Lyon's Legacy: Catalyst Chronicles, Book One

Lyon’s Legacy

Catalyst Chronicles: Book One

Sandra Ulbrich Almazan

Lyon’s Legacy

Catalyst Chronicles, Book One

By Sandra Ulbrich Almazan

Book cover
design by Meghan Derico of Derico Photography

Copyright © 2011 Sandra Ulbrich Almazan

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1475056230

ISBN-13: 978-1475056235

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, printing, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Prologue

I know this must be very upsetting for you. You weren’t expecting this at all. I don’t blame you if you’re furious. But before you say you hate me forever, please understand I did what I thought was best for you. I don’t have any idea what i
t’s like being you, but I’ve been through something similar. At least listen to my story before you storm off and shut the door....

Chapter One

People always call when you’re in the middle of something uninterruptable, like sampling kidneys. My elbow-length gloves were immersed in ripe-smelling nutrient broth as I cornered the Brooks-Jones kidney in the tank, trying not to squeeze it. Just when I had it, my handheld chimed in the pocket of my lab coat. My hands slipped, and the half-grown kidney darted off. As much as I wanted to drop the handheld in the broth, I didn’t dare; the chime pattern indicated someone from company headquarters was calling. And that meant it was time for my least favorite job.

I lifted one hand out of the broth and shook it off before answering, still chasing the errant kidney with the other hand. “Jo here.”

“This is Catherine.” The company president’s personal assistant—my hunch was right. “Are you busy?”

I reached back into the tank and grasped the squishy organ. “I’m in the middle of sampling.”

“Is there another tech out there who can take over?”

There were three, but they were more interested in gossiping than taking car
e of the organs. I sampled some cells from the kidney with a syringe and injected them into the auto-analyzer. As I waited for results, I asked, “Does Mr. Guzman want to show me off to another set of clients?”

I never liked being on display. Even people wh
o didn’t know anything about TwenCen music recognized me, thanks to all the ads featuring my superstar great-grandparents, Sean and Baby Lyon. My face is the female version of Sean’s. Every time Guzman showed me off, he made it sound as if Golden Helix had sculpted my features. I don’t know why he did that; Golden Helix grows organs for transplants. It has nothing to do with gene sculpting. Besides, I came by my great-granddad’s face naturally, through my dad.

Lucky me.

Silence. Then Catherine said, “Yes, but it’s not what you’re thinking. Your name has been brought up for an important assignment. I think it would pay a considerable bonus.”

A bonus! The magic word, even better than “please.” Mom’s medicines and the board at the TransAIDS Long-Term Care Clini
c had consumed all our savings. A bonus would make it easier for me to return to grad school and genetics.

The auto-analyzer bleeped; the kidney was developing within specs. I took that as a good omen. “So, when’s the meeting?”

“They’re just waiting for one more person.”

Typical; wait till the last minute to tell me what’s going on. The latex gloves snapped as I pulled them off. “I’ll be there in five minutes.” I disconnected before Catherine could add anything else. I tilted my cap so the brim shadowed my
face, took off my lab coat, shoved my handheld into its slot on my belt, and headed up to the main office.

* * *

I was the only one in the vator on my way to the twentieth floor, but even here, I couldn’t find peace. A smartad of white-skinned teenage girls romping in a virtual meadow materialized in front of my eyes. Accompanying it was an ineptly synthesized but still recognizable song: “Knowing.” The kids were out of tune, and the lead singer—a blonde with huge, sculpted breasts—couldn’t keep the beat if you handed it to her in a bag. I was probably the only one in the world who noticed, though, or even cared. The important thing was that the group was sexy enough to get horny fourteen-year-olds to download their cover of my great-granddad’s song. Another number one for them, and another hundred grand for my cousins. I chopped my hand through the smartad and was satisfied by the resulting silence.

Before another one could start, the doors opened onto Golden Helix’s reception room. Sitting across from m
e was a fiftyish woman in a hot pink blazer and turquoise jeans. Silver earrings with pink and blue stones dangled from one ear, matching the stud in her nose. She was bent over her handheld like any other businesswoman, but over the years, I’ve learned to detect a fan at fifty paces. Unfortunately, she must have sensed me at the same time. She looked up, and awe shone in her eyes. “The face that launched a revolution!” she quoted at me as she stood up.

I’ve always hated that line from Sean’s biography. Sea
n had inspired the Filipinos to revolt against the Marcos regime with his music and actions, not his looks. But if this woman knew the line, then she had to be the person I was supposed to meet.

I put on my fan smile. Holding out my hand (and hoping she di
dn’t kiss it) I said the ritual words, “Hi. I’m Joanna Lyon, Sean Lyon’s great-granddaughter.”

“Zoë
Clairdon, Music Historian for World Music.” Her long pink nails bit my skin, and she held my hand too long. But this was an “I-can’t-believe-I’m-touching-Sean’s-descendant!” handshake, so I let it slide. “Ms. Lyon, this is such an honor!” She peered at me. “It’s quite uncanny, the way you look so much like Sean after all this time.”

“I’m a strand off the
ol’ DNA.”

My remark must not have matched her expectations of Lyon humor, for she continued, “I was a teenager when I came across a holo about Sean, and it changed my life! It inspired me to study music history.”

She continued her chatter while I led us to the big conference room. Guzman, the company president, was already there, talking with half a dozen other people, some in formal suits and designer jeans, others in casual clothing that had half a dozen tech apps woven into the fabric.

Guzman beckoned me over. He
surprised me by not trumpeting my pedigree to the skies. Instead, he simply said, “And this is Joanna Lyon, the one who will ultimately decide the success of this project.”

I was so puzzled—and a little flattered—by that remark that I missed most of the p
eople’s names. I did catch a few titles. Some of the casually dressed people were physicists; the suits were from World Music. Before I could figure out what that meant, I saw a face I knew. Plastic surgery to remove his wrinkles and sagging jowls had left intact the sharp cheekbones and straight nose we both shared.

“Uncle Jack—” I stopped myself from blurting out the rest of my private nickname for him—Uncle Jackass. He was the heir to Sean’s well of dreams—not to mention the money well. What was he doin
g here?

“Hello, Jo.” He smiled, but his eyes showed me nothing but contempt. “How’s your mother?”

As if he cared. “She’s gained a little weight since the doctor prescribed pot brownies, but her white blood cells are still rarer than gays in the Fundie party. The closest I can get to her is the other side of the Plexiglas wall. Course, I can’t hug her without bruising her anyway—or getting TransAIDS myself.” Stretching to my full height, I stepped closer and looked him in the eye. “When are you going to make that donation to the TransAIDS Foundation? You said you would!”

He scowled and turned his back to me.

I didn’t know why they wanted two Lyons at a Golden Helix meeting, but I doubted it was to sing. I grabbed a cup of hazelnut coffee and sat next to Zoë, as far away from my uncle as I could.

* * *

Forty minutes later, I wished I hadn’t drunk so much coffee. I was used to safety meetings that ended after half an hour, but this meeting had barely begun. All the suits from World Music had done was show us an interminable number of graphs about their poor profits. I wondered if Guzman cared any more than I did. I crossed my legs under the table and hoped my bladder wouldn’t burst. You’d think I’d get organ cloning as a benefit, but Golden Helix wasn’t that generous.

“Of course, some historical artists have always sold steadily, and if their current sales don’t match up to the hottest current artists, their cumulative sales are far more impressive,” one of the suits said. “I’m not just talking about Elvis Pre
sley, but also Bob Dylan, The Who, The Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix—rock’n’roll legends may die, gentles, but their sales only get better.”

I noticed he hadn’t mentioned Great-Granddad, even though Sean was still in the Top Twenty List of bestselling dead
celebrities. Uncle Jackass made a point of forwarding me news articles every time they updated the list, as if he thought that would woo me back to music.

The suit continued, “That’s why, when Professor Joshua Kim confirmed that the Hawking Wormhole
leads to a parallel universe, we initiated the Classic Rock Replication program. Professor Kim?”

A balding Eurasian in high-tech clothes connected his handheld to the holoprojector. A holo of an open wormhole rotated slowly above the table. “When the Hawking Wor
mhole opened up a couple of years ago, astrophysicists everywhere jumped for joy. When our probes passed through the wormhole intact, we jumped a little higher. But when we confirmed the existence of a parallel universe on the other side—well, let’s just say we all felt like we were floating in a null-grav field!” He smiled wanly. “If only we could figure out where it came from....”

“Never mind that,” my uncle said. “Let’s get to the good part.”

Professor Kim tapped his handheld. The holo switched to a white-and-blue image of the Earth, followed by close-up footage of TwenCen-looking people and cities. I watched, fascinated, while Zoë and some other historians explained how they’d matched cars, clothing, and buildings to ones from our world’s 1950s.

“We thi
nk—though no one is certain—that the correspondence between the two universes helps sustain the wormhole.” Professor Kim said. “Historians from our world first visited this alternate Earth six years ago and confirmed the time periods match. It’s currently early 1961 over there now.”

Freaky to think you could jump back and forth almost a century by going through a tunnel in space.

But the people on the other Earth were even freakier because they were the same, at least the famous ones. JFK was alive and well. So were Presley, DiMaggio, and Monroe.

The professor tapped his handheld a final time, bringing up a distorted holo of a scruffy, longhaired,
leather-wearing teenager. I recognized him immediately: my great-granddad himself, Sean Lyon, before he’d been discovered.

I didn’t have all the numbers just yet, but they were adding up to something I didn’t like. The first suit said, “As you all must realize, this parallel TwenCen world offers many opportunities for scientific and commercial research. We have the
unique opportunity to watch some of our most creative minds at work—and to bring the raw genetic material of their greatness back to our own world for further study. We’ve already started that phase of the project; now it’s time to expand it.”

“And it’s t
ime for us to grow our business in a new direction,” Guzman added.

That was the last clue I needed. In a hoarse voice, I asked, “You’re planning to clone my great-grandfather, aren’t you?”

The suit sneered at me. “Of course, Ms. Lyon. He was one of the best, most profitable singer/songwriters of the Twentieth Century, even though his career was cut short when a political dissident stabbed him after a concert. Think of this as his second chance at life, but this time with modern musical instruments and recording equipment available.”

“Grandpa John wouldn’t approve!”

“Grandpa John doesn’t remember Sean very well. These days he has enough trouble remembering how to use a handheld.” For a moment, Uncle Jackass sounded regretful. He seemed to enjoy running the estate, but I doubted he liked seeing his dad incapacitated from a stroke. Then Jackass smiled. “And this is my own pet project.”

That I could understand. Jackass had inherited more credits than mus
ical talent from Sean, but even though he’d stopped forcing us to listen to his songs, he still wanted to be someone important in the music industry. If my uncle couldn’t be Sean himself, and if he couldn’t turn me or his sons into Sean, then no wonder he wanted to build his own Sean from the DNA up. Too bad for him it wouldn’t work.

“You know it won’t be the real Sean.” I stared at my uncle, willing him to abandon this stupid idea, but his expression didn’t change. “You can’t clone his environment. You can
try for a singer and wind up with an artist—or maybe a hacker.”

You’d think even my uncle would know a clone isn’t ever exactly like the original. Clones are rare, but the first human clone—a boy dubbed “Guy” by the media to tie in with the first sheep cl
one Dolly—was born in the early 21st century. Others followed, inspiring a slew of papers in the science e-journals. I’ve read a few of them, and they all say that in every way, clones are less like the people they’re cloned from than identical twins are like each other. Clones and originals don’t share the same mitochondrial DNA or
in utero
environment, for instance, and they grow up with different families, surroundings, and expectations. A few news services tried to publicize these findings, but with the Fundies so powerful, interest in science is at an all-time low, making scholarships impossible to find. That’s part of the reason why I can’t afford the Ph.D. program in genetics at Obama University.

“Frankly, Ms. Lyon,” the suit said,
steepling his fingers as he leaned toward me, “it doesn’t really matter if Sean the Second—”

“Third,” I said automatically.

He raised his graying eyebrows. “Third?”