jefflong.yearzero-第47节

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　〃Familiar？〃　the　Captain　asked　him　from　the　doorway。
　〃They　never　did　anything　like　this　to　you　in　Kathmandu；〃　Nathan　Lee　said。
　There　was　no　life　in　here；　not　even　an　insect。　Everything　was　metal　or　indestructible　plastic。　Each　cell　held　a　bed；　a　toilet；　and　a　sink。　There　was　a　shower　nozzle　in　the　high　ceiling；　a　drain　in　the　floor；　and　surveillance　cameras　mounted　behind　bubbles。　Micron　screens　filtered　the　air　that　vented　in　and　out　of　their　rooms。　They　lived　in　a　sterile　state。
　Moving　on；　he　peeked　through　some　of　the　Plexiglas　slots　at　eyelevel；　and　the　prisoners　were　mostly　dozing。　They　had　paper　blankets；　and　no　clothes。　Once　a　day　the　shower　nozzle　sprayed　them　with　soap　and　disinfectant。　〃They　can't　see　out；〃　said　the　Captain。　〃But　they　know　we're　here。　Did　Miranda　mention；　no　contact。　Observation　only。〃
　Ten　times。　〃Got　it；〃　said　Nathan　Lee。
　On　their　way　to　the　monitor　room；　the　Captain　pointed　at　door　number　One　at　the　very　end。　〃You　don't　bother　with　that　one；〃　he　said。　〃Ever。〃
　The　monitor　room　lit　dark　and　cool。　Two　guards　sat　in　chairs　that　could　slide　back　and　forth　on　roller　wheels　along　the　banks　of　screens。　Nathan　Lee　did　a　quick　count。　There　were　eighty　screens；　two　for　each　cell。　Only　the　screens　of　the　occupied　cells　were　glowing。　The　Captain　went　to　the　pair　of　screens　for　Cell　One；　and　turned　them　off。　He　introduced　Nathan　Lee　to　the　guards。
　〃Mr。　Swift　wants　to　get　to　know　the　boys；〃　he　said。　〃He's　cleared　to　e　in　here　and　watch　the　screens。　He　can　listen　on　the　headphones。　You　can　talk　to　him。　Share　the　files。〃　The　Captain　pointed　at　the　screens　for　Cell　One。　〃She　stays　out　of　it。　Clear？〃
　〃Yes　sir；〃　they　said。
　One　of　the　guards　got　a　chair　for　Nathan　Lee；　and　made　room　at　the　end　of　the　long　counter　for　his　yellow　notepad。　〃You　want　some　bean？〃　he　asked；　and　poured　the　coffee　in　a　chipped　mug。
　As　he　was　leaving；　the　Captain　said；　〃how　long　did　you　spend　in　that　Asia　jail？〃
　It　was　deliberate。　The　two　guards'　ears　pricked　up。　Now　they　knew　a　convict　was　sharing　the　booth　with　them；　which　was　fair　enough。　〃Seventeen　months；〃　said　Nathan　Lee。
　〃Don't　go　try　to　bust　anybody　out；〃　said　the　Captain。
　〃No　contact；〃　recited　Nathan　Lee。
　〃Let's　see　where　you　get　here；〃　said　the　Captain；　and　he　left。
　Nathan　Lee　strolled　along　the　bank　of　monitors；　orienting　himself。　He　matched　them　up　to　his　notes；　man　by　man。　On　paper；　each　was　a　tooth；　skull；　or　bit　of　wood。　On　the　screen；　they　were　not　much　more；　just　bits　of　humanity　worn　out　by　their　short　lives。　Many　bore　livid　surgical　scars；　which　surprised　him。　What　kinds　of　things　had　been　done　to　them　in　South　Sector？　They　acted　less　like　prisoners　than　patients　in　a　cancer　ward。　If　they　moved；　it　was　only　slowly。　You　felt　their　pain。
　〃Oh　yeah；〃　said　one　of　the　guards。　〃South　Sector's　hell　on　them。〃
　〃What　about　him？〃　Nathan　Lee　asked。　The　clone　was　more　scar　than　skin。　He　was　missing　part　of　an　ear。　His　face　looked　like　a　badly　sewn　baseball。
　〃The　fugitive；〃　answered　the　second　guard。　〃He　got　loose　last　winter。　He　hit　the　razor　wire；　tangled　in　it；　and　just　kept　fighting。　He　tore　himself　free　and　made　it　halfway　to　the　Rio　Grande。　The　trackers　said　it　was　like　following　a　paint　bucket　with　a　hole　in　it。　He　just　about　bled　out　and　froze　to　death；　they　say。　Finally　found　him　in　some　cave　dwellings　down　one　of　the　canyons。　After　that　he　got　rated　high　risk。　None　of　the　researchers　wanted　to　work　him　no　more。　So　Miranda　added　him　to　the　collection。〃
　〃How　long　have　they　been　here？〃
　〃Miranda　salvaged　the　first　of　them　five　months　ago。〃
　Each　clone　had　an　identification　number　tattooed　on　the　back　of　their　neck　and　at　the　base　of　their　spine。　The　tradition　of　naming　lab　animals；　whether　they　were　slugs　or　chimpanzees；　was　as　old　as　research。　The　guards　had　their　own　nicknames　for　the　clones：　Cueball　for　a　bald　fellow；　Rutabaga　and　Cabbage　for　two　catatonic　men；　Stiff　for　a　clone　with　priapism；　Yessir　for　the　clone　with　a　nervous　tic；　Johnny　Angel　for　the　blue…eyed　handsome　one。
　〃Do　they　talk？〃
　〃Hoot；　howl；　mumble；　scream。　One　used　to　sing。　He　quit。〃
　〃Can　I　see　their　files？〃
　〃Help　yourself。〃　A　guard　pointed　at　the　file　cabinets。
　Instead　of　biographies；　each　had　lab　reports；　much　of　it　classified　and　blacked　out。　That　was　inauspicious。　Miranda　was　right；　labs　within　the　Lab　treated　one　another　as　enemies。　On　the　brink　of　destruction；　the　scientists　were　at　cross　purposes　with　their　own　survival；　hiding　their　work。　And　yet　their　experiments　and　secrets　were　written　on　the　flesh　of　their　subjects。　Some　of　the　clones　had　survived　four　or　five　labs　before　being　delivered　back　into　their　maker's　care。　Not　one　had　his　own　real　name。　Not　one　displayed　a　life　before　this　life。
　Nathan　Lee　laid　their　files　in　front　of　their　respective　screens。　Those　were　now；　what　was　then？　He　wanted　to　start　from　scratch；　to　erase　their　numbers；　to　reach　back　through　the　artifact　two　thousand　years。
　It　was　slow；　frustrating　work。　He　spent　hours　waiting　for　a　movement　or　word　on　any　screen。　Their　daily　cycles　were　synched　around　food　and　the　daily　soaking。　They　wanted　to　dream　away　their　captivity。　Nathan　Lee　understood　their　torpor。　He　had　done　the　same　until　his　prison　revealed　itself　as　a　palace。　Restoring　the　past；　he　had　restored　himself。
　The　guards　were　interested　in　his　work　only　because　they　were　bored。　When　they　weren't　too　busy　playing　guitar　with　a　rubber　band　or　making　paper　clip　chains；　they　might　record　events　while　Nathan　Lee　was　gone。　An　event　could　be　anything：　a　mumble；　a　scream。。。and　then；　on　the　third　day；　a　name。
　〃There；〃　said　Nathan　Lee；　replaying　the　tape。　He　jacked　the　volume　up。　〃Do　you　hear　it　now？〃　He　didn't　speak　the　name。　He　wanted　to　draw　the　guards　into　his　discovery。　He　was　going　to　need　their　help　with　the　observing。　But　to　them；　the　clones　were　a　bare　step　up　from　vegetation。　He　had　to　convert　them　somehow。　His　father　had　taught　him　there　was　no　other　way　to　climb　a　big　mountain。　They　had　to　find　the　spirit　themselves。
　〃Isaiah？〃　One　of　the　guards　frowned。
　〃Did　he　really　say　Isaiah？〃　whispered　his　partner。　His　name　badge　read　Joe。　〃Like　in　the　Book？〃
　〃Yes；〃　said　Nathan　Lee。
　They　were　speechless。　The　bones　could　speak。　The　numbers　had　names。　As　Joe　pointed　out　in　disbelief；　holy　names。
　〃I'll　be　back　in　five　minutes；〃　Nathan　Lee　told　them。　〃Keep　listening　for　more。〃
　He　raced　up　to　the　Necro　Archives　and　rummaged　through　the　drawers；　and　raced　down　again。　Back　in　the　monitor　booth；　he　laid　a　heel　bone　in　front　of　them；　and　it　still　had　the　nail　driven　through　its　side。　〃Isaiah；〃　he　said。
　It　was　a　small　thing。　In　a　stainless　steel　cell　two　thousand　years　from　his　home；　a　nameless　man　had　reminded　himself　of　his　own　name。　But　now　the　guards　understood。　The　Year　Zero　had　just　opened　its　door　for　anyone　who　dared　to　enter。
　
　20
　Fire
　
　AUGUST　10
　As　the　chieftans　arrived　at　the　Council　chamber；　they　helped　themselves　to　Krispy　Kremes　and　Starbucks　blends；　the　last　of　the　franchises　kept　alive　by　soldiers'　wives。　Miranda　took　her　seat　at　the　long；　oval　table　with　the　other　lab　directors；　and　they　waited　for　Cavendish；　who　had　summoned　them。　They　had　no　idea　what　the　urgency　was。　His　office　had　simply　given　them　twenty　minutes　to　assemble。
　Maps　and　charts　were　hastily　being　pinned　to　the　walls。　A　large　video　screen　glowed　blue　and　empty　on　one　wall。　Miranda　looked　through　the　window　at　the　Pajarito　massif　looming　to　the　west；　the　remains　of　a　vast；　ancient　volcano　upon　which　other；　smaller　volcanoes　had　later　boiled　up　and　gone　dead。　Its　geology　fit　them　like　a　myth；　a　giant　mountain　underlying　all　their　smaller　mountains；　the　Lab　hiving　off　smaller　labs；　the　immense　energy　of　their　history　and　science　growing　cold　as　stone。
　She　glanced　around　the　table；　and　the　faces　were　weary。　The　hope　had　leached　from　their　eyes。　They　didn't　kibbitz　or　fire　jokes　or　buttonhole　one　another。　They　sat　and　quietly　waited　like　people　on　a　long　march　resting。　The　former　head　of　Virus　Diseases　in　WHO's　Geneva　headquarters　was　eating　doughnuts　beside　a　wispy　Nigerian　from　England's　Porton　Down；　once　the　leading　viral　diagnostic　lab　in　Europe。　The　ex…director　of　the　Institute　of　Tropical　Medicine　in　Antwerp　sat　across　from　the　ex…director　of　the　Institute　of　Tropical　Medicine　in　Hamburg。　A　dead　ringer　for　Omar　Sharif；　from　the　Aga　Khan　University　in　Karachi；　was　trying　to　keep　his　eyes　off　the　bosomy　blonde　from　Johannesburg's　Institute　of　Medical　Research。　On　the　streets　you　heard　French　and　Hindi　and　Russian　and　Chinese；　but　the　lingua　franca　was　American；　not　English；　but　American　with　its　slang　and　fighter…pilot　shorthand。
　Besides　the　virus　hunters　and　medical　ninja；　there　was　a　whole　zoo　of　cloning　and　bioengineering　expertise　here：　a　mouse　man；　a　cow　man；　a　sheep　lady；　even　a　snow　lion　specialist　who　had　spent　years　in　the　field　shooting　the　cats　with　sedative　darts　and　collecting　their　eggs　and　sperm　to　be　frozen　for　the　day　snow　lions　no　longer　existed。　Now　the　endangered　species　was　man。
　The　door　opened。　Cavendish　appeared；　wheeled　in　by　his　tall；　solemn　clone。　Cavendish's　gnomelike　face　seemed　more　pinched　and　weary　than　ever。　His　illnesses　were　whittling　him　down　to　a　twig。