surrendered to a sleep filled with greenhouses in which human forms
floated in tanks of viscous liquid . . .
. . . they are connected to tangles of plastic tubing and life support
machines, growing rapidly from fetuses to full adulthood, all doubles
for him, and suddenly the eyes click open on a thousand of them at once,
along rows and rows of tanks in building after building, and they speak
as with a single voice, I need my life.
The log cabin was on several acres of woodlands, a few miles from
Jackson Hole, Wyoming, which had yet to enjoy its first snow of the
season. Karl’s directions were excellent, and they found the place with
little difficulty, arriving late Saturday afternoon.
The cabin needed to be cleaned and aired-out, but the pantry was stocked
with supplies. When the rust had been run out of the pipes, the water
from the tap tasted clean and sweet.
On Monday, a Range Rover turned off the county road and drove to their
front door. They watched it tensely from the front windows.
Paige held the Uzi with the safety off, and she didn’t relax until she
saw that it was Karl who got out of the driver’s door.
He had arrived in time to have lunch with them, which Marty had prepared
with the girls’ help. It consisted of reconstituted eggs, canned
sausages, and biscuits from a tin.
As the five of them ate at the large pine table in the kitchen, Karl
presented them with their new identities. Marty was surprised by the
number of documents. Birth certificates for all four of them. A high
school diploma for Paige from a school in Newark, New Jersey, and one
for Marty from a school in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. An honor able
discharge from the United States Army for Marty, issued after three
years of service. They had Wyoming driver’s licenses, Social Security
cards, and more.
Their new name was Gault. Ann and John Gault. Charlotte’s birth
certificate said her name was Rebecca Vanessa Gault, and Emily was now
Suzie Lori Gault.
“We got to choose our own first and second names,” Charlotte said with
more animation than she’d shown in days. “I’m Rebecca like in the
movie, a woman of beauty and mystery, haunting Manderley forever.”
“We didn’t exactly get to pick what names we wanted,” Emily said. “We
didn’t get first choice, for sure.”
Marty had been deep in wounded sleep back in Bishop, California, when
the names had been selected. “What was your first choice?” he asked
Emily.
“Bob,” she said.
Marty laughed, and Charlotte giggled explosively.
“I like Bob,” Emily said.
“Well, you have to admit it isn’t really appropriate,” Marty said.
“Suzie Lori is cute enough to puke over,” Charlotte said.
“Well, if I can’t be Bob,” Emily said, “then I want to be Suzie Lori,
and everyone has to always use both names, never just Suzie.”
While the girls washed the dishes, Karl brought in a suitcase from the
Range Rover, opened it on the table, and discussed the contents with
Marty and Paige. There were scores of computer discs containing Network
files, which Karl had secretly copied over the years, plus at least a
hundred microcassette tapes of conversations that he had recorded,
including one at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Dana Point that involved
Oslett and a man named Peter Waxhill.
“That one,” Karl said, “will explain the entire clone crisis in a
nutshell.” He began returning the items to the suitcase. “These are
all copies, the discs and the cassettes. You’ve got two full sets.
And I’ve got other duplicates besides.”
Marty didn’t understand. “Why do you want us to have these?”
“You’re a good writer,” Karl said. “I’ve read a couple of your books
since Tuesday night. Take all this, write up an explanation of it, an
explanation of what happened to you and your family. I’m going to leave
you the name of the owner of a major newspaper and a man high in the
FBI. I’m confident that neither of them is part of the Network–because
both of them were on Alfie’s list of future targets.
Send your explanation and one set of discs and tapes to each of them.