The Athena Factor (39 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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He had just tightened his grip when Sid stepped around the corner, caught a glimpse, and spun on his heel to beat a quick retreat.
Lymon called, “It's all right, Sid. You don't have to go.”
When Sheela glanced up, startled, he could see that an unwanted third person was the last thing she'd counted on.
Sid hesitated, and Sheela turned, waving, “Go away, Sid. Lymon is attempting to protect himself.”
“Huh?” Sid was poised on one foot.
“From me,” Sheela added, stepping away, her voice dropping. “He's doing his damnedest to maintain his professional distance … and it's driving me berserk!”
Sid was canny enough that he promptly fled back down the hallway for the guest bedroom. Sheela met Lymon's eyes, a glittering desperation there. “We've got to talk.”
“What happened?”
She took another step and turned. “Remember
Joy's Girl
? I was told after I played Jennifer Weaver that men would be masturbating to that scene. Did I ever tell you about that? About the image of them that plays over and over in my mind? About how creepy it is?”
He sighed, nodded, and walked over, placing an arm over her shoulder. “Yeah, I know. Can I get you a drink? Scotch? Orange juice? Coffee?”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I was trying to sleep. But the images, Lymon. You wouldn't believe what my mind can create when it's half turned off, free to conjure.”
He glanced across at the clock. “It's three in the morning. That's when the world looks the bleakest.”
She placed her hands on his chest as she looked into his eyes. “I could live with the knowledge that men watched that film and masturbated. I mean, I know enough about biology to understand about males being visually stimulated. I'm an attractive woman. I sell my sexual image for a lot of money. I play sexual roles. It's part of the bargain, part of what I'm paid for.”
“So what did your imagination come up with that was different this time?”
She searched his face, as if willing him to understand. “Genesis Athena. They took my DNA to make little clones of me. I was thinking about why, Lymon. I was conjuring all of the ramifications. Why would someone want a little copy of me? Or of Nicole Kidman, or Sandra Bullock? What would they
do
with them?”
“Sheela—”
She took an agonized breath. “They're breeding copies of
me,
Lymon. Selling them to people like Krissy. She said she was going to have my baby, right? How could she not have known about Genesis Athena? It was right there, tied to my Web site.”
“We'll deal with it, I promise.”
Sheela made an anxious step, her fingers locked in her hair. “I keep imagining what Krissy will do to that little girl. It's like Pandora's box when you start to think about it. People who want my clone … God, that's a terrible word! This is a child! This is me! My hand, my body, my brain and heart.” She placed a hand to her breast. “A breathing, feeling being. A being who's what? Going to be made into a little sexual experiment? Is Krissy going to cut that little baby into pieces to show her how much she loves her?”
“Sheela, you don't know—”
“Bullshit!
Think about it, Lymon. Do normal people go out to buy a Sheela Marks clone? No, they want their
own
babies. They want a product of their DNA and their spouse's. A child conceived in love, as part of a relationship!”
“Sheela, settle down.” He disentangled her hand from her hair, and held it. “We'll deal with it.”
“Will we?” she asked in a small voice. “How, Lymon? We don't even know where they are. What if we can't stop it? What if I have to live the rest of my life knowing that because of what I did on-screen, some pervert is tormenting an innocent little girl? Can you imagine?”
“Yeah, I know what happens to pretty little girls when psychosexually ill people get ahold of them.”
“They won't understand that I am a product of my own history. They won't understand all the things that made me who I am. The mess I got into in Saskatoon. Finding my father's body …” Tears began to trickle down her perfect face. “What's a clone, Lymon? Is it like an identical twin, just one that's delayed for a while? Or is it different? Does the soul make an imprint on a person's DNA? Some essence that's passed down?”
“I don't know.”
“Neither do I, and it's driving me insane.”
A
n unfamiliar pillow pressed against her cheek as Sheela blinked awake in confusion. Horrifying images spun away as the last of her irrational dreams faded into shreds. In that last instant, she had seen her father as she had that last day—seen him hanging in midair, as if frozen in an aerial dance. His head cocked at an unnatural angle, his tongue protruding as if to blow a raspberry at the entire world, his eyes, bugged out but the pupils gray. He hung there, a broken puppet tied to the barn beam with a red length of plastic baling twine.
I let you down, Daddy. I'm so sorry.
She turned, pulling her legs up into her belly, and looked around in relief. Lymon's bedroom was Spartan, male, and neat. She could see his clothes in the open closet, and turning her head, could draw in his rich scent from the bedding.
She blinked hard, struggling to shove the memory of that long-ago day in the barn back into the recesses of her mind.
Lymon. Concentrate on Lymon.
He had led her here, holding her in a spooned position as she cried. Now, in the morning light, she lay like a gutted fish, limp, with nothing left inside the arched cathedral of her ribs.
Did she have any tears left? Or had she cried enough for all of them? How many? One? Ten? A hundred? Or would there eventually be thousands of little Sheelas being implanted in strange women?
Are they mirrors?
Would they see reflections of her life? Would they know that terrible day when she had walked into the barn to find her father's body?
How much of me is really in my genes?
She had no idea. For the first time, she wasn't even sure
what it was to be alive. The notion of personhood had been irrevocably changed, mutated, and taken into another dimension.
She pushed the sheet back and looked down at her body. She was wearing the blouse she'd donned in such a rush last night, and the white cotton pants she'd bought at Jones New York. She stood, walked to the full-length mirror on the closet door, and inspected herself.
“What do they see?” She traced her fingers up her thighs, around the curve of her hips. She followed the narrowing of her waist and raised her hands to support her breasts. Her nipples raised the thin fabric of her shirt.
Why is a body like this worth anything?
She tried to comprehend the notion that people would pay to reproduce this flesh—her flesh. They would sacrifice so much to grow it inside their own bodies. Releasing her breasts, she ran her slim fingers along her face, following the indentation of her cheeks, along the bony sides of her eyes, and pulled back her thick mass of red-blond hair. She leaned close, trying to see into the depths of her blue eyes, to scry what really lurked there in the blackness of the pupils, and found nothing. Only the familiarity she'd seen in mirrors ever since she could remember.
What do I do next? Where do I go from here?
In defeat, she turned, staring at Lymon's bed, remembering his body against hers. That was twice now that she'd had him in a bed. The first time, she'd been too ridden with fatigue. This time, it had been the horror of her nightmare that had come between them.
“What's it going to take, Lymon?” She walked into his adjoining bathroom and pulled down her pants. She squatted and relieved herself in his toilet. At the sink, she washed her face, dried on his towel, and used his comb to make order of her ratty hair.
She did a final check in the mirror, wished for a toothbrush, but declined the use of his. Some things just remained inviolately personal.
Her shoes waited at the side of his bed where she'd left them. Steeling herself, she walked out into the hallway. Male voices could be heard from the kitchen
As she approached the arch that separated kitchen from dining room, she hesitated. Yes, that was Rex's faulty alto. He was saying, “ … I don't care. It's got to stop.”
Sheela stepped through the arch and asked, “What does, Rex?” Both men looked up: Rex with distaste, Lymon with worry. Sid was apparently—and probably most wisely—elsewhere.
She passed the stove and counters to where Lymon and Rex sat across from each other at a small table, two cups of coffee between them. Lymon's was half-empty, Rex's still full.
“You and Lymon.” Rex gestured with his hands. “I know it's your life, Sheela, but it's going to get out.”
“What is?” She crossed her arms, leaning back against the counter.
“I repeat: You and Lymon.”
“What about us.”
“Do I have to spell it out? You're an adult, sure. You ought to be able to have sex with anyone you want.”
The explosion came from deep in her wounded soul. In a leap she was on him, bending over him, finger jabbing at his face. “We're not having sex, Rex! I wish to God we were,
but we're not!
You got that?”
Rex swallowed hard, trying to back away. “Then, what are you doing here?”
From the corner of her eye she caught the amused expression poorly hidden on Lymon's face, but centered her hot gaze on Rex's half-panicked visage. “I'm here because I needed to talk to someone I could trust.” She could see the incomprehension in his eyes, and that, more than anything, defused her. “You just don't get it, do you?”
“Get what?” he almost squeaked.
She took a deep breath and backed away, met Lymon's neutral eyes, and shook her head. Turning, she walked to the cabinets and started rummaging from door to door.
“What are you looking for?” Lymon asked.
“Coffee cups.”
“Third from the left.”
She found a cup, walked over to Lymon's Capresso machine, and pushed the green button until all the lights were
flashing. As the machine ground, hissed, and filled her cup, she let herself fume.
When she turned back, Rex had a slightly chastened look on his face. Sheela stalked across, pulled out a third chair, and seated herself. She gave Rex a frosty glance. “What if Lymon and I decide to take our relationship to the next level?”
Rex looked uneasily back and forth. “Sheela, I don't want to—”
“Just answer the question. What? You'd quit? Out of what? Jealousy? Is that what we're talking about here? Or would it be insecurity?” She slapped the table. “Damn! Don't tell me you're in love with me! Is that it? You couldn't stand to think of Lymon and me together?”
Rex made a wounded face. “No.”
“Then, what?”
He sighed, lifted his coffee, and sipped. Buying time, no doubt. “Look, you do whatever you want with whomever you want, all right. I'll keep my nose out of it.”
“Then what's your problem?”
“Are you going back to work?” Rex said it so hopefully.
Sheela chuckled dryly. “Oh, God, is that it? You're seeing your cash cow stumble?”
“Look, we've had this conversation.”
“I'll call Felix. Have him nullify our contract. You're free, Rex. No penalties. I won't make a fuss.”
Rex stopped short, sputtered, and seemed to have suddenly discovered an upset in his stomach.
“Wait a minute, Sheela, I'm not saying I want out.”
“Then why are you here, and why are we having this conversation?”
Rex closed his eyes, reopened them to glance uneasily at Lymon, and asked, “Do we have to talk about this now?”
Sheela smacked her lips and said, “Yep.”
Lymon was halfway to his feet. “I could—”
She reached out, grasping him by the wrist. “You're staying.”
Lymon looked slightly uncomfortable as he reseated himself. She decided that she liked that. “You are the two most
important men in my life right now. Here's the word: I'm not doing another movie for a while. I need some time for myself. I have things I need to see to. You are either with me, or against me. Lymon, I already know is with me. Where are you, Rex?”
She knew the look she was giving him; she'd used it with great effect on-screen. Apparently it worked just as well in person. Rex began to squirm.
“With you.”
“Good. You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because, Rex, if you're not, I can still make that call to Felix.”
He nodded, unhappy, but apparently on board. “I know. It's not necessary.”
She released Lymon's arm and took a sip of coffee. “Good. I want you to call Dot and make sure that my schedule is cleared for the next month.”
“Cleared for …” Rex began hotly, then caught himself. “Okay, Sheela. What about after that?”
She smiled wearily. “Then I'll do whatever picture you and Tony can come up with.” That, or, who knew, she might be anything. Even dead.
 
 
Christal shoveled food into her mouth as she studied Gregor McEwan. Since taking up her regimen of strenuous exercising, her appetite had grown accordingly. With the revelations given her by Brian Everly, her interest in McEwan had blossomed.
He had brought her to the cafeteria, apparently during the dinner hour because most of the other tables were filled with casually garbed technicians. A group of neatly groomed young men talked and laughed in the back as they bent over one of those little games played with black and white marbles.
“I'm not sure that holding you is such a good idea,” McEwan
noted, a thoughtful expression on his angular face. “The cost in food alone is exorbitant.”
“So, let me go,” she countered as she raised a spoonful of bangers and mash.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Not until we can come to some sort of agreement.”
“You know Hank?”
“Who?”
“Hank Abrams. The guy who caught me, along with April and Gretchen.”
He grunted, nodding. “They're a different part of the team. They work for Neal Gray. He's in charge of obtaining the samples. Why?”
“Hank said they wanted to make a deal with me. Up to now, no one has given me an incentive. And, Greg, I've—”
“Gregor, please. Greg makes my teeth hurt.”
“Gotcha. No dentist on board, huh?” Christal chewed and balanced her spoon. “As I was saying, Gregor, locking me up in that little room where I can only stare at the walls and a round hole of ocean isn't buttering me up. It's pissing me off even more than I was pissed off to start with.”
“Christal, I'm sorry, but you're considered a security risk. Put yourself in our position; would you just let someone with your capabilities wander around loose? To get into what kind of mischief?”
She wiped her mouth with her napkin and attacked the slice of apple pie. A gleam of interest lay behind his eyes. She knew that look, had seen it in men's eyes since she'd turned twelve.
All right, she'd use any vulnerability she could. She smiled. “Gregor, the point I'm trying to make is that you're a piss-poor salesman. Sending Hank down to try and bargain didn't start you off on your best foot. Get my drift?”
He warmed to her smile. “Then, I'm to understand that you'd be reasonable?”
“Sure.” Her fork clattered on the empty plate. The two bodyguards were watching from their seats down the table. “Look, I'm as reasonable as the next person. But let's lay out the way it is, all right?”
“I'm listening.”
“You guys steal my client's DNA. April socks me in the gut. Then Gretchen whizzes a slug past my head. Hank and April drug and kidnap me and carry me off to the
ZoeGen,
where you lock me into a tiny cubicle—enforced solitary confinement, right?”
He gave a slight wince.
Christal pointed a finger at him. “Now I've got a shitload to explain to my boss. The LA police, the FBI, my family—everybody's alerted to my abduction. I can tell you my mother is absolutely frantic by now. In short, this Neal Gray fellow just made a major fuckup.”
“I see your point.”
“Do you?” Christal leaned back. “Gregor, let's say I want to play ball. Like I said, I'm reasonable. Not only that, I'm ex-FBI. I know the system. I know how deep you guys are in now. As I see it, you've got two choices.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And they are?”
“One, you keep me bottled up in my little room until the Sheik comes to check out his latest prize; then you wrap chain around my neck and throw me overboard to go sightsee on the
Titanic.
The problem with that is that Christal Anaya has vanished forever, and unlike your missing geneticists, I've got powerful friends with money who probably aren't going to let loose of this thing.”

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