“Will you give it life or …” Death? Christal finally understood the choice Gregor had left her to make.
She stepped out of her car and walked down between the manicured hedges. Her heavy hiking boots looked peculiar against the brushed cement of the walk. The place was a sprawling angular mansion of white cement, soaring windows, and great views of the surrounding mountains that gave way to the city. In the hazy distance, through the smog, the brassy gleam of the Pacific under afternoon sun could be seen.
What was the moral choice? She hated herself for having to make a decision that her upbringing, even her legal education, left her so ill prepared for. One way she was a murderer in the eyes of her church, the other, an accomplice in the propagation of sin. Or, if she went through with it, wouldn’t it be a form of suicide?
It is me … and it is not. But, who are you, Christal Anaya? What are you?
The anger, the injustice of it, deepened as Christal stepped up to the great black door sunk in the white stucco wall. With a slim brown finger she rang the buzzer at the call box, then leaned down, announcing, “It’s Christal.”
“Cool, babe. Be there in a sec,” Tony’s voice answered.
She hung over the abyss, lost and alone, facing eternal damnation. How did one atone? She could hear Grandmother’s distant voice hissing at her from somewhere beyond the grave.
Within moments Tony opened the door and stepped back. He was in a square-cut white shirt and wearing long baggy shorts. He held a margarita in each hand, offering one to her as he sang, “Da-dah! Cheers, babe! Here’s to you.” Then he was off, padding barefoot across the tiles. “Come on. I’m poolside, you know? It’s a perfect day for it. You up for a dip?”
“I didn’t bring a suit.” She stopped long enough to pour the margarita into a potted plant.
“Don’t need one here, babe. No close neighbors—not that they’d mind anyway.”
His house was nice—the sort of thing that, as a child outside of Nambe, New Mexico, she’d have once considered to be straight out of a fairy tale. She followed him out onto the terraced poolside. A tall stone formation spouted water that flowed down a cascading waterfall to a sparkling turquoise pool. He’d been right—from where she stood, none of the neighboring places were visible.
“So, Tony, did you read the screen treatment that your writers put together on the Genesis Athena thing?”
He turned, smiling in the golden sunlight. “Yeah, dynamite, I tell you. Soderbergh’s flipped over it. I mean, like, Sheela’s still feeling fidgety, but she’ll give in the end. This thing’s gonna blow the top right out of the box office. Do you understand? Babe, there ain’t never been nothing like it before! Sheela playing herself, pulling up all that rich emotion.” He glanced down at her empty glass. “Wow! Sucked it down already, huh? I’ll get you another.”
“No.” She set the glass on one of the poolside tables. Smiling, she took off her jacket. “I’m here for something else, Tony.” She let her voice soften, and raised an eyebrow as her coat slipped off her fingers. “Didn’t you say it was a perfect day for it?”
Tony grinned, set his own drink down, and in one fluid movement, slipped his baggy shorts off. “Yeah, it is. You know, I’ve been thinking. It would be way cool if you played yourself.” He crossed his arms, and started to pull his shirt over his head. “You’ve got chops! The part—”
Christal’s booted foot caught him squarely in the dangling genitals. The force of the blow lifted him off the cement, spiking a pain up her leg in the process. He screamed, staggering, trying to grab himself through the folds of the confining shirt. She stepped in close and used an elbow to hammer the side of his head. As he shrieked and screamed, she went after him: kicking and punching. Then, grabbing his staggering form, she bodily threw him through the poolside window.
The shirt ripped, leaving him blinking and moaning in the midst of the broken shards of glass. He tucked his knees to his chest, arms up protectively as he gaped up from his lime green carpet. “Don’t hurt me! Christal? What the fuck?”
She stood over him, hands knotting, as she glared down. “It wasn’t until I read the script that I knew. It was you, asshole. All the time it was you! Shit, you had Sheela’s schedule, knew her every move. I couldn’t figure out how Hank and Neal found me. You gave them my address, you piece of shit! And you tipped them that Sheela was onto them—that I was onto them! The whole time, you were ratting us out.”
“No!” He tried to stand, and she took the opportunity to land a kick under his jaw. At the impact, his head snapped back, and he collapsed onto the glass. She could see little dabs of blood sopping into the carpet.
“It’s in the treatment, Tony! The details of how I was kidnapped, flown across the country, and carried aboard the ZoeGen. How I was locked in a tiny little cabin in the secure part of the ship! Nobody knows that outside of the FBI, asshole.”
He raised his hands in a pleading gesture. His eyes were unfocused, and blood was leaking out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t hurt me anymore! I’m sorry! I’m fucking sorry!”
In bitter rage, she hauled off and kicked him again. “You’re a piece of shit, Tony. A filthy piece of stinking shit.”
She turned, walked back to her jacket, and picked it up from the cement. As she started for the door, she looked down. “Nice place you have here.” She paused. “By the way, I’m pregnant.”
She was out the door and in her Concorde before the shakes started. She made it halfway to the main road before she had to pull over and cry.
A lazy surf rolled itself against the pure white sand. Lymon glanced out at the turquoise water and squinted from behind his sunglasses. In the distance he could just see the green mound of St. Kitts floating at the edge of the blue. The warm salty breeze ruffled his too-colorful flower-pattern shirt and teased his legs below his white cutoffs. Beside him, Sid walked barefoot, trousers rolled, head down, with his coat thrown over his shoulder. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar to betray his black thatch of chest hair. Lymon could see the sunlight gleaming on the incipient bald spot at the back of Sid’s head.
“They still haven’t found April Hayes. The best guess is that she passed herself off as a patient. Wherever she is, she’s gone to ground until the dust clears.”
“What’s the point of hiding?” Lymon reached down and picked up a seashell before flinging it into the light surf. “Hank and Neal are already out on bail. The Sheik’s jetted off to Qatar, and they’ve almost refloated ZoeGen off the beach at Sandy Hook. Hayes could have just cooled her heels like the rest of them.”
“That’s what I came to tell you. It’s been a fucking madhouse. I’ve been hauled into meetings with everyone from the White House to the attorney general and the secretary of state. I’ve been grilled up one side and down the other. If there was a way they could twist the story, they’ve tried it.” He glanced at Lymon. “A lot of people are really pissed about this, Lymon.”
“Good, their pal Abdulla shouldn’t have been acting like a sultan. Slavery went out with the Ottoman Empire.”
Sid’s expression soured. “That’s not why they’re pissed.”
“No?”
“Most of them are wishing it just hadn’t happened. That Everly hadn’t driven that ship aground. Sure, they’re pissed at the Sheik for stealing his little clones, but they’re more worried about what it will do to stability in the Gulf.” He paused. “Lymon, I want you to prepare yourself. My superiors are telling me in not-so-subtle ways that they’re going to, and I quote,”Try to minimize the damage.”
“‘Minimize the damage’?” Lymon growled. “You heard the reports! Abdulla has clones of over four hundred women in his palace back in Qatar.”
“They want it to go away. It’s politics. He’s a powerful man. I’ve been told over and over what a great friend he is to the United States.” Sid made a face. “You seen TV recently?”
“No.”
“It’s one Genesis Athena a
d after another. Little angelic-looking children talking about how Genesis Athena’s medical miracles saved their lives.” Sid rubbed the back of his neck. “The whole world knows what Genesis Athena is, what they do, and how they sell it. Hits on their Web site topped forty million last week.”
Lymon fixed his gaze on the turquoise water. “I heard yesterday that Neal Gray just sold book rights for two million, and Hank Abrams …”
Sid gave him a look from the corner of his eye. “He could have pulled that trigger, boss. No matter what, you can’t forget that.”
“No, I suppose not. I just hated to hear he’d gone on Larry King.” He reached down to pitch another shell.
“You talk to Brian Everly?”
“No. But his embassy just kicked him loose. I heard he flew to LA first thing.” Lymon paused. “Christal had an abortion yesterday. Said she wasn’t sure what that would do to her immortal soul. She wasn’t happy about it.”
“No, I suppose not.” Sid stomped a wave. “What’s it called when you abort your own clone? Suicide?”
“Well, just keep your mouth shut when we get back to the villa, huh?”
“How is Sheela? She coming to grips with it?”
“I guess. Felix has filed a civil suit against Genesis Athena. During our conference call last night, he said that they’re already offering a five million out-of-court settlement tied up with a billion strings.”
“She gonna take it?”
“I dunno.”
Sid glanced around. “You sure I shouldn’t just take the ferry back to Basseterre?”
“Yeah. The place is big enough you’ll probably get lost in it as it is. We won’t be disturbed unless we want to be.”
Sid’s lips tried to smile, but failed. “You know, the whole world’s looking for you two.”
“Yeah, and to date, they haven’t found us.” He chucked another shell. “We rode to Montana on the Beemer, then caught a charter from Billings to Miami to here.”
“Word is that Sheela Marks is the most sought-after interview in the world.” Sid kicked at the pristine sand. “Your boy, Tony, made sure of that. I hear he’s having trouble eating.”
“It’ll be another couple of weeks before they take the wires out. He’s declined to press charges.”
“I also hear that the Sheik and his investors are very pleased with Sheela’s profile right now, and the last thing they want to do is upset her. You might get more than that five million.”
“I’ll tell the Sheik what he can do with his profile.” Lymon felt his jaw muscles tensing, and a slow anger burning around his heart.
“Don’t, Lymon. Let it lie. Trust me on this. Just love the lady. Hold her, and support her any way she needs it.”
“Yeah.”
“One last thing before we head back. Claire hates DC.”
“So, move her.”
“Yeah, well, you still interested in having someone help you with the IRS paperwork? I’ve got to give them two weeks notice, but after that …”
“You might give June a call.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve heard from a reliable source at LBA that she runs the place.”
It looked like the same world, but it wasn’t. It never would be. Sheela sat in the shade beside the row of soft green plants on the villa balcony. Beside her, a lemonade sweated condensation in the tropical breeze. The droplets trickled down to soak the envelope on which the glass rested. The words GENESIS ATHENA were barely legible as the ink ran. Inside, absorbing the moisture, lay the Sheik’s last insult: an invoice for the balance due on her procedure.
Down the tree-covered slope, she could see Lymon, walking tall and confidently across the sand beside Sid Harness. Every once in a while, Lymon would bend and toss something into the surf.
He’s alive because of me. She took a deep breath, staring out over the turquoise Caribbean water.
Yes, he was alive.
She closed her eyes, remembering the easy and languid sex they’d shared that morning before Sid’s arrival. She recalled how she’d run her fingers down his sides and felt him shudder at her touch.
She had to believe that everything balanced, that the life she had taken made her love Lymon with a greater intensity. That the part of herself that had died in that blast of automatic fire had been replaced by something more profound. Each breath that Lymon took, each pulsing beat of his heart, had been bought and paid for by her sacrifice.
She placed a hand on the form-fitting white sundress and pressed her abdomen. How could she comprehend the eight million sperm he had shot inside her? All those copies of Lymon’s DNA churning about in a frenzy of futility. Even as she sat there they exhausted themselves by the thousands, frantic flagellae ceasing to thrash in her warm fluid. Energy spent, they drifted, carried relentlessly away from their goal by her dark vaginal currents. Did they surrender themselves to oblivion knowing they were already too late? Did some subtle hormone warn them that her womb was already taken?
She closed her eyes, trying to imagine what it looked like: Round, slightly rough on the outside. She could imagine it resting there against the blood-rich lining of her uterus. It had already begun to siphon energy and nourishment from her body. The first pangs of nausea had made their presence known that morning.
She still had to tell Lymon. And what would he say? That she was crazy?
No, not Lymon. But perhaps she was crazy in her own curious and odd fashion.
After an agony of indecision, Christal had chosen abortion.
I can’t blame her.
She stared longingly at the two men as they turned and began retracing their tracks on the deserted beach. Lymon was on his way back to her. No matter what, she wouldn’t face this alone. The knowledge warmed her soul in a way she couldn’t describe.
She had met her devils, slain them, and come out stronger for it. The future would come with its own antagonistic choices, hard questions, and difficult explanations. One by one, she would face them, deal with them. She would do it with a steel conviction, and damn the critics. Perhaps now, finally, Father could be proud of his little runaway.
She took a deep breath and pressed on the softness above her uterus, carried away by the mystery of how they had managed to do it so quickly.
She wondered if she even cared.
I am the Madonna, brought to prominence through immaculate conception. Will my daughter be divine? Or just another life? Will she share my soul, or create her own? And, if she creates her own soul, does that mean that the spark of God glows in each of us?
So what was a person? A collection of proteins and molecules in which a discrete soul would eventually find a home? A piece of herself to replace the part that had died in that machine gun burst?
God must be laughing.
“In The Athena Factor, Michael Gear has transformed America’s obsession with Hollywood beauty into an epic thriller of transcendent terror. I thought the world would come to an end with comet strikes, mushroom clouds, and apocalyptic plagues. I never dreamed we’d overwhelm the earth with J-Lo look-alikes and George Clooney clones.”
—Jack Anderson, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist
“With a Crichton-like mix of scientific intrigue and pulse-pounding suspense, the Gears deliver a fascinating exploration of the frontiers of science.”
—Booklist on Raising Abel
“Gear writes superbly rolling prose with flair, confidence, wit, an ear for sounds, and an eye for details … . And he has another gift: the ability to teach his readers as he entertains them.”
—Rocky Mountain News on The Morning River
“Extraordinary … Colorfully integrates authentic archaeological and anthropological details with a captivating story replete with romance, intrigue, mayhem, and a nail-biting climax.”
—Library Journal on People of the Owl
“Gripping plot, lots of action, well-developed characters, and a wealth of authentic historical facts.”
—Booklist on People of the Masks
r /> “Simple prose brightened by atmospheric detail sweeps this fluid, suspenseful mix of anthropological research and character-driven mystery to a solid, satisfying resolution.”
—Publishers Weekly on People of the Mist
Tor and Forge titles by Kathleen O’Neal Gear and W. Michael Gear
Note: Within series, books are best read in listed order when noted.
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NORTH AMERICA’S FORGOTTEN PAST
Thousands of years ago, small hunting bands crossed the fragile land bridge linking the Eurasian continent to the Americas and discovered a land untouched by humankind. Over the centuries that followed, their descendants spread throughout this land.
Bestselling authors and award-winning archaeologists W. Michael Gear and Kathleen O’Neal Gear bring the stories of these first North Americans to life in this magnificent, multi-volume saga.
People of the Wolf
People of the Fire
People of the Earth
People of the Sea
People of the Lakes
People of the Lightning
People of the Mist
People of the Masks
People of the Owl
People of the Raven
People of the Nightland
People of the Morning Star
People of the Songtrail (forthcoming)
Children of the Dawnland (for ages 9–12)
Short Fiction in the series (prequel to People of the Morning Star):
“Copper Falcon”
Trilogy within the series (in order):
People of the River
People of the Silence