at how slowly everything was unfolding around him.

  So he was puzzled by what one of them said next: "Don't hit him in the face. Baptiste will see it."

  To emphasize the point, this one spun around quickly, delivering a fist in Jude's solar plexus that knocked the wind out of him, sending him to the floor.

  "What's going on?" shouted Tizzie from next door.

  "Shut up," said one over his shoulder. "You'll get yours soon enough."

  And they brought Jude into the corridor. One held him by the belt while the other went to open her cell door. But no sooner was the key in the lock than Jude made his move. He raised his foot and swung the sharp point of his heel against his guard's shinbone. The man grunted and doubled over, releasing him. He bolted down the corridor, running awkwardly with his arms pinned behind him.

  He had almost reached the end when they caught him, bringing him down with a rain of blows. They struck him in the head, the neck, the back, and the kidney. They picked him up—raising him from behind by the handcuffs, holding him helplessly with his feet off the ground like a trussed turkey—and dropped him again. And when they stepped outside and stood at the top of the flight of stairs, he was convinced they were going to throw him down the steps.

  But they didn't. Instead, they escorted him down, one on either arm, as if he had suddenly become a precious package.

  Now that we're outdoors, he thought, they don't want witnesses. But did that really make sense? Who was there to see except for members of their own conspiracy?

  They reached the ground and kept going, not toward the assembly hall, which he expected, but in the opposite direction. With the Orderlies leaning against him, the threesome walked unsteadily but purposefully, like a trio of drunks.

  "Where are we going?" Jude demanded.

  They did not reply.

  The threesome made its way around the mess hall and followed a path that cut between two deserted barracks. Jude looked up at the sky, already beginning to darken. In the west, he could see red and orange hues gathering. He couldn't help thinking: it would be a spectacular sunset.

  They came to a circular driveway that led to the only handsome structure on the base, a three-story white clapboard house that had once been the residence of the base commander. They marched Jude up the front steps. He noted that the Orderlies were breathing heavily, and for the second time he felt a secret pleasure at their weakness. They, too, were aging. They might do away with him, but their end would come soon. One held him tightly while the other turned the knob and swung open the front door.

  Stepping into the entrance hall was like stepping into another era. The decor was tasteful Victorian, with thick hand-woven carpets, a silver umbrella stand filled with walking sticks and a grandfather clock, whose pendulum swung slowly with a stately annunciated click. Ahead was a staircase with a Persian runner, held in place by thin brass bars mounted in the crevice of each joint.

  There was a peculiar scent in the air, almost like musty flowers, except that it was more medicinal than stale.

  They did not go upstairs. They turned to the right and walked through a doorway into what appeared to be a drawing room. It was lavishly furnished with Victorian couches and love seats piled with pillows, woven hassocks and Pembroke tables. The walls were covered with gilded framed paintings of romantic landscapes and hunting scenes.

  Shadows rent the room, which made it difficult to see, so that Jude did not notice right away that someone else was there—sitting in a chair. Instead he felt the presence of another person, intuiting it from the way his escorts let go his arms and turned toward the chair, backing away slightly.

  Then Jude saw him. Sitting in a high-back chair, which gave off the pretentious grandeur of a throne, was an elderly elegant man with a strong hatchet face.

  Jude knew instantly that this was the man he had heard Skyler and Tizzie speak of so often—Baptiste. Uncle Henry.

  The phone rang in the operating room at the most inconvenient of times. Still, with the first operation about to begin, they thought they should answer it. Who knew what kind of problem could have arisen?

  "Dr. Higgins, it's for you," said the assistant.

  The doctor took the call, annoyed and frowning at the interruption, and put the receiver down none too lightly.

  "Wouldn't you know," he said peevishly. "Problem in the ward. I'll straighten it out and be right back. Don't do anything until I get back—I won't be long."

  He pushed through the double doors into the prep room, took off his green cap and smock and slippers and threw them into a bin, angry that he would have to put on fresh ones and scrub down all over again. He quickly put on his clothes, a pair of chinos, a striped pink and blue shirt, and loafers. He looked over at the gurney where the clone was lying in a daze, ready to undergo deep sedation. Expertly, his eyes sized him up, those parts that were visible—skin, muscle tone, eyes. No doubt about it, a good specimen.

  Then he pushed through the second set of doors and walked into the ward, like a stern headmaster.

  Dr. Higgins was as good as his word. He came back into the operating room in no time, scrubbed, clothed in green and ready to go. He was pulling the gurney with the clone behind him, and the others rushed to assist him.

  They readied the instruments, counting them and placing them in correct order on the tray. They adjusted the overhead lights and moved the clone from the gurney to the operating table. They took his readings, attached the electrodes to monitor heart and brain, swabbed his trunk thoroughly with antiseptic, shaved him, covered his mouth with an oxygen mask, and gave him a huge dose of anesthetic.

  It was a routine they had all done hundreds of times in their careers, separately, and yet they knew that all those times had only served to prepare them for this time.

  "You do the first one," said Dr. Higgins grandly. "You take the first honor."

  The female surgeon was taken aback, but pleased by the professional respect she felt was long her due.

  She quickly stepped into place beside the body while the others took their positions, the anesthetist at the top of the table, the top assistant at her right elbow next to the tray of instruments. The surgeon held her right hand out as if for a tip. She didn't have to say a word—the assistant placed into it the thick, crisscrossed handle of the first cutting knife.

  "All right, gentlemen. Let's do it," she pronounced, almost with a touch of melodrama.

  And then she placed the blade under the sternum, in the center of the rib cage, and pressed down squarely so that it penetrated the pale skin. The first trickle of blood rose like a tiny fountain.

  Baptiste told the Orderlies to leave and gestured Jude toward a chair with a languid air. He tipped the fingers of his hands together and contracted them so that they looked like two spiders touching the legs. For a long w
hile, he was silent, almost as if he were waiting for Jude to speak. But then he did.

  "This is a meeting I have imagined many times," he said.

  "And why is that?" Jude asked.

  Baptiste sighed. "It's a long story," he said.

  "I know most of it," Jude declared.

  "Do you?"

  The question was swathed in a patronizing tone that Jude found hard to bear.

  "Yes."

  "Such as?"

  "I know about the Lab. I know about Arizona and how it got started there. I know about the island, Crab Island, and the clones and how they were raised as nothing more than banks for spare parts. I know about the scientific breakthroughs and how you sold the knowledge to rich people and how you all expected to live one hundred and sixty years."

  Baptiste was listening closely, but he did not appear to be impressed.

  "I know about W, the conspiracy"—here Jude paused for effect. "I know the names of everyone who's in it."

  Baptiste cut him off. "No matter. They won't be in it for long."

  "You mean because they're aging. I know about that, too. Progeria. They all have it. The members of the Lab have it. Their children have it. You have it."

  Baptiste nodded and shrugged.

  "I know that you've killed people."

  Baptiste shrugged again. "Clones," he said. "We killed clones, not people."

  "Clones are people."

  Baptiste looked at him again with a patronizing air—as if to say, you have so much to learn.

  "And Raymond. How about him? You killed him?"

  "We most certainly did not. That was the FBI. My boy, please learn to tell your various conspiracies apart."

  Jude was aghast at the man's equanimity, but also fascinated.

  "No, Raymond was not ours. We can't claim him. There was one—a long time ago—but that was all." He did not elaborate.

  "My father."

  "Your father, my boy, was killed in a car accident. And there was no one who grieved more than myself. I loved him deeply."

  "That's not what I heard."

  "Well, you heard wrong." Baptiste looked up solicitously. "Say," he added suddenly, "would you care for some coffee? Some tea?"

  Jude was totally flummoxed. "For Christ's sake. You jail me. You beat me up. And you invite me over for tea? What the hell is going on? What are you up to?"

  Baptiste allowed himself a thin little smile.

  "I thought you said you knew everything."

  "Not everything. Almost everything."

  "Evidently, not the most important part. The puzzle with the missing piece—and that one piece contains everything of significance in the puzzle. Do have some tea."

  Jude relented. He was quietly seething. Baptiste rang a small bell. An elderly black man appeared, took the order and left. Baptiste settled back in his chair. He had the air of a man about to divulge a matter of great importance, and he was enjoying it.

  "You say you were beat up? The Orderlies?"

  "Yes."

  He nodded gravely. "That's most serious. They are not allowed to disobey instructions. Still, they've been very upset. You did—at least in their eyes—kill their brother. And they were bred for aggression, so to speak. And then they were the first to get the treatment—it was still in the experimental stage back then—and the counterreaction struck them first. It's hard, when you're bred for strength, to be losing it so rapidly."

  "The treatment—you mean, telomerase?"

  Baptiste simply nodded, looking at his watch.

  Jude wanted to know exactly how the Orderlies had been bred, along with other things, but even more, he wanted the key piece of the puzzle. He remained silent as the tea was brought in on a tray, taking a cup with two sugars. Baptiste did the same, stirring it in a thoughtful silence and then looking over at Jude.

  "A minute ago, you accused us of killing people. If you were under that misimpression, did you never wonder why we didn't kill you?"

  "I wondered about it. I'm sure you had chances."

  "Many times. At least nine of them, by my count."

  Jude remained silent.

  "Did it never occur to you that these Orderlies, whose wrath you've just experienced, were perhaps not out to eliminate you? That perhaps they were actually protecting you?"

  Jude was too stunned to speak.

  "Or why we never killed Skyler? After all, he caused us a lot of trouble. His escape put us all in great jeopardy. In fact, it brought down the whole edifice—forced us to abandon the island."

  "Why didn't you?"

  "We didn't kill him because of you. Because you might need to live one hundred and sixty years yourself. You might be required to. You have been marked out to play a very special role in our great and historic drama."

  "The drama of your death?"

  "No, quite the opposite."

  Baptiste was suddenly animated. He stood and walked in a circle, and as he came into the light, Jude saw for the first time that his hair was not black but gray.

  "What is the opposite of death? Why, birth—of course. And that is why I am here, I and a few others, the select few who have assembled in this drab locale. I hasten to add that I am not speaking of those who are undergoing operations, who think only of themselves and their own lives. I am referring to the select few—those of us who are ready for the next stage, the final breakthrough."

  "And what is that?"

  "Don't worry, you shall witness it."

  "But why me? What is this special role you're talking about?"

  Baptiste just looked at him, long and hard, and finally said: "You poor boy. You simply have no idea—do you? Why don't you come with me? We'll go upstairs and you can see for yourself. But first, more tea."

  He rang, and the black waiter returned and poured another cup for each. As he handed a cup to Jude with a strong hand, the waiter looked at him and said: "Tie yuh mout. Study yuh head."

  "Cornelius," Baptiste said. "Our guest does not speak Gullah."

  "What was that? What did he say?"

  "Cornelius is my cook. He is such an artist in the kitchen, I bring him with me wherever I go."

  "And what did he say?"

  "A bit rude, I'm afraid. Literally, it would be: 'Keep quiet and use your head.'

  The old black man leaned over and whispered something in Baptiste's ear. Baptiste stood up quickly, suddenly keen-eyed.

  "He informs me that we do not have time to finish our tea."

  "But where are we going?"

  "Upstairs." He paused a heartbeat. "I think it's time you met Dr. Rincon."

  The surgeon was worried by what she saw. At first, the operation had gone well. She had cut through the skin neatly and peeled it back with a symmetry that was undeniably the work of an expert. She had moved on quickly to the next stage, opening the chest cavity and widening the slit to expose the upper and lower abdomen.

  It was then that she noticed that the organs did not look good. The color of the stomach was a little off, the texture of the liver was wrong, the feel of the intestines was flaccid.

  "I don't understand it," she said through her mask. "I expected a clone to be in perfect condition. That's what he was raised for. How can we transplant these organs with any chance of success?"

  "Something's wrong," said the second surgeon.

  "Wait a minute," said the assistant, in a tone that overstepped her authority.

  She removed the instruments that had been lying upon the sterile white sheet across the patient's lower body. One by one she placed them upon the tray, leaving a little trail of blood.

  "What are you doing?" demanded the female surgeon.

  "Checking," she replied as she began to roll down the sheet, exposing first the pubic hair, then the genitals and finally the thighs and legs.

  They all saw it more or less at the same time and found it hard to speak for the shock of it—of what wasn't there on the thigh. There was no Gemini tattoo. It was not a clone they had been cutting into. It
was a proto.

  The assistant dropped the sheet.

  "Higgins," shouted the surgeon, turning around. "You've made a mistake. A horrible mistake. You brought the wrong one."

  She looked around the room, but Higgins wasn't there. He had slipped out at some point. She dropped the knife she was holding, ripped off her mask and ran through the double doors. She ran through the prep room and tried to get into the ward, but the door struck something. It was difficult to open, and she had to push it with her shoulder. When she did, and when she finally stepped inside, she saw what had been blocking it—Higgins's body. He had been knocked unconscious, lying there dressed in a pair of chinos and a pink-and-blue-striped shirt. She bent down to take his pulse. So involved was she in checking his condition that she did not know why those who rushed in behind her had lost their heads and were yelling.

  But when she looked up, she saw why. She saw that all the beds that had been occupied by the clones were empty. The sheets were scattered upon the floor, the door at the end of the ward was wide open, and the thick belts that had strapped them in place were hanging down toward the floor, some of them still swinging gently.

  * * *

  Tizzie had been struggling with the key that the Orderly had left in the lock for almost a half hour. She took the unused safety pin from the back of her badge, bent the sharp end into a straight line and inserted it, trying to turn it so that the key aligned with the keyhole. Then she unscrewed her ballpoint pen and used the point on the plastic shaft to try to push the key outward. It was hard because she could not see—she needed two hands, which blocked the view of the keyhole—and because the key kept sliding back to its original position.

  But eventually she got it—she felt the pin push forward and immediately heard the key hit the floor. The sound was softened a bit because it landed upon her blouse, which she had slipped under the door, spreading it out as best she could. Now, slowly and carefully, she reeled the blouse back in, praying that the key had not bounced away. She did not dare believe she had succeeded until she saw its rounded metal head peeking up at her.