Some have imagined the possibility of using techniques of genetic engineering to introduce alterations with the presumed aim of improving and strengthening the gene pool. Some of these proposals exhibit a certain dissatisfaction or even rejection of the value of the human being as a finite creature and person. Apart from technical difficulties and the real and potential risks involved, such manipulation would promote a eugenic mentality and would lead to indirect social stigma with regard to people who lack certain qualities, while privileging qualities that happen to be appreciated by a certain culture or society; such qualities do not constitute what is specifically human. This would be in contrast with the fundamental truth of the equality of all human beings which is expressed in the principle of justice, the violation of which, in the long run, would harm peaceful coexistence among individuals.
– Dignitas Personae, Offices of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, 8 September 2008
Bruno Abrams barged into Steven Cole’s office, face flushed. “What is going on?” he demanded.
Steven Cole looked up at the outburst, unfazed. He ignored the breach of protocol of the unannounced intrusion. “What do you mean?”
“The farmer. He’s dead. Is that why you can’t retrieve the fragment?”
Cole shook his head. “Where did you hear this?”
Abrams gestured at the monitor on Cole’s desk. “It’s all over the local news. Farmer with fossil murdered. The police are calling it a robbery, but no mention of the fragment. Does Jorgenson have it or not?”
Cole shook his head. “He does not.” He sat back and put his hands behind his head. “This obviously complicates things. We’ll have to wait and see how it plays out. I don’t think we should make any inquiries now that the police are involved. We can’t have any negative publicity, especially with the inspectors coming. The animal rights protestors are enough for now.”
Abrams gathered himself and took a deep breath. “So how do you suggest I handle the subjects?”
Cole waved his hand dismissively. “I’m sure you’ll think of something. You always do. But they need to be on their best behavior for the next few days. Tell them their survival depends on it.”
“What does that mean?”
Cole leaned forward, frowning. “Bruno, do you think for even a minute if this program is defunded, those bureaucrats will tolerate our creations? The whole thing will be dismantled, the animals put down. All the animals. Everything. We are fighting for survival. Everything depends on this next inspection.”
Abrams stared back at him. The awkward silence dragged on.
“What happened with the farmer?” Abrams finally asked. Cole shrugged.
“Sounds like an unfortunate coincidence. A robbery, as the police suspect. It complicates things, but we’ve worked through worse.”
“But what about the fragment?”
“We seemed to have gotten a lucky break. We may never know how he was able to find a remnant outside the fence line, how it got there. Probably scavengers the recovery team missed, carrying it away. But without him claiming it was a fossil, interest in it will pass. I don’t think we have to worry about it. We must focus on the inspectors and the performance trials.”
Abrams hesitated. “You are missing my point. Satisfying the auditors with optimal performance is unlikely without the fragment. The grendels…the subjects, are making demands. We need it to ensure compliance.”
Cole sat back, then pointed a finger at Abrams.
“If things don’t go well, they all die. They need to understand that. You need to understand that.”
Chapter 20
“It’s a mess, ain’t it, Sheriff?”
“If it ain’t, it’ll do till the mess gets here.”
– Cormac McCarthy, No Country for Old Men
Deputy Ben Davis leaned against his cruiser and watched the sun set over the mountains in the west, wishing old Vargas would hurry his ass up processing the scene so they could all go home. He’d been hanging around Cyrus Link’s house all day, waiting for other people, first the Sheriff, then Vargas. He knew he’d earned his time in the shithouse, but this was starting to get old. There were only so many cups of coffee he’d fetch or shitty errands he’d run before he finally said something. Punishment he could accept, but this was now well into humiliation.
He looked up at the sound of the door slamming and saw Vargas trundling down the porch steps, lugging his equipment.
“Kid, go inside and get my other box. Don’t worry about the kitchen. I’ve got all the swabs.”
Ben took the order without complaint. Just inside the kitchen door was the other lab case, and Ben hefted it, giving one last look around. Cyrus still lay on the floor, the kitchen undisturbed. His eyes went to the other door to the dining room, now completely closed. He paused for a moment, trying to remember if that was how it was before.
“Hey! Let’s go!” Vargas shouted from outside.
Ben looked at the door again, now sure it had been opened before, then hurried out, intent on clearing out as quickly as possible.
He lugged the box outside and stowed it in the trunk of Vargas’ cruiser. Vargas slammed it shut and walked to the driver’s door.
Ben raised a hand. “Hey, did you check…”
Vargas turned and looked at him. “Are you serious? You’ve got an opinion?”
Ben stopped, flushing with anger. Vargas continued.
“Why don’t you learn how to handle a simple traffic stop before you start weighing in on murder investigations.”
Ben struggled to master his anger. Vargas hesitated, then dropped his head, hands on his hips.
“Look kid, you fucked up but you got to learn. You should have locked the girlfriend up, separate from the other kid, and let them sober up so you could contact everyone and get your side of the story out first.”
The loud-mouthed teen he’d pulled over last winter deserved everything he’d gotten, and much more he hadn’t. If he’d wanted to beat him, things could have been a lot worse, and totally justified given the circumstances. His girlfriend screaming about their rights, do you know who we are, the usual drunken drama you get in the middle of nowhere on a Saturday night. He’d hung enough paper on the punk to keep him locked up that night and let the girlfriend take the car home.
“Yeah, but she wasn’t drunk.”
Vargas scoffed. “So? She’s the one that got you spanked. You sound too much like Mr. Boyscout.”
The girlfriend’s uncle was a well-connected LDS Elder and the calls from the Temple in Rexburg soon complicated Ben’s life.
The old guard sometimes had good points in their complaints about the Sherriff. Promotions were slow in coming, tests to be taken, certifications, courses. And the “side work” that the older guys talked about to earn some money off the books, all that seemed to be evaporating under the leadership of the straight arrow now in charge. He heard the talk, especially from his peers in other agencies, about all the other ways a young cop could improve their lifestyle on meager pay. Right or wrong, it didn’t look like he was getting any of that action.
Vargas got into the car. “Rusty will be out shortly to get the body. Give him a hand, then lock up when he’s done.” Ben opened his mouth to reply, but Vargas was already pulling away, leaving Ben standing in the twilight watching his taillights.
Rusty Winters, the Jefferson County coroner was a reliable sort, and though Ben knew he wouldn’t be long, it rankled to have to wait yet again for someone else to do their job.
Ben shook his head, pushing those thoughts away, and thinking about his future, his plan to move on.
He’d go back to school, finish his degree, then apply again to the state police. If that didn’t work, he’d try to join the Army again. One way or the other, he’d get away. He swore he’d find a way to avoid joining his brothers: one sitting out a life term in The Yard down by Boise, the other in the St. John’s cemetery.
Robert Wack 