Identity Fraud

Prologue: Persecution and Retribution

Cloning.

The process of creating, exactly, a flawless replica of a living being.

Attempted in the past by scientists on many animals, including sheep and mice. But never human. The human mind is far to complex to recreate.

Or it was….

February the second, 2003. UN HQ in Washington D.C.

“How many of us have lost someone we love?” Dr. R.J. Giles speaks to the world. He is an English man with combed brown hair and twinkling blue eyes and a pair of glasses upon his nose. A genius in more ways than one, his most recent exploits have been endeavoring the possibility of frequent cloning… of humans.

“How many of us have cried by the bedsides of their son, or daughter, or anyone as they slowly die? I know I have. In my sixty-eight years of life on this planet I have buried two wives, my parents, a son and to daughters. It was terrible.”

The entire auditorium stared down on the lonely old man. Camera’s trained their digital eyes on him.

He took a breath and continued. “I have uncovered the secret to…” he took a gulp, here goes nothing Rupert, he thought to himself, “… cloning a human being. It is possible and I can do it.”

A murmur spread through the crowd of nations.

Dr. Giles took a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “I am asking the world, to collectively finance the process of cloning, with a one hundred percent chance of success, with two billion dollars.”

There was perhaps one second of silence, while the translators spoke, and then the entire room exploded with shouts of anger.

The entire world was angry at one man. It was, ironically, the first and only time the entire world agreed in unison.

“You bloody sham!”

“You’re insane!”

“Gehen Sie zu Hölle!”

“U hebt geen plaats hier!”

“Deixe este lugar!”

The terrified doctor quavered before the barrage of abuse. He stumbled and left the room while the speaker called for order.

February the fifth, 2003. London.

At approximately half past nine in the morning, Dr. R.J. Giles poured himself his fifth glass of scotch. He took a long sip and let his head droop until it hit the kitchen bench. His glasses lay broken on the floor and his hair was a rat’s nest. He was still in the clothes he had been in three days ago. The minute he left the UN headquarters he was bombarded with questions. And this bombardment had continued even when he returned home. So he unplugged every connection to the real world he had in his home.

So it was a surprise when a sound like mobile ringing started screaming from his jacket, which had been cast on the armchair. His head shot up and his arm moved and the glass containing his scotch tumbled to the ground and shattered.

“Oh bugger,” he mumbled as he got to his feet and waddled over to the mysterious sound coming from his discarded jacket. He pulled the vibrating, screaming phone from his pocket. He looked around when he saw that it was not his, but a portable.

The question was whether to answer it or not.

He answered. “Hello,” he slurred.

A strong voice with a Russian accent spoke from to him. “Impressive. Half past nine in the morning and your already drunk.”

“Who is this?”

“I am the von man who did not aggressively dismiss your claim that you can clone a human being. I also happen to be the von person who can help you.”

“What do you mean?” the good doctor felt a dizzy spell and stumbled over to the bathroom.

“I have resources enough to realize your dream, doctor. I vant to realize it to. As does my employer.”

Rupert vomited into the toilet. “And who would your employer be?”

“Details are unnecessary, doctor. Come to Big Ben, tomorrow at midday. When the bell rings, I vill meet you. And von more thing. Dress appropriately. I don’t vant to meet a person who stinks of scotch and bile.”

“Wait a minute.”

“Good bye, doctor.”

The phone on the other end hung up.

March the nineteenth, 2005. New Castle, Hunters Hospital.

“How long has he got?”

“Maybe two months.”

Mrs. Carrs gasped as the doctor spoke the words. “Two months,” she whispered.

The doctor grimaced and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I am very sorry. All we can do is make him comfortable.”

Mrs. Carrs started sobbing. “God, first Jack and now Maverick. Why?”

“Well there is a little news that isn’t good, but isn’t necessarily bad either. Your husband died, regrettably, a very painful death, with glass lodged in his throat. Your son, however, will simply and painlessly, fall asleep and not wake up.”

But these words were lost on Mrs. Carrs. She was far away.

As she left the hospital for a smoke, a man with a bald head and deep set eyes approached her. Instead of grabbing her lighter she placed her hand on the mace in her purse.

“There vill be no need for that,” the Russian said.

Mrs. Carrs stopped. “How did-,”

“I am trained to know.”

“What are you some sort of spy?”

“Do you vish to save your son?”

Mrs. Carrs’ eyes widened. “What?”

“Do you wish to save Maverick James Carrs’ life?”

“Yes.”

“I can help you. I can save him. He vill feel no pain.”

Mrs. Carrs stared at the man for a moment. Then, “What do you want me to do?”

March the twenty first, 2005. New Castle, the home of Mrs. Carroll Carrs.

Carroll Carrs hugged her son and kissed his face as he rolled up in his wheelchair. “Oh, Maverick. Oh, Mav. I thought I’d lost you.”

The Russian smiled as he watched the heart warming reunion.

Carroll stood up and hugged him. When she was done she spoke, “Thank you so much. I can’t really pay you much right now but…”

“No payment is necessary,” the Russian waved his hand.

Carroll was stunned. “But surely-,”

“Trust me. You’ve given more than you know.” The Russian smiled once more and left the room.

March the twenty first, 2005. Flight 401 to Moscow, currently over international waters.

Below the main deck of the 747 was a small, portable hospital ward, containing one bed. Lying on the bed, hooked up to many instruments and drips, was a boy of approximately 13 years of age. He had dark brown hair and blue eyes. He was fairly tall for his age.

He had a bandage across his waist, containing a ghastly wound inflicted by a metal pole dislodged from the back of a truck and skewering the boy.

His blood was AB-.

And his name was Maverick James Carrs.