Chapter Twelve

Matthew’s Brain

 

            After they returned to the refuge, Peter and Matthew sat across each other on one of the picnic tables in the yard.   

            “You look disturbed, Uncle Peter.”

            “Matthew, you knew how to turn on the computer system.  You entered a pass code as if it were a habit.  You weren’t even supposed to know how to get into our system.  Explain yourself.”

            “Well, sometimes the camp was so noisy I went into the War Room for quiet so I could study in peace.  I guess I got bored and curious and I fooled around with the computers.”

            “But the computers were protected by passwords and other protection.  How did you get the computers to operate?”

            Matthew paused for a second.  “Well, Uncle Peter, it's like this. Since I didn’t know a whole lot about computers, I read whatever manual that was on your shelf that I could.  And I sort of figured things out.  I mean, I know you had a password and stuff, but it just wasn't that hard to get in.  You should have better protection.”    

            “You mean you bypassed our computer security and it didn't seem too difficult for you?”            “Uncle Peter, what's so hard about guessing a password?  Once I was in, I just started fiddling with things.  I read the help files about how to work your programs and it really wasn't that hard.”

            “But it was hard,” Peter said, emphatically.  “How did you get the access codes?”

            “Access codes?  You had info mods on the shelf too.  One of them was about hacking computers.  It is true I had to write a simple hacking program that would help me with the security codes, but altogether it didn't take more than a few hours.  It just wasn't that hard.”

            “Matthew,” he said,  “You don't understand.  Most people can't just pick up an information module and teach themselves about computers in a day.  Most people don't hack their way into a secured computer and learn how to create a program that helps you get into other secured parts of the computer. I’ve always known you were sharp, but you are a force to be dealt with.”

            “Look, Uncle Peter, I'm sorry.  I didn't know it would upset you this much.”

            “That's not what I'm getting at, Matthew.  It took me two months of intensive study before I was able to start writing programs sophisticated enough to hack into another computer.  You did it without even considering it a challenge.”

            “What are you saying?”

            “I’m saying you’re sharp.  You tinker with left over parts and come up with novel inventions.  What is that thing you’re working on now - the magnetic resonator?”

            “Yes.  It is a way to communicate with someone without being traced - by vibrating his com.  I learned about the concept while studying a magazine about things that the military is doing.”

            Peter’s demeanor changed.   He now appeared troubled.   Something heavy was obviously on his mind.  “Matthew, I have something to tell you.  Something you need to know.  Something I found this morning when I hacked into Dr. Lincoln's files.  Something that you may never want to know, but you have to know.”

            “Uncle Peter, you're scaring me.  What is it you want to tell me?”

            “Come with me to the war room and I'll show you,” he said soberly.

            The two went through the bunkhouse, then down into the lower level.  Peter quickly booted up the computer and opened a program.  A photograph of a face and a document appeared on the screen.  “Matthew,” he said.  “Take a look at this.”

            “It looks like a picture of me, almost.  Do you think it could be my biological father?”

            “I want you to read this document.  Please read it aloud.”

            Matthew sat at the console and began:

            “'Clone 9: Body of Caucasian tri-athlete John Deal.  Brain of Dr. Henry Lincoln.  Served thirteen years, six months, three days.  Attained height of four feet six inches,  seventy pounds.  Endured hardship well.  Showed genius intelligence.  Spontaneously aborted on this date after performing services at Dr. Lincoln's mansion.'”

            “Stop there, Matthew,” Peter said.  “Do you understand what you just read?”

            “Yeah, it's amazing.  The Doc seems to have been in some heavy stuff.  He was cloning human beings from his own home.  He must have a laboratory somewhere.  He took an athlete's body, and his own brain genome and stuck it into it.  He's a mad genius!”

            “Yes he is,” Peter said.  “He was mad.  Now could you read a little further?”

            “Sure.  This is interesting.  'Additional comment:  Although physically weakened at the time of death, this clone could have attained superior strength under better conditions.  This clone showed high tolerance for pain, exposure and disease resistance.  Successfully prolonged his life by eating house flies and wild mice,'”  Matthew paused.  Then continued. “‘-- caught in the sleeping quarters, without becoming diseased.  At age three, with no instruction, was found to sound out written words.  By five, I discovered the clone had read a Dr. Seuss book, taken from the garbage bin, to its co-numan.  Its ability to read and do simple math was apparent.’” At this, Matthew's voice became slower.  His breathing, a bit harder.  “'This demonstrated that a clone with an average body can endure, survive and thrive with the brain of a genius.  It also demonstrated that the genetic code for my brain can be successfully transplanted into a Caucasian.’”  Chills began to run up his spine.  “'This clone, because of its superior behavior, was allowed to exist until its body was not salvageable.  It is my considered opinion, that if that clone were allowed to survive, it would have become dangerous.'”

            Matthew's body became still, his face sullen. “God,” he said,  “He kept me until thirteen and a half.  I thought I had gotten that bastard out of my system for a while.  He almost destroyed my body.  I survived.  He almost destroyed my spirit, yet I lived.  Now he's done something so hideous to me that there can be no healing.  Oh, Uncle Peter.  I feel like suicide.  I want to die.”

            “Matthew, you have to know something.  You have to think.  The brain is in your head, not his.  A brain doesn't mean a mind.   You have the mind of Matthew.”   

            “I know you are right, Uncle Peter,” he said.  “But the implications are disturbing.  Ever since you brought me here I considered myself to be human.  Now, in an instant, I find out I'm an ‘it.’  Welcome to reality, Matthew, you really are non-human.  You're a clone.”

            “Matthew, that's not fair.  There are plenty of clones around - hundreds of thousands of them -  created for infertile women.  You are just as human as I am.”

            "Human?  Humans have parents.  Humans are born.  I have a body of one man and the brain of a crazy.  You saw what was written.  How do I know I'm not one of dozens just like me?”

            “You aren't.  The doctor had only one of you,” Peter said.

            “One?  Does that make it better?  Man, what the damn hell am I?  My mother was probably a cow or an incubator.”

            “No, Matthew.  I found out through sifting through his files that you were born of someone named Argyle Jenkins who provided a surrogate womb.”

            “Argyle Jenkins?  The madam?  I was born of the bitch that whipped me nearly to death?”  Matthew held his hands over his face.  Anguish filled his mind and heart.  He could not contain himself.  A loud wail filled the air as his shoulders heaved.

            Peter put his hand on Matthew's shoulder.  “What can I say?  Life has given you a terrible blow.  Look.  I think you need time alone.  I want you to stay in the war room tonight.  You can use the cot in the back room.  I'm sure you're going to want to do your own research into your background.”

            Matthew stopped bawling and addressed Peter, trying to keep his composure.  “Yes, that would be good.  I do want to know all I can.”

            Peter took a pen and paper from the desktop and wrote something down.  “Matthew, this is the path to files I copied.  You'll be able to use the information to hack into his computers and get more information.  He has a very sophisticated security system on his computer.  I can't get past a certain point.  Maybe you'll have better luck.”

            Matthew looked at Peter and wiped away a tear.  “Yes sir, I'll try.”

            “I'm just a little distance away if you need me.  Even if it's in the middle of the night.  Wake me up.  I won't mind.”

            “Uh, before you go, let me ask you one thing.  Does Aunt Jenny know about this?”

            “Yeah, she does some of it.  She knows you're exceptionally bright.”

            “One other thing.  What was the doctor doing cloning people?”

            “That,” Peter said, “is something I couldn't find out.”  Peter turned to go, but then hesitated.  “And there's one more thing.  Tomorrow, a new person is going to join our group: a minister.  His name is Father John Janis.  He, at one time, went to medical school but soon after that he changed professions.  He started to buy up numans to protect them, as many as he could support.  When he comes tomorrow, you might want to counsel with him.  He may give you words of comfort.”

            “Sure.  Sure.  I'll see him tomorrow.”  After Peter left, Matthew felt uneasy.  “Got to work,” Matthew said to himself.  “Got to work.  Got to work.  Ain't thinking about nothing.”

Matthew punched the keys on his keyboard.  The screen filled with another document.  Matthew scanned the page, punched the right arrow key to bring up another page, then read it just as quickly.  Page after page flashed across the screen.  Matthew devoured the information like a hungry dog eats its meal.

            “This is stupid,” Matthew said aloud.  “The concept is flawed from the beginning.  Superior clones?  For what?”  Matthew initiated a program that he made for hacking past security.  He logged onto the Internet  (that is what we now call the “Common Mind”)  and accessed Dr. Lincoln's laboratory.  His fingers whipped across the keyboard.  Then he pressed “Enter.”   “Access Denied,” appeared on the screen. Again and again the young genius tried one procedure after another.  He opened his program, reworked it and set it to do its task against the doctor's security.  It was now three o'clock.  Matthew could not keep his weary eyes open.  He slumped over the desk and fell immediately to sleep.

            Matthew's mind drifted to a time long ago, when he was four.  He remembered things that had been locked in the back of his mind for many years.  He was in the sleeping shed when Doctor Lincoln came in.  “Washer!  Get up!”  Washer complied, then stood in front of the doctor.  “I be rewarded, Master?”

            “No, not this time, numan.  Follow me, on the double.”  The doctor took him into his house, then into a room upstairs that he had never seen before. The doctor drew some blood.  “If I’m right, numan, you may be quite a unique scientific find.  Now go back to your sleeping quarters!”

             Washer dutifully obeyed.  He didn’t understand what Dr. Lincoln said and didn’t give it a second thought.  He went to Feeder and examined a cut on his friend's forehead.  He grabbed his wash rag from the floor and rushed out to the washing spigot.  “Gots to get this clean,” he thought as he rinsed it thoroughly.  He took it back to the shed and wiped it over the sleeping boy's injury.  “Gots to keep Feeder's cut clean.  Ain't let it be infected.”  After this, he examined the bodies of the other five children in the room.  He adjusted a makeshift bandage on Scraper's arm.  “It be all right,” he thought.  “They be okay.”

            Matthew was wakened by the beeping of the computer.  He opened his eyes and saw the time display: 4:37 AM.  A message appeared on the screen:  “Finished.”

            “Great!” Matthew said aloud.  He immediately entered commands into his keyboard, causing the doctor's files to download onto his hard drive.  File after file was transferred.  Forty minutes passed.  Finally, the download was completed.  Matthew eagerly opened the first file and quickly read it.  “I can't believe this,” he said aloud.  “This is worse than I thought.  This can't work.” He read another file, same comment.  Page after page flew by as Matthew read them at over fifteen hundred words per minute.  “German military clones?  Who thought of that, an egotistical baboon?”  He read further.  “Mike Bohannas?  The boxer?  And Dr. Lincoln's brains?”  He read further.  “The Nazis fell for this?  God help the simple-minded.  Their own stupidity will do them in.  It's amazing they call themselves a superior race.”

 

Chapter Thirteen

Lincoln and Ornstein, Clone 306

 

            Meanwhile, Dr. Lincoln is at the German Embassy in Washington D.C.  He was engaged in reviewing information about the clones.  “Clone Three-Zero-Six,” his computer said, “created elaborate scheme to embarrass teacher.”

            “Details,” he ordered.

            “Clone took plastic ketchup bottle from table at lunch time.  It squirted some on the floor directly in the path of teacher Hildie Kreggler.  She slipped, falling backward.  While she was falling, clone Three-Zero-Six slipped another ketchup bottle under her.  When Kreggler's body collapsed the container, the contents squirted out of the top with sufficient force to fly across the room.  The contents, a chemical which smelled like ladies perfume, drenched Commander Ornstein who was standing fifteen feet away.  Even after bathing, two hours later, in a meeting with the Vice Chancellor, Commander Ornstein still emitted a strong flowery fragrance.

            Three-Zero-Six was given three days detention.  Within hours of beginning his punishment, he escaped by using his personal com to transmit unlocking sequence to the door.  Using the same method, he entered into the office of the Director of Discipline.  He then interfaced with the director's personal library, entering commands which caused  pictures of exotic dancers to appear on the monitors throughout the complex.  Three-Zero-Six was suspended for four days and kept under surveillance.  He used his com to circumvent the surveillance computer, then escaped to . . ."

            “Stop, computer,” the doctor said.  “I get the idea.  How many clones have been disciplined for pranks like this?”

            “Specify time period.”

            “The last thirty days.”

            “Two hundred and seventeen.”

            “And how many individual pranks were there in total?”

            “One thousand sixty four.”

            “Not good,” he said.  “They are bored.  I cautioned them about teaching these kids too slowly but they wouldn't listen.”

            Dr. Lincoln lit another cigar.  He uttered a hard, raspy cough.  “Damn lungs,” he muttered.  “I need some new ones.”  Then he thought of Gene, “I can get some new ones.”

            “Dr. Lincoln,” the computer said.  “Ambassador Adolph has arrived at the door along with Commandant Ornstein.”

             Ambassador Adolph and Commandant Ornstein of the German Secret Service arrived at the door.  He quickly walked in without bothering to knock, then sat at the table with the doctor.

            “Greetings, Doctor,” Ornstein said.  The commander moved quickly, not being in any mood to waste time with pleasantries.  “We are short on time.  Please report on your progress.”

            The two guests quickly took seats across the doctor’s desk.  Lincoln took a paper from his briefcase.  “There are now over four hundred twenty three thousand clones that are in the nurseries in Germany.  They are, in chronological age, approximately three and a half years old.  Their biological development is, surprisingly, older than expected.  They resemble the physical development, generally, of six-year-olds.”

            "And intellectually, Doctor.  What is their estimated mental development?”

            “This varies from clone to clone.  Slight changes in how they are handled during the first year after birth influence intelligence.  However, it is clear that all of them read at the sixth to seventh-grade level.  Their other scholastic skills and their quality of thought are generally on the same level.  However, their scholastic achievements don't tell the whole story.  They show genius in their problem solving abilities.  And they are being taught too slowly.  They get bored easily and tend toward mischief.”

            “Three and a half years old.  That's amazing.  Some must be just out of diapers.  Doctor, I don't mean to interrupt,” Ornstein said, “but I am far more interested in their development as soldiers.”

            “Commandant.  They were ‘out of diapers’ at seven months.  It is too hard to evaluate their soldiering skill at this early phase.  What I can tell you is that they are large, physically strong and intellectually superior.  But, as with all children, there are behavioral problems.  They like to pull pranks.  I just heard a report about Three-Zero-Six who .  .  .”

            Ornstein interrupted.  “Yes, you don't have to tell me about that clone.  He’s been a thorn in my side from the start.  He is the first one to pull an organized prank.  He inspires the others to buck the system.  I even think he is personally involved, at some level, in most of the pranks that create such chaos.  I would have aborted him but I couldn’t get permission.  There are hundreds of clones like him - maybe thousands.  They make the army look like a circus.  In my opinion, they should be beaten.”

            “No, Commander,” the doctor said very gravely.  “You do that it would be a grave mistake.  These clones are geniuses, yes, but I never told you that they, at the age of three-and-a-half, would be perfect soldiers.  I know that's how you treat your other citizens, but it won't work with them.  Remember, since they  have my brain, they will tend to behave as I did when I was young.  I  must tell you that discipline will be a mistake.  I know!  My father did it to me!”

            “They must be controlled.  I am in charge.  Discipline will become more severe.”  Then he said very slowly, as if to drive the point home.  “Their wills will be broken.  Now, Doctor, I thought you were at one time working with the genes of a tri-athlete.  Why did you decide on a boxer?”

            “With no disrespect intended, we have gone over this before.  There was one viable clone that had the body of a tri-athlete and my brain pattern.  But, by and large, it was smaller and less healthy.  Washer, that was its designation, died under the physical strain we put it through, whereas the boxer clone was still strong when we aborted and dissected it.  The tri-athlete clone probably didn't even make it to the clinic to be properly aborted.”

            “So we get boxers and not tri-athletes.”

            The doctor's voice became louder and more forceful.  “You get fine physical specimens with powerful muscles, sharp reflexes and superior ability to endure hardship.”

            “We will see, doctor,” the commandant said.  “But I am also concerned about their aging.  We don't want them to get too old too fast.  Rapid aging is good at first, yes.  But your experiments with finding the cure for their rapid aging must be completed on time.”

            “I am working on it, commandant.  But even with all the research that went before me, the obstacles that remain are challenging.  We have no problem stopping the aging process, but the lab animals develop cancer as a result of the individual cells not dying off when they should.”

            “You had better hurry, Doctor,” he said.  “Or we'll have a geriatric army.”  Then the commandant addressed the ambassador.  “And would you give me an update about the overseas project?”

            “Yes sir.  Things are going well.  The age of abortion is now fourteen in America.  The pro-lifers are going stir crazy.  The pro-choicers are just as zealous.                            

            The population of the United States is still on the decrease.  For every human that is born, three numans are born.  We estimate that the human population of the United States will diminish by ten percent this year.  Percentage wise and in real numbers, numans are increasing dramatically.”

            “And the black population?”

            “Increasing steadily as a percentage of the whole at the projected rate.”

            “Excellent trend, Ambassador.  Fortunately for us, the White Supremacists and the American Neo-Nazi Party are getting stronger politically while the blacks are multiplying - a volatile situation.  Tension between the groups will increase to explosive levels. And it’s happening all by itself!   All we have to do is sit back and watch.  Things are going well for us and they are doing it, largely, to themselves.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Fourteen

Clone Three-Zero-Six Parties

                       

            In bunkhouse 609, room 237, clone Three-Zero-Six woke to the sound of a bugle coming from the room's PA system.  He, along with forty-nine others like himself, rose from their cots and made their beds.  They were all genetically similar but they were not identical. You could tell them apart just better than you could fraternal twins.  There was always some difference in age, skin texture or particular facial characteristics.  A member of their community could recognize each of his classmates by sight.  Some were true leaders, others, more passive.

            A whistle sounded.  They went into the locker room to take their showers.  Another whistle and they dressed and ran outside for assembly.  They quickly formed a single line fifty abreast.

            “I hate this,” Three-Zero-Six said to himself.  “This monotony is for the birds.  I think I'll abort today's schedule.”  Three-Zero-Six whispered to his clone-mate.  “Dance today.  First class! Pass it on!”

            The message went down the line like a wave.  Several boys uttered a muffled giggle.

            Captain Kriedar walked up to inspected the assembled group.  His finely tailored and pressed uniform reeked with prestige and staunchness.  The austere, bearded inspector surveyed the troops.  He moved from the first clone to the second, then down the line.

            “I wonder what he expects to find,” Three-Zero-Six thought.  “Even a row of dominos has more variety.”

            As the captain passed, Three-Zero-Six sneaked a small self-adhesive label from his pocket.  On it, a simple message, “Particle beam me.”  With expert slight of hand, he slipped it onto the back of the passing official.  As he continued down the line, each clone that he passed widened his eyes and held in a snicker, some adding to the unsuspecting commander with their own messages.

            “That's just the beginning, captain,” the impish clone said to himself.  “You wanted clones?  You got over two-hundred-and-sixty-thousand more just like us.”

            The human billboard shouted an order.  “Soldiers of the Fourth Reich!”

            “Soldiers, indeed,” thought the clone.  “How can children be soldiers?”

            “You are well dressed and prepared for a day of learning and discipline!”

            “No duh,” Three-Zero-Six thought.  “You just said the same words every day for the last two years.”

            “You are not only a part of the future, you ARE the future!”  The commander examined the grinning faces of the young students. “I see you are happy to be here this morning,” he said.  “Good.  It is good that your morale has improved.  And I hope that those among you who are pranksters and troublemakers will learn from the rest that it is far better to cooperate than to be disruptive.”  Then he stood erect, saluted in the normal German fashion, and ordered, “Dismissed!”

            The well-organized ranks disassembled.

            In the Nazi School for Clones, class module 1006 came to order.  Hildie Kreggler, a pretty twenty-nine-year-old, wearing a plain cotton dress taught the class.  She and her fifty students met in a room thirty feet by forty feet.  Its walls were painted cinder block, its floor tiled cement.  On the front wall was a rarely-used old-fashioned slate blackboard.  In the corner, a Nazi flag.  A large picture of the German President and another of Dr. Lincoln was affixed to the wall next to it.  Under the Dr.’s image were inscribed the motto which all soldiers were to repeat daily, “I in you, you in me.  We are one.  His will be done.  His will be done.  His will be done.”

            In the room, traditional desks for students, each with its own chair.  She, too, had a wooden desk.  A palmtop quantum computer and other traditional teacher's tools cluttered her work space.  Hildie stood in front.

            “Now, class,” she began.  “Today we will be speaking American English.  Please stand to recite the pledge.”

            The fifty clones assigned to her stood at attention next to their desks.  They faced the photograph of Dr. Lincoln, then recited:

 

             “I in you, you in me.  We are one.  His will be done. His will be done. His will be done.”

 

            “Let the mind be in us that was in Dr. Lincoln and in his father.”

 

            “I am not human.  I am a clone and created for the service of the Reich.  I am disposable.”

             

            At this, Three-Zero-Six sneered silently and thought to himself,  “Yeah, right.”

 

            The class continued:     

            “I pledge to be a good soldier.

            “I will learn my studies well.

            “I will hate the enemies of the Fatherland.  I will kill them without mercy.”

           

            “In a pig's eye,” he thought.

           

            While the others said their morning mantra,        “I will obey my superiors without question.

“I will give my life for the cause without hesitation,” Three-Zero-Six could barely keep himself from openly scoffing.

            “I have no friends among other clones, and if called to do so, I would mark them as targets.

            “We owe our existence to our creator Dr. Henry Lincoln.  In him we have hope of eternal life.”

           

            Three-Zero-Six mocked under his breath, “Hallelujah and amen.”

            “Very good,” Hildie said.  “And now, use your coms to access the next chapter titled, “How to Hack Computers.  Please put on your coms.”

            The children took out their computers from their desks.  To the causal observer they looked no different than a regular pair of eye glasses.  However, the lenses projected images directly onto the student's retinas.  In the sides of the computers were transmitters which sent an audio signal to tiny implanted speakers in the children's ears.