The proposed experiment involved human cloning—the medical process of creating exact genetic twins of living people through the harvesting of their DNA. Under Osiris, clones would be created of the greatest criminal masterminds currently in prison. The babies born would be raised by surrogate parents in a fabricated community, geographically isolated and carefully protected from any exposure to illegality, violence, deception, and fraud. These subject children would be exact replicas of the very worst in human society, yet they would be free of all negative influence. Careful monitoring would reveal whether the clones have fulfilled the destiny of the evil in their DNA or if their decent and upright environment has nurtured gentle, law-abiding adults.
While initially hailed for its scientific approach to social issues, Project Osiris was criticized for its callous use of human life for research purposes and for its lack of endgame. The plan referred to a possible shift in experimental protocols once the cloned subjects reached fourteen years of age, but few details were provided on what would happen beyond then.
These concerns, along with the international ban on human cloning, led to the abandonment of Project Osiris in 1999. Dr. Hammerstrom resigned from the faculty of the University of Colorado and dropped out of sight. Tamara Dunleavy went into retirement and now lives in seclusion on a ranch outside Jackson Hole, Wyoming . . .
I’m as calm as I’ve ever been, but I know that’s because I can’t wrap my mind around what I’ve just seen. I’m tempted to dismiss it all as crazy, except that piece by piece, every element snaps into place like a jigsaw puzzle. Felix Hammerstrom—Felix Frieden. A fabricated, isolated community—Serenity. Streets with names like Fellowship, Harmony, Amity, Unity.
I read the article again and again until it’s practically engraved on the inside of my skull casing. It’s all true. It has to be. Every word of it.
Except for one thing: Project Osiris was never abandoned. Felix Hammerstrom changed his name and went ahead and did it in a place so far off the grid that no one would ever find out about it.
Project Osiris is us.
17
HECTOR AMANI
I understand now. It all makes sense to me.
Way back when I was a toddler in the sandbox—when I had that near miss with the rattlesnake—I finally understand my mother’s words to my father.
You know how valuable he is.
It wasn’t a mother’s unconditional love for her baby. I’m not her baby. I’m nobody’s baby. I’m not even human.
Well, technically, clones still count as human. Our bodies have the same vital organs, blood, tissue, and bone as real people. We eat, drink, sleep, and go to the bathroom just like everybody else.
No, when she said valuable, she meant exactly that. There are only ten others like me in the entire world—not just human clones, but clones of criminal masterminds.
That might be the hardest part of all to accept. I’m pretty smart and get good grades, but I don’t feel like a mastermind. It makes me think of some kind of warped evil-genius type, trying to take control of the world. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind being a little more in control—not of the whole world; just my little part of it. Especially where Mom and Dad are concerned. And maybe Malik.
Now, Malik I can see as a mastermind.
It’s a pretty crazy thing for anybody to learn about himself. And craziest of all is what we still don’t know: Yes, we’re cloned from criminal masterminds, but which ones? Who are these arch-lawbreakers who are our exact genetic matches?
We’re all shocked when Eli gives us the news that we’re clones, but I’m slightly less shocked than the others. I’ve always sensed that I’m a little bit less than a person—not quite good enough, or brave enough, or handsome enough to make the cut. I never suspected I was created in a lab like space-age plastic or a revolutionary new zit cream. But those are just details.
Eli takes us out by the factory so we can read the article for ourselves. The story is a lot less science fiction than I expect. We all started out as cells in test tubes, but everything was kind of normal after that. We were placed inside host mothers for nine months and then we were born in the regular way. Our Serenity “parents”—the moms and dads we grew up with—are scientists working on Project Osiris. The nonspecial kids in town aren’t clones like us; they’re the natural children of other people attached to the experiment.
“I should have known,” Tori whispers. “When I was working on the mural it was so obvious. There were family resemblances for some of the kids, but not us.”
Considering the huge asteroid strike we’ve all experienced, our reaction is pretty quiet. There are a few tears, but mostly, we’re too dazed to cry. There’s so much to swallow: Our parents aren’t our parents; we don’t have parents; our entire lives are an experiment. Eli’s had the most time to get used to it, but he’s also the most devastated of the four of us. His “father” is the head of the whole thing—him and that billionaire lady, who doesn’t seem to be part of it anymore.
“Who says we don’t have family resemblances?” Malik mumbles. “Just not to our so-called parents. I wonder who I look like. Adolf Hitler, probably.”
Eli shakes his head. “We can’t be cloned from famous criminals from a long time back. The people we come from are still alive—at least they were when we were”—his mouth twists—“made.”
Tori covers her face with her hands. “I can’t believe we’re criminals. I can only imagine the terrible things we must have done!”
“Stop right there,” Eli orders. “We haven’t done anything. Even if we’re exact doubles of people who’ve committed crimes, we’re innocent. Don’t ever forget that.”
“That was the whole purpose of the experiment,” I put in. “To prove that we can be good even though we’re clones of bad people.”
“That makes me feel so much better,” Malik says sarcastically. “I’m a freak but I can be a good freak.”
“We’re only four of eleven clones,” Tori moans. “How do we tell the others?”
It’s a point. There are seven other Osiris clones in town who have no idea who they are. “Do we tell the others at all?” I amend Tori’s question.
“No way,” Malik says quickly.
“They’re the same as us,” Eli reasons. “They have a right to know.”
Malik is adamant. “Half of them will think we’re crazy and the other half will freak out and blab.”
“At least I have to tell Amber,” Tori reasons. “She’s my best friend.”
“She’s the last person you can tell,” Malik argues. “She thinks Happy Valley is Shangri-la-dee-da. She’d never accept that the perfect life is really a sick experiment, courtesy of our loving families. She’ll go straight to her parents to be reassured that God’s in his heaven and all’s right with the world. And then Project Osiris will know we know, which might ruin their research. You’ll notice that web page doesn’t mention what happens to us if we get contaminated by too much information.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “Malik—” It never occurred to me that our parents might try to harm us, but maybe that’s because I’ve grown up here. In the real world, people harm each other every day. After all, what’s the purpose of the Purple People Eaters? Not to protect a factory that isn’t a factory, or to keep order in a town that’s already 100 percent orderly. “You don’t think that”—I shudder—“because we were made we can be, you know, unmade?”
“You mean killed?” Malik says bitterly. “Can’t happen. Ever notice there’s no cemetery in Happy Valley? Come to think of it, what have we been doing with dead people since 1937—eating them?”
“Stop it,” Tori pleads. “There was never any 1937 for Serenity. They built it for us. And when Osiris is over, Serenity will probably disappear.”
“Osiris is already over,” Eli amends. “Once you know you’re in an experiment, it’s not an experiment anymore.”
“Great,” Malik comments. “The whole purpose behind our l
ives just expired.” He has a knack for cutting right to the heart of the matter.
Eli shakes his head. “Their purpose for us might be gone. But our whole lives are still ahead of us. I don’t know about you guys, but I intend to live mine.”
“Good luck selling dear old Dad on that one,” Malik drawls.
I’ve never been the happiest kid in town, and the fact that my parents are really scientists explains some of it, but not all. The Bruders, the Pritels, the Laskas—they’re researchers too, the same as my folks. Yet they’ve been “parents” in a way mine have never been. Even an experiment needs to be loved. “We’ll leave,” I say suddenly.
“Yeah, right,” snorts Malik.
“Seriously,” I insist. “You’re always talking about leaving Serenity because it’s so boring. Well, that’s exactly what we’ll be doing. We’ll just be doing it sooner.”
They stare at me—Malik in uncertainty, Tori in amazement. It takes me a moment to decipher Eli’s expression. It’s something I’m not used to: respect. For the first time in my life, I’m leading, not following.
“Hector’s right,” he says. “We’re never going to be free of Osiris until we get out of this place.”
“But we’re just kids,” Tori protests. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. And there are only four of us, compared with close to two hundred who are going to try to stop us.”
“It won’t be easy,” Eli concedes, “but if we got into the factory, we can do this too. With careful planning, it can be done.”
“It’s nothing like the factory!” Tori exclaims, her voice cracking a little. “That was three hours; this is forever! Maybe they aren’t my parents in the usual way—but they’re still my parents. Even if they lied to me—that doesn’t mean I never want to see them again.”
Malik studies his sneakers. He’s hoping nobody notices, but the sun catches his eyes and they’re moist. He’s always complaining about how his mom babies him, and how embarrassed he is by his dad. Still, the idea of leaving them has him pretty shaken up.
Aloud, he says, “Count me in. If Hector’s got the guts, so do I.”
I’m floored. Malik is the strong one, and here he is, looking to me for courage.
I realize that I have less to lose than he does. I have a comfortable life with two researchers acting as my mother and father. He has a family.
“I can’t leave my parents,” Tori barely whispers.
“We don’t have parents,” Malik informs her. “We have zookeepers.”
It hurts to hear it, even for me. My mom and dad should be the easiest of all to walk away from. But it doesn’t work that way.
They’re not our real parents, but they’re the only ones we’ve ever known.
18
ELI FRIEDEN
Our home is filled with pictures of my poor dead mother. Dad’s always lecturing me on what “Mom” would have wanted, and I have to live up to her high expectations. Not only is she ever present, but she’s ever disappointed. Add to that my guilt that I can’t conjure up a single memory of her—not a voice, not a touch, nothing.
Now I know why. She never existed.
I spend twenty minutes with a magnifying glass and their wedding picture. Apparently, I’m not the only one in the house who knows how to use Photoshop.
I shouldn’t be so amazed. Anyone twisted enough to create Project Osiris could certainly come up with a loving wife and mother. It should be easy compared with cloning eleven children from the DNA of maximum-security prisoners, and inventing a whole town and way of life to raise them in.
My father isn’t a mayor and a principal, he’s a scientist—a mad scientist. And he isn’t even my father. What he really is, I now realize, is the world’s greatest liar—his name, his wife, his town, his plastics factory, his newspaper, our so-called education, where one fact in ten might be true. The longer I think about it, the more lies I see, swirling around me like a fog.
Example: since we have no real parents, all our last names have to be made up, right? I spent a couple of hours on Google Translate last night, and I learned that our surnames mean things like friendship, brother, peace, and love in different languages. Even Pax is just the Latin word for peace. Like our street signs and our water polo teams and the name of the town itself, it’s all part of the Osiris experiment: Can exact copies of criminal masterminds turn out to be decent citizens if you call their street Harmony instead of Oak?
It’s an interesting question, if you’re not the poor dummy who’s been created purely to be a lab subject. That’s not a fun thing to carry around either—the knowledge that you’re an exact replica of a horrible criminal. Malik was just joking about Adolf Hitler, but we could easily be cloned from someone who’s robbed other people or even killed them. Even though I haven’t done anything wrong, every chromosome in the DNA of that guy who did such terrible things—every brain cell that made the choice to act that way—I’ve got that too.
It’s scary and infuriating—and the anger is the scariest part. Was it anger that turned my DNA twin into a criminal mastermind? Does that mean I’m already on my way? And how do I stop it? Can it be stopped? Everything I do—is it me deciding, or is it him?
Malik has also been thinking about where his genes came from, but he doesn’t seem to be as bothered by it. He refers to his DNA donor as “my guy,” as in, “I can’t wait to blow this Popsicle stand so I can go find my guy.”
“He’s not your uncle, you know,” Hector reminds him. “He’s more like an older evil twin.”
“I’ll bet he’s in NYC,” Malik daydreams. “Convenient—I was planning to head that way myself.”
“The reason they got his DNA is because he was in jail,” I point out. “Chances are, he’s still there. Master criminals get long sentences.”
“The jail hasn’t been built that can hold my guy. He must be a real player. Please don’t let me get the bonehead who got arrested for jaywalking.”
Like this is a contest to see who’s cloned from the coolest felon.
“I don’t want to meet mine.” It’s one of the rare times Hector doesn’t agree with Malik.
“Aw, come on,” Malik shoots back. “Your guy is a cinch to find. Just scour the prison system for somebody four foot six doing time for felony pain-in-the-butt.”
Hector doesn’t take the bait. “I don’t care about that stuff,” he says seriously. “I just want to get out of here and make a fresh start.”
“So what are we waiting for?” Malik turns back to me. “When do we make our move?”
“Tori still hasn’t decided if she’s coming with us,” I tell him.
“Forget her, man!” Malik exclaims. “I’ve got nothing against Tori, but we can’t just chill forever while she makes up her mind.”
I dig in my heels. “We need her. Remember the factory? We never could have pulled it off without her. We’ve got to get this right, Malik. If we’re caught, there won’t be any second chances, even if our parents have to chain us up in our rooms.”
“Well, tell her to hurry up,” Malik says irritably. “If we wait too long, she’ll break down and blab everything to Mommy and Daddy.”
To me, that’s even more reason not to push her. Too much pressure might make her snap in the wrong direction and come clean to her parents.
Hey, I totally get her reluctance to turn her life upside down. It goes far beyond working up the courage to break away from her family. Escaping this place is going to be hard. The next town is eighty miles away, and we have no transportation other than bikes. There are four of us against close to two hundred Osiris types and Purple People Eaters, and they have cars and a helicopter. And even if we do get away, what then? We’re underage, we don’t know anybody outside Serenity, and we have no idea how things work in the world. Our education may or may not bear any resemblance to reality, and even the books we’ve read and the movies we’ve seen might have been edited by Osiris scientists.
One idea is to go to the Taos police and tell them
who we are, and what’s been done to us. Maybe they’ll shut down Project Osiris and rescue the other seven who are like us. But that’s if they believe us in the first place—it’s a pretty crazy story coming from a bunch of kids. What evidence do we have? A few dozen pictures of the conference room? They’re barely readable on my iPad—a whole lot of “ARTHOM W G EN,” but very little that’s concrete. The real stuff on the whiteboards can easily be taken down and hidden. It’ll end up our word against our parents’.
For all we can predict, we’ll be in trouble for the crimes our DNA twins committed, or simply for being clones in the first place. What if that’s illegal?
If we do manage to get away, we’ll have to take things as they come, and make decisions on the fly. The prospect of it freaks me out—just not enough to stay here and live my life the Osiris way.
So for the moment, we’re biding our time, making mental plans, and trying to act as if nothing is up. I smile through the lump in my throat, and remind myself that the guy across the breakfast table is not my father, but a scientist named Felix Hammerstrom. I am quiet and obedient, the perfect son. I slave over a Serenity Day project that with all my heart I hope not to be here to present. I write endless details of President Roosevelt’s 1937 visit, an event that never happened, regardless of what it says on our fake internet. I fill Excel spreadsheets with manufacturing statistics about our fake plastics factory. I quote fake articles from the Pax about how our town is tops in the state, the country, the hemisphere, the world, the solar system, the Milky Way.
In school, I keep my grades up and my mouth shut. If Mrs. Laska finds out what I’ve been thinking about in Meditation, she’ll definitely dock my Contentment score.