The Soulless

By

Donna Sundblad

Angry tears blurred Rachel Carpenter's vision. She clamped her fingers tighter on the steering wheel and blinked in frustration. How could life turn up-side down like this? Where was her dad? Who was this woman? And what did he mean "going into hiding"? Had senility set in and she hadn't noticed? She glanced at the brown envelope on top of the other disregarded mail scattered on the seat beside her and read the return address one more time. She had never heard of this Abigail Chava. Yet the letter was definitely written by her dad and sent via this—this stranger.

Rachel had picked up Saturday's mail from her P.O. Box after church and now she mulled over what to do about this mysterious letter from her father. Where would he go? Since her mother's death he teetered on becoming a recluse. Her mind raced. The letter warned her not to return to her apartment and to be careful that she wasn't followed. She snatched the envelope to check the postmark. When did he send it?

Friday.

"Why shouldn't I go home?" She clicked the A/C to a colder setting to fight off the Florida heat. If she had to leave, she wanted to pick up a few things. But her upbringing kicked in and she headed for I-75. Her dad called it the trust factor. If he said not to go to the apartment, he means it—even if I don't understand it. Questions tumbled through her thoughts. One minute she anticipated going home in a week to see her dad for Easter, and now she didn't even know where he was. But that wasn't the worst of it. What really bothered her was…

"Adopted," she said trying to convince herself that it didn't matter. She loved her dad and worked with pride to follow in his footsteps in the scientific community. But in the current political climate her once prestigious career teetered on the slippery slope of negative public opinion. In her gut, she knew all this turmoil and unrest over cloning must have something to do with her dad fleeing for his safety. Did he think she was in danger? "Is that why I'm not supposed to go home?" She merged with the traffic headed south wondering what she'd really find at the other end.

Rachel's mind shot back to this morning's sermon. "Are clones human?" Pastor Arthur Haden's voice rang out and hung above the Palm Sunday crowd while Rachel broke into a cold sweat. What kind of Palm Sunday sermon is this going to be, she had wondered. It only got worse. "Human?" he almost screamed as he paced to the left of the stage, paused and nodded before raising his hand toward the congregation in a plea. "Yes human. But God-created?" He shook his head and dropped his chin to his chest.

"No," he said into the lapel mike in a deep voice, "not God-created."

Her church had grown from a handful of people to thousands under his charismatic personality, but now it wavered on the brink of a split because of cloning and the big question, do clones have God-given rights.

Pastor Haden marched to the pulpit and grasped it with both hands. "The real question is: Do they have a soul?" He waited. The overhead light's reflected on his bald scalp.

"When God created Adam, he breathed life into him. That first God-created man had a soul. And when he formed Eve from Adam's rib, that God-created woman had a soul." He paused, wiped his brow with a folded handkerchief, took in a deep breath and let it out.

"Clones are created in a lab by men and women. They are property that serves a purpose. And if they don't have a soul, should they be afforded the same God-given human rights as God-created human beings?"

Murmurs spread throughout the congregation.

Pastor Haden stepped to the side of his mahogany pulpit, took a sip of water and looked out at his congregation. "We call it progress. Here in the year 2047, scientists work to become God one step at a time, tearing at the fabric of our faith—our moral standard. Is this progress? Yes—the Satan's progress. They started with therapeutic cloning. And the masses embraced the generation of tissues and organs for transplants as a good thing. But was that tissue God-created? Did it have a soul?"

Rachel had glanced at the people around her. She'd never given it much thought, but at least fifty percent of the congregation shook their heads no and she agreed with them.

"When scientists harvest cloned body parts—are they human? Yes, the human physiology is the same as any clone." He set the glass of water on the pulpit and stepped to the edge of the stage. "But did they have a soul? No. God gave the scientists the intelligence to meet a very human need. They saved lives, provided dignity and extended the quality of life."

Arthur Haden stretched his arms toward his audience. "And now more than thirty almost forty years later, we have clones walking among us as servants and laborers and what has happened? Our liberal left-wing government wants to give them God-given rights.

"And of course we have the ACLU bringing a number of lawsuits on behalf of clones who died in that mining accident. The lawsuit contends that the conditions inside the mine violated the clones' rights. But I ask you, if the clones are not God-created do they have God-given rights? Would the ACLU rather put God-created humans back into the mines to let them risk their lives?

"They are man-created," he shouted. His palm slapped the pulpit with force. "Their right is to serve God-created men. Whether it's by providing organs and body parts, we, God-created humans need to improve our quality of life, or to do the work that no on wants to do or should do—that's their place in society. And they have no other place. Not heaven. Not hell. They are soulless. And as much as the government or the ACLU wants to give them a soul, they are not God. On this Palm Sunday, there's one thing I want you to take with you. Jesus died to save souls." He picked up his Bible and turned to take his seat at center stage.

"Amen," rang throughout the sanctuary and the music minister stepped to the pulpit and with the sweep of his arms invited the congregation to stand for a moving rendition of How Great Thou Art, and a closing prayer.

When Rachel shuffled through the crowd and out of the church, mixed opinions peppered conversations around her. Older folks complained about an inappropriate Palm Sunday sermon, but she agreed with Pastor Haden. It hurt her heart to see the church torn apart over politics. But this subject touched her life in an even more personal way. Her doctorate. And her father's life work.

Now her dad hid in fear of what? Losing his life? Imprisonment? Where did this leave her career? Her life for that matter? All her study and research was based on recombinant DNA technology. Her future in the scientific community hung on it. Her thesis supported the fact that gene therapy, the genetic engineering of organisms, and the sequencing genomes offered the answers to the very things the pastor spoke about today.

But the matter of a soul—it troubled her. Every fiber in her longed to talk to her father about it. Fear seeped into her thoughts chasing out the anger. Why a letter? She plucked the letter with her right hand and kept one eye on the road while she skimmed it one more time. Who was this person her father wanted her to go to? The person he trusted to mail a letter as if he might be caught. She scanned the directions. This is a nightmare. Adopted—she glanced at the woman's name. Abigail Chava. What kind of name was that? Suddenly uncertainty of who she was wrapped her with raw emotion.

She had followed in her father's footsteps. Or thought she had. As an only child she lived within his realm of scientific renown and played in his lab. Back in 2020 he overcame the challenges of cloned organ transplants and made them a reality. When not much older than she was now, his development of more effective technologies for creating human embryos, harvesting stem cells, and producing organs from stem cells changed the medical community and the quality of human life.

Rachel's thoughts drifted to her mother. Her mother's unexpected death broke her father's spirit, and the great Dr. Stanley Carpenter, retired at the age of 62. Since then he withdrew like a hermit to live year-round in their winter home in Boca Grande, Florida. And now he wasn't there. What could he be hiding from? And where? This—this Abigail Chava held the answers.

Rachel initially hoped involving her father in her research would stir a spark of the vivacity she watched falter during her undergraduate years; that the secrets she uncovered might give him purpose. Finding those files had caused a stir in the scientific community, and she hadn't disclosed the file—not yet. With all the controversy in the media, she wasn't ready to step into the lime light with information that untagged clones could be walking about free, pretending to be God-created. She had planned to talk it over with her father when she saw him next weekend.

She turned off the expressway and onto a two-lane road lined with Australian pines leading into Port Charlotte. Would this Abigail—her birth mother--be expecting her? She unrolled the window. Fresh humid air filled the car and Rachel sucked in a few deep, calming breaths.

Just last week, the committee approved her research and provided the grant. Did she dare hide anything from them? They could fight her later if or when she published her findings. They gave the go-ahead for her research, but if she told them what she had found, it would no longer be her research. Who knows what damage could be done with that information. Even though clones had no soul, they were still human. She had always treated them with as much compassion as possible. Those grown for harvesting never knew it. Rachel waited for the traffic light to change, and turned right to head south on route 41.

During her research on the early years of cloning, she stumbled upon the files and thought them a treasure trove. With her priority clearance and hacking skills she used her expertise to restore the files. Whoever had deleted the information didn't understand the redundant mirror backups. In a flash of nausea she wondered if they had been her father's files. Her heart thundered and her palms grew moist. That had to be it. That's why he had to go into hiding. They'd learned what he had done. Somehow they knew what she had found. Had they been monitoring her work? If that was the case, the authorities would be looking for him—and her.

Historically, all clones' DNA had been tagged. They lived as a separate segment of society—in communities designed to meet their needs—separated to occupy less desirable areas. But the files showed that in the early stages of cloning, the cloned embryos were actually placed within human hosts. In some cases the DNA had not been tagged. And even worse, from what she could tell those untagged clones were not sterile like the clones of today.

The implications boggled her thinking. Where were these clones today? She couldn't help but think of Pastor Haden. What would this do to his theories? Heck, what about her own theories? If a human and a clone bore children would they have a soul? Would they be considered God-created?

She had hoped to get another grant—to locate the untagged clones and write a paper on their lives outside the controlled clone study. She aspired to involve her father to give him the will to get up and do something. He had grown so frail without purpose. The thought of him running from the law terrified her. She dialed him one more time on her cell, but got his voice mail again.

Yesterday life was much simpler. All I wanted was to escape from the emotionally-charged college spring break environment with its political turmoil and demonstrators. She had looked forward to spring break at home on the small island of Boca Grande. It would provide that much-needed escape. But now her dad wasn't there. Instead, of losing herself in the crowds of snowbirds drawn to the balmy Florida retreat, she was on the way to meet her real mother. "Birth mother," she corrected herself. She crawled along in the Florida traffic swollen with winter tourists and finally reached Harbor Blvd. and turned right.

Rachel watched for the address and pulled into the driveway outside the small, one-story stucco house with a one-car garage. She turned off the car, rubbed her eyes and said a quick prayer for guidance and her father's safety. Adrenaline rushed through her as she headed to the door. She paused on the cement stoop. The screen needed repair; she knocked on the aluminum rim and waited. Nothing. She pulled the door opened and knocked on the heavy wooded door. Footsteps from the other side stirred apprehension. What do I say?

The door opened with a faint squeak of hinges. A short woman with salt and pepper hair looked at her with kind brown eyes. I look nothing like this woman, Rachel thought.

"Abigail Chava?"

"Yes, Rachel, your father told me to expect you. Come in." She opened the door wide and extended her arm in a welcoming sweep.

Rachel exhaled and stepped into the cluttered living room. Books everywhere, stacked on end tables, shelves, and even the floor beside the sofa. "Come in and have a seat," Abigail moved a pile from a worn recliner. "I can't tell you how good it is to see you after all these years." She reached out and laid her hand on Rachel's shoulder.

"I—I didn't know about you until today," Rachel said. "And I'm really here to learn about my dad. Do you know where he is?"

The woman nodded. "Yes, I do. But before we talk about that, there are a few other things we need to talk about so you can understand why he is hiding."

Rachel sat on the edge of the chair without leaning back, her hands folded around her purse.

Abigail stepped into the small kitchen and leaned to the small pass-through. "Would you like some tea?"

"I'm sorry," Rachel said. "I don't mean to be rude, but I've got to know what's happened to my father."

"Very well," Abigail walked to the dining area and sat at the head of the small Early American dinette table and motioned for Rachel to join her at the uncluttered end. "You've learned of the untagged clones."

The woman's forthrightness stunned Rachel. "Yes."

"Those were your father's files."

Rachel looked at the table top and shook her head. "I was afraid of that. What have I done?"

"Well, you've opened the door to trouble for some," Abigail said, "but also to the truth."

"What I don't understand, is why you should know any of this. Who are you really?"

Abigail smiled. "I am the first clone."

Rachel sank back in her chair and stared. "You?"

The woman nodded. "And your father used me as a surrogate for a whole generation of clones. In my mind, I am their mother." A smile flickered across her thin lips. "But they all went to good homes. You," she placed her fingers on Rachel's wrist, "were my first born."

Dimness swam along Rachel's peripheral vision and closed in. For a moment it seemed a dream, as if she witnessed this from some other person's point of view. "What are you saying?"

Abigail placed her hand on Rachel's and squeezed. "I'm saying you're my daughter."