Omega Compound, Sumatra Barat: FIRST DO NO HARM

“She has that effect on people,” Erik said. “So, are you really planning to flee? I see you’ve stashed your gear in the weeds by the pond.”

“You saw that? And you said nothing?” Objadu sighed. “I suppose that soldier saw it too, then. Perhaps I should kill him before he can report me.”

“Those are disturbing thoughts for a Minangkabau youth,” Erik said. “Perhaps you should share this with your father. Or consult your mother. Wisdom seems to be a woman’s domain.”

“That’s what my mother says.” And he laughed at the old man. “What if I were to ask for a Merantau? My Uncle did it many years ago; he never came back.”

“Yes, Chandrah. He was a good young man, but he was captivated by the outside world. He broke your grandmother’s heart and your father’s as well. It’s a Minang’s right to go on a journey of self-discovery, but one is expected to come back.”

“I don’t want to hurt my parents or my grandmother,” Objadu replied. “But I don’t want to grow old in this place, either.”

“Such deep thoughts,” Erik said. “Listen. It’s so quiet. The young ones are napping. Why don’t we play a game of shuffleboard? We’ll discuss this some more, Obi. I can see the heat of emotion weighing you down. It’s a bad time for decision-making.”

“Do you think they have shuffleboard tournaments in London or Paris?”

“If I were in Paris, I’d be sipping a fine wine and eating quail stuffed with truffles,” Erik said. “I’d visit the Eiffel Tower and drink espresso on the Champs Élysées. But my real dream is to play shuffleboard in Miami. Just another old codger with artificial knees living for the next game of checkers in the park.”

“You want to live in the country that abandoned us? The ones who left us at the mercy of these soulless men claiming a religion of nameless gods who permit murder?”

“Son, I wish I could tell you that some other country is better and its motives are purer, but that’s not true. There probably isn’t a finer flag to pledge your allegiance to.”

“These thoughts weigh heavier than the air.” Obi hugged the old man. “Let’s play our game. I’ll wager a glass of lemonade.”

“Maybe you could retrieve your luggage from the pond. You’ll probably find your big fish inside,” Erik laughed. “We need to be stealthy. If Dortha catches us, she’ll ruin the day.”

Inside the clinic, Nurse Dortha Myers was flipping through Mature Bride magazine while the printer churned out a thick stack of paper. It was usually bad news—either the Al Amorta had a new rule, or the Americans were demanding more clones. Either way, she didn’t want to deal with it.

“Look at this,” she said, since no one was there to hear. “I could have a real wedding gown, even at my age.” The magazine featured a gray-haired bride who looked quite elegant in a simple, satin sleeveless gown. She leaned back into Erik’s chair and spun around lazily. The printer kept spitting out pages.

“Blast them,” she mumbled, and stashed the magazine in the drawer. She raised the blinds and looked out the window. The orangutans were kiss-squeaking in the enclosure, so Erik was nearby. She leaned out of the screenless casement. In the distance, she saw Erik and Objadu walking toward the shuffleboard court.

Another victim, she reflected. Poor Objadu. I hope he doesn’t have any money on him.

She grabbed the ream of paper that had fallen to the floor and tore it away from the old printer that had finally stopped its frantic clacking. The data was double-spaced.

1. Sanctuary Updates:
3. Meningitis Alert: Clone susceptibility to protozoan infection is deemed a credible threat. Check water supplies for contamination.
5. Clone Status: E20098 issued to NASA, Houston, Texas, assigned name Barnaby Stowbridge.

E19865 reported working in Chicago at Loyola Medical Center as a microbiologist and delivered a bi-species child on August 4.

E20028 was issued to Hoffmeister Institute for Genetic Studies, deceased under suspicious circumstances.

Dortha Myers had cared for every young person raised at the complex over the years. Her blood ran cold at the thought of any clone child’s death. And E20028 would be a child around six years old. It was a baby she’d looked after from its beginning to the day he or she was launched into the world.

“E20028,” panic gripped her. “Who is that?” Dortha hurried to the filing cabinet, flipping through the folders. When she found the number, she hesitated to look. Like a mother whose child’s school bus has flipped over, how do you search through the wreckage? But she finally looked.

“Azara,” Dortha’s tears traced her cheeks. She remembered the day she had lifted the little girl onto her knee, explaining to the adorable two-year-old that mommies and daddies were meant for very special children. Azara looked into her eyes with such longing that Dortha felt all the love her barren soul could give.

Then Azara said, “Could you be my mommy?”

She did know E20028. She knew every scrape and bump, whether on her knees or her head. She knew how she spat her broccoli back onto her plate.

“How?” Dortha felt crushed by the weight of her sorrow; her mouth was dry and her tears hot. And the questionable circumstances stood out like a beacon. She ran back to the printout and looked further down the page.

• Updates:
• E19985 deceased, protozoan meningitis.
• E20028 deceased, issued to Hoffmeister Institute: this fake organization is a front for Senator W. Willson. CIA reports this child was involved in extortion payoffs for a known criminal. Pathology results pending.
• E14556 deceased, protozoan meningitis.

Over the years, Dortha had held children in her lap and secretly fantasized that they were the result of tender lovemaking. Maternal instincts, brought to the surface by these parentless clone children, filled her empty and barren life. Now, Azara, who left the compound as little more than a baby, is dead. And for what unholy purpose was she sacrificed?

Dortha activated the compound’s sound system with a flick of a switch. The squeal of feedback deafened the soldiers in the tower directly above the speaker.

“Erik, come to the clinic, please.” Her sharp voice echoed through the complex, bouncing off walls, trees, and buildings.

“Ah, we’ve been caught,” Erik grimaced. He grabbed his cane and left Objadu to finish the game alone. “The bitch has beaten me!”

Dr. VandenHeuvel hurried as fast as his old legs could go, grumbling all the way. Obi had just won the last of his pocket change, and the day was taking a turn for the worse.

“It’s probably Malof. Dortha knows what to do,” he growled. “She just doesn’t want me to have any fun.

I wonder — he’s had a headache since Monday, and now he has a fever. Maybe I should do a spinal tap. Ah, but that’s so invasive for a little one.

Erik looked up at the clinic window. Dortha was standing there. Usually, when she was angry, she crossed her arms and looked like a tyrant. Now, she appeared like an old woman with a broken heart. This was a sign of bad news.

Erik hurried, something he rarely did for anyone these days. His once-black whiskers were now white and snowy, forming a halo around his head. The children compared him to Santa, and in a way, they truly were his children.

He passed by the orangutans, who watched him from behind the fence of their arboreal enclosure. They sounded like rabble threatening to overthrow their king. Natagna was once again defending his status as alpha male.

A stream running through the reserve supplied fresh water for the Omega Project’s Pongo pygmaeus population. The orangutans lived isolated from the rain forest; nearly one hundred of them were spread over thirty-five acres of enclosed forest preserve.

It was feeding time, a noisy part of the day. Manu, Objadu’s father, opened the access door and poured fresh food into the feeding area. Natagna held his durian fruit in the air and let out a call that could be heard for several kilometers. Nearby children echoed Natagna’s cry as if they were his backup singers.

Erik opened the door where Dortha was clutching the windowsill.

“What is it?” the old doctor asked. “Has something happened?”

“Read that printout over there. It’s Azara; she’s gone.”

“Gone?” Erik said. “She left years ago. Have you lost your mind?”

“Dead, Erik. She’s gone. Some Senator used her as part of a blackmail scheme, and the extortionist was a known criminal. We sent her to a terrible death, God knows. And I think I understand what’s wrong with Malof.”

The old man’s pain knew no boundaries, nor did his rage.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………End

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