Clone Drones And The Real Thing

CLONE-DRONES AND THE REAL THING

by

Daniel F. DeBono

     I scratched my ever growing bald spot; the chaffing mess a testament to my two weeks of SCUBA diving on Cayman Brac.

     "I'm bored as hell, Myra," I said.

     "Artie D'ammato," she admonished, "you just got back from vacation, and already you're complaining?"

     "I know.  I should be ashamed of myself, but since I've been back I can’t shake this … melancholy feeling."  

     She pulled back the long blonde strands that were partially hiding one of her wide, ice blue eyes.  "Silly, you’re just having adjustment problems.  It’s tough going from beautiful coral walls to your antiseptic labs."

     I stared at her awhile before smiling.  My wife — or should I say daughter at this point? — Was an amazing person. But it was me, after all, who created her from nothing more than several fragments of skin and organs.  It was I who cheated the accident that took her from me so prematurely. Of course, the boss men had no idea that I had performed such unauthorized cloning.  It would be a major breach of ethics and grounds for instant employment termination, even for the Chief of Bioengineering for the Museum of Living History, LLC.

      Her soft caress of my furrowed cheek sent my thoughts scattering from the work place to the bedroom.  "You up for a little … exercise?" she asked, turning and walking down our short hall towards the master bedroom. 

     She didn't have to ask twice.

*          *          *

     Work was a bore, as it had been for the last few years.  Even when calling all the shots I felt like a pawn, and, of course I was.  Even with technology making advances by leaps and bounds, bureaucrats kept me from doing what I really wanted, just like they kept millions of others from benefiting from what we could now accomplish.  Even in this day and age, it was a battle to get approval from politicians pandering to the right-wing zealots. They simply didn’t see how cloning could change virtually everything … for the better.  We had all but given up on our public pleas to greatly expand upon Gerard Darby's work of the past (he is the father of modern clone theory for all readers ignorant of recent science history).  Many wanted tough restrictions and control. They didn’t want us “playing God” so, essentially, what we got was the ability to clone famous persons of history; but they were simply look-a-likes, living mannequins with computer-driven response.  But we could do so much more.  

     "Is Asimov almost ready?" blurted Renny, the Director Of Laboratory Coordination.

     "Yeah Ren, he'll be reciting speeches on visionary twentieth-century science fiction within the week." 

I had tried to sound upbeat, but Renny could always read me like a comic book — only quicker.

"What's up, Artie?"

     "Same old, same old.  I want out of here.  This corporate boredom is getting more and more unbearable."

     "Why don't you take a couple weeks off.  Go down to the Caribbean for a little RandR" he said, sarcastically referring to my recent two weeks off.

     "Renny, I swear, the older you get, the older your jokes get."

*          *          *

     Another sleepless night brought me to the reason I started this half-assed journal in the first place.  At this point in life my only problem was that I didn't want to work any more.  I had done enough for the company.  If I would have went into sales, I’d almost certainly have tucked away at least ten-million by now, but even top scientists were paid a lot less than sales, and even the higher ups in administration.  For the life of me, I never understood that one.  The corporate goons and their dollar-sign ethics at work again.  For over twenty years I averaged eleven-hour work days, toiling over old research, subelectron microscopes, dysfunctional cloning pods, and computer-generated DNA mapping errors.  All for what?  A decent apartment, a small retirement plan and a used hover with only seven of the eight fans working.