Replica (10 page)

Hodgkin finished his beer and motioned to the bartender for another.

Frank Tibek entered the bar and sat down next to Hodgkin, placing his case on the floor between them.

"You're late," Hodgkin said.

"Yeah, well, blame your trawler captain for that."

Hodgkin smiled. "It's all right." He nodded towards the steel case, "That's them?"

Hodgkin was well aware of the rumored medicinal qualities of the Thylacine and had closely followed the story of Michael Whiting's attempt to clone the Tasmanian tiger two years earlier. His own biotech company, a mere speck compared to GenSys, was hit hard by the tech meltdown on the stock market. His company was poised to introduce a new cancer drug the year before, but found they lacked a key ingredient. When he read about the Thylacine research, he knew he had found the answer. They had research that indicated the Thylacine stem cells could reverse the course of almost any disease. He knew the potential of the animal's genes. Nature had created a bizarre animal that possessed the most valuable DNA in the world. However, the animal being extinct, with so few specimens left in the world, made acquiring viable Thylacine DNA almost impossible.
Almost.

When Hodgkin discovered that the project had been resurrected by a Prince from Dunali, he knew his company had been given a rare second chance. But he needed an insider, someone who could defeat the security at GenSys.

Enter Frank Tibek. Getting Tibek's cooperation had been easier than he'd expected. Tibek had gotten wind of GenSys's CEO's plan to secretly sell the DNA to the highest bidder, leaving him and the company holding the bag for the Prince of Dunali, the venture capitalist who had funded the research in the first place. Tibek was furious and Hodgskin had his man.

Tibek got straight to the point "Did you transfer the money?"

Hodgkin handed him a slip of paper. Tibek opened it and smiled.

Hodgkin looked around and lowered his voice. "That's a lot of dough, Frank. I hope you've got what I need."

"You're not dealing with some amateur here. Inside the case, you'll find a plastic pouch along with six embryos. All the instructions you need are in there. I can't emphasize this enough, do not deviate from the instructions. You only have twenty more hours left to get them back in an incubator. You'd better get going."

"Don't worry. You're not dealing with an amateur, either."

P
ETER
C
ARLSON GAZED AT THE
three-hundred-thousand-dollar DNA sequencer, whose digital readouts blinked like distant stars announcing DNA-strand doublings. The environment that had filled Carlson with so much hope and promise now stood as a gleaming reminder of the sense of dread he felt.

Advancing to his desk, Carlson gazed down at the latest genetic map of the Thylacine fetus. The short arm of chromosome CQO12 was not consistent with the original gene map. The problem was CQO12 was only a small part of the puzzle. There were large areas that represented thousands of base pairs that didn't match up. Carlson had no idea what they represented or if they even had a function at all. Quite possibly they could have been "turn on" genes, something left over from early mammals that were no longer needed and were only memory remnants of formerly active genes from thousands of years ago.

What troubled Carlson even more was the levels of growth hormone he'd found in the first blood samples of the Thylacine fetuses. Tibek was playing fast and loose with an unknown gene.

That was why he was so angry with Tibek. He should have known the dangers when he found he couldn't control the growth. It was insanity to sit back and allow them to evolve on their own. He knew from the start the whole project was unpredictable.

A recent inquiry to one of the foremost researchers on Thylacine biology had gone unanswered. Carlson suspected his request for information was ignored due to the method he was forced to use. He had to use an alias and an anonymous email address for this task, a protocol strictly demanded at GenSys. The secrecy of the lab was somewhat of a double-edged sword for Carlson. It made obtaining information from the outside world difficult at best.

To make matters worse, every time Carlson even hinted of temporarily suspending operations until they determined what the DNA flaws actually were, Frank Tibek threatened to have Carlson sent back to the states. A threat Carlson ignored, since he was the only one on the project who actually knew how to sequence DNA correctly. However, Tibek being GenSys's field man, along with the Prince's demand for immediate results, left Carlson with no choice but to go along with the accelerated program, no matter the consequences.

And consequences there would be.
They had succeeded in cloning a Thylacine fetus. Nevertheless, bringing that species to adulthood was another thing all together. Carlson slumped into his desk and dropped his head into his hands.

What have I done?

T
HAT NIGHT
,
WHILE THE OTHERS
slept, Jack Baker heard the staccato sounds of a helicopter passing over the island. He grabbed a handful of wet leaves and tossed them on the fire, frantically trying to create smoke to attract attention. But the chopper sounds soon faded and the night was still again.

He decided to make his way down the trail they had walked earlier that day. Suddenly, Baker heard a rustling. In the faint moonlight, he could make out the outline of a figure running through the clearing on the right.

"Hello. Is there someone there?" a voice called out.

Baker stiffened. "Yes, who is it?"

"My name is Michael Whiting."

Baker was stunned when the man approached--he was a dead ringer for Rip Van Winkle. "How long have you been here?" Baker asked.

"Three years."

"But how--"

"I've been hiding from
them
."

"Them?"

"You haven't seen them? Or heard them at night?"

"I've heard something," Baker admitted.

"What you've heard, Mr.--"

"Baker. Jack Baker."

"Mr. Baker, what you heard are monsters. Monsters I helped to create."

Baker was stunned. That was not the response he had been expecting. "What do you mean, monsters? What the hell are those things out there?"

"A better question is what were they
supposed
to be?"

Baker stood waiting. "You said you created them?"

"Thylacinus cynocephalus, otherwise known as the Thylacine or Tasmanian Tiger was a wolf-like creature with jaws the size of a textbook. It had stripes across its back; and the legs were formed exactly like a kangaroo. They were vicious and would eat almost anything.

When the humans began moving into their habitat in the late 1880s to 1910s, they left them alone. Soon though, livestock began to disappear, and they thought the cause was the Thylacines. The farmers began to shoot them, and when sheep were introduced to the region, the toll went up. Soon, the government was paying one pound per Thylacine scalp, a good amount in those days. It was not until 1936 that they became protected. The last known tiger died later that year in a New York zoo. The cause of the Thylacine's death was a caretaker, named Benjamin, who simply forgot to close the door. The Thylacine crept out, and being exposed, died.

Since 1936, they've found no conclusive evidence of a Thylacine. However, the incidence of reported Thylacine sightings has continued. Most sightings occur at night, in the north of the State, in or near areas where suitable habitat is still available. Although the species is now considered 'probably extinct', these sightings provided some hope that the Thylacine may still exist."

Jack cut in, "That's great, Mr. Whiting--"

"It's Dr. Whiting."

"
Doctor
Whiting, I appreciate a good lecture. I teach at a college in the States myself. Could you just get to the point?"

"Please let me explain it my way, that way I don't have to repeat myself."

Jack threw up his hands and sat on a large flat rock.

Dr. Whiting continued, his way, "There have been hundreds of sightings since 1936, most of which have been clear cases of mis-identification. However, a detailed study of sightings between 1934 and 1980 concluded that of a total of three hundred sightings, just under half could be considered possible actual sightings. Nonetheless, all sightings have remained inconclusive; there has yet to be verified contact. Of the number of searches for the animal, none have been successful in proving the continued existence of the animal."

Baker's eyes glazed over.

Whiting sighed. "I see I've lost you, but the real story came after their extinction. You see, there's a
lab
on this island."

"A lab?" Baker repeated.

"Yes, a lab. We can talk about that later. Right now, we need to get out of here."

"Can you get me to that lab?" Baker asked.

Whiting nodded. "I guarantee it."

E
LLEN WATCHED THE LAST GROUP
of guards leave the viralology lab, keys jingling, their voices loud in the corridor. She locked the door and leaned against it, exhaling.

Had she done the right thing, telling Carlson what she'd found?
She had no real evidence of anything except those things. She was sure Tibek could explain them away, as he did every other time she inquired about something amiss. Especially now, when the stakes were so high. The prince was expecting results.
Soon
.

She grabbed a heavy metal chair and propped it underneath the doorknob, jamming it in place until she was sure no one could get in, even with a key. If she had to explain blocking the door, she could always say she was spooked by noises she heard after the guards had left. The fact was the guards only made routine patrols to this part of the facility every four hours. They were more concerned with guarding the perimeter.

She would have plenty of time to work undisturbed.

Ellen hastened to the storage area contiguous with the lab. Here liquid nitrogen tanks were arranged on shelves, numbered and catagorized.

Her heart beating with anxiety, Ellen read the label of each tank until she found the one she wanted:

Thylacine embryo
Specimans 1-6
R. Tibek

The metal cylinder's chrome lid had a pressure release valve attached. She put her hand on the latch and hesitated. Intuition told her what she would find, but she had to force herself to raise the hood.

Slowly she looked down. At first, the frozen mist blocked her view as it floated out of the storage container and spilled silently to the floor. Then it cleared and she saw the specimen container. Ellen unscrewed it, pulling it up and removing the stainless steel specimen case.

She found herself breathing hard. Ever since she was a young girl, this was what she wanted, to be a scientist. The advancement of human knowledge had always been something she cherished. It wasn't a selfish endeavor, but something to help others.

How naive she had been.

Since coming to work for GenSys, she had learned a hard lesson fast: Not all scientists are created equal. At least at this company, she found each one more corrupt than the next.
Except for Peter Carlson.
He was sincere. At least that was her hope. She had entrusted him and now she'd have to wait and see.

Ellen placed the stainless steel case on the counter. The cool nitrogen mist swirled about her legs as if it were alive. One by one, she opened the specimen trays.

Impossible!

For a moment, Ellen supported herself by leaning against the freezer, staring at the empty trays, not able to believe what her eyes were clearly telling her. She found it hard to breathe. Staggering backwards, she fell into a lab chair.

The Thylacine embryos were all gone.

B
Y LATE AFTERNOON THE NEX
t day, the dark clouds had returned. The group had followed an ancient trail of unknown origin, barely an ally through the brush. Whiting brought them to a clearing and stopped.

"I think we should stop here for the day."

Baker looked at the others. "I agree. There are some good vines here to lash together a shelter. Looks like more rain tonight. Everyone okay with that?"

"Suits me," Tracy Mills said, plopping on the ground.

Hammond just nodded. He'd been unusually quiet all day. Baker noticed the Captain seemed preoccupied. With all the responsibility he felt, Jack could see why.

"Something wrong, Captain?"

"Wrong? Yeah, something is wrong, Baker. Here we are in the middle of God knows where, castaways on this fucking deserted island, and we have Rip Van Winkle and the man who led five people to their death at Mt. Everest three years ago guiding us."

Whiting's head shot up. "I beg your--"

Hammond faced the three of them. "That's right. Our illustrious jungle guide, Mr. Jack Baker, was a mountaineering guide for some adventure company. He goes up to Everest with ten people, but guess what? He only comes back with five. The way I read it, he abandoned them to save his own ass."

Tracy Mills' mouth was agape. "How do you know--"

"How do I know it's the same guy? Tracy, you've flown with me enough to know what a news junkie I am. It took me awhile to place him, but I
knew
I knew him from somewhere. But don't take my word for it. Why don't you ask him?"

Tracy lowered her head, not wanting to look in his eyes. "Jack. Is that true?"

Jack could feel the others' eyes penetrating him. "Yes. I'm afraid it is. But not like the great Captain Hammond tells it."

"Well, why don't you explain it then, hot shot?" Hammond fired back.

"I don't owe you an explanation, Hammond. I don't owe you anything.
I
didn't put us on this god-forsaken island." Baker turned and walked off.

T
HE JUNGLE AROUND HIM SEEMED
to echo with the hollow voices of distant memories. Jack tried to block them out.